Failings of the Fathers: 65

"Ray?"  Blair said, in her best conniving tone, "Good morning."

"Barely," he said, "and Blair, what are you doing?"

"Uh, well, nothing."

"Blair.  I can tell you must be frantic about your son, but . . ."

"But?"

"Bitsy can't leave here, Blair."

"She can.  She's not in prison.  She wants to go, Ray.  She asked me for the chance to save her son like she couldn't before."

"Let's go into my office where we can all talk about this, all right?"

"No.  No, we don't have time for that.  I don't think you'll understand, but Todd's in danger, as well.  He's gone off to find his baby son, and he has to face . . . just let us by, please?"

"Blair, what is this about?"

She handed him the drawing that Jenna made.  He said, "Peter Manning.  Quite a likeness.  Did Bea draw this?"

"No.  My son's girlfriend did.  From his description, of our new groundskeeper, the man who took my baby."

Ray didn't know what to say, he just stared down at the drawing, reading Bea's words scrawling across it.  He read aloud:  The One Who Hurt Us.

"This can't be," he said.  He turned to Bea, "Bea, is this Peter Manning?"

She nodded and then took her hand and put it on his arm, and her face was pleading.

Blair said, "She wants you to let us go.  Our sons are . . . in peril, please, Ray."

"You want me to let the two of you go off into certain danger?  If Peter's dangerous for Todd, he's certainly a danger to both of you."

"Neither of us cares.  He has our babies.  Please."  Blair pleaded their case.

"What about the police?"

Blair thought fast, "I've already called them.  They are aware and on their way as well."

He looked at her, pensively.  "Blair, don't make me sorry that I trusted you on this.  Bea is not well, and she needs treatment."

"She's going to be well when her son is safe and home and her grandson."  She handed him the paper on which Bea had written her request.

He read it and looked at the older woman.  "Bea.  You want a chance to help Todd, is that it?"

She nodded, still with a pleading expression on her face.

"It's important to you, to try and save him, this time, isn't it?"

She nodded again, this time clasping her hands in a gesture of hope.

He knew he could not keep her, or Blair, in Mountainview without a hearing or a legal action.  She was free to go, legitimately, even if he felt she was making a mistake.  He said, "I don't believe this is the right thing, for either of you," he said, looking at Blair, "But until I get a court injunction, I can't stop either of you from leaving here.  But Blair, I ask you to consider the woman's state of mind these last weeks."

"Her state of mind was right all along.  She knew Peter was alive, she tried to warn us, and she was told to deny it.  That is what made her crack and nothing else.  Please, let us pass."

Ray Martino had no choice.  He stepped to the side, and Blair said, "Thank you, Ray.  You won't be sorry, I promise you.  That cruel, sick man has my baby."

And they were gone.

***

Jack opened the curtain to Sam's little "room" and walked in.  "Hey, Runty?"

"Jack!"  Sam said, putting his arms out.  

He picked up his little brother in his arms, and Sam hugged his neck.  "Jack, I was scared.  I couldn't even talk.  The bad tried to get Ray.  He's the bad man in Grandma Bitsy's pictures."

"I know he is.  And it's okay, now."

"I felt so bad that I couldn't talk.  I wanted to tell Mom everything, but I was so afraid."

"It's okay.  You talked, that's what counts."

He put the boy down onto his hospital bed and said, "I'm glad you're okay.  It would have sucked if something happened to you, Sam."

"I know.  Or if something happened to you.  Bring me to see Starr, please?"

Jack wasn't sure if he was supposed to, so he said, "Maybe in a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay.  What's the matter, Jack?  You look funny."

He was amazed at the idea that Sam would notice what was going on under the facade, but his little brother always seemed to have a way to determine it.  "Nothing, Squirt."

"That's not true.  Don't you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Why?"

"Because it's . . . because."

"Good thing you found me, I could have frozen."

He didn't know how to explain that Sam was cold because of shock so he didn't bother.  "Well, I'm glad you didn't freeze."

"Mixie . . . Mixie's dead."

"I know, Sam," Jack said, "I'm sorry."  He hugged the little boy again.

Sam sniffled.  "Is Starr going to be okay, Jack?  And Ray, Mom said Ray's okay."

Jack didn't answer he just said, "Runty, you should rest up.  We want to take you out of here, soon."

"I can't.  I keep seeing that man when I try and close my eyes."

Jack pulled a chair up, and sat by his brother's bed.  "Is that better?"

"Kind of.  He was scary and mean."

Jack was torn up, but it was inside.  And it wasn't because his brother kept seeing the bad man.  It was because he caused it.  "It will be okay.  I'll stay with you.  Just try and close your eyes."

Sam hadn't really slept much.  The most he had gotten was the few minutes he slept after Blair told him Ray was okay.  Jack hoped they wouldn't have to take that back.  He flashed on the face of his little brother, sitting on his father's shoulders, with two fists of his dad's hair, and he swallowed.  He looked back and Sam was lying still, eyes closed.  Jack sat back in the chair, and rested his head back and closed his own eyes.  He hadn't slept much either; all he could see was Starr, lying on the ground, beaten and bleeding.  "And that," he thought, to himself, "is your fault.  She told you that you were selfish, and you proved her damn right."

He didn't want to leave Sam's side.  Instead, he sat, stiffly, in the hospital chair, and watched his brother.  Leaning his head back and trying to sleep wasn't going to work anyway.  He was certain of that.  Instead, he watched the little boy breathe softly and occasionally moan lightly.

It isn't fair.  He's going to have the picture of his dog, killed in front of him, and his sister, beaten up, in his mind, for always.  

That's because of you.

***

"I called Ray Martino, he's going to fax the photo in a few minutes.  But, there's more," the nun said to her brother.

"What now?"

"Well, seems Blair was there this morning, and took Bea with her.  Bea came out of it when Blair showed her a drawing of one 'Peter Manning.'"

"That's odd, Bea's been drawing Peter for weeks."

"This wasn't Bea's.  Jenna drew it, it was a likeness of Malcolm, the groundskeeper."

"No."

"Yes.  I believe, Broham, when we get the photo, we will have confirmed the truth.  Blair must be frantic.  That man has her child."

Timothy seemed far away.  "Todd was the same age when Peter started to manhandle him.  A little three year-old boy."

The nun gulped, and tears filled her eyes.  "Maybe we're wrong, eh?"

"Maybe.  But once we know, what do we do?"

"We call John, I'd say.  No sense in calling Todd.  I assume he knows."

"Most likely."

"And I assume he's off after him, looking for blood."

"That, too.  I can't imagine what Bridgette might be feeling.  And, I can't fathom Ray letting Bea go."

"Perhaps he thought it was Bea's chance to make things right."

"Perhaps."

"It's been haunting her that he let that man brutalize her boy.  She now can do something to help at last."

"There's the fax.  I hear it," he said, going to the machine.  He took the photo.  

She said, "That's the photo he showed me in his office."

"And that's Calvin," Timothy said, "now also known as Peter Manning."

***

What if it wasn't rheumatic fever.

Still waiting to load onto the jet, Todd started to question himself.  "Was I beaten to the point of hospitalization?   If I was, how did he get away with that?"

He knew the answer.  Money.  Money talked.  And Peter had money, he'd gotten a pretty penny for taking Todd off Victor Lord's hands.

It could have been either.  But I remember . . .

His eyes filled with water.  I was just a little kid.  Like Sam, or more like, like Ray.  He remembered a small baseball bat swinging . .  and when it made contact . . .

He stood, pushed his hands into his front pockets, and paced. What the Hell is taking so long?  I just want to get there and get my baby . . .

The pain shot through his back, as if it were happening just then.  He could almost feel the wood of the bat against his shoulder blades.  He ran his fingers through his hair, and sat back down, leaning forward, as he fought to get the memories under control. "PTSD" he said softly.  That's when he felt a light touch on his head, and saw her, crouching in front of him.  She said, "My Love, look at me," and he did, then fell toward her into her arms.

She said, "I'm so sorry, I . . . our baby, Todd?"

She's  lost her baby.  Another one.  And this time, your doing, directly.  Your history, your sick father, your fucked up past.  He immediately pulled himself together.  "We'll find him."  He stood, and she did and his eyes rested on his mother's face.  "Momma?"

She smiled, with tears in her eyes.  He said, "You're okay."

She nodded, and he went to embrace her.  He looked at Blair, "Is she coming with us?"

"She wants to.  I think she needs to."

"Then, let's go," he said, and took both of their hands, putting each woman on one side of him.  "I'll get us on that jet whatever it takes.  They have to be ready by now."

Just as he said this, he looked at the gate, and it opened, and out came his pilot.  "We're ready Mr. Manning."  The hangar reminded him of another time, long back, they had been there.  In fact, there had been a few times, here, in the same place, with her.  He cherished, more than ever, the fact that she had been there, in his life, for almost half of it.  He was grateful for her love and he would get their son back, no matter what. 

And, in his estimation, it was time Peter Manning got what was coming to him.

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