WHERE'S MY SON? (Det. Jason Strong (CLEAN SUSPENSE Book 1)

by John C. Dalglish

Somewhere out there was his son. The only connection he had left to Tammy. And now, he had a message to deliver. A promise to keep. He would not give up.

  *******

  A steady rain fell on the proceedings at Oakcrest Cemetery. Jason Strong stood across from Michael Barton, who sat next to his wife’s grave.

  Jason could see no life in Michael's eyes, and it worried him. Michael had shark eyes. Black, dead.

  The last three years had brought Jason close to the Bartons. He’d done everything in his power to track down their son. So far, it hadn't been enough.

  He refused to give up hope, and he had called the Bartons regularly to tell them he hadn't forgotten about their son. Until there was a body, Jason would treat it like a missing persons case.

  Jason and his wife, Sandy, had even asked the Bartons to church with them, but Michael had always begged off.

  Jason had been one of the first people Michael called when he’d learned Tammy was sick. Jason listened, but he didn't try to tell Michael it would all be okay. He’d thought of his own wife, and how he would feel about such news. Even with his faith, he couldn't fathom losing Sandy, and trying to survive.

  He and Michael met a couple of times for lunch, and Jason even prayed with him, but the detective sensed Michael was headed for a dark place, a dangerous place.

  The service ended and people started to move away. Jason waited until there wasn't anybody left before going over to Michael. “You gonna be okay, buddy?”

  Michael gave Jason a half smile. “Yeah...I'll make it. Thanks for coming.”

  Even though Michael tried to smile, Jason saw his friend’s eyes remained cold. “You know you can call me anytime, right?”

  “I know. Thanks, Jason.”

  Jason shook his hand and turned to leave. He couldn't imagine the pain in Michael's soul, but Jason had seen what pain like that could do; it had destroyed more than one man.

  He said a prayer that night for Michael. And he said one for missing Kristian, just as he had almost every night for the last three years. And lastly, he said one more. This one was a grateful prayer. He felt the need to count his blessings and to say thanks.

  Chapter 5

  This time of the year was most difficult for Michael Barton. His son's birthday was coming up, as well as the seventh anniversary of his wife’s death. It was always the darkest time of the year for him.

  His life became engulfed in a shroud of pain and anger. Each time, he’d been able to emerge from it, to carry on. This was going to be a particularly rough year. It was approaching his son's tenth birthday.

  Ten years since the happiest day of his life. Ten years of pain. A decade of suffering.

  He let himself into the house and was met by the same old quiet. In many ways, it felt as if time had stopped inside the walls of this house. The furniture, drapes, and decorations were all as they had been the day Tammy died. He had never had the strength, or the desire, to change them.

  He threw the mail down on the hall table without looking at it and set the bottle of wine on the coffee table in the living room, before going off in search of a corkscrew.

  He’d drowned in the hard stuff for a while after Tammy's death, but with the help of Detective Jason Strong, he’d seen the alcohol as pointless. It didn't take away the pain, only numbed it.

  The detective had not given up hope of finding his son. Jason also made him see, at the very least, that he shouldn't throw his life away.

  “I have seen kids twice your son's age reunited with their parents; what if we find him and you’re not here? What would I tell him?”

  Michael had found the question difficult to answer. After all, he had made a promise to Tammy and to himself. He couldn’t give up.

  He rummaged around in the kitchen drawers, looking for the corkscrew. Normally, he bought the cheap stuff with the twist-off cap, but decided ten years required something more. He’d splurged on his and Tammy's favorite wine.

  Eventually, he’d gone through every drawer but the junk drawer. It shouldn't be there, but he slid it open, and pushed stuff around anyway. Lying in the back was his wife's digital camera. He pulled it out and found the corkscrew behind it.

  He tried turning the camera on, but the batteries were dead. He carried the camera, corkscrew, and a wine glass into the living room. From the hall table drawer, he retrieved a penlight. Checking inside, he found the batteries were the same as the ones in the camera.

  Pouring himself a glass of wine, he took a long sip before changing the batteries. He pushed the power button and the camera came to life.

  “Okay, let see what we have here.”

  He often talked to himself to break the silence in the house. He hit the album button and was met with a picture of his son. He sipped his wine and stared at the screen.

  “Where have you been hiding all this time?” he asked the camera, realizing that if it could talk, it would state the obvious: in the junk drawer.

  Gathering his courage, Michael started to scroll through the pictures one at a time. They were mostly pictures of his son sleeping. The last few were the ones he had taken of Tammy and his son under the tree on that hot afternoon. He’d finally taken a good picture with the last shot and he sat staring at it for a long time.

  Something caught his eye. In the background behind Tammy, parked just down the street, was a car he didn't recognize. It seemed out of place. An old, maybe 1960-something Pontiac. He tried to magnify the picture on the camera, but it didn't help.

  He took the camera to his computer, plugged it in, and downloaded the photos. On the computer, he manipulated and expanded the picture. The old car sat partially hidden by a tree, but the plate was still visible, as was the man sitting in the driver’s seat. His heart skipped a beat.

  Who are you? You don't belong around here.

  He magnified the car and plate as much as he could, and was able to make out the number as his heart started to pound faster. The plate could lead him to the kidnapper, could lead him to his son. He wrote down the number.

  Now what? If I call Jason Strong, he'll say that they'll look into it, and then I won't have any idea what's going on.

  He wanted to check this out himself. He could feel the darkness inside telling him this was what he needed. This could take away the pain. An idea came to him. He dialed the phone.

  “San Antonio Police.”

  “Yes. Can I speak to Detective Strong?”

  “Please hold.”

  Several minutes passed.

  “Hello?” Jason's familiar voice came on.

  “Jason, this is Michael Barton.”

  “Michael, how's it going?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Good...very good.”

  “And Sandy?” Sandy was Jason's wife, a tall blonde with striking green eyes.

  “She's good. Listen, sorry I haven't called lately. There hasn't been anything new to report, and I've been swamped.”

  “No problem. Actually, I called to ask you a favor.”

  “You know I’ll try to help if I can.”

  “Well, I was in a little fender bender at the stadium parking lot the other day, and the owner of the car wasn't around. Of course, I didn't have any paper or a pen.”

  “Of course!” Jason agreed.

  “Anyway, I took a photo of the guy’s plate with my phone, and I was wondering if you could get me his number and address. I'd like to contact him without getting insurance involved.”

  “Well…I'm not supposed to...”

  Michael held his breath.

  “...but okay, don't suppose it'll hurt.”

  Michael gave the plate number to Jason and waited. Jason was back in five minutes with a name.

  Benny Carter. His address was near Hondo, a town west of San Antonio.

  “Thanks, Jason, I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. You staying on the straight and narrow?”

  Michael chuckled. “Yeah, just an occasional glass of wine.”

  “Glad
to hear it. Take care and, I'll be in touch with any news.” Jason hung up.

  Michael stared at the name. A dark fire began to smolder in him. He knew this was the kidnapper. It had to be. He felt certain and he felt anger. Anger that pushed him to act.

  In the past, he’d fought the anger, subdued it. This time, there would be no controlling it. He could feel it taking over, and he didn't care.

  *******

  Benny wheeled the '69 Mustang Mach One down his driveway. He'd bought it with the money from the kidnapping and had it repainted. Yellow with a black hood and black stripes. It looked fast, and it was.

  He drove around back and parked by the kitchen door. Getting out, he locked the car and went to let himself in the trailer.

  Putting his key in the lock, he saw a reflection in the window, but it was too late. Pain exploded from the back of his head. His knees buckled and his face crashed into the glass. He slid unconscious to the ground.

  *******

  As Benny slowly started to come around, he began taking stock of his body. He could feel liquid, which he assumed was blood, oozing down his neck and under his shirt. He could also taste it dripping from his nose, probably from when he hit the door. He had a splitting headache, and opening his eyes in the bright sun sent pain coursing through his brain.

  Once he could get his eyes to stay open, he found he was tied to something, his arms behind him. It felt like the huge blackjack oak behind the house. His feet were also bound with a rope that went around his ankles and around the tree.

  “So, you’re awake?”

  Benny's head swivelled quickly to his right, which made him wince in pain. “Who are you? What...what do you want?”

  A man Benny didn't recognize got up and moved in front of him, ignoring his question.

  “Who are you?” Benny demanded.

  The man just stared at him.

  “I said, who are you?”

  The stranger moved in very close, spitting his words into Benny's face. “Who am I? Who am I? I'm the father of the child you took.”

  Benny's eyes got huge, which made his headache even worse, and he thought he would vomit.

  “Child? What child? I don't know nothin' about no kid.”

  “Oh come now, ten years ago, small baby.” Michael nearly exhaled contempt. “Or do you do that kind of thing all the time?”

  Benny's head began to clear. That's what happens when fear pumps adrenaline through you, and Benny was afraid. He started looking around wildly for some means of escape. He didn't own a gun, and if he did, it would be in the house. His knife was in his boot, but the ropes were too tight, and his hands wouldn’t come free.

  Benny looked into his captor’s eyes. He saw a wildness, an anger, and a man filled with an evil Benny recoiled from. The man stayed in close, too close.

  “Now, where's my son?”

  “I didn't do nothin' with your kid...I don't know what you’re talking about.”

  The man put his hand across Benny's forehead, and drove the back of Benny's head into the tree. Benny let out a groan, his eyes rolling back in his head. When he opened them again, he spit in the man's face.

  The man stepped back and slowly wiped his face with his sleeve. Turning, he walked over to a woodpile and grabbed a twenty-pound sledgehammer. He hefted it up and down a couple of times, before he walked back over to Benny. Benny started to panic, squirming to get free.

  Without saying a word, the man swung the hammer directly at Benny's right knee.

  Benny's world exploded with pain. Waves of agony raced up his leg, through his body, and into his brain. He screamed, briefly lost consciousness, and then came to with a series of low moans. His knee was shattered and blood soaked his jeans.

  The stranger waited for Benny to stop sobbing, then asked his question again. “Where's my son?”

  “I can't tell you...he'll kill me...” Benny sobbed.

  “I'll kill you if you don't. Where's my son?”

  “...Can't tell....”

  His attacker started to heft the hammer again, and Benny freaked. “Okay...okay...this guy paid me to get him a kid.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Zeb...Zeb Johnson.”

  Benny tried to stop sobbing, his voice breaking, and just above a whisper. The man had to move closer, listening intently.

  “How do I find him? What did he look like?”

  “I don't know...we used throw-away cell phones,” Benny paused for breath. “He was a big man, red hair.”

  “Where was he from?”

  Benny scrambled for details. It had been ten years, and his brain was more concerned with the pain. “The contact I met was from Missouri, I think.”

  “Contact...what contact?”

  “Some chick...I gave her the kid and she paid me.”

  “What was her name? What did she look like?”

  Benny didn't answer, the pain making him light-headed. The man lifted the hammer and a surge of adrenaline shot through Benny.

  “Wait...no...she was real short...red hair...had a tattoo of a tiger on her arm.”

  “Anything else?”

  Benny stared at the hammer. Something was rolling around in the back of his head. “She was in a van with a parking sticker…St. something…Lawrence…no, Luke’s…that's it…St. Luke’s, and the guy said she was some sort of nurse.”

  Benny was exhausted from the effort of remembering. His attacker looked at him a minute longer, put down the hammer, and turned to walk away.

  “Hey…where…you…going? You can't leave me…like this!”

  He turned and put a gun to Benny's head. “You’re right.”

  He pulled the trigger.

  *******

  Michael left the ranch and headed east to his home in San Antonio. He didn't think he’d been seen, but he wasn't taking any chances. Parking in the garage, he went in and packed a bag. After loading it into the car, he sat down at the computer, and searched ‘St. Luke's Missouri.’

  There were only two hospitals. One in St. Louis and the other in Springfield. The one in Springfield, in the southwest corner of the state, was closer. It was the logical place to go first.

  He stood up and looked around. Figuring it was the last time he would see his home, he looked around until he spotted the picture of Tammy, sitting next to a gold cross, on the mantle.

  He took it down, stared at it for a long time, and finally decided to take it. If he got the chance, he would show it to their son. He left the cross where it was.

  Shutting the door behind him, he climbed into his car and raised the garage door. The sun had started to go down, but it was still stiflingly hot. His sunglasses took the edge off the glare and hid the determination in his eyes.

  He turned the car north, toward Missouri.

  *******

  Detective Strong was sitting at his desk when his partner, Vanessa Layne, came into the squad room. Standing five-foot-ten, thin, with large, blue eyes and straight, black hair that fell to the middle of her back, she was very attractive.

  They’d worked together on the street as beat cops, but she’d made detective ahead of him. She was good, real good, and Jason liked working cases with her.

  “Hey, JD.” She sometimes called him by his initials. Jason's middle name was David, and JD had stuck since the academy.

  “Hey, Vanessa. How's it going?”

  “Good. Just ran into Dan Carpenter. You remember him, out in Hondo?”

  Jason looked up from his paperwork. “Yeah, think so. Why?”

  “He was telling me about a case they have out there. Torture-murder.” She sat on the edge of his desk. “Victim was a local named Benny Carter. Brutal stuff.”

  A bell went off in Jason's head.

  Benny Carter. Where have I heard that name?

  A chill ran up his spine as he recalled the conversation with Michael Barton. “They got any leads?”

  “Tire tracks, some rope left behind, and a shell casing.”

  “Motive?
”

  Vanessa got up to answer the ringing phone on her desk. “No, nothing apparently stolen. Looks almost like a hit.”

  While Vanessa answered her phone, Jason called Michael. No answer. He left a voicemail.

  Next, he called Michael's work. They hadn’t seen or heard from him in several days. Jason waved at Vanessa and headed for his car.

  He needed to get to Michael's Barton’s house now.

  Chapter 6

  Springfield, Missouri, was seven hundred miles and roughly twelve hours away, according to the directions Michael had found online. He drove all night and arrived in the Branson area just as the sun came up. Branson was a tourist town about thirty minutes south of Springfield, and he’d decided staying there would make him less likely to stand out.

  He found a small motel and checked in. Worn out from the drive, he fell on the bed and slept until nearly three o’clock in the afternoon.

  After getting up and showering, he went to get something to eat. A Denny’s, just two blocks from the motel, looked good, and after ordering, he asked his waitress Starla, if she could give him directions.

  “Sure, hon. Where ya goin’?”

  “St. Luke’s Hospital in Springfield.”

  “It’ll be easier if I show you on a map.”

  She left to put in his order, and came back with his coffee and a local map, the route highlighted. Within the hour, he was on his way to St. Luke's Hospital.

  He found it easily enough, and parked near the front door. A modest, beige building with three floors, it screamed drab. A wing appeared to have been added for medical offices, also beige. Even most of the shrubbery was beige.

  The inside was no brighter, with gray walls, white tile floors, and black handrails. The recent trend of cheery hospital colors had not yet reached St. Luke's.

  Michael made his way across the lobby to a half-circle desk with a candy striper behind it. She seemed out of place with her surroundings. Short blonde hair, hazel eyes, and a big, bright smile, her nametag said Britney. “Hello. May I help you?”

  “I hope so,” Michael smiled down at her and gestured toward her uniform. “I didn't know candy stripers were still around.”