Free Gone by Lisa Gardner Page A

the lady in the purple suit, who was having a hard time yelling at a child who looked perpetually surprised with all the hair seared from his face.
    Dougie had been in BIG TROUBLE.
    This was going in his FILE. No one would touch him now. Didn’t he want a FAMILY? Didn’t he want a CHANCE? How COULD he?
    He could because he did and he would again. He knew that. The lady in purple knew that. Dougie liked fire. He liked the fiery spark of a match. He liked the way the flame gobbled up the little paper stick, then licked at his fingertips. It hurt. He’d seared his fingertips countless times, even blistered the palm of his hand. Fire hurt. But it wasn’t a bad sort of pain. It was real. It was honest. It was fire.
    Dougie liked it.
    And now, here he was. Living with the Carpenters. Good people, the lady in the purple suit had told him. Honest, hardworking. They’d specifically asked for a problem child (“Heaven help them,” the woman in the purple suit had murmured), so maybe they would know what to do with him. His new second father, Stanley, was reported to be very good with boys. Assistant football coach at the high school. Grew up with four brothers himself.
    Maybe he would be the one to finally take Dougie in hand.
    Dougie’s new bedroom in his fifth second home contained only a mattress. If he wanted sheets, Dougie was informed, he had to earn them. If he wanted blankets, he had to earn them. If he wanted toys, ditto.
    The wall in the kitchen contained an elaborate chart. Perform a chore, score a point. Ask for something politely, score a point. Do as he was told, score a point.
    Curse, lose a point. Talk back, lose a point. Break a rule, lose a point. So on and so forth.
    His new parents weren’t taking any chances either. No matches, no gasoline, no lighter fluid anywhere on the property. ’Least, not that Dougie had been able to find. ’Course, his searching time was limited. Every evening, come seven p.m., he was escorted to his room and locked in.
    First night, he got up at three a.m. and peed in the closet. In the morning, Stanley had simply handed him a sponge and escorted him back to his room.
    “You can use the sponge, or you can use your tongue, but you will clean that up, Dougie. Now get busy.”
    Stanley had stood there the entire time, big, muscley arms crossed over a big, muscley chest. Dougie had cleaned. At least the next night they left him a bucket.
    Dougie waited till midnight, then flipped over the bucket and used it to climb up to the window. His new “role model” dad had already nailed it shut.
    Stanley was a thinker. So, however, was Dougie.
    Dougie invested a whole three days into his next project. Yes, ma’am, I’ll do the dishes. Yes, ma’am, I’ll eat carrots. Yes, ma’am, I’ll brush my teeth. In return, he gained a sheet and the small art kit that he’d specifically requested.
    Night five, he was standing on his bucket, using a pen cap from the art kit to slowly and methodically wiggle out each nail. Took him until four a.m., but he got it. And then, for two whole weeks he could come and go as he pleased. They locked Dougie in his room, and quick as a wink, he was gone again, heading for the woods, or slogging into town in search of matches. Third week, however, Stanley caught him.
    Turned out his new second dad knew a lot more about punishment than Dougie did.
    The lady in the purple suit had visited shortly thereafter.
    “Dougie,” she’d said, “don’t you realize this is your last chance?”
    She had looked like she was going to cry. Her eyes had welled up. Her lower lip had trembled. It brought back a hazy memory to Dougie. Of a time and place he didn’t really remember. It was just a sensation in his mind, like a smell, or the feel of the wind on his face.
    He had wanted to go to the lady. He had wanted to curl up against her, press his face against her neck, the way he had seen other children do. He had wanted her to hug him, to tell him that everything would