by Brian Shea
“Do you think he started off like Mouse?” Declan asked, unfamiliar with these types of investigations.
“Anything’s possible. Could’ve been taken and abused. Maybe they saw some potential use for him outside of the trade. The brainwashing by these organizations is legendary,” Nick responded, thoughtfully.
“Well, whatever humanity he’d been born with had been torn out of him. He died a monster,” Declan said, rubbing his damaged eye.
“True. I’ve arranged with the hospital to have the tracking device removed from Mouse’s hip. We don’t need any more surprise visitors showing up,” Jones said to the pair, changing the subject.
Everybody nodded in agreement.
Anaya returned with Mouse in tow. She had her arm draped loosely over the small teenager’s shoulder in a nonchalant half-hug. Standing there side by side, they could have been mother and daughter.
“She understands. No more running.” Anaya looked down at Mouse, who gave a weak smile. It was the first time any of them had seen her show this emotion, and it lifted the group’s tension slightly.
“Where were you going to run to?” Nick asked, looking down at Mouse.
“Pidgeon,” Mouse said quietly.
“Pidgeon?” Nick asked, thoroughly confused by the teen’s remark.
“Pidgeon, Michigan,” Mouse spoke confidently as if this would explain everything to the four adults standing around her.
“Why there? Family?” Nick asked.
“No.”
Mouse paused and looked down at her feet. She swayed from side to side with her hands clasped in front. Under the child’s tough exterior Nick saw she was still just a little girl. She looked up with a cheeky grin.
Feeling comfortable with her saviors, Mouse explained, “I wanted to get as far away from here as I could. I grabbed a map and pushed my finger up until I hit blue.”
“But I still don’t understand why you chose Pidgeon,” Nick said.
“It sounded like a fun place to start my new life,” Mouse said, broadening her smile.
“Makes sense to me,” Declan said. “I think we should find a way to get you there.”
“I’m already working on it,” Anaya said, smiling down at Mouse.
The group laughed, the four adults thoroughly impressed at the resilience of the little girl standing before them.
52
“What do you mean they went dark?” Nick asked.
“I mean, as soon as you guys recovered the girl, they must have realized we figured out the tracking system. They shut it down, or more likely, just reconfigured it so we couldn’t follow the trackers anymore,” Jay said.
“Shit! I planned to hit as many of those locations as humanly possible. I mean, we could’ve shut down a major network. We could’ve saved a lot of kids,” Nick said sadly.
Nick slumped in the chair. The injection of pain that radiated from his recovering stab wound was a welcomed distraction to his worry. The phone was still pressed against his ear but Nick said nothing else, lost in his thoughts.
“I may have some good news for you. For starters, I sent the last data points to a group that handles this sort of thing. Non-governmental, but extremely effective. These guys operate outside the system. You might not ever hear the end result. But you can rest assured that they’ll be able to help some. The ones they didn’t relocate,” Jay said.
“Some but not all,” Nick interjected softly.
“You know you can’t save ‘em all.” Jay paused, allowing for his friend to absorb the truth of that statement. He continued, “The other good news came from the phone you took off that guy in the motel. He’d sent a message just before your friends raided the room. It was a picture of the dead guy in the chair and a message that read: Why have you forsaken me?”
“Please tell me you know who he sent it to!” Nick exclaimed.
“You won’t believe me when I do,” Jay said.
The crowd that surrounded the Safe Haven Children’s Center’s grand opening gala was larger than expected. It was filled with families supporting the launch of the new facility. A beacon of hope aimed at being an outreach to families in need. The project was funded in large part by the charitable donations from God’s Reach Ministries.
The podium was occupied by the well-dressed Pastor Jim Collins. He looked upon the crowd and smiled widely as cheers erupted from supporters and congregation members. He absorbed the adoration like a beachgoer soaking up the sun. Satisfied, he attempted a gesture of humility, waving his hand to subdue the hoots and hollers of his fans.
The roar subsided, and he began his speech.
“It is with a great pleasure that I am called before you today. It looks like the rain will hold off long enough to celebrate this momentous occasion. I’m humbled to be asked to introduce a great man, a man who is not only a close personal friend of mine, but a true believer in the betterment of our society, a man who stands against injustice and seeks to provide shelter to children in need. Senator Duke Murdock has worked tirelessly to bring together the pieces that have made today possible. Without him, I don’t think the Safe Have Children’s Center would be a reality.”
Collins allowed a pause, so the crowd could cheer and clap. He turned and gave a rehearsed nod to the senator, who was waiting eagerly for his turn in the spotlight.
Collins’ gaze returned to the onlookers. “My heart is light today. Lifted by the kindness of those who donated their time and money to this project. I look out into this crowd and see so many who will benefit from the services that will be provided within these walls. So many of our young children are swallowed up by the streets, by people with evil in their hearts, tearing them from their families. I am committed to finding these lost souls and giving them refuge. I am committed to pushing back against the beast and providing safety. I will not rest until all children are safe!”
The crowd exploded in a contagious volley of cheers. This time, Collins allowed it to continue. He looked back again, smiling in the direction of the senator. The smile drained from the pastor’s face as he saw a group of men and women in clearly recognizable blue windbreakers. The jackets were adorned with distinctive bright yellow lettering. They read FBI.
The senator’s back was turned and he was already leaving the stage. Senator Murdock, encircled by his protective detail, disappeared into the heavily tinted black Suburban, never looking back to see the fate of the man on the podium.
For the first time in his adult life, he was at a total loss for words. Pastor Jim Collins swung his head wildly from the approaching agents to the hushed crowd as if debating on leaping from the stage. The cool-headedness of the charismatic evangelist was gone. What remained was a terrified shell of a man.
He fumbled with the words, trying to play it off as some type of misunderstanding. The microphone captured his desperation.
“What can I help you gentlemen with today? Can’t you see we’re in the middle of an important ceremony? It’s for the children!” Collins pleaded.
“Children are the last thing you’re here for,” Nick said, barely keeping his cool.
Nick walked slowly toward the religious figurehead. His hand rested on the butt of his service weapon. It was still holstered, but he was poised to react if the need arose.
“Put your hands behind your back.”
“I don’t understand,” Collins protested.
“Would you like me to explain the charges to the crowd?” Nick asked through gritted teeth.
“You’re going to hear from my lawyers on this!” Collins said in a last-ditch effort to save face.
Nick’s hand slid from the gun to his handcuff case, retrieving the stainless steel Smith and Wesson cuffs. The pastor stood rigid, more out of shock than defiance. Nick reached out and gripped Collins at the elbow, spinning him around.
Nick winced slightly as he locked the cuffs into place on the pastor. The interim week since his stabbing hadn’t left him fit for duty, but he’d be damned if he was going to miss an
opportunity to make this arrest. He handed Pastor Jim Collins off to the agent who’d be transporting and processing him.
Collins was walked off the same stage he’d been so wildly welcomed to moments before. Not a sound from his adoring fans could be heard as he was placed into the rear of a blacked-out bureau SUV.
Before the door shut, Nick leaned in and whispered in the pastor’s ear, “I was really hoping you were going to resist a little.”
Nick turned and saw his ragtag group of friends standing by. Declan’s eye was healing, but he still looked like he’d been hit by a bus. Rusty and Jones stood in the backdrop with a satisfied look on their faces as they watched Collins get hauled away.
It was a surreal moment for Nick to see Izzy and Anaya side by side. Both beautiful women. One lost to him and the other an unknown. Izzy smiled coyly and then shot a questioning glance at the social worker. Nick flushed at the realization that Izzy must’ve caught him sizing up the two.
Jones rubbed his belly and said in a thick Texas drawl, “Let’s get some grub. I’ve got just the spot for these Yankees. Y’all ever had brisket?”
The group laughed, and Declan said, “I’d love to, but we’ve got a long ride to make. I’ve got to get back to my little ones. Raincheck on that?”
The group started to separate, and Nick walked with Declan and Izzy over to their rental car.
Declan and Nick shook hands, gave the “man hug” followed by a slap on the back. Each regretted the gesture as soon as the hearty embrace ended. Their injuries throbbed, reminding them of the toll their bodies had taken.
“You think hard about coming back to Connecticut, my friend. If you can manage to keep from getting injured, I might be able to get you a slot on HRT!” Declan said.
“I think my place is here, at least for now,” Nick said.
“We’re here for you whenever you need us,” Declan paused and then added, “I’ll let you kids talk.”
Declan slipped into the passenger seat of the Camry and closed the door.
“He’s right, you know,” Izzy said softly.
“Right about what?”
“About being here for you,” Izzy said, looking into his eyes.
“Same here,” Nick said and then faltered at saying anything more.
“You’re a stubborn ass, Nicholas Lawrence! Do you know that?” Izzy said.
“So I’ve heard.” Nick looked at his former partner and sighed.
He didn’t know the words to say, so he said nothing. He pulled Izzy close and held her. The smell of coconut and vanilla filled the air as her head lay gently over his shoulder. After a short embrace, she retracted, sliding her hands down his arms until their fingertips touched. She looked at him intently, leaned in, and pressed her lips against his cheek and then broke away. She opened the driver’s door and looked up at him as she entered the car, her eyes watering.
“Don’t go getting yourself killed! There’re a lot of people who care about you,” Izzy said, closing the door behind her.
The Camry drove off. Nick looked back toward his black Jetta and saw Anaya leaning against the trunk in a golden sundress that flapped effortlessly in the late afternoon breeze. Nick smiled as he walked in her direction, wondering where this might lead.
Burning Truth
A Nick Lawrence Novel
1
His eyes flickered, allowing the meager light of the room to filter in. He lay on his back looking up as the yellow and brown circles of the water-damaged ceiling came into focus. An unwelcome combination of cigarette smoke and wet dog clung to the damp air. He tried sitting up but couldn’t. Nothing. His body was locked in place. Panic set in at the sudden realization that his arms and legs were tightly bound. The fibers of the rag stuffed in his mouth tickled the back of his throat. The gag made it impossible to speak. He closed his eyes hard willing himself to wake from this wretched dream.
His eyes opened again. To his dismay, he was still in the dimly lit room. His arms strained against their restraints. A muffled scream seeped out through the cloth in his mouth. He writhed. The only part of his body that wasn’t tied down was his head. He tried to calm himself and take a look around. His heart pounded, and he started hyperventilating. Unable to get enough oxygen through his nose, he breathed hard through the cloth in his mouth. This only made things worse as more of the gag was forced deeper into his mouth and his lungs pulled hard. A wheezing hum bubbled up from his throat. He swung his head from side to side searching desperately for an answer to this nightmare. It was hard to tell from the dull light that framed the drab curtain whether it was day or night. To the right was another bed and beyond that he could make out a small round table and chair by another window. There was something familiar about this place, but in his current state he couldn’t clear his mind enough to place it.
A clang. The sound of something hard against porcelain. Its distinctive sound caused him to look left, hoping to find the source. He found nothing but a wall. His gaze followed the faded floral wallpaper toward an opening where he could see the corner of a sink and an open closet. One thing he was certain of was that he was definitely in a motel room. How he got here was another question. His mind raced, searching for the answer.
The sound again, clang. Light flooded into the room from the opening to his left. His eyes were still adjusting to its introduction when a shadow crept across the floor as if chasing the light away, and his panic rose. He shook the bindings on his wrists and ankles hard. It did nothing to loosen him from the confines of the bed. With each pull and twist of his body the shackles cut deeper into his flesh.
A figure emerged from behind the wall where he assumed the bathroom was located and stood at edge of the bed. He strained to see anything that would provide an answer to this hellish situation. The figure’s head cocked ever so slightly to the left, evaluating him. He couldn’t make out any facial features. The figure standing before him looked black as night.
A flash drew his attention down to the figure’s right hand. The bathroom light reflected off the shiny surface of a large knife. He screamed but through the cloth it came out as a whimper. The figure moved quickly across the room. A click, and the television came to life. The images of an old black and white war movie filled in the backdrop behind the dark figure. The sounds of planes and bombs muted any chance of him being heard from a neighboring guest.
The figure approached and leaned in. He now understood why he couldn’t discern any features. The face, now only inches away, was shrouded by a tightly fitted black mask. What was even stranger was that a pair of sunglasses with red tinted lenses covered its eyes. In the strange desperation of the moment, the glasses reminded him of a combination of Jim Morrison and the devil.
The figure cocked its head again. He followed the shadowed movement over to the table by the window. The figure returned with the rickety wooden chair and sat. The knife now rested on the nightstand only inches from his face. A constant reminder of his dire circumstances.
“There is a reckoning upon you,” the masked figure said.
The voice sent a chill down the man’s spine. The voice was deep and had a robotic hiss that followed the statement.
“I know you. I know what you’ve done. The courts will fail you. They won’t do justice for the horrible crimes that you’ve committed.” The boom and hiss of each word resonated in the helpless man’s ears.
“In a perfect world you would be brutalized in the same way that you’ve brutalized others. But our world isn’t perfect. And thus, I am here.”
The imprisoned man twisted, trying to escape. His shoulders almost came out of their sockets. The bite from his right wrist’s restraint now released a slow trickle of blood. He could feel the warm liquid rolling steadily down his hand and off the tip of his pinky finger.
“Are you still trying to figure out how you got here?”
The man on the bed nodded vigorously.
“Think.”
The man on the bed cocked an eyebrow and squinted
hard, trying to see through the rose-colored glasses of his captor. Something familiar in the eyes. His thought was interrupted as the masked figure sat back and withdrew a black handgun from his waistline. The weapon was placed next to the knife. The darkness of it was in stark contrast to the glint of the blade.
“They didn’t have a choice. But you do.” The metallic rasp of the voice carried with it an added weight.
The man on the bed craned his neck and eyed the weapons on the nightstand. His vision blurred as his eyes started to water, and he blinked rapidly to clear the tears. Bombs and the staccato of rapid-fire machine gun blasts poured from the television in the backdrop. The man on the bed looked away, facing his head toward the wall.
A gloved hand gripped his lower jaw firmly and turned his head back to the intense stare of the eyes hiding behind the rose-colored glasses. He resisted, but the effort was futile. The bastard must be deriving some sick pleasure out of this. Maybe even smiling?
“What’s your choice?”
The man on the bed screamed again. His jugular engorged with blood at the strain of his futile efforts.
The figure in the chair slowly tapped a gloved finger back and forth between the two weapons. The man slowly and desperately shook his head and pleaded with his eyes.
“Life or death is not your choice. Death is inevitable. It’s the how that you get to decide. Tick tock.”
The man began a rhythmic shaking of his head and his body quivered involuntarily.
“There is no fixing what you are. There is no justice that will undo what you’ve done.”
The words were spoken more softly, but the finality in the message was clear. The gloved hand continued to move back and forth between the weapons metronomically.
“Know this. Your death will be far less painful than the lives of the people you’ve hurt. I can see that you’re incapable of deciding. That’s okay. I will lift that burden for you.”