“Exactly. I’m not worried. I know she’s in safe hands. And you don’t have to say it for me to know how much you need me right now.”
“I won’t argue with that,” Martin agreed. “All right. The plane leaves at noon. Think you can be ready in an hour?”
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Even better.”
75
CLAIRE SAT ON the edge of the bed. Amanda stirred. She stroked an errant strand of hair from her sister’s damp brow.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.”
Amanda sat up, surveyed the room. “Where am I?” she said. “What am I doing here?”
“It’s okay,” Claire replied. “No need to be frightened. You’re among friends. You’re safe now.”
“What about the others? Virgil, Sky, Blessing?”
“They’re fine. The authorities assured me they’ll be well cared for.”
“I want to see them,” Amanda demanded. “I want to see for myself that they’re all right.”
“I’m sorry, honey. That’s just not possible right now.”
“Why not?” Amanda pressed.
Claire sighed. “The police have a lot of questions for them.”
“Such as?”
“They want to learn more about Joseph Krebeck and what went on at the compound where we found you.”
“Prophet,” Amanda corrected her. “His name is Prophet. You’re not allowed to call him Joseph. No one is.”
“No, honey,” Claire said. “His name is Joseph Krebeck. He’s been on the run from the police for a very long time.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I was, but I’m not. There’s a lot you’re going to hear about Joseph in the coming days you’re not going to like, but I can assure you it’s all true. You know I’d never intentionally set out to hurt you.”
“But you have! You took me away from my home, from the very people who loved me!”
“No, sweetie. It was Krebeck who took you away. From mom and dad and me. Your real family.”
“Liar!”
“Amanda, please.”
Amanda screamed. “You lie! YOU LIE!” She struck Claire in the chest with her fists.
Claire grabbed her sister, pulled her close, held her in her arms as she sobbed.
“I’m so sorry, Amanda. Everything’s going to be all right. Just give it some time. Now lay back and get some rest.”
Amanda pulled her bedsheets up to her neck, turned away from Claire, and buried her head in her pillow.
Claire stood and walked to the door. Her voice quivered as she spoke. “I know this is difficult for you, sweetie. I really do. You’ll understand the truth soon enough. No one is ever going to hurt you again. You have my word on that. I love you, Amanda. I always have and I always will.”
Amanda cried.
As Claire closed the door, she heard her sister whisper. “I love you, too.”
76
KAMPALA, UGANDA
SITTING IN THE tiny reception area of Sacred Light Mission, Martin and Claire waited for the director to arrive. Framed photographs of the many children who had once come through their doors adorned the cracked concrete walls. In the center of the wall hung a large, gold-framed portrait of a former child of the mission, Areebe Tumba, seated behind his desk at the United Nations, the flags of Uganda and the UN behind him. Martin read the inscription.
For the Sisters and children of Sacred Light Mission. Beyond these walls, destiny awaits. Seize it with the knowledge that life’s truest reward comes not from what you receive from the world, but from what you give to it.
The director entered the room. She noted Martin’s interest in the picture.
“Mr. Tumba grew up in this orphanage,” she said. “I am enormously proud of him. He came from nothing, destitute and abandoned. Against all odds, he grew up to become a leader and a statesman; a symbol to all of our children that one’s dreams can come true if you possess both the desire and the willingness to work for them.” She extended her hand. “My name is Akimbo Ubweete. Welcome to Sacred Light Mission, Mr. Belgrade.”
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Ms. Ubweete,” Martin replied. “May I present my close friend, Dr. Claire Prescott.”
The women shook hands.
The director motioned to an adjoining room. “Please, come into my office. Tell me how I can help you.”
Martin opened his wallet, removed a worn, crumpled picture. “I’d like to know if you remember this girl. This photo was taken five years ago. She’d be almost eight now. Her name is Melanie. She’s my daughter.”
The director studied the picture. “She looks familiar.”
Martin felt his heart skip a beat. “She’s here? May I see her, please?”
The director shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Belgrade. I said I remembered her. This girl is no longer at Sacred Light.”
“Do you know where I can find her?” Martin asked.
“Yes, but I’m afraid I can’t provide you with that information.”
Her answer stunned Martin. “Why not?”
“Because Melanie, as you call her, has been placed in foster care. And as you can appreciate, those records are confidential. I remember her because she was with us for a very short time. Six or seven months, no longer. You see, most of the young people we receive are teenagers. Melanie was the exception. She was still a child. Few families will accept young adults. But for a three-year-old there was immediate interest.”
“I understand your position, Ms. Ubweete,” Martin said, “but you must understand mine. Melanie was not abandoned. She was kidnapped. She was taken from me and brought to your country without my consent. The only reason she wound up in your orphanage is because her mother’s murderer delivered her to you.”
Martin removed an envelope from his jacket pocket and laid out its contents on the director’s desk.
“These are copies of her birth certificate, hospital records, a picture with me when she was just a newborn, family photographs, her second birthday party--”
“Please, Mr. Belgrade,” the director interrupted. “I have no reason not to believe your story. You would not have come all this way to see me without good reason. I know that. But I cannot help you. Policies and procedures have been judiciously followed. We must adhere to the law. The rights of Melanie’s foster family must also be taken into consideration.”
“Foster family?” Martin said incredulously. “Melanie doesn’t need a foster family. I am Melanie’s family! With all due respect, Ms. Ubweete, perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. My daughter was stolen from me. If you know where she is, I demand you tell me.”
“I do not appreciate the tone you are taking with me, Mr. Belgrade.” The director rose from her desk. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Leave?” Martin replied. “You can’t be serious. Tell me where to find my daughter!”
Ms. Ubweete placed her hand on her telephone. “Will it be necessary for me to call the authorities?” she asked sternly.
Martin suddenly realized he had offended the only person in the world who could possibly help him find his daughter. He stood, hoping if his knees would be strong enough to keep him from collapsing.
“No,” Martin replied. “We’ll see ourselves out. But I’ll be back.”
Claire took him by the arm. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not,” Martin replied as he left the director’s office. “I’m far from okay.”
Outside the gates of the mission, Martin leaned against the stone wall and cupped his face in his hands. His legs buckled. He slid down the wall, sat on the ground, and wept.
Claire knelt beside him, wrapped him in her arms, consoled him. “You can’t give up, Martin,” she said. “Not yet. Melanie is down here somewhere. We’ll find her. I know we will.”
“I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” Martin said. He struggled through his tears to speak. “My little girl is… gone.”
“You’ve got to be strong, Martin,” Claire said. “Now more than ever. But if you can’t, then let me be strong for you. Like you were for me.” She helped him to his feet. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We’ll contact the American Embassy and explain our situation to them. There must be some way they can intervene on our behalf.”
Martin drew a deep breath, steadied himself. “Yes,” he agreed. “The embassy. It’s worth a try,” he agreed.
“Damn right it is,” Claire said.
She raised her hand, hailed a taxi.
77
AS THE CAB pulled away from Sacred Heart into the busy midday traffic, Martin turned in his seat and glanced back at the mission.
Akimbo Ubweete stood at the gate, watching the cab as it drove away. She lowered her hand as though having tried to signal the driver without success, then turned away.
“Driver, stop!” Martin yelled. “Stop the cab! Now!”
“What is it, Martin?” Claire asked. “What’s wrong?”
Martin threw open the door and jumped out. He ran down the street, dodging cars and parcel laden pedestrians until he reached the gates of the mission.
“Director!” Martin called out.
The mission director turned at the front steps, looked back. “Yes, Mr. Belgrade?”
“There’s something you want to tell me, isn’t there? Something about Melanie.”
She walked back to the front gate. “Yes, there is,” she said. She handed Martin a slip of paper. On it, she had written an address.
“I looked up the girl’s file as you were leaving. I don’t know why, but I did. That’s when I noticed the note.”
“Note?” Martin asked.
“The one I had made to myself years ago… about this.” The director handed Martin a wallet-sized photograph identical to the photo he had shown to her in their meeting. “It was in Melanie’s pocket when we bathed her and provided her with clean clothes. The man who delivered Melanie here told us her mother was killed in an LRA raid.” She pointed to Martin in the picture. “He said nothing about her father. We assumed they had killed both parents, not just her mother, which was an egregious error on our part. I explained to the sister who was in charge of this file that we have a duty to God and state to exhaust every effort to locate surviving relatives prior to placing a child with a family. I don’t know why, but it appears we did not do our due diligence in this case. If you are her legal guardian, and I believe you are, then you have every right to be reunited with your daughter. I’m very, very sorry, Mr. Belgrade. If there’s anything I can do to make this any easier for you, I will.”
Martin’s voice trembled. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I can come with you if you wish,” the director said. “I can talk to the family. Besides, we can do nothing until the authorities have been advised of the situation.”
“Can you call them for us? Ask them to help?”
“Of course,” the director agreed. “I’ll do that immediately. Come inside. We’ll make that call right away.”
78
THE MISSION VAN was rusted out and barely roadworthy. Claire stared down at the road rushing past her through the gaping holes in the floorboards.
The director glanced in the rearview mirror at Claire, saw the look of concern on her face. “I’m sure you’re accustomed to much better means of transportation than this, Dr. Prescott,” Director Ubweete said. “I’m afraid we have to make do with what is donated to us, and this is the best we can do.”
“It’s fine, Director,” Claire said unconvincingly.
The director smiled. “This is not America, Dr. Prescott. We are not as privileged as your people.” She pointed to the hoards of street children seeking refuge from an afternoon shower under the galvanized awning of an abandoned building. “Unfortunately, as you can see, Kampala is a city of slums.”
“These children,” Martin asked. “Are they homeless?”.
The director nodded. “Too many to count, I’m afraid.”
“Why so many? Doesn’t your government have social programs to help them?”
“Our government does what it can, Mr. Belgrade,” the director replied. “However, in a country ravaged by war and disease, progress is painfully slow, if at all noticeable. These children are on the street because they have no other choice. They’ve been orphaned, forced from their villages because of war or AIDS. It’s a very sad situation and an inhumane way to live. Do you see those garbage bags they are sitting on?”
“Yes,” Martin said.
“They’re filled with cheap toys and cigarettes, which they sell to tourists on the street during the day,” the director explained. “At night they sleep together in packs, like wild dogs, just to keep safe.”
“Are there no other missions like yours that could care for them?” Claire asked.
“There are only so many people who are willing to help, Dr. Prescott. Sacred Heart alone relies on the support of nearly three hundred foster families. Some children simply can’t be helped because families with healthy children refuse to provide foster care to those with AIDS, so they end up living and dying in the street or joining the rebel forces in the north.”
“You mean the LRA,” Martin said.
“Yes.”
“LRA?” Claire asked.
“The Lord’s Resistance Army,” the director said. “They are responsible for much of the killing that happens in our country. They’ve forced the vast percentage of our people to abandon their homes and villages and flee for their lives. Those who remain are raped and slaughtered. They give the children one choice: join the resistance or die.”
The director turned to Martin. “If your daughter had not been brought to Sacred Heart when she was, she would have been dead years ago.”
Martin said nothing. He stared silently at the road ahead, refusing to consider for even a second that Reginald Fallon’s decision to deliver his daughter to Sacred Heart might very well have saved her life.
“It’s just around the corner,” the director said. “I called the police and explained your situation before we left. I was told a car would be dispatched to meet us there, just in case.”
Martin felt his chest tighten. “In case of what?”
The director smiled faintly. “You have to appreciate this will not be easy for Melanie’s foster parents.”
“Of course,” Martin said thoughtfully.
“They have been exceptionally good to her over the years, Mr. Belgrade,” the director continued. “They have treated her like she was their own daughter, kept her safe from harm. You’ve seen the other side of life here in Kampala, the street life. That could easily have been your daughter’s reality.”
Ahead, the lights of a police car flashed at the end of a driveway.
The van squeaked to a stop as the director pulled in behind the police car. The officer stepped out, greeted them.
“I’ve been authorized to escort you back to your hotel and later to the American Embassy,” the officer told Martin. “Take your time. Just let me know when you wish to leave, and you’ll be safely on your way.”
“Thank you,” Martin replied.
Claire opened the van door and stepped out, walked over to Martin, took his hand in hers.
“Ready?” Claire asked.
Martin smiled. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my entire life.”
“Do you want me to wait here?”
“No.” Martin squeezed her hand. “Stay with me.”
“Don’t worry, Martin,” Claire said. She kissed him on the cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”
79
THE DOOR TO the small bungalow opened. A young girl stepped outside, holding her foster mothers’ hand.
“Oh, God!” Martin said. He stepped forward. “Mellie!”
“Mr. Belgrade, please wait,” the director said. “Give me a moment to speak to her foster parents. They never imagined a day like this would ever come. Now it has. This cannot be easy for them.�
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“Of course,” Martin replied. “I understand.”
Accompanied by the police officer, the director walked to the front door and spoke to the couple. The woman began to cry, then fell into her husband’s arms. The director motioned to Martin and Claire to join her as Melanie’s foster parents stepped inside their home and closed the door.
“Melanie, honey,” the director said. “I have a surprise for you.”
The little girl looked up, spoke quietly. “A surprise?”
“Yes, my dear. A wonderful, joyous surprise.” She nodded at Martin, then stepped aside.
Martin knelt down in front of his daughter, took her tiny hand in his.
“Remember me, Mellie?” Martin said as he choked back his tears. “It’s me. It’s Daddy.”
Melanie’s eyes welled up. A tear trickled down her face. Martin wiped it away.
“Daddy?” Melanie said.
“Yes, baby?”
The little girl cried. “Mommy’s dead.”
“I know, honey.”
“Are you going to die on me too?”
Martin’s voice broke. “No, Mellie,” he replied. “Daddy’s not going to die, baby. Not for a very, very long time.”
Melanie sniffled, looked up at her father.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I want to go home.”
Martin choked back his tears. He picked up his daughter, held her tight. “Me too, honey,” he said. “Me too.”
Also by Gary Winston Brown
The Jordan Quest Thriller Series (in order):
Jordan Quest (Jordan’s backstory. Free series prequel)
Jordan Quest FBI Thriller Series Boxset 1 (Books 1-3) (Intruders, The Sin Keeper, Mr. Grimm)
Intruders
The Sin Keeper
Mr. Grimm
Nine Lives
Live To Tell
The Vanishing Page 22