Father

by Patrick Logan

  “What about Martin?” she asked at last. Her eyes drifted back to the driver as she spoke, and Kendra was surprised to see that whatever emotion that had stirred in him following the mention of Officer Woodward had vanished.

  She kept her eyes trained on him nevertheless.

  “Yeah, so not much there, actually. Martin Reigns, born in Batesburg, was married to a one Arielle Reigns, but filed for divorce five years ago. Went pretty much off the grid since then. Social shows no employment, and the bank sold his house—jeez, a large house, nice house—after he missed eighteen straight mortgage payments.”

  “Divorce? Can you pull up the motion? What was the reason?”

  “Yeah, one sec.”

  More typing.

  “Says here, ‘ABANDONMENT’. Anything else? Kendra, I—”

  But Kendra hung up the phone before the man finished whatever he was going to say. Then she flipped it over and pulled out the battery.

  “Keep driving,” she instructed Martin, even though she knew that he would do just that regardless of her instructions. It almost seemed as if he was eager to get to Batesburg—to return to his home.

  Which worried her.

  A lot.

  Kendra rolled down the window and chucked out both the battery and the phone, not bothering to look where they landed. Then she turned back to Martin.

  “Seventeen girls, Martin? That brings your total to twenty. You’ve been a busy little molester, haven’t you?”

  Martin just stared ahead blankly.

  “Don’t feel like talking anymore? That’s okay, I have ways to make you talk. Trust me, you’ll talk.”

  Chapter 42

  The director hung up the phone and waited for the text to come through with the coordinates of Kendra’s last call.

  He didn’t believe that Agent Grover only tried to convince her to turn herself in—he didn’t need any investigative skills to know that. All he needed was to know Paul, and he thought he did. But with Kendra AWOL and Brett locked up, he couldn’t afford to discipline Agent Grover now. His time would come.

  The director cursed himself.

  He was to blame.

  It was inevitable, given what he knew of Kendra. It had only been a matter of time.

  His phone buzzed as the text message came in. As the director had suspected, Kendra’s phone last pinged from a cell tower in Burlowe, a district halfway between Rickshaw and Batesburg.

  The director stood and slowly made his way toward the door.

  He would go after her, he supposed. Not necessarily to find Kendra, although that was a welcome by-product, but to find the girls. For however crazy and unpredictable Kendra was, and had been, she was always his best.

  And in that regard, in only that regard, he trusted her.

  He wasn’t so hardened or vain to think that finding and punishing Kendra was a priority.

  It wasn’t.

  But, like Paul Grover, her punishment would come.

  And when it did, it would be severe. It had to be severe, despite the woman’s problems.

  The director pulled the door to the Rickshaw Police Station hallway open and stepped out, the transcripts of Kendra’s interviews with Martin, all certified by Agent Brett Cherry, tucked under his arm.

  They would come in handy later at the tribunal.

  Not remembering which way the front entrance was, the director first turned left. Seeing only a long hallway ending in what appeared to be a dead end, he turned the other way.

  And that was when Father John Simone essentially fell into him.

  The director was wiry, but he was also strong, and he managed to right himself before both of them tumbled to the ground. The impact, however, was jarring enough to send the folder under his arm spilling to the ground.

  “My goodness, I’m sorry,” the priest said. The man reached over and nearly hugged the director, a lame attempt at making sure the latter didn’t fall.

  The director grimaced and gently pushed the man away, brushing off his light gray sport coat.

  The priest bent.

  “Let me help you,” he offered, but the director was having none of it.

  “I’ve got it. What are you still doing here, anyway?”

  The priest looked confused at the comment.

  “What’s going to happen to Peter?”

  The director stopped shoving the transcript pages into the folder for a moment.

  Peter?

  It took a second to register.

  Ah, Peter McGuire.

  He quickly put the rest of the pages in the folder and stood, eying the priest as he did.

  “I’ve left instructions with the officer—” The director racked his brain. “Officer Lunger. I told Officer Lunger to speak to him, keep him calm. If he can do that, he’ll be released within the hour.”

  The director detected a faint smile on the priest’s face, which was oddly out of place given the circumstances.

  “I’ll speak to him, then. He’s a broken man, without a wife or his daughter.”

  The director nodded.

  “Good day, Father,” he said, then tucked the folder under his arm and continued down the hallway.

  It wasn’t until several minutes had passed that the director found it odd that the priest hadn’t asked about the man’s daughter—about Lacy McGuire.

  * * *

  The smile slid off the priest’s face, and he felt it immediately flush, the adrenaline that pumped in his veins making his fingertips tingle.

  This was the first time in his life he had stolen anything. Even as a child he had resisted snatching a candy bar, even thought the 7-11 was easy pickings and his friends had the act down to a science.

  His palms were sweaty, barely able to hold the two sets of keys that he had slipped into his pocket.

  And this was no candy bar. He had stolen handcuff and car keys from the director of the FBI. He doubted his white collar would protect him from prosecution for that.

  The man’s worn running shoes moved more quickly down the hallway now, his breath coming quickly in bursts. At nearly seventy years old, he was on his last legs, and he knew it. He didn’t even need the doctor to tell him so, although several had gone to great lengths to make this clear. His ticker was failing, more prone to fluttering than beating most days.

  Less than a minute later, he reached the door to the room that he had seen Officer Lunger take Agent Cherry after he had been cuffed. Only then did he chance a look over his shoulder.

  His heartrate slowed a bit when he saw the director’s back to him, the man still walking away in the other direction, his papers since packed back in the folder. He had to hurry; the director would be leaving the station soon, and depending on where he parked, John only had a few minutes before he realized that his keys were missing.

  If everything went according to plan, the director would figure out what had happened and would come back in to find him.

  But by then he and Brett would be gone.

  If things went according to plan, that is.

  Father John Simone pulled the door open just wide enough to slip inside.

  At first he didn’t even see Agent Brett Cherry, partly because of the dim lighting relative to the hallway, and partly because the man was seated at the far end of the room, hunched over so far that his head pressed against the table, his arms still cuffed tightly behind his back.

  Father John coughed, announcing his presence, and Brett looked up.

  It was like looking at a different man. This morning he had been charming, in a goofy, confused sort of way. Childish, really.

  But now he looked old and tired, much like the priest felt.

  For a second, neither man said anything when their eyes locked. Then the priest remembered the director, and hurried over to Brett, pulling the keys out of his pocket as he did.

  Brett’s eyes went wide.

  “Where did you get those?”

  The priest said nothing as he fiddled with the keys, trying to unlo
ck the handcuffs in the dim light.

  Eventually they sprung open, and Brett brought his hands in front of him, rubbing the red lines that marked his wrists.

  Then he stood, and stared directly at the priest.

  “Where?”

  Father John shook his head.

  “No time. If you want to save the girls, we need to go now.”

  He started moving toward the door, but stopped when he realized that Brett wasn’t behind him. He turned.

  “I have no car keys… Kendra took them.”

  The priest jangled the director’s car keys.

  “Whose? Yours?”

  Father John shook his head.

  “Hurry, if you want to save Kendra, we need to leave this place now.”

  Chapter 43

  “Ken-Ken… why did you call me that?” Kendra demanded. She had taken the syringe out of her pocket again, and had it cupped in her hand so that while Martin could see that it was there, he wouldn’t be able to tell that it was empty. It was a lame threat, she knew, but without her gun, it was the best she could manage.

  Besides, it didn’t seem like Martin was interested in getting away from her.

  The man stared straight ahead with the conviction of a teenager during their first driving test.

  “Because I knew your father.”

  Kendra sneered.

  “The fuck you did.”

  Still, something about the way that he said knew, again with that unwavering conviction, gave her pause.

  He doesn’t know him—didn’t know him. That’s impossible.

  Kendra had wasted a good many years looking for her father, and mother, ever since she had fled the church at age fourteen. She had searched and searched and searched… and she had continued looking even after she had joined the FBI, using her newly found and considerable resources.

  Part of her assumed that he was dead, and Martin’s use of the word knew offered some credence to this. It would make things easier if her parents were dead. Easier in the sense that she wouldn’t have to deal with their reasons and answers, none of which would be satisfying. Nothing would explain why they had tricked a four-year-old girl, abandoning her at a random church.

  He can’t know my parents. Impossible.

  She moved the syringe closer to Martin, knowing that he would be able to identify its shape in his periphery.

  “Tell me where you heard that,” she demanded again. Kendra tried to be strong, to be forceful, but her throat betrayed her.

  “I know a lot about you.”

  Kendra slowly moved the syringe closer to his neck—maybe he hadn’t seen it after all.

  “Put it away, Kendra, I know it’s empty.”

  Kendra instinctively pulled back in surprise.

  “It’s empty,” he repeated.

  Trying to regain control, she moved the syringe to his neck anyway, pressing the sharp point against his skin.

  “It may be empty, but it’ll still burst your carotid. Shit, injecting just air directly into it will probably kill you. Just keep fucking driving and start answering my questions.”

  Martin blinked, but didn’t move away from the needle point as she had expected.

  What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

  The first thought that came to mind was that he was a sociopath, but that wasn’t consistent with the kidnapping of the girls. Sociopaths rarely abducted children; usually they stuck to single women, the elderly, and occasionally random strangers.

  Sometimes little girls, but rarely. And multiple little girls, rather than just opportunistic crimes? Not in Kendra’s experience.

  Pedophiles abducted young girls.

  But Martin didn’t strike her as one of those, either. Which brought her back to the idea that he was some sort of zealot with a strange proclamation for adopted children.

  Fuck.

  “Fine,” she said at last, bringing the syringe back to her lap. This whole scenario was wrong—something about it was just off. If he had known that the syringe was empty, why had he been so willing to come with her? Why was he driving now, for that matter? And why had he brought the milk to Jenna McGuire? What the hell was the point of all of this?

  Kendra swallowed hard. The only thing that made sense was that Martin wanted to be caught.

  Her eyes flicked back to him, noting that even though his hair was completely gray, he couldn’t have been even fifty yet. He was still wearing the white scrubs from Wikstrands, and the arm holes were cut high, revealing muscular biceps and strong-looking forearms. Kendra had training, of course, but based on her struggle with Martin at the facility, she knew that he could overpower her if he so wanted.

  So why is he still playing along?

  Kendra suddenly regretted tossing her cell phone.

  “I don’t know why keep sucking me into your games, but I’ll bite. How did you know my father?”

  “I was looking for him.”

  “Looking for him? Why?”

  Martin sighed, the first visible emotion since she had forced him into the car. The man opened his mouth as if to say something, but then shut it again.

  “Why?” Kendra demanded again.

  The car suddenly jostled as Martin took an exit off the highway. Kendra whipped her head around, trying desperately to locate a road sign, but saw only a sign indicating ‘Elloree’ with no mention of Batesburg. Her heart started to race.

  “Martin! Where are we going?” She brought the syringe back up to his neck, but this time, Martin lashed out with startling speed and smacked her hand. Kendra cried out as the syringe went flying into the backseat.

  “You mother—”

  “Sit down!” Martin shouted. Like his swat, his voice was so unexpected that Kendra instinctively obeyed the man, much like a disobedient child.

  “Where are we going, Martin?” Kendra shouted again. Her blood pressure started to rise, adrenaline coursing through her body. Her eyes darted about the interior of the car, searching for something—anything—that might be used as a weapon. There was her purse, which she had left in the car earlier, but the most dangerous thing in there might be her credit cards. Her eyes finally settled on the glove box, and her mind nearly screamed the word.

  Glove box!

  Neither she nor Brett carried their handguns, but she kept hers in the glove box.

  Kendra swallowed hard as she tried to remember if Brett did the same.

  Well, only one way to find out.

  “Where are we going?” she repeated, trying to keep the tremor from her voice. The words were meant as a distraction as her hand slowly snaked across her thigh and toward the glove box.

  Martin surprised her with an answer.

  “You said you wanted to see Lacy and the other girls. I am taking you to them.”

  Again with the fucking games.

  She inched her hand closer.

  “But where?”

  “The swamp; we’re going to the swamp.”

  Swamp?

  The nightmares she used to suffer from as a child ripped through her mind, starting out vivid and then becoming more and more abstract until the shattered images regressed into a facsimile of Stephanie Black’s painting.

  Her breath was suddenly coming fast and furious, and she was on the verge of hyperventilating. Her vision was getting messy, as if peering through a foggy mirror. Any semblance of subtlety was gone now, chased away by fear and confusion, and she tried to grab the glove box handle.

  The swamp…

  She missed.

  The terrain outside slowly changed before her eyes, and before she knew it they were driving through the wetlands. Thin spires of branchless trees dotted the left-hand side of the road, while she faintly perceived a boggy body of water on the right.

  “The children are with Mother,” someone said, but Kendra didn’t know if she had said the words or if they had come from Martin’s mouth. “Mater est, matrem omnium.”

  Again she tried to reach for the glovebox, but in addition to blurred
vision, she was feeling nauseated as well.

  The pile of bodies… Steph Black’s pale hand speckled with blood… Detective Tennison’s lined face… Jenna McGuire, pulling against her restraints, her teeth gnashing… Christine, drowning in holy water, unable to breathe… Rob, the man from the bar, fucking her, driving her ass cheeks into the faucet… a woman in the swamp, flames engulfing her own body… screaming, oh God, the most horrible screams… and a girl, tiny girl, burning, her hair catching fire, her face melting like microwaved butter…

  “Martin,” she said, her words coming out slow and deep. “Stop the caarrrrrr, I’m gonna be—”

  And then the vehicle hit something in the road, a bump maybe or some sort of ramp. For a split second, they were airborne, and Kendra felt completely weightless.

  And then gravity took over, and her body suddenly lurched forward, the seatbelt tearing into her collarbone as the vehicle smashed into a tree.

  The last thing Kendra saw before her world was reduced to darkness was Martin’s face hovering over her.

  “I found your father, Ken-ken, because I was looking for you.”

  Chapter 44

  The door closed behind Father John Simone just as the director’s shouts filled the Rickshaw Police Station.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Brett waited on the landing, halfway between the first floor and the ground floor.

  “Hurry!” he shouted to the priest, whose face was a beet red, his breathing coming in tight bursts. And this was only from a half jog maybe thirty meters down the hallway. He looked like he was going to have a heart attack, making it dangerous to push him now, Brett knew, but he had no choice.

  They had to find Kendra before she did something really stupid… or something happened to her.

  While Brett lacked the keen intuition of his partner, he knew that something about Martin Reigns wasn’t completely right. As he waited for the priest to come to him, his thin hands gripping the handrail so tightly that his knuckles nearly matched the pale blue color of the metal itself, he started to piece together the sequence of events that had led them here.