Date: Mon, 01 Nov 2010 09:58:38 -0600
From: michaelpete@hushmail.com
Subject: Ultimate Good Samaritan

Please be advised that, in the following story, one will find depictions of
sexual activities between minors and minors and adults. The story itself
and all characters are fictional.

Send comments to michaelpete@hushmail.com.


                           THE ULTIMATE GOOD SAMARITAN
                               Part one of three

                                      By

                               Michael Peterson


                                   Chapter 1

	The man staggering through the Brooklyn neighborhood restaurant
door at first appeared to be drunk. He stopped in front of Walter
Stuyvesant who was on his way out. The man's eyes opened and closed as
though sleepy, or drunk. Walter spotted pain on the rest of his face. The
man stared at him, desperation in his eyes. His knees buckled. Walter
lurched forward to catch him.

	"Please,' gasped the man.

	A waiter came up behind them. "Christ! Sorry, Walter. These drunks
just..."

	"He's not drunk!' said Walter. "Get an ambulance. Call 911!"

	Walter gently lowered the man to the floor. His left hand felt
something wet. He knew what it was without looking. The man was bleeding,
badly.

	"What happened?"

	"My kid. My baby." There were tears forming in his
eyes. "Please..."

	"Is your baby hurt too? Where is he?"

	"No, no." He took a breath. "She can't, won't, she don't know how
to take care..." He grimaced in pain.

	Walter was confused. "I don't understand. Is someone else hurt
too?"

	"Ambulance is coming," called out the cashier nearby.

	The waiter and two others knelt beside them. "What's wrong with
him?" asked one.

	"What happened?" asked Walter.

	The man took a breath. "Stabbed, bad. I'm not, please, help my
son. He's gonna be all alone. Oh shit! Ahhh! Somebody's gotta protect him."

	"Where is he, your son?"

	"Home. Don't let `em put `im in no welfare home. Please. Make sure
he goes some place decent, unnh, God, it hurts."

	"Just take it easy. An ambulance is on the way. You're gonna be
alright. You'll be able to take care of your son. Just take..."

	The injured man gripped Walter's arm. "Please, you're a nice guy. I
seen you here before. Please, go see him. Make sure he's okay...Ahhh, hurts
like a mother, unh, shit. Just..."

	Walter tried to make the man more comfortable by raising his head
and putting his arm underneath it. Into his ear he said, "Your son needs
you, not a stranger. Please calm down. Help is on the way. You're gonna be
fine."

	"No, I know. I'm getting' cold. Stabbed bad. Please, promise you'll
go see my son, make sure he's okay Don' let `em..." The last words came out
as forced whispers.

	A siren sounded in the distance. Walter said, "Hear that? It's your
ambulance, gonna be here in a few seconds."

	"What's y'name?" grunted the man.

	"Walter, Walter Stuyvesant. What's yours?"

	"Steve, like my kid." He was struggling with his right arm.

	"What's wrong?" asked Walter.

	"My wallet. Get ma, unh, wallet. Back pocket. Please."

	Walter reached for the man's back pocket. He'd raised his right
hip. Walter pulled out the wallet and put it into the man's hand. It had
blood on it. The man pushed it back.

	"My address, near here. Go see my son, please, protect `im, oh,
please."

	The ambulance pulled up in front of the restaurant. Doors opened. A
paramedic rushed in carrying a bag and pushed the waiter aside.

	Walter informed him, "He's been stabbed, probably in the back."

	The man held his wallet against Walter's hand and stared him in the
eye. "Please," he almost cried.

	The paramedic's partner came in pulling a stretcher on
wheels. "Whatcha got?" he asked.

	The first ambulance attendant had his hand under the hurt
man. Walter noticed the pool of blood forming on the marble floor and
realized how badly the man was hurt. This man loved his son. He had to
survive. Walter made a decision to do all he could for him.

	The two paramedics slipped a board under the man and lifted him
onto the stretcher. They raised and rolled it out the door to the
ambulance. The injured man held on to Walter's hand. The wallet remained
between them.

	One of the paramedics asked, "You know this guy?"

	"Yeah, he's a cousin," lied Walter. "Can I go with you?"

	"Sure. He got a wife or something?"

	"Yeah. I'll call her from the hospital." He folded his hand around
the wallet and put it into his pocket.

	The man looked at him and nodded, hope and gratitude in his eyes.

	In the ambulance as they sped through the streets of Brooklyn, the
man, now on his side as the paramedic cut open the back of his clothes,
again looked at Walter. "Promise, please. Just make sure he's okay, ohhh."

	"I promise," said Walter worried he was getting himself into
something he'd regret. "You've got my word. Just relax."

	The paramedic pressed pads against the wounds while his partner
spoke over his radio to the hospital.

	They arrived no more than five minutes after leaving the
restaurant. Walter followed them in. Doctors and nurses were waiting and
hustled the man down the hall and around a corner. Walter was asked to go
the desk and see if he could get hold of the man's wife.

	Inside the wallet were credit cards, notes, a photo of a smiling
child about two, a trade union card and at least two hundred dollars. The
criminal who had stabbed poor Steve hadn't been after his money. The man's
last name was Mulrooney. He lived three blocks from the restaurant, five
from Walter's apartment. There was nothing with the wife's name. Walter
went through the papers trying to find a phone number. One of the cards was
for a doctor. Katherine Mulrooney's name was on it with a date for an
appointment a week hence.

	A policeman walked up to him. "Excuse me. You came in with the
stabbing victim?"

	"Oh, uh, yes. Steve Mulrooney. How is he?"

	"Sorry, I don't know. You know what happened?"

	Walter didn't want to give up the wallet. He slipped it in his
pocket. "No, he just came into the restaurant as I was leaving. I need to
call his wife but I don't know the number."

	"You think he's in the phone book?"

	They looked. There were a couple of Steve Mulrooney's but none at
an address that could have been his.

	Walter noticed a doctor speaking to another policeman, a sturdy,
serious man with sergeant's stripes. The cop who'd been with Walter walked
toward them. Walter followed.

      Steve Mulrooney was dead.

	Walter looked for a chair and sat down. He stared at the blood on
his hands. The sergeant joined him. "Sorry, man. He's your cousin, huh?" He
sounded genuinely sympathetic.

	"No, not really. He just seemed to know me." He shook his head
sadly. "I just didn't want to leave him alone. He was so worried about his
baby, wanted me to do something for him, protect him somehow. He didn't
seem to think his wife would. Jesus! The guy who stabbed him didn't take
his money. I've got it right here. You think his kid's in danger?"

	"You know where he lives?"

	Walter pulled out the wallet and handed it to the policeman. "No
phone number in there?"

	"I couldn't find one. Shouldn't you..."

	The policeman leapt up and headed for the door, calling his partner
as he did. Walter jumped up and went after them.

	"Let me go with you. Maybe I can help. I promised him I'd do
something."

	They put him in the back of their patrol car. The sergeant called
in the address while his partner drove then turned on his siren. He turned
to Walter.

	"What'd the guy tell you, exactly?"

	Walter tried to recall exact words. "Something about his wife
couldn't or wouldn't take care of his son. From the picture, he's only
about two, maybe just one."

	"Did he think she'd hurt him?"

	"He didn't say anything like that, just that he was worried about
the boy, didn't want him stuck in some welfare home. There's some kind of
problem. He was in a lot of pain. It was hard for him to talk."

	The sergeant faced forward then turned back again. "You know, you
don't have any obligations here. Your wife's probably..., you got a wife?"

	"No."

	"Still, this is probably gonna be a mess. Why don't you just give
me your name and address and a phone number and I'll have someone take you
home. We can talk tomorrow."

	Walter considered that but felt as though he'd made a commitment he
had to keep. "No, that's okay. I made a promise. I can at least see if
there's anything I can do. Maybe she's just not too bright or something,
you know, gonna need help. I don't know."

	"Up to you. I think we're here."

	The house was a forties three story apartment complex in a row of
similar structures all with fire escapes between the second and third
floors. They raced up to the vestibule and found Mulrooney on the mailbox
of 3D. The wood and glass entry door wasn't locked so they walked inside
and trotted up the stairs, bare bulbs in old wall fixtures dimly lighting
their way. An older woman wearing a tattered apron on the second landing
watched them go past then walked halfway up the stairs to the third floor
behind them.

	They knocked twice but there was no answer. The sergeant asked the
woman if she knew if Mrs. Mulrooney was home.

	"Probly. You just gotta knock hard with her."

	"She hard a hearing?"

	The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Not really, just keep knocking."

	They tried again. There was the sound of a chain latch being put in
place. The door opened a crack. A tired woman's face surrounded by frizzled
hair peered out at them.

	"Mrs. Mulrooney?"

	The woman looked them all over like she was deciding on an answer
then asked, "Whatta ya want?"

	"Are you Steve Mulrooney's wife, miss?"

	"Why?"

	"Are you?"

	"Something wrong?"

	"Miss you're not in any trouble. I've just gotta know if you're
Steve Mulrooney's wife."

	"Okay."

	"Well, are you?"

	"Yeah."

	Walter suspected the woman was on the back end of being high. She
seemed to have difficulty focusing her eyes on them.

	"Do you mind if we come in. There's been an accident."

	She nodded as though this was a common occurrence. She closed the
door, removed the chain and re-opened it, waving her arm for all to
enter. The woman was probably in her early twenties but looked ten years
older. Her medium length light brown hair hung like last week's
spaghetti. There was a dress under the night coat she wore. Both needed
ironing. Walter guessed she'd been pretty before but years of drug abuse
had taken its toll.

      The apartment smelled of deodorant and garbage. There wasn't much
furniture to be seen, just a table, five chairs and a high chair. Two
pictures of the three Mulrooneys were on the wall beside the door. They
were in a park. The boy was in a stroller. His mother looked nicer,
healthier but the clothes and the outdoor lighting might have helped.

      A television could be heard in another room. The sergeant pointed
toward the sound and asked, "Is your son in there?"

      "I think he's asleep."

      "Do you mind if I take a look?"

       She paused before waving her hand toward the hallway.

      Walter almost followed the policeman but decided to remain an
unobtrusive observer.

	Mrs. Mulroney sat at the table as though she was going to eat but
there was no food. She stared at the table.

	The sergeant returned and nodded positively at his
partner. Apparently the child was okay. He took the chair beside the woman
and merely looked at her for a moment before asking, "Don't you want to
know why we're here?"

	She shrugged and answered without taking her eyes off the
table. "You said there was a accident. So what happened?"

	"It wasn't exactly an accident. Your husband was stabbed." He
waited for her reaction. There was none.

      Walter found her attitude impossible to comprehend. She didn't seem
to care even though the presence and demeanor of these two policemen should
have indicated something terrible had occurred. She had to assume her
husband was seriously injured or worse. Still, she just sat at the table as
though waiting for them to leave. She might have been high earlier but
seemed relatively cogent at the time.

      Finally, she sat back in the chair and asked, "He okay?"

      "No, he's not."

      She folded her arms, eyes on the far wall. "So how bad is he?"

      "I'm sorry to tell you but he's dead."

      Her head tilted to one side. Her shoulders moved as they would with a
sigh.

      "You knew, didn't you?"

      Her head tilted to the other side, eyes narrowing. She turned sharply
toward the sergeant, no longer calm. With an angry edge to her voice, she
asked. "So how'm I supposed to know that? What happened?"

      "Somebody wanted to kill him and they did. Didn't touch his wallet or
watch."

      Another pause. "You got `em with you?"


      "No, they're at the hospital."

      "Was there money in the wallet?" The anger was gone as quickly as it
had appeared, A kind of assertive humility took its place..

      "Yes."

      "How much?"

      "Don't know. Didn't count it. You and your husband get along okay?"

      "I s'pose so. Why?"

      "You don't seem very upset."

      She shook her head. "So what'm I s'posed to do? Cry? I didn't see him
that much. Worked a lot."


      "To pay for your habit?"

      She shook her head again. "I ain't got no habit." There didn't seem
to be any anger at the question.

      "What do you use? Crack?"

      "I don't use nothin', just smoke sometimes."

      The sergeant leaned back. "Mrs. Mulrooney, we need you to come with
us to the hospital to identify your husband. There's a policewoman on the
way to watch your son. Only take an hour or so."

      "I'm tired now. I'll go tomorrow."

      There was a knock at the door. It was a pair of policewomen.

      The sergeant stood. "Officer, please take Mrs. Mulrooney to her room
to change into whatever she wants so she can go with us now to the
hospital." He emphasized the word `now'.

      A policewoman gently took Mrs. Mulrooney by the arm and lifted
slowly.

      "I told you..."

      "Mrs. Mulrooney, I don't wanna search this apartment for drugs but I
will if you make me wait any longer. Now get dressed."

      She yanked her arm away from the policewoman and did as she was told.

      While she was in her room, the other policeman said, "That's one cold
blooded bitch. Wanna bet she's got a boyfriend somewhere with a knife."

      His boss told him to shut up.

      Walter wasn't sure what to do at that point. Police suspicions made
sense. If the woman was involved, he expected she'd be arrested and the
child turned over to the welfare department, something his father clearly
didn't want.

      He asked the sergeant, "What'll happen to the kid if she's messed up
in this?"

      "You know, social workers'll take him, put him in a home, maybe with
foster parents. I know you want to help but this may be out of your hands."

      "Poor kid."

      The policeman shook his head. "Always is the kids that get hurt."

      Mrs. Mulrooney came back followed by a policewoman. She was wearing a
brightly checkered dress. Walter found it profoundly inappropriate.

      The sergeant asked him, "Want us to drop you somewhere?"

      "Mind if I come along in case she's cleared. I'd like to talk to her
if that's the case."

      "No problem but you saw what we saw. She knew. There's only one way
she could have known."

      At the hospital, Walter had to wait in the lobby while Mrs. Mulrooney
was taken to see her husband's body. It only took a few minutes. When they
returned, she seemed to be crying but Walter didn't see any tears. The
sergeant told him they were taking her to the station for interrogation
which could take several hours. He doubted she'd be going home before
morning and that would happen only if she wasn't booked. He expected the
latter.

      As he walked the eight blocks home, he found himself hoping the woman
was just whacked out on drugs, that she'd had nothing to do with the murder
of her husband. If that was the case, he could try to get her into a drug
program which would might help her function better as a mother, keep her
little boy out of the hands of the welfare system, a system Walter blamed
for his personal problems since they'd raised him in a series of cold
foster and group homes and a mental hospital. He had a lot of theories
regarding how such a twisted, unstable and insecure childhood like that
could have transformed him into a man whose sexual orientation was toward
prepubescent boys.

      Though there'd been many temptations, even opportunities over the
years, he'd had no sex as an adult. For instance, fresh out of college, at
the behest of a professor who knew Walter had grown up as a ward of the
state though nothing more, he volunteered to teach computer skills to kids
in a youth club. While he found some attractive, his deep inhibitions made
it easy avoid any physical contact. However, one apparently perceptive pair
of boys, eleven and thirteen, sensed he might be the type to provide the
blow jobs they were too shy to elicit from a girl and unwilling to give
each other but wanted desperately. They conned Walter into an empty room at
the center supposedly to help the younger who was supposedly hurt without
mentioning that the fake injury was the skin on his uncircumcised dick
supposedly caught in his fly. Had they mentioned dick or penis, Walter
never would have gone with the boy. They apparently assumed that on seeing
the organ, Walter would be putty in their hands. The moment he realized
what part of the boy's body was supposedly in pain, Walter did an about
face that would have made a Marine guard proud, instructing them to call
the nurse as he dashed though the door.

      A second incident took place during a brief vacation to a New Jersey
beach up the coast from Atlantic City. A pretty, beautifully tanned boy
noticed Walter noticing him, struck up a conversation aimed at begging a
couple of dollars, got his money then came back that afternoon and the
following morning for more. Probably realizing that this was one of those
peds the folks at school warned him about along with, as they saw it, lurid
descriptions of what terrible things a ped might do to a boy, decided to
invite Walter back to his house, empty of others in the morning, a few
blocks away. When, claiming he was just changing out of his bathing suit,
he began to strip in front of him, Walter turned away. When the boy
suggested he take off his clothes as well, Walter beat what can surely be
called a hasty retreat, heading immediately to and checking out of his
hotel, vacation over.

      The only sex that had occurred in his life had been in a children's
home where he spent an unpleasant two years and one of four foster homes in
which he lived after being raised to age four in another children's home in
Brooklyn.  The first, at age nine was with another boy his age in his third
foster home. It was mostly manual but they tried oral a few times. Walter's
attempts at kissing were rejected as being `faggy shit'.

      The other involved a series of masturbation and oral sessions which
ended abruptly with an incident in a gang shower at age thirteen. The other
boy was eleven. They were living in a large Catholic group home on Staten
Island. Although proscribed and preached against by the nuns and visiting
priests, sex, one of the few releases the children there had, was practiced
fairly widely. Even those who didn't participate but had been at the home
for a while knew better than to mention it around adults. Snitches were
dealt with swiftly and harshly. The above mentioned eleven year old had
sucked off Walter, and several others, many times before. Once, when he and
Walter were alone, he had participated in some very hot kissing. Walter
fell in love with the boy. The meeting in the shower that afternoon had
been planned carefully. Bathing was done in groups supervised by
counselors. The two boys had had to sneak away from after school
recreation. The younger boy had been masturbating that day when Walter
rushed in. They kissed briefly. The boy insisted that Walter blow him
first. Then, he'd return the favor. With no witnesses, Walter did what he
hadn't yet but had wanted to do for a long time. He dropped to his knees
and took the boy by the hips. The hard cock felt good inside his mouth. He
didn't hear the other boy enter. The cock was suddenly withdrawn. Walter
looked up and saw his friend looking behind them. He turned. It was a new
boy who'd only come to the home a week or so before and who'd apparently
followed Walter out of curiosity when he'd seen him sneak off behind a
garage then back to the main building. He wasn't yet in the know about the
kids' social do's and don'ts.. The new boy ran off and told the first nun
he encountered exactly what he'd seen.

       Walter spent the next two and a half years locked up with a wide
variety sad and often unpleasant people in a psychiatric hospital where he
underwent `aversion therapy' which consisted of everything from `talk'
sessions listening to a doctor tell him what a piece of shit he was to
unpleasant medicines then electric shock.

      The most painful aspect of his imprisonment in the so called hospital
was the frustration. It didn't matter what he did or didn't do, how he did
or didn't react. The soul wrenching testing and horrendous treatment went
on regardless. It started during his second month there. They'd tried to
put a device around his penis with wiring back to some electronic box but,
even at thirteen, he was still prepubescent with a little boy's penis, much
too small for the adult sized device. His sex organs didn't start to grow
eight months later well after he'd turned fourteen. Nonetheless, roughly
monthly, they'd take him to a darkened room, sit him in a heavy wooden
chair and project photos of naked boys, often having sex with one another
or fellating or being fucked by a man, in the latter case with expressions
of distaste or pain on their faces, onto a screen about ten feet away, with
the bearded doctor in his high pitched voice describing in erotic detail
what was going on and how good it must have felt for the `little boys'
involved. Then, after about ten minutes of visual and oral stimulation,
probably with the expectation that he'd been aroused sexually, he'd be
force fed a cup of what they called medicine but which almost immediately
caused an intense pain in his gut that lasted for hours. By the sixth month
after he'd turned fourteen and his balls had dropped and penis was growing,
they'd graduated to electric shock for which they strapped him into the
same chair and connected electrodes to his head or, more often, arms or
legs. The pain was more intense but, at least, the worst was over in a few
minutes, often because he passed out, though some residual pain, mental
confusion and sometimes weakness stayed with him for hours. However, that
initial pain and stress was produced a far greater fear of that procedure
than the so called medicine. After the first time, he was so terrified that
it took three burly orderlies to tie down the eighty-five pound boy.

      By the time he was fifteen, his cock had grown sufficiently that they
could use the sleeve device on it. The slightest inflation of his penis
sensed by their electronic box would bring on another dose of nasty drugs
or electric shock. Even after he learned how not to see the pictures by
focusing his eyes on the closer projector operator's cigarette smoke and
blot out the erotic descriptions and sounds by concentrating on the whir of
the projector's cooling fan, they'd still punish him, claiming a reaction
that couldn't have occurred, that he was sure hadn't happened. Though the
doctors would constantly tell Walter that freeing him of his `disgusting
perverted desires' was the objective of the `treatments' and despite
Walter's pleadings that he had none and was sure he'd beaten their machine,
it seemed there'd be no end to the torture.

      But, it did end shortly before his sixteenth birthday. It had nothing
to do with whether they thought he'd been cured or controlled. It was an
age thing. The program was for under sixteens. Cure wasn't the goal. It was
all about testing the effects of their torturous techniques on young boys
with no family to protest. Walter no longer qualified as a young boy.

      Almost certainly to prevent discovery of their nefarious program, two
of the doctors repeatedly but subtly warned Walter not to mention what they
were doing. They claimed that the `procedures' as they sometimes called
them, were only necessary with sexual deviates such as him, perverts hated
by everyone in the world for their cowardly destruction of innocent little
children, the message being that were someone to find out what had been
done to him, they would automatically assume he was a child molester, the
lowest for of human being.

      One might assume that having been aware of as well as participated in
considerable sex among prepubescent boys with no adult involvement, Walter
would have rejected the innocence of children argument outright. But, the
message of the doctors was repeated often enough along with the pain they
inflicted in the presence of visual depictions of such sex that Walter's
mind wasn't able to get past it.

      The effect of those terrible years wasn't just a fear of sexual
situations with boys but even an inability to touch his own penis. It was
as though some kind of force field existed around his groin that didn't
allow his hand near it. Not that he'd try. He compulsively kept his hands
away, used a washcloth to wash himself there, flipped his penis out to pee
and yanked his pants up to pop it back inside when done. He didn't allow
thoughts of sex in any form into his mind. It was something that just
didn't exist for him.

      From the hospital, Walter was put into another group home. There,
avoiding the conflicts, and, of course, masturbation sessions among the
boys, and despite the disorder, he put all his energy and thoughts into his
education. While self improvement and improvement of future prospects was a
major motivation for this, the single mindedness was also somewhat due to
his inability to interact socially with the other boys, especially the
generally troubled youth with whom he found himself living. School was
something moderately interesing to fill his abundant free time.

      When the state unceremoniously tossed him out at eighteen, he found
an afternoon and evening job in a fast food restaurant, lived in a cheap
rooming house, and enrolled in a morning trade school where he studied
electronics then the new field of computer repair. Upon graduation at
twenty-one, he entered a two year college where, apart from other required
courses, studied computer programming. From there, by then actually
interested in his studies rather than using them to replace a non-existent
social life, he went to a state university to get a basic computer software
engineering degree. Due to his self developed, at the hospital, of course,
ability to concentrate on a single subject, he became sufficiently adept at
computer programming while still in school to find a decent job well before
graduation where he earned enough to move into a modest studio apartment
and pay for his education. By the age of thirty, he had become an
independent and well paid software trouble shooter, working mostly out of
his apartment where he had two high powered computers and the quiet to seek
out problems and weaknesses in programs designed by others.

      His social life, as mentioned, was far less successful. It consisted
mostly of chit chat with acquaintances he'd met at the restaurant where
Steve Mulrooney had stumbled through the door. There were occasional
lunches with clients but they were generally business oriented, once a week
movies and a restaurant meal in Midtown Manhattan, five weekly TV shows
plus the CBS Evening News, and, four or five times a week, hour long walks
that ended in a nearby playground where, while supposedly cooling off, he
watched small children brought their by their parents. Other than that, his
life was barren.

      He often considered finding a woman he could marry and have children
with but that dream always died well short of even initiation. He'd never
dated anyone and had no idea how to get started or what to do had he gotten
that far. Every woman he knew at the restaurant and among his clients was
either married or had a boy friend. Worse, he couldn't conjure up anything
he felt he'd be able to talk about. None of the women he'd met knew
anything about computer software. And, of course, he was forty-seven, past,
as he saw it, the age of interest for most women.

      More troubling than his inability to relate to women was the
confusion over why he was so interested in children. Though he tried to
reject that there might a sexual component to his desire for a boy but why,
then, did he always notice it when a young boy's flesh was exposed; found
it enticing, especially, for some unknown reason, underarms. He resisted
the idea that he might be one of those hated pedophiles so often railed
against on television and in newspaper and magazine articles, a child
molester as the doctors had repeatedly claimed. Frightening as it was,
there were signs like that lack of interest in women, or even
men. Attempting to leave behind the accusations of the doctors, he tried to
convince himself his only desire was to care for a child, just wasn't sure
why.

      Then there was the hatred he harbored for his parents, the ones who'd
actually been responsible for his existence. It didn't matter if his
miserable childhood was their fault or not. Even if they'd been
accidentally killed when he was a baby as he sometimes imagined, they'd
created him, therefore, the ultimate responsibility theirs. Of course, he
had no idea who his progenitors had been. No one would ever tell him. When,
as an adult, he tried to find out, his records were so spread around due to
the constant changing of living accommodations, and the unwillingness of
the psychiatric hospital, who had the greatest amount of information on his
childhood, to admit more than he'd been an inmate for two and a half years
and was released at sixteen as ready to enter a normal group home. The city
could only find a records of his being in the Catholic home, the hospital
and his last group home. Worse, no one seemed sure of in which of three
homes he'd spent his earliest years in the system. None of them had any
record of him, two explaining that, at that time, a child's file went with
him when he was transferred to a new home.

      Regarding the possibility that his parents may have died in an
accident from which a bystander had saved him, he'd often tried to imagine
what that heroic person might have been like, give him a face, a
background. The problem with that was whether to embrace his savior or spit
in his face. Walter's youth had been very unpleasant, his adulthood very
unsatisfying.

      Walter Stuyvesant, at forty-seven, had lived fifteen years in a
comfortable, well furnished four room plus kitchen and bath apartment on
the second floor of a middle class six story building with thirty six
units, only a few blocks away from low income projects and a huge working
class area of Brooklyn. He generally prepared his own breakfast and either
lunch or dinner there then went out to restaurant for the other, usually
the one where Steve Mulrooney had stumbled through the door. His living
quarters and life were as ordered as the programming code he wrote,
everything in its place.

       The night of the incident, Walter found sleep elusive. He'd promised
a dying man to prevent happening to his child what had happened to
himself. And, of course, the thought of being involved with a child, even
one as young as he expected the man's to be, was enticing. Early the next
morning, he put on a sweater against the chill of the mid April air and
walked slowly, and indirectly, toward the Mulrooney apartment building five
blocks away. He wasn't sure what he'd do once he got there. It was possible
the boy had already been taken away and there'd be nothing to do. The
mother had certainly acted guilty the night before. She was probably still
in police custody.

      Nonetheless, he eventually found himself walking up to the third
floor apartment and knocking on the door. He rapped increasingly hard three
times but there was no answer. Feeling he'd failed to keep his commitment
to poor dying Steve Mulrooney and possibly lost an opportunity to be a sort
of big brother to a child in need of one, he headed back down the stairs
only to meet the same middle aged woman who, the night before, had told
them to knock harder.

      "She's in there. They brought her home after midnight. Just knock
harder."

      Behind him, he heard the sound of a door opening. He ran back
up. Mrs. Mulrooney, looking pretty much as she had when he'd first seen her
except sleepy rather than drugged, peeked out as he approached.

      "Mrs. Mulrooney?"

      "Whatta you want?" She didn't seem to recognize him.

      "I'm Walter Stuyvesant. I was with your husband last night, after he
was hurt. I went..."

      "You're the guy that cop said's gonna help me, shit." She started to
close the door.

      "Wait, wait. I promised your husband I would do whatever I could is
all."

      The woman frowned but kept the door open a crack.

      Walter pulled a business card out of his wallet. "I just want to
leave you my phone number and address. If there's anything I can do,
whatever, I live just a few blocks from here. Your husband was very worried
about you and your child. Just before he died, I promised him to do what I
could. So whatever you need, a ride somewhere, help finding a job, even
babysitting, whatever, just let me know."

      She chuckled as she accepted the card. "You babysit? Shit. Okay,
thanks. I'll call you if I need something." She closed the door.

      He stood there long enough to hear a very young voice, though
certainly not a baby's, ask, "Is that daddy?"

      The bitch hadn't told her son that his father wouldn't be coming
home, ever.









































                                    Chapter 2


      Walking the five blocks to his house, Walter told himself that the
matter should be considered over, dead. The woman had mocked him. His offer
of help was a farce to her. She probably had someone else, had had for some
time, possibly, no probably, the murderer of her husband. He might even
have been inside at the time of his visit. If he saw Walter as a threat, a
second murder surely wouldn't bother him.

      At home, Walter dove into a program he'd been working on, trying to
force his mind to see only the code he wrote or corrected. Within an hour,
he was back on track and stayed that way until ten before two when his
stomach demanded attention. He made a ham and cheese sandwich but imagined
having to prepare another for a little boy. There was nothing on television
to help direct his mind away from thoughts of what he could do with a boy
in his life. He cursed Steve Mulrooney for choosing his restaurant at the
hour he was leaving, for heaving such a responsibility, such an alluring
yet impossible opportunity on him, for dying.

      After two hours of erratic attempts with the program he should have
been able to complete that day, Walter went to an expensive midtown
Manhattan restaurant and a movie in another attempt to distract himself,
get back to his none too happy but uncluttered, ordered existence.

      He used pills left over from an earlier bout of yearning for a boy to
get to sleep but was awake at four twenty, unable to close his eyes.

      Again, he sat down at his computer, this time with some success,
actually finishing the program and testing it. It was again two in the
afternoon and he had no more work scheduled until Monday, four days
away. So, with no other interesting alternatives, he decided to do
something that had been on his mind for a couple of years, join a gym and
work out. He knew of one a short train ride away. The staff was very
upbeat, welcoming him with a grand tour of the facility, checking him out
physically, seeing what he could do and setting up a program for him. He
learned he only had thirteen percent body fat, amazing, they said, for a
forty-seven year old man with such a sedentary life. He had dinner at the
gym's health food restaurant, an experience that wasn't nearly as
exhilarating as the exercise.

      From there, he went in to Times Square and another movie getting home
just after midnight. Going to sleep was much easier than the night before.


      He found he was less desperate in the morning. Perhaps, he thought,
he would get over this incident faster than he'd feared. He dug out the
last of his bacon and prepared a deluxe breakfast of an egg, cheese and
bacon omelet. It was delicious but interrupted by a phone call. He hoped it
was work.

      It wasn't. The caller announced, "This is Katherine Mulrooney,
Steve's wife? Did you really mean it when you said you'd baby sit little
Stevie?"

      Walter nearly choked on the last bite of omelet. "Well, I suppose..."

      "I gotta go out today, you know, setting up Steve's funeral an'
all. We're gonna bury him tomorrow. I know it's a lot to ask but, well, you
said, so I figured I'd call. Can you? I need to go real soon if you can."

      Walter gulped down the rest of his food and chug-a-lugged a glass of
juice, grabbed his jacket then skipped down the stairs and fast walked,
rather than ran to avoid arriving sweaty, to the Mulrooney apartment house,
all the way planning what he'd do, worrying what people might say about him
in the street and the park with a two or three year old that wasn't
his. There really wasn't any way they should know he and the child weren't
related but he worried anyhow.

      When the boy's mother answered his knock, she stepped into the
hallway and pointed over her shoulder. "That's him. I'll be back `round
five or so. Do whatever you want. Ain't much food so's you'll have to go
out." And she was gone.

      The little boy facing Walter with the worried look on his face was
closer to four than two, blond, sturdy looking, at least for a child so
young, and holding a large, bright red plastic fire engine tight to his
chest. Walter, the boy lover, was at a loss for words.

      With a smile that might have carried more worry than reassurance, he
closed the door slowly behind him. After a deep breath, he stumbled through
a weak, "A, hi, I'm Walter."

      The boy, mouth tightly closed, stared back, following the man with
his eyes, turning slowly as his baby sitter walked more away than toward
him in search of a chair.

      Walter sought words that would calm the concern in the boy's
eyes. "Your mother had to run some errands so she asked me to come stay
with you until she gets back."

      Stevie seemed to sigh. Walter wondered if he knew yet that his father
was gone, never to come back. Certainly he'd be taken to the funeral. But
what did three year olds understand about death?

      "Have you had breakfast?" asked Walter.

      The boy shook his head.

      Walter got up and went to the kitchen, actually more of a nook off
the end of the room they were in. The refrigerator had a half empty quart
carton of milk and something that looked unappetizing in a small plastic
storage bin. They'd have to go out to eat. It freed up Walter's mind.

      "McDonald's has breakfasts. You wanna go to McDonald's?"

      The boy shook his head, cutting short Walter's brief euphoria. "Well,
want me to go out and get something, eggs, cereal?"

      The boy shrugged.

      "Okay, what do you want me to get?"

      The boy began to cry.

      Walter got up. The boy backed into the hall, obviously afraid. Walter
sat back down.

      "Please don't be afraid. I'm not going to hurt you. I'd never do
that. I just want to get you something to eat but, if you're not hungry,
uh, are you hungry?"

      The boy sat on the floor, staring down at his big truck tucked
securely into his lap, running his hands over the shiny red plastic, still
crying softly.

      "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I'll just stay over
here. Please don't be afraid of me."

      "I want my daddy," sobbed the boy.

      Walter, sure the boy didn't yet know what had happened, had no idea
how to deal with that request. He was suddenly angry at the boy's mother
for not telling her son something, anything that would somehow explain that
his daddy wouldn't be back, ever. He determined to speak with her about it
when she returned.

      He tried, "Your daddy was my friend. He told me to make sure you were
okay."

      "Where is my daddy?"

      "I don't know," lied Walter feeling traitorous doing so.

      "When is he coming home?"

      Walter shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

      There were no more words between them for over an hour. The boy went
into another room. Whatever he did in there was done quietly because
Walter, who didn't dare leave his chair, heard nothing.

      What Walter did was worry, worry about what to say to win the boy's
trust, what not to say that might damage such a fragile beginning. He
decided that just staying put and being as non-threatening as possible was
the best tactic at the time, even if that meant sitting in that chair all
day until the child's mother came home easily eight hours hence.

      Then, at ten fifteen, the boy reappeared in the hallway. "I'm
hungry."

      Walter perked up. "Want me to go get you something to eat? What would
you like?"

      "I wanna go to McDonald's."

      Walter tried to contain his excitement, afraid it might send the boy
crying back to his room. "Sure, we can go to McDonald's. Okay if I take
you?"

      The answer wasn't enthusiastic, just a nod, but enough for Walter to
stand slowly and suggest they find a jacket or sweater since it was cool
outside. Stevie led Walter to his room. There was an unmade single size
bed, a small dresser and lots of toys, everything from his large fire truck
to toy soldiers and a child size basketball to a spiderman costume and a
large Lego building block set the pieces of which were spread all over the
floor.

      Stevie pulled a sweater out of his dresser and got a jacket from the
closet. He allowed Walter to help him put on both. When Walter offered his
hand as they left, the boy accepted it.

      They took a bus to a McDonald's nearly a mile away. Walter had hoped
to hail a cab but no empty ones had passed by before the bus
appeared. Stevie knew exactly what he wanted to order leading Walter to
believe he'd been taken there a number of times before, probably by his
father. Walter watched him carefully cut up his pancakes then stab them
with a fork and shove them into his mouth. There was no conversation while
they ate. Walter wanted to let the boy lead any discussions.

      When they'd finished, he asked Stevie if he'd like to go to a
children's park not far from his home. Apparently, the child knew about it
and had been there or a similar one.

      Stevie asked, "Is that the one with swings and slides and teeter
totter?"

      This time, they hailed a cab.

      Walter was somewhat self conscious among the mothers at the park as
he pushed Stevie's swing and moved his teeter totter up and down. Though he
couldn't imagine how anyone would possibly know he wasn't the boy's father
or at least a close relative, he still worried about one of the women
coming up and asking questions which might lead to suspicions.

      But, worries subsided quickly as he watched the child enjoy himself,
enjoy what he, Walter, was doing for him.

      "Higher!" he insisted on the swing. "Faster!" on the teeter totter.

      He even let Walter carry him piggy back from the bottom of the
sliding board to the ladder.

      A couple of times, mothers smiled his way, friendly, unthreatening
smiles that helped vaporize his fears of maternal suspicions.

      After over two hours of the park, Walter suggested they go to a book
store and buy some books he could read to him. Stevie liked the idea so
they took a train to lower Manhattan and stopped in three stores where
Walter spent over forty dollars with his credit card.

      They had lunch at a restaurant up the street from Barnes and Noble
then took a train to the south end of Central Park. The plan was to find a
comfortable bench and read but Stevie spotted the lake and the
rowboats. Walter read `The Three Pigs' to the three year old as they
drifted about the middle of the lake. At the end of the book, while Steve
leafed through looking at the pictures, Walter sat back and looked at the
small boy, his blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight, his lips opening and
closing as her perused the book, his chunky little hands as they pulled the
corners of pages to turn them. Then, back on shore, they sat on a hillside
and he read it again because Stevie thought the third pig was `smart' and
wanted to hear again how he outwitted the wolf. He leaned back against
Walter nearly making him cry with contentment.

      It was well after six when they got back to the Mulrooney apartment
laden with groceries Walter had bought at a supermarket near the subway
station. There was enough food that they had to get a taxi to haul them and
the food home.

      Katherine Mulrooney wasn't back yet so he heated up a frozen
pizza. They ate it seated on the floor, leaning against the boy's bed while
Walter told Stevie the story of the boy who called wolf, one of only two
children's stories he knew.

      Stevie didn't finish his pizza because he fell asleep. Walter wiped
his and the boy's face and hands with a napkin then cradled the three year
old in his lap. It was something he'd dreamed of doing for many
years. Happiness and satisfaction flowed through him like hot
cocoa. Several times, he kissed the boy's blond hair then he too fell
asleep.

      Stevie's mother awakened him with a start. She was laughing and said,
"Man, you are a real baby sitter, sitting there with my baby." She thought
it was hilarious. She was stoned on something a lot stronger than grass.

      Walter realized the futility of his plan to discuss how his mother
could let the boy know his father was gone. Instead, while his mother
watched, he undressed Stevie down to his underwear and put him into bed,
cleaned up their mess and smiled as he left. There was a great doubt in his
mind that any funeral preparations had been made.

      On the way out, he noticed a young man sitting on a stoop across the
street, watching him as he left. After rounding the corner, he peeked back
and saw the man walk coolly across the street and into the Mulrooney
building. He easily dissuaded himself from following the man inside. If he
was Katherine Mulrooney's lover, he could well be the man who had murdered
her husband, not someone to mess around with.

      The following morning, a Friday, early in case a funeral actually had
been planned, Walter walked back to the Mulrooney apartment house but
stopped at the foot of the stairs, worried that the boyfriend might still
be there, possibly in bed with Katherine Mulrooney, might have a knife, or
a gun, might kill him. He wanted very much to get Stevie's mother to tell
her boy about his father. Of course, if there was to be a funeral that day,
one would have expected that the son would be taken along.

      Walter walked back outside and sat on the stoop across the street
where the previous night he'd seen who had probably been Katherine
Mulrooney's boyfriend waiting for him to leave. It was there that he forced
himself to realize that his real reason for being there was his desire to
have Stevie back with him again. He wanted Katherine to tell her son about
his father so the boy would be more likely to accept him as a
substitute. He became angry with himself for being so selfish, so
shallow. He got up and headed back toward his apartment.

      A block away, a car, a new Ford with two men in street clothes
inside, pulled up beside him, frightening him enough that he almost ran
inside a hardware store. He only stopped when a voice called out, "Walter,
Walter, take it easy. It's me, Sergeant Garretson." Walter quickly
recognized the voice and face as that of the police sergeant who had been
with him the day of the murder.

      The policeman offered him a ride to his apartment house. Walter
accepted it reluctantly.

      Inside the car, the sergeant said, "Look, you know we think
Mrs. Mulrooney was involved in her husband's murder. We don't have enough
proof to do much about it at this point but you can really help us, and the
kid."

      Walter began to shake his head but the sergeant went on.

      "Take it easy, all we want you to do is put a bug in her
apartment. It's easy. A judge has signed off on it." He pulled a folded
official looking paper from his pocket and handed it to Walter who looked
it over. "I'll show you how to use it. It's easy. I'm sure she's gonna have
you look after her kid again and you'll have plenty of time. She'll
never..."

      "How did you know I looked after Stevie?"

      "Walter, the kid's mother's a murder suspect. She's under twenty-four
hour surveillance. Anyhow, relax. We're really happy you're involved. What
we're asking you to do is easy, and important. We'll show you how to
install the bug. It's just a lot easier for you to do it than for us to
sneak in. If someone sees us go in there, they might tell her and she or
her boyfriend might figure out what we're up to. Anyhow, with you putting
it in without them knowing about it, once they find out, they'll be in
jail. And these two are the only ones involved in this so you'll have
nothing to fear. And I'll see if you can be the foster parent for the kid."

      All the while the sergeant had been speaking, Walter was putting
together excuses for not becoming involved, until that last line about
making him the child's foster father. What was he saying? Why was he saying
it? Had he figured out what Walter was? If so, there didn't seem to be any
way he'd actually put a three year old with a probable pedophile. Cops
hated pedophiles. Walter had heard them speak on news programs. This was
all wrong, maybe even a trap.

      "Sergeant, I'm just a computer programmer. This is way over my
head. With this warrant, you can put this thing in yourselves. I don't
really want to get involved. I'm sorry, really, but this isn't something I
want to get mixed up in." At that point, Walter was ready to walk away from
the boy. He was more afraid of the policeman and his possible knowledge
than the murdering boyfriend.

      "Look, Walter, I heard about you with the kid's father. The people in
the restaurant and the ambulance told me what you two talked about. You're
a good guy, a genuine Good Samaritan, shit, the ultimate Good
Samaritan. Steve Mulrooney was a good guy too. He loved his son very
much. These two pieces of crap robbed that boy of a father, a future. If
they get away with it, the kid's gonna become just like his mother, or
maybe even like her boyfriend. I want both of them bad enough to make any
offer you need to feel comfortable, safe. Hell, I don't know that I can do
anything to keep the kid out of the hands of those assholes in the welfare
system but I will try. Neither of us wants to see him grow up a junkie or
worse. I swear, you'll be in no danger doing this for us and you'll have a
cop, a sergeant in the New York Police Department as a friend forever. I
mean it."

      Walter wasn't convinced. He was scared. He wanted a return to life as
it had been, simple and safe, no complications, predictable, ordered. He
wasn't the adventurous type. There'd been enough unpleasant adventure in
his life when he was a kid. He knew what shrinks could and would do to
someone with what they considered deviant sexual interests. He never wanted
to go through that again. He refused, insisted on getting out
immediately. He walked the last block home, trembling at the thought of
what he might have become involved in, ready to turn down any babysitting
request from Katherine Mulrooney.

	However, even before mounting the stairs to his apartment building,
the regrets began to set in. As he unlocked the apartment house entry door,
he turned to look for the police car, not so much to call him back as to
see how definitively he'd shut himself out of little Stevie's life. The car
was nowhere to be seen. On the way up the stairs, it seemed good it hadn't
been there. He needed to steer clear of such situations. He'd gotten the
impression the cop had figured him out, intuitively, from years as a
policeman. He'd nailed him as a pedophile. Why else would he have offered a
small boy to a single man?

	Inside his apartment, he flopped down on the sofa. Still, he
thought, he hadn't done anything sexual with the boy, had no intention of
doing so. Good grief, he thought, the kid's just three. What the hell can a
guy do with a three year old? And he did enjoy the company of that three
year old, craved it. Even when the boy grew older, he could control
himself. He hadn't even masturbated since he was thirteen. The cops had to
have some kind of proof a man did something before they could arrest
him. Walter had nothing in his house to suggest pedophilia. There was that
business back at the group home but it had been youthful foolishness. He'd
done nothing since. If anything, he had become a prude.

	But the doctor at the psychiatric hospital where he'd been locked
up seemed to know the truth as did Walter. He did like boys sexually, maybe
not three year olds, but Stevie wouldn't stay three. In a few years he'd be
eight, then ten and becoming very desirable. Would Walter be able to
control himself then? Would Stevie love him enough not to tell anyone
should there be any sex between them? Worse, would the authorities check
him out after Stevie's mother was arrested and learn of his internment as a
young teen in that house of horrors they called a hospital? The record of
his years there was supposed to be closed, unavailable to anyone, but he
knew such information could be retrieved. Even though back then there
hadn't been computers in which to file his records, there were papers in
folders packed away but locatable by someone who knew where to look. Stuff
like that was never thrown away. And, he'd always suspected the police had
secret lists of people with sexually deviant histories, men like him who
would enjoy the company of a naked boy in their beds.

	Just the fact that he'd conjured up the idea of his being in bed
with an undressed boy frightened him. It was a thought that hadn't entered
his mind since the group home. He'd fantasized sleeping with eleven year
old Wallace Bird, the boy who'd infatuated him. It was a thought that he'd
blotted out of his mind until that very moment. He had to bury it back in
that deep, dark corner of his brain from where it had come.

	Walter turned on the television. The fare was hardly anything to
distract him. He went to his desk and grabbed his customer book. After a
quick shower, he was off to do some business hustling. There was work
scheduled for Monday but he had time for more.

      His first stop resulted in half a day's billable time straightening
out a strange glitch in an inventory program. The office manager had been
delighted he'd passed by. Walter made up a bill and went out for a late
lunch with him. By the time they parted, it was after four, too late for
any more business. Walter had hoped to pick up something he could have done
over the weekend. He began thinking about a quick trip, just hop on a train
or plane and go somewhere, get away from that telephone he knew would ring,
from that request he'd have a very difficult time refusing.

      Washington, D.C.! He'd never been there, just read about it and those
great museums. He'd often thought about spending a day or two in the
Smithsonian.

      He grabbed a cab and headed back to his apartment to call Amtrack for
a ticket then pack and be on his way. It was a great idea. He had to be in
the office of his customer Monday at nine to meet with the IT folks and
plan the changes they wanted in their administrative program. He could stay
over Sunday night then get the early train and go straight to his
customer's office a short subway ride away. That would keep him out of his
apartment until Monday afternoon. By then, he'd have better control of his
urges and the cops might have jailed the Mulrooney woman.

      Amtrack was booked solid. He called a couple of airlines. It was
Friday evening. Everything was sold out. He called Greyhound. No one had
anything open until the following morning. He called back to Amtrack and
booked himself on the six forty-five AM train to Washington and the six AM
back Monday. That done, he immediately left for a long dinner at his
favorite restaurant, the one where he'd met the dying Steve Mulrooney.

       Everyone there, as he should have expected, wanted to know what had
happened after he'd left. Had the man lived? Who stabbed him? What had the
injured man been saying to him?

      It was the last question that put Walter into a deep funk. He'd said
yes to the request of a dying man to look after his son, a small boy he now
knew was very much in harm's way. He dabbled in the cook's delicious Irish
stew, a meal he normally relished. When the manager, who'd become about as
close as anyone to being Walter's friend, came and sat with him to ask why
he was so gloomy, Walter merely replied, "Because I made a promise I can't
keep."

      He immediately wished he's said nothing or lied about a stomach
problem.

      The obvious follow up came: "What promise? To the guy was stabbed?
Something about his kid?"

      Bill Farrington had heard enough of what Mulrooney had said to know
that much. Who else had heard it too, he wondered. Walter shook his
head. "I'm sorry, Bill, I can't even talk about some of it. You know, the
cops..."

      "The guy tell you who stuck him?"

      "No, no, but, you know, they're investigating, crap, they want me to
put a bug in the woman's apartment."

      "Hey, man, you don't gotta do nothing like that. It's their
job. Shit, they think she did it?"

      Walter knew he'd said too much though he was happy the boy wasn't
part of the conversation. "No," he lied, "but whoever did it might know her
or who knows. Please don't mention this to anybody."

      "Course not but you're right to stay outta that shit. Whoever did
it's already killed one guy. Two won't make a difference."

      The conversation moved to an attempted robbery of the restaurant a
few years before during which Bill and a waiter had beaten the unsuccessful
robber unconscious. A newspaper article about it was framed on the wall
behind the cash register.

      Walter walked home. It had warmed up a bit so he took a long route
past the children's park. It was locked up tight. Walter sat on a bench at
the fence and considered cancelling his train reservations. He missed
listening to Stevie's squeals of joy as he pushed him higher and higher on
the swing but most of all, he missed the closeness as they sat on the hill
in the park while he read about the clever pig and his impervious house of
brick.

      Walking slowly home, he swung back toward toughing it out, taking the
Washington trip and then jumping into a major job Monday morning. He'd need
sleeping pills for a while but it would pass.

      The train ride was difficult. His mind dwelt on the promise to the
father. It was, morally, the crux of the matter. But what right did a man,
even dying, have to ask a total stranger, to take on such a burden. If it
had just been financial, that would have been an entirely different
matter. But Steve Mulrooney knew his wife was a junkie, incapable of caring
for their child, had to realize he was in fact asking Walter to take the
child into his home and life. It was morally wrong for him to make such a
request. The state or some well staffed charity was the proper venue for
such a situation. Walter had been a ward of the state for his entire
childhood and he'd turned out okay, well, sort of. Crap! The state had
actually done a terrible job. Here he was, forty-seven years old,
financially successful but miserable with no real friends, no social life
outside of restaurants, and a craving for little boys. True, it probably
wasn't their fault he was a pedophile, but why couldn't they have found him
someone to be a father or mother while he was growing up. Why had they made
such a big deal out of a relatively meaningless sexual incident then put
him through nearly three years of living hell to effect a cure even they
knew wasn't possible, or needed.

      In Washington, he cancelled his Monday morning reservation and took
the next train back to New York. A few minutes after one, he was knocking
on the door of the Mulrooney apartment. No one answered.

      He walked home cursing his weakness, wondering if the empty apartment
had been a sign that he really should have stayed in Washington.

      On the floor inside his apartment door, Walter found a business
card. It was from Sergeant Garretson with a note on the back claiming
`additional information' and for him to `Please call' a handwritten mobile
phone number. He didn't.

      On the television, he found himself watching an old black and white
Hopalong Cassidy movie.  He lost track of the story line long before it
ended.

      Walter wished he'd stayed in Washington. Right then he'd have been
absorbed in some interesting displays at the Smithsonian instead of
fretting over a three year old he'd likely never see again and a cop who
was asking the unreasonable. Still, the `additional information' part of
the sergeant's note was eating into his brain. Had they nailed the boy
friend, Stevie's mother? Was it someone else? No, that wasn't possible. She
knew before being told that her husband had been killed. If someone had
somehow gotten the news to her before they'd arrived, she'd have said
something.

	If he called the policeman, the man would know that Walter was
still interested. But that wasn't going to be news. Of course he was still
interested. No one could lose interest so quickly no matter what the threat
might be. He called. Sergeant Garretson was in a noisy place. Traffic and
something else made it difficult to hear.

	"This is Walter Stuyvesant."

	"Walter, I'm at a construction site. Too loud to talk here. Let me
call you back. What's your number?"

	Walter gave it to him. Then, more agitated than before making the
call, he waited.  Television didn't help. He went to one of his computers
to play solitaire, and lost three times in a row. Still, no return call. He
was tempted to call the cop but played another game, winning that one.

	He began pacing, living room to bedroom, adding jumping jacks
without having thought about it. Maybe the gym was a good idea, he thought,
feeling tired after fifteen. The phone rang. He snatched it up.

	"Sergeant?"

	"Sergeant? No, this is Katherine Mulrooney. Sergeant who?"

	Walter was taken aback and went mute for a moment. He sought a
cover answer. "Oh, hi. That police sergeant called but we got cut off. What
can I do for you?"

	There was a several second pause before she came back. "We had the
funeral today. Stevie's real upset. I was wondering if you could come see
him, maybe take him out for a while, as long as you want."

	Walter felt himself cave. Thoughts about staying clear of danger
couldn't or wouldn't surface. Without hesitating, he agreed but, "It'll be
a while. I'm working on something that I have to complete. Give me an hour
or two."

	He didn't really want to wait a minute much less an hour or more
but the `additional information' kept him pacing, awaiting the policeman's
call. After forty minutes, patience eroded, he called Garretson. It was
much quieter at the other end though he could still hear a muted traffic
sound as though the policeman was inside a car with the windows up.

	"Sergeant, I've got to go out."

	"Don't. I need to talk to you. Did Mulrooney's wife call you?"

	Walter hesitated.

	"Okay," interrupted the cop, "she did. Don't go yet. I'll be at
your place in ten minutes, maybe less. We're on our way. Just wait, okay?"

	"What happened?"

      "I tell you everything when I get there. Just hang loose, okay?"

      Walter hung but hardly loose. The ten minutes dragged on like a
dentist's drill but, in the end, was almost exactly as described.

      "The boy friend is dead. They found him a couple of hours ago behind
a dumpster, stabbed three times just like Steve Mulrooney except this time
he wasn't able to walk anywhere. He died on the spot. Either Katherine
Mulrooney is stronger and tougher than we figured or there's someone else
and who knows why. Did the kid tell you about any other men visiting his
mother?"

      Suddenly much more afraid than before, Walter answered, "He didn't
tell me about this one, nobody." He remembered his gaff on the phone. "I
accidentally, well, she called while I was waiting for you and I answered
`sergeant' then told her you had called me but we were cut off. You think
it was her, she killed them both?"

      "All I know is what we both do that the other night she knew before
we arrived that her husband had been killed. So, either she did it, knew it
was going to be done, or the one who did it got to her quickly and told her
before we got there. What she want?"

      "She says her son's upset. I think she took him to the funeral and
that's how he found out his father was dead. She hadn't told him. She wants
me to see him, take him out for a while. What do you think?"

      The sergeant took a deep breath. "Well, if she's doing this, shit,
Walter. I'd love to hear what she's got to say. See if she already knows
about her beau. By the way, we know he didn't kill her husband. He was
working when it happened, lots of witnesses. He was a bartender, off
Thursday nights. That's why he was there that night when you left. Let me
think a minute."

      The policeman sat on the sofa. His partner who'd just arrived spoke
in his ear. The sergeant shook his head. "Pretty sure doesn't mean shit to
me," he growled at him. "Did she or didn't she? Get him on your radio."

      The partner took the microphone from his shoulder harness and called
a number twice. A voice answered.

      Garretson grabbed the mike. "Are you sure she didn't leave or don't
you really know?"

      A voice over his radio answered, "I went to the bathroom a couple
times but I'd a seen her goin' in or out, one or the other. I don't think
she went nowhere."

      "Shit! Where was Corelli?"

      "He's sick and the sergeant din't have nobody else to pair with me."

      "Shit!" muttered the policeman again after releasing the mike button.

      The partner said, "I don't see how she'd know we were watching her,
sarge. She mighta got past Willy once but not twice."

      "Well, then, you got any bright ideas on who we're looking for `cause
I sure as hell don't." He turned to Walter. "Okay, let's both go see
her. Nothing's going to happen to you with me there. And maybe you can take
the kid out and I can talk to her, maybe take her to the station. Stay away
for a few hours. Buy the kid and yourself dinner on NYPD."

      Walter frowned.

      "Okay, on you. Sound better? If I see any sign that you might be in
danger, I'll put a watch on you, twenty-four hours. How about it?"

      Walter wanted to see the boy. The danger, which did frighten him, was
less important.

      Katherine Mulrooney was dressed in black. Her hair was orderly, her
face made up more than one would expect at a funeral. Stevie was not
visible.

      She smiled at Walter, then, actually grinned at the sergeant and his
partner. "Come on in. Have a seat."

      "Where's Stevie," asked Walter.

      "In his room, I think."

      Walter left the others and found Stevie lying face down on his bed
asleep, dressed in what appeared to be new black shorts and a black dress
shirt. Even his shoes were new. He sat beside him and caressed his blond
hair, then leaned over and kissed it. There were dried tears on the boy's
face. The bed covers below were damp. Walter wanted to pick Stevie up but,
instead, let him sleep. He tried to hear the conversation from the front of
the apartment but could only pick out an occasional muted word, not enough
to catch the thread of what was being discussed. He was about to get up
when the boy stirred. He stayed put wanting to be there when he awakened.

      The sergeant's partner appeared in the doorway. "Sarge wants you to
take the kid for a walk."

      "He's asleep."

      "So, wake him up. This could get loud. Kid shouldn't be hearing it."

      Walter gave the man a quizzical look.

      "Don't worry. We ain't gonna beat on her or nothing. Get him up." He
left.

      Stevie was sound asleep. Rather than awaken him, Walter gently picked
the boy up and carried him to the door. His mother shrugged. Walter opened
the door and left. The curious woman on the second floor was standing in
her doorway.

      "How's Stevie?"

      "Not very happy."

      She nodded sympathetically.






                                  Chapter 3


      A block from the apartment house, Stevie was becoming heavy. And,
Walter had received what he thought were dirty looks from two women, one
with her own two or three year old. He sat on a stoop and spoke into the
child's ear.

      "Stevie? Wake up. It's Walter. Wake up."

      Stevie curled up, trying to get comfortable on the man's lap.

      It took two more attempts before he opened his eyes and looked
around, then up at Walter.

      "Where's mommy?"

      "She's back at the apartment. She thought you might like to go for a
walk, maybe to the park."

      "My daddy's dead. They put him in a hole." He nestled back in and
scratched his bare knee.

      Walter wondered what this three year old's conception of death might
be.

      "Wanna walk some?"

      The boy shook his head.

      Walter cuddled him, ignoring passersby whom he assumed wondered what
was going on.

      Afer a few minutes, his eyes again damp, Stevie asked, "What happened
to my daddy?"

      "What did your mother tell you?"

      "She said he got real sick. He wasn't sick when we had ice cream."

      "Sometimes things happen that hurt people and they can't get
better. Your daddy had something very bad happen very fast and he couldn't
get better. But he asked me to look after you, make sure you were okay. I
promised him I would make sure you were okay. That's why I'm here. "

      "When did he say that?" asked the child while staring off into space.

      "Tuesday night, four days ago, when he had his problem."

      Stevie had to mull that over for a while. "Why didn't mommy take me
to see him when he was sick?"

      Walter thought fast. "The doctors wouldn't let anyone see him. He was
too sick."

      The child began to cry, softly, with the occasional sob. A woman
stopped and asked, "Is he okay?"

      The question spoken obviously wasn't the one being asked. "No, he's
not. He just lost his father," answered Walter sternly then regretted his
tone.

      The woman sheepishly backed off.

      "Stevie," he said in a near whisper, "We can't stay here. Wanna go to
my place?"

      Stevie nodded and accepted Walter's hand. There were still looks, or
so Walter imagined, as they traversed the three blocks to his
apartment. They didn't speak. Stevie was deep in thought. Walter would have
loved to know what was going on in his little mind.

      They sat together on the sofa. Walter asked Stevie if he'd like him
to read a story.

      "How was my daddy hurt? What was it? She just says he was sick. This
man said he was killed. Who killed my daddy?"

      That sparked Walter's curiosity. "What man was that?"

      "The man that always comes to my house. He was a bad man. He hurt my
mommy but she didn't make him go away."

      "Was he the only man that came to your house?"

      "Just him and the man for the telephone."

      "Did the man for the telephone come more than one time?"

      "I dunno. He always comes at night `cause the telephone never works
and he fixes it."

      "Did he come this week, in the last few days?"

      "I dunno. He never talks to me, just to mommy. What did they do to
daddy?"

      "Who?" Walter asked that in hopes his mother may have identified
someone within Stevie's hearing.

      "The man who hurt daddy."

      "I don't know who hurt him."

      Stevie became angry, nearly crying again. "But what did they do to
him?"

      Walter, somewhat amazed at the boy's language skills, felt guilty for
probing. It was time for the truth. He'd learn what really happened one day
and lose confidence in him if Walter wasn't forthcoming right then. "They
stabbed him with a knife."

      There was no reaction other than a few moments of silence, then,
"What's that?"

      "They stuck a big knife in him."

      Another pause, then, "Why?"

      "I don't know. The police are trying to find out."

      Again, silence but this time much longer. Walter sensed the boy was
bright. He lifted him into his lap and hugged gently. Stevie didn't seem to
notice. A check showed he was awake, again staring out into space but with
dry eyes. Walter worried about the dark thoughts that might have been
meandering about inside the boy's brain. He kissed his hair and again
suggested he read a story.

      Stevie said "Okay" with no enthusiasm.

      Walter sat him on the sofa, got Little Red Riding Hood off his shelf,
put the boy back on his lap and read. It took a few pages but, eventually,
he began to look at the pictures and pay attention. By the time the little
girl was having her verbal back and forth with the disguised wolf, Stevie
was stopping Walter and asking for clarifications.

      "Was the wolf as big as her grandmother?" and "How come the girl
didn't know the wolf wasn't her grandmother? I could a told her that."

      On the latter, he explained, "This is a story. In stories you can
have things happen that couldn't really happen. That's why they are called
stories."

      That led to a sidebar on what stories were, the difference between
fairy tales and television shows and cartoons. He liked Tom and Jerry.

      Walter was reading a second book, when the sergeant called and put
Stevie's mother on the phone. "Can Stevie stay with you tonight? I don't
know what time I'm gonna get back. He goes to sleep about seven thirty or
eight."

      Walter told her it was okay with him but she needed to ask Stevie
what he thought.

      She did. Stevie, with a sigh, said it was `okay' then folded his arms
across his chest.

      Walter started to read again but stopped when he saw tears fall onto
the boy's arms. He put his arm around Stevie's shoulder but the boy
resisted being pulled to Walter's side. "Would you like me to keep on
reading or should I wait for a while?"

      No answer. Walter waited. Stevie, starting to sob, half whispered, "I
want my daddy."

      I took a while but, eventually, Stevie fell against Walter, took a
slow breath then reached out with one hand and touched the book. Walter
continued reading.

      After finishing the book they'd been reading, Stevie mumbled, "I'm
hungry." Walter took Stevie to his favorite restaurant. The manager
immediately figured the quiet little boy to be the stabbing victim's
son. He sat briefly at the table to see what Stevie wanted to eat then let
the chef know who the special patron was for the special meal: spaghetti
and meat balls. The chef brought it out personally. Stevie ate half the
full plate served. Walter made it easy, gobbling up what was left. When
they finished, Farrington asked Stevie what his favorite ice cream flavor
was then brought out two scoops of chocolate ice cream in a glass cup with
a pair of sugar cookies on the side. After slowly taking half spoonfuls
until most of one scoop was gone, Stevie pushed the cup toward Walter who
just as slowly in case Stevie wanted more, finished it off.  Stevie left in
a slightly better mood, waving sad faced back at the staff and a few
patrons waving at him.

      By the time they were back at the apartment, Stevie was drowsy and
wanted to be picked up. Walter sat on the sofa and turned on the
television. `Home Improvement' and similar fare was on, shows in which the
boy would have no interest. It didn't matter. Stevie was cuddling up on
Walter's lap, his arm around one of Walter's, nearly asleep. Wonderful as
he felt with the child nestled so sweetly close, there was a burr in his
happiness. Who knew or would know this unrelated child was with him? Had he
made a mistake bringing the boy to his apartment, worse, allowing him to
sleep there? To be sure, a policeman was involved in making the arrangement
but that might not matter if the wrong person learned of it.

      Worried over the imagined danger, he took Stevie to the guest
bedroom, removed only his shoes and socks and put him in bed otherwise
dressed. There was no way he'd allow himself, with no one to witness that
he'd done no more than undress him, to remove any more than that.

      Sleep for Walter, when he finally got into bed, was erratic. He
alternately convinced himself that no one was going to think there was
anything sexual going on between him and a three year old then recalled and
fretted over news items he'd read in which the child `victim' was described
as a toddler. Mixed in with the agitation was a sense of happiness and a
deep contentment that he had such a sweet relationship with a boy. Guilt
then dirtied the picture with the awareness that he'd love to see the boy
naked, to touch those soft, warm parts between his legs. His brain was on a
roller coaster that never seemed to reach the end of it's up and down,
round and round ride.

      Twice he got out of bed to check on Stevie, both time kissing his
hair, then pacing when the worrisome thoughts too over.

      At six fifteen in the morning, he finally gave up hope of getting any
more rest and dressed. The boy was awake too. Tears wet his pillow. When
Walter went to sit on the bed, Stevie repeated the mantra of the day
before, "I want my daddy."

      Walter picked him up onto his lap but the tears continued.

      It wasn't until halfway through a breakfast of pancakes and eggs that
Stevie's eyes dried. Walter took him to the children's park. It was Sunday
morning and there were a number of small children with their mothers and a
couple of fathers. Walter had to wait for a turn on the swings. While
Stevie did seem to enjoy the movement, there were no squeals of
enjoyment. When Walter put him on the merry go round, Steve just sat and
rotated.

      A mother asked the usual question. Walter answered, "They buried his
father yesterday."

      That was enough. He noticed her speaking to other women who each
looked Stevie's way sympathetically. It was a lot better than the
suspicious stares he'd gotten when he'd carried him the day before.

      The sergeant, again in uniform, was waiting outside in a police car
when they walked up the street to Walter's apartment building. He greeted
Stevie cheerily but the boy just partially raised his hand. Upstairs while
Stevie was in the bathroom, Garretson said, "I need you to do that thing
for me, the bug."

      "What happened last night with Katherine?"

      "She's a hard one, threatened to ask for a lawyer but never did. Just
denied everything, didn't have a boy friend, didn't known about her
husband's death until we told her, don't use drugs. She's a real piece of
work. We had to let her go. She said you can keep Stevie as long as you
want. I think she hopes you'll keep him forever. One hell of a
mother. Cold, damn psychopath."

      "So, you think she did it, both of them?"

      "I'd bet my pension she either did it or knows who did. C'mon,
Walter. This is a no risk move for you. She leaves you alone with the
kid. She won't know the bug existed until she's locked up."

      "There's another man," said Walter. "Stevie described two, one who
hits her and another who comes to fix the telephone apparently often and at
night. The other one seems to be a daytime visitor. I didn't press for
more. He might tell her."

      Stevie came back into the room and silently climbed up beside Walter.

      Garretson said, "Do it for him."

      "Do you think she's home now?"

      "No idea. Call her. No, don't. She said she was going out or
something. I don't think she wants anyone around now. Let me check." He
nodded toward Stevie whose frown clued Walter that he was listening.

      Garretson went out of the room, speaking on his radio as he went,
returning moments later. "She's there.

      Walter said, "I'd just like to know when she expects us but I suppose
we could walk over. It doesn't mean we have to stay. We can go out
again. Want to go for a walk over to your house, Stevie? Like I said, we
can go out again if you want."

      The boy seemed to think it over then shrugged his shoulders.

      "Sergeant, you were going to show me how to use that thing for my
telephone. Got time to show me now?"

      He and the policeman went into his office where Garretson explained
how to plant the small devices he had into the Mulrooney telephone. He used
a combination fold out tool with four screw drivers, pliers, blades and so
on. After the demonstration, he handed it to Walter.

      When Walter and Stevie arrived at his mother's apartment, she was
wearing make up and the same checkered dress she'd worn to identify her
husband's body. She and a lanky but strong looking man were, as a matter of
fact, about to go out. Her escort didn't look very threatening at first
dressed in cheap shiny men's slacks, a blue polo shirt and imitation
leather jacket. Then Walter looked at his face. The smile there was more
sinister than friendly, like a hangman might give his next victim. Even his
words didn't throw off the chill.

      "You the guy been helping with Stevo. Thanks a lot, man."

      Katherine told them they were on their way to her mother's house in
Bayside to discuss what she was going to do with her life now that her
husband was gone. Walter didn't believe it for a second, especially with a
man in tow. She went on, "We'll be back by about nine but you can keep
Stevie for the night again if it's not too much trouble."

      "That depends on what Stevie wants to do. I can wait here for you if
he wants to sleep in his own bed tonight."

      "Well, I appreciate it a lot. I'll know where he is if you're not
here."

      That was it. She left them alone without even greeting or bidding her
son good bye. Walter felt sure she didn't want them around that evening,
unless, of course, the guy had his own place where they could fuck. That
didn't seem likely. He had the look of a loser who either lived with his
mother or in a cheap room. Walter doubted that he, like Katherine's
husband, had a union card in his wallet.

      The moment the door had closed, Stevie said, "That's the man who hurt
mommy."

      "Do you know his name?"

      Stevie shook his head.

      "So he's not the one who fixed the telephone at night?"

      "Unh uh."

      "Do you know what that man's name was?"

      "Mommy called him Jack."

      Not wanting to ask more questions that could get back to his mother,
Walter changed the subject. "Wanna stay here for a while? We can read or
watch TV."

      Still morose, Stevie again shrugged his shoulders.

      Walter wanted to plant the bug but felt uneasy deceiving the boy. He
was committed to doing it but the planned act was another source of guilt
to plague him. He took Stevie into the bedroom since the bed was more
comfortable and read another book. As expected, Stevie fell asleep. Walter
did as instructed, opening the telephone with the small screwdriver and
using the narrow piers to make the required connections.

      When he turned to head back to the bedroom, he saw Stevie watching
him from the hallway. The boy didn't seem particularly curious about what
Walter had been doing.

      With his stomach in a knot, Walter asked, "Hungry?"

      Stevie nodded affirmatively.

      They went to the same McDonald's where they'd had breakfast a few
days earlier. Walter bought the boy a Happy Meal with its toy. He played
with it while he ate. There was no comment about what Walter had done with
his mother's telephone. Walter hoped the boy hadn't seen enough to think he
was doing anything more than making a call.

      For something different, Walter took Stevie to Kennedy Airport to see
the airplanes. He'd hoped to find a service that would take them both for a
ride but nothing was available. Nonetheless, there was enough to see and do
that Stevie resumed some of his normal curiosity and inquisitiveness.

      He chose Walter's apartment to sleep.

      Monday morning, Walter had to return the boy to his mother due to the
nine o'clock appointment he had to make. It took several minutes of
knocking to get her to the door. She looked terrible when she opened it,
like she'd gone to bed fully dressed. Her eyes were bloodshot. Walter
thought he saw a bruise on the right side of her face but she quickly took
Stevie inside and closed the door. No good morning or thank you.

      The meeting took most of the day. Walter returned to his apartment
with enough work to last a couple of weeks but was in no mood to
begin. Stevie was on his mind.

      He called Sergeant Garretson. There was no news. He told the
policeman about the man he'd met the day before with Stevie's mother and
the name the boy put on the telephone man.

      "That's the one who was killed, John Mack Warren. The one she's with
now is a junkie named Willy Pirelli. He's a wannabe pusher but apparently
too untrustworthy even for the dealers. Got a rap sheet including assault
with a deadly weapon and a brother who's a made man in the mob over in
Queens. Careful around him. He might be our boy."

      Walter said, "I assume she'll be getting some kind of pension from
the bricklayers union. Think it'll be enough for her to get by and buy
drugs too?"

      "She might just go for a lump sum payoff which is what I expect
she'll do and maybe what Willy wants her to do."

      "One more thing," said Walter, "I think I'd like to have something in
writing giving me some kind of authorization or official backup for having
Stevie with me, especially in my house. He's already slept there twice and
might be doing it again."

      "Let me think about that. I suppose we can do something but I'll have
to talk to someone here. I'll ask my lieutenant what he thinks. His mother
call you today?"

      "Not yet but she probably will, or tomorrow. She wants to be with
that man, Willy."

      She didn't call that evening or the next morning. Walter called a
lawyer out of the yellow pages who advertised an expertise in family
matters and arranged to see him at two thirty.

      He got to work on the program changes his client ordered but found
his concentration challenged by thoughts of Stevie in an apartment with his
mother high on crack and having wild sex with her loser boy friend, all in
front of her terrified son.

      The lawyer, a young buck who sounded a bit like a television
pitchman, asked for fifteen hundred dollars to prepare a letter for the
mother to sign and another to be signed by witnesses who'd heard Stevie's
father ask him to look out for his son plus a cop and at least one of the
paramedics. The lawyer would have to witness all the signatures and needed
photocopies of identity papers for each signer.

      Walter filled out and signed a check. The lawyer wrote up two
documents in his computer and printed them. Then, he and the Walter headed
for the restaurant. Walter's first act there was to make a pay phone call
to the sergeant. Garretson told him he hadn't received permission to sign
anything yet but didn't think it would be a problem. Nonetheless, he
wouldn't be able to do anything before morning. He did, however, have and
dictated the names and fire station address of the two paramedics.

      Bill Farrington, the restaurant manager and a waiter signed. Bill
suggested they come back later as a regular customer also overheard what
was said and would surely also want to sign.

      At the firehouse, they had to wait for over an hour for the
paramedics to come back from a call. They asked their captain who told them
to go ahead and sign.

      No one answered their knocks at Katherine Mulrooney's apartment even
though both Walter and the lawyer were sure they heard someone inside. They
went outside and called but there was no answer.

      The lawyer said, "The boy's mother is really the most important
signature of all. Just get her to sign before you take the boy again. I can
witness it later. That and this other letter should be all you need for now
but that police sergeant's name on this one would be helpful in case there
are any questions."

      After dinner at the restaurant, Walter went home and tried to do some
work but the necessary mindset was lacking. Television was of no use. He
considered a movie but wanted to be around in case Stevie's mother
called. She didn't.

      Had Stevie told her about his questions regarding her boy friends?
How he wished he hadn't asked. Worse, did Stevie mention him fooling around
with the telephone? Had she dumped the boy on her mother? She seemed to
find her son an impediment to her lovemaking. Or had she decided to ignore
Stevie's presence and merely close the bedroom door, or not?

      Walter slept very little that night.

      The sergeant came by early the next morning. "You got that letter you
want me to sign?" he asked in the doorway.

      Walter invited him in. "Any news? Stevie's mother hasn't called."

      "No, but she's there and so's the kid. They came and went a couple of
times yesterday. Her buddy Willy was there all last night, still there for
all I know."

      He signed the letter. "Don't advertise this if you don't have
to. They haven't authorized me to do it."

      Walter forced himself to work and eventually got back into the code
writing groove, at least until he took a break for lunch. When he saw the
frozen pizza in the freezer, it elevated the boy into his conscious,
blocking all else. Quickly, he made a sandwich and sat in front of his
computer, forcing his mind back into the realm of software. Other than a
few times getting up to stretch, he kept at it until after seven that
evening.

      Dinner was a hot dog and chips at a movie theater. Sleep came
chemically.

      He nearly called the police sergeant in the morning but resisted with
thoughts that the matter was over. With her new boy friend, mommy had no
further need for a free baby sitter. The bricklayer's union would probably
take care of her financial needs, at least for the short term. There was a
distinct possibility he'd never see the boy again. Hard as it seemed at the
time, he'd just have to accept that reality. He wrote software.

      Saturday morning, the sergeant called. Had he heard anything?

      "We think she's gone to live somewhere else," Garretson told
him. "Hasn't been to her apartment since Wednesday."

      "What about her mother's house?"

      "We don't know where it is or if it exists."

      "Does the bricklayer's union have anything. I'm sure she's gotta give
them some information if she wants her money."

      "She's already got it. Steve Mulrooney had sixteen years in. She took
a lump sum payout, a lot less than she could've gotten if she'd
pressed. She and Billy are probably high as a kite right now. A month from
now, she'll be broke again, might even call on you for a handout. If she
does, call me."

      "So that's it? She's gotten away with murder, murders?"

      "No way, but until we find out where she is, there's really not a
whole lot we can do. Don't worry, we're gonna stay on this."

      Walter promised to stay in touch, especially if he was contacted.

      Two months later, on June seventeenth, Stevie's fourth birthday
passed with no Stevie. Walter sadly considered it a blessing. There wasn't
much happiness in his life but nor was there any stress. There was routine,
order again. Working out three or four days a week in the gym helped.

      By the end of July, a couple of stocks went ballistic which, along
with other less spectacular winners, nearly doubled the value of his
already decent portfolio. He informed his customers that he'd be away for
the month of September but didn't tell them that it was to be a European
vacation.

      Stevie Mulrooney had become an occasionally bothersome but distant
memory.

      Christmas season began as a problem but Walter found a charity which
worked with the children of addicts in the South Bronx. He bought a large
number of gifts personally and hustled customers and acquaintances to do
the same. Christmas Eve, he went along to help give out the
booty. Christmas Day, he was home, alone and miserable. By the afternoon,
he'd dragged himself out of his funk and back into the world of computer
speak and was writing a new administrative program for a plastics
manufacturer.

      Two days later, he noticed a stabbing murder in the Daily News which
sounded familiar. He called Sergeant Garretson.

      "Yeah, I saw it too but that kind of stuff happens all the time, even
in Queens. What made you take notice?"

      "Three stab wounds in the lower back, same as Steve Mulrooney and
that other Jack what's his name."

      The cop promised to let him know if he found any more connections.

      The callback came a week later. "The stiff was a small time pusher
named Byron Castillo under the employ of a Latin gang in the Bronx. No one
knows what he was doing in Queens. He was dead where they found him. I gave
them what I had but no one over there thinks they'll find the killer unless
someone drops him on them."

      Walter was able to push the event out of his mind with the argument
that murdered pushers were common occurrences in New York City. This one
had almost no chance of being connected with Katherine Mulrooney.




























                                  Chapter 4


      By the middle of March, Walter was back to an ordered routine of
work, gym workouts, and specific nights for eating out and movies, always
after the CBS Evening News. With the gym replacing his walks, there was no
excuse for visiting the play park which would have had him thinking of a
certain four year old. As before, it wasn't a particularly happy life but
it was free of worries. Also thanks to his four days a week in the gym, his
body fat was at an all time low. His improved muscle tone was visible in
the mirror. Each week he was able to add on reps with push ups, pull ups
and a number of machine exercises upping his generally low self esteem. He
planned to start jogging after a trip to Rio de Janeiro during Holy Week.

      A phone call the Thursday before he was to leave disrupted those
plans, caused his insides to leap.

      "Hi. It's Katherine, Stevie's mother, remember? Stevie's been asking
for you a lot. Wanna talk to him?" she asked cheerily

      "Sure, put him on." Walter's mind raced. Stevie was four and a half
years old. Probably a couple of inches taller, less baby fat.

      "Hello uncle Walter. Can I come to your house?"

      The rationalizations about being better off as he was evaporated
before the boy's last words. Hope, expectation and happiness flooded
in. Walter's spirit soared. He tried to hold in the emotion. "I suppose so
if your mother says okay."

      "She said so can I?"

      "Of course you can. Where can I..."

      His mother took the phone. "You gonna be there this afternoon? I can
drop him off then."

      Walter, sensing something more sinister than a friendly visit, wanted
to know where they lived. "Don't worry. I can pick him up."

      "No, I'm in Brooklyn now at a friend's. I'll be there in a couple
hours. Can Stevie spend the night then I'll pick him up in the morning?"
She sounded much better, healthier than the last time they'd spoken.

      Walter, far too excited about seeing the boy again to be deterred by
nagging doubts regarding Katherine Mulrooney's motivations, immediately
began cleaning up his apartment, not that it was disorderly. He did little
to create any mess, made his bed each morning, cleaned up completely after
meals and had a janitorial service come in once a week. He cleaned his own
computers monthly.

      He dug out the books he'd bought to read to Stevie and put them on
his coffee table, made up the bed in the guest room then rushed down to the
corner store to buy snacks, cereal and milk.

      As he was walking out and back, he debated whether he should call the
police sergeant and tell him what was happening. That reminded him of the
letter of permission the lawyer had written up for the boy's mother to
sign. He forgot the policeman and tried to recall where he'd put that
form. It was in a folder in his office file cabinet. It was fortunate he
was an orderly man because his doorbell rang as he was extracting the
document.

      Katherine Mulrooney looked positively middle class. She even had on a
nice hat to go with her preppie dress and kiss my ass smile. Stevie was
decked out in a suit with tie and shiny new shoes. His brushed blond hair
was fashionably long, or just uncut for some time. Bangs hung right to his
eyes. He carried a small overnight bag. The nervous look on his face was
the only thing out of place. He barely glanced at Walter when he walked
quickly past him into the apartment.

      His mother turned to leave. Walter said, "Please come in for a
moment. There's something important we need to do."

      The smile lost some of it luster as she entered.

      "The way things are these days," explained Walter, "I really need
something in writing indicating Stevie has your permission to be here in my
house." He showed her the paper. "It's a simple letter of permission for
him to be with me in case someone tries to say I kidnapped him or something
and also gives me the authority to sign any medical forms should there be
an emergency and I can't get a hold of you quickly. Oh, and please put a
phone number on there so I have it. A mobile phone would be best if you
have one."

      The longer he spoke, the less assured Katherine seemed to be, at
least until he mentioned the cell phone. She reached into her purse and
produced one with an air of bravado. After a brief somewhat quizzical look
at the letter, she took the pen and signed, raised it, thought for a
moment, then scribbled a phone number underneath.

      Walter worried what value the signature had with no one to witness
her signing it. None of the neighbors on that floor were in. He convinced
her to go with him to the super. He put his signature under Katherine's
along with the date Walter had forgotten to request.

      When he returned, Stevie was sitting on the sofa very formally.

      "Did my mommy go?"

      Walter couldn't tell whether his expression and tone were fear of
being left behind with someone he'd only known a few days or something
else. But there was definite trepidation in his voice.

      He sat beside him. "Yes. Are you okay? Want me to call her back?"

      He shook his head almost in a tremble.

      Walter put his arm around the boy. Stevie leaned against him. After a
moment, he lifted his hand to Walter's arm and held it gently, then more
firmly.

      "I'm very happy you wanted to come," said Walter. "Have you eaten?"

      Stevie shook his head.

      "Would you like to eat something here or go out to a restaurant."

      "I wanna stay here." There was no joy in his voice.

      Walter slipped off the sofa and knelt in front of him. "What's wrong,
Stevie. You sound so sad."

      There was no reply.

      Walter noticed a scrape and a bruise on the left side of the boy's
temple but let it pass. "Stevie, if you want me to call your mother back,
it's okay. I won't be angry."

      "I wanna stay here."

      "Then why are you so..."

      The boy moved forward and put his arms around Walter's neck. "I wanna
stay with you." The grip was more than a casual embrace. There was a touch
of panic.

      Walter sat back on the sofa. Stevie held on and ended up in his
lap. He returned the embrace and kissed him on the side of his head, again
noticing the injury. The child was afraid of something, obviously not
Walter. His mother? The man living with her? Both of them?

      Walter carried him into the kitchen and microwaved the pizza he'd
bought for the two of them.

      "Whatta you wanna drink, milk or juice?"

      Stevie kissed him on the cheek. It completely surprised Walter. He
couldn't remember ever having been kissed before.

      "Well, thank you, Stevie."

      It was possible the boy had surprised or perhaps embarrassed himself
because he lay his head on Walter's shoulder and said nothing.

      "So, whatta you wanna drink, milk or juice?"

      "Juice" he mumbled while holding on tightly.

      The tension he felt in the boy diminished gradually over the meal and
an afternoon of book reading and television. Stevie definitely didn't want
to go out. Walter hoped to have dinner in the restaurant.

      He had to call a cab to convince the boy to go. Stevie's smiles at
the manager and others who welcomed him were brief and unfeeling. He seemed
to hurry through the meal. Sensing the child's desire to get back to the
apartment, Walter ordered the apple pie desert to go.

      They were back less than an hour after leaving. Stevie fell asleep in
Walter's lap as Walter gently tried to ask what had happened to his
head. The only answer was an unsatisfying "I hurt it." Walter didn't pursue
the matter any further, just waited until the boy was completely
unconscious before carrying him to his bed. This time he undressed him down
to his underwear.

      There were more bruises and scrapes on his shoulder, one elbow and
both knees. Walter lifted his T shirt and found a large bruise on the left
side of his chest just above his heart. It looked as though he'd had a
terrible fall, or been beaten.

      He immediately considered calling Sergeant Garretson but worried that
any conflict with the mother might cause him to lose Stevie forever. Still,
in the end, he decided to call the sergeant but not mention the
injuries. There still were at least two unresolved murders. He didn't want
to be the third.

      After tucking Stevie in, he sat on the floor and stared at the little
face. He had a desire to lie beside him but unpacked the boy's overnight
bag instead. There were two sets of underwear and socks, two jerseys, a
pair of shorts, a pair of sneakers, three toy cars and, in the pocket on
the front, a surprise, Stevie's birth certificate. All that certainly
wasn't for a single night stay over. Why the birth certificate? It might,
he considered, have been there for a trip. The bag showed use. But, unless
he was wetting himself, why two sets of underwear? The more he thought
about it, the less he expected Stevie's mother to return the following day
as she'd promised. Walter wondered for a moment if the woman planned ever
to return for her son. Then, it occurred to him the birth certificate might
be there merely as an identification document in case there were any
questions regarding why the boy was with Walter. But that sort of forward
thinking didn't match Walter's opinion of Katherine Mulrooney. Still, he
couldn't imagine a mother, even this one, completely abandoning her child,
except, of course, his own..

      He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten. He decided to wait until
morning to call her, as well as Sergeant Garretson.

      Walter didn't need a pill that night to fall asleep.

      When he awakened, Stevie, still in his underwear, was seated on the
floor beside the bed with one of the books they'd read the day before.

      Walter put his head over the side and greeted, "Good morning."

      Stevie leaned back and reached up. Walter took his hand and pulled
the boy up onto the bed beside him. Stevie put his back against him and
held onto his arm when Walter put it around him.

      Breakfast was another quiet affair. Afterward, Walter brought up all
the bruises.

      "What really happened? Did you fall or did someone hurt you?"

      There were again sitting on the sofa. Stevie leaned over onto
Walter's lap. "I'm not supposed to talk about that."

      Walter caressed his hair. Someone had hurt him.

      In an attempt to animate the child, Walter suggested they play hide
and seek around the apartment.

      "Why can't we just read some more?"

      Walter read, all the while trying to figure out how he could make the
two calls he planned without the boy knowing about them.

      Near the end of the story, Stevie seemed to tense. He grabbed
Walter's arm and tried to speak, "I, oh..."

      His body stiffened then began to twist and shake uncontrollably. His
eyes rolled back into his head. Walter was terrified. He tried to hold him
still then, realizing he was witnessing something akin to or actually an
epileptic attack and remembering instructions from college about just
keeping the person from hurting their self, he laid the boy on the sofa and
knelt beside it, gently keeping Stevie on the cushions.

      He tried to reach the telephone on the table by the wall across from
the sofa but was afraid Stevie would fall onto the floor if he moved too
far away. He debated the need to get an ambulance with the hope the attack
would be brief but the writhing and shaking went on and on. Finally, he
picked up the boy and carried him to the telephone where he dialed 911.

      He gave his name and address and "I've a four year old in convulsions
and he doesn't stop."

      "Just keep him safe. Paramedics are on the way."

      Moments later, Stevie began to relax. His eyes were closed. He was
breathing heavily but that slowed down gradually until he was
asleep. Walter spoke to him but he didn't respond.

      Walter carried him into the bedroom, pulled a blanket out of the
closet and wrapped him in it. He carried him out of the apartment and down
the stairs to be ready when the ambulance arrived. The minute he got to the
bottom of the stairs, he thought about the letter Stevie's mother had
signed. He figured to need that so rushed back up the stairs to retrieve it
then back down to the front door. He sat on the front stoop. It took
another few minutes for the ambulance to arrive. Stevie was still
unconscious.

      The paramedics asked how long the attack had been.

       "Oh God, I don't know. It seemed like a long time but, oh, it was
probably only a few minutes, three, four, more. I just don't know."

      "How many times has this happened before?"

      "I don't know that either. His mother dropped him off yesterday. She
didn't say anything about this."

      "Are you his father?" he asked while putting Stevie on the stretcher
inside the vehicle.

      "No, just a friend. I'm taking care of him for a few days. I've got a
letter from the mother authorizing me to sign for medical care if he needs
it."

      They drove away. "Don't worry about that now. That's for the
doctors. And don't worry about the boy. He's going to be fine. This happens
to a lot of kids. They'll probably just suggest some drug that'll control
the attacks, but that's with the doctors."

      Walter realized he must have appeared nearly in a panic. He took a
deep breath and tried to relax.

      The doctor who saw the boy was young but seemed to know about
Stevie's type of problem. He too told him not to worry, that Stevie would
be okay. "Talk to the boy's mother yet?"

      "No, is there a phone where I can call her?" Stevie was still out
cold.

      Walter was directed him to a pay phone. The woman who answered had
never heard of anyone named Katherine Mulrooney. Walter realized right then
the boy had been dumped on him, probably for the very reason he was there
at the hospital. The birth certificate had been an indicator, the phony
phone number, the clincher.

      Feeling the situation would possibly end up with doctors or, worse,
social workers asking why the boy was with him, where the mother was and
why wasn't she there with her son, Walter called Sergeant Garretson's
mobile phone. He answered.

      "I'm at the hospital with Stevie. His mother called yesterday
morning. She wanted me to take him overnight. I wanted to go pick him up
but she insisted on bringing him to my place. Anyhow, Stevie's had an
attack like he has epilepsy. He looks like he's been beaten but it may just
be from other attacks when no one was there to protect him, or just didn't
care. His mother left me a phone number she said was hers but it turned out
to be someone who never heard of her. She..."

      "Walter, Walter" interrupted the policeman, "slow down. What
hospital?"

      He told him.

      "Let the receptionist in the emergency room know where you are going
to be. I'll be right over. Stay cool. Don't go discussing this with anyone
but a doctor until I get there, and don't tell the doctor any more than you
have to, okay."

      Walter told the doctor he hadn't been able to get hold of Stevie's
mother. He showed him the authorization letter.

      The doctor read the letter, told him it would take care of things and
suggested, "What you need to do is get this child to a pediatric
neurologist. I can prescribe something mild for now but he's gonna need
some tests to determine what'll work best for him."

      There was just such a doctor there at the hospital. The emergency
room resident called his office and found that he wouldn't be available for
a couple of hours. He suggested Walter go up and wait. Walter gave his
credit card to the cashier then, after telling the emergency room
receptionist where he'd be in case a policeman inquired, carried the slowly
awakening child up to the fifth floor to wait for the doctor.

      As Stevie began to realize who he was with, he reached up and put his
arms around Walter's neck in a near panic hold.

      Walter said, "It's okay. It's over."

      "I'm sorry."

      Walter began to understand the boy's worried countenance since
arriving with his mother. "Stevie, you don't have to be sorry. This isn't
your fault. I love you. We're gonna see a doctor who can help you so you
don't have any more attacks. I love you. I'm going to take care of you."

      The sergeant, in uniform, came into the waiting room twenty minutes
later. He greeted the boy warmly. Stevie didn't seem to remember him.

      Walter didn't want to discuss the situation with Stevie listening but
gradually figured a way to say what he wanted in somewhat neutral
terms. "She called yesterday and asked me to take him overnight. I had her
sign the letter the lawyer wrote up and had my super witness it. It
includes medical situations like this. She looked pretty good, like she
lived in some nice section of Long Island. Maybe she's using the pension
payout to keep her supplied with medicine and live a better life. She might
even be working. But the phone number she wrote here," he pulled out the
letter, "isn't hers, or at least the person who answered says she never
heard of her."

      Garretson copied the number down in his notebook. He pointed to
Stevie, who Walter had facing away from him and mouthed, "She's gone, he's
yours," along with gestures to make his point. "I'll bet this isn't the
first time this has happened. Someone became too much of a burden."

      After a few moments of thought, he went on, "I'm gonna put a call out
for information on a person," he indicated bosoms with his hands, "who's a
medicinal supplier, maybe running a group of sales persons, probably hooked
in with someone more powerful for protection. It might be that our friend
has made a good investment and is smarter than we thought, smart enough to
do something like that in a very competitive marketplace, a very male
marketplace." He held up his right hand like it was a gun.

      Walter blew a slow puff of air out of his mouth. He pointed to Stevie
and mouthed the question, "Safe?"

      "I don't see why not. I can't imagine him having any idea about
location or anything that could hurt them. However, if you can find
anything out, that might help, I'd sure appreciate it. You gonna be okay
with all this?"

      "Yes. I'm gonna make sure Stevie gets whatever he needs. My only
concern is if social workers get involved. What do I tell them?"

      "You tell them to call me."

      Shortly thereafter, sooner than expected, thought Walter, possibly
due to the policeman's presence, the doctor's assistant waved them
in. Garretson came along. After getting a brief summary of what had
happened and finding out that Walter knew nothing of prior events, the
doctor took Stevie into his examination room and looked him over. Walter
and Garretson watching from just inside the doorway.

      "Don't worry too much about these bruises. They're consistent with
injuries sustained during a number of attacks. There probably wasn't anyone
around when he had them. He won't remember anything specific. How long was
today's episode?"

      "I really don't know. I was scared to death by it all but probably no
more than five minutes, maybe less."

      The doctor looked over the bluish bruise on the boy's left chest. He
asked, "Is it possible there was someone beating him, hitting him?"

      "I wish I knew but I really don't."

      The doctor pulled over a stool and sat beside the examination table
near Stevie's head. Softly, he asked him, "Did someone hit you here? It's
okay to say. We're not going to tell anyone. I need to know so I can help
you. Did somebody hurt you?"

      Stevie turned his head away.

      Walter walked to the other side of the table and squatted. Carressing
Stevie's head, he said, "Please tell us, Stevie. It's important. No one's
going to say anything."

      Stevie slowly glanced at the policeman.

      Garretson said, "Looks like it's time for me to leave," he said with
a smile. "I don't want to know about this anyhow." He put on his cap and
left the room.

      The doctor indicated with his hands that he should wait outside, not
leave.

      Walter looked at Stevie. The boy began to cry. "It's okay, son. You
don't have to worry. Nobody's going to hurt you anymore. Just tell us what
happened. You don't even have to say who did it, just what they did to you
and where."

      Sniffing between the words, Stevie said, "Mommy and Willy hit me and
with the stick from the broom."

      "Where?" asked Walter.

      Stevie waved his hand all over, crying harder when he did.

      "On your head?" asked the doctor.

      Stevie nodded yes.

      "How many times?"

      Stevie shrugged his shoulders.

      "Did you fall asleep when they hit you in the head?"

      Stevie wiped his eyes, shrugged his shoulders again, then nodded yes.

      "Once, twice, lots of times?"

      "Lots," he sobbed.

      The doctor examined Stevie's head and found small scars where there'd
been open wounds. He said, "I'll be right back." He left the room for his
office.

      Walter sat on the table and pulled the boy onto his lap. "Don't
worry, Stevie, I'm going to protect you now. No one's going to hurt you any
more."

      Stevie held on to his arm.

      The doctor was back in about ten minutes. I want to perform a couple
of tests today. The first is an EEG we can give right here in my office. My
assistant will do that in a few minutes. Then I need to send him to the
third floor for a CAT scan. How long since he's had anything to eat?"

      "Oh, several hours now. Not since breakfast."

      "Fine, no problem. Just don't let him eat anything until after the
scan." The doctor explained the costs for the procedures. Walter doubted
his insurance would cover them but agreed anyhow and went back to the
waiting room.

      The sergeant was waiting for them outside. "Everything okay?"

      "I think so," said Walter. "The doctor wants to do some tests."

      Garretson knelt in front of Stevie. "You've got a real friend
here. He's going to take real good care of you. You do what he tells you,
okay?"

      Stevie nodded.

      Garretson put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm your friend
too. We're both going to make sure nobody hurts you any more."

      The nurse tried to take Stevie alone for his EEG but the boy
resisted, insisting that Walter come along. The test with its wires and
pastes didn't seem to bother him though he did frequently look across the
small room at Walter, making sure he was still there.

      Walter had flashbacks of himself sitting in the heavy wooden chair at
the psychiatric hospital, waiting for the electrodes against his body to be
fired up. It made his tremble briefly.

      The CAT scan was a bit scarier. The massive machine worried the
little boy. It took some convincing and reassurances from Walter to
convince him to lie on the table alone. He was very tense as the machine
moved him inside the tunnel for the actual scan.

      Then they had to wait until nearly five before the doctor could see
them again.

      "He's definitely been battered on the head. You need to know that I'm
going to have to report this. Sergeant Garretson will handle the report. At
some point, I would guess there will be an investigation including
questions for you and Stevie. I don't think it's anything you need to worry
about but some serious abuse has obviously taken place and needs to be
dealt with. Stevie's lucky you are involved.

      "Now, I'm going to prescribe a medicine he needs to take twice a
day. It's a liquid so it will be easy for him to take it. And I want you to
call me if there are any further attacks. I'll need an accurate description
of what happened and for how long. However, with this medicine, there's a
possibility he may have none. Still, I want to see him again in three
months. My secretary will give you a date and time."

       He gave Walter a booklet on how to handle children with epilepsy and
went over it with him. "There's no telling how long this condition will
last. The tests were helpful but it's difficult to know the real extent of
the injuries to a person's brain without going in to look and that's not an
option at this time. Like I said, the medication should keep the attacks to
a minimum, may even stop them altogether. But, you need to follow the
suggestions in the booklet regarding do's and don'ts. There might be a
problem with television. Let him watch it but not that much and keep an eye
on him when he does. If he has an attack while watching, then no more
probably for a few years.

      "The brain is an amazing organ, Mr. Stuyvesant. In many cases, it can
heal itself with little or no help from us."

      Walter pulled out his credit card again. Then once more at the first
floor pharmacy.

      Back at the apartment after a slow walk to his favorite restaurant
for dinner, Walter realized he'd have to deal with bath time for his new
charge. He tried to come up with a way he wouldn't have to be around the
boy when he was naked but doubted very much a four year old would be able
to properly wash himself. Perhaps he could stand back and give
instructions, not touch the child in the tub. He might even be able to sit
across the bathroom and have Stevie get in with a towel around his middle
so he wouldn't see any forbidden parts. He took a breath and shook his
head. This was all ridiculous. The boy was under his care. He had to bathe
and couldn't be left alone in a bathtub. And, Stevie would probably want
him to wash his little body.

      "Bath time," he announced after reading a short story from a fairy
tale book.

      Stevie immediately began to unbutton his shirt. Walter reached down
and untied both shoes then carried him into the bedroom.

      "You get undressed and I'll get the water right."

      Stevie followed close behind into the bathroom, undoing his pants as
he went. He stood beside Walter as he turned on the hot water then leaned
against him as he wiggled out of his pants and underwear.

      As usual, it took a while for the hot water to arrive. Stevie sat on
the floor and asked Water to pull off his socks. There was no way to avoid
looking at his tender little penis. It did look cute lying there then
rolling from side to side as first one foot then the other was raised.

      When Walter got back to his knees beside the tub to check the water,
Stevie stood and leaned against his back with one arm following the man's
toward the stream of water. Walter enjoyed the warmth of the bare body
against his. He reached over with his left hand and gently held Stevie's
shoulder. Stevie kissed his cheek sending what could only be described as a
hot chill through Walter, right down to his knees. He turned and returned
the kiss, very close to the Stevie's mouth. That frightened him.

      He quickly redirected his attention to the water. Stevie hugged him
from behind. Steam rose from the faucet. Walter put the plug in the drain
and adjusted the cold water to moderate the tub's temperature.

      When the water was about ten inches deep, Walter turned off the taps
and lifted Stevie into the water.

      "Not too hot?" he asked as the boy's toes touched the surface.

      Stevie moved his feet back and forth and nodded okay.

      With the boy's feet on the bottom, Walter let him settle in, watching
as Stevie's penis briefly floated on top of the water. Stevie lightly
splashed water onto his chest and shoulders then leaned back until his head
was completely under. Again, Walter's eyes were drawn to the little organ
which lolled back and forth as the boy moved around.

      Stevie sat back up, his blond hair matted against his head, bangs
over his eyes.

      Walter asked, all the while hoping for a negative reply, "Can you
wash yourself?"

      Steve jumped up and insisted, "You wash me," with the most boyishness
Walter had heard in his voice since arriving the morning before.

      Walter grabbed the soap out of the dish on the wall and started in on
top with the mop of hair. Stevie stood still with his eyes closed as Walter
worked up a lather then cleaned out both ears. His hands wrapped around the
boy's neck and rubbed his shoulders. Walter debated what he should do when
he got to the middle.

      With one hand holding Stevie in the front, he scrubbed the smooth
skin of his back then reversed it and washed chest, tummy and sides. One by
one, he did each arm, spending an inordinate amount of time on fingers
while he struggled with how to do what had to be next.

      He looked at the boy's face, eyes still closed under soapy hair but
with a wonderfully calm ear to ear expression. He felt a surge of emotion
for the child and was tempted to wrap his arms around him. Instead, he
kissed each soapy hand in turn then slid his hands down to just above
Stevie's most tantalizing parts.

      First, he gently washed the cute puffy buns then slipped his fingers
between the soft cheeks and cleaned the hidden portion where his little
orifice resided. It was slick and warm in there. He went back and forth
three times, sure he was staying inside much too long. A glance up showed
no change in the boy's face other than a slight opening of his
mouth. Without looking, Walter ran his left hand back and forth over
Stevie's lower tummy then across and around his penis and balls. They were
such tender little things, like slick silk over warm macaroni. Again, he
was sure he tarried much too long there but couldn't stop himself.

      Finally, he turned the boy to him and said, "Hold on to my shoulders
and give me a leg."

      "Stevie shook the hair out of his eyes and peeked ahead with one,
locating Walter's shoulders, leaned forward and took hold of Walter with
damp soapy hands. He closed his eye and raised his right leg. Walter ran
his hands up the thigh, brushing against the boy's jewels. When he got to
his feet, he found them too very erotic and carefully washed between his
tender little toes.

      Finally, after warning him to, "Keep your eyes shut," he washed
Stevie's face.

      A rinse and it was over. Or was it?

      Stevie asked, "Can I stay in here some?"

      "Sure," he answered immediately considering what bathtub toys he
would buy.

      Stevie rolled around, floated and played for about twenty minutes,
once asking Walter to add more hot water. Walter sat on the edge and
watched, marveling at the glistening skin, the curves and valleys of the
boy's body, his so perfectly formed dick and balls and his rounded backside
with the deep gorge splitting it. He asked himself if he could avoid
partaking of the boy's flesh and was happy with the answer. The view and
the affection seemed more than enough.

      Using the possibility of a night time attack as an excuse to himself,
he asked Stevie if he'd like to sleep with him.

      There was no answer, just a charge into Walter's bedroom and a dive
onto his bed. The Stevie from almost a year before was back.


































                               Chapter 5


      With the Rio trip out and a small child to care for, Walter called
the travel agent and took some losses to arrange a five day stay in a
mountain lodge by an upstate New York lake. The agent recommended it based
on Walter's request for a place that was small, quiet and remote. He rented
a car and loaded it up with children's books, toys and games designed for
four year olds, a stereo player and over seventy dollars worth of
children's songs and music plus a small life jacket so they could enjoy
boating on the lake.

      He had his phone forwarded to the lodge in case Katherine Mulrooney
or Sergeant Garretson called. The type of client he had would be away for
Holy Week so he didn't expect to hear from any of them. Nonetheless, he
took along a computer with most of the programs he might need and some
simple kid's computer games.

      It took three hours to get there through rural them mountainous
terrain with Stevie sleeping most of the way. The lodge was a hundred and
fifty feet back from a mile long narrow lake with a small beach, boathouse
and a few private homes. There was a small town at the far end and two
other, larger lodges which might better have been called hotels due to
their size.

      The log cabin style Dew Drop Inn Lodge and Restaurant had sixteen
rooms and a large lounge rustic wood tables and chairs including three old
rockers, shelves filled with old books, copies of National Geographic
dating back to the fifties, children's and adult games like Parcheesi,
Scrabble, and checkers, and a mismatched box of wood building blocks. In
one wall was a huge fireplace fired up each evening that the owner swore
was older than the lodge itself.

      "The big house it was part of burned to the ground during a forest
fire in the thirties. My great uncle bought the place and just kept adding
on. What you see as you see it was only complete eight years ago."

      There was no television.

      Walter's room was not terribly large but had cozy electric baseboard
heat, comfortable twin beds, a small desk and chair and a bathroom with a
large tiled shower and plenty of hot water.

      The next five days could only be described as the happiest Walter
could remember. He and Stevie explored the forest, paddled canoes all over
the lake, twice taking picnic lunches to remote corners where they made a
camp fire; cooked hotdogs and fired marshmallows. Walter read books by the
fire in the lodge lounge. Along with the small children of another couple,
they built houses and a castle with the building blocks, played outside
with the toy cars and launched a toy sailboat on the lake. They took
several voyages on the launch that circled the lake stopping in the town on
the far side to have lunch and buy maple candy. Each night, Walter bathed
Stevie and marveled at his tender little body. Then they'd climb into the
warm, soft bed, kiss each other's cheeks and fall asleep in one another's
arms.

      Good Friday, feeling like the world had finally come his way, Walter
drove back to New York. Over the weekend, they went to Central Park and
Battery Park, rode the Staten Island Ferry and pigged out on Nathan's hot
dogs during an evening on Times Square.

      Monday, Walter began thinking about the long term for his new
son. There'd be kindergarten in September. He called two business
acquaintances with young children about day care centers where Stevie could
spend half a day with young kids in preparation for being a student.

      On finding only a few blocks away, he discussed the idea with Stevie
who wasn't sure what Walter was suggesting. "Are you going to be with me?"
he asked.

      "I'll take you there and pick you up every day but then you'll be
there playing with the other children. There'll be some nice big people too
and they'll know what to do if you have an attack and they'll call me and
I'll come right away."

      "Why can't I stay here with you?"

      "It's just that I have to work and there won't be anything for you to
do. At the Day Care Center, you'll have other kids to play with and lots of
toys and games and other things. You'll like it."

      "Please, I wanna stay here with you. I'll be quiet."

      "What if I take you one day and stay with you to see if you like
it. If you don't you don't have to go back and you can stay here. Is that
okay?"

      "But you gotta stay."

      "Absolutely. I'll stay all morning with you and we'll come back here
together."

      The day care center was housed in an old brownstone whose interior
walls decorated with large cut outs of story book characters including the
three pigs which Stevie immediately recognized. The mostly white children
ranged in age from two to five, Stevie's group his age. The non-white were
either Latino or oriental but that wasn't too strange as Walter couldn't
think of any black families living in his area. It was a bit disappointing
as Walter had wanted to see what Stevie would think of others who didn't
look like him.

      The center staff wasn't too thrilled about Walter sticking around but
finally accepted it when there was no doubt Stevie wasn't going to try the
place without Walter's presence. He sat in a chair near the door where
Stevie could see him. Every once in a while, one of the dozen and a half
children would come up to him either with a request such as tying a shoe or
asking if he would get a certain toy for them, or merely to say something
like "My mommy has six hats" or "That girl took my raisins." Stevie stayed
close, often following others to see what they were saying to him. Walter
wanted Stevie to interact with the other kids, not him.

      But Stevie was shy, sitting away from the rest, playing with some
wooden blocks, occasionally watching the others play. It was, as far as
Walter knew, his first experience with other children beside minor meetings
at the upstate lodge.

      One of the staff tried to get him to join a group that was singing a
song. He let her put him in the circle but gradually slid back away toward
his blocks. With each move, he looked toward Walter, probably, Walter
thought, to see if he approved or not. Walter nodded pleasantly for him to
go back with the others and sing but he just stopped retreating and sat
quietly playing with his shoe laces.

      Around midmorning, they brought in cookies and milk. Stevie turned
toward Walter who motioned for him to get his. When he tried to take a
particular one, another child snatched it up first. Stevie jerked his hand
back and stared at the child for a moment before going after another which
he managed to pull off the stack without difficulty. Opened half pint milk
cartons were handed out by the women on the staff. Walter was the only man
around.

      One of the women took Stevie by the hand with a wink toward Walter
and led him to a table where three kids were painting with water
colors. She put a smock on him which he stared at until she put a brush in
his hand. As he watched, she placed a tin of various water colors, a cup of
water and a blank piece of paper in front of him. She spoke to him and he
dipped his brush into the water then poked it around in the blue paint
disk. He looked at her. She said something. Stevie drew a crude blue circle
on the paper. She made another suggestion, guiding his hand so the brush
went back in the water where she helped him whirl it around.

      When they'd finished, he had what could be called a bowman's
target. She held it up for Walter to see. He smiled and nodded
approval. Stevie smiled back.

      By the end of the morning, he'd produced a number of paintings but
hadn't played with any of the other children. On the way home walking hand
in hand, he asked Walter if he would buy him some paints and paper.

      "So how did you like the center?"

      "Okay." He gripped Walter's hand a little tighter.

      "So, you want to go back tomorrow?"

      "Will you go with me again?"

      "I can take you and then come back for you when it's time to leave."

      Stevie didn't say anything but pulled Walter's hand to his cheek and
held it there.

      For the rest of the week, Stevie stayed in the apartment while Walter
worked. He had coloring books and a water color paint set Walter bought him
plus other toys and cars. He watched a little television though after nine
in the morning, there was nothing of interest. He did struggle not to
bother Walter in his office but every once in a while, he'd wander in and
stare.

      The medicine seemed to be working because there were no attacks. With
the candy flavor, Stevie happily took his two daily doses. He reminded
Walter about it each night.

      By the end of the week, Walter was working on a sell job to convince
Stevie to again try the daycare center.

      Saturday in a rowboat on the lake in Manhattan's Central Park, he
initiated his pitch. "Stevie, I know you're bored while..."

      "What's bored?" he asked scratching a bare knee.

      "Bored means you have nothing to do and you wish you did, like when
you've played with your things and come to my office hoping I'll have some
ideas."

      "I'm sorry. I won't do it any more."

      "Don't be sorry. It's okay. But wouldn't it be nice if you had things
to do all morning?"

      "I won't bother you any more."

      "Stevie, you are never a bother to me. I love you too much for that."

      Stevie crawled to Walter and hugged him.

      "Look, why don't we try the center again. They have lots of things
for you to do and other children to play with. You didn't even try on
Monday. Why not go back on Monday and at least try playing with some of the
other children, I'll bet you'll like some of them a lot and I know they'll
like you. Then I'll come pick you up at twelve and we can go out for lunch
and whatever you want to do all afternoon."

      "But what if one of them wants to hit me? I saw one boy hit a girl on
Monday and the woman didn't do anything."

      "Well, I'll talk to them and make sure that if anyone tries to hit
you they'll be punished but, my dear friend, why would anyone want to hit
such a sweet boy as you. I know all I want to do is hug you." He lifted
Stevie up into his lap and did just that.

      Stevie redirected the conversation to some ducks ahead of the
boat. Walter let him. At least he hadn't said no. There was Sunday to
continue the sales pitch.

      Sunday morning, Walter hired a cab to take them to a beach on Long
Island. It was still too cold to swim but there was a large kiddie park and
both of them enjoyed barefoot walks up and down the beach. Wrestling in the
sand was even better.

      Once tired, Walter continued his push toward center
attendance. "Okay, let's talk about the center again. I really want you to
try it and you know why?"

      "Why?"

      "Because you need friends your age. Everybody does. Like I've got
Bill at the restaurant and some others you don't know yet. I know there are
some kids there who will become your friends and then maybe you can visit
them at their houses and maybe they can come visit you or go to the park
with you. It's great fun playing with other kids."

      "But what if they wanna hit me?"

      "Friends don't hit each other. They like each other. I'm talking
about you making friends and I know you will since you are such a wonderful
boy."

      Stevie rolled against Walter and pushed himself backward up onto
Walter's stomach. Walter played with his beach colored hair.

      "But what if they don't wanna be friends with me?" again
scratching. The mosquitos seemed to like the boy's legs. Walter began
doubting his selfish reasoning for buying him shorts. Stevie strong little
legs were great to look at.

      "Don't worry about that. Maybe it won't happen the first day but it
will. You just play with the other kids and you'll see. Some of them will
want to play with you. Just remember to share things and..."

      "What's share?"

      "Share means you let them have some of your things and they let you
use some of theirs. Like if you have two cookies and give one to somebody
else."

      Stevie crossed his legs, tapped one foot against the other then,
agitation on his face, scratched a bare elbow. They'd have to bring some
sort of anti-mosquito spray on their next outing to the park..

      "Why can't you come in with me?"

      "You know, because I have to work or we won't have any money to buy
food or pay for our apartment."

      More foot tapping.

      "What if my mommy comes when you're not there?"

      So there it is, thought Walter. "I'll tell the women not to let
anyone come inside for you but me and call me if she comes so I can come
over right away. So, even if she comes, she can't see you."

      There was nothing concrete said about going but Walter sensed
progress. It also made him think about somehow concretizing his situation
with the boy. That would require help from the good sergeant.

      In the morning, as he was holding the spoon of Stevie's medicine, he
asked if they could go to the day care center. "Try if for a few days."

      "Okay but you gotta go with me and bring me home every day."

      "I promise, door to door."

      When the arrived in the morning, the women all acted happily
surprised and welcomed Stevie with hugs and words of encouragement. Walter
watched his little boy disappear inside. Twice, he looked back over his
shoulder to wave goodbye, a look of apprehension on his little face.

      With thoughts of improving the legality of his situation with Stevie,
Walter called Sergeant Garretson. The policeman arranged a meeting for the
following morning with a Bureau of Child Welfare worker he knew. James
Flowers, MSW was a hefty, middle aged black man with disappearing hair on
his pate and a serious expression on his face. Walter had expected a woman
but felt more confident that it was a man. The social worker had a copy of
the doctor's report which had been submitted to the police.

      Garretson explained to Flowers nothing had happened regarding the
abuse charges because there was an ongoing investigation by homicide and
narcotics detectives along with the DEA. "They're aware of the abuse
situation with the kid's mother but don't want it to get in the way of
hauling the whole bunch in on much more serious charges. So, our goal now
isn't to go after the mother for what she did to Stevie, just protect him
until they get this crowd locked up. We still don't know what her part in
all of it is or even where she lives but there are connections which
indicate she has her fingers in the pie somehow. Since I'm not directly
involved in the actual investigation, nobody will tell me much but I think
they're close to arrests."

      "Do you have any idea when that's going to be?" asked Flowers. "The
longer I wait, the harder it's going to be to press any charges. From this
report, I'd say charges are appropriate."

      "I don't know. Like I said, they're not going to tell anyone not
involved about anything. It might be next week or next year. Anyhow, once
they nail the mother on the murders and whatever else she's into, she's not
going anywhere for a long time, maybe never, certainly not before the boy
is a man."

      In reply to the sergeant's question about giving Walter some
legitimacy as the boy's guardian, the social worker said, "What we can do
for Mr. Stuyvesant is make him the child's temporary foster parent and
require any communication with the mother to go through this Bureau." He
faced Walter. "That means she is not to have access to Stevie without
departmental supervision."

      "If she calls, what do I tell her?"

      "You give her my phone number and tell her to call me. Tell her this
is not you speaking but the Bureau of Child Welfare, that you are not
allowed to let her see Stevie without our permission or you will be in
violation of the law. Actually, you don't have to answer any of her
questions. Just tell her she must speak to me."

      They spent almost two hours on paperwork and a required interview
though, with Garretson's friend, it went smoother than it might have.

      On the way out, the sergeant told Walter not to worry. He didn't
think Stevie's mother was going to call. "From what we've learned about
her, she's smart enough to know that Stevie's been to a hospital and abuse
has been reported. I don't think she's gonna call but if she does, do like
the man said. Just do me a favor and call me first."

      Walter's work schedule became stable with mornings and nights after
Stevie went to bed. He was putting in far fewer than the ten to eleven
hours daily he'd spent at his computer before he had a foster son. But, he
found himself more productive, putting out more work in less time so it
almost balanced out. Nonetheless, a bit less money to have this wonderful
boy living with him was more than acceptable. Life was good.

      Then, on the second of June, Katherine Mulrooney called.

      "I'll bet you're real pissed off at me."

      "I'd say disappointed would be a better word. Mothers aren't supposed
to treat their children that way."

      "No, Walter, it wasn't me. I wouldn't never hurt Stevie, never, you
gotta know that. How is he?"

      "He's fine but he's under the care of a pediatric neurologist and has
to take medicine twice a day to prevent the attacks."

      "He's having attacks? What kind?"

      "Mrs. Mulrooney, he's already told the doctor he had several when he
was with you. The doctor reported it and his injuries to the
authorities. You need to speak to a Mr. Flowers at the Department of Child
Welfare if you want to get this straightened out."

      "The hell I do. What's he, some kind a nigger social worker?"

      "Actually, he's a supervisor in charge of abuse cases and you really
should talk to him. This could be very serious. Just talk to him."

      "I don't think so. Who told him about this, you?"

      "No, Mrs. Mulrooney, the doctor at the hospital. They are required to
report all abuse cases. I was called in to explain what I knew. I only knew
he was having the attacks and that's all I told him. He told me if you
called to tell you to call him."

      "What'd you tell him why you had Stevie?"

      "Just the truth. Now, I'm not even supposed to be talking to you
about this. I could get in a lot of trouble just for that. Just call the
man and I'm sure something can be worked out."

      "Bullshit! You said more'n you're tellin'. I think I'll just come and
get my son!"

      She hung up.

      It was eleven ten in the morning. Walter was supposed to pick up
Stevie at the day care center at twelve fifteen. His first thought was to
call Garretson but wasn't sure how far away Katherine Mulrooney was, or if
she had Willy Pirelli with her. He grabbed his jacket and left quickly,
carefully double locking the apartment door. He stopped briefly to tell the
super a bit of what was happening. "If they ask, just say I left but stay
in your apartment and use the intercom."

      "Why? You in some kind of trouble?"

      "No, no. These are the ones in trouble but they're dangerous. I'm
going to a pay phone to call that police sergeant who was here and ask him
to have somebody come watch the house."

      Two blocks away, he did just that. Garretson promised a patrol car
would be there within minutes and suggested he stay away from the house
until they knew how serious the woman's intentions were.

      Without mentioning his mother's call, Walter took Stevie to a lower
Manhattan restaurant he'd enjoyed before. From there, just before leaving,
he called Garretson's mobile telephone.

      "She came by in a car with two others, men, but they saw the patrol
car sitting down the street and kept going. I can't keep the officers there
too long or the lieutenant'll start shouting `priorities' and he don't
consider you one of them."

      "He knows about our situation?"

      "Him and the rest of the brass. Some voices from on high don't want
the Queens investigation screwed up. I think they have somebody inside and
they don't want to lose their investment. I hate to ask you to do this but,
do us both a big favor. Go home, pick up what you need for a few days and
go to a hotel or a friend's house. Tell Stevie they're gonna do some kinda
work on your house, fumigate it or something. I don't think they know
anything about the day care center so he can keep going there. I'll keep
the car around until you arrive then they can drop you off somewhere and
make sure you're not being followed. I think she'll back off now that she
knows you got police protection."

      "I don't know. She sounded real pissed. It might be more of a pride
thing, you know, nobody's gonna take her kid away from her."

      "Let me talk to the boys in Queens. See if they can find out how far
she's gonna push this."

      Walter and Stevie took a cab home. Using Garretson's fumigation
excuse, a process he had to explain in detail, he had Stevie gather up his
toys and things for a few days in a hotel. The next day was a Friday. He
figured they could go somewhere for the weekend.

      The two policemen in the cruiser took them to their
station. Garretson was there.

      "Where you wanna go? It's on the City of New York. I've convinced my
captain that this could get out of hand and cause reverberations in
Queens."

      Worried about how the situation could affect his business, Walter
bought a new IBM ThinkPad laptop computer and the software he'd need to
continue his work on it no matter where he might be.

      He spent the night in a small hotel on Long Island not far from the
shore, too far to get back to the day care center. Walter called in the
morning and told them he and Stevie were going to go out of town for a few
days but he'd be back the following week at some point. Then he sat in a
beach chair while Stevie chased birds and played with the children of a
woman who'd come to read while her kids found something else to do.

      Saturday morning, Walter took a cab with all their luggage including
Stevie's medicine, prescription form in case he needed more, his foster
parent card from BCW and the boy's birth certificate to Penn Station where
they boarded a train for Washington, D. C. and the Museum of Natural
History, the Smithsonian and Washington Monument where they walked up but
took the elevator back down. Stevie enjoyed the train so much, Walter
decided Monday on a trip to Disney World outside Orlando, Florida. It was
going to tax his work schedule but he had his new laptop and would do what
he could.

      He only put in a few work hours Monday through Wednesday due to all
the time they spent on the rides and at the many fascinating attractions of
Disney World. Stevie was having a blast. Walter was worried about his
career.

      He called Garretson from the hotel.

      "If she's thinking about you or her son, she isn't saying anything to
anyone around her that we know of. Looks like business as usual. All I can
tell you is that she's very busy doing what she's been doing. Have you
considered moving to a new apartment? Keep your phone unlisted and she'd
play hell finding you."

      Walter had mulled over that idea but loathed the idea of leaving the
apartment he'd lived in for nine years. Thursday during lunch at a park
restaurant, Walter watched Stevie playing on a swing with a girl his
age. The thought of losing him was too horrible to consider.

      They flew back to New York the next day and checked into a midtown
Manhattan hotel, again with the city picking up the tab. Walter looked
through the New York Times real estate section and found a few promising
apartments not far from the day care center but over a mile from his
current apartment house. Garretson counseled him to change
Burroughs. Decent neighborhoods in Manhattan were very expensive except
around Dykeman in the northern portion of the island. Garretson lived up
there. His rent was reasonable. The area was relatively safe and Fort Tryon
Park and the Cloisters were nearby. He felt certain a good day care center
could be found and there were a couple of decent primary schools for Stevie
in the Fall.

      Walter called two real estate agencies. One offered a second floor
apartment north of Dykeman, four blocks from Fort Tryon Park for a price
only twenty percent more than he'd been paying in Brooklyn. He went to see
it. There were two bedrooms, a nice kitchen and a large living and dining
room combination. Walter made some rough calculations regarding new
furniture to replace that which he didn't dare move from his old apartment
for fear it would be followed. The numbers worked. He signed a one year
contract and called his super back in Brooklyn. He'd decided to sell his
furniture back there and lease new for the Manhattan apartment. There were
tax advantages for a self employed person that made it better to lease than
buy but Walter had never been willing to part with his original, if worn,
furnishings.

      The Brooklyn super had a lot of questions. Walter told him there'd
been a job offer in Louisville that was just too good to turn down.

      "Them people after you so bad you gotta run? I thought the police was
gonna pertect you."

      "Allan, you've been a great friend, not just a super. It's just safer
for Stevie. Just tell anybody who asks what I told you. When this is all
over, I'll come see you." He promised that payment for that month and the
next would be in his hands in a few days. Allan promised to try and sell
the furniture to the next tenant, "But that stuff's kinda old, ya know."

      "Do the best you can."

      Garretson's cops supervised the pick up of Walter's computers and a
pair of file cabinets that had all his important papers inside. The
sergeant promised to deliver them personally during the course of the next
week.

      They had to spend the weekend in the hotel since there'd be no
furniture until Monday. Stevie found it all quite boring especially since
Walter had to catch up on his work. He watched a lot of television. Walter
worried it might spark an attack but nothing happened. They spent Sunday
daytime in Central Park, much of it back on the Lake in a row boat, the
rest at the zoo.

      It took most of Monday morning to pick out the furniture, rugs,
kitchen appliances, a new TV and other items including a green and yellow
child sized table and chair to be delivered that afternoon. Everything went
on a three year lease plan.

      Tuesday, Walter sought out a new day care center. They were
definitely more expensive in Manhattan, half as much more than the one in
Brooklyn but, again, with a staff trained in what to do with children
suffering from epilepsy.

      Thursday the seventeenth was Stevie's fifth birthday. Walter had
missed his fourth and wanted to make this one special. At first, he
considered a party at the day care center but since Stevie didn't really
know the other children there that well, he put the idea aside. Still, he
wanted a party with others who knew Stevie. The only place he could think
of was his old restaurant back in Brooklyn. He called Garretson to get his
assessment of the danger.

      "Don't let anyone but the manager know it's you who's coming."

      The meal was the pizza which Stevie requested. There was cake, ice
cream and party hats. Walter's gift was a toy fire station with trucks, an
ambulance and plastic figures. Both fire trucks could spray water. Bill,
the manager gave Stevie a Lego block set. Walter had to interrupt the boy
when he was about to say he already had one.

      Stevie was especially amorous at bedtime, giving Walter a hug and
multiple kisses on the cheek then a wet one in the middle of his
mouth. Walter had to hide his tears.























                                   Chapter 6


      Once again, life got back on track. Walter caught up with his work
though it required almost a month with less time for his foster son. He
also wanted to get back to exercising, but a gym was out until he could
free up some time while the boy was at the day care center. Stevie handled
the lower attention level reasonably well. The baths and bedtime got him
over daytime frustration. Walter didn't need an alarm clock in the
morning. Stevie climbed on top of him about six thirty each day, his little
hard on pressing into Walter's back.

      There was a brief disorder issue with Stevie leaving his clothes
wherever he took them off, often in a stream from the bedroom to the
bathroom, and toys littered about the apartment. Walter had to struggle not
to make too much of an issue of it but it did grate on his orderly
nature. However, still in a please the man who saved me mode, Stevie
quickly learned to put things in their place.

      Walter spent some time on the internet looking up child caring tips
some of which he tried. When Steve left his Lego all over his bedroom
floor, Walter explained that it was better to return them to their box to
avoid stepping barefoot on one and hurting his foot. He made putting trash
in a trash can a tossing game.

      When Stevie insisted on trying his hand at washing dishes, Walter
praised his work then re-washed them after he was asleep.

      In August, the day care center recommended the closest public
school. They felt it had fairly high standards and a kindergarten program
which would allow a bright boy like Stevie to thrive academically. A number
of the other children from the day care center would be going there making
the social change easier for his foster son. Enrollment was scheduled for
the last week of the month.

      To take advantage of the last opportunity to do so before school,
Walter took Stevie back to the upstate lodge for a week of vacation. With
considerably warmer weather, they were able to don bathing suits and get
into the lake. Stevie had no fear whatsoever of the water and learned to
swim with one lesson from the lifeguard.

      School began on Wednesday September seventh. Walter went with Stevie
and the rest of the parents and children for a seminar for
kindergarteners. For the first time, Walter felt accepted as a
parent. Mothers and fathers included him in conversations about shoes,
lunch boxes and scraped knees. Stevie identified him as `Daddy' in front of
his classmates.

      Friday afternoon, Garretson called him and said, "Watch the news."

      There'd been a series of raids and arrests in Queens. A drug and
prostitution ring had been `swept up' according to the police captain being
interviewed. They showed video of a number of men being hauled off in
handcuffs and two apartment buildings supposedly having housed whore
houses. The madam had escaped but was being sought.

      Garretson called back at seven. "You guessed who the madam was,
right?"

      "Katherine Mulrooney?"

      "Sorry I couldn't tell you before but the lid was on it. She and her
lover, Willy Pirelli, set up a moving whore house for political types. Very
exclusive clientele. They changed location every month or so. The only
reason they got found out was Willy Pirelli's brother's involvement in the
drug thing. They're guessing she got away because one of her customers is a
cop or fed who knew about the raid. That'll only be investigated publicly
if the press sniffs it out. But you can bet your booties internal affairs
is all over it. For Christ's sake, don't mention that to anybody."

      "Don't worry about me," assured Walter

      Garretson counseled, "I don't think this is gonna affect you any but
just keep your eyes open. Tell the school not to let anyone but you pick up
the boy."

      Walter told Stevie he loved him three times that evening.

      The school was cooperative but concerned. Tuesday, the principal
called Walter in to discuss the problem. "Has this something to do with the
boy's mother?" He was aware Walter was a foster parent.

      "Yes, but please keep this between us. Stevie's mother has been
involved in criminal activity and is wanted. Some months ago she tried to
take Stevie but the Department of Welfare has forbidden her access to
him. I lived in another part of the city at the time and moved here at the
request of the police. If you need to speak to them, I can give you a name
and mobile phone number of the officer in charge."

      "How dangerous is this woman?"

      "I don't honestly know but she has some criminal connections. The
sergeant doesn't think she'll try anything with Stevie. She's a fugitive
and should be worrying more about getting away than a child she abandoned
months ago." He had to explain how Stevie first came to be with him.

      Twelve fifteen rolled around. Walter and Stevie walked out the gate
to the taxi that took them home each day. They didn't notice the light
yellow four door Pontiac following them.

      At the apartment house, Walter paid the cabbie and got out. The
Pontiac had stopped a car length behind them. Two men wearing dark jackets
and baseball caps stepped out immediately and began walking up the street
toward Walter's apartment house. Walter had gotten out of the cab
first. Steve was a few feet behind looking at a drawing he'd made in
school. The first man got to Walter as he was pulling out his door key.

      "Hey Walter!" he said with a grin. "Where ya been?"

      Walter looked up. Before he saw the face of the speaker, he saw the
knife in his hand.

      Stevie cried out, "Daddy!" as a third man snatched him up by the
waist.

      Walter tried to block the knife with his hands, pushing it
downward. The knife was deflected but still went into Walter's side just
above the hip bone. There was a searing pain as the blade slipped into him.

      Stevie screamed again, "Daddy! Daddy!"

      His boy's voice yanked the pain out of his mind. When the second man
tried to pin his arms to his sides, Walter was ready to fight. He wrenched
one arm free. He kicked at his attacker as he pulled the knife out for a
second thrust. It caught the man in the shin, halting him for a moment,
causing him to bend over slightly. Walter hit him in the face while trying
to break loose of the man behind.

      A whistle blew.

      The knife came up. Walter kicked out again as he tried to force
himself and the man holding him backward away from the oncoming blade.

      Someone shouted, "Police, police!" The whistle blew over the shouts.

      The knife came down and went into Walter's right chest. The pain was
debilitating. Walter began to crumble. The attacker was having a hard time
pulling out the knife so he could finish the job.

      The whistle was joined by the cabbie's horn. There was more shouting.

      The man holding Walter dropped him to the ground, the knife stuck in
his chest, blood flowing from both wounds.

      Stevie had been carried to the Pontiac and thrown into the back
seat. His kidnapper jumped in behind him. The car started moving. The two
others jumped in, closing the doors as the car sped past the taxi. The
cabbie wrote down the license plate number of the escaping car then grabbed
up his microphone and called his dispatcher.

      Two women and a man ran up to Walter who was gasping, "Stevie,
Stevie! Please, save him!"

      The ambulance beat the first police car by half a minute. Walter was
barely conscious by the time they pushed him inside. A policeman jumped in
with him in hopes of getting some information on what happened. The
paramedic, working furiously to stop the bleeding told the cop to leave the
injured man alone.

      The hospital was ready for them when they arrived. Walter was rushed,
the knife still sticking out of his chest, into an operating room where a
team of doctors and nurses began working on him.

      Sergeant Garretson didn't find out what happened for over two
hours. Not knowing who else to call who might know the boy's full name and
who, since he was a foster child, would be in charge of him, called the
school. The secretary quickly got hold of the principal who then dialed
Garretson's mobile phone. There'd been no answer so he called the local
precinct and gave them the policeman's name and mobile number.

      The sergeant had immediately contacted the captain in charge of the
Queens bust. He called the DEA and the FBI. By three fifteen, there were
seven additional police officials and four federal agents at the hospital
along with four TV news crews and two dozen or more other members of the
print and radio press. Walter was unconscious and still being worked on.

      A hospital spokeswoman spoke to the law enforcement crowd and the
press. "Mr. Stuyvesant is in very poor condition. We are doing everything
possible. His right lung is collapsed and badly lacerated. His liver and
right kidney are badly damaged. He has lost a great deal of blood. His
condition is critical. Even if all goes very well, he's not going to able
to speak to anyone for several days or more."

      Garretson was furious with himself for not putting a police guard
with Walter and Stevie the moment he heard about the bust. He spoke to the
DEA agents there. "Look, we all know who's behind this. You wouldn't be
here otherwise. You guys have, or had, an informant or an agent in that
bunch. Get word to them that if anything happens to that kid, there's gonna
be hell to pay, even if I have to quit my job to do it personally."

      "Take it easy, sergeant. We're on top of this," said a federal agent.

      Garretson was about to blow up at them but his captain stepped
in. "Sorry about the sergeant. He knew the boy and his foster father." He
led Garretson away. "Tom, we can handle this and we're going to. I've
already got men all over that area putting the word out an' bustin'
chops. We're trying to get the mayor to offer a reward. Just calm down for
Christ's sake. Some major is coming over to talk to the press. If we're
lucky, he'll have that reward announcement and a warning from us that
nothing better happen to that kid."

      A paltry ten thousand dollar reward was announced, hardly enough to
move anyone to risk his life with genuine information. No warning to the
kidnappers was voiced to the press. The commissioner felt sure that message
had already been `clearly heard'. The major told Garretson that a Mafia don
had been contacted. He'd told the messenger that his people would never
hurt a child and that they'd do whatever they could to help get him home
safely.

      The Captain said to Garretson, "What I think those assholes are up to
is trying to work a trade, the kid for lowered charges. I'm betting his
mother didn't have a damn thing to do with this. They'll kill `er and say
they rescued the kid. Fuckened Mafia'll hurt anybody no matter age or sex
if they think it'll work for `em."

      "I don't know, Captain. Those guys used a knife. The first try was
underhanded just like when they the killed the kid's father, John Mack
Warren and that guy in Queens a year or so ago, that other one used to go
with the kid's mother. I'm bettin' on Willy Pirelli and you know who his
brother works for."

      Despite hundreds of called in tips, there was nothing concrete on the
whereabouts of Stevie Mulrooney through the weekend. With no family to keep
the story in the news, interest in Stevie Mulrooney's fate all but
evaporated with the public. By Monday evening, his name wasn't heard on any
newscast or could be read in any newspaper.

      Walter's situation wasn't any better. There was no one to hold a
vigil for him either as he teetered between life and death. His liver had
all but been destroyed. His right kidney wasn't functioning. The right lung
had collapsed. He was on a respirator. Tubes and cables flowed from his
body. Another operation was planned for Monday morning but put off for
twenty-four hours due to his precarious condition.

      The only person asking about him was Sergeant Garretson who'd latched
onto a doctor there at the hospital who he could call twice a day.


      To their credit, it did appear the Mafia Wiseguys were actively
seeking Stevie Mulrooney. The precinct heard various reports about
individuals being `jacked up' and questioned.

      The FBI had a nationwide alert out for Katherine Mulrooney but the
only photos they had were grainy surveillance shots.

      Cops on the street were beating the bushes, calling on informers and
knocking on doors. But, at the top, there didn't seem to be the political
will to actually find the former madam to the well connected. Neither
overtime nor additional personnel were approved for the search. The reward
was not increased.

      Even Garretson's captain admitted to his sergeant that he might have
been wrong, that Stevie's mother might have him and be long gone.

      Walter underwent six hours of new surgery Tuesday morning. No one
from the press was around to ask how it went. Garretson's hospital contact
informed him important repairs had been made but no one was ready to say
Walter would survive.

      Thursday, word reached Garretson's precinct that a woman fitting
Katherine Mulrooney's description had been spotted in Oregon. The woman was
seen boarding a bus for Los Angeles. A small boy was with her.

      Garretson dismissed the report. "No way she's using buses. The bitch
probably has plenty of cash with her. She didn't snatch Stevie to go ridin'
on a damn bus. And she needed help to find Walter, someone with the
connections or know-how to get to credit card records or something. And
there were four guys in that car. I don't think she's anywhere around here
but she sure as hell isn't on a goddam bus."

      Angry and frustrated by the lack of movement on the case, Garretson
went to the hospital. Walter was in intensive care room with a police guard
posted outside. Since Garretson was the only person who even called to see
how Walter was doing, and he was a cop, the doctor allowed him in.

      It was a sad sight. Walter lay on his back with probes pasted to his
body in several locations, their wires leading off to three different
monitors. A breathing device was plugged into his nose, its tubing
connected to another machine. Walter's eyes were closed.  His skin was a
deathly white.

      The policeman pulled a chair up to his bed. "Jesus, man, you're a
mess. This is partly my fault. I shoulda put someone watching you the
minute they made those busts and Mulrooney got away. You got no idea how
sorry I am. You gotta make it through or I'll never forgive myself. You're
a good guy, Walter, a real good guy not just a good Samaritan. Believe me,
I know how good you are which means you're important and not just to
Stevie.

      "We're looking hard for your son but she's probably taken him far
away from here, I'm sure she has. You know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna
take some vacation time, as much as it takes, and I'm gonna start looking
myself. There were four guys in that car. One a them had to be Willy
Pirelli. I figure he had the knife. It fits when you look at how Stevie's
father got done then the Warren killing, now you. Same style, same kinda
blade and he's the only one been around that woman the whole time. His
brother's a made man and supposedly the mob is trying to find Stevie
too. You'd think they'd a found him by now. I got some friends in the
precinct house over there. The problem is the brass. It's guys like that
were her customers, and politicians. Who knows how high up the ladder her
clientele went but it hadda be pretty high because nobody's putting any
serious effort to find the bitch.

      "I know I'm talking in circles but I'm betting you can hear me and I
want you to know I'm on this and I'm gonna get Stevie back to you but you
gotta get better so you hang in there. You see, even asleep like this you
got me motivated. I'm gonna leave right now and get started. I'll try and
get in here each day and tell you how things are going but if I don't it
just means I'm on to something or doing something. Hell, I might have to go
outta town but I'm still gonna call in every day and talk to your doctor
like I been doing."

      On his way out, Garretson was trying to figure out how Walter's
location had been traced. Credit cards were the most likely means though
Katherine Mulrooney's supporters might have called around to every
kindergarten in the city. A smart guy could have talked his way past
security precautions. Still, the credit card would have been the easiest. A
good detective would know to use credit agencies. Garretson needed someone
who knew about that.

      He went to his captain and explained what he wanted to do. He trusted
Captain Frank Constanza, knew how he felt about politicians and foot
dragging by the powers downtown. His captain had come up through the
ranks. Even though Garretson was a college graduate, he didn't think much
of those who used their degree to jump over others into the police
department's officer corps. Frank Constanza had gotten his degree after
many years as a part time student at John Jay College there in New
York. He'd been a street cop for many years, rising to sergeant because he
was a good cop then lieutenant for his leadership qualities. The degree did
help him become a captain.

      Captain Constanza wasn't too thrilled that one of his men was going
off alone on an investigation that was already being handled by another
precinct.

      "Alright then, transfer me over there. Recommend me to work with the
detectives. I know Lieutenant Pazorka. We went to the academy
together. Hell, I dated his wife before he married her."

      "And give up my best sergeant? C'mon Tom. Why don't you just talk to
this guy first. Maybe they're already doin' what you wanna do. Take the
rest of today off, tomorrow too. Then come back and we'll see. I know how
you feel about this guy and his kid. Hell, I feel the same and I never met
`em. Go see Pazorka and get back to me, okay?"

      Garretson agreed and drove his personal car over to Queens. The
lieutenant was in his office. Garretson told him why he was there and asked
how the case was going.

      "It's not going anywhere, Tom. We've squeezed every source we
have. And I know Santoni's doing his part like he promised. You know about
Pirelli?"


      "Yeah. Willy Perilli, brother of one of Santoni's people."

      "That's the one. Santoni's got Willy's brother and a couple other
guys out looking for him. Got the word out all over the country. We're
pretty sure neither one of `em's in this area, probably not this state. And
when you consider the damage she can do to some very powerful people, she
might even be dead, and the kid too, and Willy Pirelli and the others, dead
and disposed of."

      "Maybe, but let's look at this from another angle. How'd they find
Stuyvesant and the kid? I'm guessing through his credit cards. Who you got
who can get inside the credit agencies and see if they can come up with
someone who was looking for him?"

      The lieutenant stared at Garretson for a moment, shook his head and
grumbled, "That's embarrassing, Tom. Why the fuck didn't we think of that?"
He picked up his phone and asked for a Sergeant Willoughby. "She's
sharp. Knows all about credit card fraud, computers, the whole ball of
wax."

      Sgt Willooughby was a middle aged black woman wearing a flannel
dress, no wedding band and a very serious expression. Lieutenant Pazorka
explained the situation to the detective sergeant. She gave him a dirty
look.

      "Okay, okay," conceded Pazorka, "she did suggest something like
you're saying, Tom, but well, there was a lot going on that day. Why don't
you go with her and see what you two can come up with.  I'll figure a way
to make the captain happy about this. Constanza knows you're here, right?"

      "Call him. He sent me."

      Sergeant Willoughby had a list of credit agencies with the
capabilities to do the search both she and Garretson thought might have
been done. "They don't like to be too cooperative with the police," she
explained. "Makes their customers nervous, at least some of them. But, if
you put it to them right, they'll cooperate. I think you're right. That's
how they found Stuyvesant. I suggested they check that as soon as I heard
about what happened. Pazorka's a bunch of crap!"

      She made several calls and arranged meetings for the following
morning. It was getting late in the day. "These are nine to fivers. Five
comes, the phone goes to night answering mode. We'll see some of them in
the AM. Can you be here by eight thirty?"

      He was there at seven forty-five so he could speak to another
sergeant he knew and, according to Lt. Pazorka, had been involved with him
in the investigation.  Larry Kurtz had twenty-one years in as a cop, most
as a detective. He and Garretson had worked together years before in
another Bronx precinct, had both been wounded in a surprise shootout when
they stumbled into a drug lab no one knew about. The knocked on the wrong
door during the search for a possible witness to the murder of a man killed
during a family dispute. Someone inside yelled `cops' and a submachine gun
was fired through the door. Both men were able to draw and fire their
weapons apparently making those inside believe there was a team of cops
coming in. They took their prepared escape route up a fire escape and
across several roofs.

      Garretson was hit in the right side and shoulder, Kurtz in almost the
same places left side plus his left leg. The recovered together with their
families on a New Jersey beach.

      After the required chit chat, Garretson asked "You know Santoni,
Larry. How hard you think he's looking for Pirelli and the woman?"

      "Not as hard as advertised. I never understood why he let that
operation go on in the first place. It had to go sour one day, especially
with a junky running it."

      "He was involved?"

      "Not directly. He had a deal through Paul Pirelli, Willy's
brother. In exchange for a percentage of the take, Paul provided a few
names, you know, contacts his brother could use, and Santoni helped with
connections for locations. They moved a lot, used hotels and apartment
buildings with cooperative staff. I think Santoni got to fuck some a the
girls too. One guy claims he was fucking Katherine but, shit, who'd want
her."

      "She was still on drugs? I heard she kicked it."

      "Not from what I heard. She just wasn't getting' so high she couldn't
function. Anyhow, Willy was always there to cover for her. I never saw the
attraction but those two really did love each other. I think Willy'd try to
ice Santoni if he heard he was fuckin' `er. He did three others for it."

      "You said `did love her'. You think they're dead?"

      "Hell, I don' know. You know there's people don't ever want neither
of `em to turn up breathing."

      "So what do you know about this? Any idea where they've gone to hide?
And what about the other three guys who were in the car when they grabbed
the kid?"

      "Tom, look man, I just told you. There are people, very high up
people, who definitely do not want this woman to be found. And she's
nobody's dummy, probably got some kind of death letter, you know, something
that goes to some reporter if she turns up in a dumpster. No one is really
looking. And if you plan to go searching for that woman, you better have
eyes on the back of you head."

      "Fine, but you been involved in this thing for a long time, you gotta
know more'n you're telling me. C'mon, nobody's gonna know where I got it
from."

      "Shit, okay. Just don't fuck me on this.

      "First place, I got my doubts the other guys in that Pontiac are
still walking around. Pirelli's a cold blooded son of a bitch. He knows the
mob is gonna be pissed off. He's gotta figure at least one a those guys
went with him can be got to. You can forget them. Maybe he cut `em up and
flushed `em and that's why no bodies've turned up. Maybe they're at the
bottom of some river or in a foundation but they're gone. No way Pirelli's
gonna leave `em alive.

      "That's one thing. Now, best I've learned is that the two of `em,
Mulrooney and Willy, they went West, probably California. Willy lived out
there a few years ago, knows the lay of the land. Now, he ain't gonna be
using any old contacts out there and ain't gonna be nowhere around where he
stayed before. He'd choose someplace new, you know, if he was in the LA
area, he'll go up around San Francisco, like that. With their connections,
meaning their former customers, they probably got new ID. They figure to
have enough cash to live okay for a few years without working. But if you
think they're gonna keep that kid alive, well, I don't know, my
friend. He's their Achilles ankle."

      "Heel."

      "Huh?"

      "Achiles heel. It's Achilles heel. You think Katherine Mulrooney
could be part of murdering her own son? Then why'd she snatch him?"

      "I don't know. Does seem kinda cold, even for a whore like her."

      "Whores love their children just like anybody else. There's one
strong motherly need to protect their kids. And, like I said, why'd she go
through all that shit to snatch him just to kill him? Don't make sense. I
don't buy the pride thing."

      "Ever think maybe she's just a nasty bitch and took the kid just so
this guy couldn't have him? If that's why, I don't think she'd have a
problem lettin' Willy do the kid and dump the body. Pride's one powerful
motivator. I seen guys do some awful stupid shit `cause of pride."

      "Guy's, not women."

      He chuckled. "You know better'n that. How well'd you know this one?"

      "Fairly well. I interrogated her a couple of times. She's a cold
bitch but killing her own kid? That's a stretch although she sure as hell
beat the shit outta him."

      "Yeah, I heard about that. Just makes my point. All right, forget
that. Now, there's one other thing. Jesus, you gotta be careful with
this. I, shit. It's just too hot. We'd all get our asses burned. Forget
it."

      "Christ, man, don't half tell me something. You know me. No one's
gonna hear I got anything from you. Spit it out."

      "You're a crazy motherfucker, you know. Sure, I trust you but these
people find out you're on to them and the best thing'll happen is they'll
drop a bus on you."

      "Spit it out."

      "You know who Jason Albright is?"

      "State Senator Jason Albright?"

      "That's the one. We know he was a customer, a regular customer,
couple times a month. Girls, not girl, went to a hotel room or apartment
with the lights out. Nobody in the place, includin' the girls, ever saw his
face. Now, this one hotel is run by a guy who's connected through a cousin
to a lawyer who defends mob types. Name's Fred Silver. Years ago, he used
to do some business helping people get driver's licenses and car papers
when they had problems. We suspect he's connected with somebody who
provides very good new ID, the works, driver's license from any state you
want, passport, the works. Now, we never been able to prove nothing so we
never let on we suspected anything.

      "Now, Silver got Albright's brother off a bunch of charges when he
drove drunk into a store window and hurt a couple ladies inside, one
bad. He shoulda gone to jail but Silver got him off clean. Just had to put
up some cash to take care of the store and everybody. The judge was a guy
named Paulson. Albright helped him get his judgeship.

      "So, you got a Santoni lawyer, a judge in a politician's pocket and
the politician with the men at each end connected back to Katherine
Mulrooney and her partner connected back to Santoni through his
brother. What's interesting, and problematic, is that none a the guys in
the drug bust was connected to none of the above except Paul Pirelli and he
was just well paid muscle. Katherine's whore house got caught up in all
this `cause it came up a few times on wiretaps. Otherwise, she's still in
operation. None a her customers was around when they hit her two
places. Neither was she or Willy. So, they knew. It hadda be a cop of some
kind, ours or a fed. Wasn't that many who knew. Internal's lookin' hard but
I don't think anybody's gonna fall. Too much protection too high up and
that's your problem, my friend. There's some people'd waste your ass quick
as a bunny if they thought you was gonna be a problem for `em.

      "Albright's a nasty motherfucker. You seen how he almost never has
much competition when he runs?

      "Now, here's what's important. We think the senator might be in touch
with Pirelli or the woman because we found most a his private mobile phone
number on some torn up pieces of paper somebody tore up fast and tossed at
the toilet at their last place but they didn't all go in, just fell on the
floor. It was only missing one whole number and pieces of a couple others
but we figured out what they were and they matched the number we got from a
contact at Motorola. The ink was fresh, maybe a hour old, a little
more. Pazorka thinks it was from when they tld the bust was comin'."

      "Who else knows all this?"

      "Everything I told you? Just me, two other detectives, Pazorka, now
you."

      "Feds? DEA?"

      "Fuck no! I. and it's just me sayin' this, I think it was some
asshole in the DEA tipped `em off we was comin'. Pazorka's sure of it. Our
people didn't know about the bust until they was already there getting'
ready to bust in. Hadda be one a them. Least nobody got hurt."


      Garretson didn't mention what he'd learned to Sergeant Willoughby,
just went along quietly to three meetings with credit bureau managers.

      Yes, they found out, people could be located through their credit
cards but only legal authorities with a judge's warrant were allowed to
trace individuals that way. One, who Garretson suspected was trying to show
what a sharpie he was, backed off that and admitted that banks could do it
too even if the card wasn't one of theirs.

      "How do we find out if a certain person's been looked for in the past
month, let's say."

      "That's a big order. First place, there may be no record of the
search on the part of the credit bureau. Only the agency seeking the person
would have a record, might have one, just might, that's all. Second, even
if there was a search, there are a lot of credit bureaus and thousands,
maybe tens of thousands of searches for various reasons. Who is going to
have time to go through all that?"

      Sergeant Willoughby said, "Mr. Stevens, just a minute. Your computers
can do a search for information based on any number of criteria. I'm sure
it wouldn't take that long."

      The three meetings didn't lead to anything more than a wall of
Babel. Sergeant Willoughby, though, wasn't about to give up.

      "Let's look at who might have had easy access to that kind of
information. They said it: legal authorities and banks. I'd say we can
start right here with the New York city Police Department then move on to
the state cops, Welfare Department, ..."

      "Christ!" interrupted Garretson. "The Bureau of Child Welfare! Shit!
They knew where Stevie was staying, had to, probably even which day care
center, school. Walter was a foster father. Forget credit cards for a
while. Why didn't I think of this before? Shit! How do we..."

      "I'm doing it." Willoughby was typing fast on her keyboard. Less than
fifteen minutes later, she'd located the name of the social worker in
charge of Stevie.

      They didn't call but went right over to visit. Her supervisor, James
Berger, informed them that the social worker was out making house calls and
wasn't expected back that day. It was Friday. The next workday was Monday.

      "Does anyone have a list of her stops for today?"

      "No, just her."

      "Does she write it down somewhere?"

      "I suppose so but she probably has it with her."

      "Do you have a list of all her cases?"

      "Of course but there's a lot, over three hundred I think."

      "How often does she see each of her cases?"

      "It varies. Some hardly at all, others every week."

      "Is there a list of where she's gone this week?"

      "I see what you're getting at but there's still going to be a lot. Is
this some kind of emergency?"

      "A five year old has been kidnapped. Yes, it's an emergency."

      "One of hers?"

      Garretson was amazed and angry the man didn't know that one of his
charges had been kidnapped and his foster father nearly killed. He told the
man so.

      "Look, sir, we have thousands..."

      "May we see the lists?" asked Sergeant Willoughby coldly.

      "Of course."

      Over the next hour and a half, they were able to narrow the list of
possible visits for that day to twenty-eight, all of them in a single area.

      "What kind of car does she drive?" asked Garretson.

      "A Ford Escort, blue, I think."

      "Can you be sure about that?"

      He checked and found it was blue. They got the license plate number
along with the name, Susan Altman, and race, white, of the worker.

       They rushed back downstairs to their car and headed for West One
Hundred and Sixteenth Street. There were four regularly called on addresses
within three blocks. They went to them first, two of which were in the same
block. The last one had been visited earlier in the day. They looked over
the list and tried to figure out where her route might have been from
there. Most of the rest of her cases were farther north. The went up to One
Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street and Broadway then drove downtown block by
block watching out for a blue Escort. One passed them. It was driven by a
young white woman. What they caught of the license plate matched what they
were looking for. Garretson raced to the end of the block and made a
screeching U turn at the next intersection. The blue Escort was parking
near the end of the block when they caught up.

      The woman quickly rolled up her window and pushed down the door lock
as they jumped out of their unmarked car. Both flashed badges. The social
worker cracked the window open.

      "What do you want?"

      "You have Walter Stuyvesant as one of your foster parents?"

      "The man who was stabbed?"

      "It's good someone in your department knows who he is."

      "What? That's unfair. Everyone in my office knows about
Mr. Stuyvesant and his foster child. We even have a prayer group for
them. What's this all about?"

      Sergeant Willoughby glanced at Garretson who did the same toward
her. "We'd like to know, uh, prayer group. Including Berger?" asked
Willoughby.

      "Sort of. He's..."

      "Well, uh, thank you. Do you have a direct phone number?"

      "In the office, my extension is 2749."

      Garretson was halfway to the car when the policewoman said thank
you. She rushed to join him.

      "Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!" muttered Garretson as he pulled
away from the curb.

      "Take it easy, sergeant. The man is a pawn. We just need to find out
who called him."

      At the welfare office, they ran up the stairs. It was nearly four. A
lot of the workers went home at that hour. Supervisor Berger was closing
his office door when they walked up behind him.

      "I think we should go back inside, sir," coolly ordered Sergeant
Willoughby.

      Berger turned sharply and looked into Garretson's angry face. The
social worker seemed to lose all color. His face went from surprise to
depression in a pair of seconds.

      Garretson motioned toward the door with his eyes.

      Berger opened the door. Garretson nudged him inside. Willoughby
closed it behind them. "Sit down, sir."

      "I had no idea why they wanted the address. They said it was a city
matter, I swear. I would never have told them if I'd had any..."

      Garretson leaned down, his face in the supervisor's, "Who are they?"

      Berger took a breath. "I, they didn't give any names, just..."

      "Bullshit! Look, I don't give a fuck how scared you are. You either
tell me right here in the privacy of this office or I will parade you
through my precinct house, in front of the press, and interrogate you as a
suspected accessory to attempted murder and kidnapping. So, give me a
fuckened name here in the privacy of your office or..." He raised his
eyebrows.

      "He's going to know who told you."

      "Probably not but it's a risk you're gonna have to take."

      Berger had tears in his eyes. "I've got a family."

      "Walter Stuyvesant does too. You've got five seconds or we go to
Queens, you in cuffs."

      "You've got to protect me, my family."

      "No, I don't, but what I do depends on you. A name!"

      "My God, you can't..."

      Garretson pulled out his handcuffs.

      "Harold Turtan," whimpered Berger.


      "That would be Councilman Turtan, sir?" asked Sergeant Willoughby
calmly.

      Berger nodded.

      "Good boy," said Garretson patting the trembling man on the
shoulder. "Now, you just calm yourself and go home to your family. Don't
worry. With all the shit he's mixed up in, I don't think your councilman
friend will have any idea how I got onto him." He started toward the door
then turned back to the terrified man. "Don't go making any telephone
calls. If I find out he knows I'm coming, well, you don't wanna know."

      Berger shook his head rapidly.

      The two walked quickly out of the office and down to their illegally
parked car. It had a ticket. Garretson handed it to Willoughby with the
keys.

      The moment he was seated, Garretson pulled out his mobile phone and
made a call. "Vince, I need to know where Councilman Harold Turtan is right
now." After a pause, he said, "You bet your ass it is. I'm headed
downtown."

      "What exactly are you planning to do?" asked the policewoman.

      "I'm working on a speech."

      His cell phone rang as they were approaching Fourteenth Street. He
answered, "Garretson," then, "I owe you one." To Willoughby, he said, "He's
in a council meeting."

      "So, what's your speech?"

      "Probably best you didn't know."

      "I think I already do. It could cost you."

      "Right now, I don't care. Tomorrow might be different."

      The council meeting had been going on for two hours and none of the
reporters waiting outside expected it to end any time soon. Garretson and
Willoughby sat on a hallway railing.

      She asked him, "You're sure you want to do this? It might be better
if we let the captain contact him, try a gentler approach."

      "That wouldn't happen before Monday or later. Stevie could be dead by
then."

      "Face it, he might be dead now or what you're gonna do might cause
them to kill him."


      "I hope I've got that covered. My concern is that the people afraid
of her being brought in will send some asshole who'll kill all three of
them."

      "My God and you expect you're going to cause them to kill just the
two? That is accessory to murder."

      "Maybe, but we both know they don't want her or Willy brought in
alive. But don't worry. I figure she's got what a friend called a `death
letter' stashed with somebody. It's a letter with names, dates, places,
everything she knows ready to be sent to some reporter if something happens
to her. And I think a certain state senator is her contact. Turtan is one
of his flunkies. It all fits. Maybe I can convince him that if someone lets
her know that she can live if she keeps her mouth shut when she's caught,
well, shit." He sighed. "I'm still working on the speech."

      "Try it on me. I've got deniability. Maybe I can help you."

      There was a flurry of voices and the noise of feet on marble.

      "Stay clear. Don't let him see you near me," said Garretson.

      Long time Councilman Harold Turtan was surrounded by three reporters
and a camera crew as he walked smiling down the hallway toward
Garretson. The policeman joined the procession at the rear. A stairway and
two right turns later, Turtan faced the press in front of his office
door. "The water bill is going to pass. It has too otherwise, many of our
citizens are going to go to work unbathed and we wouldn't want that, would
we?"


      While talking, he noticed the uniformed policeman behind the
others. Garretson pointed to him then himself and indicated talk with his
hand.

      The councilman motioned him forward. Two of the reporters left but
one stayed. Garretson spoke into his ear. "We need to talk."

      "I don't really have any..."

      "Walter Stuyvesant, councilman." whispered Garretson, "inside or out
here."

      The councilman didn't seem to miss a beat before asking, "Who's
Walter whoever?" but Garretson caught the blip in his voice.

      "Inside or..."

      The councilman turned and opened the door. The moment he closed it he
turned and asked, "What is this all about, sergeant?" He'd noticed the
stripes.

      "I have a message for your friend who's in touch with Katherine
Mulrooney."

      Turtan began to speak, "Watch yourself..."

      "Just shut up and listen. When I leave here, I'm making up a report
and giving out two copies, sort of like Mulrooney, about three pages
long. If the boy isn't in police hands by Monday at four PM, it goes to the
press."

      "Sergeant Garretson," said Turtan angrily looking at his name plate,
"your days on the police force are numbered if you think you can throw that
kind of crap in my face. I have no idea what you're talking about so you
better get yourself out of my office before I have you removed."

      Garretson moved buttons to buttons with the councilman. "I'm a fair
carpenter, councilman, and, right now, I'm not sure I like being a
cop. Now, you pick up your fuckened phone and deliver my message, Maybe
they can get to me before I finish the reports and get them delivered."

      "Get out of my office, sergeant!"

      "Fuck you, councilman."

      Garretson opened the door and marched out, leaving the councilman to
close it. He was trembling almost as much as the child welfare supervisor
had been. He sent Willoughby back to her station house in the car and took
the subway to his home in upper Manhattan. He had a wife and two small
children there and didn't want them to become victims of his recklessness.

      Myrna Garretson was furious as her husband knew she would be but
packed up the kids as requested and went to her sister's house in New
Jersey. Garretson sat in front of his television and waited for an angry
phone call from his captain. It didn't come. The councilman had made his
call.

      In the morning, he called in sick and, with a suitcase in hand, went
to the hospital to see Walter. The cop outside the room accepted the
newspaper and let him pass.

      "Walter, I may have fucked up royally but maybe not. I threatened a
city councilman last night but he didn't call my boss. That means the
threat stuck and he's doing what I told him. I think State Senator Albright
is in touch with Katherine and he's gotta try to get her to give up
Stevie. With luck, she'll take him somewhere far from where she's got
herself and somehow get him into the hands of a cop. That's the
plan. Christ, it really wasn't planned, didn't really come together until I
was doing it. They've got until four Monday or I'm supposed to release a
report to the press. That's the bad part of the plan. There isn't any
report. I haven't got much proof. Hell, I haven't any real proof. But,
since Turtan didn't go straight to my boss, he must think I do. Christ, I
wish I knew what was going on."

      Garretson went to an evening movie then a restaurant in Fort Lee, New
Jersey. The motels were cheaper there.

      He only dozed a few times that night so he stayed in bed until nine,
only getting up out of boredom. He ate breakfast at a diner down the
highway then went back to read the newspapers he'd bought. He fell asleep
trying to do a crossword puzzle.

      The rest of the day was spent in front of a television and on two
very slow meals at restaurants in Elizabeth and Newark. He went back to the
same Fort Lee motel for the night. Sunday morning, he debated going to a
mass at a local Catholic church but wasn't sure he remembered when to sit
and stand so watched one on television. He found himself praying for Stevie
and Walter.

      That afternoon, Garretson drove back into New York to Walter's
hospital then decided not to go in. If he was being sought by a hit team,
best not to go anywhere he might be expected. Figuring he might be safe
going in and would be where he'd get any news first hand, Garretson went to
his Brooklyn station house.

      "I thought you were sick," commented the desk sergeant.

      The captain and his lieutenant were out. The acting commander was
another lieutenant who was ensconced in his office going through a stack of
files. Garretson went to his desk on the second floor and pulled out the
crossword puzzle he'd fallen asleep with in the morning. Finding himself
becoming groggy again, he snatched up a newspaper from a nearby desk and
looked at the help wanted ads. He was, in fact, a reasonably good
carpenter. He figured he could pass the carpenter's union exam and make
more money than he did as a cop. His wife would be ecstatic. The ads were
by real estate companies and a factory all of whom would be offering less
than he made on the force.

      He began to kick himself for coming in. There was nothing to do and
no one he could talk to. He started to dial his wife but hung up before he
finished. The people who would be after him, if they were, could possibly
tap police lines. If they had seen him come in, they might... He
stopped. "Paranoid asshole," he muttered to himself and grabbed up the
newspaper again, this time to read anything and everything of even the
slightest interest. He was stuck there until the following afternoon at
four.

      The evening shift came on. One of the sergeants asked why he was
there.

      "Got a case that I've got to stay around for. Please don't ask."

      The man shook his head and went off to his own desk. Sometime after
eight, the two of them played gin rummy between interruptions until the
night shift came on at midnight. Garretson found a cot in a closet and set
it up in a corner. Tired as he was, sleep again came only in spurts. Once,
around three, he fell asleep only to be awakened by an unruly prisoner
being brought in for interrogation.

      When the day shift came on at seven thirty, he was sound asleep. Even
though his lieutenant suggested he be left alone, the movement around him
snapped his mind to.

      "I thought you were sick," groused his lieutenant.

      "I am but I got this case might break today."

      "I thought you were working on that in Queens."

      "I was but anybody looking for me will come or call here so I'm
here. Please don't ask."

      The officer laughed, shrugged his shoulders and suggested he lie back
down.

      It was Garretson's turn to laugh. There was enough commotion to keep
the unborn wide eyed.

      He called the hospital and finally got through to
Dr. Rodriguez. Walter was still in a coma.

      "Well, tell him I might be making progress. The signs are good. I'll
know before the day is out, well, I hope so. Things could happen somewhere
else and I might not hear for a day or two. Just don't say anything to
anybody else, okay?"

      He called Willoughby. She hadn't heard anything except the captain
was wondering why Garretson hadn't come back in Saturday.

      "It's a waiting game now."

      The call came in at two twelve. "Garretson", shouted someone, "pick
up three."

      He almost tripped over another officer's chair as he rushed to his
desk from across the room.

      "Sergeant Garretson?" asked the person on the line.

      "That's me."

      "This is Officer Keen in Salt Lake City. We've got a boy here named
Stevie Stuyvesant who says he's from New York City."

      Garretson felt tears well up in his eyes. "Yes, yes. He was kidnapped
from here last week. Let me talk to him."

      "Hold on. He's upstairs."

      Garretson waited, tears now falling on his desk. A detective went
over to him. "They find the boy?"

      Garretson nodded.

      The man shouted, "They found the Mulrooney kid. Somebody get the
captain."

      Garretson wiped his eyes on his sleeve. The captain trotted over to
his desk but just that moment, a child's voice came over the line,
"Sergeant Garretson? It's me Stevie. Is my daddy there?"

      Words were difficult. "No, son, but I'll come get you and take you to
him. He's in the hospital but when he sees you he'll get better."

      The captain asked quietly, "Where is he?"

      "Salt Lake City."

      The captain walked off. Several policeman gathered around Garretson's
desk.

      "Can I talk to my daddy?"

      "I'm sorry, son. He can't talk to anybody yet but, like I said, I'll
get you back here as fast as I can and we'll go right away to see him."

      The officer came back on as the captain returned and began to
speak. Garretson held up his hand then asked the Salt Lake officer to wait.

      "We're booking you on the first plane available. Tell that man I want
to speak to his superior."

      The trip went through Houston with a forty-five minute
layover. Garretson paced the airport until he could board his next
flight. Two Salt Lake City officers met him at the airport with
Stevie. Garretson swept the boy up in his arms, tears again flowing.

      "You have no idea how happy I am to see you."

      They were on their way back to New York in fifty minutes. On the
plane, Garretson explained to Stevie that his father had been hurt badly by
the kidnappers. Because of that, he was in a hospital asleep and might not
awaken for a few days. But, he assured him, his father would know he was
there and hear every word he said.

      There was a half hour stopover in St. Louis then it was back to New
York. It was twelve forty in the morning when they arrived at the hospital.
Stevie had slept through most of the flight and had to be carried off the
plane. However, once awake, he was fully alert. The hospital staff knew he
was coming. A single flourescent bulb lit the room enough to see Walter on
the bed. Garretson led the boy to the right side, away from the injuries,
then lifted him up to lie beside Walter.

      "Daddy, it's Stevie. I'm home. I love you, daddy." He kissed him
twice on the cheek then put his head against Walter's. For a moment, Stevie
lay still beside his foster father. But, then, he squirmed backward, and
looked down. Walter's right arm came slowly up until his hand lay on the
boy's leg.