Out of the Woods

Frank cruised slowly past the address he was looking for, giving the place a good eyeball, then eased the rusty New Yorker to the curb a half block beyond. It was force of habit mainly, because there probably wasn't anything to worry about here, but as habits go caution is a good one to keep.

He didn't mind a few minutes to get himself together before facing Mrs. Dekker, either. He wasn't exactly used to these church-picnic country types. He fumbled under the seat and came up with the pint bottle of Maker's Mark he had blown a little of Charlie's money on. Not exactly "drinking up the expense money" he thought as he took two quick slugs and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. But hell, he had to get a little of the good stuff while he could afford it. He put back the pint and grabbed the other bottle he kept under the seat, the travel-size mouthwash, and quickly rinsed away his whiskey breath.

The Chrysler looked right at home in this neighborhood, the suburb with the comically unlikely name of Elk Grove Village. Every car on the street was exactly like Frank's: old but serviceable, nothing fancy but getting the job done.

Living here was a solid, practical choice for a working single mother, a place where she could get a lot of apartment for the money and send her kid to a decent public school, and all it cost her was a little prestige and convenience. Its border-to-border industrial parks, trucking terminals and rail yards generated an enormous tax base for the Village, which kept property taxes and rents low while still providing generous public services for the residents.

The down-side was the constant semi-truck and freight train traffic, twenty-four hours daily of roaring diesels and billowing exhaust. That and being so close to the runways of O'Hare Airport that you want to climb up onto the roof to check for tire tracks. If a person could deal with that it was a damn fine place to live.

The fact that this woman dumped an abusive, alcoholic husband, picked up her kid and started over completely alone, and chose a place like this to do it; well, that said a lot about her character as far as Frank was concerned. He could trust someone like that with a runaway boy and not give it a second thought.

Not like his twisted old friend Charlie. It may be true, like he says, that people always make his kind sound as bad as possible but it's equally true that people like him try to make it sound like there's nothing wrong or unnatural about it at all. They'd gotten into it again on the phone Wednesday night when Charlie called to tell him he'd figured out who Billy was.

It had started out OK. Hell, Frank was even proud of him for some decent detective work, although it wasn't necessary to stake out the grade school. He already had it narrowed down to three names and Frank could have run them all down in a day. But it showed initiative and commitment, and Frank even told Charlie he could have been a detective if he wasn't a perverted son of a bitch. But then Charlie had to say he never knew a detective who wasn't a perverted son of a bitch, and maybe Frank didn't really mean to insult him and maybe Charlie really had meant his retort as a joke but that's not how they took it that night and before long they were yelling into the phone and calling each other six kinds of shithead.

It didn't matter, though. As soon as this investigation was over they'd be rid of each other for good and a few breaks had moved it forward. The photos arrived in the morning FedEx so Frank finally knew who he was looking for, even if he didn't know where to look. He still knew how to request cooperation from a phone company supervisor -- if she wanted to assume he was a cop just by the way he talked, that was up to her -- so getting all the new listings for Dekker in the past year took about five minutes.

Ms. Barbara Dekker had been considerate enough to continue going by her married name. That was a break. It was also convenient that the manager of the apartment building was idiot enough to tell a stranger on the phone all about a woman living alone with her eleven-year-old son. Goddamn good thing Frank wasn't a rapist.

The manager hadn't seen another young boy hanging around the last week or so but that didn't absolutely mean Andy was not there. They might be keeping him under wraps the same way Charlie did, afraid the cops would send him back to resume life as Papa's punching bag, or simply because an extra tenant might mean extra rent.

Frank pocketed the photo of Andy and took another look at the one of Billy. How had Charlie fondly described him before the argument erupted? Like Frankenstein before puberty. Frank gave the kid a little more charity.

He did have to grant Charlie one thing, though. He could hear the genuine affection in Charlie's voice whenever he spoke of a boy. It was still sick shit, molesting kids and all that, but he didn't think Charlie meant to hurt anybody. He obviously had himself thoroughly fooled, truly believing that what he did was OK. Charlie had a good heart, he supposed, but something wrong in his head.

A smoke-gray, decade-old Toyota pulled into the lot behind the apartment building and somehow Frank knew this was her, based more on gut instinct than the information that she got off work about now. He hurried the half-block on foot to catch her before she got into the building. If she was hiding Andy he wanted to be with her when she first came in the door so she couldn't warn him or hustle him out the back. She was hauling heavy grocery bags out of the back seat when he approached.

"Ms. Dekker?" he called, careful not to get close enough to frighten her. "Barbara Dekker?"

She turned at his call, groceries clutched to her breast. Frank was taken aback because she was far more attractive than he had expected. Actually he hadn't thought about it at all, what Billy Dekker's Mom would look like, but here was a lovely young woman of thirty-five or so with very pleasant Mediterranean features and a halo of soft, auburn hair in a shade Clairol Nice 'N Easy doesn't have in a bottle. She wasn't exactly a knockout -- the Supermodels would be keeping their jobs -- but if this woman was unattached it was because she chose to be, not because she couldn't attract a man. She stood now with annoyed, questioning eyes, which did nothing to diminish their beauty.

"Uh, Ms. Dekker..." he said. "My name is Frank McCann. Sorry to bother you like this in the parking lot." She looked more annoyed at his meandering around the point. "I'm an investigator searching for a missing child; I believe you knew him in Missouri." He produced the photo of Andy and held it up for her to see. "His name is Andy Barnes, and he ran away about a week ago."

Frank saw recognition in her eyes followed immediately by sympathy for the boy, then suspicion of him. She began walking toward the building.

"What's that got to do with me?" she asked over her shoulder.

Frank hurried ahead and held the door for her. "We know your son Billy was Andy's best friend. We also have information that Andy took the bus to Chicago the night he ran away. We were hoping he ran to you, and that we'd find him here, safe."

She began climbing the stairs and Frank followed. "We knew Andy in Paxton, yes," she said, never turning around. "And frankly I'm not surprised he ran away, considering the home life that poor child had to deal with." She struggled with the groceries and her keys and Frank insisted on taking the bags from her while she opened the door.

Her coat was open, and he found his eyes drawn to her generous cleavage. Wow, he couldn't help thinking. All this and breasts, too. It had been a long time since he had been with a "nice girl," as opposed to the hookers and barflies he went to when his needs became great. He had to force his mind back to the business at hand.

"What does surprise me," she said, "is that his useless drunk of a father would hire a private eye to go look for him. I didn't think he cared enough. And to be perfectly honest Mr. McCann, I'm not sure I'd want him to be found. I have not seen Andy, I'm sorry to say, but if he showed up here I would do everything I could to keep him safe, which certainly would not include sending him back to the likes of Jimmy Barnes."

She said the name with such contempt that Frank no longer doubted any of Charlie's story. He set the groceries on the table.

"I'm not working for the boy's father," Frank said carefully. "I was hired by an adult friend of Andy's, who was trying to get him out of that home situation and into foster care when the boy took off. It's kind of tricky, actually, since this friend of Andy's has no legal standing in the case. In fact, if I find the boy and don't return him to his family or the authorities I'll be guilty of kidnapping."

Her eyes widened. "You mean you're not planning to send Andy back to his father?"

"No ma'am," Frank said. "The point is to rescue him from that son of a bitch, if you'll pardon my French."

She smiled for the first time and Frank liked what it did to her face.

"This whole thing has been outside the law from the beginning," he said. "The original plan was to get Andy to Oklahoma City where his friend could get him into the foster care system under a false name. Now that Andy's fouled things up by running away the most important thing is to find him before something terrible happens."

She ushered Frank into the living room and gestured for him to sit. "What can I do to help?" She removed her coat and hung it on a hook in the foyer but made no move to take his.

"He still may be looking for you," Frank said, producing one of his twelve-year-old business cards with his former office phone number scratched off and his current home number written in. "Sorry, my new business cards haven't come yet," he lied, embarrassed. "If he contacts you please let me know right away. And, if you like, I can keep you informed of whatever we find out."

"Yes, thank you," she said. "I'd like to know he's all right."

"Yes, of course," he said. "Um, can I ask you one more question? It's kind of a lot to ask, so if you don't want to answer just say so."

"I'll have to hear the question first," she said, crossing her arms in a mildly defiant posture. It struck Frank very cute.

"When we find Andy what would you think of taking him in, letting him live here?" Frank asked. "It's a big decision, I know, what with the legal entanglements, not to mention the cost of raising two boys instead of one. In fact it was dumb of me to ask. Just forget it." He moved toward the door. "I was just thinking this would be such a better place for him than some orphanage, but it's too much."

"No, no," she said. "If there's any way to swing it I would certainly take Andy in. He's a good kid and my Billy misses him terribly. It would be wonderful to have him here, though I don't know what we'd tell the authorities."

"These things can be handled, if you know what I mean," Frank said, scratching his first two fingertips against his thumb in the "money" gesture.

"Yes, I know what you mean, Mr. McCann," she said, "but that requires actual money, not just fingertips."

"I believe Andy's friend back in Paxton would be willing to help out," he said. "And, please, call me Frank."

"All right, Frank." She smiled. "And I'm Barbara."

They shook, and Frank couldn't help wondering how such a soft hand could have such a firm grip. He knew he held it too long, especially when he saw discomfort enter her dark eyes, and so with some embarrassment he let go. He decided to bolt as quickly as possible.

"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked, and now those expressive eyes conveyed genuine hope that he would accept. His impulse to flee evaporated.

"Sure. A drink sounds great." She took his coat then gestured him to the sofa and disappeared into the kitchen.

Frank sat, taking in the plain but tasteful apartment. Barbara obviously had little money for decorating and just about everything cried out, "second-hand." He expected nothing less of this practical, no-nonsense woman, and it raised his estimation of her even further. From the kitchen she called out, "Do you take milk and sugar?"

"I'm sorry?" he asked. What the hell was she making, White Russians?

"In your tea," she replied, returning with a teapot and cups on a tray.

The disappointment must have been written on his face.

"I don't keep alcohol in the house," she said, "not after what it did to my marriage." She didn't say it with superiority. It was just a fact.

"I'm not a fanatic or anything, Frank," she continued, pouring the tea. "I'll have a drink once in a while if I go out to dinner or to a party. I just don't think it should be a part of daily life, and I want my son to think that way, too."

"That's probably smart," he said. "And I'll take a little milk, thanks." After a pause while she poured the milk he asked casually, "So, where is the little guy?"

"He goes to an after-school program at the church," she said. "I pick him up at five if you can wait that long to grill him, but he hasn't heard from Andy, either."

Frank smiled. "OK, I probably would ask him if he'd heard anything but I wouldn't expect that he had. I believe you, Barbara." He took the cup she offered. "What I'd be more interested in is if Andy had ever mentioned anything back in Missouri that would give us a clue as to where he might go. Relatives in Chicago, places he'd read about and wanted to visit, anything that had anything to do with Chicago."

"I see," she said, flushing pink. "A reasonable question. I owe you an apology, Frank. Not so much for what I said to you, but for what I was thinking while I said it."

Frank grinned. "I accept on behalf of men everywhere."

"Now, don't go that far," she said. "You guys are still getting away with murder."

He laughed and snuck a glance down her blouse as she leaned forward to stir sweetener into her tea. Since they were representing "Man" and "Woman..."

"Do you have children, Frank?" she asked unexpectedly.

He sipped the tea. It was pretty good. "A boy, just turned fourteen."

"And what is his attitude toward drinking?"

"I wouldn't know," he said. "I don't live there."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Not very recently, I hope. I'd hate to salt a new wound."

"No, it's been a long time now," Frank sighed. "I can't say I'm over it but I'm used to it, I guess."

"I'm not sure you ever get over it," she said.

After a slightly uncomfortable silence Frank said, "Listen, I don't presume to know you or anything, but I want to tell you how much guts I think it took for you to do what you did. Maybe if my wife had done something like that it would have knocked some sense into me before I let everything get all crazy."

She smiled grimly. "I had hopes for a while," she said. "I had this fantasy where Billy's father came home a changed man, begging us to forgive him and determined to be the best damn husband any woman ever had. But that's just in my head, and my heart. In real life his drinking got worse and he lost his job so now the child support doesn't even come."

Frank looked at her. She had such a kind face. He was sure she had given her jerk of a husband every possible chance before she pulled the plug. Not like Joanne, who had pushed and prodded and demanded more and more until a cop's salary wouldn't do and even a cop's salary plus moonlighting as a PI wouldn't cut it. Of course it was easy to pin the blame on her, and rightfully some of it belonged there, but Frank was the one who screwed it all up.

"I think we sometimes set ourselves up, you know?" he said, staring into his cup. "We make all the wrong choices and then when everything is fouled up we use that as an excuse to give up and roll in the gutter. It's easier, I guess, than trying to be a grownup and take care of a family. You know, Barbara, I admire the shit out of you -- Oh, Jesus, sorry about the language."

"That's OK," she chuckled. "I admire the shit out of me, too!" They laughed together. "No, really. It changed me to make such a tough decision and do something so hard. I had never worked before, really. Just a little waitressing here and there but nothing you could raise a child on. When I left Mike I had no money, no family, nothing.

"I was lucky and spotted a billboard for the Women's Outreach Center in the city, and they had a tiny little room we could stay in for a month until I could get my act together. That was long enough to find a really crummy job and scrape together the money for a studio apartment, and we were on our way.

Pretty soon I got a slightly less crummy job and this two-bedroom so Billy could have a little privacy, although I suspect he didn't mind too much sleeping in the same bed with his Mom for four months. As tough as he acts he still likes his Mommy.

"But the point is the more I did the more confident I became and the more I could do. Now I'm going to school at night to learn court reporting so I can get out of that plastics factory. And I know I can do it!" She took his hand and looked into his eyes, "You're stronger than you think, Frank. We all are."

They looked at each other a long time and Frank only reluctantly pulled his hand away and stood. "I gotta go find Andy," he said, "but I'd like to say one thing, and it's something I haven't said in about twenty years. Would you mind if I, maybe, called you some time? After all this is over, I mean?"

"I think I'd like that," she said, smiling, and Frank never shook the memory of that smile until he was all the way back into the city.

3:28 pm

"What's this place called again?" Andy asked and Kenny rolled his eyes.

"The Dog House!" he shouted. "Dog House Dog House Dog House!" Passers-by gave them wide berth on the sidewalk and Kenny barely contained his laughter. He knew he was being teased but he hoped to play it out a bit longer. Andy must have asked the name of the hot dog stand five times by now and it seemed to amuse him to no end to get Kenny's goat about it.

"The what house?" Andy asked with a face kept straight purely by will-power, but when Kenny roared in mock frustration and grabbed him by the throat, pretending to throttle him, Andy could no longer restrain himself. They ended up hanging on one another, laughing hysterically.

It was a bright, crisp winter afternoon, perfect to get a couple of stir-crazy boys out of the apartment for a few hours. Kenny had offered to treat Andy to lunch at, in his humble opinion, the best hot dog stand in the city, and Andy had jumped at the chance.

Both boys were in terrific moods, Andy fresh off his erotic slumber party with Daryl -- who had awakened him in a very creative and enjoyable way in the morning -- and Kenny basking in his reconciliation with Johnny.

They pulled open the battered aluminum door of the restaurant and stepped inside. It was ancient, with stainless steel counters around three walls and a high wooden service counter across the back. Tall stools lined the three outer counters and in the middle of the small space were squeezed six tiny Formica tables, each with four dilapidated chairs straight out of a 1950's "Kitchen of the Future." It didn't look like much but the smell was heavenly.

"This is the first place Johnny ever took me to eat," Kenny said. "I was just a little kid, barely ten years old, and that back counter looked like it was about fifty feet high." Kenny surveyed the place, hands on his hips and a fond smile on his face. "We sat right over there by the window," he said, pointing. "I couldn't climb onto the stool by myself," Kenny said, shaking his head and chuckling. "Johnny had to lift me up."

"They don't look so high," Andy said.

"Remember, I was really little for my age," Kenny said, then leaned in and whispered, "When I first started tricking Johnny used to tell the hawks that I was seven."

"They believed it?"

"Sure," Kenny said. "They believe what they want to believe. Now he tells 'em Kevin is only eight."

"Next!" called a vaguely Middle Eastern counterman with curly black hair and a wildly uneven mustache. "C'mon, you boys," he said in an impatient, clipped accent. "What'll you have?"

"Two Chicago Dogs, no hot peppers," Kenny said, stepping up and prying a crumple of bills from his tight jeans pocket. "And two large Cokes."

Andy prodded his back with a finger. "Can I have fries?"

"They come with it," Kenny said. "At the Dog House everybody gets fries."

Kenny paid for the meal and in a remarkably short time the counterman thrust forward a plastic tray that practically sagged with steaming food. Two hot dogs heaped with onions, pickle spears and relish sat in what looked for the world like little paper coffins, while bags of thick, crinkle-cut fries overflowed on either side. The Cokes were huge, so tall the straw barely peeked over the rim of the cup.

Kenny licked his lips in gleeful anticipation as they took a place at the counter, but was puzzled at his friend's half-frown.

"What's the matter, Andy?"

"I only ever get ketchup on hot dogs," he said sheepishly.

"Oh no you don't!" Kenny insisted. "That's kid's stuff. You have to eat a Chicago hot dog like a man."

Andy's grimace of distaste only widened. "I hate onions," he said.

"These are really sweet," Kenny said. "They don't even taste like onions. Here, look." Kenny took a big bite of his dog. "Shee?" he slurred through his mouthful. "Mmm, tha'sh good!"

Andy didn't look convinced.

Kenny wiped mustard from his lip with a napkin and finished chewing slowly and deliberately. "OK," he finally said. "Just try it and then if you don't like it I'll buy you one with ketchup only."

Andy considered.

Kenny looked skyward with a sigh then leaned closer and whispered. "You tasted something last night and found out you liked it, didn't you?"

Andy's eyes twinkled mischievously and he grinned. "Yeah," he said, then after a moment of decision, "OK, I'll try it."

"Finally!" Kenny said, and popped a couple of fries into his mouth. Andy awkwardly picked up the bulging sandwich, tiny avalanches of diced onions falling from its sides, and opened his mouth its widest. He had to angle it in, but he managed eventually to take a small bite.

"Hey!" he exclaimed in surprise. "This is good!"

"Told you," Kenny said.

"It doesn't taste like the hot dogs I'm used to," Andy said, "but it's good." He took another, healthier bite. "There's a whole bunch of different tastes at once."

"Chicago is famous for hot dogs," Kenny said. "And pizza."

They didn't talk much more as they chowed down. Andy devoured every crumb and drained his Coke with those sucking sounds that polite parents might tell their kids not to make. Full and content they strolled slowly back to Johnny's place in the bright, relatively warm sunshine.

"Kenny?" Andy asked, kicking a pebble off of the sidewalk without breaking stride.

"Yeah?"

"What's it like?" He looked up to Kenny's face, brown hair falling across his forehead. He looked serious.

"What's what like?"

"You know," Andy said. "Tricking."

Kenny walked a few steps before answering. "You thinking of trying it?"

"I guess," Andy said, looking away and then back. "Everybody else does, and I know Johnny wants me to."

"Did he say so?" Kenny asked.

"Not exactly," Andy said. "This morning he was telling me about when he used to do it and how much better it is now, and how much money the kids make. And he keeps saying how I have to start paying my own way pretty soon."

"Did he say when?"

"No, just pretty soon."

Kenny paused to light a cigarette. "So, is that what you want to do, then?"

"Well," Andy began, checking to make sure no one was in earshot, "fooling around is sure fun, and I'd sure like to have money like you guys."

"It's been totally cool," Kenny said. "I'm not sorry I did it."

"Last night Daryl told me about his first time, when the janitor in his building took him into the furnace room and sucked him," Andy said with a grin. "The guy gave him five bucks to keep quiet, but Daryl says he would have done it every day for free!"

Kenny laughed. "Yeah, but Daryl gets a lot more than five bucks for it now." Their laughter trailed off.

"So I think I want to," Andy said, "but it's a little scary."

"There's one thing you could try," Kenny said, "if you want."

Andy looked at him expectantly.

"There's this one guy, Phil, who likes to have people watch him do it. I'll bet Johnny could hook it up so that all you have to do is watch him with another boy and you'll get twenty bucks."

"Really?" Andy said brightly. "Twenty bucks just to watch?"

"Yeah," Kenny said, feeling like he had just solved everything. "That ought to work"

"Cool," Andy said, and they set off again for home at a brisker pace.

10:34 pm

Andy clutched his twenty-dollar bill so tightly he would have creases in the skin of his palm for hours afterward. He was amazed, appalled, excited, embarrassed... Emotions he didn't know the names of rushed through him, chasing their own tails in his gut like a pack of wild dogs.

It wasn't all negative by any means and he couldn't deny his own sexual thrill as he watched, in turns fascinated and stimulated. Andy had been hard since the first moments and had even found himself envying Daryl his pleasure as well as his payoff.

That was before, however, when everything was playful and oral. Andy wasn't so sure about this part: the short, stocky man kneeling behind the cute, soft boy and thrusting steadily into the same small pink asshole Andy had inspected from inches away less than twenty-four hours earlier. Daryl's round face contorted into a series of grimaces and the air filled with staccato grunts, low and guttural from the man and high and excited from the boy, synchronized with their thrusts and the slap of skin on skin. When it was over his friend was the same smiling, friendly boy Andy had enjoyed so much the night before, joking and laughing with the grown man who had just done something Andy would never have believed was physically possible.

With Daryl in the bathroom Phil approached Andy, who hadn't said a single word since "Hi" upon stepping in the door. It was a bit discomforting, this chubby, naked man standing so close.

"So what did you think?" Phil asked with a leer. "Pretty hot, eh?"

Andy thought of Danny feeling "extra sexy" when someone watched. "Yeah," he managed to say and forced a weak smile. Suddenly Phil's hand came toward him, below the belt, and Andy had a split-second to decide whether to pull away or stand fast. He waited too long and Phil gave his throbbing sex a quick squeeze.

"Well I guess you did enjoy the show," Phil said, grinning. "Listen, twenty more to show it to me. Just show it, that's all. Pants down for five minutes, twenty more bucks."

"What are you going to do?" Andy stammered, his throat dry and tight.

"Nothing," Phil said. "Just look."

"Well..." Andy debated.

"Go on!" Daryl urged, emerging from the bathroom in just his briefs. "Don't be a chump!"

Andy hesitated only a second, then tugged at his belt.

---

Next time:

---