a rotting carcass. Those were some of the last words his foster father said to him as they waited for the cops to come and take him away. “Time for a dose of reality, kid,” he’d said as he held him down. “No more soft touch. Not anymore.” He remembered the man’s scheming look, remembered how he’d suddenly released his grip. “Or…you could run….”
And those small dark eyes, pleading.
He rubbed at the pain in his temple, then laid his hand over the long scar on his neck.
Soft touch. Right. No more back-handed blows or belts that snapped like a whip. No more nights when he lay rigid, hoping, even praying, that the man’s footsteps wouldn’t stop at his bedroom door. It was a huge relief to be out of that house, even though it meant living on the streets, eating out of dumpsters, running scared every time a police cruiser drove by.
He opened his eyes and scanned the landscape again. It looked dark, the thick growth of spruce, birch, and poplar flowing over hills, encroaching on mountainsides, and crowding down to the edges of rivers. The memories crowded him too, even here. Alex sighed. Just when I was getting used to being a hermit and now they’re telling me I’m a rich man. Maybe. What if I get all the way to Seattle and find out they’ve got the wrong guy after all? What if I end up in a jail cell instead? That’d be typical—another one of God’s cruel jokes. I’ve been the brunt of enough of those. Pastor T said that God doesn’t play those kinds of games, but I know better. Experience had taught him better. He glanced sideways at the lawyer. Something about the man kind of reminded him of the pastor who’d tried to help him long ago. He slouched into the seat again. And how would I get back? He had enough in the bank to make it through the winter, if he was careful, but that didn’t include a plane ticket from Seattle to Whitehorse. It’d be a long way to hitchhike. He began to seriously regret getting on the plane.
They touched down at the airport in Whitehorse and took a taxi into town. On the way Alex voiced his concerns. “What if this is all a mistake? How do I get back?”
Bronsky smiled. “My firm will take care of you. Don’t worry.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Alex mumbled.
Bronksy peered at him. “I’m hungry. Know a good place to eat in this town?”
“You like pizza ‘n beer?”
“I’ll skip the beer, but pizza will work.”
They sat across from one another at a small table. The bar was crowded, the music loud. Bronsky pulled his tie off and slipped out of his suit jacket. He stretched and grinned at Alex. “Don’t tell my boss. He insists on the professional look, no matter where, no matter what. I think he’d send me to Timbuktu and insist I go in a suit and tie.”
Alex noticed the difference the lack of jacket and tie made. The lawyer looked even younger. Younger, and more friendly, though still way too trendy by Yukon standards. Bronsky stared at him for a moment, then extended his hand.
“Why don’t we start again, on…uh…more even ground? I’m George.”
Alex nodded once and shook hands. “Alex.”
George grinned. “It’s obvious you value your privacy, Alex.” He took a huge bite of pizza and seemed to swallow it whole. “But we have all night and a long flight south ahead of us. Tell me about yourself.”
Alex took a long gulp of cold beer. “Not much to tell. You already know I went into the system when I was three, then the Donnellys moved me to Vancouver. When they died in a car crash I was bounced through group homes for a while, then into foster care for the next eight years.”
George downed half his glass of soda. “Must’ve been rough.”
Alex peered over the crust of his pizza. “You want horror stories? I could tell a few.”
George took another bite and Alex decided to be sociable. “What about you? How long you been a lawyer?”
“Passed the bar two years ago.”
“How old are you?” Alex realized he’d blurted the words, but didn’t care enough to cover the social blunder.
“I’ll be thirty-five in a couple of months.”
“You don’t....”
“I know. I don’t look it. I think that’s why Mr. Adams hired me. He uses my baby face to his advantage.”
“Does it work?”
George raised his eyes to meet Alex’s. “I’m good at what I do.”
Alex had a hunch and voiced it. “Your father a lawyer?”
George laughed. “No. He’s a pastor. Been preaching in country churches all his life. Still does. Can’t figure why I chose to be a big city lawyer.” George swallowed. “But I know he’s proud of me.”
“How?”
“What?”
“That he’s proud. How do you know?”
“He keeps telling me.”
Alex blinked and took another gulp of his beer. He was studying the sheen on a large piece of pepperoni when George blurted out his own question.
“Are you good at what you do?”
“I’ve survived up here for five years.” Alex knew his tone was too defensive.
George looked around at the bar’s clientele. “I guess that does take some kind of...stamina.”
Alex snorted. Then gave a rough laugh. “You could call it that.”
George grinned back at him. “So what do you do to survive up here?”
Alex shrugged. “Whatever’s going. Fish some, when they allow it. Trapping brings in some through the winter. I work construction when I have to. Sometimes the gold mines.”
“So I take it you’re between jobs right now? That’s why you’re able to just take off?”
Alex nodded. “Just finished working with a Parks Canada crew, a renovation. Ended just in time to start getting ready for winter.” He pushed his empty glass around. “How long will this take, anyway? Freeze-up isn’t far off.”
George’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean you plan on going back out to that cabin, even with the inheritance?”
Alex glanced away. “Hadn’t thought about it, but yeah, probably. It’s where I live.”
“Maybe you’ll like Seattle.”
“Doubt it.”
“A rich man can go anywhere he likes.”
“I’m still not convinced you’ve got the right guy. If my parents were so rich, why didn’t they leave a will? Why weren’t there relatives to take in a little rich kid? Or at least a guardian or something?”
