Now Rex studied him more carefully. The jaw was narrower than James Carver's had been, and the hair was darker, but the eyes were unmistakable. He remembered those blue eyes narrowed over a troublesome carburetor, amused by mistakes that made other men swear, always looking for the simple explanation everybody else had missed. Rex had spent years trying not to think about James, and a child had brought him back into the room in less than a minute.
"How is your grandfather?" Rex asked.
"County General. Room two forty-seven. He had a stroke two weeks ago."
Brian shifted the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder. "Some days he opens his eyes. Sometimes he knows I'm there. The doctors say he needs a lot of help, and I can't give him what he needs."
Rex was silent. He had heard about the stroke from a man who delivered parts to the hospital, but there was a difference between hearing news about someone and having that person's grandson stand in front of you. The old mechanic was not yet seventy, but he had lived hard enough that the years were written across his hands. Rex could picture him in a hospital bed far too clearly.
"Where are you staying?" Rex asked.
"Right now? My grandfather's house. A neighbor checks on me." Brian hesitated, then added, "A caseworker came yesterday. She says I can't stay there alone. They found an opening in a group home in Springfield, and somebody is coming Friday to arrange everything."
Butcher's expression changed. The other mechanics had gone quiet again, this time not because of the grandfather's name but because they understood what the boy meant. Springfield was several hundred miles away. A thirteen-year-old who had lost his mother and now stood to lose his grandfather was being told to leave the only town where anyone remembered the names of his family.
"You should be talking to the caseworker," Rex said carefully. "Not making deals with motorcycle mechanics."
"I talked to her." Brian's fingers clenched around his backpack strap. "I told her about you, but she said she needed a real address and a responsible adult who could pass all the checks. She said knowing somebody isn't enough. I asked her for time. She said Friday."
There was nothing petulant in his voice, no adolescent conviction that adults were deliberately making his life miserable. He sounded like someone repeating terms he had memorized because memorizing them was the only way to hold himself together. Rex felt the first uncomfortable pull of responsibility, and he pushed it away. A garage was not a home simply because the men working there knew how to fix things.
"Why come here?" he asked.
Instead of answering, Brian walked toward the far corner. Dust had gathered on the tarp covering the old Harley, turning its black fabric gray. The motorcycle's front wheel rested on a flat tire, its handlebars leaned slightly to the left, and a small tray of abandoned fasteners sat on a stool beside it. Brian stopped before the machine as though he had reached the last room in a house he remembered from childhood.
"Because that's his bike," he said.
Butcher gave a short, incredulous laugh. "That thing hasn't run in six years. Three good mechanics have been through it, and all three had better sense than to keep throwing money at it."