His For Christmas (7 page)

“
Is
she
dead,
Mr.
Whitley?
”

This
started
off
another
wave
of
whispers
and
mutters
from
the
townspeople
who,
much
to
Elliot
’
s
disgust,
failed
to
do
anything
much
but
mill
about
and
talk
amongst
themselves.
“
I
hope
not.
God,
I
hope
not.
”

The
girl
’
s
eyelashes
made
dark
crescent
shadows
on
her
pale,
sunken
cheeks
and
gently,
he
propped
her
in
his
arms,
hoping
against
hope
to
get
a
reaction,
any
reaction.

Her
head
lolled
back
on
his
arm
and
he
noted
the
dirt
smudges
on
her
face,
the
tangles
in
her
hair,
the
smell
of
unwashed
flesh.
He
’
d
seen
it
all
before,
with
Timothy
and
inwardly,
he
could
only
laugh
hysterically
at
the
sense
of
humor
Himself
seemed
to
have.

‘
Jesus,
’
he
thought.
‘
You
must
really,
truly
hate
me.
Or
love
me.
I
just
don
’
t
know.
’

But
what
he
did
know
was
the
girl
needed
attention.
And
maybe
a
warm
meal.
Already,
a
darkening
bruise
began
to
spread
across
her
hairline
and
he
hefted
her
in
his
arms,
alarmed
at
just
how
light
she
was.
She
couldn
’
t
weigh
any more
than
Timothy
and
the
boy
was
only
nine!
“
Anyone
know
where
Doc
Warner
is?
”

Someone
spoke
up,
a
vaguely
familiar
man
who
he
might
’
ve
seen
at
the
train station
at
some
point.
“
I
think
he
’
s
at
a
birthing.
”

Ms.
Blakely,
blond
hair
tied
back
in
a
severe
and
unbecoming
fashion,
hastened
down
the
three
stairs,
wringing
her
ink--stained
hands.
“
Oh,
Mr.
Whitley!
Are
you
quite
all
right?
I
apologize.
I
only
meant
to
get
the
vagrant
girl
out
of
our
doorway.
She
simply
would
not
leave!
”

He
watched
her
lips
curl
back
in
disgust
as
her
sharp
blue
eyes
fell
on
the
girl
in
his
arms
and
felt,
if
possible,
even
sicker.
“
I
’
m
sure
you
were
doing
what
any
person
here
would
do.
”