Asher darted behind the dumpster and peered around the edge to see a white van pass through the parking lot and turn into the short loading dock driveway. He leaned back against the rusted metal, his heart pounding in his chest. If he had tried to pick the lock in the light, he would have been seen.
He heard the van turn around and back up to the dock. The headlights went out but the engine kept idling. He heard the van doors open and the sound of several sets of footsteps hit the pavement. There were low voices speaking what sounded like Spanish.
Asher couldn’t make out what they were saying. He wished he had done as his father recommended and taken more than just the first year of Spanish. A louder gruff voice barked out an order in English and Asher heard the rattle of the lock on the door next to the dock. It creaked open and soon the clatter of the dock bay door rolling upwards echoed into the night.
He scooted to the far side of the dumpster, knelt down and peered around the edge again, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going down. Through the dim yellow light he could see two men handing packages of some sort from the open door of the van to waiting hands at the dock. Next, he heard muffled noises coming from within the van. The two men wrestled a struggling form up to the dock.
Asher’s eyes widened. Whatever the men had pulled out was wrapped in cloth. Was it a person? From the muffled noises coming from the cloth it could be someone that was gagged. He gulped and leaned back. It was time to get out of there and tell his dad. He turned to run back to the rear fence.
Something latched onto the back of Asher’s hoodie and yanked him backwards. A large hand clamped down over Asher’s mouth. He let out a muffled yelp and tried to stand, but a powerfully muscled arm wrapped around him. He was held tight against a wide chest, his arms pinned to his sides. He struggled but could not budge his arms.
Asher’s heart hammered, adrenaline rushed through his veins as he strained against his captor. Yet a calm analytical corner of his mind was caught up with one strange concern. He remained crouched close to the ground. So why was it that the person behind him didn’t seem to be hunched over at all? Was his attacker kneeling down behind him?
“Well, there he is!” shouted out a rough voice from directly behind Asher’s left ear. “Hey boys! We got ourselves a dag-gum peeper!”
Asher slammed his head backwards into the place he imagined his attacker’s face to be. Their heads connected, but he might as well have slammed his head into a brick wall. His attacker let out an amused grunt and his grip tightened. Lights swam in his vision. Asher couldn’t breathe.
Two men arrived and pulled Asher from the heavy grip of his captor. They dragged him towards the van. He turned but wasn’t able to catch a glimpse of the man in the darkness behind the dumpster. He shouted for help and tried to pull away. These men were not as strong as his previous attacker and he was having some success until the man in the darkness pointed something at him.
There was a popping sound. Asher was unable to move, his limbs frozen in place. Numbly he realized that one of the men that had been dragging him had gone stiff as well. Angry voices argued in Spanish and he took some comfort in that as the remaining man dragged his paralyzed form to the rear of the van.
He was lifted and tossed into the van. No one bothered to tie him up, but it didn’t matter. Asher couldn’t move, couldn’t blink his eyes. All he could do was breathe. What had that been? A taser of some kind? Was there one that worked this way?
The men finished unloading the van around him, taking out more boxes and burlap sacks. He even thought he saw someone carrying a cage with strange shapes inside, but he wasn’t able to focus his eyes enough to see for sure.
The arguments in Spanish continued, then the doors shut and Asher was left in darkness. He heard the voice of the man that had captured him again. It was muffled through the door, but he could make out what was being said. The rough voice had an odd accent that reminded Asher of an irascible old prospector in a western.
“Take that peeper to the doorway and get rid of him! We don’t need any more blasted trouble. And hey! Get back here quick! If any of you gall-durn lazy corn-jiggers slack off, I’ll be cuttin’ off fingers!”
After a few moments, several men climbed back into the van. Two of them sat cross-legged on the floor in the darkness next to him. Asher felt the vehicle shift into gear and they pulled away. The radio was turned back on and Spanish music blared again.
None of the men around him spoke. They rode along simply bobbing their heads with the music. Asher tried to block out the music and focus on the feel of the road and the sound of it passing beneath him. Perhaps he would be able to piece together some idea as to how far they had traveled and where they were going. If he could somehow escape, this knowledge would give him an edge.
He was able to keep focused for a short time, memorizing each stop and turn. Then they turned onto a long straightaway. The rhythmic sway of the van along with the repetitive nature of the music was hypnotic. He soon grew disoriented and as his concentration left him it was replaced by a deep sense of dread.
That musclebound old prospector had told them to get rid of him. Asher had seen enough crime movies to know what that meant. It was very possible that they were going to kill him.
The van slowed down some time later and lurched as it turned onto a dirt road. The van floor bumped and jumped. Asher, still unable to move, was battered about. His face smashed into the knee of one of the men sitting next to him. Blood flowed from his nose and mouth as they came to a lurching stop.
The door opened, and the sound of cicadas and tree frogs flooded the van. Men grabbed Asher’s arms and legs and he was carried down a pathway. He saw grass and dirt pass by and then a set of wooden steps. A door was pulled open. He passed over a threshold and across dirty moth-eaten carpet. Another door opened, and he was carried down a set of stairs into a damp and moldy-smelling basement.
A blue glow permeated the basement, emanating from a point somewhere in front of him. He couldn’t move his head to see what it was. One of the men hit something that sounded like a gong.
There was a rush of air and a thick mist flowed across the floor toward him. The mist was cool and damp. It smelled oddly of cinnamon. The blue light intensified. The mist grew thicker.
The four men began to swing him back and forth. He knew that they were going to throw him into the mist and light. Whatever it was he was sure he did not want to go there. Asher struggled with all his might, but his limbs would not obey.
He was helpless as they released him. His stomach lurched, and he passed through some sort of opening. The world grew cold around him.
Chapter 3: Uncle Tallow
“I’m telling you! Asher did not run away!” Douglas said. On the surface, he looked clean cut and professional. His suit was neatly pressed. His face, clean shaven. But his eyes were bloodshot and weary. His skin had a pale, unhealthy pallor. One didn’t need years of detective experience to know that he wasn’t eating or sleeping right.
Sitting behind her large desk covered in stacks of papers, the chief stared at him with weary eyes. There was no sympathy in that gaze. “Detective Jones, yelling isn’t going to change my mind.”
When Douglas had first come to the Atlanta Police Department ten years ago, he had liked the chief. Susan Johnson was new in office then. A lithe and energetic woman, she had been driven to make real positive changes in the department. She was always fair and cared about her junior officers.
Since then a change of mayor and the resulting tide of bureaucracy had stifled her enthusiasm. The years of losing political battles and long hours at the desk had taken their toll. Chief Johnson had become a squat brick of a woman. She was now as stubborn and as immovable as the bureaucracy she so often railed against.
The one remnant of her former glory was the fact that she kept one group of detectives and forensics under her direct supervision instead of passing them off to other department heads. She had named it the FIU, or Frontline Investiga
tive Unit. They were located next to her office on the eighth floor of the Atlanta Metropolitan Police Headquarters and they took care of cases hand-picked by the chief.
“Chief, I just need time to find more evidence,” Douglas said.
“He has been missing for a month,” she said for perhaps the fifth time in this meeting. “No ransom demands. No leads. I’m sorry, but we have to be realistic here. Your son is seventeen. Either he ran away, or . . . Well you know what the odds are.”
Douglas did know. With a month gone by, the most likely result would be that they would find a dead body. He had seen it too many times before with other teens. Asher was too old to be preyed upon by a pedophile, but just the right age to be a victim of gangs or other violent crime. Still, he refused to accept it.
“But Asher was too smart to get mixed up with-.”
“Enough, Jones.” A frown had appeared on her wide brow. “We have a heavy caseload. I cannot continue to allocate department resources to this case. The FBI will have to take it from here. I need you working on other cases.”
“Susan, please,” he pleaded. He locked onto her gaze with reddened eyes and swallowed back tears. “He is my son. I can’t just let this go.”
She sighed and looked down for a moment. She tapped a pencil a few times on a sheet of paper in front of her. When she looked up at him again there was a slight softening in her visage. He felt a stirring of hope.
“Okay, Doug. Listen, I need you here and focused on our current case load,” she said. “But, I will not keep you from pursuing this on the side. Just make sure it doesn’t detract from your other cases. Unless you find new evidence, I don’t want to hear about this again.”
“Thank you, Susan,” Douglas said with sincere gratitude.
“You can go now. Your new cases have been placed on your desk,” she said. He got up to leave, but as he reached the door, she spoke again, “Oh, and Detective Jones.”
“Yes, Chief?”
“When we are in the office, you are always to call me Chief Johnson. Is that clear?” The previous softness in her tone was gone.
“Yes, Chief,” he said.
He shut the door behind him and headed towards his desk. He made it only a few steps before Detective Ross was at his side.
“So how did your talk with Johnson the Hutt go?” the big man asked.
“One of these days she’s going to hear you. You know that, right?” Douglas said.
“She’d have to leave her office to do that wouldn’t she?” Detective Ross replied, a smirk on his face. “Seriously though, what did she say?”
“She has declared Asher’s disappearance to be a standard runaway case. Department resources are to be shifted to more urgent cases.” Douglas reached his desk and plopped down into the chair. He gestured at the stack of case files with a frown. “She wants me to focus on these.”
“That’s what I thought she’d say.” Ross spat. “The heartless witch.”
Ross was part of a growing contingent of senior officers that belittled the chief behind her back. They were all pretty open about it and no one was sure how much the chief knew about the problem. In Douglas’ opinion, there were enough brown-nosers among the junior officers that she had to know everything. Either she just didn’t care or one day soon she was going to come down hard on all of them.
“Actually, it went better than I expected,” Douglas said. “She has given me permission to pursue Asher’s disappearance on my own time.”
Ross smirked. “Like she could have stopped you anyway?”
“No, but if she had forbid me to work the case, I would have been risking my job by doing it,” Douglas said. “Now I can continue on the case without worrying.”
“As long as no one complains to her about it,” Ross added.
“If anyone does, I’ll kick their a-.” Douglas sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “Butts. I’ll kick their butts.”
“You know it sounds ridiculous when you do that,” Ross said. “When are you going to give this up? She’s not gonna know if you curse now and then.”
“No, Bob. A promise is a promise.” Douglas grabbed the top file on the stack and opened it up. “Besides, Aggie asks me about it every night. I can’t just lie to her.”
Ross laughed. “C’mon, Doug. You’re a dad. Lying to the kids is part of your job.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have that luxury. Not with Aggie. I’m all she’s got now. She needs to be able to depend on me.” He began to read the case file over.
Detective Ross gave up the argument and settled into his desk opposite Doug’s. They had been partners for four years. Though they weren’t too much alike, they had become good friends. Bob had been his biggest supporter since Asher had gone missing.
“Hey Bob,” Doug leaned forward, his eyes widening in disbelief at the file in his hands. He grinned as he handed it over to his partner. “Maybe you should cut the chief some slack. Look at the first case she gave us. It’s about the travel agency.”
Ross opened the file and slowly shook his head. He looked back up at Douglas and grinned. “Well I’ll be . . . darned.”
Douglas snorted at his joke and picked up the next file. Things were looking up.
The month since Asher’s disappearance had been the most stressful of Douglas’ life. During that first night waiting for his son to come home, he had been filled with rage. The anger had soon turned to anxiety and fear as the search for Asher was in full stride. Then the remaining days as hope faded had been as dismal as the weeks following his wife’s death.
On the ride home from work this day, Douglas felt more optimistic than he had in weeks. He wasn’t fooling himself. The likelihood that he would find his son was still slim. But he could at least keep looking.
As Douglas approached his driveway, he saw a beat-up 80’s Oldsmobile parked in front of his house. There was a man sitting on his porch steps. He felt a stab of anger. It was probably a reporter. He had been chasing them off of the lawn with regularity for a while now.
At first the local media had been a welcome tool in the search. They had led with the story of Asher’s disappearance just two days after he had gone missing. The tone of the reports had been sincere and supportive for the first few days. Then as the case had dragged on, they found different angles to report on.
Evidently a neighbor had overheard Douglas’ occasional arguments with his son and reporters had filled in the gaps with eager pens. The fact that Douglas was a respected law officer made for a juicy story and the reports soon lapsed into insinuations of parental abuse. Now on top of dealing with the loss of his son, Douglas had to bear the suspicious looks of those who had once respected him.
Douglas got out of the car and slammed the door behind him. The stranger stood as he approached. Douglas readied himself for a confrontation. He let his instincts honed from years of experience take over as he strode towards the man.
The man looked to be in his late forties. He was tall and slender and had brown hair streaked with gray that was slightly curly. Despite the raging heat, he had on a brown corduroy jacket. Under the jacket, he wore a blue and white striped button-up shirt with wide lapels that was open at the collar and left untucked over his weathered jeans.
The man stared at Douglas, his mouth agape in a wide grin. Douglas opened his mouth, ready for a quick “no comment”. But before Douglas could say anything, the stranger rushed in. He barely had time to raise his arms in protest before the stranger caught him up in a fierce embrace.
“It’s you! It’s really you!” the stranger said.
“What? Hey!” Douglas quickly gathered himself and pushed the man away. It wasn’t easy, the stranger had quite a grip.
“Oh gosh! Wow, it’s good to see you!” The man had tears in his eyes. The grin was still plastered on his face.
“Am I supposed to know you?” Doug asked.
“Oh!” The man slapped the side of his head with his palm and laughed. “I can understand wh
y you wouldn’t remember me, Douglas! It’s been such a long time. It’s-it’s me, your Uncle Tallow!”
Douglas took another step back. He grabbed his holster to make sure the man hadn’t palmed his gun. “I don’t have an Uncle Tallow.”
“Right!” He shook his head. “You would know me as your Uncle Errand. I’m your dad’s younger brother. I had my name changed to Tallow a few months back,” the man explained, the grin never leaving his face. He kept looking Douglas up and down as if drinking him in. “Wow! Last time I saw you, you had to be . . .”
“Six years old,” Douglas finished, his memory kicking in. “The year my father left us.”
“Ohhh. That’s probably right,” the man said, his smile faltering for the first time.
Douglas’ father had run off with a woman that year and other than a single letter on his sixteenth birthday, Douglas hadn’t heard from him since. His father’s side of the family hadn’t contacted them much after that. Douglas had always resented them for that.
“Look . . . Douglas, about that. I wanted to visit,” the man said earnestly. “Several times I tried, but your mother wouldn’t let me-.”
“So. Uncle Errand,” Douglas interrupted.
“Tallow,” his uncle said, the smile returning to his face.
“Tallow, then,” Doug said. “What brings you here now, thirty-four years after our last visit?”
“Well.” Tallow swallowed. “Douglas, I am here to offer my services.”
“Services?” What was this? A sales pitch? “Is this one of those multi-level marketing things?”
“No-no.” Tallow laughed. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to Douglas. “You see, I am a private detective.”
The statement was so unexpected Douglas didn’t know what to think. He examined the card. On the left corner was the seal of the state of Idaho and on the right was a photo of Tallow giving a wink and a thumbs up.
“Tallow Jones, Private Detective?” Douglas read.
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