Pieces Of Our Past: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery (A North and Martin Abduction Mystery Book 5)

by James Hunt

  “How’s the game going?” Jim asked.

  Harry remained timid. “Okay.”

  Jim studied the board. He didn’t know anything about chess. “Did you win?”

  “It’s not really about winning,” Harry answered. “At least not this game. I’m studying a match I played yesterday, trying to see if I can find any moves where I was vulnerable.”

  Jim nodded, noting how the boy avoided eye contact. He also kept his hands clamped together in his lap. It was a protective stance.

  “Who taught you how to play chess?” Jim asked.

  Harry smiled. “My grandpa. We used to play together. Before he died.” The smile waned, and he bowed his head again.

  “You were close with your grandfather?” Jim asked.

  Harry nodded. “He was one of the only grown-ups who really talked to me. My parents are always too busy to play or do anything with me. That’s why I go to the afterschool program.”

  Jim was glad Harry had brought up the afterschool program on his own. It provided a natural transition into why Jim wanted to speak with him. “Do you like going to the afterschool program?”

  Harry shrugged, but he kept his eyes on the ground. “It’s okay.”

  “Just okay?” Jim asked. “If you get to play chess, then it must be pretty fun, right?”

  Harry remained silent again. Jim thought the kid was going to remain quiet until he finally whispered, “It used to be.”

  Jim proceeded carefully. The last thing he wanted to do was spook the kid. He needed to make sure that Harry understood that Jim could be trusted.

  “Harry,” Jim said, waiting until the kid looked up at him. “What can you tell me about Mr. Samuel?”

  The moment Jim spoke Samuel’s name, Harry’s eyes grew wide, and he became rigid and motionless. He was afraid. And it was the kind of fear that was related to some form of abuse. Whether it was physical, mental, or sexual.

  “Harry?” Jim asked.

  “Mr. Samuel is fine,” Harry answered, repeating the name like it was rehearsed. “All the other kids like him.”

  “Do you know if Tim Walker liked him?” Jim asked.

  Harry shook his head. “I-I don’t know.”

  “Harry,” Jim said, remaining very calm, “you know you can tell me anything. If somebody is hurting you, then it’s important to say something about it.” He tilted his head to the side, studying the young boy who was still motionless, eyes wide as saucers. “I can help you.”

  Children typically felt helpless. They could do little to protect themselves from the world around them. That was the job of an adult, and for a child who had been abused, any adult represented somebody who had failed them and keeping them safe. Depending on how bad the trauma was, a child can start to believe that no one can help them stop the abuse from the hands of their abuser.

  “Harry, it’s okay—" Jim paused when he noticed Harry’s gaze turn to the glass window on the right where Samuel walked past.

  Harry kept his eyes glued onto Samuel, who hadn’t noticed Jim and Harry in the room to the left. He was busy looking at that clipboard in his hands. And even after Samuel had passed the window, Harry kept his eyes fixed to the space where Samuel had disappeared.

  Before Jim could speak up, the door opened, and the security guard stepped inside.

  “Almost done in here?” he asked.

  Jim glanced back to Harry, who again was staring at the ground. Jim knew that the boy wasn’t going to say anything else, but there were no more words that needed to be said. Jim was convinced that Samuel was abusing the kids under his care at the afterschool program.

  Now all Jim needed to do was find the proof.

  7

  Kerry sat in her car, the keys still in the ignition, but the car engine turned off. With the windows up and no A/C running for the past ten minutes, she was starting to sweat. But she couldn’t stop contemplating what she was about to do. She replayed the conversation she’d had with her father about Cutters and about what she’d done.

  Kerry reached for the slip of paper in her cupholder. It was the tip Cutters had given her, the one he wanted her to give to the VICE detectives back at her precinct. The request seemed too small for a man like Cutters. It made her nervous.

  None of the paths ahead were ideal. She understood the line she’d crossed, and what she’d done was irreversible. The choices she’d made, no matter how justifiable, had led her to this point. And now, she had a final choice to make, one that would shape the rest of her future.

  There was no going back now.

  Note in hand, Kerry stepped out of the vehicle and slammed the door shut behind her. She walked with authority to the front entrance of a coffee shop. It was part of a string of business that had sprung up in the area. It was a part of a citywide effort of revitalizing struggling neighborhoods around the city. But what some hailed as economic advancement, others cited as gentrification.

  Kerry opened the door and found the interior empty save for one table. She walked over to it and slammed the piece of paper with the tip onto the table next to the cup of coffee Cutters had been drinking. “Find somebody else to do your dirty work,” Kerry said.

  Cutters reached for the mug of coffee on the table and took a sip, ignoring Kerry’s demand. He was flanked by his security team as usual, but the behemoths who guarded him remained stoic. She doubted that even Cutters was bold enough to do anything violent in the middle of the day in such a public place.

  Satisfied with the coffee, Cutters set the mug on the table and finally looked up at Kerry. “I don’t think you understand how this works.”

  “I understand how it works just fine,” Kerry said. “But I’m not going to be your lackey. You want to bring me down? Go ahead. I made a mistake using you as a way to help solve the case. But I will take my chances in the court of law and have the justice system provide what punishment they seem fit.”

  Cutters folded his hands in his lap. He looked so small in the chair, like a weathered doll with stringy, purple hair. But there was a cunning in his eyes, a predator’s gaze. “And you’re ready to take your licks in the court, huh? What about your family?”

  “My family didn’t do anything wrong,” Kerry answered.

  Cutters shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But this will be a very public trial. Like the one held against your father all of those years ago.”

  Kerry knew that no matter what decision she made, her family would feel the brunt of her decisions. But at least on this path, she had a better chance of keeping them safe. Once her association with Cutters became public, it would become too risky for him to make a move against her family, seeing as how he would be the main suspect.

  “I don’t have anything more to say to you,” Kerry said. “My next stop will be the precinct to tell my superiors what I’ve done. And then I’ll bring you down with me.”

  She turned for the door, but one of the big security guards had positioned himself in front of it. She turned around and saw Cutters still sitting in his chair.

  “That’s very noble of you, Detective,” Cutters said, and then he downed the rest of his coffee and stood. “But before you go, I want to show you something. It will only be a moment, and then you can leave. Come.” He waved her to follow him and then walked past the front counter and into the back of the shop, disappearing through an open door.

  The security team remained in the front of the store with Kerry, but when she finally headed toward the back of the store, they trailed her the entire way.

  Burlap sacks lined the walls in the back room of the shop, along with a few workers, each of them grinding up the fresh beans, keeping their heads down, focused on their tasks, and paying no attention to Kerry, Cutters, or the men dressed in black suits who stayed close on her heels.

  The way Cutters moved through the shop suggested he owned the establishment. It must have been one of the many businesses under his thumb, though it seemed too small of an operation for him to be concerned with, but perhaps that
was the way he liked it.

  Kerry was still trying to figure out the front Cutters was using this shop for, and when she followed him into the basement, she expected to find a meth lab or some type of sweatshop. But instead, she found more coffee bags, equipment, and a man gagged and bound to a chair.

  Cutters walked over to the man, who was covered in sweat and half asleep, but quickly woke up when he saw he was no longer alone. He looked like he’d been down here for a while, long enough for him to wet himself at least. His stench hung heavy in the basement, but beyond the sweat and waste, there was another smell, something hormonal, primal—fear.

  The moment Kerry saw the man, she started to reach for the revolver on her ankle, but one of the security guards brandished his weapon first. Kerry was forced to hand over the gun and was now at the mercy of the security team.

  Cutters remained next to the prisoner and pocketed his hands as he examined the man. “You’re looking at Terry Mackie. I bought this coffee shop from him for a fair price that was very lucrative for him. He agreed to the terms and conditions but then decided to try to persuade my competition to outbid me.”

  Terry groaned something inaudible into the gag, which Kerry figured was some desperate plea for help. But with two guns drawn on her and seeing as how she was boxed into the basement with a long flight of stairs as the only means of escape, Kerry was in no position to stage a rescue.

  “I can’t say that I blame him for what he did,” Cutters said. “But I’m afraid his behavior is unacceptable when making a business deal with me. I have a certain reputation that needs to be upheld.”

  Cutters slapped Terry on the shoulder, and the man winced as if he’d been stabbed.

  “You see, when you make a commitment with me, I insist you honor it,” Cutters said. “Our word as people is what separates us from the animals. It’s our ability to think beyond our own impulses and desires, to have foresight, but I’m afraid Terry’s foresight was very poor.”

  Cutters extended his hand, and one of the security guards placed a Glock .45 in it. The pistol looked far too big for his small hands, and he had to grip it with both of them in order to reach the trigger.

  Terry squirmed more desperately in his chair, and when Kerry lunged forward to stop Cutters, the two security guards grabbed her by the arms and held her back. She watched as Cutters pressed the end of the pistol against the man’s left knee.

  “Stop this!” Kerry shouted, unable to free herself from the two men. “You’re going to kill him! In front of a cop? If you think I had something on you before—”

  The gunshot rang out and echoed loudly in the basement space. Terry screamed into the gag. Blood soaked the pant leg of the knee that had been shot, and smoke rose from the wound and the end of the pistol.

  Cutters looked at Kerry. “I’m not a patient man, Detective. I don’t give out second chances. Do you understand?”

  Kerry remained frozen in shock, though she was still held by the security guards.

  “Kerry!” Cutters shouted. “This is not a game. You do not have a choice. I tell you to do something and you do it.”

  Cutters then placed the pistol against Terry’s right knee, just as the man’s screaming had died down, and pulled the trigger again, reigniting a fresh round of pain. The man vibrated in the chair like he was having a seizure, waving his head around on his neck, eyes glued shut from the torture.

  Blood was pouring out of both knees now, and even if he survived, he would be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

  “I don’t—” Kerry struggled to find her voice, unable to hear her own thoughts over the man’s screaming.

  “Shut up!” Cutters yelled at Terry, his voice amplified by the basement walls, and then turned his attention back to Kerry. “You don’t get it! There is no out! There is no other way! You work for me now!” He pressed the gun against Terry’s temple, and the man sobbed.

  Kerry had never seen Cutters lose his temper before. He had always been more distant, calculated. But the rage she witnessed here was murderous.

  “What are you going to do?” Cutters asked, his temper subdued.

  Kerry hated that the fear stole her voice, and she barely uttered a muted, “What?”

  “I said,” Cutters answered, “what are you going to do?”

  Kerry looked at Terry, who was trembling with fear. She saw the desperation in his eyes, the exhaustion, and pain.

  “I’m—” Kerry swallowed, finding the strength in her voice, “I’m going to work for you.”

  “What?” Cutters asked, leaning his ear closer as if he didn’t hear her.

  “I’m going to work for you,” Kerry said, louder.

  Cutters smiled. “That’s good, Detective. Very good.”

  Kerry half expected Cutters to let the man go. She had rationalized that this was simply a scare tactic, something to get her going again, but when the gunshot thundered and she watched Terry go limp in the chair, she stifled a scream.

  Cutters lowered the weapon, staring at the bloody stump that was now Terry’s head. His skull had caved in slightly from where the bullet entered, and something was dripping out of the hole, but Kerry turned away and vomited before she identified it.

  Kerry gagged a few more times, overwhelmed by the smell, the adrenaline, the shock of the murder she’d just witnessed. Her throat and nose burned from the puke, and when she finally stood and turned back to Cutters, he looked blurry through her bloodshot eyes.

  One of the security guards walked over and removed the pistol from Cutters, wiping it down and then handed his boss a white rag. Cutters cleaned the blood off his hands as he slowly walked over to Kerry.

  “I know how you hoped this would go,” Cutters said. “But what you’re feeling now is nothing new. I assure you, everyone I work with goes through this.”

  Cutters tossed the bloody rag to one of the security guards. He looked up at Kerry. Blood speckled his face, and there was a murderous gaze in his eyes. It was the first time since Kerry had spoken to Cutters that she was genuinely afraid of him.

  “You work for me now,” Cutters said, calmly even though he had just murdered a man. “Whatever I tell you to do, you will do it. If you don’t, I will visit your husband, and then I will visit your son, and then your daughter, and then I will save you for last. There is nothing you’ll be able to do to stop me. I have more firepower behind me than you do. Even if you were to enlist the entire Seattle Police Department, it would be a war I would win. Do I make myself clear?”

  Kerry wasn’t sure how long she was quiet for, but she knew that when she spoke, her voice was surprisingly steady when she answered, “Yes.”

  “Good,” Cutters said and then glanced down at his attire, which was also stained with the man’s blood. “I don’t want to have to ruin another outfit.”

  One of the security guards stepped forward and handed Kerry a burner phone.

  “That will be my contact with you moving forward,” Cutters said.

  Kerry remained in the basement as the security guards picked up the body and cleaned up the mess, leaving behind only a dark stain on the concrete floor. Cutters and his men were long gone by the time Kerry ascended the steps back into the coffee shop, where the workers in the back continued their business as if nothing had happened.

  None of the workers looked Kerry in the eye as she walked past and then outside to her car. Again she sat in the driver seat, her hands on the steering wheel, the keys not in the ignition. She sat there for a long time, unable to get Terry Mackie’s screams out of her head.

  8

  Once Jim finished at the school, he returned to the precinct. The first thing he looked up was Samuel’s file and checked to see if he had a record, but the man was squeaky clean. However, he had one more trick up his sleeve, and he removed a piece of paper from his pocket with a list of names written on it.

  The principal hadn’t allowed Jim to make a copy of any information in Samuel’s file, but Jim managed to jot down a
few of the schools Samuel had worked for on his employment history and started making phone calls.

  Jim disguised himself as a possible employer, looking for anything pertinent on Samuel that he should be made aware of should he be hired. But every person Jim spoke with said some version of the same thing: they loved Samuel.

  Not a single person Jim interviewed had a negative thing to say about the man. All of his performance reviews were glowing, and there was nothing of note in any of his previous files.

  But after the look Jim saw on young Harry’s face earlier today, he no longer had any doubt Samuel was guilty. Jim just needed to figure out how Samuel was connected to Tim’s disappearance.

  As Jim neared the end of the list of former employers, Jim knew he was running out of options. Right now, he had nothing to show a judge to provide a search warrant. They were well beyond the twelve-hour mark, and the chances of Tim’s recovery grew slimmer with every second that passed.

  Jim knew he could always try to interview Harry again, but getting back into the school or convincing the boy’s parents to talk to him without blowing his cover about Tim’s disappearance would be difficult.

  Jim considered calling the boy’s grandparents. Even though Nate was certain the grandmother couldn’t have been involved, he wanted to make sure he exhausted every possible avenue.

  Just when Jim was about to give up hope and nearing the end of the list, he spoke to a YMCA director who happened to be Samuel’s direct superior when he oversaw one of the elementary school development programs at the institution.

  “Yes, I remember him,” the supervisor said. “Hard worker.”

  “I was calling to see if you remember anything outstanding about his time at the program,” Jim said, doing his best not to fish too hard. People were smarter than the world gave them credit for, and whenever the police called, even if it wasn’t for them, people were always nervous. And nervous people tended to be closed-lipped.

  “About Samuel?” he asked. “Well, not that I can recall off the top of my head.”