by Darrell Case
Her fellow agent Derrick Strong drove Allison back to the Holiday Inn. She liked the big man. Someone in his past gave him the nickname `Abe’ not for his physique but for his honesty.
“Don't take it personally, Allison,” Derrick said, weaving through the rush hour traffic. “Jorgenson's been looking for revenge since they kicked him out of Quantico.”
“What's his problem?” Stripped of her body armor she wore a black t-shirt and jeans.
“One of the female recruits accused him of sexual harassment. No witnesses, no evidence, but he was given a choice. Take another assignment or be fired.”
“So that should work in my favor with the Review Board?” Allison said, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.
“Don't bet on it, Rome still has a lot of friends in the bureau.”
“Besides you look like his mother.”
“You're kidding.”
“No. I saw a picture of her. You two could be sisters.”
“If I look like his mother that should be a good thing right?”
“No his mother abandoned him and his father when Rome was ten years old. He's never forgiven her.”
“Wonderful. So he takes it out on me.”
“Afraid so.”
At the hotel Derrick flank Allison like a protective big brother. Ambling through the lobby dressed in camouflage, “FBI” in large white letters on his back, he looked as out of place as a bull at a picnic. His size made the agent an intimidating figure. A gentle man, Allison was sure she saw tears in his eyes. She wasn't sure if they were for her or the lost child. In her room on the sixth floor, he placed a beefy hand on her shoulder.
“Allison, stop beating yourself up, what happened to you could happen to any one of us,” Derrick said giving her shoulder a light squeeze. Allison knew better. Derrick spent 60 to 70 hours in the field. His investigations were flawless.
Allison's cell phone rang. She answered without looking at the screen. “Stevens” The chop, chop of a helicopter rotor greeted her. Jorgenson shouted over the roar of the engine. “Just thought you'd want to know we found Bobby Freeman.” He paused long enough for her to breathe a sigh of relief. What came next cut her like a knife. “He's dead. Shot execution style behind the ear.”
Allison felt faint. The child was dead. Behavioral was wrong, there were had been at least two kidnappers. Alison almost dropped the phone. Her fingers trembled, indeed her whole body shook. Still connected, the helicopter buzzed in her ear like an angry bee.
“It's your fault Stevens, you killed him!” Jorgenson shouted, was gone before she could reply. His last words reverberated in the quite room. They echoed Alison's own thoughts. Little Bobby Freeman was dead.
Allison rushed to the bathroom and slammed the door. She hung over the toilet and vomited. She grabbed a thick bath towel off the rack and buried her face in it. Stifling her sobs, she let the tears flow. She hadn't cried like this since her parents were murdered. In spite of her efforts, Derrick heard her sobs. She fought to control her emotions.
A few minutes later, Derrick gently tapped on the bathroom door. “Allison, are you all right?” she splashed some cold water on her face, and opened the door.
“Sure, no problem,” she said walking past him, her face set like stone. She picked up her suitcase. “Let's go.” Her hands trembled as she gripped the handle tightly, avoiding Derrick's glaze.