Free Blood Bond by Sophie Littlefield Page A

do something, anything, everything. He took a job as a security guard as he waited to enroll in the police academy. He had been studying Bajiquan, a form of martial arts practiced by the Hui minority in China, as a way to blow off steam during the intense hours of studying; now he took it up with a vengeance. He ate little and slept less, but his body grew hard and strong as he filled the hours before work with punishing drills.
    He made few friends in his class at the academy, at least at first. He arrived early, opened his notebook, and while he waited for the instructors to say something he could write down, he felt the fury inside him rattling the cage, wanting to be let out. People knew what had happened to his father; there had been no hope of keeping that under wraps. A few of the guys wouldn’t sit near him; a few others made awkward attempts to get to know him. But Joe didn’t have room for any of that. All there was for him was his battle with his own anger.
    Time had helped, of course. Even then, Joe had known that eventually his father would improve, the worst memories would fade, his family would grow strong again the way a tree slowly grows a scar over a lightning strike. Mumtaz arranged Omar’s introduction to Sakeena, and Joe felt, at their wedding, a tiny spark of hope when he watched his still-weak father on the dance floor in his wheelchair. He graduated and began working, learned to get along with the people in the department. Eventually he reconnected with old friends, went on dates, babysat his brother’s babies, was able to sit with his father watching television without fighting the urge to run out into the streets and keep running until he caught up with that pickup truck and tore it apart with his bare hands.
    Joe unfolded the napkin and began again, on the diagonal. He made a faint humming sound in his throat, a small thing he did on those rare occasions when he felt the toxic mixture of anger and anxiety rise up in his gut. In a moment he’d mastered the surge and he could feel the layers scaling over.
    He was ready to go back to work.
    Â 

CHAPTER SEVEN
    ON THE WAY TO Hatcher Sproul’s, an address back in the far wooded reaches of Orinda, Joe called his parents.
    â€œHey, Pop. Mom said you wanted me to call.”
    â€œYes. I was at the pool.”
    â€œKeeping up with the laps. That’s good. Dr. Abbott won’t have to yell at you.”
    â€œAh, that Dr. Abbott. You know she is five years younger than you, Jamshed.”
    â€œI know, Pop.” His father mentioned it every time Jane Abbott’s name came up, which was often these days, since Osman had suffered a mild stroke six months ago and was doing occupational and physical therapy. Joe trod lightly around the subject; he didn’t want to do anything to lessen the old man’s enthusiasm for recovery. Neither of his parents had gotten over Joe’s decision to give up his medical career, but at least his father had finally accepted it.
    â€œI want you and Omar to come out here on Saturday, Jamshed. These screens I have, there are rips in them. We need to fix them before we store them for the winter.”
    â€œYou know, Pop,” Joe said lightly, “there’s a service that’ll come out and fix your screens on-site. Why don’t I give them a call? Omar and I will still come over, but maybe we can watch the game or something.”
    â€œOh no, that’s too expensive. I am sure we can do this.” Osman had not lost his fondness for tinkering, but his weakened left hand made it difficult.
    â€œI’ll split it with Omar. Better yet, Omar can pay for it. He’s rich.”
    â€œNo no, what a waste of money. But all right, fine. We’ll take them down and then your brother can drive them to the shop. Then we can take your mother to Shalimar for lunch, okay?”
    It was an unwinnable argument, like all of them. Joe relented and hung up; he needed to