Page 8 of The Family Cross

Her arms fell to her sides, but her hands stayed in loose fists.

“He’ll talk,” she said. “I think he feels bad about it.”

We left them and crossed to Boog’s shack, though I vowed to return soon. Sampson knocked on a piece of plywood above an old army blanket nailed up as a door.

The blanket moved. A boy in his early teens stuck his head out, looked up at us. “You police?”

Sampson and I showed him our badges. “You Boog?” I said.

He crawled all the way out and stood, straw and dust in his hair. He was wearing a filthy blue T-shirt, sweatpants, and slides. “Yeah, I’m Boog.”

“Real name? Age?”

“Robert Bogner,” he said, acting uncomfortable. He looked past us, up the embankment. “I’m thirteen.”

It hurt my heart to realize this boy, living under these conditions, was not much older than my son Ali.

I followed his gaze and glanced up at the shadows. I saw a group of people in their twenties watching us from the ramp joists.

“You live here alone, Boog?” Sampson asked.

“Nah,” Boog said, scratching the back of his neck. “With my mother, but she’s not here right now.”

“What’s her name?”

“Nelly Bogner.”

I filed the name away, then asked, “Did you see the car burn?”

“Saw it get lit,” Boog said. “I know all about it. But…”

“But what?” Sampson said. “If you saw something, tell us.”

The kid’s eyes darted up the embankment again, then he rubbed his belly, his face tormented.

“Can you get me something to eat before I tell you? I got no breakfast this morning and no dinner last night.”

An hour later, I felt like I’d been conned—for a good cause, but still conned. Boog was polishing off his second cheeseburger at a greasy spoon half a mile from the Bridge to Nowhere on the far side of the lumberyard. He’d been truthful with us, but he spoke sparingly, slowing the delivery of what he’d actually witnessed to get the maximum amount of food out of us.

Sampson drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “So who lit the car on fire, Boog?”

He munched one of the last fries on his plate before shrugging. “I didn’t actually see the person’s face.”

“You said you saw everything, kid,” John growled.

“I did see everything. Except whoever lit it.”

“Give it to us back to front,” I said.

“Can I get some more fries first?” he asked. “And a refill on the cherry Coke?”

I signaled the waiter and held up a fry; he nodded his understanding.

Sampson said, “Talk, kid, or we’re taking you to juvie.”

“Hey, don’t do that,” he said, real fear in his voice. “My mom is coming back. She always does. She’s a singer. A really good one.”

Sampson and I remained quiet, just looking at him.