Remembering Sarah

by Chris Mooney

  “You knew about the items under the floorboards.”

  “I told you, I overheard—”

  “I already talked with Merrick,” Mike lied. “He never said anything to you. Nobody did.”

  “I overheard it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I don’t want to argue with you. We’ll sit and talk with Detective Merrick, if that’s what you want. And I’m not going to press charges. That’s a promise.”

  The resolve that had fueled him for this entire trip was now crumbling. Why was Terry being so agreeable? Nothing he said tripped her up. She had an answer for everything. Was it possible he was wrong? What am I missing?

  Terry turned her head and flashed him a look of sympathy. “You have to let your daughter go. If you don’t, it will destroy you.”

  Mike opened up her laptop. “You won’t mind if I take a look on your laptop and verify your story, would you?”

  “The power button is on the far left, the one with the green square in it.”

  He placed the laptop on the top of the console between them and pressed the button.

  Terry slammed on the brakes.

  CHAPTER 49

  Mike was sitting sideways when Terry hit the brakes. He felt the side of his head slam against the windshield and white balls of pain exploded across his vision. He tumbled back against the seat, the sound of squealing rubber filling the air as the car skidded across the highway.

  Terry hit the gas. His head spinning and screaming, he tried to gain some footing when she hit the brakes again. Right before his eyes clamped shut, he saw the glowing blue numbers on the radio clock. His forehead slammed against the radio and more balls of white light exploded. He fell back against the seat, dimly aware that the car had pulled off the highway and was now bouncing its way down the grassy slope of the median strip.

  Then, some time later, stillness.

  Pain signals flared all the way up his spine; every muscle felt twisted and bruised. But he was conscious. He thought he heard a door open, yes, it was open; a steady ding-ding-ding chime filled the car.

  (She’s getting out hurry you’ve got to get up and move and get her or she’ll do something else Jesus she knows something about Sarah has to has to know she knows what hurry she knows)

  Mike opened his eyes and saw Terry’s blurry shape still in the car seat. He blinked, his eyes focusing a little better, clear enough to see that her seatbelt was off, the laptop clutched against her chest along with what looked like her purse, one hand in it, digging.

  Mike groped for her. She turned and screamed and violently slammed her fist into his face, two, three more blows before he managed to grab hold of her wrist. Terry twisted her body, trying to fight him off, and the laptop tumbled outside her door and dropped to the ground. Her free hand, the one digging in her purse, came out oh shit, she was holding a gun.

  Mike lunged forward with everything he had.

  The shot was deafening; it blew out the front windshield, and shards of glass rained down on them. He was lying sideways on top of her, all of his strength going into holding the hand with the gun while her other hand beat about his face. He pushed the back of her hand against a shard of glass stuck in the window and Terry screamed—a high-pitched, rabid sound that tore down his spine and scared him. Normal people don’t scream this way, this woman is crazy and she knows what happened to Sarah oh God she KNOWS.

  The gun dropped and tumbled to the floor, near the gas pedal and brakes. Mike went for the gun. Terry broke free and ran outside.

  Gun in hand, Mike tumbled out of the car and rolled against the ground. Terry had picked up the laptop only to put it back on the ground, the laptop open and Terry stomping on it with her sneakers.

  “Stop,” Mike screamed. “Stop or I swear to God I’ll shoot.”

  Terry ignored him and continued kicking. Using the car as leverage, Mike got to his feet and almost fell back down. His equilibrium was off, like he was drunk.

  Not drunk, a voice corrected him. It’s a concussion.

  The laptop’s screen was gone, and dozens of plastic keys and pieces were scattered across the ground. He staggered over to her, and when she saw him with the gun, she turned and ran into the woods.

  He aimed low, meaning to fire off a couple of warning shots. He had never fired a gun before, and when he squeezed the trigger he was surprised to feel the gun kick. He fired again.

  Terry screamed and he saw her legs buckle.

  When he caught up to her, he saw three blurred versions, Mike waving his gun at all three of them, relieved when, a moment later, the three bled back into one. He kept blinking, making sure Terry was still there. She was. A dark red spot was on the leg of her jeans, her hands clutching at it, her hair wild and messy. The sleeve of her sweater had been torn.

  “What did you do to Sarah?”

  Terry ignored him. She folded her hands and started to pray.

  Mike pressed the gun against her temple. “My daughter,” he said. “Tell me about my daughter.”

  Terry continued to pray. Her eyes were glazed over, staring in that vacant way that reminded him of a dark, empty house. Was it a trance? Wherever she was, she wasn’t here.

  “The police are already involved,” Mike said. His mouth was bone dry, and he was finding it difficult to form thoughts into words. Blood dripped down his face; he could feel it sliding down the back of his head and forehead, saw a drop hit the sleeve of his shirt. He was bleeding, but how badly? “This thing you’re involved in—”

  “Is so much bigger than you,” she said, snapping her head to him. “You can’t scare me. I am acting by the will of God and God alone will protect me.”

  Mike dug the gun harder into the side of her head, tilting it. “Tell me where she is,” he said. “Tell me and I’ll let you live.”

  “I don’t bargain with sinners. Sinners will be punished. You, your whore of a wife—you’ll all face judgment just as Father Jonah did. When the rope was slipped around his neck, he didn’t fight it because he knew he had sinned by forgiving those murdering whores. He will face God’s punishment because God’s punishment is swift, it is—”

  “You killed Jonah.” That wasn’t right. Jonah committed suicide; Merrick said so himself, right? Yes, of course he did. Yes, at the restaurant in Belham, Dakota’s. Mike remembered—at least he thought he did. He wasn’t sure.

  “Your daughter’s dead,” Terry said.

  Mike blinked, almost stumbled.

  “We killed her.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Deliver me,” Terry said and wrapped her mouth around the gun, her lips forming a gruesome smile around the barrel.

  Mike felt his finger pressing against the trigger.

  Don’t do it, a voice screamed at him. Don’t turn this nut into a martyr, that’s exactly what she wants you to do.

  He yanked the gun out of her mouth and then used his other hand to push Terry to the ground. She didn’t fight it, even when he rolled her onto her stomach. Terry’s face was turned to the side; her eyes were shut and she was mumbling what sounded like a prayer. Mike stood back up, planting his foot on the small of her back, and after he switched the gun to his left hand, he removed the cell phone from his back pocket. He was about to dial 911 when he realized he couldn’t see the numbers. They were blurring in and out. So was Terry’s face. So was everything around him.

  Mike blinked and kept blinking until everything snapped back picture perfect and then dialed 911.

  “I’ve got her,” Mike told the male operator.

  “Got who, sir?”

  “Terry Russell. Francis Jonah’s nurse. She knows what happened to Sarah—Sarah Sullivan, that’s my daughter. I’m her father.” The words came rushing out of him, bordering on a scream. “I’m her father, Mike Sullivan. You need to get here. You need to get here right away.”

  “Mr. Sullivan, I need you to slow down and—”

  “Listen to me. You’ve got to send people here right now. We don’t
have a lot of time.”

  “Tell me where you are.”

  Mike gave the operator the directions and then made him repeat them back. “I’ve got a gun to her head,” he said. “I’ve already shot her once. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yes. I understand.” The tone in the operator’s voice jumped, and he started speaking slow and loud so there would be no mistake. “Help is on the way, Mr. Sullivan. Just stay on the phone with me. You don’t want to do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

  “Then you better hurry.” Mike hung up. It was becoming even more difficult to concentrate, to fight off that urge to sit down, maybe close his eyes for a bit. Not to sleep, just a rest.

  THAT’S THE CONCUSSION TALKING DON’T DO IT YOU’RE SO CLOSE YOU’VE GOT TO FIGHT IT IF YOU SIT DOWN YOU’LL SHUT YOUR EYES AND YOU’LL LOSE SARAH AGAIN DO YOU WANT THAT?

  No. No, he didn’t want that—couldn’t bear the thought of it. Sarah was alive. No matter what Terry said, Sarah was alive and he wasn’t about to let her down again.

  The urge to sit down and rest came at him again and he fought it by thinking of Sarah about to head up the Hill, only this time when he offered his hand she grabbed it and he could feel the softness of her hand, and she was smiling, her glasses crooked on her face, he could see her face, her beautiful face, he could see it clear as day.

  “Don’t worry, Sarah. Daddy’s not going to let you go, I promise.”

  “She’s gone,” Terry said. “You’ll never find her.”

  Terry smiled—at least Mike thought she did. Her face, the ground, everything around him wasn’t swimming away, it was melting. He blinked three, four, five times. The melting wouldn’t stop.

  Terry was praying again; he could hear her mumbling.

  Mike pressed the pressed the gun against her temple.

  “Tell me,” he said and cocked the trigger. “Tell me right now.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Mike’s eyes fluttered open. He saw a wall-mounted TV playing an old episode of The Simpsons.For some reason Homer’s ass was on fire; he ran around, screaming, trying to find a spot to put out the flames.

  Mike heard a soft chuckle and his eyes cut sideways to a young, attractive woman with short blond hair who was busy making a note on a chart. She wore a white lab coat and had a stethoscope around her neck.

  A doctor or a nurse. He was in a hospital.

  (Terry)

  (who?)

  he moved a hand to his face and when he touched his forehead

  (Terry is Jonah’s nurse)

  he felt thick gauze bandaging packed along the right side of his head.

  (I was following Terry. I followed her to a gas station and then I climbed inside her Volvo and Terry freaked out and—)

  “Sarah,” he croaked.

  “No, Mr. Sullivan, don’t lift your head up.”

  Spikes of pain flared and his head crashed back against the pillow. Oh Jesus. Oh Christ. He turned on his side, wanting to throw up.

  “That’s it, just lie back and relax,” the woman said, and stepped up next to him. “I’m Dr. Tracy.”

  “I need to talk to the police.”

  “Slow down, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I do understand. The FBI is here.”

  Mike blinked, stared at her.

  “That’s right. There’s an agent posted outside your room who is very anxious to speak with you, but before he does, I need you to answer some questions for me. Tell me your first name.”

  “Michael.”

  “And where do you live?”

  “Belham. Belham, Massachusetts. It’s just outside of Boston. Where am I?”

  “Vermont. Do you know how you got here?”

  “I remember being in the woods.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “No. I was with a woman. Terry Russell. She was Jonah’s hospice nurse. Please, I need to speak with the FBI right now.”

  “Just stick to answering my questions for the moment, okay?”

  The doctor launched into a list of seemingly ridiculous questions: what was today’s date; the year; the name of the president. Mike answered all of them correctly, and then the doctor went on to explain that he had suffered a grade-two concussion. The CT scan they ran came back fine: no intercranial bleeding.

  “We’re going to keep you for the night,” the doctor said. “Tonight a nurse will come in and wake you up. If you don’t wake up easily, if you become confused or if you start vomiting, we’re going to keep you here, run some more tests. I think you’ll be fine, but for the next couple of weeks, you’re going to have to give your brain some time to heal. That means no physical activity, no work, lots of rest.”

  “I can’t remember how I got here.”

  “Sometimes with a head injury patients experience what’s called spotty amnesia. It’s completely normal. Your head took quite a few knocks.”

  No argument there. Behind whatever drugs they had given him, Mike could feel, very faintly, tiny throbs along the right side of his skull.

  The door swung open again and in walked a suit-and-tie guy with neatly trimmed blond hair and an all-business look on his face.

  “Mr. Sullivan, I’m Special Agent Mark Ferrell.”

  “My daughter,” Mike said again.

  Ferrell’s face changed slightly—closed up, Mike thought, and he felt his heart skip a beat.

  “We’ll get into all of that,” Ferrell said. “You feel up to talking?”

  Before Mike could answer, the doctor said, “Go easy on him.”

  “I will,” Ferrell said. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Good,” the doctor said. “Then you won’t mind me hanging around, see if you live up to your word.”

  Ferrell sat on the heating register and Mike said, “Terry Russell.”

  “In custody. She gave the state police one hell of a highway chase.”

  Mike remembered Terry on her knees, praying. He remembered cocking the trigger, wanting to scare her. Now that’s not exactly true, now is it? No. He did want to scare her, yes, but that other part of him had wanted to put another bullet in her. The thought hadn’t scared him so much as made him sleepy, and he remembered taking a step back from her, and then another, and then … Shit. What was he missing?

  The doctor said, “Are you okay, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “I don’t remember what happened in the woods.”

  “I’m sure it will come back to you,” Ferrell said. “I have agents speaking with Terry Russell right now, and the FBI is assisting with the investigation in Belham. Her buddy Lundi’s in protective custody. He’s looking to trade information for a lighter sentence. And we have Terry’s laptop. Now, we’ve barely scratched the surface of what’s going on, but I’ll tell you what I know so far. You don’t understand something, you’ve got a question, just jump right in and ask, okay?”

  Mike nodded. Why was Ferrell speaking so slowly?

  He’s not, a voice answered. It’s your head. It was used as a pinball and now you’re loaded with drugs, so make sure you pay attention. You might only have one shot here.

  Ferrell said, “What we know at this point is that Terry Russell and Anthony Lundi are part of a radical pro-life, ultra-Christian group that called themselves The Soldiers of Truth and Light. We believe this group has been operating for the better part of two decades. What this group does is kidnap young children from parents who’ve had abortions, brainwash these kids into thinking their parents are dead, and then these kids are placed into the Christian homes of adults who, for one reason or another, can’t have kids of their own. The new parents of these abducted children also belong to the group—that’s how they’ve maintained this level of secrecy for so long—and a good majority of them live in other countries, mainly Canada. This group operates in an Al Qaeda—like fashion strictly through encrypted email. They had members working in abortion clinics all over the country, gathering data on various women, who they w
ere—”

  “Terry told you all of this?” Mike couldn’t believe Terry would turn over this information. She had refused to talk with a gun pressed to her head, why would she talk now?

  “Terry’s refusing to cooperate,” Ferrell said. “Now her friend Lundi? He’s an ex-cop, so he knows how the game is played. At first he didn’t want to talk, but when we told him we had recovered the laptop, well, he practically started singing.”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “She broke the laptop. I saw it. The screen was gone.”

  “Ah. My fault. I assume everyone’s familiar with computers. Yes, technically, she broke the laptop. But she didn’t break the most important piece, which is the hard drive. We took that baby out, transferred it into another computer and once our boys hacked their way past the security, we were good to go. What we’ve uncovered so far is Terry’s address book with the names of all these people, addresses and phone numbers. And we have copies of her emails from the past three months. She didn’t know it, but her email program was set to auto-archive every email she received or sent.”

  That explained why Terry had been in such a rush to move the laptop out of the house. I told her about the abortions and she panicked, figured that it was only a matter of time until the police came knocking—and if they did, if for some reason they took the laptop into evidence, then they’d be able to examine her hard drive, see what was stored on it.

  “Terry made some phone calls on a cell phone during her drive,” Ferrell said. “It looks like she called some of the members of her group, who then turned around and alerted the families—you know, got them moving. You feeling okay?”

  “Just a little sleepy. Don’t stop talking.” He was afraid that if Ferrell stopped talking, he would fall back asleep and his hope would evaporate and when he woke up someone would come in and say this was a dream, I’m sorry,Mr. Sullivan, so sorry.

  “There was quite a lot of information on Jonah in these emails,” Ferrell said. “The first girl he allegedly molested all those years ago? The mother of the girl was a part of Terry’s group, and she convinced her daughter to go along with it. The little girl conveniently dropped the charges right before it went to court, but it didn’t matter. The seed of doubt was already planted.”