by Nenny May
“Look, Miss Miller, I don’t want to lie to you, so I won’t.” Gates straightened. Like the last grains in an hour glass, his patience was wearing thin. He’d probably remembered that the Sheriff wouldn’t be too pleased that one of his detectives was flaking out on a search party. “An overnight search of the premises turned up no weapon of forced entry, as for strands of hair, forensics believes it belonged to Ethan Daniels. Like I said earlier Miss Miller, whoever is behind this is being extremely careful.”
“He’s bound to slip up sometime.” Adam pitched. “Even the greatest minds make mistakes. The question is will we be ready when our killer fucks up?”
. . .
Her anxiety sat below her stomach with her gut. She knew it was anxiety when she could feel more clearly the eyes on her, when she could hear more keenly, the whispers around her. But Parker had convinced her that sitting in front of a camera, broadcasting her pain, her anguish, her helplessness on channel 36; WCNC, maybe, just maybe they could reach into the heart of whoever could have taken their son. Though sitting there, make-up caked, hand in hand with a man that didn’t deserve his only son snatched from him, she didn’t know what to make of things. A part of her, a great one was found it absurd that a third party could have broken into their home and taken Ethan and nothing else. Sincerely, Madison Miller’s claims sat like oil in water to Lauren Daniels.
“Alright we’re going live in ten... nine...”
“Ready to get our son back?” Parker whispered, his lips pressed to her ear. She recoiled into her own skin. She hadn’t been much for physical contact since returning to their empty home.
“We don’t even know if this is going to work?”
“Be positive, please.” She nodded.
“Three... two... one...”
“Good Morning Charlotte. Kicking off today’s headlines we have with us parents of the latest missing Cotswold kid. Ten-year-old Ethan Daniels much unlike the other kidnapped Cotswold kids had been snatched from his Cotswold home and not from the red-hot elementary school that has been the grounds of multiple kidnaps.” Chirped the glimmering reporter. Lauren could care less what her name was. She’d heard it once or twice while having her make-up touched up for the camera; she hadn’t bothered to remember it. She’d rather pondered over just how necessary it was that she looked good for the camera? Her son could be killed in a matter of days. What if he’d already been killed? Would her highlights matter then? “And they have quite a lot to say to the public. Including a plea for the return of their baby boy.”
This was her cue, she was live and she was tongue tied. She had too much to say, she didn’t know where to start. She had too much she’d been feeling, she hadn’t been able to control the tears. One by one, they rolled down her cheek, creating streaks and streams down her foundation. Parker squeezed her hands and she nibbled on the inside of her cheeks, she turned to him. She couldn’t do it. Her eyes said, dancing beneath a pool of hot painful tears. She hoped he got the message. He did, because he’d nodded and offered her that smile she’d fallen in love with.
“We can’t have another boy for so many reasons.” Parker started, glaring the second camera—the one they’d been instructed to stare into—dead on. “To begin with, a child is simply irreplaceable. Even if we could make another, in our hearts would be a gaping hole where Ethan was supposed to be. We have a plan for him; our baby boy. We are ready to give him the best, take him to the best schools, to ensure he sits only in the lap of luxury. But we can’t do that if he’s taken away from us.”
“And why can’t you make another kid?” Grace Church the head reporter turned to Parker, her features scrunched in distress.
“We’re barren, Mrs. Church. Ethan was a medical miracle. We knew he was all we had, and all we could have. And we’re not ready to lose him. No parent is ready to lose their baby even if they can have another.”
“You have a specific message on behalf of Cotswold parents?”
“We don’t want to live in fear. We don’t want to sit at the edge of our seats wondering whether or not our kids will make it back from school, or if they would be snatched from their bedrooms. Those kids don’t deserve their futures tugged from their feeble grips and we as parents just want to see that they become something worth it in life.” He turned to Lauren Daniels who’d sat there, her tears nearly dry, he assumed her heart filled with a glimmering hope and he said; “My wife here is in shambles, I am too. And we think we can speak on behalf of all those parents who’d had to bury their ten-year-old sons. We’re broken without our kids, so please, to whoever this message may concern...”Parker paused, a single tear rolling down his cheek. In his chest, he felt as if his heart had given away. He didn’t want to lose Ethan. He didn’t want to be one of those parents that buried their kids. No, he had to be different, he didn’t know how he would take it if he’d been piled up with the rest, a parent with the body of their ten-year-old son, a body decorated with a bullet hole. “...please, bring back our baby boy!”
“You’ve heard it here first folks, Cotswold parents are begging for an end to the murder of their ten-year-old boys. After the break, could a nationwide protest spark from the rampant child-kidnapping-trend? This has been Grace Church with the Daniels, here first on channel 36 news.”
. . .
There was a screech, ear-piercing; unnerving and yet at a pitch much too familiar to a disgruntled Madison Miller. Why wouldn't it be when the very shriek had been present the day she'd been caught with a positive pregnancy test at sixteen? Much like Adam Walker and detective Ryan Gates, Madison Miller turned to the source of the frantic screaming. Just over the fern shrubs she'd scurried away from in the wake of the night, stood a peeved Julia Miller with hair of deep earthy hues pulled back in a Bella Hadid style ponytail. Standing tall at a grey fifty-two years old, Julia Miller didn't look a day over thirty... Maybe Madison ought to visit her mother's dermatologist, that is if she isn't hauled away to prison for neglect.
If Madison had risen with the delusion that she would relish in the soothing allure of the morning—listen to the harmonious tweet of birds as a cool breeze cascaded her skin, and a warm black bean coffee slithered down the back of her throat, before being plunged head first into a serial-child-murder case—then it was more than clear that the gravity of her situation was yet to descend on her. Julia Miller's emphatic squeal was the farthest thing from staggering, if anything; it was expected and very easily overlooked. Although Madison couldn't seem to tear her tropical sapphire blues away from the men who strode calmly out of her home adorned in pitch black suits underneath the glare of the tender morning sun. She'd locked her doors before bustling across her lawn and over to Adam's. So who were these men and how had they broken into her home?
Her ears were deaf from where she stood. It seemed however from the starchy look on Adam Walker's features, he had a pretty good guess who those men were. There was a flutter, a little pick-me-up her heart did when his eyes of spring met hers. Maybe it had a thing or two to do with the gaze of concern he'd pinned her down with. "Get in the house, into my bedroom and if you don't hear my voice; don't come out." His orders were simple, straight to the point and clear; she was in danger, but what kind of danger?
"Who are those men?" She'd opened her question to either one of the men glaring at her lawn. They obviously seemed to know more than she did. "And how in the name of Arthur Bühl did they get into my house?" She flicked her gaze back to her front yard that at the moment was crawling with suit clad men, just how many were they? And oh good lordie lord was Julia in any danger? Her mother might be a heel in her toe, but she'd raised her and helped her raise Tucker when her high school sweetheart had scuttled from the tight belt of parenting like a frightened school girl.
The weight of an arm on her shoulder whacked-aside her fright-filled thoughts. Faint trails of black orchids swivelled up her nostrils, his body heat radiated onto hers, and this time, her heart did a little more than a pick-me-up leap. "You trust me, don'
t you Maddy?" Her teeth clenched, but for a different reason. She wasn't mad, but rather fighting the urge not to turn into a puddle of delicate lust at the way her name curled off his tongue. She nodded. "Then go into my room, lock the door and don't open it for anyone besides Gates and me." With one more straying glance onto her property, she twirled and vanished behind his thick wooden doors all the while wondering who the men in black were.
. . .
Adam Walker’s temples were a base drum, his eyes, tired windows looking onto a drably frosty morning. His day had merely just begun and he was smack dab in the middle of a serial-child-murder case. He was going to need a lot more than some extra-strength Tylenol and a good long drag from a stick of Winston when this was over. No, when this entire case was over, he would rethink his decision lingering with a force that had clearly moved on without him. He would deliberate the time he’d spent engaged in odd jobs holding in his heart the recollections of his time serving his country, he would meditate on the assumptions he’d had of Concord Mills reaching out to him with an offer he couldn’t refuse. It had been much too long since he’d been detective Adam Walker and he only seemed to be drifting farther and farther away from what was now a mere memory. And maybe, just maybe that wasn’t a bad thing?
With his store purchased Glock 26 9mm sub-compact 10 round pistol strapped flush to his belt buckle, Adam shadowed behind Ryan Gates, the soft crunch of damp grass and overlooked twigs snapping beneath their feet. The nibbling breeze and drizzle slapped both men with each step, their chill was instant. They seemed unbothered. By Madison Miller’s porch gathered the men in black; men Adam could bet a lucky penny were FBI agents and he could only worry that his suspicions would be confirmed. “Detective Gates and Officer Walker,” Ryan Gates’ gaze, just for a moment, twitched to Adam, almost as if to say; just play along. He returned his focused eyes to the clump of men. Adam on the other hand had his eyes of spring shilly-shallying to Julia Miller, the one woman who would know in a heartbeat just where her daughter was. He needed to get to her before she assumed Madison’s whereabouts, before she drew any attention to his home. For the love of all things holy, Adam didn’t want to think of what he would have to do if these men pried their way into his home.
“Special agent Spencer Black; with the FBI. We have reason to believe the resident of this house is responsible for the kidnap of Ethan Daniels—”
“They have a flock of you get down here for a kidnapping? Goddamn, I guess they’ll have the entire Bureau down here for whoever is responsible for the damn murders.” Were murderous looks considered a capital offence? Adam entertained the meandering thought. The lethal-glare Spencer Black pinned the former detective with nearly bore a hole in the centre of his head.
“What was that Mr. Walker? Because as far as we’re concerned we gave the CMPD a long enough rope.” It seemed louder, each threateningly slow click of special agent Black’s boots descending against Madison’s porch steps. He stopped two steps from the base, close enough to Adam and Ryan. “But guess what, that rope was bound to finish sometime.”
“This mean the CMPD no longer has jurisdiction over this case?” Ryan Gates barked, almost as if his brain had stuttered. His feet tapped against the base of Madison Miller’s porch steps, seemingly in a nervous spasm. “I clearly think I would get the memo.”
“You know I expected such idiotic questions from the low ranked officer here,” Black made a reference to Adam Walker. “Check your inbox, Gates. We’re partners now, it’s time for the big dogs to come out and play with the pups.” Spencer Black whiffed past both men and clustered with his colleagues by the driveway. Adam took the time to filter away from Gates and converse with a still frantic Julia Miller.
“What is going on and good golly where is my daughter? None of these men have been any help, bless their heart.” The age-less Julia Miller growled, her eyes fluttering towards the back of Spencer Black’s head.
“Look, you know they want to arrest her for the kidnapping of Ethan Daniels, right?” The dramatic woman with hair of earthy hues and eyes much like the morning sky huffed.
“Of course, I’m not stupid. That’s why I got here as fast as I could; I wanted to pull her out of this baby-sitting-gone-wrong drama.” As she spoke, she gestured, her jewellery clinking and clanking with her words. “Now where in the name of fresh hell is my daughter?”
“I’ll take you to her, but you have to promise not to draw any attention.” Adam said; his voice a hushed whisper. Ryan Gates joined him and the clearly over-dressed woman.
“She’s at your place isn’t she?” Julia Miller blared. Spencer Black’s head whirled. God damn it!
Chapter Nine
A lexander Hemmings’ head felt thick, stuffed to the point of overflowing with the concerns he’d with time shoved up there. He had to return the boy... Gosh! He had to return him, as if he were a shirt he’d picked up from the thrift store in the wrong hue of green. For a moment, a brief one, the thought tickled his fancy, just enough for a throaty chuckle to slip into the silence. Whatever the case, sending the troubled boy home wasn’t going to be that easy; no, with that nanny of his hightailing to the cops... she’d just added more thorns than petals to the dreadful fucking rosebush that was his life.
His throat grumbled with a suppressed groan, his fists crashed against the splintering wood of the worn kitchen table. He’d royally fucked biscuits! The CMPD might not have much trailing back to him, but they had something and something was too much. More than once he’d appeared in the background of security footage at Cotswold Elementary. And he might not have hair clinging to his head; he still had fingerprints he ought to have left scattered about the benches by Cotswold Elementary. But that wasn’t enough to charge him... right? He could have been checking out the school for a kid he wanted to enrol... Was that a believable enough alibi? What if they checked his story out and uncovered that he didn’t have a kid?
He leaped to his feet; the fragmenting screech of the wooden dining table chair grinding against the floor filled his ears. He turned to Peter, his roommate of over two years blacked out half naked on the living room couch, he huffed. He could swear that man only woke up for liquor and hookers ... As far as he pays the rent...
“I’m off you old piece of shit, don’t die while I’m gone.” Alex mumbled, the heavy thump of his boot clad feet shuffling about the squashed one-room-apartment for his keys and cell phone. Peter might not be awake most of the day, but they sure as hell had more of a conversation than when the man was up and kicking.
Out the door, Alexander Hemmings was the farthest thing from pleased by the slapping morning weather. He wasn’t much for prayers but for the love of everything he owned he couldn’t have another Sebastian Trey on his hands. He could swear that kids parents were shit, they were barely feeding the little twat... no wonder a little deprivation from the better things had killed him before the barrel of Alexander Hemming’s .38 special could kiss his forehead. Ethan seemed like a well off kid... and he’d offered him three cookie packs from Wal-Mart. Did the little shit think he was better than Wal-Mart cookies; in his position? Nah, that couldn’t be it. He would eat them, eventually... even if Alex had to grind it up and shove it down his nose.
Although a part of him hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
What if it all went away? All of it; the bustling noise of pedestrians, the scuttling of mothers with their kids and the whirling of cars darting through the streets—What if he didn’t live smack dab in the middle of downtown? Well for one, he sure as hell wouldn’t be driven partially insane from night after night of night terrors. He wasn’t a man to regret, but recently, the warmth of a slow burning rue has been crawling its way up his gut. Through the streets, Hemmings had his shoulders hunched and head buried in his collar. He was a ghost drifting unseen in plain sight.
Super heroes weren’t always there for the victims. That didn’t mean he couldn’t become one for someone else. Where he’d been ignored, overlooked and made to feed onl
y on a steady diet of play-ground sand, crunching on rocks and twigs and washing it down with stale toilet water, while his ribs ached from being kicked and shoved; he wasn’t going to let another kid go through that. He wasn’t going to let Ethan go through that. He couldn’t forget the rage that sent an arson through his lower abdomen. He’d wanted blood shed on his behalf and on the behalf of every ten year old that had to endure even a quarter of what he’d endured. He couldn’t forget the long look his mother had worn each time he’d had to make an emergency visit to their local hospital for food poisoning, for a tetanus shot or just for her klutz of a son to be supervised. The strain of keeping up with him, of losing more money to his health care had eventually killed her even before his abusive father had the chance. Heading up town, he forked left striding with an agitating patience. He’d learned with time running to the boys drew attention. He didn’t need that. Ethan Daniels would wait... he wouldn’t die because Alex didn’t want him to... Oh God what if he’d already died from trauma?
. . .
The soft eerie creek of Adam Walker’s front door had goose-bumps running down Madison Miller’s limp noodle arms. She’d caught it, lodged in her throat was her breath. She’d listened, there were more footsteps than she’d expected. One... Two, One... Two, One... Two... There were at the very least three people in the living room. Further, she’d pressed her ears to his bedroom door. Fucking fish fingers she wanted to peek, to pull the door open just an inch and stick her eyes out. She couldn’t forget just how his bedroom door had slammed shut with little an effort on her part. If she opened it, there was no doubt whoever those men were would snatch her up. But oh good lord She’d never really liked being left out, no her curiosity would always ravish her from the inside out. It was obvious those men had to be with some sort of law enforcement, the CIA? FBI? They wanted her. Why else would they have broken into her home, probably looking for evidence, anything that pointed at a motive for the kidnap of Ethan Daniels? Oh Goodness! Did they sincerely believe she was responsible for Ethan’s kidnap? Of course they did, they wouldn’t have come all the way down here if they didn’t. Could Alexander Hemmings have put them up to this? He’d managed to kill ten innocent, helpless ten-year-olds; it wouldn’t startle her that he had the power to get the CIA to look into her being responsible. But why after he’d called her with wails of remorse. Oh! He’d gotten a tip that she’d tattled on him. Why hadn’t she kept her lips sealed! Why in the world had she trusted the police when they’d turned their back on her during Tucker Miller’s kidnap?