by Joseph Lewis
“Can your cousin arrange that for you?”
George shrugged.
“I know you want to go back home and take care of your family, but I don’t think it would be safe for you. Not yet, anyway.”
George looked up at Pete, wiped his eyes and said, “It’s because of me, isn’t it.”
Pete took George’s face into his hands and turned it up so they were eye to eye.
“What happened was not your fault. You did the right thing. You helped solve a little boy’s murder. That’s a good thing. What happened to your family isn’t your fault.”
“But they killed my family because of me,” George insisted.
Pete didn’t say anything, but wiped away tears from George’s eyes with his thumbs. George said nothing, but breathed deeply, took Pete’s cell phone, turned and walked away. Pete let him go, knowing the boy needed some space, time and quiet. Instead, he walked over to the forensic team.
“Skip, can I speak with you a second?”
Dahlke recognized a difference in Pete’s voice, had noticed him talking to George and had noticed George crying off by himself. He left Roz and walked over to Pete.
“Skip, I need a huge favor.”
Pete told him about George’s family being murdered, the family ranch being burnt to the ground and the need for him to fly to Arizona to cover the crime scene.
“You don’t have anyone else?”
“No one I trust right now. I’m sure this is related to the murder George witnessed and the murder of this boy and these two assholes. I’m just not sure who or how.”
James glanced over at George who had reappeared in the clearing, walking towards Roz.
“What’s going to happen to him?”
“Nothing will happen to him. He’s my responsibility now.”
“What do I tell Roz? She’s going to need to know,” he shrugged and shook his head, “Something.”
Pete chewed on his tongue and then puffed out his cheeks.
James said, “I’ll give her directions and the protocols on this scene. I’m going to tell her I was asked to run another scene and that I’ll be in touch with her. I won’t tell her where or who. Fair enough?”
“Catch a ride with Chet, Summer and Doug in the helicopter. Summer will arrange for both of you to take a plane to Arizona and a chopper to take you to Window Rock, where someone will pick you up and take you to the ranch, or what’s left of it. Call me when you arrive and after you check it out.”
“You want me to use my gear, or do you have some for me?”
“I can get it, but it could take time. I’m not sure we have time.”
James nodded and turned to walk away.
“Skip?”
“Yeah, Boss Man,” he said with a smile.
Pete smiled and said, “I owe you.”
James looked over at George and then back at Pete.
“No you don’t.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pete phoned the Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
“There’s a kid in Wisconsin I heard about who was a victim and held captive a couple, maybe three years ago. He works with families of missing kids or victims of sexual predators. Would you happen to know who he is and how to get a hold of him?”
The man on the other end paused before asking, “Can I ask why?”
Pete paused for effect and then said, “I’d rather not say.”
It was the man’s turn to pause and then he said, “His name is Randy Evans, and he lives in a suburb of Milwaukee. His father, Jeremy, is a high school counselor.”
He gave Pete a phone number.
After thanking him, Pete signed off and punched in the number.
* * *
“What the hell were you thinking?”
The dark man smiled, smoked his cigar, blew smoke towards the ceiling and answered calmly, “Tying up loose ends.”
“Do you realize that now they suspect they have a leak? They’ve begun an investigation into who that might be?”
After another puff on the cigar, the dark man said, “I pay you to keep things private. You’ll just have to divert that investigation.”
The man on the other end of the line said, “They aren’t stupid . . . Kelliher isn’t stupid and neither is Storm. It won’t be that easy.” He paused and asked, “Why? Why did you do this without first asking me?”
The dark man sighed and answered, “First of all, I don’t have to ask you anything . . . not a thing. Secondly, they’re Indians. No one in Arizona gives a shit about Indians, least of all me.” He let that sink in and then said, “Besides, Graham was with them, and I need to protect him. You know why.”
“Graham was the third man?”
“Yes. Now you understand?” the dark man asked.
The man on the other end swore and said, “It was still very stupid and dangerous. You could have just gotten rid of Frank and Ron. You didn’t have to whack the kid and his family.”
“I wasn’t going to take that chance. That kid still might be able to identify Graham. You’ll just have to divert the investigation.”
Exasperated, the man asked, “You do realize that you’re planning a pick up just hours from the deposit, don’t you?”
“And?”
The caller on the other end was out of patience, tired of trying to explain the predicament the dark man put him in, so he said, “I think you’re reckless.”
The dark man smiled and said, “I’m a business man. I need to tie up loose ends and restock my stables.”
“And I don’t have to tell you what happens if you get caught.”
“I pay you money to keep me from getting caught, now don’t I? Not to mention an open invitation for certain privileges with my ponies.”
A long pause.
“I just need you and your handlers to be careful.”
“Of that you can be certain. I’ll let you know when the pony is in our possession.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Stephen Bailey, dressed in his tiger-stripped goalie shirt and his white Addidas gloves with finger spines, danced on his toes watching the play develop ahead of him. He had not been scored upon, but since the half, most of the play took place on his end of the field. A mid-fielder dribbled past a defender and down his right sideline.
Noticing his stopper down on one knee tying a shoe, he said, “Mike, watch the pass to the forward.”
Mike Erickson straightened up and said, “Got it,” and sprinted to intercept the pass.
He misplayed it, but it went off his foot out of bounds, giving his defense time to regroup. Stephen barked directions to his defense and moved to a defensive angle. The throw-in was headed by a defender and picked up by Stephen’s forward, and the play moved to the other side of the field.
“Time?” Mike yelled to his sideline.
“Less than two,” his coach yelled back.
“Nothin’ past you, Mike!” Stephen yelled.
“Nope, nothin’.”
The ball was stolen and launched to a quick forward on Stephen’s left. The attacker dribbled nicely through the mid-field and past Stephen’s left fullback. Mike slipped when he sprinted to defend it, and the attacker drilled it high to Stephen’s backside. Somehow, Stephen laid out, knocking it out of the goal box. He scrambled to his feet ready for a second shot, but Mike had recovered and booted the ball to the far end of the field.
“Nice one, Mike!” Stephen yelled with a sigh of relief.
“Nothin’ past me,” Mike said with a laugh.
The two of them had been best friends since second grade, spending as much time at each other’s house as their own. Stephen was a bit taller than Mike and was a strawberry blond, which he kept fairly short. Not only was he an excellent goalie, he was also a very good catcher on his baseball team, usually hitting third or fourth in the lineup. Mike, on the other hand, had dark hair, and he wore it a bit longer than Stephen. Soccer was his best game, though he played on the same baseball team as Stephen as a c
enterfielder. He was naturally quick, as well as fast, which made him ideal for each sport and the positions he played. Both boys also took tennis lessons, with Mike being the better of the two.
Three whistles, and the game ended in a 2-0 win. Cheers all around. Mike and Stephen, best friends, threw their arms around each other’s shoulders and accepted knuckle bumps and low fives from their teammates, and as was their tradition, Mike and Stephen took off their shirts and waved them in the air. And as was the typical reaction to their tradition, their coach Barry Miller yelled at them to get their shirts back on. They did, but not before Mike did a nifty back flip and not before they squirted each other with their water bottles. Every win, the same routine, and so far, the routine occurred each game they had played.
The Spring City Revolution was fifteen and zero and ranked second in the boys U-13 age group in Wisconsin. They had high hopes for the Schwanz Cup Tournament in the Twin Cities in two weeks. After their team meeting, Stephen and Mike stripped off their socks and shin guards, slipped on their Addidas slides, picked up their gear and headed to the opposite sideline to catch up with their parents and finalize plans for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Typically, they alternated sleeping at each other’s house after games, and it was Stephen’s turn to spend the night at Mike’s house.
“What time do you want me over?”
Mike glanced at his mom, who shrugged and said, “We’re grilling out. Do you want to eat at our house?”
Stephen began to say yes, but his mom said, “If that’s ok with you, Jennifer. Ted and I were going out tonight.”
“No problem. What time would you like me to pick him up?”
“We can drop him off on our way.”
Close by, a small, non-descript man listened in on the exchange with more than a little interest. He turned towards the parking lot and turned on his cell and placed a call.
“How soon?”
“We’re about an hour away.”
Ace told them the boys’ plans and gave them the address. He glanced back to get another look at them. He got into his car, stolen from a Milwaukee parking garage, and waited until he noted which vehicles the boys got into. He checked the license plates he had written down in a small spiral notebook one more time to be certain.
One pony almost in the stable.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jeremy Evans lived in a modest, white, two-story with black shutters and a nice patio with a fire pit and barbeque in the backyard in a middle-class neighborhood on Waukesha’s north side, not too far from Waukesha North High School where he was a counselor. His adopted son, Randy, lived with him as did Randy’s biological brother, Bill.
Randy had come first. He had run away from an abusive home and was placed into foster care. Because Jeremy was on the foster list in hopes of eventually adopting a child, he ended up with Randy a little over two years ago. Billy, Randy’s twin came along a little over a year later. It was a confusing mess.
The twins were born to a school-aged mom and were given up for adoption. Neither family had wanted a set of twins, so the agency agreed to separate them. Billy went to a couple in Milwaukee, while Randy went to a family in Marshfield in the north central part of the state.
Years later, a picture and story on adoption featuring Jeremy and Randy appeared in the Milwaukee Sentinel, and Billy read it and confronted his parents. While Randy had known he was adopted and knew about his twin brother, Billy had not. It started a war in the Schroeder household and ended when Robert and Monica divorced. Monica moved out of the house to live on the east side of Milwaukee. Billy refused visitation weekends and eventually Monica gave up trying.
Robert died of a sudden heart attack a year or so ago and ever since the divorce, Billy wanted nothing to do with his mother. Living with his mother was not an option, and deep down, Monica knew that. Yet, she put up a fight, but when Billy threatened to run away every chance he got and threatened to move out as soon as he turned eighteen, she gave up and moved out of state never to be heard from again.
Billy moved in with Jeremy and Randy but kept his last name after he, too, was adopted by Jeremy. It was downright complicated for those who did not know the story. The boys were as close as two brothers could be ever since Randy’s arrival. They were best friends. They shared the same friends and most of the same interests, except that Billy was more of an accomplished athlete while Randy was more cerebral and a writer and musician. Both were very bright, as well as perceptive and instinctive. They seemed to know what the other was thinking, and it seemed to Jeremy that a lot of communication between the two occurred with looks and gestures.
At first glance, they were identical, and anyone who was not a close friend could not tell the two apart. Both had soft brown hair and big brown eyes. They dressed the same, each wearing the other’s clothes. They liked the same kinds of food, laughed the same, talked the same and used the same expressions. If you spent time around them, one would notice that Billy had a bit of a crocked smile, a glint in the eye that warned of mischief, wisecracks and practical jokes. Randy seemed a bit more serious; guarded. Yet, Billy who was eight minutes older would defer to Randy when plans or decisions had to be made. Randy was the leader and the quiet one, more reserved, and many times Jeremy had wondered if it was a result of the abuse he had endured or if it was just his personality to be so.
“That’s how the twins ended up with me,” Jeremy said with a shrug.
He and Pete sat in the kitchen at a blond-wood table with six matching chairs. A Diet Coke sat in front of both men. Every now and then one of the boys would cat-call or tease the other while they played Wii in the family room. The only voice that wasn’t heard was George’s, but that was understandable. He had just lost his family. His home was burnt to the ground. He had no idea where he was or who he was with or what was going to happen to him. So it was understandable if he was quiet. Pete didn’t anticipate another boy in the house, but didn’t think that it mattered.
“I can’t give you a lot of the details. What I can tell you is that George witnessed a murder and saw the two perpetrators who committed it. The murder took place on the Navajo Indian Reservation in Arizona . . . on his land while he was tending his family’s sheep. Someone murdered George’s family and burned down their ranch. We suspect that the perps think they killed George because his little brother was shot multiple times, and he looked remarkably like George.”
Jeremy glanced towards the next room and then back at Pete.
“No one knows George is here, and I need it kept that way . . . for his safety and yours.”
“What do you mean by his safety and ours?”
“We believe that whoever killed that boy and those two men up north is still in the state. We believe he or they are tied to whoever killed George’s family.”
Jeremy glanced again towards the family room.
Pete knew what Jeremy was thinking so he said, “No one knows George is here, and I believe you and your family are safe. The problem is I don’t know how long George will be here. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
Jeremy pushed his chair away from the table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and looked intently at Pete. He was thirty-six years old, a single guy who had contemplated the priesthood for a long time before deciding that celibacy was a bit too much to deal with. Yet, he had never married and was far from promiscuous. Eligible, yes. A player, no.
As a former high school and college basketball coach and especially now as a high school counselor, he was used to problem-solving on the fly. He and Randy had traveled around the state and parts of the Midwest speaking to school assemblies, parent groups, and law enforcement agencies about the sexual exploitation of children and how to keep kids safe, especially in this day and age of the internet, social networks and cell phones. Law enforcement in four states brought the two of them in to work with kids who had been molested, as well as their parents. Jeremy knew the danger these men and groups posed.
“Let�
��s suppose . . . what . . . if something happens to you during this investigation? What happens if somehow, some way . . . those people find out he’s here? I don’t care about me, but I have two sons to think about. And how do I explain George to the boys’ friends or my family?”
Pete looked at him thoughtfully, fully appreciating the position he was placing him in, along with his family.
He shrugged and said, “He’s a friend of the family or a friend of your sons, I guess. Try to keep it simple. The simpler, the better.”
“And . . . if something happens to you or like I said if they find out he’s here? Then what?’
Pete suspected the FBI had a leak. He knew there was the possibility that George’s location might be found, but only if whoever killed George’s family found out that it was George’s brother who was shot on that hillside and not George. He explained this to Jeremy.
“Right now, they have no need to look for him and no idea where to look for him. I’m the only one who knows.”
“Again, if something happens to you, then what?”
Pete ran his hands over his face.
“I have to let my partner know where he is. She and I will be the only two that know. Not even the rest of our team will know.”
Jeremy looked down at his hands holding his Diet Coke.
Without looking up he said, “With your permission, I’d like to bring someone else into this . . . a friend who’s a detective on the police force. Jamie Graff. We’re friends, and I trust him. He knows my family.”
Pete didn’t want anyone else brought in, yet there was logic in the idea. This detective could stay in the background and keep a quiet watch. This could be good.
“I’ll need to meet him.”
Jeremy pulled out his cell and punched in Jamie’s number.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Mom, it’s only three blocks away, and it isn’t real dark yet. We won’t be gone that long,” Mike pleaded.
“I don’t think so. We have plenty of movies here you can watch.”
