Choices Made: Fathers and Sons

By Christine McMahon

In a world turned upside down on the streets, Jamy MacGregor, a.k.a. Lord Chance, seeks stability when he enters a Witness Protection Program that relocates him to the hometown of his once sought after biological father.

Placed in the home of the local sheriff, his father’s brother, Jamy struggles with the urge to reveal his true identity when he sees the life his father’s family lives while he craves acknowledgement and normalcy in his own life.

Breaking the shackles of secrecy, Jamy confronts his father who adamantly rejects him and wants him out of town. Blowing his cover in Witness Protection, his father sends the killers straight to his brother’s front door, and Jamy.

Retrieving Jamy from danger, the bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs (BNDD) Witness Protection Program returns him to St. Louis where he is forced to re-evaluate his future and face his step-father, the BNDD agent he has rejected.

His past as a Street Lord fully revealed while testifying against the Drug Lords drives a wedge between them, which his reunion with his own toddler son complicates.

His life a shambles, Jamy takes his child and runs, finding shelter with another MacGregor relative long exiled from the family.

Learning the truth of his birth and given time to evaluate his life, Jamy must decide where his future lies.

(Choices Made Series consists of 4 books - 1 - Street Years, 2 - Fathers and Sons - 3 Missouri or Misery, 4 - Always -- Look for them all here on Smashwords!)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine McMahon
• Release date: Jun 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301708581

Christine McMahon

Christine McMahon has always taken pleasure in a good story and the craft of writing, but didn’t pick up the challenge of a novel until shortly after her mother’s prediction of a beautiful little boy entering her life.It is said people nearing the end of their lives not only see those gone before them, but also see the futures of those close to them. One evening, a month before Christine’s mother died of cancer, her mother, Rose, asked her, ‘Who is that beautiful little boy standing next to you?’Of course, there was no one there, but after her mother’s death, she found herself with pen in hand, beginning Jamy’s story.What Midwest Book Review said of Book 1 - printed version:“Choices Made: The Street Years is the debut novel of Christine McMahon and clearly establishes her as a gifted storyteller, able to take her reader into a gritty world of drug addiction, poverty, and life on the street.”Christine and her husband Joe live in rural Wisconsin along with their champion Rhodesian Ridgeback, Moy, and her new buddy, Taigh.Choices Made Series:Book 1 - Choices Made: The Street YearsBook 2 - Choices Made: Fathers and SonsBook 3 - Choices Made: Missouri or MiseryBook 4 - Choices Made: Always (Final in Series)

Book preview

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 72

CHAPTER 73

CHAPTER 74

CHAPTER 75

CHAPTER 76

ADDITIONAL TITLES BY AUTHOR

BOOK 3 INTRO

Book 3 3Prolugue

Book 3 - The Street Lord's Prayer

Book 3 - Journal Entry of Chaumbers

Book 3 Chapter 1

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To Sandy, Laurie, and Becky for taking the time to read Jamy's story to help me find where I had left the story in my thoughts instead of putting it on the pages. To Kim, for the same, and for finding all those missing punctuation marks that are often in short supply during the excitement of writing. To Tory, who is an honest critic of my art - the cover is my sixth effort in trying to portray Jamy's story in a painting and she patiently offered suggestions throughout the process. Again, to Dad, for calling and asking, 'WHEN are you going to send it in?'

Thank you for your support.

BACK TO TOC

CHAPTER 1

Depression.

That's what the doctor at the private hospital had said, acute depression caused by severe trauma.

Jamy drew an image of a tiny man sitting in an oversized chair behind a desk. The placard on the desk said, 'Nut Doctor'. Opposite the doctor, he sketched his dad, Paul, and their mutual friend, Syl Anderson, both with furrowed brows. The picture made him snort in derision, Hrumph. Jamy could still hear the doctor's pencil tapping on the edge of his psychological profile. Taptaptap.

He needed treatment more than I did. Obsessive Tapping Behavior. Hrumph.

Did you say something, Jamy? His dad asked from where he sat in the driver's seat of the Coppertone Dodge Charger racing south.

He didn't answer.

Your dad asked if you said something, Syl growled.

Jamy watched as Syl's muscular left arm straddled the front seat. The fire-breathing dragon tattoo rippled as though alive. A ruggedly handsome face turned toward him. Though stern, Syl's lips twisted up in a nearly hidden smile.

No, I didn't, he answered, gazing out the window that still showed streaks from the recent car wash.

Trauma. What the hell did that pumped up Sigmund Freud know about trauma? Tapping that stupid pencil of his every time I said something. Making notes on that yellow pad he kept hidden from me as if the written language was only for Ph. D's.

Me? Jamy Chance Chaumbers MacGregor? Trauma? So that's what they call it when you're eighteen years old and you've been shot up. When a bullet is still jammed up against your shoulder blade and you can feel it burn every time you move. When every time you take a breath your lungs scream. When you can't look in the mirror anymore because your face got blown up. And, those are the good things. Things that had meaning. Things that got me away from the street.

What about the bad things? What do they call the rapes and beatings I took while being pimped? Men using me up and tossing me away with the garbage. What about the torture from the gang — and the drugs? Heroin racing through my body and wanting it so bad I could cry, but hating it, hating it when it eased my pain and made me feel safe. What about watching kids die with knives stuck in them and no one caring? What about no one giving a damn — ever?

Trauma. What the hell do they know?

Well, there goes St. Louis. No more Arch. No more Forest Park Museum. No libraries. No more skyscrapers. No more JamyNick. His son's name lilted through his mind like music as he said it in his own way, ShamyNeek. No more, Nick. His friend's name echoed like another note of music, Neek. No more Professor Isaac Sands or Mr. Gene Bradley. My son, my brother, my friends, all left behind because I have to go into Witness Protection.

Jamy sketched from memory the last time he saw them all months earlier. He drew his little son, JamyNick, squealing with joy as Isaac, with his salt and pepper hair, played on the floor with a small truck. He colored the truck red with a pastel stick. Red Truck, translated to French, was their secret password, Camion Rouge. It had been hard to phone them with all the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs (BNDD) agents around, but a few days ago, he managed. All he could say was, 'Camion Rouge, Witness Protection'. In his heart, he knew they understood he was safe and headed away from them. Overhead in a cartoon bubble he wrote words to exemplify the sputtering noises of a worn out engine. He added small marks to make JamyNick's curls appear to bounce about his cherubic face. Taking two colors of pastel, he colored the curls auburn. He gently touched the sketched face he dreamt of every night, the son he loved more than life.

Another sketch brought Gene Bradley into the scene. Gene's right hand fingered the lapel of his vest. Jamy thought of Gene's old habit, which was all the man could do with his hands when not busy writing out sales slips at his art supplies business.

The sketch continued with Nick, his 'adopted' brother from the street, standing by the entry door of Isaac's house. The worried look he drew on Nick's face portrayed a boy who didn't know what to do next. Stringy black hair filled in the area about the face. A pursed mouth hid his usual crooked smile illustrating his dread at living in hiding with the kindly old gentlemen. Nick, who had saved Jamy more than once from dying on the street now needed saving, saving from the life he had dragged them into by becoming the favorite dealer for the most powerful drug lord in the Midwest. That same drug lord would kill them all, including his toddler son, without a thought.

He swiped at a rogue drop of moisture edging from the corner of his eye. These last memories made his heart ache. His little son, JamyNick, had to be left behind. It had been over two months since he'd seen him and he had missed his second birthday, May 17, on top of it all. He had been left behind with Nick in their hiding place with the Professor and Mr. Bradley when he went to save Syl from that same drug lord who was intent on killing him. Another problem existed. They weren't only hiding from the drug lords, but also from the BNDD agents who sat in the front seat of the Charger heading south.

How many times had Syl asked where they were? A million? Two? He didn't answer and wouldn't even though Syl promised not to tell his dad, Paul, or his biological father, James, to whom they were heading. A father he had never seen, always wanted, and who didn't know anything about him.

No. It was all a secret. Witness Protection. The BNDD would hide him with his Uncle Sam MacGregor, the sheriff of Juxton Township, who didn't know he existed until a few days ago. No one knew he existed, he guessed. His dad told him that no one in Juxton knew he was James MacGregor's son, not even the MacGregor family, and everyone in St. Louis thought he was dead. The BNDD had seen to that. A fake funeral. Obituary. Headlines in all the St. Louis papers. Syl had shown him. Street Lord of Forty-second Neighborhood Dies in Gun Battle.

Well, Nick, Professor Sands, Mr. Bradley and JamyNick knew he still lived, but no one else. It was too risky. If the drug lords, Granges or Robles, knew he breathed air…

* * *

His father had never written him back, not in all the years Jamy had written to him. His father knew he existed because his mother had told him, Your papa loves you and one day he will tell you himself. Those words spoken by his mother, who he had loved more than anything, were why he was in this car heading south to Juxton, Missouri, the hometown of his father.

* * *

Everything about Jamy seemed lost. He no longer looked as he had the last few years. His wavy, chili spice colored hair was short, curling just to his collar — a far cry from the shoulder length and usually longer styles he had worn. He wore a beard now, cut close to his face, to hide the scar, a thin jagged seam stretching from the corner of his left lip, along his cheek, to a slight hollow where the bullet had hit the hinge of his jawbone and deflected into the air. Deflection in the opposite direction would have put the small missile into the back of his skull, then he wouldn't be taking this ride at all. He supposed he shouldn't complain. The doctor was good and the scar, though noticeable, hadn't disfigured him. One of the nurses said it made him 'rakishly handsome in a real man way'.

Her comment still bothered him. If I had been a real man that night, I wouldn't have hesitated killing Granges, The MAN, and Robles. They were scum. I didn't need justification. I had the drop on them. They were killing Syl. What more reason did I need?

He shook his head and the thought dissipated as others took its place.

New clothes and shoes, the first in a long time, were gifts from Syl who helped him escape the street. His dad wanted to buy him the clothes, as a father would, but he wouldn't let him; he didn't want anything from him. Along with the new things, he had the old piece of luggage, his box of stuff that he always carried with him. Its contents were all that remained of his past life.

When he first entered the life he was now leaving, it had been foreign, frightening, and dangerous. Now, after more than three years on the streets, it was familiar to him. The small farming community in the southern Missouri Ozarks, his father's hometown, was foreign and in its way, frightening.

The pavement dropped away, green trees and rolling hills replaced it. All this openness frightened him, too. More adapted to concrete and alleys, he watched the terrain change. It was hard to imagine, but at eighteen, he had never experienced anything like it. Hills, then flat areas, hills again. Green fields and trees, lots of trees. Even the smell of the air shifted from the industrial smell of factories and the fishy dank smell of the river front where he once hung out trading drugs, to that of a damp piney smell, a grassy smell he remembered from the parks where he and his mother had once enjoyed walking. Farther south they drove.

He slept awhile then woke, stiff and achy. He groaned. Couldn't help it. Everything hurt.

He glanced at Paul as he drove. The anger he felt for his dad had run its course and emptied his soul. The fight was gone. There are always too many contradictions, Dad, you never said anything about what happened to me, but I know you're angry, and you're not angry with those who hurt me. You're angry with me. Angry, like the time when I was a kid and all the kids teased me incessantly about Maman being single. They called her a whore. I tried to ignore them like she said, but then you said it was okay to stand up for the people and things I believed in. The next time a kid make a crack about Maman; I beat him until the teachers pulled me off. Afterwards, you both punished me. Maman because I didn't 'turn the other cheek' and you because I got you in trouble with Maman when I told her you said it was okay. Then you told her, I misunderstood. I don't know what you want from me. Maybe if I had died on the streets, you'd be happy.

Paul ran his hand through his short-cropped blond hair. Jamy saw him eye him up in the rear view mirror.

You okay, Jamy? You groaned. You hurting? Paul asked.

Jamy noted the air of concern, but didn't answer. He didn't have the strength to answer the man. He loved him so much, hated him more. Hated him for abandoning him and his dying mother. Hated him for the years he spent on the street as a prostitute, addict, and drug dealer. Hated that his BNDD agent dad, the man who despised anything unlawful, knew about his life. The long lists of unlawful dealings were frightening at times even to him and it had been his life, the very essence of Chance, Street Lord of the Forty-second neighborhood, BLADES territory. He was Leader of The BLADES, a gang of thirty, not including the girls. Drugs, prostitution, and protection money had been his life.

He thought of Pappy, the Vietnam vet whom he helped and cared for deeply. He gave Pappy hugs, and they were welcome. He received hugs in return from the sarcastic legless vet who argued and fought with everyone, but him.

Mrs. Ferris' husband beat her every day, until Jamy stopped him. He smiled a little to think of the bird-like Mrs. Ferris with all her troubles and the tears he brought to her time worn face the first time he hugged her. The hug, given in kindness was the first she remembered that wasn't followed by a backhanded fist in the mouth.

He missed the hugs. He hadn't received one since the night he left Nick and JamyNick in the care of Professor Sands and Mr. Bradley. That same night he saved his dark swarthy friend, Syl, from the drug lords, got shot up and put into the hands of the waiting BNDD agents. He missed getting hugs and the people he loved who gave them. Wrapping his arms around himself, he gave himself a hug in memory.

The car cruised to a stop. It was a small town, but not his destination.

This is hard on you, son. Stretch your legs. We're about halfway there, Paul said, reaching over the seat and placing a powerful, but gentle hand on Jamy's knee and giving it a slight pat.

He got out to stretch. Aiming fingertips to the sky, he elongated his six-foot frame and let his muscles tense in strained relief. Just as he reached the pinnacle of the stretch, he buckled to a folded position. His injuries reminded him he wasn't completely healed. Prudently, he stretched to a lesser degree then walked into a nearby shop. Life was familiar, but still so different.

Entering it, the owner immediately smiled a welcome. He was used to being eyed as though a thief, not a paying customer. With a pasted on smile, he nodded a greeting, almost afraid to speak. Seeing a double thick Chunky candy bar, Jamy looked around. He licked his lips thinking how good the chocolate would taste. He loved chocolate. It would be an easy steal.

No.

No more stealing. Those days are over.

Paul called. They were leaving the halfway point.

Half way between my past and my future. Hell or heaven, but which is which?

Endlessly, they passed Orchard grass pastures, Holstein cows, shirtless farmers working their fields, and large expanses of emptiness where only Big Bluestem grasses grew. The Charger's tires thumped through a covered bridge and the damp cool air chilled him. As they exited the bridge, Bur Oak trees hugged the road giving way only to the pavement. There had been scenes like this on television, but this was real, or surreal.

Shortly after passing a sign that read, Welcome to Juxton, Missouri, Pop: 1652 (1973). Paul slowed the car.

Syl, waking from a doze, stretched and yawned, JUXTON.

Here Jamy would begin his new life. Paul accelerated and cruised into town.

* * *

Looking out from his perch at the edge of the seat, Jamy was nervous about getting out of the Charger. He didn't know how to begin in this town. Well, no matter, this was his stop. He took a deep breath of sweet spring air, felt the weight of humidity rising which promised summer, and put a foot on the pavement, then another.

Jamy stretched. It had been a long ride. His ribs hurt from leaning on the armrest. The breaks, just healed, were still tender. They were just a few of the scars he carried on his body, outside and in.

Following his six foot six dad, and a good three-quarters foot shorter, Syl, into the sheriff's office, which looked more like an old stagecoach stop from an earlier century, gave him the jitters. He didn't like cops, having spent so much time running from them the last three years. His body betrayed his nervousness in the small drips of sweat that were quickly growing to rivers rushing from his armpits.

Paul addressed the receptionist busily fumbling with papers on the mushroom colored desk. Excuse me, Ma'am, I'm looking for Sheriff MacGregor, we have an appointment with him.

The woman looked up, eyed the men standing before her, saying, Sam left a while ago. Headed home for some shuteye, then he's picking up his brothers and'll meet you at the diner, down by the motel, half block north, two blocks east, at noon.

Syl made himself at home and poured a cup of coffee. The ceramic mug had pictures of pigs on it and its handle looked like a curly pigtail. Interesting kitchenware, miss, Syl chuckled and took a deep drink of the all-nighter coffee.

We promote our products, she answered. Mr. MacGregor has a horse ranch and owns most of Juxton Township, but the hog farmers run the rest. I try to play fair. See? She pointed a chipped fingernail to a picture of a chestnut colored horse. That's Mr. MacGregor's prize winning mare. His foundation brood mare. Fair's fair. Hogs and horses.

The receptionist, tapping a pencil to her brow, sauntered over to Jamy. So you must be that MacGregor cousin I've been hearing about. I didn't think Sam had any cousins being they're such a small family. Where're you from?

Another pencil tapper. I bet she's related to Sigmund Freud. Nowhere in particular, he said, rolling and half swallowing his R's then letting them drift away. French had been his first language as a boy, and he enunciated many of his words with an indistinct accent, half French, half English. Though he spoke excellent English, his nerves betrayed him with his accent becoming more pronounced as he reverted to the safety of memories and the French language of his childhood.

Pencil tapper sidled up to Syl and whispered, He has a funny way of talking. Can't say all his alphabet. I help the kids at school with speech problems. Maybe I can help him work through his problem.

Overhearing, Jamy snapped, I don't have a speech problem. His R rolled and his M's and N's softened to a musical hum. He turned his back on her.

Well, not too friendly. Kids with developmental problems get chips on their shoulders. You'd best get that chip off your shoulder in a hurry. We've already heard you've been in some trouble and we don't want trouble around here. I suspect Sam'll straighten you out though, but then I suspect that's why you were sent to him.

Jamy turned toward her and focused his emerald eyes on her. Not blinking, he made eye contact and stared her down. She quivered and turned away, tapping the pencil furiously against her chin. His mouth contorted into a sneer. A little of his old self, Chance the Street Lord, filtering through the guise of Jamy MacGregor, errant cousin.

A hand on the back of his neck and a slight pressure forced him to turn and look into his dad's blue eyes. A battle of stares began, but Paul broke it off with, Enough of that crap. Mind your manners. Paul turned away.

Jamy's lip quivered in a sneer, but he bit it and held back. He had still won. His dad broke the look first, not him. However, the win was an empty one; his dad wasn't afraid of him.

Syl's strong left arm, the one bearing the red and black fire-breathing dragon tattoo, now hidden beneath a white shirt and dark suit jacket, guided him out the office door and into the street.

Again, the beauty of the day touched him. The temperature climbed higher, another reminder of summer's heat heading their way. The sun, near its zenith, gave everything a sparkling clean look. During his walk, he took notes about the town in his sketchbook. Small. Clean gutters. Clean alleys. Trees lining all boulevards. Store windows, clean and clear, a death trap to birds. Birds darting about trees everywhere. People inside all smiles.

This might not be too bad, if only that receptionist hadn't made the crack about me being bad. I wonder what she knows.

They strolled down the few blocks to the motel-diner. This building, too, looked like something from a past century. Well kept, it sported pots of flowers at each motel door. It was nothing like the building where he once lived with its chronic state of ruin, filth, and vermin. The smell of hot food and fresh bread swam in the air around him. His stomach growled.

Syl dropped his muscular body into a booth and the air popped out of the seat cushion.

Jamy laughed, Gee, Syl.

The cushion, smarty, not me. Syl pointed opposite him and ordered, Sit.

A middle-aged waitress nearly pushed him into the booth when she came up behind him, You're new here. Got business in town?

Some, Syl answered. How about a hot black coffee and a little more of that nice walk of yours. He smiled and winked.

Sure thing, handsome, the waitress said, and wiggled a girdled behind away from them.

Syl! Jamy snapped, You just got married. What are you talking to her like that for?

Hell, at twenty-eight it's about time. Getting married, I mean. Syl leaned forward, But you listen, I complimented her and now she's sweet on me. A woman like her knows more about what's happening in this town than any cop. I want to know who knows what about you. This place might not be as safe as we thought.

Jamy glanced over his shoulder as suspicion crept up his spine. Excusing himself, he went to the restroom and locked the door. A few minutes alone were a cherished treat these days. He ran cold water into the pink enameled sink and splashed his face a few times, then ran wet fingers through his hair, which curled and twisted around them. Taking a deep breath, he returned to Syl. Paul had arrived and now shared the booth.

* * *

You were in there long enough. You okay? Paul asked.

I was using the facility, or do I your need permission. Upset at the question, his last word rolled the R and added syllables as he broke it up making it sound like a French translation 'purr-mis-see-on'.

Paul leaned closer to him asking, Any pain? Any blood in your urine?

For God's sake —

Don't swear. You're mother would wash out your mouth with soap.

Paul, Syl cut in, "back off.

Jamy, the doc said to watch your kidney output. I'll assume you're okay, but if you're not, talk.

What do they know about me? he hissed.

Nothing, kid, other than you're a troublesome cousin. The story we gave them. The receptionist was reaching. Remember that. Don't slip up, Syl said, tapping a cigarette on the table. He slipped it between his lips and lit it. Like I said, waitress is real informative.

Barely a puff of smoke passed his lips when Jamy tore the cigarette from him and slipped it between his own lips. He closed his eyes and sucked in hard drawing the nicotine deep into his aching lungs. The cigarette was snatched back. He opened his eyes to see his dad glaring at him and Syl taking another puff.

You look like you're toking a joint for cris-sakes. The doctor said you shouldn't smoke. What are you doing? Paul snarled.

He held his breath not wanting to release the nicotine, but his lungs burned. He coughed out the smoke. Figured Syl might have laced his Winston with some MaryJane or Horse, Jamy snickered.

Instantly Syl's face was an inch from his. I'm your friend, remember? Don't throw me to the wolves or I'll — retaking his seat, Syl popped out a smoke ring toward Jamy, tell your dad where I hid the carton of smokes I bought for you.

Jamy saw his dad pinch his eyes shut as though he had a severe headache. He knew he caused it. Knew because he talked about taking drugs. Knew because his dad knew he had been hooked on heroin. He wished his dad — didn't know.

BACK TO TOC

CHAPTER 2

Three men entered the diner and seated themselves at the chrome-trimmed counter. Paul and Syl got up and headed toward them.

Searching the faces, Jamy dismissed them. My father can't be one of them. They're too tall. Black hair. Two have dark eyes and the third, blue like calm water. No, they don't look anything like me.

Jamy's jaw was square and sloped gently to his chin, which jutted slightly. Along with his classic patrician nose, it gave him an arrogant look. These men had finer faces and softer sloping jaw lines. He had broad shoulders; theirs were not. Their builds were more lean and wiry, his muscular. No, it can't be any of them.

Well, said the waitress as she filled his water glass, your cousins, the MacGregor's.

Jamy asked, his accent more noticeable in his excitement as he swallowed his R and lost his G, Who are you speakin' of?

She filled another glass. The MacGregor brothers. Over there at the counter. Don't even know your own cousins?

He studied their features, confused. None of them look like me.

The longer he watched, the more exhilarated he became.

I could just blurt out — my name is Jamy MacGregor. I'm James MacGregor's son and I'm looking for my father.

No, I need to know more. Why didn't Father answer my letters? I wrote so many over the years. Why didn't he ever come to see me?

When Maman was dying, why didn't Father answer my letter? I begged him to help her.

No, I'd better not say anything. I need to know more about him. I need to know what I'm getting myself into.

His thoughts raced down path after path, each ending in a dead end. He wanted his father, but a sudden realization struck him. Never afraid of anything before, living through hell, he hadn't been afraid, but now, he was terrified.

What if he doesn't want me?

He started sweating. His heart pounded in his throat and threatened to blow off the top of his head.

No, not now. Calm down. Calm. Breathe deep. Don't panic. Don't panic.

He shut his eyes and counted breaths that came in pants like a dog after a hard run. Too fast.

His chest hurt; his lungs exploded. I'm having a heart attack!

Jamy slumped sideways in the booth. His face skidded down the red vinyl cushion landing in a sticky spot of raspberry jam dribbled from an earlier patron's toast.

The waitress rushed up to Syl, her voice raising an octave, Hey, handsome, the kid you're with just took a dive. She nodded her brassy strawberry bouffant to where Jamy lay stuck between the table and the floor.

* * *

His head bobbed to his chest and jerked upright. Green eyes rolled back and then leveled like a slot machine hitting its mark. A raspy voice from his right drew his attention.

Jamy. Jamy.

He squinted and focused on Syl.

Another more mellow voice called from his left.

Jamy. Easy son. Easy.

From his left, a strong arm centered him upright and a cup of hot chocolate gingerly touched his lips.

The raspy voice on his right explained, Panic attacks. Been having them now and then. Started after the trouble. Steady as could be before that.

Jamy was sweating heavily. The red Formica table disappeared from the booth and Paul bent him forward and pushed his head between his knees.

Nothingness. Black. Empty. Drifting.

Dreams came upon him one after another, mixing in his mind. Disturbing memories filled every thought. He didn't look like any of the MacGregor brothers, but his mother said he was James' son. He felt like a little boy again, the only one at school without a father. He heard the voices in his dreams, 'your mother's a whore'. His fists punched at the dream boys who taunted him. The words bit into his heart; he jerked up and sobbed, No. No.

Sitting with Paul's strong arm around him, he tried to clear his mind, but still caught in the dream's spell, he slumped forward. His mother, shocked at his words, denied being a whore when he asked all those years ago; she told him his father lived far away.

When he searched the apartment after his mother's death, he had found a letter from James, and a ring with the name MacGregor engraved in the band. He had written letters to his father, even days before his mother's death. There were no answers. Sweat poured from his tormented body.

A whiff of tobacco caught his senses. He jerked upright again. Zeroing in on Syl, he plucked the butt from Syl's lips and put it between his own. No one took it away this time.

Looking into the faces peering at him, he tried to search his mind for the missing piece to the puzzle. Where was it? Why didn't his father ever write back? Why did he look so different from the MacGregors?

A horrifying thought occurred to him. Maybe Maman had been a whore. Maybe she stopped when I was born. Is that why she didn't have friends? Maybe that's why she didn't marry Dad. Maybe she was afraid he would find out.

No, I won't believe that. There has to be some other answer; I just have to look harder to find it.

Adjusting his focus on finding the truth about his parents, Jamy regained his center. Carefully he took the butt from his lips and held it in a shaking hand. Still sitting at the booth, Paul's arm surrounded him. He liked the feeling, took comfort in it, but gently shrugged it off. The wall between them was still too high.

A deep voice used to giving orders, said, MaryEllen, I want the back room. Set it up.

Sure thing, Sheriff, the waitress answered and hurried her girdled butt away in a not too feminine stride.

Absently, he watched her hips jerk from side to side in the rubber constrictor. She's probably like all those other women who wanted me. Paid good for me. I wonder how long it would take me to get her out of that girdle.

A voice from nowhere and everywhere penetrated his mind. 'Jamy, mon fils, you left that life in the street.'

I hear you, Maman. In heaven with the angels, why, Maman, why do you have to know all I've done?

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CHAPTER 3

Grease. The smell permeated the room. He heard a snap and sizzling. Someone must have just dropped French fries into a deep fryer. Smells like Luigi's kitchen at home. Home. Where is my home now?

Paul's strong arm still encompassed him though he had tried to shrug it off a number of times. I love you, Dad. I just want to go home. I just want to be Jamy Linders like you promised me, like you promised Maman when you asked her to marry you. I wouldn't tell anyone about what happened to me. I'd be good and not talk back to your family no matter what they say about how rotten adopted kids are. I just want to be normal again.

Here, son, try this again. Paul lifted the hot chocolate to his lips.

He sipped a little. The heat startled him, burning his lip a little. The welcome pain released some of the fog straddling his brain. Taking the cup into his own hand, he drank the steaming liquid. He loved hot chocolate, loved it hot.

Getting his bearings, he looked around the table where he now sat with Paul on his left and Syl on his right, like guard dogs. The fluorescent lights of the diner reflected a bluish glow from the hair of the three men sitting across from him, staring. It was different from the reflection of deep copper he saw in his own hair when he looked into the bathroom mirror earlier.

They're checking me out. Think I'm a pussy because I passed out. I'd like them to have my ripped up lung, my lousy kidney, and my messed up innards.

Jamy met their gazes one by one. He didn't look at the next man until each broke the link. I'm stronger than they are, stronger than all three of them.

The MacGregor's wore similar clothes; jeans with blue work shirts tucked in and held with a wide leather belt bearing a scripted MG on the buckle. Cowboy boots finished the ensemble. Giving a slight tap on the table to garner attention, the one the waitress referred to as the sheriff spoke, Jamy, I'm your cousin, Sam MacGregor, sheriff here in Juxton. You'll be staying with me. These are my brothers, John and James.

Jamy nodded, but didn't speak. James sat directly across from him. With each blink of his eyes, the details of James countenance locked themselves in his brain like a photograph. Furrows between his eyebrows. Creases at the corners of his eyes. Weathered complexion with skin that looked like well-worn soft leather.

He's not acknowledging me, but he can't if Sam and John don't know about me. I wish he would somehow. A word. Anything.

Studying him further, he stared at James' dirty fingernails. I hate dirty fingernails, but it does look like my father works very hard.

Syl's voice drifted in his mind as the conversation continued around him. Sheriff, your receptionist said she heard Jamy was trouble. Just what have you been telling people?

Put the word out I had a young cousin who's seen some trouble and needed a breather away from home. He's being sent to me so I can keep an eye on him. Help straighten him out. SallyAnn's known to exaggerate in order to get information.

Doesn't sound like the right person for your department, if you don't mind my saying, Paul said. We explained how critical confidentiality is.

What's the big deal about keeping it quiet? John asked. Some relative's kid gets in trouble and we get saddled with him. Don't even know these relatives.

John, I explained, he got in trouble at home and these officers agreed to deliver him provided a relative takes him, Sam said, shifting his gaze to Jamy. "We're his only relation.

Back to your question, Mr. Linders, SallyAnn's perfect. She'll wheedle information out of everyone she can, but nothing passes her lips except to me. I find out more from her than I could from the D.A.'s office on a good day. Sam smiled. She called me at home and told me you were rude to her, Jamy.

MaryEllen returned and efficiently set coffee cups with curly pigtails on the table along with a pot that had the head of a pig with steam drifting from its snout and a glass belly showing off a black liquid. Here's your coffee. Heard what you said about SallyAnn. She tells all to you, Sam, 'cause she's sweet on you. Has been since high school. Just like me. MaryEllen flashed a big smile at Sam. Now, what'll you boys have? She pulled a tiny green tablet from her apron. You go first, handsome.

She means me, fellas, Syl said, then placed his order for a steak sandwich, rare, and fries.

Orders were taken next from the MacGregor's who all ordered the same, hamburgers with green peppers and fries. Paul ordered a steak sandwich, cabbage salad and a baked potato, then ordered Jamy the same.

Jamy started to object, but Syl nudged him, and he kept quiet.

MaryEllen tapped Syl on the shoulder with her pencil, "I'll see