by Joseph Lewis
Sitting around the table with Jeremy were Detective Jamie Graff, Captain Jack O’Brien, and Agent Summer Storm. Sitting off to the side were the two surgeons who had worked on Tim and Mike. They listened intently, nodding every so often to a point Jeremy made or a question that was posed to him, but otherwise just listened.
“We were told Tim had surgery,” Thad Pruitt said. “Why?”
The two surgeons looked at each other, deciding who would answer the question. Finally, Blaine Flasch cleared his throat, took his glasses off and sort of played with them, debating what words to use. Finally, he shook his head and ran his hand through his hair, giving up on any polite, sanitized way to say what needed to be said.
“Both Tim and Mike had similar injuries to their anus and rectum. They’re going to be fine in the long run, but in the short term, there will be discomfort and some pain. They’ll have to wash carefully, take Sitz baths, apply antiseptic ointment, but they’re going to be fine.”
The parents stared at him, not comprehending what he was saying, and then slowly the meaning of his words seeped in, showing first on their faces. Two of the mothers covered their mouths. Tears spilled out of each of the mothers’ eyes. The fathers grew pale, and Thad Pruitt clenched his fist.
“Our sons were raped.” Ted Bailey didn’t ask the question.
He merely voiced what had registered in each of the parents’ minds.
“They were . . .” he didn’t, couldn’t finish.
“Oh my God,” Sarah Bailey said, clutching Jennifer Erickson’s hand. “Oh my God,” she repeated.
Thad Pruitt put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, their heads together in a silent hug.
“Tim’ll be fine,” he said softly.
“This is what you meant when you said it would be difficult for the boys to tell us what they went through, isn’t it?” Mark Erickson asked.
“Yes,” Jeremy said nodding. “At the very least, these boys have been forced to do things that we don’t want to imagine children doing. In some cases, the boys were tortured and what they experienced no one . . . not me, not you . . . no one can imagine.”
Jeremy paused then said, “They might not ever tell you exactly what happened or what they went through, but what they do tell you will be painful for them to share and painful for you to hear.”
“What about . . .” Ted Bailey searched for the words, and then finally said, “AIDS?”
The other adults turned and looked at Doctor Flasch who shrugged and said softly, “The boys will have to be tested every six months for at least a year or two, maybe longer.”
The statement was met with silence. It was a thick and living thing, enough to choke, enough to suffocate. Each adult wrestled with their thoughts, their feelings. They tried to rationalize and deny. They were angry. But mostly, they were helpless. There was nothing they could do to make it go away, to make it disappear, and they certainly couldn’t have a do over, either for themselves or more importantly, for their sons.
Jeremy had seen this same reaction in each of the adults he had spoken to in the years he’d been on call for law enforcement agencies. Hell, he still felt this way at times when he looked at his son, Randy.
“What now?” Laura Pruitt asked. “What do the boys need now? How can we help them?”
Jeremy smiled sadly.
“They need each other. The boys suffered together. They cried together. They watched other boys get taken away, never to be seen again. They need you.”
The parents nodded and wiped away tears; took Kleenex and wiped their eyes, their noses. Somehow, someway, they garnered up their courage. Jeremy saw it building, if ever so slowly, weakly, but it was there. A resolve.
“Wouldn’t it be better if they didn’t talk about it? You know, just move on?” Laura Pruitt asked.
Jeremy shook his head and said, “No. That would just bottle things up. If you discourage them from talking about it, that might confirm to the boys that you are disappointed in them and that what they did, even though they didn’t have any choice in the matter, was wrong.”
“Can the boys talk to you?” Sarah Bailey asked.
“I’m willing to work with them, but they might need someone with more experience. But yes. We’ll make sure the boys have my number as well as my son’s number. My son, Randy has been through this too, though not as long or as extensively as your boys.”
The adults stared at one another in silence. Mark Erickson puffed out his cheeks and slipped an arm around his wife, Jennifer. Thad and Laura Pruitt rested their heads on each other. Sarah and Ted Bailey said nothing. They had been feeling guilty because they had blamed Mark and Jennifer because the boys had been taken from their house. Though they had apologized and though that apology had been accepted, the guilt was still there and would be for a long time.
Trying to lighten the mood in the room, Jeremy said, “Don’t forget . . . these boys survived. They lived. They have incredible courage . . . and hope . . . and resilience.” He paused and then said again, “They survived. Honestly, you can be very proud of them.”
* * *
Tim had climbed up and sat on the end of Brett’s bed. He wasn’t supposed to be there, but Skip had snuck him in and guarded the door so the friends could talk.
“Tim, I’m scared.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to be alone,” Brett said tears running down his cheeks.
Tim stared at his friend, not understanding what he was trying to say.
“My parents won’t be here until tomorrow, maybe the day after. You’re leaving along with some of the other guys tomorrow. The doctor said I’ll be in the hospital for another day or two. I don’t want to be by myself,” Brett said. “And then what? What happens next?”
Tim got up from the foot of the bed and lay down next to his friend, carefully slipping his arm around his shoulders. Brett laid his head on Tim’s shoulder.
“You and Johnny are my best friends, and Patrick’s like my little brother,” Brett said absent-mindedly wiping his tears off on Tim’s robe. “Are we ever going to see each other again?”
“God, I hope so,” Tim said. “I don’t know if I would have made it without you, Brett.”
Brett looked up at his friend, shook his head and said, “You were the strong one, Tim. Everyone looked up to you.”
“I don’t feel very strong, and I didn’t feel like a leader,” Tim said, wiping tears from his face with his free hand. “Besides, you were always the toughest.”
“Tim, promise me we’ll stay in touch,” Brett pleaded. “Promise? Really promise?”
Tim turned and kissed the top of Brett’s head and said, “We’ll always be friends, Brett. I promise.”
They lay there side by side, Brett’s head resting on Tim’s shoulder, Tim with his arm around Brett’s shoulder.
Brett reached over and took hold of Tim’s hand and said, “I’m so scared, Tim. I don’t know why, but I’m scared. Even when I shot those two assholes, I wasn’t afraid.” He paused, looked up at his friend and asked, “What does that mean?”
“Dunno, Brett.” Tim kissed the top of his head again.
“The doctor told me that I probably won’t be able to play football for at least a year. Maybe not ever again,” Brett said.
Tim nodded and clenched a fist.
“I used to play basketball . . . my favorite sport. I played baseball and could hit it a ton . . . pitch.” He paused, shook his head and clenched his fist again. “I haven’t played in over two years. I don’t even know if I can play anymore.”
“We’re kind of fucked up, huh?” Brett said with a humorless laugh.
Tim held him tighter.
There was a knock on the door and Ian stuck his head in.
“Can we come in?”
Without waiting for an answer, the door opened, and the boys from Chicago filed in one by one, crowding around Brett’s bed. Randy entered last and stood against the door.
“Hi guys,” Brett said, str
aightening up and wiping the tears off his face. “Mike, sit down here,” pointing to a spot on his bed. “You need to get off your feet.”
Stephen and Ian helped Mike up on Brett’s bed. It was painful to sit, so like Tim, he sort of leaned back, resting on his elbow and his hip. Patrick ended up next to Brett sitting half on, half off the bed. Brett took a hold of his hand and gave it a squeeze before letting go. They were treated as if they were brothers, and both of them still felt and would still feel as if they were.
“You have a hell of a shiner,” Brett said to Mike.
Mike nodded and smiled, pointing at his missing teeth.
“Shit, they really fucked you up!”
The boys laughed, including Mike.
Patrick said for all of them, “We wanted to thank you.”
Brett looked at Patrick, then Tim, and then at each of the boys, who smiled back at him and nodded. Ian spoke for the group.
“Skip told us that if it weren’t for you, we might not be here.”
“’Course you had to go and get yourself shot all hero-like,” Tim said bumping his head into Brett’s.
The boys laughed and then talked all at once about the phone calls to their parents, when they would arrive and get to go home. Randy watched them, mostly watching Tim and Brett. Tim’s eyes locked on Randy’s and he nodded.
“Randy, some of us were talking . . .” Tim said.
Everyone settled down and looked at Randy, who blushed and remained glued to the door. He felt like an intruder because while he went through much of what they did, he was only held captive for one night before he had escaped and was rescued.
“Some of us are worried about being alone.”
Tim felt Brett elbow him slightly, not unnoticed by Randy.
“You have each other. You have e-mail, cell phones, landlines, and Facebook,” Randy said as he sat down on the arm of a chair that a smaller boy, Ben sat in. “You can always visit with each other. And more than anything, you have one thing in common that no one can take away.”
“Yeah . . . Butch gave all of us showers . . . and hand-jobs,” Ian said. “Every so often, a blow job.”
The boys laughed, including Randy.
“And about a thousand meals from McDonald’s and Taco Smell,” Patrick said.
The boys laughed some more.
“A fucking million meals!” Charlie said.
“We didn’t watch TV for a year!” Zach said. “Cory and I turned it on, flipped through some channels, and turned it back off. I guess we didn’t miss much.”
The boys laughed some more and then Tim said, “What? What do we have in common?”
The boys turned back to Randy who said, “You had the courage to survive. You didn’t give up. You guys are tougher than anyone I know.”
“You too,” Brett said.
Randy shook his head.
“Not like you guys.”
“Tell them about George, the Indian dude,” Ian said.
Randy told them about George and how he had witnessed the murder of the boy and how, because he had come forward, had lost his family and home.
“Where’s he now?” Patrick asked.
“For now he’s staying with me, my dad and my brother. We’ve invited him to stay with us, but we don’t know if he will.”
“It was because of him that we were saved, wasn’t it?” Ian said.
“Well, yeah,” Randy nodded. “He started it all, but there’s another boy, Garrett, that turned in his coach. That’s who led Jamie and Pete to you.”
“We should thank this Garrett guy too,” Tim said.
The boys agreed, but didn’t know how that might be accomplished.
Stephen waited until the boys were quiet once again and then said, “Um . . . what do we tell our parents?”
“As little or as much as you want. It’s up to you,” Randy said.
Randy paused, looked at his hands as if he were ashamed.
“At first, I didn’t tell my dad anything because I was embarrassed. I didn’t really know him,” Randy said.
He explained about his running away, about getting picked up by Mitch and Ernie, about escaping and being in foster care and then getting adopted by Jeremy.
“I was ashamed.” He looked at each of the boys and said, “I know it’s hard and just like you, I didn’t want to talk about it. My dad didn’t push me, but over time, I told him everything.”
“Everything?” Cory asked.
“Yeah, everything,” Randy said nodding.
He looked around the room at each of the boys.
“I think the more you talk about it, it gets less.” He shrugged. “It won’t ever go away, but it gets less.”
“I don’t know if I can tell my dad . . . my mom,” Ian said.
“For me, the worst part wasn’t telling my dad about it. It was sitting in school and wondering what everyone was thinking.”
The boys lowered their eyes to the floor, sneaking glances at one another. None of them had known how they would talk with their parents about what they were forced to do or how they would tell their parents what had been done to them. And not surprisingly, none of the boys discussed this with each other. Not even Tim and Brett.
“Do me a favor,” Randy said. “I want each of you to think of the worst thing you had to do.”
He paused and saw the boys thinking, disgust registering on their faces.
He leaned forward, looked at the boys and said, “It took me a long time to figure out, but what I learned was that no matter what anyone thought about me, no matter what anyone said about me, no matter what anyone called me, it was nothing like what had already happened to me.” He paused and said, “Think about that.”
“We survived,” Tim said.
“Yeah, you survived,” Randy said.
The boys reached out and either took each other’s hands or put their arms around shoulders and moved together in a tight circle.
“We have each other,” Tim said. “And we’ll never be alone.” This last, he said to Brett.
“It’s scary,” Randy said. “It’ll take a long time, but you have to get up every morning, look in the mirror and say, ‘I survived’.” Then he laughed and added, “Someday, you might actually believe it.”
The boys laughed with him.
“We need to visit Johnny,” Brett said.
“He’s still pretty sick though, and the doctors don’t know if he’s going to make it, but you’re right,” Tim said. “Let’s go see Johnny.”
“There are some other guys we need to thank,” Brett added. “I heard one guy’s still here in the hospital, and one cop got shot and another died in Kansas City. We need to thank them.”
The boys nodded, filed out of the room and filled the hallway. Already gathered in the hallway were the Pruitts, the Ericksons, the Baileys, Pete, Summer, Chet, Jamie, Jack O’Brien and Jeremy. Several nurses, orderlies and doctors had stepped out of rooms and nurses’ stations to see what was happening. One by one, the boys shook hands or hugged the adults standing there, saying thank you.
“Where are you guys headed,” Pete asked.
“To see Johnny,” Brett said.
“I don’t think he’s allowed visitors,” Pete said.
“He’ll see us,” Brett said with a smile. “We need to be together.”
“Ian, why don’t you and Patrick lead,” Tim said. “But go slow. If Mike’s butt hurts as much as mine does, this could take us all day.”
The boys laughed and formed up two by two.
“Randy, can you help Stephen with Mike?” Tim asked.
Randy stepped around Tim and Brett, and Mike reached out and slipped his arm around Randy’s shoulder. At the end just behind Randy, Mike and Stephen were Tim and Brett, holding onto each other.
“Mom and Dad, I’ll be back in a bit,” Tim said.
“Us too,” Stephen said.
Mike smiled and waved at his parents, who waved back. Under all the bruises and missing teeth and guarded shuffle, t
he adults saw a glimpse of Mike’s playfulness.
Brett pulled Tim close to him leaning his head on Tim’s.
“Just a minute,” Brett said.
The group stopped and turned back to see what was up. Brett stepped away from Tim, came back and shook Skip’s and Jamie’s hand once again. He then stood in front of Pete, who reached out and held Brett in a long hug, careful of his shoulder.
“Thanks. Thanks for everything,” Brett said softly.
“No problem, Kiddo. Anytime.”
As the boys slowly walked down the hallway, the doctors, nurses, all of the adults and even some of the patients cheered and clapped for them. The boys hugged each other, probably none tighter than Tim and Brett.
“We survived,” Tim said.
“Yeah, we survived,” Brett answered.
Shattered Lives
Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.
Nietzsche
PART ONE
A NOT QUITE SAFE HAVEN
CHAPTER ONE
Waukesha, Wisconsin
. . . He faced the man with the gun. He couldn’t quite make out his features, but he seemed to be medium height, maybe shorter than that, and well-built but not overly so. At least he didn’t seem to be a bulky, weightlifter kind of man. His voice was cold and flat, which is what George would remember the most about him. That and the gun pointed at the boy next to him, a boy George did not know.
Jeremy was George’s bookend on the other side of the boy. Behind the three of them was a door to a room that George didn’t know. In fact, he didn’t know the room he stood in, but somehow knew the room and the house they were in. At least, the house and room seemed familiar to him. He just couldn’t place it.
But more importantly, Jeremy, the boy and George stood between the man and the door, and George wasn’t sure what or who was on the other side of the door, only that the three of them formed a human shield between it or them and the man with the gun.