by William Mark
***
He looked back in the rear view mirror, waiting for the green arrow light at Easterwood Drive. Josh was sitting in the back of the Crown Vic stuffing his face with Chick-Fil-A nuggets and honey mustard sauce, oblivious to his dad watching. He could watch the boy for hours with all his simple and innocent mannerisms. Curt smiled, watching him figure out the complexities of the proper chicken to dip ratio. He looked over the hills to his left to see the glow of the lights from Tom Brown Park. No matter how many times he’d played over the years, he still had a flutter of butterflies as he made his way to a game.
He pulled the Crown Vic up next to his teammates’ cars and helped Josh get out without spilling his drink or food. Curt grabbed his bat bag and change of clothes, and he headed toward the fields. The cloverleaf formation of five softball fields sat in the middle of the athletic complex with a little league field and back to back soccer fields on one side, a larger senior major baseball field and basketball courts bookending the other side. Across the road that wound through the middle of the park was a large, open area used for disc golf and an outdoor concert held every Fourth of July. There were also nature trails, playgrounds, and picnic tables scattered around the 255 acre park on the east side of Tallahassee.
Curt spotted his teammates, off to the side of a field, warming up and running their mouths deep in discussion of nonsense. He’d missed the last few games while working the serial rape case and was glad to be able to make this game along with Josh. Playing the game allowed him to feel somewhat normal and gave him visions of playing alongside of Josh one day.
“Okay, buddy, I need to go to the bathroom and change, okay?”
“All right. Can I go over to the playground?”
“Sure, buddy. I’ll just be a minute.”
Curt dipped into the bathroom and quickly removed the trench coat, his dress shirt, and pants. He pulled out his game jersey and softball pants, and he slipped them over his hefty 240 pound frame. He noticed in the mirror that he seemed to be filling out his shirt more and more lately. He smirked at the thought, sat down on the bench behind him, and put on his cleats. He packed up his work clothes and shoes in the duffle bag, grabbed it along with his bat bag, and headed out of the bathroom.
He caught the attention of a teammate who waved over at him. Curt sent a head nod back as he shot a look around for Josh. He checked the playground area and saw several kids playing together, but none were Josh. He walked over to the dugout while the rest of his team was getting ready to take the field.
“Hey? You see Josh come over here?”
“Um, no. I haven’t.”
Curt’s face immediately showed concern. He dropped his bags by the dugout and walked back to the playground. An uneasy feeling started to form in his gut. He reminded himself to stay calm and not to freak out. Josh was simply out of sight; he was fine, he told himself.
He walked over, searching the playground and scanning each kid’s face for his son, but he wasn’t there. He asked the kids if they saw where Josh went, and they were unable to offer any help. He looked around at the nearby dugouts and found a team with a similar color jersey as his team, thinking Josh could’ve wandered over there by mistake, but he didn’t see him there either.
He started asking people he recognized from years of playing softball if they’d seen Josh. The uneasy feeling turned into a panicky sick feeling that was growing exponentially in his stomach, as he was met with no after no.
Curt ran back to the car, hoping to find him there, but he wasn’t there either. He ran around the parking lot and started to search the fields again. His team had left the field and started searching for the boy too. A loud PA announcement was made at the concession stand, and all games had come to a halt to search for the boy.
But he was gone.
Patrol officers flooded the area in search of Joshua Walker following a panic stricken 911 phone call from Curt, but all efforts were unsuccessful. One minute he was there with his father; the next he was gone, vanished out of his life. After the initial search ended, Curt sat at the park numb down to his core, blanketed by the overwhelming sense of loss that he was being forced to accept. He needed to leave, he needed to go, and he needed to find his son. But he couldn’t. He had no clue where to start looking. He had no leads and no idea why his son was taken, and this alone, paralyzed him to the core. He let out a primal howl that could be heard clear on the other side of the park.
***
The lights of the Vail City Athletic complex were turned off as the last few cars pulled out of the parking lot. Curt remembered the defining and final clicks of the overhead lights being turned off at Tom Brown Park the day Josh went missing. As they went out, he felt something extinguish inside. He snapped to as he realized he was nearly two thousand miles away from home.
He looked down at the picture in the dash.
“I’m sorry, buddy. I haven’t given up. I promise I’ll never give up.” He reached through the steering wheel and removed the picture from the dash. He put it to his lips and kissed the picture, a poor substitute for the real thing, but his only option. He wiped the tears away, started up the Crown Vic, and left the complex.
Curt went back to the hotel to prepare for Chicago in the morning. He ran up to his room and made sure his bags were packed and ready to go. He checked his watch and saw that it was nearing eight o’clock. He realized he hadn’t eaten dinner yet, so he walked back down to the hotel’s restaurant and sat at the bar.
He ordered a chopped steak and french fries and ate alone. Curt was angry and unable to shake the pain of losing Josh. The thought of him out there in the world without his father’s protection was unbearable. He caught the attention of the bartender and ordered a whiskey, which he quickly downed before signaling for another. He felt another rough night brewing.
Chapter 13
He stopped counting after a while, especially when the sting was not as sharp as the first. Curt’s painful sorrows were drowning away in a mix of Irish and American whiskies. He had been alternating country of origin just for humor. The purpose was escape. His head was buzzing from the alcohol, and he could feel the rage boiling inside. He hated this part of him and what he’d become and hoped that it would vanish if he was able to find Josh. However, whatever hope he felt was slipping away more and more as time went on.
When he became part of this team, he looked at the parents of these children and compared their devotion to finding their child to his own. He questioned whether or not he was a fool for continuing the search as the odds were clearly stacked so high against him. He once thought the best chance to see Josh again would be at the gates of heaven but thought better of suicide, knowing that if there was a chance he could find his son, albeit miniscule, he was going to take it.
“Ex…excuse me sirrr. Another, pa-leese,” Curt slurred his re-order.
“May I join you?” The tender voice of Rachel Goodwin pulled Curt’s attention and he turned around on his barstool. He spun slowly, careful not to lose his balance and fall off. He looked at her with skepticism but nodded his head.
“They usually leave me alone when I drink.”
“I’m just new and naïve, I guess.”
“Hmm.”
The bartender slid over another whiskey for Curt and took Rachel’s order of a club soda with a lime. Curt heard the order and looked at Rachel, sizing her up and trying to read her thoughts. He leaned away from her taking in a broader look at the new girl. He worked on a thought to himself as he downed the better part of his whiskey in one full gulp. He had figured something out but kept it to himself.
“I just thought we could talk. Something that you clearly don’t like to do.”
“Talk huh? ’bout what?”
“I don’t know. Whatever, I guess.”
“Okay, hold that thought then. I have to pee!” Curt put bluntly. He finished the rest of the whiskey and put the empty glass back on the bar with a little authority, causing a loud clank and rattle of the
ice within. He turned and made his way to the hotel’s bathroom, leaving Rachel alone at the bar with her club soda. She wondered if Curt was even going to return, thinking that this gesture of friendship was a mistake.
To her surprise, Curt made his way back, a degree more sober than when he left.
As Curt saddled up to the bar ready to replace what he just expended. He signaled to the bartender for another drink. The bartender acknowledged the order.
Rachel was about to engage Curt again when a group of four Hispanic men walked past them at the bar. Curt had pegged them earlier as Mexican migrant workers moving through the area before winter. They had taken up a corner booth in the bar when Curt arrived. They were engrossed in a vibrant conversation speaking only Spanish to one another, so Rachel had no clue if they were talking about her, the weather, or the color of the sky.
As they passed by, Curt’s head snapped up, recognizing something that was said amongst the group.
“¡Espero que consiga a la Reina de Diamantes esta noche!” One of them said.
Curt’s inebriation seemed to vanish instantly as he watched the group of men walk out of the restaurant and into the lobby headed for the parking lot. He strained his ears to pick up what else they were saying.
Clueless and intrigued, Rachel asked, “What? What did I miss?”
Ignoring Rachel, Curt pulled out his cell phone and pushed a button, then placed the phone to his ear. He still kept his stare on the Mexicans.
“Yeah, it’s me. Get a tracker out and down to the lobby, now!” Curt’s tone was serious and surprisingly sober.
He listened to the other end for a moment and replied, “Doesn’t matter which one, just one that we can slap and go.”
Curt squeezed the phone shut and looked at Rachel who still had no idea what he was doing.
“You’re going to have to explain to me; what’s going on? What did that guy say?”
His thoughts were bouncing around his head at warp speed, and the alcohol intake didn’t help matters as he sifted through the drunken haze, trying to formulate a plan.
“I’ll explain later, can you drive? I’ve been….”
“Yeah, no problem. But tell me what’s going on.”
“Human trafficking,” Curt said matter-of-factly.
With his answer, Rachel grew even more confused. How did he get human trafficking from a group of migrant workers walking past him in a hotel restaurant?
“I thought we were looking for lost and kidnapped children.”
“We are. This is worse. I need you to round up the others and check on the van to see if it’s up and running. If you see Louis, tell him I’ll be waiting in the parking lot.”
“Okay.” Rachel stopped trying to figure what was going on and just followed orders. Obviously, Curt was keyed in on something important enough to leave the bar mid-drink.
Louis nearly walked by Curt who had taken up a post by the far end of the front valet drop-off to the hotel. He was watching the parking lot as the group of Mexican workers made their way to their vehicle. Curt just needed to figure out which one.
“Here,” Louis said, handing over a small, round disc-like object. It was a simple tracker actually made by Louis. It was a small plastic container that housed a cell phone, equipped with GPS, and affixed to a powerful magnet.
“Did you put the extra battery pack in there this time?”
“Yes.” Louis popped open the lid to show Curt the smaller back up battery source for the cell phone.
“Okay, good.”
Curt took the tracker and tucked it under his arm like a football and made his way inconspicuously into the parking lot. He managed to out flank the group of men who were heading to the back of the parking lot. Ahead of them Curt saw a dusty, white Ford F-350 with a lot of lawn maintenance tools and equipment in the bed. He hated adhering to a stereotype, but in this case, it seemed to fit. He crept between the other parked cars and remained within the shadows as the group moved slowly and unsuspectingly toward the truck.
The Ford F-350 was definitely their truck, he concluded. Curt was able to read the company logo stamped on the side of the truck which matched the color and logos on the men’s shirts.
Louis watched intently as Curt made his way deeper into the parking lot. His gaze switched from Curt to the group of Mexicans and back. Rachel, who had just summoned Melinda and Beth from their rooms, joined him at the front of the hotel. The other two were getting dressed and heading down. They didn’t question Rachel when she described Curt’s vague, yet tenacious directives.
Curt crawled under a vehicle parked next to the large Ford truck and sat there, holding onto the tracker in his left hand. He felt it pull toward the undercarriage of the car he was under. He fought against the magnetic pull and kept it tucked tight against his body. As he waited for the men to load up into the truck, he suddenly realized his body was now small enough to fit underneath a regular sized sedan.
The loud roar of the F-350’s engine was deafening for Curt. He was too close to the exhaust pipe of the large truck as the driver cranked it up. He waited for all four doors to shut and quickly scooted from the neighboring sedan to underneath the truck. Curt reached up blindly into the undercarriage of the truck in search of a concealed hiding spot for the tracker. He couldn’t see what he was doing because the street lights didn’t reach underneath the truck. He found what he hoped was the ideal place and shoved the tracker up and waited for the magnet to pull it to final rest. The tracker didn’t take hold. Curt held it flush against something solid but still it didn’t stick. He started to move it around, trying to find something that would grab the magnet. Suddenly, the truck began to roll forward out of its spot. Instinctively, Curt grabbed ahold of something with his free hand and prayed his hand wasn’t going to get chopped off in the process. He held on tight as the truck moved out into the driving lane headed toward the highway exit. He hoisted the tracker up to a different spot with his left hand while hanging on with his right. He was being dragged across the parking lot by the work truck.
“C’mon, dammit!” He cursed.
The truck started to pick up speed as it neared the exit. Curt felt the loose gravel scratching his back through his trench coat and white dress shirt. He pulled himself up in a last ditch attempt, knowing this impromptu plan would not last long and would certainly end in painful failure if the truck pulled out onto the highway. With a tight grip from his right hand holding on to the truck, he shoved the tracker up and far to the right until he finally felt the magnetic bite against something metal. The tracker clanked dully against the truck’s chassis but was washed out by the loud Mariachi music that was blaring from the cab. He prayed the tracker stayed put long enough to find out where they were going.
The tracker took hold just as the truck pulled to a stop at the main road, waiting to enter traffic. Curt let go and lay still on the road, letting the large work truck lurch forward out into traffic, leaving him in the middle of the entrance/exit way. The loud exhaust of the heavy truck roared out into the highway and dissipated as it left the area, heading west out of town.
Curt lay in place on the cold asphalt for a few moments before moving, realizing how dumb that was. He figured the remaining alcohol in his system was numbing the inevitable pain that would come from being dragged a hundred yards across the parking lot. His body would pay the consequences later. Now, there was work to do.
Rachel and Louis ran over and helped Curt up from the road. They looked him over for any sign of serious injury. He told them he was fine and checked the back of his overcoat. It sustained some rips and tears, but when he noticed they were minor and there was no blood, he felt a sense of relief.
“Dude, that was awesome!” Louis stared at Curt in awe. “We could see you being dragged from across the parking lot!”
“Louis!” Rachel admonished. She turned to Curt with scolding eyes, “Seriously, that was pretty dumb! Now, are you going to let us in on what all that was about?”
“Sure!” Curt said, looking around for the Sprinter van. He started to walk toward it and signaled for the team to follow. “Van’s good to go right?”
“Yep, just needed a belt change.”
Curt continued, “At the bar, I heard the guy say, ‘¡Espero que consiga a la Reina de Diamantes esta noche!’”
“Okay, and for those who don’t speak Spanish?” Rachel said, looking around at the group.
Beth offered, “Queen of Diamonds? But what the hell does that mean?”
“And how does that relate to human trafficking? They could be on the way to a late night poker game for all we know!” Rachel added.
Beth quickly figured Curt’s angle and nodded in acceptance.
“He said, ‘I hope I get the Queen of Diamonds tonight,’” Curt translated. Rachel was still lost, as was Louis. “Do they look like the cigar smoking, bourbon drinking, high-stakes poker types?”
“No, but they can just be playing amongst themselves for whatever else they have to gamble.”
“True, but why would they say specifically they wanted the ‘Queen of Diamonds,’ especially when the Ace of Spades rules that game?”
“Okay, I’ll bite, but seriously, how are you stretching that phrase into human trafficking?”
Beth answered for the uninformed. “The ‘Johns’ will sometimes come and meet the pimp outside and pay for a ‘card,’ not for sex per se. So the John will take the card which allows him entry into the house, and he finds the coinciding card. Behind that card will be a girl waiting to have sex. She collects the card; and at the end of the night, she is paid for every card she collects, usually something in the area of ten or twenty bucks per sex act.”
“That’s awful!” Melinda offered. She was no stranger to the world of prostitution, being a former undercover cop and sister of a drug addicted prostitute, but what Beth was describing was a different level of inhumane.