by Joseph Lewis
“Anyone else touch you between your shoulder and knee?”
“Well Coach Miller after a game. My goalie coach after a workout.”
Jamie scanned the list and asked, “What’s your goalie coach’s name?”
“We didn’t put him on the list,” Stephen said apologetically. “I . . . we didn’t think of him.”
“So, what’s his name?”
“Bill Weston,” Sarah said.
“Why didn’t you put him on the list?” Jamie asked.
“I don’t know,” Stephen said with a shrug. “I didn’t think of him.”
He shrugged again.
“Right,” Ted said in disgust.
“What?” Stephen asked.
Ted shook his head and looked away.
“What?” Stephen asked angrily.
Ted didn’t answer, but glanced at him and then turned away again.
“You think I didn’t put him on the list on purpose? Bill didn’t do anything to me except give me high fives or punch my arm . . . just goofing around. He didn’t do anything to me.”
“Mike, why did you think of him?” Jamie asked.
Mike glanced at Stephen and said, “Sometimes after a workout or sometimes after a game, he’d give you a hug or . . . you know . . . smack your butt.”
Stephen looked from Mike to his mom and then to Jamie said, “But that’s nothing. It’s no big deal. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Right,” Ted said.
“What?” Stephen demanded.
“Ted, shut the hell up and leave!” Sarah said getting up from the table and facing him.
“You’ve been an ass since the hospital, and I’m sick of it. Pack your bags and get out. Now!”
Ted didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He glared at Sarah.
“I said, get out! Now!” Sarah shouted. “I don’t want you around Stephen any longer.”
She dissolved into tears, and Jennifer stood up to comfort her, wrapping Sarah in her arms. Her tears, however, didn’t make her weak.
“Boys, why don’t you go to Stephen’s room,” Mark suggested.
“Don’t you tell my son where he should go! This is my house!” Ted shouted.
“Folks calm down,” Jamie said standing up.
He noticed that Ted stood near the kitchen knives, steak knives and butcher knife on the counter in a wooden holder, so as a precaution, he moved closer to the boys.
Mike tugged on Stephen’s arm, but Stephen didn’t budge.
“You think I wanted all this shit to happen, don’t you?” Stephen asked. “You think I wanted to do that shit with those perverts.”
Mike tugged on Stephen’s arm trying to pull him from the kitchen, but Stephen pulled away from him.
“You think I’m gay,” Stephen said, tears streaming down his face. “I’m not. I’m not gay. I didn’t want any of this shit to happen! None of it!” Stephen shouted.
“Ted, why don’t you-“ Mark started.
“-don’t you dare tell me what I should or shouldn’t do,” Ted said through gritted teeth, pointing a meaty finger at him.
Jamie watched Stephen’s father, knowing he was the dangerous one in the room. Slowly, he placed himself between Ted and the boys, pushing the boys behind him towards the family room and hallway to what he presumed led to bedrooms.
Stephen shook with anger. Mike had his arm around his friend and glared at Stephen’s father.
Sarah composed herself and said, “Ted, I asked you to leave. If you don’t, I’ll ask Detective Graff to arrest you.”
“Arrest me?”
“I want you out of this house. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. You can come back later to pick up some clothes. I’ll have a suitcase on the front step.” Sarah sighed, wiped tears from her eyes and said, “Leave now.”
Ted threw his cup in the sink where it shattered. What was left of his coffee splashed on the counter, the floor and on the curtains on the window above the sink. He took one last look, grabbed car keys off the counter and stormed out, slamming the screen door behind him. The car started up and the tires squealed as he backed up out of the driveway.
They stood facing the back door expecting Ted to reappear, but as the sound of the car faded away, each of them began to breathe again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Waukesha, Wisconsin
A half-hour or so later with Graff pushing and pulling the boys through the list, he felt he had a pretty good idea where he wanted to begin the investigation. They worked through the names and the most likely were the two teachers, Franklin and Reif, the tennis coach, Bob Luchsinger, and the goalie coach, Bill Weston. Or, it could be none of the four, someone else on the list that wasn’t as visible as the others or even someone not on the list. Graff had a lot of work ahead of him.
“I almost forgot,” Mike said. “Did you give that kid our letter?”
He and Stephen wanted to thank the boy for helping them get freed, but knew it was confidential. They were determined to meet and thank him in person, so they wrote a letter and had asked Jamie to deliver it to him, hoping that the boy would contact them. So far, he hadn’t.
Jamie nodded and said, “Gave it to him the day before yesterday.”
“And?” Mike asked.
Jamie shrugged and said, “Might take some time. He’s a pretty quiet kid.”
Mike felt deflated. He was disappointed that he hadn’t called either of them.
“Can I ask a question?” Stephen asked.
“Shoot.”
Stephen glanced at Mike, then down at his hands, and then directly at the detective.
“How much danger am I in? I mean, is this guy . . . whoever he is, gonna kill me?”
Graff sighed. He spent two hours with an FBI profiler and came away unconvinced at anything she had suggested because it sounded vague and inconclusive. He wasn’t a big fan of profilers, but he had to consider every avenue.
“I don’t have a good answer for you.” He scratched his head and said, “Until we know who this guy is, we think it’s prudent to keep watch on you, Mike, and your families. We know what those other men are . . . were capable of, but this guy, we don’t know anything about him.”
“But here’s what I think. I think that if this guy meant any harm to you, he would have acted a long time ago. Think about it. This guy, whoever he is, knows you. He’s watched you. Chances are you know him. He blends in, doesn’t stick out, and keeps a low profile. I don’t mean to scare you, but he wants you for sex, which means he wants you alive.”
“I don’t want to have sex with him, honest!” Stephen said, his voice rising.
“Honey, we know that,” Sarah said, reaching across the table towards her son’s hand.
Stephen withdrew his hands and put them in his lap, his eyes down at the table.
“All I’m saying is that the likelihood of this guy wanting to hurt you is pretty low,” Jamie said reassuringly.
“But you don’t know that for sure,” Stephen said.
“You’re right. We don’t know for sure, and that’s why we’ll have eyes on you and Mike at all times, day and night.”
Jamie waited for a question and when he didn’t get any, he said, “You two will have to stick together. If for some reason you can’t, at least be with one other person. I’d prefer that you don’t do anything by yourselves. Make sure your parents know where you’re going and with whom. Daylight is always safer than nighttime.”
“But if Mike hangs out with me, I might be putting him in danger. Maybe he and I shouldn’t hang out for a while.”
Mike turned to him and said, “No way! Stephen, we talked about this last night. I’m not letting you fight this by yourself.”
“But-“
“-No buts! You’re my best friend. We’re going to be together.”
Stephen looked at his friend Mike, with a bruised and blackened eye, swollen cheek, missing and loose teeth. His friend who the night before held him as he fell asleep. His friend who refu
sed to back down and who had assured him that he had his back and always will. His best friend.
He nodded. He didn’t agree with Mike. He still felt that Mike would be in danger. But he nodded because Mike was his friend, and if there was anyone he had ever, ever wanted to be with, that person was Mike.
Turning to the two mothers and Mark, Jamie said, “If at all possible, try to stay with the boys.”
“You said there will be protection for Mike and Stephen?” Jennifer asked, glancing at Mike.
Jamie nodded and said, “Yes. They will be watched. You won’t necessarily know them, and chances are, you might not see them. But they’ll be around the boys at all times.”
Jennifer reached out and clutched Sarah’s hand.
Graff smiled at the two boys and repeated his earlier instructions, “Just be careful, think before you do anything, and, this is really important, make sure you stay together as much as possible and make sure your parents know where you are and where you’re going at all times. Okay?”
The boys nodded, grim-faced and serious.
It seemed to Jamie that for twelve year olds, Stephen and Mike looked at once both young and old. Prematurely aged. With good reason. Someone was out there who was after them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Fishers, Indiana
“But you have to admit, Purdue is the weakest basketball team in the Big Ten.”
Brett had been after Cleve Batiste ever since he had replaced MB that morning and found out he had played basketball for Purdue.
Cleveland Batiste stood six-one and was wiry, muscled and put together tightly. If the man had ten ounces of fat on him, no one knew where it was.
“No, that would be Northwestern,” Batiste said quietly sipping some orange juice that Bobby had poured for him.
“What was your best game?” Bobby asked.
“Ohio State my senior year. I had fourteen points, six steals and eight assists.”
“State’s tough, but still, Purdue?” Brett said with disdain.
“Good school,” Batiste said into his glass.
“Butler’s better,” Bobby said.
Cleve faked choking, pounded his chest and coughed. “Seriously, the Bullfrogs?”
“Bulldogs!” Bobby said.
“Yeah, whatever,” Batiste said dismissingly. “Northwestern and Minnesota, the worst and the second worst team in the Big Ten would beat them by fifteen. Maybe twenty.”
“Who did you have your worst game against?” Bobby asked.
“Just about everybody,” Brett said with a smirk.
Victoria had been semi-reading the paper and drinking her coffee, amused at the conversation in her kitchen. She couldn’t help but smile. Thomas was still in the back getting dressed, and she wished he was out here listening with her.
“Kid, there’s a house across the street with a basketball hoop, and I’ll take you there and kick your butt!”
“Um, you might not have noticed, but my arm’s in a sling?” Brett said lifting it up slightly.
“Oh, I see. Big talker can’t back it up ‘cause he has an itty bitty booboo,” Batiste said faking sadness.
Brett left the kitchen, went to the living room window, looked out, and said over his shoulder to his mother, “Mom, do you know who’s living kiddie corner from us?”
“I don’t think anyone is, Honey. The house has been for sale.”
“I don’t see a For Sale sign,” Brett said. “Think they’d mind if we went over there to shoot some hoop?”
“Brett, your shoulder isn’t ready for that yet,” his mother cautioned. “But if you take it easy, maybe you can play horse or something.”
Horse sucks, he thought. Screw it, I’m playing basketball.
“Well come on,” Brett said, and then added, “I wonder what your FBI friends will say when I kick your-”
“-Brett!”
“-butt.”
“There is no way in . . . sorry, Missus M, but there is no way I’m losing to you and your brother.”
Bobby ran back to his room, grabbed a basketball and the three of them left the kitchen by the backdoor. Brett threw a playful elbow into Cleve’s ribs, and he responded by grabbing both boys and placing them in headlocks as they crossed the street.
His eyes, however, were conscious of the street, the parked cars, and anyone looking out windows. His Glock .22 was in a holster in the middle of his back tucked under his t-shirt.
Normally a shirt and tie guy, he knew the boys were athletic, and he wanted them to get out for some exercise. Perhaps, he wanted to get out and get some exercise himself, so he wore a black Addidas warm-up suit, an Under Armor t-shirt and a pair of well-worn Air Jordan’s. In his duffle-bag were other clothes and shoes he could change into.
He was a four-year letter winner at Purdue majoring in Sociology and Criminal Justice. By Big Ten basketball standards, he was better than average but not outstanding. Originally his hard-nosed college coach, Gene Keady, thought of him as a point guard. But by the middle of his junior year, Keady alternated him between point guard and shooting guard. Keady’s style was a little like football: beat up the opponent on defense, take conservative shots, beat up the opponent, pound the boards and then beat up the opponent some more. Batiste fit Keady’s prototype as a football player who played basketball: quiet, solid, not given to talking trash, determined with a no-quit attitude. It earned him Honorable Mention Big Ten as a junior and senior. That description also fit Batiste as an FBI agent.
“Better check to see if anyone’s home,” Cleve said.
Bobby rang the bell and a tall, slender brunette answered the door.
“Yes?”
She saw the boy with the sling bouncing the ball and the muscular black man next to him. The black man nodded slightly, and she nodded back.
“Hi. We live across the street, over there,” Bobby said throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “We were wondering if we could use your basketball hoop.”
“As a matter of fact, my husband Tom and I were about to play a game of one on one to see who’s going to mow the lawn. So, why don’t we play some two on two or three on two?”
Bobby turned around and gave Brett and Cleve a ‘what-the-heck-look’.
“I’m Brooke,” she said still in the doorway and then she turned slightly and said back into the house, “Tom, we’ve got a game to play.”
From somewhere in the back they heard a, “Yeah, yeah.”
She stepped onto the front stoop wearing a red Wisconsin Badger tank-top, black shorts and a pair of beat up basketball shoes.
“Oh, man,” Brett moaned.
“What?” Brooke asked with a smile.
“You’re from Wisconsin?”
“I played at Green Bay and went to the NCAA tournament four years in a row.”
“Huh,” was all Brett managed.
“Huh, yourself,” Brooke said with a laugh. “Keep that up, and I’ll kick your scrawny butt along with my husband’s.”
“Hey guys,” Tom said, coming up the driveway from back by the garage. “So, who’s kicking whose butt?” He stood maybe five-eleven, thickly built like someone who pumped iron. He had sandy brown hair and blue eyes. “What are the teams?”
Standing next to each other, he stood half a head shorter than his wife. She clapped her hands requesting a pass from Brett who obliged. She took it, pivoted and sunk a twelve footer that banked off the backboard neatly and cleanly.
“Yeah, so what are the teams?” She said with a smile.
“Damn, I’m with her!” Bobby said with a laugh, which earned him a high five and a smile from her.
After introductions, Bobby and Brooke ended up on one team, with Tom, Cleve and Brett on the other. Brett had discarded his sling and struggled with his left arm, grimacing in pain with each pass and each time he tried to dribble left-handed.
Brooke was really good. It didn’t matter if she shot from the outside with Cleve in her face or when she drove past him on her way to the hoop, she mad
e everything she put up and ended it with an annoying giggle. That was all the trash talking she did, but it was enough to get their goats.
Tom was a lefty, mostly a shooter, but had a smooth move to the bucket. Not nearly in Brooke’s or Cleve’s class, but not bad.
It was Bobby that had impressed Brett the most. Brett had no idea his brother could play. In fact, before he was taken, he couldn’t remember Bobby ever playing basketball. He had a really nice jump shot, a nice shot off a dribble-drive, and a nice no-look pass that fooled him several times.
Down by four Cleve asked, “How you doin’ Buddy?”
“I suck!” Brett said in disgust. “My left arm is fu . . . useless.”
“Take a break if you need to,” Tom suggested.
“I don’t need a break. I need my left arm back.”
He could still play defense, and he could still pass the ball, but his shot was rusty and his timing was a step or two behind his mind. More than anything, it was the lack of timing that frustrated him. Brett knew what to do and how to do it, but his body couldn’t seem to follow orders from his mind.
“You’re rusty, that’s all,” Bobby said.
“I suck!” Brett responded.
He sat down on the front lawn at the edge of the driveway court and wiped his sweaty face on the front of his shirt.
“Who’s thirsty?” Brooke asked brightly.
“I could use water or iced tea,” Tom said. “Anyone else?”
“Water,” Bobby said sitting down next to his brother.
“Water for me too,” Cleve said, wiping his face on the front of his shirt.
Brooke disappeared into the house and came out a minute or two later with five bottles of water and an icepack.
She handed a bottle and the icepack to Brett and said, “Here. It’s probably swelling. Are you on any meds?”
“I’m using Motrin.”
“When was the last time you had some?”