Patrick wasn't too disappointed that he hadn't started dating Abby Rizzi before Thanksgiving break. He was enjoying the novelty of a slow pursuit. When they were on the road there wasn't time for anything like this. He'd already admitted to her that his dad wasn't really a pirate, she'd understood when he explained it was his strategy for dealing with the gossip that surrounded him so she hadn't been mad that he lied to her. She now knew his mom was dead, that he was in care, that he'd been the kid who called his lawyer on Principal Goole and that he skipped lessons without getting into trouble: she'd been impressed by that. He had learned that Abby's dad was a businessman and her mom was an artist. She had argued with David Napier at least three times that he knew of last week.
Patrick had a busy Thanksgiving break. On Monday Billy Ruskin spent the day in Oakland and Patrick had persuaded both Billy to take him along and Sally to let him go. He took the BART into San Francisco to check out prices in and around the city. Tuesday it was Sally's turn, she took all the kids down to Santa Clara to the Awesome America theme park for the day. Patrick had never visited a theme park before, something Liss found hilarious.
"But you practically live in a theme park, Trick!" she giggled.
"So why should I spend time and money visiting another one?" he retorted. "Anyway, a carnival isn't quite the same."
The biggest rides here were much bigger than anything he'd seen at a traveling carnival but it was the games that really caught his attention. Jenni wanted the giant pink cuddly pony from the game where you had to land tennis balls in buckets and Paul wanted the robot action figure from the darts game. Patrick won the first by insisting on being given the same tennis balls that the operator used to demonstrate how the game worked, with Sally weighing in on his side when he claimed the operator had in fact secretly switched them; the second by planting every dart exactly where he had to each time he threw one.
"How did you do that, Trick?" Liss hissed in his ear when Sally's attention was elsewhere. Patrick grinned.
"Practice, and knowing how the games are gaffed," he replied enigmatically.
Patrick spent Wednesday hanging out with the gang from Stoney Ridge. It was like old times, except Alex wasn't around to track him down and call him away to practice or do some other job. Angela was dating Dougie Schmidt which surprised Patrick. He didn't get a chance to ask her about it, though, as Dougie made sure Angela and Patrick never got to chat. The whole gang hung out in the recreation room all day, playing pool and pinball on the old machines that were too busted to survive on the road any more, chatting and relaxing. Patrick couldn't understand why it made him feel so restless.
Patrick helped William Brodie move the kitchen table and chairs into the dining room after breakfast Thursday morning. They then they started setting both for Thanksgiving dinner, the big table for the adults and the kitchen table for the kids. To finish Brodie opened a packet of paper napkins and started laboriously folding them into a standing fan shape as Patrick watched for a moment. Patrick silently took a handful of napkins to the other table.
"Let me guess, you know all about folding napkins," Brodie huffed as he continued folding.
"I may have read a book once." Patrick sounded amused.
"A book on napkin folding?"
"Origami."
Before Brodie could reply Patrick was holding something that looked like a water lily on the palm of his hand. The cupped flower was delicate and beautiful and Patrick was grinning ear to ear at Brodie's astonishment.
"You never cease to amaze me, Patrick," Brodie said, shaking his head. "Okay. You're now the official holder of the title 'Head of Napkin Folding'. Are you going to do another nineteen like that, or would you like a glamorous assistant?"
"I'll do them. It won't take me long." Patrick flicked a napkin open, smoothed it out on the table and started folding with quick, deft strokes. "Mr. Brodie, am I allowed to go over to Mr. Taylor's tonight? It is Thursday."
"I'm sorry Patrick, I won't be able to take you, we'll still have the house full of guests tonight. Anyway, won't Simon have all his family there for Thanksgiving?" Patrick thought he might, that was one reason he wanted to go. He'd never met any of Taylor's family, had never even seen photos. They still played poker in the kitchen and Taylor was always alone in the house on Thursday. Patrick was curious. He dropped the finished flower onto the table and started his third.
"Last week all he said was 'see you next week.' His children all live out of town and he's divorced or widowed, I think. I could go on the bike. You know I'll be fine over at Mr. Taylor's house."
"He might have gone out of town himself to visit one of them for Thanksgiving, Patrick."
"Then I'll have a nice bike ride there and back to work off some turkey dinner, sir. I'd still like to go. If he isn't at home I'll come straight back. You've been there with me plenty of times now, sir, you know Mr. Taylor's on the level." Patrick casually tossed another completed flower onto the table.
"Okay, Patrick. You still need to be back by ten."
"Of course. Thank you, sir."
The Lincoln was parked in front of the garage doors and the house lights were on when Patrick arrived at Taylor's. He propped the bicycle between the car and the garage then ran up to ring the doorbell. After a minute he rang it again, grinning as he imagined Taylor grumbling about being interrupted on the can. He gave it two more minutes then rang again. When there was still no answer he walked over to the nearest window, peered into the room.
It was unexpectedly messy inside. A couple of empty liquor bottles, one knocked over, sat on a large low table in front of an unoccupied couch. Photo albums were scattered all over both, the only clear spot was where someone had apparently been sitting and eating. A plate containing the remains of a Thanksgiving dinner sat on the table next to Taylor's usual glass, which was empty. It wasn't until Patrick looked around again that he caught sight of what looked like a bare foot in the doorway. Someone – Taylor? – was on the floor in the hall and not responding to the doorbell.
Starting to panic, Patrick went back to the front door and peered through the patterned glass. Sure enough, when he pressed his face to the glass and looked left as best he could, he was able to make out something man-sized on the floor in the hallway, the glass distorting the interior so Patrick couldn't tell whether or not it was Taylor. He rang the doorbell again, thinking even as he did so it was a stupid thing to do. He checked under the mat but there was no key. Deciding not to search all the flower pots he instead took out his lock picks and had the door open in seconds. Breathing a silent 'thank you' to Danny Ruskin he stepped inside.
The first thing to hit him was the mixed reek of urine and stink of cheap whiskey – not the stuff Taylor usually drank. Next was the sight of Taylor lying on his back, wearing what looked like pajama bottoms and an undershirt. The shirt was stained, as though the man had spilled food or whiskey – or both – down his front. His face was unshaven and his hair unkempt. Patrick was frozen for a long moment until he saw Taylor's chest rise and fall – the man was breathing.
"Mr. Taylor?" Patrick could hear the anxiety in his own voice. Taylor didn't respond. He inched closer and repeated, louder, "Mr. Taylor? It's Paddy!" Taylor still didn't move. Patrick reluctantly came closer, knelt on one knee and gingerly shook the man's shoulder. Still there was no response. Grimacing with distaste Patrick edged round Taylor and slipped through the doorway into the room he had first seen through the window.
It was big but cozily furnished, with a couple of couches, two armchairs and an enormous coffee table. The huge TV was switched off, a modern stereo system under the window was on but whatever had been playing had finished. One of the empty bottles on the coffee table was scotch, Taylor's fancy brand by the smell of it, the other was a bourbon. Patrick guessed Taylor had spent the whole day on the couch, alone, drinking. He'd burned through his usual whiskey, found he didn't have another bottle of the good stuff so settled on the bourbon. That would suggest he wasn't drinking for pleasure, wouldn't it? He'd been sober enough to cook – no, to heat up what looked like a TV dinner subsequently decanted onto a plate – but had abandoned it after eating around half.
Patrick had a sudden thought and grimaced to himself again as he sidled past Taylor once more to check out the kitchen. To his relief the place was pretty tidy. There was even evidence of some washing up having taken place recently though no drying or putting away: it looked as though Taylor had made himself something at lunchtime and been sober enough to clean up afterwards. Taylor had been less sober by dinner time. Cupboard doors and the cutlery drawer had been left hanging open and although Taylor had shut the oven door he hadn't switched it off. Patrick took one look – their oven in the RV kitchen was simple and burned gas from a metal canister, this one was electric and seemed to have as many knobs and dials as the RV's dashboard – then simply clicked off the big red isolation switch on the wall that was labelled 'cooker'. He checked inside: the oven was hot but empty.
Patrick headed back to the hallway to look at Taylor. The man had been drinking all day. Halfway through his evening meal he had gotten up, maybe to go to the bathroom, but instead he'd passed out in the doorway. Nature had then taken it's course, hence the strong stink that up close was starting to make Patrick gag. It looked like there had been a puddle but he'd been there long enough that his clothes had soaked it all up. As he watched Taylor shivered briefly in his sleep.
"Mr. Taylor!" Patrick shook his shoulder again. The guy was too out of it to respond but was wet and now getting cold. Patrick knew cold, wet and unconscious was a bad combination but he had no idea what he should do about it.
The telephone on a little table next to the couch caught Patrick's eye. Patrick could call 9-1-1, though explaining his own presence in the house would be tricky and keeping Lazczyck and child protective services out of it would probably be impossible. He didn't want officialdom to be involved unless absolutely necessary, after all Taylor was in no fit state to help him out right now if he got into trouble for breaking in. At the same time he didn't want to just pretend he'd never found Taylor, what if the man really did need to go to the emergency room? He looked over at him. There wasn't any blood either on the floor or on Taylor himself that Patrick could see. Taylor didn't seem hurt as far as he could tell. The man was just unconscious, wet and becoming cold.
Patrick squeezed past Taylor again, sat on the couch and rummaged in the drawer of the little telephone table, finding the Carson Springs phone book and an address book. Opening the latter at 'T', Patrick found Taylor had three relatives – other Taylors anyway – in LA, Davis and Redwood City. Davis, the nearest, was still an hour away by car. There were plenty of other names in the address book but Patrick had no idea whether he should call any of them.
Patrick thought for a few moments. He certainly didn't want Brodie anywhere near here right now, he would never allow their poker games to continue if he saw Taylor like this and he'd probably also have something to say about Patrick breaking in. He dialed the only other phone number he knew: the Ruskins. Their phone rang and rang. Eventually the ansafone kicked in but Patrick didn't leave a message. If they weren't available now they couldn't help.
Patrick glanced over to Taylor to check his chest was still rising and falling then dug out the address book again, trying to weigh the right choice between calling Taylor's family or an ambulance. He had just decided to call the guy in Davis when his eyes fell on the phone book in the drawer and another thought struck him. Taylor was rich, maybe there were private companies that could deal with this kind of thing discreetly and invoice him later. He flicked to the yellow pages, looked up 'care' but that redirected him to nursing and retirement homes. 'Personal care' listed different kinds of beauty therapists. 'Nursing' seemed more like it and he dialed three numbers before he gave up. This late on Thanksgiving their phone lines weren't manned and all the messages were variations on the theme of 'new clients should call back during office hours'.
The letter 'J' in the white pages caught Patrick's eye. He found there were fewer than ten entries for 'Jepson', only one for E. N. Jepson. She'd been running away from something as a teen, hadn't she? It was likely that alcohol or drugs featured somewhere in the mix. She should be able to suggest what to do and she knew how to be discrete. If she didn't answer, he would try Simon Taylor Jr. in Davis, with 9-1-1 as his third option. Now he had a plan, Patrick picked up the handset again.
"Elizabeth Jepson." To Patrick's relief she had answered after just two rings.
"Ms. Jepson, were there drunks in your family? Is that why you ran away?"
"What?" The voice on the other end of the line was full of outrage but there was a heavy seasoning of fear there as well. "Who is this?" she asked, voice rising. It had taken less than a second for the fear to start turning into anger. Not useful if he wanted her help. Patrick realised belatedly that his question had been rather incendiary, though the initial fear in her tone suggested he was right about the reason she ran away to the carnival. His relief that someone had answered their phone was rapidly being smothered by renewed anxiety.
"Ms. Jepson, please, I'm at – at a friend's house, he's so drunk he passed out on the floor, I can't wake him up." Patrick wasn't hiding the rising panic that saying it out loud was making him feel. "I don't know what to do or who to call. Please. Can you tell me what I should do?"
"Patrick Jane? Is that you? How did you get my home phone number?"
"Please, Ms. Jepson, I don't know what to do!"
"Is this some sort of sick prank?"
"No!" Dammit, this had seemed like a good idea when he saw her number in the phone book. "I'm sorry, this was a bad idea, I'm sorry," Patrick babbled then hung up. He had just picked up Taylor's address book again when the phone rang. He stared at it, not knowing whether to answer it then decided no: he didn't want anyone to know he'd been here in Taylor's house. After a handful of rings he heard an answer machine pick up the call somewhere else in the house and turned back to the address book.
Patrick spent a little more time looking through the entries while he waited for the call to finish. Many listed numbers for both work and home. Patrick had made it halfway through the address book when the entry 'Bob Mayer' caught his eye. There were three other first names written in the entry and as well as his home number there were two numbers listed under 'work', one for 'American Legion' and the other annotated 'CS Mdl Sch'. Brodie knew Mr. Mayer from Patrick's school! Well enough to write down the names of his wife and kids. They were both veterans. Mayer must have dealt with drunks in the army and a friend of Taylor's would surely be discrete. New plan: Patrick would call Mayer, then Simon Jr. and finally 9-1-1.
Patrick waited a few more minutes to make sure whoever had called was no longer on the line, all the while carefully watching Taylor's steady breathing. The man was still shivering intermittently. Patrick decided if he didn't get through to Mayer he'd search the kitchen for a table cloth or something he could use to cover Taylor, try to keep him warm, before calling anyone else. There would be blankets and things upstairs, he was sure, but he felt uncomfortable looking around the house. Patrick had been almost itching with curiosity as he cycled here but now the opportunity had arisen to hot-read Taylor to his hearts content he didn't want to. He would happily have done so if he'd managed to trick Taylor but not when the man was helpless like this. He could almost hear his dad mocking him for that.
Okay, that was enough time. Patrick lifted the handset and the dial tone hummed away reassuringly. He double-checked Mayer's number, dialed it eagerly, then listened to it ring and ring. Mayer was out, or away for the holidays. Patrick went back to the address book and called the Davis number. It turned out to be some kind of boarding house as far as Patrick could tell, the one phone shared between a number of occupants. No one there had heard of Simon Taylor Jr. but he left a message anyway.
Next Patrick considered the Bay Area number. It was eight o'clock already and he needed to be back by ten. Julie Petersen – in the address book the name 'Taylor' had been crossed out, she must have married – would barely get here in time. He looked her up under 'P'. Julie's husband was called Finn and it looked like Taylor had two grandkids, Peter and Isabelle. If she had those kind of commitments it was unlikely she could drop everything to come over here straight away.
Patrick had just decided to dial 9-1-1 then call the daughter to let her know what had happened when he heard a car pulling into the driveway. Standing, Patrick saw it pull up on the far side of the Lincoln. Moving to the window he was astonished to see Ms. Jepson get out and walk over to the front door. She rang the bell and called out.
"Patrick Jane! I know you're in there!"
"Shit." Patrick edged around Taylor again and went up to the front door. Jepson was knocking on it then rang the doorbell again.
"I can see you through the door, Patrick, open up!"
Patrick reluctantly did so.
"God almighty," Jepson said as soon as the door opened, stepping back rather than into the house and covering her mouth and nose, "What's that smell? is it him?"
"Well it's not me," Patrick replied, rolling his eyes. Jepson gave him a look then stepped over the threshold.
"No, don't close the door, let's get some fresh air in here," she said as she eyed Taylor. Patrick left the door ajar rather than wide. "Who the hell is this guy? When you said a friend had passed out drunk I thought you were talking about another kid. Isn't that the lawyer who came into school a couple weeks ago?"
"Yes ma'am," was all Patrick could think to say. Jepson regarded Taylor for a moment, then turned back to Patrick.
"Okay, I'll save the questions for later." Jepson's tone was reassuringly matter-of-fact. "We shouldn't leave him on his back. If he vomits he could choke to death."
"He's cold and wet, too, he was shivering."
"Uh huh," Jepson nodded. "If we're going to move him then you have to clean him up first, I'm not stinking myself up for some drunk," Jepson stated flatly.
Patrick's panic, which had subsided, rose again.
"Me? Why me? I don't want to touch any part of him that needs cleaning!"
"Hey, you called me over here! I'm not a nurse, I'm a teacher! Do you think he'd want some strange woman to take off his clothes, clean him up?"
It was a good point. Patrick decided to change tack. "I didn't call you over. How did you know where I was calling from?"
"I have caller ID. I called you back, you didn't answer but the ansafone message told me enough for me to find this address in the phone book."
That was pretty smart of Jepson. It didn't move things forward here, though. Patrick looked down at Taylor then up at Jepson, reluctant to do what she had told him and trying to think of something to say. He saw Jepson decide to take charge an instant before she opened her mouth.
"Right. Patrick, you go upstairs for clean pajamas and towels, lots of towels. I'll check out the kitchen for cleaning stuff. I guess we're lucky he made it into the hallway, the rug in that room doesn't seem to be wet."
Trying not to think how gross that would have been, Patrick headed upstairs. He found the master bedroom and fresh pajamas, found a big closet full of bedding and towels, then reluctantly headed back downstairs with his arms full, the stink hitting him again after the fresher air of the upstairs rooms. Jepson, meanwhile, had put on rubber gloves and an apron from the kitchen, filled a mop bucket with somethings steaming hot that smelled very much like disinfectant and was awkwardly dragging Taylor a little further out into the hall. She was right, it would be easier to clean him up on the ceramic floor tiles of the hall rather than in the limited space of the doorway or on the rug in the room. Taylor was in no position to complain about the discomfort.
"Here," Jepson said, throwing another apron and unopened pack of rubber gloves towards Patrick. "We'll both strip him then I'll find the washing machine while you clean up his... front. Call me when you're done, I'll help you roll him on top of a towel so you don't get water everywhere when you wash, um, his rear." She indicated the bucket and handed him a wash-up sponge. "Sorry, it was this or a mop. You dry him, I'll help you dress him and we both move him onto that sofa." Jepson nodded towards the front room. "I'll clean the floor, put the towels in with his pajamas and start the wash cycle while you empty the bucket and bring it back here. We'll roll the rug back so the bucket can go next to the sofa in case he does throw up."
"I'll see if I can find a wash cloth," Patrick said, then ran back upstairs. He was back in less than a minute, tested the temperature of the water in the bucket (not too hot) then pulled on the new rubber gloves. He really didn't want to do this but he couldn't think of any way out of it and he was as ready as he was going to be. He nodded at Jepson.
They followed Jepson's plan, exchanging words only when necessary for the task in hand. Taylor was heavier than he looked but eventually they wrangled him – now cleaned up and re-dressed – onto the couch on top of yet more towels. Jepson placed him into an approximate recovery position, lying with his face clear of the front edge and the bucket as close to his mouth as Patrick could place it. Patrick ran upstairs again and returned with a blanket that he draped over the old man. In that surprisingly short time the hallway was smelling, if not sweeter then definitely a whole lot cleaner.
Patrick closed the front door then started tidying the front room, closing and stacking the photo albums and disposing of the empty bottles and other trash. He took the plate and glass out to the kitchen and washed them as Jepson finished up in the hallway. While she sorted out the washing machine and set it going Patrick made two mugs of tea which they took into the front room, Patrick curling up in an armchair and Jepson stretching on the smaller couch.
"Okay, spill the beans. What happened here?" Jepson gestured towards Taylor.
"I play chess with the old man every Thursday," Patrick started. Jepson didn't need to know it wasn't chess that they played. "I cycled over here tonight, found him like this."
"You came to play chess on Thanksgiving?"
"He just said 'see you next week' last time I saw him."
"Does he always get drunk on the nights you play chess?"
"No ma'am, he sometimes has a glass of something but he sips it, the one glass lasts the whole night. I never saw him drunk before."
"Do your foster parents know you come here?"
"Yes ma'am, Mr. Brodie always came with me before. This was my first time on my own. Brodie couldn't come because it's Thanksgiving and there's a crowd of people back at my foster carer's place. He thought Mr. Taylor might be away for Thanksgiving, or have guests or something, so I'd be heading straight back anyway."
"But you didn't call your foster parents when you found Taylor like this."
"They're, uh, kinda straight arrows." Patrick paused before continuing. "You gonna rat me out, Ms. Jepson?"
"I should, Taylor's obviously not a fit adult to be..." Jepson ground to a halt under Patrick's glare.
"Does it look like he knows I'm here?" Patrick demanded. "He forgot I was coming, or maybe he thought I wouldn't come on Thanksgiving night. If he got drunk today he had a reason. He's not an alcoholic." Even as he said it, Patrick knew this was wishful thinking on his part. Some drunks were very good at hiding the fact and although Taylor wasn't an habitual liar the man was nevertheless a good one.
"Drunks don't need a reason, Patrick," Jepson retorted darkly.
"He isn't a threat to me. He isn't a threat to anyone like this."
"I heard you on the phone. You were freaking out. Kids – kids shouldn't have to deal with things like this," she said with conviction.
Patrick looked down at the cup of tea in his hands.
"I just didn't know what to do, that's all. I wasn't freaking out," he lied. "You weren't the first person I called, believe me, just the first to answer the phone. I only tried you because I thought you might... have some experience with this kind of thing." Patrick looked Jepson in the eye now. "To help Mr. Taylor, not cause trouble for him. I wanted your advice over the phone, I didn't expect you to turn up here."
"You gonna keep blackmailing me, Patrick?"
"That isn't what this is!" Patrick replied heatedly. "You ran away when you were a kid! That's what made me think you might know how to deal with..." Patrick gestured towards the couch and watched Jepson's face closely. "Yeah, you do," he added quietly. "Anyway, it wasn't blackmail. I just wanted some advice. You didn't have to come here."
"You're glad I did, though."
Patrick was glad, he didn't bother denying it. Silence stretched between them until Patrick asked, "What now?"
Jepson sighed. "You really never saw a drunk before?" Scepticism edged her tone.
"Of course I've seen drunks unconscious before," Patrick replied impatiently. "Their friends or family haul them away to sort them out, not me. I've never had to do anything like this before, my dad doesn't–" Patrick stopped abruptly.
Jepson eyed him curiously then said, "Someone should stay with him until he wakes up. Just in case."
"I have a curfew, I need to be back at Brodie's house by ten. If you stay I can sneak out, be back here before midnight and you could go home then. I'd have to leave him alone around five thirty tomorrow morning so they didn't find out I was gone but I could be back here before seven."
"You're asking a lot. I don't want you sneaking out on your foster parents and I don't want to be alone in a strangers house."
"I'd owe you a favor."
"Yeah, right."
"I'm serious. One favor, no questions asked. If you don't call it in by the time the season starts next April it carries over. I'll – I'll even put it in writing."
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I owe him," Patrick nodded at Taylor. "He did more than just get me out of trouble at school."
At that point Taylor broke wind extravagantly. Jepson and Patrick both burst out laughing.
"If that comes to anything you're on your own, kid," Jepson gasped out.
"If that comes to anything I'm using that mop on him then burning it. And the couch," Patrick shot back.
The atmosphere between them was more relaxed after that. Taylor had a VCR and Patrick found a small collection of movies next to it. They debated for a while before settling on a recent western starring Clint Eastwood. Patrick had to leave an hour or so into the movie in order to be back for his curfew, but he returned to Taylor's house around eleven thirty, finding Jepson reading a book rather than watching the TV.
"You okay?" Jepson asked. Patrick's shirt was stained.
Patrick looked down at himself. "Yeah. I slipped a little climbing down the porch, that's all. I guess you can go home now, ma'am," Patrick added.
"Um, I'm not happy leaving you alone here overnight, Patrick," Jepson replied. She had clearly been thinking while he had been away. "I should stay as well, at least until you go back home in the morning."
"Why?"
Jepson rolled her eyes. "I don't think it's okay for a seventh grader to be here alone with an unconscious drunk. People change when they're drunk," she added darkly. "Like you said, you have zero experience in dealing with this kind of thing."
Patrick looked at Jepson curiously. He hadn't thought about it until now but she had answered the phone straight away, even though it was Thanksgiving, then spent the evening with him cleaning up after some drunk guy. Now she was proposing to spend the night watching over them both.
"This isn't the worst Thanksgiving you ever had, is it?" he asked quietly.
"Not even in the top ten, kiddo." Jepson said. She might have been saying that to make him feel better about ruining her holidays but Patrick didn't think so.
"I never said 'sorry' for spoiling your Thanksgiving. I guess I never said 'thanks' for coming over to help, either. So sorry, and thanks."
"That's okay. You didn't spoil my Thanksgiving. I only just got back home when you called. I, uh, helped out at a homeless shelter today." She expected Patrick to laugh at her for being a mark. It made her add, "I guess there was one more bum who needed my help today."
Patrick wasn't sure whether she thought he was the bum or Taylor. He decided not to pursue it. "A homeless shelter?" Carny folk weren't usually the volunteering type, though Patrick remembered Jepson telling him she became a teacher to help disadvantaged kids. She might be the exception that proves the rule. Or maybe she helped out at the shelter on the holidays because... because she preferred it to being alone at Thanksgiving.
Jepson glared at him defensively, then shrugged when the expected mocking failed to materialize.
"Been helping out at Thanksgiving there for a few years now. It gives the regular shelter staff some time off to be with their families." Jepson sounded surprisingly bitter, more so than was warranted by her having no family to speak of. There was some story behind that. Would she tell him? Patrick didn't think so.
Jepson continued talking because Patrick wasn't, she couldn't stop herself from filling the silence. "The other holiday volunteers are a fun crowd and the homeless people are very grateful. It beats spending the day in your pajamas getting drunk in front of the TV," she added, gesturing towards Taylor. Even to her own ears it sounded like she was trying to justify herself. She wasn't lonely and sad during the holidays, dammit, today at the shelter had been fun, she wasn't a drunk or – she blinked at the thought – a seventh grader who was happier seeking out the company of the drunk instead of spending Thanksgiving with the people at his foster home.
Patrick would bet homeless people were a hell of a lot more grateful than middle school kids. He ignored the dig at Taylor and the sudden look of pity that had flashed across her face as Jepson looked at him. He preferred it when she was suspicious.
"So what now? Uh, two of the bedrooms upstairs are occupied, but some of the others look like guest rooms."
Jepson shook her head. "Someone should stay here in the room, keep an eye on him. I think if he was gonna throw up he would have done it by now but he might take a turn for the worse. We can spell each other sleeping on this couch, if you want."
"Did you already watch the end of the movie?" Patrick asked. Jepson shook her head again. "Well, we could do worse than watch movies all night."
"Sure, Patrick. I'll go make us both another cup of tea first."
"I'll go get a couple more blankets. For us," Patrick explained, standing and stretching. The house was cooling overnight and Patrick had no idea how to switch on the heating. There was a fireplace in this room but no logs stacked next to it. "There's a small bathroom next to the back door if you want to use it."
The phone rang a couple of times but they ignored it, let the ansafone deal with any clients needing Taylor's help tonight. They were halfway through the next movie – a recent James Bond – when a car pulled up at the kerb outside. Patrick was half relieved, half dismayed to see a dim figure walking up the path. Jepson paused the video as the front door opened.
"You still up, Dad?" called a voice then someone walked into the room and stopped dead, looking around with narrowed eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
It was Zack the library guy.
Zack spotted Taylor on the couch and was there in three strides, calling 'Dad!' and giving him a shake. All the while Patrick's mind was spinning. Zack the library guy? Whose lawyer dad was putting him through law school, Patrick remembered, and who had been wearing a UC Davis sweatshirt every time he saw him in the library.
Taylor groaned when Zack shook him – progress! Patrick thought with a distant part of his mind – but didn't wake. Zack straightened.
"What the hell is going on?" he repeated. He looked accusingly first at Jepson, then at Patrick, no trace of recognition in his eyes.
"Zack?" Patrick was the first to speak. It must be a middle name... "You're Simon Taylor Jr."
"The magician kid from the library," Zack began, surprise eclipsing his suspicious scowl. "Uh, Peter –"
"Patrick Jane," Patrick nodded. Zack's stance relaxed a little as he looked over to Jepson again. "This is Ms. Jepson. She's a teacher, one of the vice principals from my school," Patrick continued. Jepson stood and shook Zack's hand.
"Call me Liz," she said.
"Zack Taylor," Zack responded automatically. "Uh, what happened here?"
"Patrick came over for his regular Thursday chess game," Jepson began, "but found your father passed out drunk on the floor in the hallway. He didn't know what to do so he called me."
Patrick could see from Zack's face that he knew his dad didn't play chess on Thursdays. He was also probably wondering how Patrick got inside the house.
"Last week he never said he was planning anything for Thanksgiving," Patrick quickly added, wanting to gloss over those little details, "so I came over this evening as usual. When I saw him on the floor I didn't know what to do. Everyone I called was out except Ms. Jepson and she came over to help. I, uh, think he drank a lot of whiskey today."
"He was lying on his back in the hallway when I got here so we, um, moved him onto the couch," Jepson added. Patrick was grateful she didn't go into more details. He wouldn't want to know if someone had had to clean up Alex like that. "He didn't wake up when we moved him so I told Patrick we should keep an eye on him overnight or until he did wake up, just in case."
"Hence rolling up the rug, the bucket next to the couch, and watching a movie to keep awake," Zack nodded astutely.
"I think that's my cue to leave," Jepson cut in, switching off the VCR and TV. "Your friend doesn't need me here any longer, Patrick, so if you don't mind I'd like to go get some sleep tonight." She fished out her car keys from her handbag then stood to shake hands with Zack again.
"Thanks for everything, Ms. Jepson," Patrick quickly said as she stood.
"I'm sure you'll understand if I don't say 'my pleasure,' Patrick." Jepson was talking tough but there was a smile softening her features as she said this.
Zack thanked Jepson and saw her off.
When Zack returned Patrick stood and said, "I guess I should be going, too." He could call Zack tomorrow – no, later today, Patrick realized – to make sure the old man was okay.
"Hold on a moment there, Patrick." Zack was leaning against the edge of the doorway, apparently casually, effectively blocking Patrick's exit. "I know Dad doesn't play chess on Thursdays."
"She's a VP at my school, dude! I couldn't tell her we played cards. She nearly called in child protective services just because I was here and your dad was passed out." Patrick gestured towards Taylor, hoping Zack would be as sympathetic as he had been when they first met.
"But she believed it was chess, so you're telling me that you're a convincing liar."
Shit. That was exactly what he'd just done. Jepson's compliance with Patrick's wishes and Zack's previous show of sympathy when they first met at the library had lulled him into a false sense of security. Zack had found intruders in his house and his dad unconscious – of course he was suspicious. And he was nearly a lawyer, paying attention and seizing on every weakness and opportunity was his job, or would be. He might not have called the cops yet but he wasn't on Patrick's side and Patrick had been stupid to assume he was. Patrick belatedly kept his mouth shut. Zack let the silence extend but Patrick was wise to that trick now. After a long moment Zack spoke again.
"Were you here when he passed out?"
"No!" Zack's question goaded Patrick into speech in spite of himself. "I got here a little before eight. He didn't answer the door when I rang the bell. His car was here and the light was on so I looked through the window. That's when I saw him, well, his legs anyway, lying on the floor in the doorway to this room."
"Did you hurt my dad?" Zack's expression was severe.
"I don't think so," Patrick said as he wondered where Zack was going with this. "Ms. Jepson checked him over before we picked him up. He's heavier than he looks but we were as careful as we could be when we moved him to the couch, we didn't drop him."
"Did you do anything to cause him harm before your accomplice got here?"
"Dude!" Patrick protested, "Ms. Jepson's not my accomplice. I found him like this, I swear!" If Zack really thought Jepson was his partner in crime he wouldn't have let her leave. No, Zack thought he was lying, believed Patrick had harmed his dad in some way then called Jepson over as an unwitting collaborator to provide him with an alibi. He knew Patrick was a good liar and – Patrick's level of anxiety ratcheted up another notch – he'd made sure they were alone. Patrick's belated sense of self-preservation finally kicked in and he retreated to put the armchair between himself and Zack, holding onto the back with both hands. Zack was no longer leaning in the doorway, he was standing, blocking it. "I was afraid he'd had a heart attack or something until I saw the empty bottles! I wanted to help him, not hurt him!"
"But you see, I know you're a good liar."
Patrick switched his gaze to the old man lying on the sofa. He had to make Zack believe he hadn't done Taylor any harm. He stopped thinking about Zack, about his own precarious position, and thought instead about Taylor, all the lawyer had done for him.
"The first time I met your dad was the day they arrested my dad. He came over to the trailer himself and yeah, he had a job to do, but he'd stopped them sending child protective services or the cops over to get me, he explained everything, answered all my questions and took me to the CPS office himself. He even stopped by the Sheriff's office on the way there so I could see my dad. He listened to what I said. That day he was the only one who treated me like a person, not like a problem that needed fixing.
"Then a couple days later my foster carers wanted to have me arrested. He was on my side when no-one else was, this impressive lawyer in a fancy suit coming out in the middle of the night to help out some kid he just met. He said he'd help and he did. He wasn't being paid and he came out to help me anyway. It felt like he was the only person in the world on my side that night.
"When I cussed at my school principal a week later I didn't think anyone would be able to make it go away, but that's exactly what he did. That's when we got talking. I wanted to get to know him better and he seemed happy to let me. Since then we've been playing cards on Thursdays.
"We always play at the kitchen table." An affectionate smile played over Patrick's lips now at how careful Taylor had been about that. "We talk about nothing and everything and he understands rather than needing explanations all the time. When it's time to leave he always says he hasn't had this much fun playing poker in years. Coming to your kitchen on Thursdays... It was almost like going home."
Patrick finally turned to Zack, looked him in the eye. "Mr. Taylor's been there for me every time I needed help, right from the moment dad was arrested. He's become my friend. I would never do anything to harm your dad, Zack."
Patrick could see Zack had been moved by his speech.
"I don't think you'd hurt him on purpose," Zack said slowly after a long pause and Patrick's heart sank. He supposed he couldn't blame Zack, he was simply being protective towards his father. He'd given it his best shot and it hadn't worked, Zack's words left Patrick without hope. Even as the thought crossed his mind he could hear Alex saying 'hope's for suckers, Paddy'. Zack was continuing, "You said you weren't here when it happened. How did you get into the house?"
"He usually leaves the front door unlocked for me on Thursdays."
"Did he do that tonight?" Damn, Zack was good at this. Patrick didn't answer. He wasn't going to incriminate himself.
"So you broke in." Zack's voice was steady. Patrick still said nothing. After a long moment Zack continued.
"I think your teacher friend's on the level. She only came over when you called for help. What did you do after you broke in and before she got here?"
Patrick ran his hands over his face and sighed. Suddenly he felt very tired. If he was going to have to repeat this story to cops and his lawyer – he thought with a pang that it wouldn't be Taylor, not tonight – then he needed to tell the truth. A lie would be so much harder to remember.
"When I got here I could see he was breathing so I tried to wake him up. When that didn't work I didn't know what to do. I could see two whiskey bottles on the table, I don't know if they were full when he started but they were empty when I got here so I guessed he was drunk, not ill. There was a plate of food on the table, too. He hadn't eaten much and the leftovers weren't quite cold yet. That made me check the kitchen. It was a bit untidy and the oven was still on so I switched it off. Then I started calling people on the telephone. I didn't want to get in trouble but I didn't want to go away and pretend I hadn't seen him, either, just in case..." Patrick gestured towards Taylor as his speech tailed off. "I guess no good deed goes unpunished," he added bitterly.
"Tell me how you got in." Zack didn't seem to be violent, thank goodness.
Patrick reluctantly dug out the roll of picks from his pocket. He briefly thought Brodie might be right to confiscate them, they seemed to cause as many problems as they solved. Could he find something as useful that looked more innocuous? That zip move Danny had taught him only needed a brace and a stiff curved piece of metal...
Zack swore. "I thought you said you weren't a thief?"
"I'm not." Patrick was feeling tired and defeated. He couldn't summon the energy to be angry about the accusation. "You must be able to pick locks too, Zack, if you do a magic act?" Zack shook his head. Patrick added, "I can show you, if you like?" Zack merely continued to shake his head, Patrick wasn't sure if he was refusing his offer or shaking it in disbelief.
"So if I look around I won't find anything missing?"
"Not a thief, Zack," Patrick repeated. "We had a coupla cups of tea, you're down some teabags and milk, that's all." Patrick was pretty sure, now, that Zack wasn't going to beat him up before calling the cops. If Zack was that kind of guy he would have hit him by now. Patrick felt the remaining tension drain from his body and suddenly he was dog-tired. Why did everything have to be so difficult? Now he was no longer sheltering from Zack behind the armchair, he was using the back of it to prop himself up.
"Who did you call?"
"Anyone I thought could tell me what to do for someone who was drunk and passed out. My friends up at Stoney Ridge trailer park. Some companies that send nurses. His friend Mr. Mayer. Uh, you. Ms. Jepson was the only one who answered the phone when I called. I didn't ask her to come over but she worked out where I called from and came anyway."
"Most people would call 9-1-1."
"I was about to when Ms. Jepson showed up. They never called an ambulance for, uh, this sort of thing at the carnival so I wasn't sure if I should and I, er, I wanted to avoid anyone official if I could."
"You did more than just move dad," Zack continued. "The house reeks of pine disinfectant, so does he."
"He'd peed his pants. I cleaned him up, Ms. Jepson cleaned up the hallway. His old pajamas and the towels we used are in the washing machine. I didn't hurt him, Zack, he was on the floor, wet and shivering and I wanted to make sure he was okay. That's why I did anything tonight. I– I might not have gotten it right but I was just trying to help your dad." Patrick swallowed, took a deep breath, then added in a small voice, "You, uh, gonna call the cops?" Patrick felt he would almost welcome the cops if it meant he could sleep. There would be a cot in the cell at the station house, wouldn't there?
Zack walked over to the phone, his eyes never leaving Patrick, then he picked up the handset and dialed three numbers. Patrick managed a weary grin, his mouth on autopilot, "I mean, normally at this point I'd call your dad to get me out of trouble but something tells me that won't work this time."
Zack pressed the hook down before the call was answered, though he kept the handset against his ear. He took a deep breath, blew it out then dialed three numbers again. Patrick apparently hadn't noticed, he was chuckling as he asked, "Know any good lawyers, Zack?" His smile faded as he looked over at Taylor and said quietly, "At least the old man's gonna be okay."
Zack again pressed the hook with his finger before he spoke, his knuckles white as he clutched the handset, closing his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he asked, staring straight ahead rather than looking at Patrick, "You been in Juvie before, right?"
"Nosir, this will be my first time. New experience. My foster carer promised me he'd visit if I ever got sent there," Patrick added conversationally. Zack barely caught his next words as Patrick added in an undertone, "My dad won't."
Zack took another deep breath, hesitated, took yet another before he lifted his finger off the hook and dialed for a third time. "S'funny," Patrick yawned hugely before continuing, "your dad's the one who told me to keep out of trouble with the law. It's ironic."
"Goddammit to hell!" Zack said loudly, slamming the handset back onto the cradle. Patrick looked at him in bleary surprise as Zack pointed at him. "Right! If I'm not calling the cops you can make yourself useful! Clear this bucket away, put the rug back! I'm gonna sort out his bedroom. Then we can both try and wake him up enough to get him upstairs into bed."
Without waiting for a response Zack turned on his heel and ran upstairs. His dad had spoken a few times about 'Paddy' who had started to come over on Thursdays to play poker. Patrick's brief account chimed with what his dad had said, although his dad only said he was the son of a client, he hadn't mentioned that 'Paddy' was a little kid. Well, he had said Paddy was 'a bit of a rascal but a good kid at heart'. Zack hadn't taken him literally. 'Kid' was a word his dad would use of anyone under forty these days.
His dad's bedroom looked as tidy as always. Zack was just turning down the comforter when he heard his dad's raised voice, muffled but recognizably him. Zack hadn't seen his dad this drunk very often but he knew how bad-tempered he could be when he woke up, drunk or not. As he headed downstairs he heard the front door slam. Simon Taylor was sitting up, cursing and putting on his glasses when Zack entered.
"Junior? Wha' the hell?" Taylor was slurring his words a little but otherwise seemed fine.
"Are you okay, Dad?"
"Yeah. Yeah, 'm fine. A little drunk, is all."
"Yeah, Dad, I would say more than a little. What happened?"
"I thought I saw Paddy Jane! I woke up and I could have sworn I saw that kid." Taylor made an exaggerated gesture around the room. "Doin' something to the rug. I, uh, shouted at him. Where'd he go?"
"Home, I should think," Zack said, thinking: Patrick was doing what I said. He could have run as soon as I went upstairs but the kid stayed to do what I told him to do. "And I need to get you into your own bed, not this couch, Dad."
Taylor shook his head. "Not home. Hasn' gotta home. Says this place feels mos' like home." Taylor looked around blearily. "Shouldn'ta shouted."
"Lets get you up into bed, Dad," Zack repeated.
"Mighta hit the boy. Didn't mean to," he added earnestly to Zack. "I woke up, he was next to the couch, doin' something to the rug. I shouted, tried to point to the door and... I think I mighta hit him." Taylor rubbed at his right hand then repeated, "I think I mighta hit him. Didn't mean to. Didn't think he was so close. Shouldn'ta done that." Taylor looked at Zack. "Shouldn'ta done that."
"Okay, Dad. That's not so good but we can't do anything about it now. The boy took off and you need to go to bed. Maybe you can go over and apologise tomorrow. It'll all look better in the morning."