The Lion, The Lamb, The Hunted

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  I was smiling so big that my ears began to hurt, and then to my surprise, felt tears fill my eyes.

  He brought his gaze to mine and jutted his head forward a notch, mouth hanging open, almost as if making sure he was really seeing things right. Then his expression changed into a flash of enthusiastic recognition.

  A sudden burst of energy broke him free, propelling him right toward me, slipping and sliding his way along the slick, linoleum floors. He leaped up, threw his paws over my shoulders, and with furious excitement, began licking my face, my ears, my neck…anything he could cover. Then, he pulled back for a moment and held my gaze, watching me smile through tear-filled eyes. He gave one of those sideways tilts—the canine equivalent of a shrug—and then went back to work, licking the tears from my cheeks.

  “I think he likes you,” the receptionist said with a wink.

  “Yeah,” I said, trying to speak around his canine kisses, “who ever would have thought?”

  She smiled. “Sometimes a little love is all it takes.”

  No truer words…

  She told me the poor thing had been abused and neglected for years. The talk around town was that Flint kept him chained to that post ever since he was a puppy. Day in, day out, nobody paying attention to his needs, physical or emotional.

  All alone in this world.

  “Where’s he go from here?” I asked, still kneeling and running my hands through his fur.

  The receptionist shrugged and frowned.

  And that was the beginning: A whole new life.

  For us both.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The mighty lion tumbled.

  Warren Samuel Strademeyer, the beloved senator, was exposed for the entire world to see. A kidnapper. A murderer.

  The trial lasted nearly a month, and I sat through every minute of it, listening to all the lurid details. It would have felt like some horrific movie, only it was all about me.

  Warren and Jean’s peculiar connection to the notorious Bill Williams was finally revealed. As it turned out, they both knew him. He also grew up in Rose Park, Georgia. While Warren and Bill were never friends growing up, he knew exactly who to call when he needed someone to carry out my kidnapping. Warren had the money, and Bill had the mind for it; they were a perfect match. I never figured out whether those horrible stories Jean had told about him were actually true, and to be honest, didn’t want to.

  Flint Newsome was another one of Warren’s casualties, albeit, a very shady one. During my kidnapping investigation, Warren had paid him to lose the evidence—well, the boot print, anyway—but he couldn’t just take that; it would have seemed too obvious. So he paid Flint to take it all, hide it for a few days, then return it, minus one very important piece, of course.

  Apparently, Newsome owed somebody money for a bad gambling debt and figured he could dig into Warren’s deep pockets to get it. Around the same time we started investigating in Corvine, he called Warren, trying to blackmail him, saying he still had the boot print, which he’d kept in his safe all these years. He chose the wrong man. Bill was already in town, and Warren gave the go-ahead to get rid of him. Bill took the print and then Flint’s life.

  Camilla never had a son named Benjamin. It was Patrick, and he hadn’t died when I was two. He died while she was a pregnant, unwed sixteen-year-old. Warren convinced her to abort the child, then later sold her on the idea that I could be a replacement for him.

  But I couldn’t, even after she gave me his name.

  It only took the jury about four hours to come back with their verdicts. Kidnapping, murder for hire, obstruction of justice, and evidence tampering—guilty on all counts. No mercy from the judge, either, who gave him three consecutive life terms. The distinguished gentleman from Georgia became inmate number 23433-068 at Talladega Federal Correctional Institute in Alabama.

  I watched as they loaded him into the van headed for prison. A horde of reporters and photographers jockeyed around me for a good position, all trying to capture the moment. Just before getting in, Warren looked up at the commotion, and our eyes met briefly. Somewhere in the unspoken conversation between us, we knew that this was really the end. Then he climbed inside and the door slammed shut.

  I never saw him again.

  Warren died of a massive heart attack after serving less than twelve months of his sentence. Of course, the press covered it heavily. I watched file video taken while he was in prison and barely recognized the man, saw a mere shadow of the powerful politician I’d once known. Though he’d only been there for the better part of a year, it might as well have been twenty. Bound, shackled, and shuffling along, he was at least fifteen pounds lighter, appearing disheveled, diminutive, and weak. The once-burnished silver hair had turned ashen, as had the flawless, tanned complexion. Gone too were the custom tailored suits, once his hallmark, now traded for a drab prison uniform. A pathetic image if I’d ever seen one: the picture of a man who’d lost it all. A man waiting to die.

  I chose to continue living as Patrick Bannister. Nathan Kingsley seemed like a fable to me, a story I’d never read. Nathan may have been the name I was born with, but Patrick was who I had become. I stuck with what I knew.

  And it seemed that Patrick Bannister was destined to become an overnight celebrity…for all the wrong reasons. Good Morning America, Dateline NBC, 48 Hours Mystery: I appeared on all of them, but even that wasn’t enough to quench the public’s insatiable thirst for the unsavory. It was hard to go anywhere without flashbulbs shooting off in my face, the tabloids constantly hounding me, the attention reaching a fevered pitch. For a while, I spent a good part of my time hiding out. Eventually, fresh new scandals hit, and the press moved on from me. I was finally able to begin my new life, assimilating it with the old—the one I’d never come to know. The real one. Nathan Kingsley never really died, and Patrick Bannister never really lived. It took me some time to come to terms with the irony, that my entire life had been nothing more than a lie. Warren and his clan of misfits had robbed me of something essential, something that most people take for granted: an identity, a sense of self—and the worst part of all, just to save his lousy career. Of course, in the end it did just the opposite.

  The fact that my kidnapper was also my father would be a burden I’d have to bear. I would live with that. Seeing justice served made it a little easier. Finding out that Camilla wasn’t my mother, for some reason, didn’t seem quite as hard—maybe because she never felt like much of one to me, anyway.

  I still speak to CJ often. She’s now one of my closest friends, always will be. After my story broke, I gave her the exclusive rights. My wounds were still too tender, and I wasn’t comfortable writing about them. But I wanted the story told fairly, and that’s just what she did. The book came out a year later, shot to the top of the New York Times Best Sellers List, and then the awards began piling up. She moved back to Dallas, became the star reporter for The Tribune News, and married a coworker shortly after. She’d finally paid her dues, finally got everything she deserved, and I couldn’t have been happier for her.

  We met at LAX shortly after the book went to number one; she was making her way to Hollywood for a consultation with one of the major film studios. Her book was on its way to the Silver Screen. So was my life.

  I barely recognized her when she got off the plane.

  “My God,” I said, still locked in her hug, “you look amazing.”

  She pulled back, took me in, then shook her head with a great big smile and a tear in her eye. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, Pat. You just don’t know.”

  Then we stood there for a long time, just grinning at each other like two stupid teenagers. We couldn’t help it—we’d been through so much together.

  We had dinner together and spent every minute of it laughing and catching up.

  She put down her menu and gazed at me. “You look wonderful, Pat, you really do. I still can’t figure it out—as good looking as you are, as nice as you are, how come nobody�
��s snagged you yet?”

  “Guess I’m not snaggable.”

  “Nonsense,” she said, waving it off with a hand.

  Just then, the waitress came over.

  “Iced tea for me,” I said, “and a Tom Collins for—”

  “Actually,” CJ said, placing her hand over mine, “just a soda water for me.”

  “Soda water?” I asked after the waitress left.

  “Well, as much I love me some Tommy…I can’t. But I’m sure I’ll be needing one about every hour after baby’s born.” Then she grinned.

  I fell back in my chair, widened my eyes. “You’re kidding me...”

  “Nope.” Bigger grin. “Can you believe it?”

  “What…when?”

  “In about seven months. We just found out.”

  “Oh, man, CJ… I’m so happy for you. That’s wonderful.”

  “Well, it wasn’t planned, I assure you. Guess we had a little too much fun on the honeymoon. But what the hell, right? I mean we’re doing okay financially, and we’re happy. It’ll all work out.”

  It sounded like she was asking for my assurance, so I gave it to her. “I know it will.”

  “But what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  She leaned back, crossed her arms, and deadpanned me.

  “What?”

  “Avoiding?” she reminded.

  I looked away and grinned. This was starting to sound familiar. It was us all over again, three years ago. Just for old times sake, I did it again: “Am I?”

  She sighed. “Just answer the question, smart guy, will you? How are you doing? And I mean, really doing. Don’t bother giving me the usual stuff you throw at other people, either. Got my B.S. meter turned up to high.”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “You know. Not gonna say it’s been easy.”

  “You’d be lying if you did...”

  “But I’m making progress, I really am.”

  She nodded, seemed to drift away, then came back with a serious look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She studied me for a moment before speaking, and then, “I need to show you something.”

  “Okay…”

  She opened her purse, pulled out an envelope, and handed it over while holding my eye contact. I had a hard time reading her expression. Anxious concern…or maybe something else. Inside the envelope, I found a sheet of paper—very old, yellowed by age.

  As soon as I saw the first line, I knew who’d written it. I looked up at CJ. “Where did you—?”

  She lifted her hand off the table and placed it on top of mine. With a sad smile, she shook her head. “Just read it.”

  I did. It was a letter written the day after I was kidnapped.

  July 30, 1976

  My dearest Nathan,

  I’m writing this note, hoping it will someday find its way to you. I honestly don’t know if it ever will, but at this point, hope is all I have. There’s so very little else left in my life. When I lost you, I lost everything.

  My dear sweet boy, if you only end up knowing one thing about me, please let it be that I love you with all my heart. You became my world the minute you entered it, and you will be my world until the day I die. I never knew I had so much love to give until you came along.

  And that’s why it’s so important to me that you know the truth. I didn’t give you up. I would never, ever do that. You were taken from me, literally ripped from my arms. I told them they’d have to kill me first, and I meant it. I fought like hell. But I was no match for them.

  I tried so hard but couldn’t save you. My precious boy, I failed you in the worst possible way, and it’s something I live with every single day. They might as well have ripped the heart right from my chest, and in a way, I guess they did.

  They say nothing is more powerful than a mother’s love. So I’m hoping that somehow, in some way, you can feel my love no matter how many miles stand between us. Remember that it’s always here for you, my love, whenever you need it, and it will never fail you.

  You probably won’t remember this, but when you were a baby I used to sing to you whenever you cried. No matter how upset you were, it always seemed to bring a smile to your face. You had the most beautiful smile. I bet you still do. Oh, what I wouldn’t give to see that smile once more. How I miss it. Please think of this song whenever you’re troubled and whenever love is missing from your life. May you hear it and let it fill any voids where love is lacking. Because with it comes all the love you’ll ever need. From me.

  Through the smiles

  Through the frowns

  Through life’s ups and downs

  Through distance, no resistance

  A mother’s love never fades

  Never lies

  Never dies

  I love you, Mom

  And she did. The love I’d so desperately been searching for, so desperately needed, had been there all along. I just didn’t know it.

  I closed my eyes and felt a tear roll down my cheek, then CJ’s warm hand on mine. She kept it there for a long time but said nothing. I opened my eyes and ran my fingers gently across the words, unable to look up at her. Not yet. It was just too hard.

  “She loved you, Patrick,” CJ finally said.

  I nodded, still staring at the note, wiping away fresh new tears.

  “More than anything, she did.”

  I looked up at her, and through a broken voice, I said, “Where did you get this?”

  A gentle smile filled with warmth. “Aurora found it going through old records.”

  Aurora. My guardian angel.

  Something within me healed that day; a question found its answer, an empty space became filled. My world came full circle, and it felt as if my pain had finally found a place to rest—a safe one. I could go on now.

  I would go on.

  I still make my lists, although not as often as I did—at least, I don’t write danger on bathroom walls anymore. I’m in therapy. We’re making progress. I’ve learned that a relapse is just a relapse, and it isn’t the end of the world. More than anything, though, I’ve found peace and have a better understanding of my obsessive compulsive disorder. It took me a long time just to be able to say those words, to admit that it even applied to me. I’m no longer ashamed of it. I’ve learned that I share my pain with more than three million other people and find great comfort in that.

  I know it’ll take time to heal the wounds left by Camilla and Warren. I also know that I’ll eventually need to forgive them. I’m not there yet, but I’m working on it. My Road to Peace is a long one, but I’ll get there. Besides, it can’t be any worse than the road that brought me to this point.

  The dreams still come, though not nearly as often as they once did and not nearly as disturbing. The little boy is no longer there. He’s gone. I now know that it was Nathan standing on that bridge. Like wings ripped from an angel, so too was his identity, his innocence. I’d like to think that I’ve set him free, set myself free, that in some way he still lives through me.

  The dog and I got off to a rough start but found our happy ending together. I named him Bullet. A single gunshot brought us together, and that single gunshot forever changed our lives for the better. The receptionist gave me the actual round they removed from his shoulder; I carry it in my pocket, a reminder that no matter how bad the circumstances, you can always rise from the ashes. Not that I really needed it: he and I are living, breathing proof.

  He’s my best friend, and I love him dearly. Sometimes while we’re napping on the couch, his head tucked comfortably under my arm, he’ll suddenly awaken in the midst of what appears to be a bad dream. When he looks up at me, his fearful, restless gaze gives way to one of those priceless canine expressions that no words could ever communicate. He licks my face, tucks his head back under my arm, then goes quietly off to sleep again, thankful we’re together.

  Me too, buddy, me too.

  ###

  Excerpt from The #1 Bestseller, Whi
le the Savage Sleeps

  PROLOGUE

  Far beyond the rough-hewn mountaintops, beyond the pathless desert flowing with cacti, yucca, and sagebrush, two stony peaks rise through the air like massive, chiseled arms reaching for the heavens.

  At first glance, they can almost pass for mirror images of each other; but as you steady your gaze and narrow your focus, the illusion begins to fade—so too, do the similarities, and it is there you find that the two are nothing alike.

  High River Peak is green, picturesque, and well-traveled, its swift-moving rapids a sure bet for those seeking recreation as well as reprieve from New Mexico’s searing summer heat.

  Sentry Peak is its antithesis.

  Vacuous, dismal, and barren, it’s a no-man’s-land. The only sign of life is an old and abandoned six-story building resting along the easternmost bluff; although, rest would hardly describe what it does—it looms, much like a hungry vulture eying its prey: imposing, hostile, imminent.

  There is one thing the two peaks have in common, and that is Faith.

  Tucked away like a well-kept secret, Faith, New Mexico lies nestled directly between them. It’s the kind of place, where, if you didn’t know better, you’d almost swear time stood still. No fast food chains here, no superstores, no multiplex movie theaters—everything is still mom-and-pop-operated. Residents dwell in cozy pastoral farmhouses passed down through generations, white sheets sway on clotheslines—wiggling and puffing to the commands of a fitful wind—and people get their milk, not at the corner convenience store, but from cows grazing just a few hundred feet from their front doors.

  Highway Ten, the region’s time-honored thoroughfare, edges its way along the town’s outskirts. It captures the classic image Madison Avenue has, for years, tried duplicating in both TV and print ads: terrain dominated by flat, dusty stretches of sun-beaten blacktop, along with nostalgic-looking filling stations and greasy-spoon diners, each decked out in luminous, wandering neon. You can almost hear the scratchy old vinyl 45s spinning in the background as an unforgiving sun bakes the midday air, forcing temperatures to teeter just a few degrees beyond livable. It’s not Route 66, but it’s close, and Faith is about as apple pie as any town can get without tasting too saccharine.