Meeting her gaze, I say, “You can imagine how many times my parents were accused of abuse. It wasn’t true. No one believed what I tried to tell them. They told me I was delusional, crazy, that I needed to be medicated.” Her eyes are still wide with shock, but she is listening now.
“I can almost guarantee the majority of people in this world won’t believe what you saw, but I will. Griffin will. We’ll listen, and do what we can to make sure that if you’re telling the truth, the other children in your care won’t be taken away. You put yourself at risk to help Timothy. I know how hard that is. I want to help you both, but I need you to tell me the truth.”
Mrs. Wilkins swallows hard. Her fingers twist together in a white-knuckled grip. She’s terrified, but I can tell she’s also dying to finally tell someone what she saw. It’s eating away at her, making her question her own sanity. She looks down at her hands then back up at me. “I heard him screaming. Given what they’d told me about Timothy, I put him in his own room so the other kids wouldn’t be scared by his…they called them night terrors.”
She pauses for a moment to take a breath and collect herself. “When I ran into the room, I didn’t know what was happening. He was on the floor, thrashing around, putting his arms in front of his face like he was trying to protect himself from being hit. I thought it was a night terror, like they said, that he really had been abused by his mother and he was having a nightmare about it. I rushed over to him, but then I saw the bruises. They were forming, right in front of my eyes. Like something invisible was pummeling him right there. I had no idea what was happening, and then…”
Releasing her grip on her hands, she wraps her arms around her body and shudders. “Something grabbed him. From under the bed. I swear I saw…fingers, weird black fingers, just for a second, then Timothy was yanked under the bed. I didn’t know what to do. I was too shocked to think. Then, before I could react, this bizarre light exploded from under the bed and Timothy stopped screaming. When I finally got him out from under the bed, he was unconscious.”
Leaning back against her chair, Mrs. Wilkins slumps against it. She shakes her head. Fear still holds her taut, both from what she saw and the uncertainty of being believed. I glance over at Griffin and a moment of silent communication passes between us. We both recognize the similar elements from what we already know and what I saw in Timothy’s Dreamside. This woman isn’t making up her story. Who would make up something like that? To be perfectly honest, most people aren’t that creative.
“Mrs. Wilkins,” I say, “I’m sorry you got caught up in all of this.”
Griffin leans forward and says, “We’ll clear things up with Timothy’s social worker.”
She sits up, panic in her eyes. “You’re not going to tell her all that, are you?”
Smiling in a way that’s very calming, Griffin shakes his head. “Don’t worry. We’re used to dealing with this sort of thing.”
The poor woman shakes her head in disbelief. No doubt she can’t imagine anyone willingly getting involved in this kind of crazy. She seems to believe us, though, and her shoulders relax. Griffin pushes his chair back and I follow. I’m about to stand when Mrs. Wilkins asks, “Is Timothy going to be all right? Are those things going to come after him again?”
I wish I had a better answer for her, but all I can say is, “We’re doing everything we can to protect him.”
Griffin leads me out of the room after that and it takes everything I have not to collapse as soon as we get to the hall.
10: The Light
(Griffin)
It’s different, knowing something about a person and seeing the truth first hand. I knew about the abuse allegations, and both her parents’ explanation and the real explanation. Actually seeing the scars covering Echo’s body was a shock. That’s only a portion of them, I’m sure. Imagining a child growing up in an environment where she constantly felt she was in danger makes me realize how resilient Echo has had to be. No wonder her go-to method for dealing with stress is to shut down. Granted, it’s not a healthy way to deal with things, but it is understandable.
“I so want to skip classes today,” Echo grumbles beside me.
“I’ll pick you up when you’re done.”
She sighs and stares out the window. “Isn’t going to talk to Timothy’s mom more important?”
Despite how well she handled talking to the foster mother, she’s nowhere near ready to lead regular interviews. “I’ll handle the mom. You go to class, take your mind off the case for a few hours, then we’ll meet up and discuss. Okay?”
Slumping into her seat as we pull up to the building where her calculus class is held, Echo reluctantly reaches for her backpack. “Fine, if I have to.”
“You have to,” I say, “or you won’t ever become an agent. The degree is a must.”
Echo scowls at me. “Why can’t I just be a consultant forever? A degree seems like way too much work right now. I can barely focus on homework with everything else going on.”
“Consulting is a lot harder when you don’t have someone like my dad in your corner, and eventually he’s going to retire. Become an agent and you don’t have to convince every lead agent on a case that you’re legit and can help.”
She pushes her door open with a grunt. “Fine, fine, I’ll go.” She’s less than thrilled about it, but I’m not giving in. There’s only so much a person can handle in forty-eight hours and Echo is close to maxing out.
Another car pulls up behind me and I drive away before Echo makes it to the double doors of the building. She’s too worn out to try anything stupid anyway. Driving away from the school and back toward the field office, I put aside my concern for Echo and focus on our discussion of Timothy’s mother. Echo actually brought up really good questions that need to be asked. Her intuitiveness almost made me reconsider bringing her along. Dad would have fought me on it. I think he recognizes this case is hitting a little too close to home for her.
I park and head into the building. Dad is waiting for me in the lobby. As soon as he sees me, he gestures for me to follow. Neither of us says anything until we’re standing outside another interview room and away from any curious ears.
“Here’s the full case file,” he says as he hands over a manila folder thicker than I was expecting. I nod as I take it and feel the weight of it. My suspicion that more is going on with this family than Echo and I were previously told are beginning to feel justified. Dad gestures at the file and says, “Take a moment to look through it before we go in.”
Doing as he asked, I scan the contents of the folder. The first half isn’t about Timothy, but his father’s death. I soak up the details and add to my list of questions. “Why didn’t you give me this last night?”
“Because I knew you’d give it to Echo.”
“I still will,” I say.
“Yeah, I know.” He’s not happy about that, but he knows it’s the right thing to do. “I just wanted you to get a better sense of her emotional and mental state before dropping all of this on her. It’s not the ideal first case for her, but she’s the best chance of figuring this out.”
Not ideal. An understatement if there ever was one. “Did Timothy remember anything about last night?” I ask.
Dad nods. “He remembers seeing Echo there, but was fuzzy on what they talked about. After discussing it for a while, he did remember that he was the one to bring Echo into the Dreamside, though he wasn’t sure how he did it.”
I nod and think. “Does he know about all of this?” I ask, holding up the file.
After exhaling a deep sigh, Dad shrugs. “Some, I think, but he wouldn’t really talk about his dad. Echo might be able to get more out of him. I think I scare him.”
Snorting, I shake my head. I can’t imagine why. Dad is a kind and compassionate father, but his work demeanor is serious, always looking for what others can’t see. Add in the fact that he’s taller than average, in his early sixties, and fairly well-built and fit for his age, little kids aren’t going
to warm up to him without prodding. Adults, however, are typically more afraid of not telling him things than holding out. Not that they really have a choice sometimes.
“Ready?” Dad asks. I nod and he opens the door. His stride is confident as he walks in and I match him. His firm gaze isn’t purposely intimidating, but the way it scours the woman at the table makes her eyes widen. “Mrs. Bridger,” he says, his voice making her flinch, “I’m Special Agent Arthur Morton, and this is Special Agent Griffin Morton.”
She hesitates before asking. “Related?”
“He’s my son,” Dad says. “Investigating cases like this is something of a family interest.”
“Cases like what?” she asks, her innocent tone fooling neither of us.
Dad takes a seat and I pull out the chair next to him. Before sitting, I notice Mrs. Bridger watching me and catch her eye. The contact startles her, but she doesn’t immediately look away. Wary fear surrounds her, confusion as well. It lasts all of a second or two, but long enough for me to realize she’s not going to have all the answers we want.
“Is Timothy all right?” she asks when she looks away. “They won’t let me see him. All I know is that he’s in the hospital again. I told them taking him away from me wasn’t going to stop what’s happening.”
Her concern is honest, which is a relief.
“Timothy is being cared for,” Dad says. “His injuries were fairly minor and should heal completely. Your son isn’t the reason we asked you to come in, however.”
She’s surprised by this, and confused. “Then why am I here?”
“I offer my condolences in regards to your husband’s death, but I’m going to have to ask you a few questions about what happened to him,” Dad says, eliciting an immediate response from her.
Hands that were resting on the table a moment ago are now pressed flat against the cool metal. Her breathing has picked up and her fear is growing. “What does that have to do with anything?” she whispers.
“That’s what we’d like to know,” I say.
Her head twitches, a subconscious refusal before she realizes she made the movement and freezes. “Timothy just has…problems. It’s nothing to do with his father. Robert, he just, he got mixed up in something…dangerous.”
“Dangerous how?” Dad asks.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. He never talked to me about that kind of stuff. The closest I ever got to an explanation was that it had to do with his family.”
“What family?” I ask. The file mentioned specifically that Robert Bridger had no living relatives.
“Not family, like people he had to go help move furniture or anything,” she says, frustrated by her inability to explain and distance her son from her husband’s activities. “Something he was responsible for when his dad died. I tried to get him to tell me about it plenty of times, but he said it was private, secret or something. He’d take off every once in a while, a few hours usually, and come home when he was done. No big deal, like going to the gym or something.”
Or something was the more likely explanation. I understand people being afraid to find out the truth. It’s something I face in the cases I work fairly often. Truth frightens people, especially those already in crisis for one reason or another.
“Were there ever any questions of infidelity?” Dad asks.
Mrs. Bridger scoffs. “Of course there were. I followed him a few times, had a PI follow him once.”
“And?” I ask.
She shrugs. “And nothing.” Leaning back against the chair, her posture relaxes, but she’s still taut with anxiety. “He’d drive out to some random spot around town, read a book for a while, then drive out to somewhere quiet and empty and…” Her gaze darts between Dad and I, her lips pressing tightly closed as she does.
“And what?” I ask, knowing Dad is too busy focusing on her to keep up the conversation. He watches her relentlessly. It makes her squirm, so she turns to face me.
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“These things often don’t.”
Unsure of what I mean by that, she hesitates. “He’d go out to these empty places and…pray, I think. I don’t know, actually. Robert wasn’t religious. Never set foot in a church the ten years we were married. But that’s what it looked like. The light…”
I sit forward in interest and she flinches. “The light?”
“I…can’t explain it,” she says, her shoulder dropping. “It would just…appear. In his hands. He’d hold his hands in front of his chest like he was praying, then there was this weird light. He’d hold it for a minute, then poof, it was gone.”
“What happened after that?” I ask.
Mrs. Bridger throws up her hands. “Then he’d go home like nothing happened. Maybe it didn’t. I have no idea.”
“When did things start to change?” Dad asks.
His abrupt words startle her and she has to grab the table to steady herself. Still leery of looking him in the eye, she keeps her gaze focused on her hands. “About a month before he died. He’d be more anxious before leaving the house, like he was scared, but he’d pretend everything was fine. None of it made sense and I was afraid to ask him what was going on. I should have. Maybe if I had…” Tears well in her eyes and she presses her hands to her face.
“It wouldn’t have helped,” I tell her.
“How can you know that?” she asks from behind her hands.
“Because we deal with these kinds of things all the time. If those involved can’t protect themselves, no one can. Knowledge makes you a target in this world.”
Allowing her hands to drop, she stares at me. “What world? What was Robert mixed up in?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Dad says, “but whatever responsibility he was carrying out because of his birthright, he passed it on to Timothy.”
Her face falls. She already suspected that’s what was happening, but having it confirmed breaks her. “No, no, no,” she pleads as she sobs. “Robert, they…he just…”
Agony rolls off her, and I offer what comfort I can, but her grief is too great. I glanced over the photos of his body, briefly. The autopsy report wasn’t much help. Suffice it to say, his death remains a mystery. I’m not sure Timothy will be so lucky. The foster mom’s description of the fingers that grabbed Timothy make my stomach twist.
“Do you know anything about Robert’s family that might shed light on their history?” Dad asks when Mrs. Bridger is able to calm herself back down. “Even if it sounds strange or bizarre.”
She shrugs and wipes her eyes. “I never knew them. His dad died before we met. There’s a box of family mementos in the basement …”
“Could we see that?” Dad asks, the insistence in his voice demanding a positive response.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “If you think it might help.”
“Thank you,” Dad says and makes a note on a yellow notepad. “Special Agent Morton will pick it up this afternoon.”
Not sure what to make of his interest or rush to get the box, Mrs. Bridger turns back to me. “Can I see Timothy?”
Dad’s absorbed in whatever notes he’s scribbling down and doesn’t seem to hear the question. “I’ll talk to his social worker and see if she’ll agree to a supervised visit.”
“Thank you,” she says. Her fingers tremble as she reaches out and squeezes my hand.
After getting her address, I walk her out of the room and send her home to find the box of her late husband’s mementos. Dad is still bent over the file when I return to the room. The corner of my mouth turns up at the familiar sight. It’s been since before Quantico that we’ve worked a case together, but some things never change. I sit back down in the chair and let him finish.
“What else did you get?” I ask when he finally closes the file.
“She downplayed the strain Robert’s activities had on their marriage, but she didn’t lie about anything. She’s in the dark, unfortunately.” He leans back against his chair and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“What about you?”
“Not much,” I admit. “She’s genuinely terrified for her son.”
“Is she going to be willing to help him through this when they release him back to her?”
I frown. “You think they’ll give him back?”
“She’s not abusing him. If she’s willing to get him the help and training he needs, they should be together. I’ll make it happen.” He glances over at me, hesitating. “Unless you think she’s also terrified of him. Then…we’ll figure something else out.”
Considering his question, I take my time and he doesn’t rush me. “I think she’s more scared of losing him than of what he might be capable of. If Robert had been honest with her, I think she would have handled things differently.”
Dad nods, and I have to admit it feels good to know he doesn’t question me. “Well,” he says, “let’s figure out what the hell is going on with this kid so we can reunite them.”
Not that we have a plan to do that, but I nod anyway. Maybe this box of Robert’s will prove more useful than asking questions no one seems to have an answer to.
11: Safe. Alive. Strong.
(Griffin)
I know I’m in for a fight as soon as I pull up to the pick-up area in front of the chemistry building. Malachi’s presence alone would have ensured an argument. Kyran and Malachi, plus Echo waving her arms around at the both of them makes me groan. They’re not that much younger than me, and I’m not claiming to be uber-mature, but suddenly the three of them feel very young. Well, two of them at least. I’m not sure how Dad puts up with this kind of thing every day.
Pulling up to the curb, I make sure I’m far enough over that cars can get past me even while parked, and step out of the car. “What’s going on?” I ask, even though I’d bet anything I already know.
The Ghost Host: Episode 2 (The Ghost Host Series) Page 9