Where's My Son?

by John C. Dalglish

  The service ended and people started to move away. Jason waited until there wasn't anybody left and went over to speak with Michael.

  “You gonna be all right, buddy?”

  Michael gave Jason a half smile.

  “Yea...I'll make it. Thanks for coming.”

  Even though Michael tried to smile, Jason saw that his eyes remained cold.

  “You know you can call me anytime, right?”

  “I know. Thanks, Jason.”

  Jason shook his hand and turned to leave. He couldn't imagine the pain in Michael's soul, but Jason had seen it destroy more than one man.

  He said a prayer that night for Michael. And he said one for the missing child, just as he had almost every night for the last three years. Finally, he said one more. This one was a prayer of thanks. He felt the need to count his blessings and express his thanks.

  Chapter 5

  It was the time of the year that was most difficult for Michael Barton. His son's birthday was coming up, as well as the seventh anniversary of his wife’s death. It was the darkest time of the year for him.

  His life became weighed down by a shroud of pain and anger. Each year, he had been able to emerge from it and carry on, but this was going to be a particularly rough year. It was approaching his son's tenth birthday. Ten years since the happiest day of his life. Ten years of pain. A decade.

  He let himself into the house and was met by the same old quiet. In many ways, it felt as if time had stopped inside the walls of this house.

  He threw the mail down on the hall table without looking at it. He set the bottle of wine down on the coffee table in the living room while he went in search of a corkscrew. He had drowned in the hard stuff for a while after Tammy's death, but with the help of Jason Strong, he had seen the alcohol as pointless. It didn't take away the pain; only numbed it. The detective had not given up hope of finding his son and Jason had made him see, at the very least, that he shouldn't throw his life away. What if Strong were right?

  “I have seen kids twice your son's age reunited with their parents; what if we find him and you’re not here? What would I tell him?”

  Michael had found the question difficult to answer. After all, he had made a promise to Tammy and to himself. He could not give up.

  He rummaged around in the kitchen drawers, looking for the corkscrew. He normally just bought the cheap stuff with the twist-off cap, but decided ten years required something more. He had splurged on his and Tammy's favorite wine.

  Eventually he had gone through every drawer but the junk drawer. It shouldn't be there, but he slid it open and pushed stuff around in it anyway. Lying in the back was his wife's digital camera. He pulled it out and found the corkscrew behind it.

  He tried turning the camera on, but the batteries were dead. He carried the camera, corkscrew, and a wine glass into the living room. From the hall table drawer, he retrieved a penlight. He checked inside: the batteries were the same as the ones in the camera.

  Pouring himself a glass of wine, he took a long sip before changing the batteries. He pushed the power button and the camera came to life.

  “Okay, let see what we have here,” he said out loud.

  He often talked to himself to break the silence in the house. He hit the album button and was met with a picture of his son. He sipped his wine and stared at the camera.

  “Where have you been hiding all this time?” he asked the camera, realizing that if it could talk, it would state the obvious: in the junk drawer.

  Gathering his courage, Michael started to scroll through the pictures one at a time. They were mostly pictures of his son sleeping. The last few were the ones he had taken of Tammy and his son under the tree on that hot afternoon. He had finally taken a good picture with the last shot and he sat staring at it for a long time.

  Something caught his eye. In the background behind Tammy, parked just down the street, was a car he didn't recognize. It seemed out of place. An old, maybe 1960-something, Pontiac. He tried to magnify the picture on the camera, but it didn't help.

  He took the camera to his computer, plugged it in, and downloaded the photos. On the computer, he manipulated and expanded the pictures. The old car was partially hidden by a tree, but the plate was still visible. So was the man sitting in the driver’s seat. His heart skipped a beat.

  Who are you? You don't belong around here.

  He magnified the car and plate as much as he could and was able to make out the number as his heart started to pound faster. The plate could lead him to the kidnapper, could lead him to his son. He wrote down the number.

  Now what? If I call Jason Strong, he'll say that they'll look into it and then I won't have any idea what's going on.

  He wanted to check this out himself. He could feel the darkness inside telling him that this was what he needed. This could take away the pain. He had an idea. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  “San Antonio Police.”

  “Yes, can I speak to Detective Strong, please?”

  “Please hold.”

  Several minutes passed.

  “Hello?” Jason Strong's familiar voice came on.

  “Jason, Michael Barton.”

  “Michael, how's it going?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Good...very good.”

  “And Sandy?” Michael asked about Jason's wife Sandy, a tall blonde with striking green eyes.

  “She's good...listen, sorry I haven't called lately. There hasn't been anything new to report, and I've been swamped.”

  “No problem...actually, I called to ask you a favor.”

  “You know I will if I can.”

  “Well, I was in a little fender bender at the stadium parking lot the other day, and the owner wasn't around. Of course, I didn't have any paper or a pen.” Michael chuckled.

  “Of course!” Jason agreed.

  “Anyway, I took a photo of the guy’s plate with my phone, and I was wondering if you could get me his number and address. I'd like to contact him without getting insurance involved.”

  “Well…I'm not supposed to...”

  Michael held his breath.

  “But, okay. Don't suppose it'll hurt.”

  Michael gave the plate number to Jason and waited. Jason was back in five minutes with a name.

  Benny Carter. His address was near Hondo, a town west of San Antonio.

  “Thanks, Jason. I Appreciate it.”

  “No problem, you staying on the straight and narrow?”

  Michael chuckled.

  “Yea, just an occasional glass of wine.”

  “Glad to hear it. Take care and, of course, I'll be in touch with any news.” Jason hung up.

  Michael stared at the name. A dark fire started smoldering in him. He knew this was the kidnapper. It had to be. He felt certain. And he felt anger. Anger that pushed him to act. In the past, he had fought the anger, subdued it. This time, there would be no controlling it. He could feel it taking over, and he didn't care.

  *

  Benny wheeled the '69 Mustang Mach One down his driveway. He'd bought it with the money from the kidnapping and had a body repaint it. Yellow with a black hood and black stripes. It looked fast, and it was.

  Benny drove around back and parked by the kitchen door. He got out, locked the car, and went to let himself in. Putting his key in the lock, he saw a reflection in the window, but it was too late. Pain exploded from the back of his head. His knees buckled and his face crashed into the glass. He slid unconscious to the ground.

  *

  As Benny slowly started to come around, he began taking stock of his body. He could feel liquid, which he assumed was blood, oozing down his neck and under his shirt. He could also taste it dripping from his nose, probably from when his face hit the door. He had a splitting headache, and opening his eyes, in the bright sun, sent pain coursing through his brain.

  Once he could get his eyes to stay open, he found he was tied to something, his arms behind him. It felt like the huge bl
ackjack oak behind the house. His feet were also bound with a rope that went around his ankles and around the tree.

  “So, you’re awake?”

  Benny's head swivelled quickly to his right, which made him wince in pain.

  “Who are you? What...what do you want?”

  A man Benny didn't recognize got up and moved in front of him, but ignored his question.

  “Who are you?” Benny demanded.

  The man just stared at him.

  “Who the hell are you!?”

  He moved in very close and hissed into Benny's face.

  “Who am I? Who am I?...I'm the father of the child you took.”

  Benny's eyes got huge, which made his head ache even worse, and he thought he would vomit.

  “Child? What child? I don't know nothin' about no kid.”

  “Oh, come now, you remember: ten years ago, small baby.” Michael nearly spit it out with contempt. “Or do you do that kind of thing all the time?”

  Benny's head was getting clearer. That's what happens when fear pumps adrenaline through you, and Benny was afraid. He started looking around wildly for some means of escape. He didn't own a gun, and if he had, it would be in the house, anyway. His knife was in his boot, but the ropes were too tight, his hands would not come free.

  Benny looked into his captor’s eyes. They were wild, angry.

  “Now, where's my son?”

  “I didn't do nothin' with your kid...I don't know what you’re talking about.”

  The man stepped back, put his hand across Benny's forehead, and drove the back of Benny's head into the tree. Benny let out a groan, his eyes rolling back in his head. When he opened them again, he spit in the man's face.

  The man stepped back and slowly wiped his face with his sleeve. Benny watched as he turned and walked over to a woodpile and grabbed a twenty-pound sledgehammer. He hefted it up and down a couple of times before walking back over to Benny. Benny started to panic, squirming to get free. Without saying a word, the man swung the hammer directly at Benny's right knee.

  Benny's world exploded with pain. Waves of agony raced up his leg, through his body, and into his brain. He screamed, briefly lost consciousness and then came to with a series of low moans. His knee was shattered and blood soaked his jeans.

  The stranger waited for Benny to stop sobbing and then asked his question again.

  “Where's my son?”

  “I can't tell you...he'll kill me...” Benny sobbed.

  “I'll kill you if you don't. Where's my son?”

  “...Can't tell....”

  His attacker started to heft the hammer again, and Benny freaked.

  “Okay...okay...this guy paid me to get him a kid.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Zeb...Zeb Johnson.”

  Benny tried to stop sobbing, his voice breaking and just above a whisper. The man had to move closer, listening intently.

  “How do I find him? What did he look like?”

  “I don't know...we used throw away cell phones.”

  Benny paused for breath.

  “He was a big man, red hair.”

  “Where was he from?”

  Benny scrambled for details. It had been ten years, and his brain was more concerned with the pain.

  “The contact I met was from Missouri, I think.”

  “Contact...what contact?”

  “Some chick...I gave her the kid and she paid me.”

  “What was her name? What did she look like?”

  Benny didn't answer, the blood running down his leg and out from under his pants was making him light-headed. The man lifted the hammer and placed it against Benny's left kneecap. A surge of adrenaline shot through Benny and he started to stammer.

  “Wait...no...she was real short...red hair...had a tattoo on her tit.”

  “Anything else?”

  Benny felt the hammer pushing against the kneecap.

  “No…wait…yeah.”

  Something was rolling around in the back of his head.

  “She was in a van with a parking sticker…St. something…Lawrence…no, Luke’s…that's it…St. Luke’s, and the guy said she was some sort of nurse.”

  Benny was exhausted from the effort of remembering. His attacker looked at him a minute longer, put down the hammer, and turned to walk away.

  “Hey…where…you…going? You can't leave me…like this!”

  He turned and put a gun to Benny's head.

  “You’re right.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  *

  Michael left the ranch and headed east to his home in San Antonio. He didn't think that he had been seen, but he wasn't taking any chances. Parking in the garage, he went in and packed a bag. After loading it into the car, he sat down at the computer and searched ‘St. Luke's Missouri’.

  There were only two hospitals: one in St. Louis and the other in Springfield. The one in Springfield, in the southwest corner of the state, was closer. It was the logical place to go first.

  He stood up and looked around. He figured it was the last time he would see his home. There was a picture of Tammy on the side table. He picked it up and stared at it for a long time. He decided to take it. If he got the chance, he would show it to their son.

  Shutting the door behind him, he climbed into his car and raised the garage door. The sun had started to go down, but it was still stifling hot. His sunglasses took the edge off of the glare and hid the determination in his eyes.

  He turned the car north, towards Missouri.

  *

  Detective Strong was sitting at his desk when Vanessa Long, a fellow detective, came into the squad room. She was 5’10” and thin. Some would say skinny. Large blue eyes and straight black hair that fell to the middle of her back made her very attractive. They had been together on the street as beat cops, but she had moved up to Detective ahead of him. She was good, real good, and Jason liked working cases with her.

  “Hey, JD.” She called him by his initials. Jason's middle name was David, and JD had stuck since the academy.

  “Hey, Vanessa. How's it going?”

  “Good. Just ran into Dan Carpenter—you remember him, out in Hondo?”

  Jason looked up from his paperwork.

  “Yea, think so. Why?”

  “He was telling me about a case they have out there. Torture-murder.”

  She was sitting on the edge of his desk.

  “Some local named Benny Carter was the victim. Brutal stuff.”

  A bell went off in Jason's head. Benny Carter. Where had he heard that name? A chill ran up his spine as he recalled the conversation with Michael Barton.

  “They got any leads?”

  “Tire tracks, rope left behind, and a shell casing.”

  “Motive?”

  Vanessa got up; the phone on her desk was ringing.

  “No, nothing apparently stolen. Looks almost like a hit.”

  While Vanessa answered her phone, Jason called Michael. No answer. He left a voice mail. Next, he called Michael's work. They had not seen or heard from him in several days. Jason waved at Vanessa and left. He needed to go to Michael's house.

  Chapter 6

  Springfield, Missouri was 700 miles and about 12 hours away, according to Mapquest. Michael drove all night and arrived in the Branson area just as the sun was coming up. Branson was a tourist town about 30 minutes south of Springfield, and he decided staying there would make him less likely to stand out. He found a small motel and checked in.

  Worn out from the drive, he fell on the bed and slept until nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. After getting up and showering, he went to get something to eat. There was a Denny’s near the motel, and after ordering, he asked the waitress if she could give him directions. She put in his order and came back with his coffee and a local map with the route highlighted. Within the hour, he was on his way to St. Luke's Hospital.

  He found it easily enough, and parked near the front door. It was a modest sized beig
e building with 3 floors. One wing appeared to have been added for medical offices and it was beige, too. Even most of the shrubbery was beige colored.

  The inside was no brighter. Gray walls, white tile floors, and black handrails. The recent trend of cheery hospital colors had not yet reached St. Luke's.

  Michael made his way across the lobby to a half-circle desk with a candy striper behind it. She seemed out of place with her surroundings. Short, blonde hair with hazel eyes, and a big, bright smile. Her nametag said ‘Britney’.

  “Hello. May I help you?”

  “I hope so.”

  Michael smiled down at her and gestured towards her uniform.

  “I didn't know that candy stripers were still around.”

  She appeared slightly embarrassed and made a face.

  “There aren't many, but St. Luke's is big on tradition, so we still wear the outfit.”

  “Well, it looks great on you. Say, I'm trying to find someone, maybe you know her. My niece and her husband had a child here and their nurse was terrific with them. I can't remember her name, but since I was in town, I thought I'd look her up and thank her.”

  “Oh, how nice. I'll help if I can. What can you tell me about her?”

  “Well, as I remember, my niece said she was very short, less than five feet, red hair. Seems like my niece's husband mentioned a tattoo.”

  “Oh, sure,” Britney said, her face lighting up. “That's Susan Turnbull!”

  “Susan Turnbull.” Michael repeated. “Where do I find her?”

  “She's a nurse in OB. It's on the third floor.”

  “Okay, great. I'll go and see if she's there.”

  “Would you like me to call and check?”

  “Sure, that would be super.”

  Michael leaned on the desk, while the girl with ‘Britney’ on her nametag called up to the third floor. He tried to look casual, but his mind was racing. He couldn't believe his luck. He was thankful that it had not been the hospital in St. Louis. He knew that finding the woman in a big hospital such as that one would have been very difficult.