Theodore Boone, the AbductionBook - 2011
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The abduction of April Finnemore took place in the dead of night, sometime between 9: 15 p.m., when she last spoke with Theo Boone, and 3: 30 a.m., when her mother entered her bedroom and realized she was gone.
He liked to think of himself as a misfit, even a rebel against the establishment. He wore weird clothes, long, gray hair pulled into a ponytail, sandals (even in cold weather), and usually had the Grateful Dead or Bob Dylan playing on the cheap stereo in his office.
The people who lived there were sometimes called “river rats,” a nickname they obviously found insulting. When they worked, they fished the Yancey and sold their catch to a cannery that produced cat and dog food. But they didn’t work much. They were an idle people, living off the river, living off welfare, feuding with each other over trivial matters, and in general, earning their reputation as quick-tempered deadbeats.
Theo’s thick braces had been stuck to his teeth for two years and he was sick of them. He could not imagine how a blazing mouth full of metal could possibly make anyone happier.
Your objection is useless. It is not overruled, nor is it sustained. It is simply ignored.
She looked at Theo and said, “You our lawyer?” Theo couldn’t think of anything else to say but, “Yes.” She started crying.
“The point, my dear nephew,... There’s a class of people out there, Theo— bums, drifters, hobos, homeless folk— who live in the underworld. They’re nameless, faceless; they move from town to town, hopping trains, hitchhiking, living in the woods and under the bridges. They’ve dropped out of society, and from time to time bad things happen to them..."
" ... help. I want a father who doesn’t leave for a month without saying good-bye and without calling home. I want a mother who’ll protect me. I can deal with a lot of the crazy stuff, as long as they don’t run away.”
They moved into the crowd, and if they looked a bit odd, no one seemed to notice— a sixty-two-year-old man with long, gray hair pulled into a ponytail, red socks, sandals, a brown plaid sweater that was at least thirty years old, and a thirteen-year-old kid wide-eyed in amazement.
“And drugs?” Ike asked. “Yes, and drinking, and girls. It’s silly and kinda sad to watch forty-year-old men trying to act cool in front of a bunch of college girls. But not my father. He was by far the best behaved.”
“My father told me he talked to my mom, and that he talked to the people at the school, and that everyone agreed that I would be gone for a week or so. No problem. I should’ve known better.”
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