The Secret Son

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Jack saw the young mother nod, her shoulders racked with sobs as she allowed herself to be led several feet away.

  The mother’s anguish singed his nerve endings. It had been a long time since he’d felt that particular blistering. Usually he managed to distance himself from the pain of others. It was the only way he could do his job.

  “James, we’re working on the dog,” he said, maintaining his patience. He stared at the laces of his tennis shoes and the hem of his jeans, which rode half an inch up his ankle. “You can trust me. Just toss me the gun and it’ll all be over. You’ll be safe,” he finished calmly, as though he were encouraging the boy to throw a baseball.

  There was no answer.

  “You know what happened when the dog went to the flea market?” he asked, his nonchalant tone belying the intensity with which he studied the screen. “He stole the show.”

  Timing was the key to survival. The longer he could stall the harried boy, the more chance he had of talking him down. Or at least getting little Marissa out of there.

  Though he could see the two kids, he still listened attentively. The little girl’s unnatural quiet bothered him. The resiliency and adaptability of children was amazing, but Marissa’s mind was going to catch up with her eventually.

  Maybe today. Maybe ten years from now.

  And it was going to be hell for her when it did.

  “Tell me what you want, James.”

  “You got that dog?”

  “Like I said, I’m working on it.” Turning to the officer on his right, Jack whispered, “Get me a dog.”

  Nodding, the young man took off at a trot.

  “What else?” he asked. A dog was not the reason the kid had barged into a classroom brandishing a gun. Jack would bet his life it wasn’t the reason he’d cleared out everyone but the four-year-old child he now held hostage.

  “I want my little sister back,” James said. He still had the gun on the child, but he’d turned toward the window. Looking for Jack?

  “Where is she?’

  “In a foster home.”

  Jack scanned the paper he’d been given. There was nothing about a broken family there. With raised brows, he glanced around at the officers surrounding him. They shrugged, shook their heads. The school principal was there. When Jack met his eye, he nodded.

  Shit. It was information he should’ve had an hour ago.

  “So, Mr. Hotshot Cop, you gonna make the trade? You gonna bring me my sister?”

  Chances were he couldn’t. But Jack wasn’t going to tell the kid no. Number-one rule of engagement—never tell the perpetrator no. The word signified endings.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, instead.

  “Yeah, you do that.”

  Marissa was crying. Jack couldn’t hear her, but he saw a tear drip off her chin.

  James saw it, too. The boy stared at the teardrop for a long moment. And bent down to wipe the little girl’s cheeks.

  She glanced up at her captor, terror on her face, before her expression once again went blank.

  Jack took a deep breath. Calmed the shudders rushing through him. “Hey, James, you ready to come out?” he asked. “We’ll do everything we can to get your sister back, I promise.”

  “Yeah, right.” There was no mistaking the boy’s bitterness. “I’ve heard that before. I’ve waited almost a year.”

  “But I’m here now,” Jack said. “And I promise I won’t leave until I’ve gotten to the bottom of this.”

  “Don’t screw with me, man,” the boy said. “I know how it works. As soon as you get this kid, they put handcuffs on me and adios.. You’re gone, never to be heard from again. And Brittney’s left with some guy who slaps her for wanting more than one glass of milk at dinner.”

  Lowering his head, Jack felt the ache of years’ worth of struggle climbing up the back of his neck. An officer handed him a couple of typed paragraphs on a computer printout. Information he should’ve had an hour ago, except that the boy’s mother hadn’t thought it was pertinent.

  James’s mother had never been married. Had had several live-in boyfriends, but only two children, James and Brittney. By two different fathers. Neither father was in the picture. Ms. Talmadge had lost custody of her three-year-old daughter because of repeated abuse. And since Child Protective Services was attempting to place Brittney in a permanent home with a new family, James had been denied visitation rights.

  “How do you know her foster father slaps her?”

  “She told me.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where?”

  “I go by her day care sometimes. Talk to her through the fence. Now, I mean it, man, get me Brittney—and a dog—and I’ll make the trade.” He jabbed the gun at Marissa’s throat.

  “You know why the dog didn’t speak to his hind foot?”

  James turned toward the window. “What’s with the jokes, man?”

  “The dog didn’t speak to his foot because it’s not polite to talk back to your paw.”

  The skinny teenager shook his head, but his shoulders visibly relaxed.

  Jack checked the list. He asked James a couple of questions about various friends named there. About the volleyball team he played on. James’s only response was to adjust the gun at Marissa’s throat. His hand was shaking.

  “You know why dogs wag their tails?”

  James looked at the window.

  “Because no one else will do it for them.”

  The kid gave a disgusted snort. He was still looking in the direction of Jack’s voice.

  “You know how to tell if you have a stupid dog?”

  Carefully monitoring the activity around him, waiting for the appearance of the dog, Jack continued sitting on the ground as though nothing was going on.

  “It chases parked cars,” he said.

  The little girl was lying still, her cheek pressed to the tile of the classroom floor. Her eyes were open, unmoving, staring vacantly at the floor.

  “James, tell me again how you think holding Marissa is going to help you get Brittney?”

  “Because it’s an even trade. A little girl for a little girl,” he spat.

  Although this emotionally disturbed kid’s thinking was clearly twisted, there was no doubting his confidence in this theory he’d worked out.

  The entire team of uniformed men and women were watching Jack. And the monitor. They were standing by in case Jack ran out of time. Waiting for a signal from him to move in.

  James leaned back against a desk. It slid, toppled, caught the boy on the ankle.

  From the open window Jack heard the crash. An angrily whispered Shit.

  “James? You okay in there?”

  “Like you care.”

  “Believe it or not, I do care.” And he did. In an objective sense, as an observer. It was what made him so good at his job. He had to care. Because if he didn’t, he’d never be able to reach his perpetrators.

  If he didn’t find a way to empathize, he’d lose his sanity by hating.

  Hating every single person like James who put innocent people in danger.

  Hating the young man who’d aimed his gun at Melissa’s chest and—

  No! He knew better than that. He had a job to do.

  For the poor distraught woman who stood only a few yards away from him trembling in the arms of a young blond man in business attire. Slacks. A tie. White shirt. His expression was a mixture of fear and unadulterated rage. He must be the father.

  The two were counting on Jack to remain calm.

  He asked James about the high-school football season. About getting his driver’s license. And what kind of plans he had for a car.

  The boy didn’t respond.

  Marissa was starting to shake. Her entire body was shivering, as though she was lying in a snowdrift rather than on a schoolroom floor.

  Around the corner of the van Jack became aware of movement. A uniformed police officer approached him, a beagle pupp
y in her arms.

  “We got the dog, James,” Jack said even before he had possession of the animal. The officer was approaching from the side of the building, staying out of the boy’s sight—and shot.

  “He’s a puppy,” Jack said as the woman leaned over to hand him the squirming five-pound ball of brown, white and black fur. “He’s got big brown eyes and he’s all yours.”

  Holding his breath, Jack studied the monitor. Obviously more agitated, James stared at the little girl.

  “You want me to bring him in?” Jack asked.

  “What I want is my sister.” The boy’s words, delivered through gritted teeth, were fierce. “You got her out there, Cop?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Yeah, well, work a little faster. I’m not waitin’ around here much longer.”

  Marissa, who’d started to cry openly, received an angry kick. “Shut up!”

  Through the open window, Jack heard the growled command. James moved and Jack stiffened, his hand at his belt, ready to pull his gun.

  Reaching up, gaze on the monitor, he dropped the puppy through the window. And ignored the new sheen of sweat that broke out on his upper lip when James barely glanced at the dog.

  “Get up,” the kid told the little girl. She didn’t move.

  “I said get up!” James ordered.

  Marissa’s body convulsed, and then she settled back, a quivering mass. With the gun never moving from her throat, James one-handedly pulled the child’s arms behind her, yanked off his belt and strapped Marissa’s hands together. The little girl didn’t even try to fight him. He dragged her over to a far corner, to the left of where Jack was sitting.

  “Don’t move.”

  Keeping the gun pointed at the child, James moved to the puppy and pushed it back through the window. Jack caught the small shaking dog and handed it to the nearest officer.

  “Get my sister here in the next five minutes or I shoot,” James yelled just above Jack’s head. Close enough to slide his hand out that window and shoot Jack.

  “We’re working on it, James,” Jack said, as though reassuring a hungry boy that dinner was almost ready. “But it might take a little longer than five minutes.”

  The gun still aimed in the general direction of the little girl, the boy fired a shot. Splinters from the chalkboard sprayed around the room. The bullet lodged in the cement wall.

  Uniform and rubber-suited officers alike jerked to attention. All eyes were on Jack, guns pointing toward the classroom.

  “I have a shot,” one of the officers said. “Should I take it?”

  “No.”

  Jack wasn’t going to see that boy die if he could help it.

  He’d have to go in. James was shooting. It was only a matter of time.

  Marissa was lying to the left of the window. James was on the right. Jack’s job was to get through that window and put himself between the child and the gun.

  The worst that could happen was that he’d take the bullet. He hoped it would hit the bullet-proof vest he had on under his T-shirt. But if not, it would be his life in exchange for the child’s.

  Small price to pay.

  He shifted onto his knees. “James?” he called. “My butt’s getting sore sitting here, so I’m going to stand and lean on the windowsill. Okay?”

  It was a gamble. But if the boy’s attention was on Jack, chances were the child would be safe for another moment or two.

  “I don’t want you to be startled by the movement,” he said, crouching under the window. “Is it okay with you if I look in?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Peering over his shoulder, receiving the confirmation he’d been seeking, Jack rose to his full height. An officer inside the building was ready to rush the boy if James turned the gun away from the child for even a second.

  He stood.

  James, startled, aimed the gun at Jack, who pushed up the window and climbed in. “Just didn’t want you—”

  The rest of his words were lost in the chaos that followed. A couple of officers appeared from the back of the room as Jack put himself between the boy and the small blond girl lying on the floor. With one officer on either side and others filling the back of the room, they apprehended the boy.

  Jack reached for the now-hysterical child.

  And a shot rang out.

  CHAPTER SIX

  June 1997

  ERICA TRIED not to scream. To conserve energy. Panting, she rode out the pain. And wanted to die when relief finally, briefly, took its place.

  “How many hours has it been?” she asked, not recognizing the hoarse voice as her own.

  “Twenty-three.”

  Through the haze of exhaustion and bright lights, she could barely see Jefferson hovering beside her.

  “Too long,” she croaked. “I can’t do it.”

  He slid an ice chip between her cracked lips. “Yes, you can.”

  Sucking greedily, she turned her head away from him and from the nurse who’d just appeared to check the glucose running through her IV. “I don’t want to.”

  Not without Jack.

  “Yes, you do, hon. You’ve been waiting for that baby a long time. Long before we knew he was a boy, before he had a name. You were talking to him. Loving him. Thinking about holding him in your arms.”

  Holding her baby. Oh, yeah. She’d do anything for that….

  The next time the doctor told her to push, Erica squeezed her eyes shut and found the strength to focus on the little body trying to fight its way free. Her entire life force was centered on making her son’s advent into life as smooth as possible. Which meant she had to work as hard as she could, as quickly as she could.

  Another push. And then another. More ice chips. Jack beside her. Holding her hand. No, that was Jefferson.

  The hospital garb he was wearing made her confusion a little more excusable.

  Jack was inside her. In her mind, her heart, birthing their son with her. He knew nothing about the boy nor, she was certain, would he welcome the news, but she couldn’t do this without him. She imagined Jack as he’d been before the tragic loss of his young family, that Jack would probably have been so actively involved in the birth of his son he’d have been a pain in the— No. He would’ve made Kevin’s arrival perfect.

  Kevin—named after his maternal grandfather. Jefferson’s idea.

  “That’s good, honey. You’re doing amazing things,” Jefferson said softly beside her.

  Though it took mammoth effort, Erica focused on him. And smiled. She was very lucky to have his support.

  When he put the next ice chip against her lips, he leaned down and kissed her neck, almost as though he thought she’d be so distracted by the ice she wouldn’t notice.

  “I’m proud of you,” he whispered.

  “I’m proud of you, too.” Her voice was dry, raspy.

  “Just another push or two,” Dr. Jocelyn said cheerfully from her vantage point at the end of the bed.

  Erica was almost surprised to find her there. There’d been so many people in and out of her room, checking on her over the past day, that she’d long since tuned them out.

  “Look, Senator, you can see your son’s hair,” the doctor said in the middle of the next push.

  Yes. Kevin was Jefferson’s son.

  And no man could have been more supportive or proud or loving when Kevin Jefferson Cooley put in his appearance twenty minutes later. With the baby resting on her stomach, Erica watched through blurry eyes as Jefferson cut the umbilical cord. And then he gently placed her son in her shaking arms.

  Erica, fatigue forgotten, laughed, stared at her baby, fell in love.

  And silently, secretly, cried for Jack.

  July 1999

  SWEATING, STILL WEARING her in-line skating gear, Erica leaned against a tree in the park a couple of blocks from their condo and watched, unnoticed, as her husband and son romped in the grass just a few yards away. She could hardly believe Jefferson was still at it, patiently tossi
ng the foam baseball to the miniature foam mitt resting precariously on the two-year-old’s right hand. The fact that even after she’d skated a solid hour, Kevin was still attempting to stay on his feet and catch that ball didn’t surprise her a bit.

  Her son’s personality was a mixture of precociousness and determination.

  And her husband was the most perfect father she could imagine. Jefferson never ran out—not of patience, not of time, and not of the money it took to make sure that Kevin had the best of everything.

  Even from this location she could see the puckering of her toddler’s brow as he concentrated, reached and fell on his diapered behind before the ball was anywhere near his mitt. His voice was only a note on the wind, but Erica knew that he was giving Jefferson his baby rendition of “throw it again, Daddy.”

  “Da Da” had been the first word Kevin had said. And continued to be the most frequent.

  Releasing the Velcro straps on her wrist and knee guards, Erica removed her helmet, tucked the guards inside and slid out of her skates.

  She and Jefferson had a formal dinner downtown that night. It was time to get Kevin home, bathed and fed before his sitter arrived. Erica wanted to put all her remaining energy that evening into being the best wife and communications director she could, in an attempt to somehow repay her husband for the wonderful gift he was to her.

  August 2000

  ALONE IN THE DEN of the condo he’d shared with Erica for more than seven years, Jefferson Cooley nursed his drink, wondering how everything had gotten so mixed up. Erica was upstairs, looking beautiful as ever as she slept in their bed, dreaming, he was sure, of the man she’d known only a week and loved for more than four years.

  On the surface they had a great life. His career was solid, successful. Deemed the father of stem-cell research because of the bold resolutions he’d fought to get passed through Congress, he was a hero in the eyes of his country. He was also a potential running mate for the Republican presidential ticket in another couple of years if he decided to consider the invitation.