*Author's Note:
As this excerpt begins, Owen had been gathering Pretty's insight about her old high school classmate, and friend, Vincent Haslom. Owen has no idea that Pretty was once his own Dad, Joe's fiance - and he also doesn't know why she has the nickname "Pretty". He has asked, but she dodges the question. He also chooses to confide the following to her:
....Owen said, “I’ll ask Dad why you’re Pretty.”
Oh, please don’t.
“—if he’s still speaking to me,” he tacked on. “Look at this.” He centred his phone between them.
Dad, read the top of the screen. And the message: Must have slipped your mind to tell your Old Man about your new assignment in person rather than by public proclamation.
Pretty grimaced.
Now that you’re home full time, your brother and I have coffee @ Classy Chassis every Monday morning to start the week. This is not an invitation. It is an expectation. The Hasloms might be your family, but we are your blood.
Oh, boy. Joe had said he'd been ‘pissy’, but this wasn’t pissy. This was hurt. She met Owen’s eyes. “He needs to know that you love him.”
He bristled. “I do love—” He blew a breath out. “I have no axe to grind with my Dad.”
“Then say that. Better, show him that. Look what he’s asking for.” She tapped the screen. “Your presence. Your time.”
Owen slumped back. “So…do something with him?”
Good Lord. Why did men always need to be led by the nose when it came to emotions? “Yes,” she said.
Owen’s brows snapped together. She could practically hear him thinking. Then—“I know,” he said, and hit call.
Joe’s “H’lo?” somersaulted her heart.
“I hear you’ve been a good boy.” Owen told him.
“Filthy rumor,” Joe replied.
Her heart tumbled end over end.
“So I’m gonna take you for ice cream.”
“Ah…I'm balls deep in invoices.”
Oh, for…Pretty rolled her eyes. Joey, don’t screw this up.
Owen said, “Invoices or a scoop of Saskatoon Pie ice cream in a waffle cone?”
Joe groaned.
Okay. That wasn’t her heart tumbling.
“Double scoop?” he asked Owen.
“Hey, don’t be that chick, ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”
Joe Brophy’s laugh did something to her soul.
“Meet you there,” he told Owen, and was gone.
His son found her eyes. “Thanks,” he said softly.
“Anytime,” she replied.
They smiled at each other. “I missed you,” he said.
Her heart soared.
“Pretty, you still look exactly the same. How is that even possible?”
“It’s not,” she chided. “You’re remembering instead of seeing.”
“Nuh-uh. I had to convince Natalya that you were the same age as my Dad. Who also looks all buff and fine. What the hell—you two find some sort of Fountain of Youth to swim in?”
Together? Her face was going to combust. Owen grinned. “Anyway,” he said, “you never gave me your quid pro quo.”
Right. TVTE. The likelihood—or unlikelihood—of every member except three being dead. That’s what she wanted to pursue, not: “The girl I mentor,” she said. “She’s hooked up with some guy online.” What? Where had that come from?
Petticoat. Vincent’s resonant voice seemed to chuckle in her ear. Are you having a premonition?
Maybe. “I need to know anything you can find out about username To Infinity Baby."
Joe ~ There Must Be An Angel
He’d lied to Owen. He wasn’t buried in invoices. He’d received another text—a message that set off a dry, dark knocking in his chest. Can’t you count to 9? There was no baby in The Crank.
Then who IS buried there? he sent and his chest knocked.
The sender clapped back. It’s not your baby.
Was that a reprimand or a warning? Are you saying back off? Send.
He expected his screen to fall dead. More stonewalling, like before. Except: I’m saying look at a calendar. Count back from the birth date.
“What birth date? Who is this?”
“Chief?” Shades poked his head into Joe’s office. “You okay?”
“I…yeah,” Joe said, eyes fixed on the phone. “Just heading out to meet Owen.”
He kept his cell within the corner of his eye all up Highway 97 north out of town. I Scream’s operating hours had always been a bit of a crapshoot; the Health Inspector shut it down as much as Moshe Levant kept it open, and the running joke—Don’t look in the kitchen!—had been part of local lore for ages. But nowhere else had flavors like Saskatoon Pie—or Owen’s old fave, Cherry Crumble. And if Joe had his way, that old, rusty cone perched atop the beaten shack would one day hang in Classy Chassis, right next to Geraldine. Pulling into the lot, his tires crunched upon gravel. He was half surprised to see Owen’s truck there instead of his bike. “Where’s your Harley?” he asked, joining him at the menu.
His son wore shades and his badge on a chain. “Little cold to go riding,” he said.
Cold? This second summer was perfect for riding. “Or maybe you’re just a sissy,” Joe told him, and considered the flavor board. “Whatcha getting?”
“A shower,” said Owen. “For you.” He elbowed him. “You stink.”
Probably. He still wore last night’s t shirt and flannel. “Just sweaty.” His son did not need to know that last night he’d slept in The Pit. “You slacking off?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Eh.” Owen lifted a shoulder. “Gathering intel. I had coffee with Pretty this morning.”
“Oh?” Joe studied the flavors.
“Yeah. She asked me to do some poking around for her.”
“What for?” he asked, too sharp. Still, Pretty had mentioned a concern for her health. Was something else going on?
“She’s afraid some kid she quasi-fosters might be messing with a sketchy guy.”
“She is.” Joe nodded. “I saw them at the rally.” And he needed to tell Pretty that the guy was far too old for her kiddo.
“The infamous rally.” Owen slid him some side-eye. “You know, the other day when I said you looked like you could still mix it up, I was speaking figuratively.”
“Yeah?” Joe slipped a little side-eye of his own. “Did you want me to let Rob get his ass kicked?”
“Probably not.” Owen grinned, then poked his chin at the flavors. “What’s good?”
Joe wasn’t sure if he was being obstinate or just having fun when he said, “Orange Dreamsicle.”
Owen slipped his shades off, staring in surprise.
Joe grinned. “Under a scoop of Saskatoon Pie.”
“What the hell?” Owen laughed. “You pregnant?”
It’s not your baby. An answer, the answer, suddenly appeared like a note scratched in the margin of his mind. “No. Just being that chick,” he said, trying to grasp the threads of that answer. “Ordering the most complicated thing on the menu.”
Nothing. It was gone.
Frustrated, he called into the shack. “Hey! Moshe!”
A wizened gnome popped up from behind the counter. “What?” he barked. “Who’s here? Why didn’t you yell?”
He just had yelled. He slid Owen a grin.
“Oh, it’s Joey.” The gnome, Moshe, beamed. “And…?” He squinted at Owen—then hooted. Which promptly set off a coughing fit, phlegm and spittle.
“Don’t look,” muttered Joe.
Owen laughed and Moshe said, “Joey’s boy!” Shuffling, he disappeared from behind the counter. Re-emerged out of the shack, scuffling through the gravel. “C’mere.” He opened grizzled arms.
Owen stooped to the embrace, twice Moshe’s size.
“Aw, now look here.” Moshe, dabbing his eyes, pointed to them both. “You two: one upper case font, one lower case font. Font,” he repeated. “That’s computer talk.”
In case they didn’t know. Joe swapped another grin with Owen.
Moshe clapped hands all ropey with veins. “Now, where have I seen this before?” He shuffled back into the shack.
Bemused, they watched as he reappeared before a wall beyond his counter, a bulletin board littered with a collage. Snapshots of faces—some local, some not—and, “Right here,” Moshe unpinned a photo.
Joe and Owen, so long ago, Owen was just tiny. Missing a front tooth. Looking at it now, his son laughed.
Moshe grinned back. “Right?” he said. “Look at you now. Beard and tats. A cop.” He whooped. “Good on ya! Then there’s Dad.” He pointed to Joe in real life, then Joe in the picture. Winking at Owen, he said, “He don’t look a day older.”
Pfft. He wished. But Owen said, “I just told one of his old friends that today. That they both must be snorkeling in the Fountain of Youth.”
What had Pretty done with that mental image? Joe hid a rogue grin.
Moshe chortled. “That true, Joey? Get me some of that diving gear!” He fished an ice cream scoop out of a murky looking pitcher of water.
Owen and Joe shared a glance—Don’t look!—and Moshe said, “What’ll it be?” But chattered as he scooped their ice cream. “Cherry Crumble. I coulda guessed that, Owen Brophy. I remember.”
An unexpected wave of affection tossed mist in Joe’s eyes. Moshe shuffled back to his collage. “I remember this pic too.” He peeled another photo off the wall. “Not a great shot, but it’s still you.” He handed it to Owen. “I always make two copies. One for my wall, the other for the customer. So your Dad’ll have this pic somewhere.”
Joe didn’t remember receiving any picture from Moshe. Curious, he peeked over Owen’s shoulder to the one he held now.
And his heart stopped.
“That’s me?” Owen held the photo with one hand while awkwardly managing his ice cream with the other. “How can you tell?”
“’Cause I remember.” Moshe tapped his temple. “You remember too, Joe?”
No. In fact this photo—he’d seen it just the other day in Shades’ camper. Tacked onto the frame of the bunk. A little boy with dark hair and an ice cream. Angel. Except—
“Took this the same day I took this one.” Moshe tapped that old shot of them together.
—except in both photos Owen wore the same coat. Why did Shades have a picture of Owen? Why hadn’t he corrected him when Joe had said it was Angel?
“How ’bout a new one?” Moshe shuffled back out onto gravel, raised his cellphone. “I’ll print this one too,” he said. “I don’ like this new cyber cloud, digitalis, whatever it’s called.”
“Digitalis,” murmured Owen, “is poison.”
“Don’t look,” Joe replied, but his heart was ticking. Shades had Owen’s picture. Why?
Moshe held up his cell. “Squeeze together now and…click,” he said audibly, then moved between them. “Aw, look at that.” Again he dabbed his eyes. “Dad ’n son.”
His boy. His joy. “Could you text me that?” Joe asked, half bashful at how his voice had become thick. He cleared his throat. “Before this brat disappears on me again?”
Owen shoved him with his shoulder. “How will I drink your shitty Pit coffee every Monday if I disappear?”
Moshe cackled. “See?” he said. “You two’s the same font. Like to pester each other. Different than you ’n ol‘ easy-going Steve, eh Joe?” He tossed his thumb to Owen. “When this one came along, I said now here is Joey’s boy.”
“Your favorite,” Shirl always said, bitter and waspish. Joe placed a deliberate arm around Owen. “My pride and joy,” he said, again hoarsely.
Owen looked at him and as their eyes locked years, and feelings, scuttled between them. So did words. I’ve missed you. I love you. And…I’m sorry. So sorry. Their gazes held until Owen—sort of playfully, mostly not—rested his head against Joe’s temple.
Moshe snapped another picture.
Owen peeked at it. “Can you text me that?” His voice, too, was husky as he gave Moshe his number. “Natalya will put it in a frame. I need to bring her out here for ice cream.”
Now even Moshe would meet Natalya, but not Shirl? Good, thought Joe, acidly.
Moshe said, “Natalya, eh? I hear she’s Vince’s kid.”
Owen visibly braced himself. Moshe, though, said, “The way that guy coughed out kids. Oy vey.”
Joe grimaced, sheepish on Vince’s behalf.
“Like here.” Moshe shambled back to the collage, peeled yet another picture.
Vince, also many years ago, beaming from within three little kids with ice cream.
Owen’s eyes roamed the pic. “Who the hell are they?” he said. “That’s not Rob or Sab. But—” He squinted. “Is that Chasek?”
The mystery brother. In the picture he was around three years old. That question—Whose baby is it Joe?—slithered back and Joe’s heart began knocking.
“Dunno their real names.” Moshe shrugged. “But I know what Vince called them.”
“Which was?” Joe asked, and Owen said, “Can I have this picture?”
Moshe clutched the photo. “What for? ’Cause I can tell you this, Mr. Policeman: none of these little scamps are who’s buried out there in The Crank.”
Joe and Owen both stared. Moshe clucked. “Just ’cause I’m old don’t mean I can’t figure things out. Prob’ly figure ’em out ’cause I’m old. Just like I know exactly who’s buried down there in The Crank. An‘ Joey, so do you.”
Startled, Joe gawped.
Moshe rolled rheumy eyes. “That’s a damn Nednik planted down in that gulley.”
Joe stared. “Why would you say that?”
Owen’s gaze bounced between them.
“Because that brood always did throw each other away.” Moshe sneered. “Think on how many of ’em drifted out to Vancouver. Landed on the Downtown East Side. Never heard from again.”
Owen cleared his throat. Moshe continued before he could speak. “Like Nikki Nednik, who up and buggered off with that kid.”
Angel. The picture Shades had was not Angel. Thoughts, questions, pinballed in Joe’s head.
Owen said, “Nikki Nednik—Shades’ girlfriend? The one you told me about?” He faced Joe.
“Yeah,” Joe rasped. “Moshe—”
“Don’t you be cutting those Nedniks no slack, Joey.” Moshe fixed him, a steely eye. “Talk about a crew who coughed out too many kids. Breeding with this, that, and the other. Maybe even with each other. An‘ never wanted a damn one of those babies. Hell, Old Lady Nednik was the local back-alley abortionist—coat hanger style.”
Jesus! Joe winced.
“It wouldn’t be nothin‘ to a Nednik to get rid of a kid, not matter how old. No value for life, that bunch. Ain’t none of ’em even living now, which proves my point.”
None living. The parallel to Pretty’s dead TVTE classmates crept like insects under Joe’s skin. And that night Nikki Nednik took off with Angel—she’d been at a TVTE party.
“Vince Haslom, crazy as he turned out, at least looked after his kids,” Moshe huffed.
Owen choked and even Joe could not help but say, “I looked after Vince’s kids, Moshe. Let’s not rewrite too much history.”
Moshe glowered, still clutching the pic. “Well, I know what I prefer to remember.”
Preferences and reality were two different things. Story of Joe’s life. Beyond that-- “You said Vince called these little kids something. What was it?”
“Angels,” answered Moshe.
Angels. Angel. Nikki Nednik and Shades and that picture—not Angel, but Owen. And all of it underscored by what now felt like some sort of heralding text: Whose baby is it, Joe?
Moshe said, “Vince even gave me a Bible lesson that day. Ha! Like I don’t know the Tanakh.”
“What did he say?” Owen asked, taking it out of Joe’s mouth.
“He said, Angels aren’t fluffy little do-gooders with wings,” Moshe orated and Joe was unnerved by how he, too, had somehow mastered Vince’s voice; fog and thunder. “They’re warriors,” he went on. “That’s what he told me. He called them his little avenger warriors.”
Like this excerpt? Be on the lookout for Shadow Valley Book II, early 2025
Till then, acquaint yourself with my Shadow Valley world with Book I, The Shadow Collector
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