Taken: A Christopher Lance Thriller

by L. Jerome Word

  Thirteen year old Christopher had splintered from the group when the initial yelling started and walked toward the edge of the forest and a row of unyielding pine trees. As the rains drenched his clothes and hair, his only thoughts were of his best friend, his Gabrielle. The rest of the crowd might be scared off by a little water but I’m gonna find her…I owe it to her, he thought. Christopher could tell that the others had given up hope that she was alive but he still had faith that he’d find her somewhere hiding behind a tree, playing one of her world famous jokes. Just maybe she’d be laughing from her belly with those twinkling eyes.

  He could hear the cries of people at the road, screaming for him to get out of the rain. You’ll catch your death of cold, they yelled. Still, he kept walking toward the Pines until he was diverted by a force that was not his own that willed him to move to an overgrown patch of grass behind a rain-filled ditch. He walked toward the patch with the unbridled curiosity that all children have, not afraid of what he might find but knowing that he should be. With each step used to approach the patch, his plastic boots took on more water. Spraying sideways now, the rains were heavier, and Christopher could barely see where he was going. Still, guided by some force, he walked directly to ditch.

  He slid down the ditch, landing on his rear. Crawling up the other side of the furrow, he stood in front of the overgrown grass, which came to his chin. He stepped through the brush, using his hands in a breaststroke motion to clear the way. Then he looked down and saw her and screamed.

 

  CHAPTER 1

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Present Day

  My face was drenched with sweat as I jerked upward from my prone position, almost tumbling to the floor. Looking at my psychiatrist’s face turn from a rosy pink to a lifeless colorless hue, I surmised, that my scream must have been loud and chilling. I braced myself before speaking but her words were already out.

  “Well, Christopher,” she said, “that was extremely interesting. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  I felt like I’d just run a marathon. I held my face in my hands, wiping away the sweat, and then shaking my head to get rid of the cobwebs. “I screamed. Didn’t I?” I asked, but I knew I had screamed, one that was full of fear.

  “Yes Christopher. You’ve never done that before. Progress,” she said, scribbling something on her pad and taking a sip of water.

  “Dr. Fields, I don’t need progress. I need sleep. It’s been two months since I’ve had a decent night’s sleep and re-living Bre’s murder is not doing me any good.”

  Dr. Abby Fields, a patient, understanding woman as her profession would dictate, now smiled at me as if I was a wounded animal and only she could remove the splinter from my paw. “Christopher, I know your insomnia and nightmares are getting worse but we are making progress. I was able to take you right up to the point when you found her body.”

  I guess that was some type of progress but, hell, it was hard to tell while under hypnosis. A hypnosis that I didn’t fully believe in.

  “The nightmares are not just getting worse,” I said. “I’d be fine with worse…it’s the vividness. I wake up drenched at night as if those same rains had covered my body. The shouts from the crowd echo from every direction. I feel icy cold hands grasping at my body as I’m walking through the field. It’s just so real.

  It seems as soon as I close my eyes the nightmares surge. I’ll wake up soaked and only ten minutes have passed. Things are getting more urgent. I feel something’s going to happen soon.”

  “Something inside your world concerning the murder has definitely changed. I think it’s important we address your true feelings at the time you found her body. After all she was your dear friend and you were absorbed by feelings of guilt, possibly still are. Guilt and your idea that her killer is free and an innocent man is sitting in prison for the rest of his life. That’s a lot to work through,” she said, smiling the entire time.

  “The killer is still out there,” I said. “I don’t know why I think that but I know Ford didn’t do it. I knew him. He was friends with most of the neighborhood children. He was friends with Bre.”

  “Ford Hunley was a madman. I think that was pretty well documented,” she responded, still smiling but now with more teeth.

  I laughed at her. She was confrontational as well as understanding and I liked it.

  “Now tell me, Dr. Fields, how would you know whether Ford Hunley was crazy or not? Have you taken him under and made him scream?”

  She chuckled, shifted in her leather recliner, and shook her head in disbelief. “Well, actually I’ve done some research on the murder and, specifically, the trial. The entire case was circumstantial but the only conclusion the jury could have made was that he was guilty. I wasn’t there but, according to my analysis, the man had been a ticking bomb for some time, simply waiting to explode.”

  “No. You weren’t there,” I said. “If you had been you’d have known something was wrong.”

  “But there was evidence, Christopher. I’ve read the transcripts.”

  “He didn’t kill her,” I said. “The evidence was there but something was wrong.”

  Abby spoke after waving at her chin, which meant she was analyzing, “So, what is it that you’re going to do, Christopher?”

  There it was – succinct and impossible for me to miss. She had looked through my skin and into my eyes to pull out the question that haunted me. Bre, as I always called her, was my best friend and Ford was a gentle man who’d been kind to me as a child and both were done an injustice. And me, well, I’d done nothing about it.

  “Suppose I’ll have to solve the mystery,” I said.

  “And where will you start?”

  “Bre’s mother sounds like a good choice. She was so suspicious, then after the trial the woman disappeared. Thin air as they say,” I said in Abby’s silence. Abby always waited until I was finished speaking.

  “You hated her mother.”

  “I didn’t hate her, I never knew her. Bre told me her mother hated for her to be around boys. She was extremely strict in that way, so I never met her mother. I don’t even think she knew I existed,” I said. “But I do think she lied at the trial.”

  “Okay. Well, let’s talk about Dorian Toms. We have plenty of time. My eleven o’clock canceled,” she said.

  “Damn. Eleven.” I knew I was in trouble. I hated tardiness and I was late for a meeting with my personal investigator and best friend. “I’ve got a meeting with Mac in fifteen minutes.”

  “But we were making progress.”

  I was already up and turning the doorknob. “Sorry Dr. Fields, progress will have to wait. I’ve got news to make.”

  I left her office knowing that she was wrong this time. There were just things I’d known all my life. I knew something big would happen soon and whatever it was would change my life.

  ~***~

  The sun beamed down on Pryor St. as if a giant magnifying glass had been placed in front of it, intensifying the heat that sprayed upon downtown Atlanta. I swear I could see the heat seeping up from the smoldering pavement. I was the only person on the street not wearing some kind of hat. And I regretted it now.

  Hotlanta, as some call the city, was quite an understatement and it had been for the past two weeks. The temperature had risen to over one hundred degrees the past nine days and had not been under ninety in the past four. The entire southeast was enveloped in the current heat wave but Atlanta was at its epicenter – it was like a two-week natural inferno. Thirteen dead.

  I noticed the maroon Lincoln Navigator just where I expected to find it, sitting at the corner of Pryor and Trinity. Inconspicuous, right.

  “Mac, let me in. My feet are about to melt,” I said, knocking on his passenger side window. He clicked the locks and I climbed into the frosty SUV.

  “Welcome to the stake-out Chris. Feels like the Poconos in here, baby. Look at them fry out there,” Mac said, his most precocious grin in play.

  MacKenz
ie Crawford, my best friend since our baseball playing days at Georgia Tech, was the proprietor of Crawford Investigative Services. He started the company after a damaged shoulder sabotaged his burgeoning Major League career. CIS specialized in rich wives who wanted to spy on their philandering husbands but in his spare time he did work for me – sometimes pro-bono, sometimes not. He had four investigators working for him and one of them was presently in the governmental building that housed the mayor’s office fishing for names and addresses.

  “Brr,” I said with a fake shiver and then to Mac. “Sorry, my psych had me hold up in her office making me scream. Who’s in the mayor’s office anyway?”

  “You don’t know him. He’s a new guy.” Mac said he had found him somewhere in New Jersey down on his luck. His name was Ragusa.

  “He needs to deliver the goods on the mayor. Time’s getting short.”

  “Since when have you been adhering to your boss’s timelines? You’re not the real Christopher Lance. Maybe someone’s put a spell on you.”

  “I’ve been under the microscope ever since the fanfare surrounding the Child Stealer case died down. It’s not just my boss. It’s the whole damn office. She even wants me to work with with one of her underlings on this story. Wants him to be my apprentice or something.”

  Mac said, “You need to tell the wigs at the paper this is an extremely delicate operation. We’re the professionals and our investigation cannot be rushed.”

  I waited a second to see if he could keep a straight face. “You haven’t been a professional since you were hurling a little white ball. For you this is a hobby.”

  “This is a vendetta,” Mac said, smirking the whole time. “I never liked the mayor anyway.”

  Money laundering, misappropriation of funds, and just generally being a shady guy were the reasons Mac and I were staked out investigating the mayor. Atlanta had recently finished a new arena and I thought some of the taxpayer funds for the project ended up lining the mayor’s pockets. I had only tips from seedy government personalities – some had grudges while others just wanted to seem important. After taking all this into account, the charges seemed credible and worthy of investigation, except I no longer cared about the case. I hadn’t slept well in months and it seemed as if my life had imploded inside my head.

  “No disrespect, Chris, but you look like shit,” Mac said, nonchalant, like he had asked me what was for dinner. He had the golden boy look down. His was tall, blond, and always the center of attention.

  “I had a rough night.”

  “More like a rough few weeks, man. You’ve looked like this for a month. I just haven’t said anything about it.” Mac checked his rearview mirror for the fourth time since I’d been in the car. “Nightmares?”

  “Yep, Bre’s murder. The nightmares have been getting worse. It’s like I’m being drawn into something but I don’t know what. I can see her face as clearly as the day before she disappeared. Abby tells me that I’m—”

  “Abby?” Mac raised his right eyebrow.

  “Dr. Fields,” I said. I hated it when Mac was being a smart ass since that was my job. “She tells me that I’m making good progress though.”

  He checked his rearview mirror again.

  “Good ole Dr. Abby Fields. I’ve been thinking I need to see her myself. I believe I have what the shrinks call some unresolved issues from my tour in the big league. I constantly see line drives coming at my head and wake up sweating.”

  He checked his side mirror this time.

  “Okay, Mac. What the hell is going on?” I asked and then it hit me. “I know. You’re working another case.”

  “Listen before you blow up, I’ve been trying to catch Greg Chesterfield in the act with this fashion executive for two months and I saw him go into the Marriot half an hour ago. It’s lunch time so it has to be a quickie. I didn’t know he’d just walk in front of my face. Besides, Gloria’s paying me three hundred dollars a day and you aren’t paying me squat.”

  “Great. The mayor is probably laundering money and we’re scoping out a lightweight adulterer. He may be a top executive at CNN but I hardly think he’s news worthy.”

  “Adultery is paying well nowadays. Besides my ex-wife buys a lot shoes. Alimony.”

  Just as Mac took another peek at the Marriot’s doors behind him, his pager vibrated and he reached for it.

  “Let’s go. My guy’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  “Heck, who knows. He put in nine-one-one.”

  We both jumped out of the Navigator, heading for the mayor’s office, when Mac took one last look over his shoulder to the Marriot.

  “Shit, Chesterfield’s leaving with his girlfriend. You’ve got to get me a picture, Chris. I’ll take care of Ragusa,” Mac said.

  “That’s not my job, Mac. I don’t spy on private citizens and their private matters,” I said, now standing in the middle of Trinity.

  “Chris, time is wasting. Here take this.” He shoved a small digital camera into my chest. “Go over and take the picture, while I check on our operation.”

  Before I could object again, he dashed through midday traffic toward the capital, leaving me to fend off an oncoming Mercedes Benz. I bobbed to the right, eluding the car as the muffled boom of its horn zoomed past my ear.

  I sprinted across the street to the Marriot where Chesterfield stood with a pretty brunette. They held hands in downtown Atlanta for goodness sake. How dumb could you be and still be a millionaire? I could get a few months of pro-bono detective work for this picture. I made sure not to get too close trying to avoid a nasty confrontation. Click. I turned to walk away then thought I might want to get one more picture for insurance. Click, click. Chesterfield was screwed. Gloria would take the house, the cars, and half his fortune and I felt none too good about it. I turned to walk toward the capital half expecting to see Mac and, his new guy, Ragusa being hauled out by APD when I felt someone standing over my shoulder. As I turned to look, I was socked in the back by Chesterfield.

  “You bastard! What the hell are you doing?” he yelled but didn’t stop for an answer. He snatched the camera when I lost my balance and dashed across the street like a pickpocket on Piedmont.

  I followed after him, dodging a speeding pick-up. “Chesterfield, that’s not your property. Give that back.” I said.

  ‘Up yours,’ was his response.

  We raced down Trinity and turned onto Central, both of us recklessly weaving our bodies around unsuspecting people. I couldn’t believe I was chasing this man, a multi-millionaire executive, whose privacy I had invaded for no news worthy purpose, but it must have been instinct that drove me forward in that obscene heat. With sweat dripping from my chin, I gained on Chesterfield.

  I felt, with each step that hit the pavement, my head swim and my vision blur. My eyesight went black and the next instant I saw a flash of light. I could see myself running toward the edge of the forest in the midst of tall, stretching pines. I looked down to see grass under my feet – under my loafers. Shaking my head and blinking my eyes, I was transported back to the smoldering asphalt streets of Atlanta.

  Chesterfield turned into an alley heading for Decatur Street. As he crossed Decatur, I was almost able to reach out and grab the collar of his blazer when he dashed into First Georgia Bank. The full lines of people, most of them on lunch break, stared as we maneuvered around them. Chesterfield knocked over an elderly man and kept moving. I stopped to help him up and lost sight of the executive/thief among the people entering from the other side of the bank lobby.

  When I got to Edgewood Avenue, the other side of the bank, the camera snatcher was heading into The Arts Museum and Foundation building and I followed, now solely out of anger

  I stepped inside the museum foyer, which was large and circle shaped with exhibit rooms flanked along the wall. At sixty degree angles on either side of the circle were staircases leading to multiple levels of exhibits and offices. I looked and saw no one resembling Cheste
rfield. It was obvious that I had lost him. Even if I got lucky and found the exhibit that he had ducked into, what was I going to do – kick his ass? That wasn’t my style, and, besides, I was tired and dripping wet.

  I walked across the marble floor to the water fountain, barely staying out of the path of several young girls who pranced around the foyer. I splashed water on my face and my blurred vision started to clear. The museum now seemed fantastic with the marble columns and sharp angles reaching toward the ceiling, which made the interior look as if it stretched for miles.

  “Excuse me, Mister.” I turned to see a ruby-faced girl with diamond shaped freckles. “Would you like to buy – oh, hold on. I meant to say, I’m with the Friar Middle School Inner Visions program and we’re being sponsored by the Arts Museum. Would you like to buy a summer pass to the museum? We get a portion of the proceeds.”

  I held up a finger to say just a minute and then grabbed a hold of my pants at the knees as I sucked in as much oxygen as I could. When I looked up the girl was still standing there holding a booklet containing season passes. She had a goofy grin on her face, the kind you have at that age. I saw twenty dollars printed on the front of the booklet and reached into my pocket. Since the Child Stealer case, a case that had made me famous, I had become more aware of the need to support children when I could.

  “Thanks, Mister,” she said as she ran away. “Gabrielle, come on let’s go. My mother will be here to pick us up soon.”

  I looked up to see a troop of girls sporting aqua-blue T-shirts with Friar Warriors embroidered on the front. I counted eight of them as they ran like tiny angels, assembling by the entrance, seeming to look for whoever was to transport them to their next destination. But the ruby-faced girl looked in a different direction as she shouted for Gabrielle again. The shouts reverberated against the angles creating hollow echoes throughout the foyer.