Taji's Syndrome by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online Page A

the camper abruptly and it slithered across the road, sliding into the parking lot of the Riverbend Motel. “Wait here while I get us checked in. I’ll be quick about it.”
    “Great.” He watched his father stamp into the light over the office and pound on the door. For an instant he thought he might open the door and slip away, making his way toward the highway where he could hitch a ride back to Golden and his mother. But he had sense enough to know that the chances were he would freeze or his father would find him and take out after him with his fists again. Harold shuddered, and told himself that it was from cold.
    “Okay,” said Frank as soon as he came back. “We got Unit Number Eleven. Here’s the key. I want you to get the duffles out and bring them in. We can get the rest in the morning. I’ll be back in a little while. Don’t let nobody in while I’m gone, you understand?”
    “Yes, Dad,” said Harold, knowing that his father would be going in search of drink, since he had run out of the cheap alcoholic liquid that called itself scotch earlier in the day. “Anything you say.”
    “You’re a good boy, Harold,” said Frank as he closed the door.
    As soon as he had finished carrying the duffles into the motel room, Harold went back to the office and asked the manager if there was a pay phone around. “I . . . got some people to call, with the roads being closed.”
    “Sure, kid,” said the manager. “There’s one down the hall. Takes quarters only.” He turned and started back to his sitting room behind the reception desk and then said, “You want a sandwich? Your father said you hadn’t had supper yet.”
    “That would be nice,” Harold said uncertainly. “But I don’t have any money—he does.”
    “I’ll put it on the bill,” offered the manager, and once again pointed down the hall. “Go ahead and make your calls. I’ll have a couple sandwiches ready when you’re through.”
    “Thanks,” said Harold, perplexed by the kindness the manager was showing him. He quickly put that out of his mind as he went to the phone and punched in the familiar number and the code to make it collect. He felt a twinge of guilt at making his mother pay to hear from him, but it passed as he listened to the beeps and clicks.
    “Who shall I say is calling?” asked the electronic voice of the computerized operator.
    “Harold. Harold Porter.” He felt his throat go dry as he waited, listening to the rings and counting them.
    Alexa picked up her receiver on the ninth ring. “Hello?” At the sound of his mother’s voice, Harold had to swallow hard to keep from crying. Sternly he admonished himself to be more grown-up, but as Alexa took the call, he felt tears well in his eyes.
    “Harold?” she pleaded. “Is that you? Really?”
    “Hi, Mom,” he said inanely. “Yeah. How are you?”
    “I’m doing fine. What about you? Where are you? Are you all right? Oh, God, I’ve been so worried about you.”
    He knew that she was at the edge of her control and he tried to reassure her. “I’m doing okay. I miss you.”
    “Oh, baby, I miss you so much.”
    She was crying now; he could hear the sound of it in her words and her silences. “I miss you, too.”
    “Where are you?” she made herself ask.
    “Somewhere in Idaho. It’s snowing. We were in Montana last week, and then something happened and . . . ” He choked.
    “You don’t have to tell me; I know.” In her tears there was anger now. “He hasn’t hurt you again, has he?”
    “No, Mom, not really,” he answered evasively. “Look, he said something about going to a Bowan place near Twin Falls. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do, but that’s what he said, and maybe . . .”
    “I’ll try. I’ll call the State Police again and see if they’re willing to do anything. If he hadn’t taken you out of Colorado, it would be a lot easier. It always takes time when there’s another state involved.” Determination drove the