Protector: The Flawed Series Book Three Page 6

  Logan smiled.

  “So, are you in?”

  “You’re not expecting someone?”

  “Not a soul.”

  “Who would you have played with if I hadn’t shown up?”

  His father shrugged. “Whoever came along. So—do you accept the challenge?”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  “First move’s yours, then. Name’s Grant.”

  Logan hesitated. The man hadn’t seemed to know him. He wondered if Grant would recognize his name.

  “Logan.”

  “Good to meet you.” Unfazed, Grant nodded at the board. “You’re up.”

  Wound so tight inside, Logan stared at the pieces for a moment. He pretended to think over his first move. Eventually he touched the pawn on the right and slid it out one square.

  Grant made a clucking sound in the back of his throat and arched a brow. He moved a pawn of his own—one near the center of the board.

  Ten moves later Grant had taken out a good chunk of Logan’s force. Two more moves and Logan’s queen was gone and his king was severely threatened. Logan moved a bishop.

  “Not there!” Grant groaned and shook his head.

  “What?” Logan asked.

  “Any desire to win?”

  Logan shrugged. “I told you I was no good.”

  “All right, son. Let’s put you out of your misery.” Grant moved a knight. “Checkmate.”

  Logan shook his head. “You make it look easy.”

  “It is easy, playing you.” Grant chuckled, the faint lines around his mouth crinkling as he did so. Logan decided he liked the man’s smile.

  “Want a few tips?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, for starters, your opening was bad.” Grant picked up the discarded pieces and reset the board. He pointed at the pawns near the edge. “Never move these guys first. You want to focus on the center.” He gestured to the pawns in front of the queen and king.

  “Okay.”

  “And another thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t be afraid of confrontation.”

  Logan looked up sharply, taken aback for a moment.

  “You want to threaten and attack,” Grant said, pointing to the board. “Not run from opposition. Don’t be afraid to make the first move.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “If you don’t, you’ll get your hiney whupped.”

  Logan smiled. “How did you get so good at chess?”

  The man tapped his temple. “All up in here.”

  “Lots of practice?”

  “Nope.”

  Logan frowned. He waited for an explanation, but the man placed the pieces back in the box, taking his time, turning each one until it fit perfectly into the felt lining. Logan wondered where the set was from—it looked old. When Grant placed the last king in its spot, Logan folded the board and handed it back. Grant closed the box and rested his hands on it, fingers interlaced. He leaned forward and looked into Logan’s eyes, his own eyes shockingly similar to the gold-toned ones Logan saw in the mirror every day.

  “Do you want to know a secret?” Grant’s eyebrows twitched mischievously.

  Logan clasped his hands in his lap and leaned in to better hear the old man. “Sure.”

  “I have an unfair advantage. It’s my magic.”

  Logan squeezed his hands tighter. He tried to keep his voice level. “What do you mean?”

  “I remember things. People and faces. Stuff I read. Chess strategies and positions.”

  Logan’s gut tightened. So Grant remembered things better than most. It didn’t mean he had an ability—did it?

  Grant chuckled and sat back. “Don’t believe me, do you?”

  Logan started to protest but Grant interrupted. “Empty your pockets.”

  Logan frowned. “Wha—”

  “Just do it.”

  Logan stood and did as requested, emptying each fist in a small pile. On the right was a heap of change and his keys. On the left, a pack of gum and a few wadded papers. Only when he saw the contents did he remember Grant’s name and address on one of the slips of paper. His heart raced faster, realizing his father might discover he’d been looking for him.

  Grant pointed to one of the wadded papers. “What’s that?”

  Logan hesitantly plucked it with two fingers then opened it toward himself. He breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s a receipt. I bought some—”

  Grant held up a hand to silence him. “Don’t tell me. When I say, show me, and count to three. Then put it away again.”

  “Uh…okay.”

  “Now.”

  Logan held out the receipt and counted in his head. Before he’d made it to three, Grant pushed the paper aside.

  “Okay, now what?”

  Grant held up one finger as if to say “just a moment.” Then he took a deep breath and recited, “Office Depot, 535 South 8th Street, Colorado Springs, Colorado, 80905. One ream of copy paper. One package of pens. One pack of gum. Total: $14.47. Date: April nineteenth. Register 4. Transaction number: 48136.”

  Logan scanned the receipt, checking the facts as Grant rattled them off. “That’s right. Exactly right.”

  “I told you I had a good memory.”

  “That’s not good. That’s flawless. You didn’t miss a number.”

  Grant nodded. “Comes in handy when playing chess.”

  “I bet it does with a lot of other things too.” Logan thought about wading through college textbooks, taking exams, studying history. A perfect memory would have been a bonus.

  “Do you…” Logan hesitated. “Do you tell many people about it?”

  “I don’t, actually.” Grant cocked his head at Logan, and his amber eyes held steady. “Not sure why I told you. Guess you just had some quality. Easy to trust.”

  Logan smiled. “That’s good to know. Thanks.”

  Grant lowered his brows. “You don’t go blabbing that to everyone though, okay?”

  Logan smiled. “I won’t. Promise.”

  Grant’s face cracked into a grin. “You’re a good fella, you know that?”

  Logan wasn’t sure what to say. I’m like you. I have an ability, too.

  I’m your son.

  There was so much more he had come to ask, but a new flutter of nerves stalled his tongue.

  If Grant was such a nice man, why had he given Logan up for adoption? Why had he never visited? Being a single father might have been hard—most definitely would’ve been—but that didn’t explain putting your child up for adoption.

  Grant showed no trace of anything that would have kept him from being a great father. So why had he done it?

  A pain stabbed Logan’s insides. Somehow now that he’d met the man and seen how nice he was, the ache was sharper. How could someone so intelligent and kind just abandon his son?

  Logan grabbed the items off the table and shoved them back in his pockets. Old pain and bitterness flooded his well of resolve, making him rethink everything. Clearing his throat, he stood. “I gotta go. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Thanks for the game.” Grant stood and stuck out his wrinkled but strong hand.

  “Sorry I wasn’t better competition,” Logan said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “You will be next time. Just remember. Don’t be afraid of confrontation. Take action.” He winked.

  Logan could only grimace. He had to pull his hand back from the man’s tight grip, as if Grant were reluctant to let him go. But Logan needed to process everything he’d learned before he could divulge anything about himself. He started to turn when Grant spoke again.

  “I’m usually out here on Saturday afternoons too. If you want to come by then, I’ll give you a second chance.” He gave an expectant look, and Logan saw a trace of something in his eyes he hadn’t noticed earlier. Not desperation, but perhaps a subtle longing.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Logan hurried to his truck and sped home.

  ~
<
br />   Kelsey entered the art studio late after a morning tackling gala logistics. The previous night while trying to fall asleep she’d had a sudden inspiration about one more item to add to the charity event. If they could include a short drama presentation with some of the kids, it would expand the event’s focus beyond just the visual arts. Convincing Regina was the real challenge. Still, if she managed to do that, the previous drama therapist would be proud.

  In the studio, Hugh was immersed in his latest painting.

  Kelsey watched him from a distance, staying just inside the threshold of the door, not wanting to disturb the moment. She was afraid if she made a noise or a sudden move, the amazing sight could shatter and leave her a pile of jagged pieces to put back together.

  And she couldn’t put them together.

  When she stepped closer, Hugh ignored her and continued to paint. His pale arm hung in the air, the paintbrush poised somewhat awkwardly in his unskilled fingers. But his hand didn’t shake or tremble. He moved with a confidence that surprised her. Rarely did any of the residents in the ward possess such control so early on. Hugh had done several exploratory paintings since his first spark of interest last week, but none of them had been so bold or intentional as this one.

  Her heart raced, watching the brush slide smoothly through the black acrylic. Each stroke of thick paint proclaimed its new life. I am free! See the glory of my creator, pouring his heart onto the canvas!

  The painting was simple and monochromatic. Thick layers of black applied rough and chunky made up the background. In the center, pale gold strokes formed a figure standing with arms spread wide. A soft halo effect radiated from the being, white and cream mixing and streaking into the dark around it.

  “It’s lovely, Hugh.” She turned to face him, looking slightly above her eye level. Light from the high windows filtered into the room, reflecting a sliver of pale gold across his platinum hair.

  His gaze stayed on the painting, his face its normal impassive. After a moment of silence, his head rotated to her. He didn’t speak, just looked at her. Something lay behind those enigmatic eyes, but she couldn’t read what it was.

  She held his stare, barely blinking for what felt like a full five minutes. It wasn’t the blank expression she’d seen last time or when she passed him in the halls. There was an intensity behind it, like a lake restrained behind a dam. Something about it made her feel like he was trying to communicate. Speaking to her with only his eyes.

  She waited another beat, then spoke. “Would you like to tell me about the painting?”

  Hugh blinked. “Bright.”

  Kelsey started, hearing him speak for the first time. She wanted to leap over and hug him but restrained herself. One wrong move and she could send him spiraling back into his wordless existence. She didn’t know why now or why he’d chosen her for his breakthrough, but the joy at getting to witness it made her heart dance. She couldn’t stop the smile that pulled so wide her cheeks nearly hurt.

  “Yes, it is bright.” She gestured at the painting. “I love the way the figure…exudes light. Do you know what ‘exudes’ means?”

  Hugh’s gaze stayed fixed on her, his eyes still burning into her. One of his pale brows tugged down ever so slightly, the most dramatic expression she’d seen on his serene face. He spoke again. “Hugh bright.”

  Revelation dawned on her at this. She’d foolishly assumed he’d been speaking of the painting, answering her question. But what if he was expressing a thought of his own? ‘Hugh bright’ could have multiple meanings. A measure of his intelligence, as if to disprove all the therapists who’d given up on him over the last decade? To show that his lack of words wasn’t an issue of competence but a choice?

  It made sense, though she could make no professional judgment about it. Many of the staff members treated him as if he were delayed, but what if they were wrong?

  Hugh stretched out his hand, paintbrush still clutched in his fingertips. His eyes trailed down to his pale, nearly hairless arm. Kelsey followed his gaze, frowning. Maybe her first guess was wrong. Was he referring to his skin? To his rare condition that kept him indoors and made him stand out so starkly from his peers?

  Kelsey delicately reached her hand toward his arm but didn’t touch him. She waited for his eyes to trail back up and meet hers. When she saw acceptance in his gaze she let her fingers rest softly over his arm. She spoke just over a whisper. “Hugh is perfect.”

  Hugh didn’t speak any more during their session, but he didn’t need to. After Kelsey reported the news to Hugh’s doctor, the staff of Sprawling Plains buzzed with the news. It was passed between nurses in hushed “can you believe”s and received by orderlies with arched brows. He’d surpassed everyone’s expectations.

  The exhilaration carried Kelsey through the rest of her day. She sat in her office chair and pulled out Hugh’s file to review before she wrote up her formal report. She thumbed through the pages about his background, picking out words like, “socially inept,” “speech disorder,” and “resists treatment.” Then she found the part about his condition. “Photo-sensitive skin. Must not come into contact with ultraviolet rays. NO DIRECT SUNLIGHT.”

  Hugh had never left the hospital building, and this was why.

  He had no legal guardians, and he was in state custody. He’d been admitted when he was seven and had been in the hospital’s care ten years. Other than a note about “sun exposure trauma” that seemed to refer to an event pre-admittance, she didn’t know anything about his past.

  Closing the file, she tossed it back on her desk and thought about what he might have gone through. What were the psychological ramifications of never getting to see the sun? Did it mean he’d never visited a park? Never gone swimming?

  Her pondering only raised more questions. Could sunlight through windows hurt him, too? She frowned. All the patient rooms in the ward had windows. What about his room? Did his windows require special blinds to protect him from the harmful rays?

  Then she remembered the rays of light trickling through the transom windows in the studio. Those windows were high and were made of frosted glass. Maybe they blocked the UV rays.

  It saddened her to think of a child unable to go outdoors. And somehow Hugh’s story seemed more tragic than most. He wasn’t here because of a mental illness like so many of the other patients. His brain was fully functional, and as far as they knew he didn’t have a personality disorder. He didn’t speak, but that didn’t make him ill. He was here for his own protection, probably something to do with that case of sun exposure when he was younger. Because of that, he seemed like a prisoner here.

  Kelsey had been a prisoner once, too. Once she’d been confined to a room and had muteness forced upon her. Remembering her experience still gave her goose bumps, although she’d gone through years of therapy afterward and now considered herself healed. That her imprisonment had come from ropes and duct tape rather than emotional walls mattered little. In her mind, she and Hugh were the same. The only difference was that she’d escaped and he remained a prisoner.

  Today he’d spoken his first words in ten years. Maybe he was trying to break free. She would help him however she could.

  ~

  Emerging from their apartment’s small bathroom with his hair still wet from the shower, Ethan tugged a fresh shirt over his head and strode out to the main area that served as both living space and headquarters for their Kelsey search. Thanks to a dimmer switch he’d made Nicodemus install, the ambient light level was a hazy gray—dark enough to activate Ethan’s sight and light enough to keep Nicodemus from tripping.

  “You ate the last of my Angus rib eye?” Nicodemus slammed the refrigerator door, causing a rattle of bottles inside.

  Ethan took some satisfaction from his partner’s anger, but he spoke with detachment. “I don’t know. It was food that hadn’t gone bad.”

  “You know that’s all I eat.”

  “You haven’t been shopping lately.” Ethan had told Nicodemus to go stock up on f
ood twice because their supply was dwindling.

  “I gotta order those online. Even if I order more, they won’t get here until tomorrow. What am I gonna eat for dinner?”

  “Go buy something. We need groceries, anyway.”

  Nicodemus harrumphed. “I’ve had it with this damned arrangement. You sit around while I do crap for you. And now you’re eating my steak.”

  Nicodemus trudged to the door and grabbed the knob.

  “Where are you going to go, Nicodemus? To track down the girl that did you in? You won’t get her without me. And if you try, I’ll call in an anonymous tip to the Denver police. You’ll be in jail before you can crack your knuckles three times.”

  The door flung inward as Nicodemus made to leave.

  “I’ll get the phone,” Ethan said, his voice utterly cool.

  “I’m just going to the store.” Nicodemus growled. “Damn slave driver. You’ll get yours.” The last was muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for Ethan’s fine-tuned ears to hear.

  Hours later Nicodemus still hadn’t returned home, and Ethan assumed he was blowing off steam. The peace and quiet without his roommate present was the longest bit of alone time Ethan had enjoyed in a while.

  It was just before sunrise when Ethan crawled into bed, earlier than his normal nocturnal schedule, but he was tired. As sleep lulled him off to another land, he dimly heard sounds of Nicodemus rustling in the other room. Probably home with the groceries.

  Ethan opened his eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of night fading through his bedroom window. His vision had gone that grainy texture the way it did when day was coming. Like the dimmer switch in the living room, this was the part of the spectrum where his and Nicodemus’s abilities overlapped.

  He was just beginning to glaze over when a face appeared in his vision. Mind sluggish, he blinked, vaguely wondering why Nicodemus was standing over him, and what complaints he would dish out next. Sleep was so close.

  It all faded away.

  When Ethan came to, he was standing, arms raised, and a warm breeze whipped against his bare skin. The sounds of birds twittered in the distance and vehicles rushed somewhere else—below him?