THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA

by William Melden

  Ethan blinked. “You mean Roy? He treated — oh, right, I get it. Yeah, I guess. We were all counting on that, but I still don’t understand it.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant,” Mr. Mendel said, hefting himself up straighter in his chair. “It’s always good to see you, whether it’s at the store or anywhere. But I’m a plain-spoken man. Why did you want to be here today? Are these kids in some kind of trouble?” They’d better not be, said the look on his jowly face.

  “No, Sam, they’re not.” He paused, then smiled. “Pardon the informality, but everybody in town thinks of you as ‘Sam.’ What these young people did, out at that airfield, was illegal. We don’t condone anyone taking the law into their own hands. But in this case, ‘the law’ was a dollar short and a day late, and what they did was. . . . Well, most folks on the police force see them as heroes. The District Attorney, Alan Gerbitz, isn’t seeking any indictments against them. As for the feds, they’re not really concerned with anything but the kidnappers. They’re not interested in the kids. . . . Well, they’re hardly ‘kids,’ are they? I’m visiting all of the parents, to give them that news personally. My next stop will be at Ethan’s house.”

  “That’s so good to hear,” Mrs. Mendel said. “And it’s so thoughtful for you to do this in person. It means a lot to us.”

  Olivia gave Ethan a gentle hug.

  “Watch out,” he cried, leaning into her. “You’re gonna hurt my spatula!”

  She poked him in the side. “I’m not about to hurt your scapula, silly,” she laughed.

  * * * * *

  Cyrus Williams opened the back door of the gym when he heard the knock. It was after hours, but reporters had been pestering him all day for a story on Royal, and this might be another. If it is, I’ll tell ‘em to go peddle their papers somewhere else, like I did all the others. When this boy makes the headlines, it needs to be for his fightin.’ Apart from the reporters, Williams had nothing but pride in what Royal had done with his friends.

  It wasn’t a reporter. It was a young white boy, but not just any white boy. Williams recognized him immediately from the television coverage. “Well, hello there,” he said, opening the door wide. “Am I lookin’ at Brandon Fox?”

  “Yes sir, that’s me,” Brandon replied. He held out his hand, and Williams engulfed it in both of his own, in a meaty handshake.

  “I’m Cyrus Williams,” the older man said, pulling Brandon in and closing the door. “I run this place. Pleased to meet you, son.” He sized up Brandon’s build. “You look like a welterweight to me. What d’you run, about a buck forty-five?”

  “Close, sir. One forty.”

  “Light welter, then. But I don’t think you’re here to box.” He smiled. “You lookin’ for Roy?”

  “Yes sir. Celeste said it might be okay for me to visit him here. I need to talk to him about some things.”

  “Well, he’s been working, but he’s due for a break. Go find him and take as much time as you need.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Williams,” Brandon said. “I appreciate it.”

  After wandering around the darkened gym, he discovered Royal standing outside the main practice ring with a wrench in his hand, adjusting something. “Hey, Roy,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. Mr. Williams said it would be okay.”

  Royal turned around and smiled. “Hey, Brandon,” he said, laying the wrench on the canvas. “I was just tightenin’ these ropes. What’s goin’ on?”

  “I kinda need to talk, man,” Brandon replied. “You got a few minutes?”

  “Sure do.” Roy retrieved two corner stools and sat on one of them. “Sit down and talk.”

  “Well . . . I’ve talked to Cassie about this.” Brandon sat heavily on the other stool. “Like for hours and hours. You can imagine, the way we were cooped up. And since all this stuff happened . . . really, while it was happening . . . my mind’s been going through a lot of changes. Cassie’s great, and we got real close — in the right way, not the wrong way.” Roy nodded. “But she’s a girl, and her background is so different from mine. . . . I thought you’d be the natural person to talk to. We’ve both seen some of the rough side of life.”

  “I’m here, man,” Roy said.

  Usually just mumbling, sometimes almost snarling, Brandon poured out the story of his life. His years with his parents. The abuse. Dropping out of school and hitting the streets when he was sixteen. The long string of temporary rooms and temporary roommates. Selling weed, working day labor, anything for a dollar. And the girls. Finally, some of his ordeal at the airfield.

  “Here’s the thing, man,” Brandon continued. “I always told myself that I had an excuse for whatever I did. If I sold weed to some kid, I’d say ‘He would have just gotten it someplace else.’ If I hooked up with some girl, just so I could get off, I’d say, ‘If it wasn’t me, she’d be with somebody else.’ And that was true, but. . . . It wasn’t somebody else. It was me. I’ve been thinking so much since I met Cassie. Stuff I could never tell her about. I even sneaked in and read parts of her Bible sometimes. And I’ve just got this sudden feeling. . . . it’s guilt, but it’s real guilt. It’s not just getting caught at something. That kind of guilt is just a passing thing. It’s like I’ve found out I have cancer, or something. Does this make any sense to you?”

  “Makes all the sense in the world, man,” Roy replied. “It’s like you’re finally lookin’ in a mirror, and you don’t like what you see.”

  Brandon nodded his head. “Well here’s my problem, Roy. I never knew any Christians before. Real ones. Then along comes Cassie, and I think, ‘Okay, it works for her.’ But then I meet you and Celeste, so different, and I see it in you, too. And then, I see it in the Hixsons. They’re not on some kind of Jesus trip. They’re old. You know, settled and everything. And they’re not crazy.” He paused, to take a deep breath. I can’t believe I’m spilling my guts like this. This isn’t like me at all. “See. . . . I always thought Christians were a bunch of clones. I didn’t want to be a clone. And now I see that you’re all individuals. But, man, I know myself. After all this is over, after it all wears off, I’ll probably just go back to . . . well, I don’t want to go back there. I’m sick of this world, man. I’m sick of myself. I’m eighteen, and I feel like I’m forty. . . . I think I need to know Jesus, like you guys do.” Roy saw tears trickle from the boy’s eyes. “You know about this stuff. Do you think it’s possible? I mean, would he bother with somebody like me?”

  Roy sat and rubbed his bad leg. When he was sure that Brandon had stopped talking, he replied. “I’ll tell you, man. Guilt . . . it gets a bad rap. Yeah, some people can’t handle it, and they go crazy. But it’s like pain. Pain is your body tellin’ you something’s wrong, see what I’m sayin’? Telling you that something needs to be fixed, or you need to stop doin’ something, like touchin’ a hot stove. Guilt is like that. It’s telling you that you need to quit something, or fix something. It’s really a good thing, if you don’t blow it off, or get hung up on it. If you blow it off, you’ll just keep makin’ the same mistakes. If you get hung up on it, you’ll lose your mind. That make sense?”

  “Uh-huh,” Brandon mumbled. “It does.”

  Roy took a deep breath. Be careful with him. But be straight. “Look, Brandon. . . . You said you’d been peekin’ at Cassie’s Bible. She told me and Celeste about that Bible showin’ up all of a sudden. That’s a miracle, man. Those things don’t happen very often. It’s never happened to me, or to Celeste, or anybody I know. But it happened to Cassie, and you saw it. And you saw Cassie, that sheltered little home school girl, showin’ all kinds of guts and not breaking down. That’s a different kind of miracle.” He smiled. “Listen here. I want to ask you a question. Just man to man. All that time with Cassie. . . . After all those girls you’ve been with . . . None o’ my business, but was there ever a time when you was just bustin’ at the seams, wantin’ to have sex with Cassie? Was there?”

  “No, there wasn’t,” Brandon said, a look of surprise in his
eyes. “Yeah, she’s attractive and all, and when I first saw her, I thought ‘wow,’ but as I got to know her. . . . Nope. I just liked her as a person. I never wanted to. . . . I mean, hooking up with her would have been . . .” he struggled to find a word . . . “inappropriate.”

  “Well, hey, man,” Roy smiled again, “isn’t that another kind of miracle? I’m telling you, Brandon. God’s after you. He wants you. He’s showin’ you things some folks never see. And out there on the streets, and in that airplane hangar, God’s been protecting you. You could have gotten killed by some punk, or shot by that Maclean woman. But he’s taken care of you. Personally. Jesus wants you to be his child. His friend. And right now . . . for all these years . . . you’ve been a child of the Devil. Not as bad as Dayle and Maclean, but you had the same boss. Am I right?”

  “Yeah. I see that, for real. It makes me sick.”

  Roy took Brandon’s hand and looked in his eyes. “You asked if Jesus would bother with you. The Book says, Jesus says, ‘him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.’ That’s a promise. Either Jesus meant it, or he was a liar. You don’t think he was a liar, do you?”

  “Come on, man. Of course not.”

  “Well, then, here’s what Jesus said, but I’m gonna put your name in it. ‘Come unto me, Brandon Fox, ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give Brandon Fox rest.’ You’ve been laboring, and are heavy laden right this minute. He’s talkin’ to you, man.”

  “That’s what I want,” Brandon said. “Roy, I want to be his friend. I want to know him.”

  “That’s what you need,” Roy replied. “It’s one thing to know about somebody. Like, I could tell you almost everything about Mike Tyson. How he got started boxing. His complete record. His personal life, the part that’s been reported. But I’ve never met him. I don’t know him personally. You need to know Jesus personally.”

  He sat up a little straighter, releasing his friend’s hand. “I gotta tell you. It’s not gonna be easy. Those TV preachers, they say, ‘Come to Jesus, and you’ll never have another problem.’ That’s a lie. Coming to Jesus is easy, you can do it right now. But livin’ as a Christian is tough. You’ll be changing one set of problems for a whole ‘nother set. You’ll see. But the difference is, now Jesus will be there, the Holy Spirit will be there, to help you carry that load. You think you’re ready for that? People won’t understand you. You might never get back with your folks. You might go to jail. You’ll have a million hassles. Is Jesus worth all that to you?”

  Brandon hesitated, thinking. Finally, he spoke. “People have never understood me. I’ve already been locked up, with people hurting me, even if it was just for three weeks. My folks. . . . Yeah, I see what you’re saying. But if Jesus wants me, and I want him . . . that’s worth anything, Roy.”

  “One last question, man,” Roy said. “Do you think there’s any other way of gettin’ saved, saved from this world and saved from yourself? Jesus said he was the only way. No church can do it. Mohammed and Buddha and all them, they didn’t die for you, and they weren’t raised from the dead. And you sure can’t do it yourself, just by cleanin’ up and trying to do right. Do you believe that?”

  “I believe all that.” Brandon said. “I know I can’t do it myself, that’s for sure.”

  “Okay, brother,” Roy said. “Let’s bow our heads. I’m gonna shut up. Tell Jesus what you want, just in your own words.”

  They bowed their heads. As Roy took his hand again, Brandon began to mumble and weep. “Jesus . . . God. . . . I’m so tired of all this mess. You know me, you know what I am. I’m just so fucked up! And I can’t do anything about it. Cassie told me that everyone’s a sinner, that nobody’s right until they’re right with you. I know . . . what a sinner I am. And you said in that Book that there’s a Hell. God, I don’t want to go to Hell!

  If this stuff is true . . . would you please fix me? I don’t know all the words. But I’m askin’ you to save me, God, for Jesus’ sake. Is that okay? Will you have me? I want you. Amen.”

  After a few moments, Roy put his arm around him. “That’s it, Brandon. You’re a new man. You just got born again.”

  Brandon looked up at him with tears still in his eyes. “I feel . . . better. But not much different.”

  “You don’t need to feel different, brother. Feelings come and go. You’re comin’ out of a real thick fog. But you made it!”

  Brandon was flooded with questions and thoughts and emotions. “What am I supposed to do now?”

  “You’re supposed to rest, brother, and get used to bein’ born. Start readin’ the Bible. You’ll see. Right now, you need to tell somebody about this. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. I want to tell everybody I know!”

  “Be calm, brother,” Roy smiled. “That’s the right way to feel. He said ‘if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.’ You just believed. Now you’re wantin’ to confess. Hey, that proves that there’s been a change, right there. Why not start small? I know a guy who’d love to hear about this.”

  “Who?” Brandon asked. He was beginning to feel different, like eighteen years of grime and pain had just been washed away.

  “Come with me,” Roy said.

  They stood and walked to Cyrus Williams’ office. Roy knocked on the doorjamb. “Boss? Can we come in? Brandon wants to tell you somethin.’”

  Williams looked up from his desk. “Come on in, men. What you got to tell me, Brandon?”

  “Um, Mr. Williams. . . . I don’t know how to say it. . . . Yeah, I do. I just prayed, and Jesus Christ is my Saviour now!”

  Williams broke out in an immense grin, and stood up, moving around the desk and taking Brandon in his arms. Hugging him tight, he whispered in his ear, “Right here in my gym, the Shepherd found him a lost sheep. Praise God, my brother!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: A Death, and New Families

  “No, I’m not interested,” Cassie said into the telephone. Sitting in the den, in her very own, self-selected shorts and t-shirt, she dug her bare toes into the carpet, as if she were trying to dig a hole in it with her toenails. “Look, I’ve been telling you people that I’ll make a statement when I’m ready. But I don’t appreciate you calling my home after 11:00 at night. It’s rude. When I make my statement, it won’t be to you. Your stupid network doesn’t have any class at all. Well, tell your producer that he doesn’t have any class. Don’t call here again. You’re harassing a minor!” She had to restrain herself from banging the phone onto the table beside her.

  “Easy, girl,” her father said, smiling. He and her mother were sitting nearby, both reading, already dressed for bed. “I know they’re driving you crazy, but you’re a celebrity now. It’s part of ‘Missing White Girl Syndrome.’ In a month, they’ll have forgotten all about you, and be bothering somebody else.”

  “No, they won’t,” Mrs. Hixson laughed. “I’m sorry, Cassie, but they’ll milk this thing for all it’s worth, like they always do when there’s a dramatic story. You just need to pay closer attention to caller I.D. Don’t answer the phone the minute it rings.”

  “I know,” the girl sighed. “You’d think I woulda learned something about patience. But I just want to get all their phone numbers and start hassling them.”

  As her parents laughed, Daisy rose from her slumbers and raced out of the room, her tail wagging. They heard the front door open and close. In a minute, Brandon entered the room, Daisy trotting beside him. “Hi, everybody. Sorry I was gone so long. I hope you weren’t worried.”

  “No problem, son,” Dr. Hixson said. “You’re a grown man. I hope everything’s all right?”

  “Yes sir, it is.” Without being invited, he sat down on the smaller of the two couches, next to Cassie. “I need to tell you guys something. I want to tell you guys something.”

  “What is it, Brandon?” Cassie asked, toes no longer digging in the carpet.

  “I went down to
Royal’s gym tonight. I talked to him for awhile. It was weird. . . . It wasn’t like a church or anything. We were just sitting there on stools. But” — he took a deep breath — “I asked Jesus to be my Saviour. And he took me!”

  Within seconds, Cassie and her mother were both hugging him, tears flowing from all three. Dr. Hixson took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyelids with his fingertips. You never cease to amaze me, Lord. He stood up and walked across the room, laying his hand on Brandon’s shoulder and squeezing it.

  * * * * *

  Barbour Ludwig’s face was pale when he walked into Donald Burgess’ office. It was Sunday morning, but there was work to do. He hadn’t knocked, and now, he sank into the chair across from the agent. “I didn’t see this coming,” he muttered.

  Burgess, his body suddenly tense, leaned across his desk, searching the man’s eyes. “Barbour? What’s happening? Are you all right?” The Special Agent in Charge had a history of heart problems. “Can I get someone up here to help you?”