Mike looked up from what he was doing, asking the man
standing on the other side of the counter, "Can I help you?" The guy
was fairly innocuous as far as Mike was concerned. Average build, average
height, about forty, with blue eyes and thin lips.
"I hope so. I'm looking for someone."
"Someone who works here?"
"Doubtful. He ran away from home four years ago.
Until recently his family was unwilling to try to locate him. All right, I
should amend that. His father made it very clear no one was to look for him.
Recently he had a change of heart and hired me to try and find the young
man."
Mike smiled slightly. "If the kid's a runaway he
could be anywhere in the city, or the country as far as that's concerned, Mr.…"
"John Keefe. I'm well aware of that. I figured I
should begin here in the city, since this is where he lived, and homeless
shelters seemed like my best bet as a starting place."
"After four years?"
Mr. Keefe nodded. "From my research, I
understand you keep records of what you call your…clients, I suppose."
Mike snorted. "Do you have any idea how many
teens and young adults pass through our doors every day? Most of them have no
desire to give us names, for obvious reasons. Street names, yeah but real ones,
that's dubious at best. The only records we have are for the kids in our
Thirty-Day program. Our counselors work with them to help to get them back into
school or find jobs if the kid is interested."
"I was told basically the same thing at the last
two shelters I checked out." Mr. Keefe smiled dryly. "I know it's a
long shot."
"Very," Mike agreed. "Give me his
name. I can at least run it through the computer and see if I get a hit. If you
have a picture that would help too."
"I do. It's over four years old of course."
Mr. Keefe opened the messenger bag he was carrying, took out a folder then
handed Mike two photos.
Holy shit! The photos showed a rather plump young man, dressed
in jeans and a sweatshirt and wearing dark-framed glasses. His light brown hair
was long and hung loose, partially obscuring one side of his face. He seemed
angry and Mike knew why. After all he was the subject. He looked from the
photos to Mr. Keefe, asking, "These are the best ones you have?"
Mr. Keefe nodded. "His father ordered his family
to destroy any pictures and mementos they had of—I should probably tell you his
name. It's Michael O'Donnell. Anyway, after Michael ran away, his father did
his best to wipe out anything that would remind him and the family of the boy.
When Mr. O'Donnell decided he wanted to find Michael, I pointed out it would be
difficult unless I knew what he looked like."
"Apparently someone kept these." Mike
tapped the photos.
"Michael's sister. She found them, tucked away
in a book, about a year after Michael left. Rather than telling her father, she
squirreled them away, which is a good thing since I at least have something to
work with. I'm well aware that Michael probably won't look anything like he did
then but…" Mr. Keefe shrugged.
No kidding. Mike ran one hand over his short, now dark brown,
hair. Forty pounds lighter, contact
lenses—yeah, not at all like the photos.
"He doesn't ring any bells but let me search the computer data
base."
He did, and despite the fact he worked for the
shelter, the name Michael O'Donnell didn't come up. Not too surprising since he
was now Michael Desmond.
"There have been many Michaels over the years of
course. It's a fairly common name. Some are from as recently as a week or two
ago, but none with the last name of O'Donnell," he finally told Mr. Keefe.
"Oh well, it was worth a try. Do you have any
objection to my showing this picture around to the people who work here?"
Mike hesitated. Glancing at the pictures again, he
figured no one would associate the kid in them with him, even though there were
a couple of the staff who had been around when he'd first come to the shelter,
soon after he'd landed on the streets. Do to overcrowding he had only managed
to get a place on the rec room floor for a night. That had soured him on shelters
so it was back on the streets again. It wasn't until he'd decided to clean up
his act two years later that he'd returned, joining the Thirty-Day program. By
then his hair was short and he was much thinner than in the photos Mr. Keefe
had. He had decided to volunteer at the shelter after finishing the program and
a year ago had become a permanent employee.
"No, go on ahead," Mike said. "I'll
buzz you on through to the employee area first. That way you can talk to
whoever you find there without being interrupted."
Mr. Keefe cocked an eyebrow. "Why the
security?"
"We don't exactly get your average, upstanding
citizens coming here so the employee and classroom areas are kept locked. The
rest of the place is open twenty-four seven. When the kids come in, they check
in with whoever's manning the counter—me at the moment. If they aren't in the
Thirty-Day program, in which case they already have a bed, they're assigned one
for the night. Then they go inside"—he nodded to a pair of double-doors at
the far end of the room. "They have free run of the recreation area, and
the dining room when it's meal time."
"And you're here to act as the shelter's
Cerberus."
Mike laughed. "Minus two of the three
heads." He pointed toward the door to the employee area and buzzed Mr. Keefe
through. Then he pressed the intercom button. When one of the employees
answered, Mike asked if she could man the counter for a few minutes. She said
she could and ten minutes later Mike was outside, heading toward the park in
the next block. He needed to think and knew he wouldn't be disturbed there.
He sat on his favorite bench, tucked away at one side
of the park, leaning back with his hands behind his head.
Okay, so why
the hell did you suddenly decide you had to find me, Father? For damned sure it's
not because you realized you missed me. After all, I left because we
didn't see eye-to-eye on anything and you did your best to make my life a
living hell.
