for a while longer. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much the guilt and regret he’d been carrying around had weighed him down; how it had dragged at his shoulders, his conscience and his heart as if an anvil had been hung around his neck. It felt good to let go of the load for a while.
He looked over to where Jeffrey was walking the dog with his yo-yo. “Neat trick. Could you show me how to do that?”
Jeffrey showed him his back.
Strike two. Carlo decided to try a different tack.
“When I was your age and my brothers and I raked leaves together, they would throw them at me. It always made me mad. There’s nothing I hate worse than a bunch of leaves in my face.”
Ignoring the blatant hint, Jeffrey sat down on the front steps and stared wistfully at the horizon.
Strike three. You’re out. Carlo sighed. He might have been able to pique Jeffrey’s interest a time or two last weekend, but so far today he was batting zero.
“Baby steps,” he muttered, remembering what Samantha had said to him. He’d measure each success in terms of baby steps, ignore the failures and refuse to look beyond that.
“I have that pocketknife I promised you. Want to do some whittling?”
“Some other time,” Jeffrey said.
Brushing the leaves from his clothing, Carlo sat up. “I’m pretty hot. I think I need an ice cream cone to cool me off. What about you?”
That, at least, got the boy’s attention, Carlo thought with satisfaction. Samantha Underwood might be above bribery, but Carlo Garibaldi wasn’t.
“Baby steps,” he murmured to himself as they set off down the street. “Baby steps.”
They were seated at the local Baskin-Robbins ice cream parlor, munching contentedly on a double scoop of Quarterback Crunch and Rocky Road, when Carlo felt Jeffrey’s gaze on him. More specifically, on his upper arms. When he glanced at the boy, Jeffrey quickly—almost guiltily—looked away. A minute later, though, Carlo felt the child’s gaze on him again.
He had a flash of understanding. “You want to know if I’ve always been this strong, don’t you?”
Jeffrey nodded.
“The answer is no. When I was your age, I was built just like you. I’ve been lifting weights since I was eighteen. It took a lot of work to get to the point where I am now.”
Carlo hadn’t been to the gym for his daily workout since he’d taken his leave of absence. Though he’d wanted to, he simply hadn’t been able to summon the energy to go. Surprisingly, given his idleness, he still had a good deal of muscle tone.
“Can I lift, too?” Jeffrey asked.
“Anyone can lift. You just have to make sure to use proper form so that you don’t injure yourself. When you’re old enough, you can join a gym.”
Jeffrey frowned. “I don’t want to wait till I’m older. I want to lift now.”
Why not? Carlo thought. The day was still young, and he wanted to give Samantha as much rest as possible. Besides, this was the most he’d heard Jeffrey speak. If this was what it took to reach him, Carlo was all for it.
“Would you like to see the gym where I work out?” he asked.
The light in Jeffrey’s eyes was all the answer he needed.
“Hey, Carlo,” Pete Loring, the owner of Fit Bodies, greeted when they walked through the door. “Long time no see.”
“I’ve been busy,” Carlo replied guardedly.
Typical of Pete, he didn’t pry any further. “Who’s your young friend?”
“A prospective client.”
Carlo watched Jeffrey’s eyes go round at the sight of the giant man who wrestled professionally under the name of Killer. Never had a title been a greater misnomer. Though fierce-looking, when not beating his competition to a pulp in the ring, Pete Loring was one of the gentlest men Carlo had ever met.
Pete’s smile broadened. “A prospective client, eh? Well, then, we’ll have to see that he receives the star treatment, won’t we?”
“I know you,” Jeffrey said with the first real excitement Carlo had seen him exhibit. “You’re Killer.”
“You a SCWA fan?” Pete asked, obviously pleased.
Eyes shining, Jeffrey nodded. “You’re my favorite wrestler.”
“Ah,” Pete said, settling a meaty hand around Jeffrey’s shoulders. “A fan. For a fan, not only will I give you the star treatment, but I will also roll out the red carpet. Ready for a tour?”
Carlo stood off to one side while Pete showed a star-struck Jeffrey around the gym and patiently explained the purpose of each machine and exercise. The crowded room was filled with grunts of effort and the sound of weights clanking as men and women alike stared at the mirror-lined walls to ensure they were using proper form. Though they came in all shapes and sizes, they all had one thing in common: their bodies gleamed with the sheen of perspiration that could only be brought on by hard work.
There was a time when the sights, sounds and smells of this room had thrilled him, a time when he’d lived for that hour or two each day when he could lose himself in the sheer joy of pushing his body to its limits. A time when, the minute he walked into this room, his fingers would itch to lift a barbell or to do repetitions on one of the machines. Carlo looked down at the hands hanging limply at his sides. No itch.
He gazed around him with a curious detachment. He’d worked so hard to build and maintain his physique, especially after his injuries, and now he no longer cared if he ever lifted another weight. There were so many things he no longer cared about. And he didn’t even care that he didn’t care. Intellectually, he knew that should worry him, that he wouldn’t be able to resume even the semblance of his former life until he could care.
At the moment, though, the only things he seemed able to work up any feeling for were an emotionally scarred little boy and his sick mother.
When his gaze found Jeffrey again, Carlo saw that Pete had finished the tour and had left the boy to complete a workout of his choosing. The grimness and determination on Jeffrey’s face as he lifted weights with a purposefulness that was far older than his years startled Carlo out of his reverie.
“Whoa, slugger, slow down,” he cautioned, moving to the boy’s side. “You don’t want to overdo it your first time out. What are you preparing for? Battle?”
Jeffrey kept pumping iron. “When I grow up,” he said in a fierce voice, “I’m going to be big and strong like you and Killer. And then I’m going to find the man who killed my dad and kill him.”
Dismayed, Carlo didn’t know what to say. After all, Jeffrey wouldn’t have to look far. The man who had killed his father was standing right beside him.
There was no answer when, darkness rapidly falling, Carlo pressed the doorbell of the Underwood home. At his side, Jeffrey held
