Detective Martin Dearborn removed his suit jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. "New recruit, Paul?" "Afraid not, Marty," replied his long time partner and friend. "Prisoner. Thought we'd have a little chat before I start the booking process. Do you remember what we did with those bright lights and rubber hoses?" "I believe they're in the basement." Detective Cunningham gave an exaggerated sigh. "I guess I could go down and fetch 'em if I have to. Sure you don't want to talk, kid?" "My mom told me not to talk to strangers!" The prisoner emphasized his defiance by crossing his arms firmly over his chest. Hard to do when you're wearing a Spider-Man backpack. "I don't suppose she said anything about not playing in traffic during rush hour?" Paul Cunningham drawled, leaning back in his chair and chewing on a toothpick. That earned him a hostile glare. Of course, rush hour on the island usually consisted of three senior citizens and the postman, but many of the island residents had restricted licenses for a good reason. They were too old and too confused to negotiate mainland traffic. They'd been known to drive their Lincolns and Cadillacs kamikaze style into swimming pools and through store front windows. When Paul had spotted the four feet of lost little boy in the middle of Palm Avenue, Elsa Gunderson had been bearing down on him at nearly five miles an hour. Flipping on his emergency dash light and throwing the department issue sedan into park, he had braved Elsa's onslaught and scooped the boy out of harm's way. That had earned him five inches of Tommy the Train sneaker in the gut, and the closest thing to an expletive the child could come up with on short notice. "You, you, duck-filled plattymouse!" Ah, a connoisseur of the nature channel. Rubbing his gut and buckling the boy into a safety belt, the six-foot detective tried to look stern. "Boy, you're lucky my daddy's not around to hear you talk like that. You'd be heading for a serious seat warming." They spent the two-block drive to the police department in silence, both surreptitiously studying each other like bugs on a cork board. "Detective Cunningham?" It was Lilah, the department's secretary and dispatcher. She was nearing eighty, but every year the Chief begged her not to retire. She was the only one who knew what the hell was going on around the place. "Yes, Ma'am." Paul fought the urge to stand. It had taken Lilah months to break him of the habit of rising every time she entered the detective's squad room. Dropping his phone messages on his desk one afternoon, she'd calmly informed him that the next time he lifted his rear end out of his chair, he was going to get it swatted. "We have a report of a prison break from the elementary school playground. They said to watch ourselves. Apparently, this fellow's pretty dangerous." "Whew-eee, sounds mighty serious. Does this desperado have a name?" "Kyle Dietrich. The school notified Mr. Dietrich's mother of his escape. She's here to discuss the situation." Hearing this, the five-year-old slumped in his chair and began chewing furiously on his lower lip. Tears were imminent. Paul Cunningham couldn't have been more dumbstruck if he'd been rattlesnake bit in the ass. Kyle's mother was prettier than a, than a, ... For once, words failed him. He couldn't decide what to savor first. Kyle had inherited her jet-black hair, but while his was trimmed into an old-fashioned bowl cut, hers was so long and thick that it required about a dozen silver whatzits to keep it behaving. He had no trouble imagining how it would feel between his fingers. She had a beautiful face, full lips, and pretty little nibble-me ears. Paul felt a humming in his own ears and realized that if he didn't breathe soon, he'd be waking up in a hospital. He gulped for air. Then, the real trouble began. The divining rod between his legs drew his attention downward. Past the delicate collarbone, just south of the Lamplighter name tag. God have mercy on his soul. Now he was gulping air like a trout flopping on a wooden deck. She had a slender waist, modest hips, and muscular legs. She wasn't terribly tall, but he bet she would fit right nice underneath him on a bed. When he finished looking her over like a half-wit, sex starved adolescent, he forced his attention back to the woman inside the beautiful body. Her eyes did him in. The color of choice mahogany, they were now red-rimmed and dripping with misery and relief. Yes sir, he was done for. When he was ten, he'd done a little running away himself. When his parents came to fetch him from the ranch down the road, he'd climbed into the pickup truck with an attitude that would have soured buttermilk. It wasn't his daddy's threat of a world class whipping that had set him straight. It was the worry in his mother's eyes and the tears sliding down her face that had gotten through to his pea brain. He'd never run away again. Now it was time for Kyle to learn that tough lesson. If he lived long enough. If his mother didn't squeeze his guts out into a little pile on the floor. For his part, Kyle clung to her like lint on a wool suit. When she finally put him down, Paul gently put his large hand on top of the tiny boy's head. Turning him to look squarely into his mother's face, he spoke with a graceful mixture of kindness and sternness. "You scared her, Kyle. Don't ever do that again."
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