Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God

by Reginald Cook

“No,” said Donovan, struggling to his feet. “They’re as much in the dark as we are.”

  Donovan walked to the front window, leaned forward until his forehead touched it, and closed his eyes, his breath morphing into a deep fog on the glass.

  Robert eased up behind his friend. “Thorne and I have been trying to chase down leads of our own.” Donovan straightened up and turned around. “I know you and Alison asked us to stay out of it,” Robert continued. “But did you really think we would? He’s as much of a son to me as he is to you.”

  Donovan forced a smile, which looked out of place with the swollen sacks under his eyes, and heavily wrinkled brow. “I know you mean well, but I have to ask you and Thorne to stand down.” The words took Robert aback. “Obviously there’s something going on I don’t know about. Now, you know me. You know what I can do.

  Why won’t you let me help?”

  Donovan’s eyes widened. He gritted his teeth, made a fist, and lightly tapped it against Robert’s chest. Catching himself, Donovan relaxed and went back to the couch. Robert sat down next to him.

  “I went by Samuel’s school today,” said Robert. “I talked to several of his friends. When I asked them if there was anything going on with Samuel, anything out of place, they both broke down in tears.” Donovan furrowed his brow. “What did they say was wrong?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to finish questioning them. I was escorted out before I could find out.”

  “Who were the children you spoke with?” Robert gave him Paul and Carla’s names. Donovan looked even more puzzled. “They’re Samuel’s best friends. They didn’t mention anything when the FBI talked to them.”

  “The FBI?” asked Robert, surprised.

  “Yes. A couple of agents went to their houses to see if they noticed anything out of place over the last couple of weeks. They spoke to several of Samuel’s teachers and the school staff.” Strange, why didn’t they tell me? Robert clenched his fists, but resisted banging them on the coffee table. “Donovan, what the hell is going on?”

  “I wish I knew,” he answered. “That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “I mean, what’s going on with Samuel that you’re not telling me?” Donovan hesitated. “I can’t say.”

  “You mean you won’t say.”

  “It’s for Samuel’s protection, and probably has nothing to do with the kidnapping.”

  “Probably?” Robert bit his tongue. “Does the FBI know?” Donovan squinted, as though measuring his words. “No, they don’t.” Robert sprang to his feet. “Goddamnit, I don’t get this! Samuel’s out there, stolen from us by God only knows who, and you’re holding back!”

  “I know what’s at stake more than you! Don’t lecture me about my son,” Donovan yelled. In a huff he pushed himself up and headed for the door.

  Robert grabbed his arm. “Tell me.”

  Donovan’s chest heaved up and down, his eyes empty and black.

  “Not yet. Not now.”

  Robert leaned in close to Donavon’s face. “I’m going to find out anyway, and I won’t stop looking for Samuel.” Donovan pushed Robert’s arm away and limped outside toward the house. Robert saw Alison looking down from an upstairs window. She closed the curtains when she saw him.

  Donovan turned. “Stay out of it, Robert. Please.” Robert opened his mouth to speak, but his friend waved goodbye, then disappeared inside the house.

  12

  On the road back to Chicago, Robert called Thorne to find out if she’d had more success than him. He had tracked her down at Detective Reynolds apartment. His conversation with Donovan was a draining dead-end, and he needed good news.

  “I haven’t found out much,” she told him. “But we should discuss this in person, not on the cell phone.” Robert agreed, hung up, and headed for Chicago’s south side.

  Fifteen minutes later, he spotted a light brown sedan tailing him. The car looked like a standard government issue. Why tail me? You could’ve questioned me at the Napier’s.

  Robert increased his speed to nearly ninety miles an hour. The sedan followed, but just enough to keep him in sight. Five miles down the freeway, Robert slowed down to fifty and made a sudden exit off I-94 at Illinois Route 60/Townline Road. The car stayed right on his tail, a red police light now flashing from the dashboard. Robert made a right turn onto Route 60/Townline Road, which was lightly trafficked, and kept going. The sedan fired up its siren. Robert pulled into a busy gas station and jumped out, hand on his gun. Two men exited the sedan.

  On the passenger side, a tall, thick shouldered, African-American stared at him like a pit bull. The other, a half bald waif of a WASP, with a nearly finished cigarette hanging from his lips, Robert recognized. He was Assistant Director of Field Operations, Glenn Thompson, CIA.

  “I knew you’d pick us up right away,” said Thompson, taking a long last drag and tossing the butt on the asphalt. “We were going to wait until you reached the city before we stopped you; thought you’d be less likely to shoot us in a crowd.” He laughed, marched over and stuck out his hand. Robert shook it, looking over at the stone-faced black man, who still hadn’t said a word. “Allow me to introduce Special Agent Kirk Maxwell. He’s here from D.C., and specializes in finding missing persons.”

  Agent Maxwell walked over and shook Robert’s hand, but remained stoic.

  “You’re here because of Samuel?” asked Robert.

  “Yes,” said Thompson. “Thought we’d lend a helping hand to Donovan, he’s still family.”

  “Since when do retired agents rate a visit from an assistant director?

  Even in a case like this.”

  “Since the Director himself ordered it,” answered Thompson. “It seems as though he’s taken a personal interest in helping find Samuel.” Bullshit, thought Robert. You guys don’t give a shit about anybody who’s not important to you. “Well, we can certainly use all the help we can get,” said Robert, taking another look at Agent Maxwell, who was now leaning back against the hood of the sedan. “You know anything I haven’t already heard?”

  “I’m not sure. How much do you know?” asked Thompson.

  Robert measured both men. Something big is going on. The same something Donovan is keeping from me. “Samuel’s gone, and nobody’s heard a peep from the kidnappers. I’ve scrounged around a bit, but haven’t come up with a thing.”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “What about at the school?” asked Agent Maxwell, his voice calm and smooth. “Find out anything important from the kids or staff?” Robert decided he wouldn’t mention the breakdown of Samuel’s two best friends. “No, nothing,” he said. “It was a dead end.”

  “So, what’s your next move?” chimed Thompson. “Any way we can be of assistance?”

  “Yes,” said Robert. “You can start by telling me the reason you’re really out here. I know you guys. I used to be on the team, remember?

  Now, why the sudden intense interest in Samuel Napier?” Agent Maxwell took a step toward Robert. “We could tell you, but then again, like you said you’re not one of us.” Robert smiled at the rookie’s mistake. So, there is something you guys want.

  “Stand down, Agent Maxwell. Wait for me in the car,” ordered Thompson, pulling a pack of Camels from his inside pocket. Agent Maxwell, not happy, slid inside the sedan and slammed the door. “Let’s walk,” said Thompson, brushing by Robert, a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth.

  Just beyond the gas station was a small park, empty, except for a few joggers and a homeless man carrying two large plastic bags on his shoulders. Thompson stopped at a severely chipped, green wooden bench and sat. Robert eased down next to him, his scowl and wrinkled forehead demanding answers.

  “I can’t tell you much,” said Thompson. “In fact, we don’t know much.”

  “Then tell me why the CIA is interested in a little boy’s kidnapping?

  And don’t feed me the bullshit about caring for Donavon. ” The silence lasted a second too long, and Robert knew he wouldn�
��t get the answer he was looking for.

  “You know as well as I do that information is handed out on a need to know basis,” said Thompson.

  Need to know. You mean, go fuck yourself. “Donovan says there’s something special about Samuel,” Robert lied. “Do you think that’s why they took him?”

  Robert watched his fabrication worm its way through Thompson’s mind. The Assistant Director, his reputation built on calculating intuition, seemed to suppress a smile. “And exactly what is this special thing Donavon shared with you?”

  “Something valuable enough to put the boy’s life in danger,” answered Robert. “Any idea who’s behind this?” Thompson continued to measure Robert. “None at this time. We were hoping you’d picked up their scent.”

  “No such luck. If I knew where the bastards were, I wouldn’t be here bullshitting with you.”

  Thompson smiled and lit another cigarette off the one he’d just finished. “If you do find them, we’d appreciate a phone call. We’ll provide any assistance you ask for, including intelligence, hardware, money. It’s your call. Name your price.” Robert, off the bench before he knew it, grabbed Thompson by the collar. “Price! There’s no price you could pay for this, asshole! He’s my godson, not a bounty!”

  Thompson continued to smile, the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. Two cold taps on the nap of his neck, and Robert turned his head.

  “Let the director go,” said Agent Maxwell, his .357 automatic pointed at Robert’s right eye socket.

  Robert didn’t let go right away. He wanted to shake Thompson till his brain scrambled. Agent Maxwell cocked the hammer on his weapon.

  Robert let Thompson go and took a step back. When Agent Maxwell checked to see if his boss was okay, Robert grabbed the agent’s wrist, and spun clockwise, twisting the gun out of the agent’s grasp and flipped him over his shoulder. Agent Maxwell let out a grunt as he pounded down, back first, to the ground. Robert fired a shot in the dirt just past the agent’s head.

  “You pull a gun on me, use it,” he snarled.

  “I won’t forget,” said Agent Maxwell. “You can believe it.” Thompson, seated again on the bench, lit another smoke, took a deep drag, leaned back and blew a hazy cloud into the air. He looked down at the two, amused. “Please let him up, Mr. Veil.” Robert stared at the agent, his forearm pressed hard against Maxwell’s throat. But it wasn’t the FBI agent he saw on the ground, it was one of the masked men who kidnapped his godson. Robert hit Agent Maxwell on the temple with the butt of the gun, knocking him out cold.

  Then he tossed the weapon to Thompson, who fumbled it, losing his Camel in the process, sending orange ash sparkling in the air.

  “That was uncalled for,” raged Thompson, standing.

  “So is all this crap you’re trying to hand me,” fired Robert. “And until the CIA learns to share, don’t call on me again.”

  “You’re one of us,” growled Thompson. “You know how this is played. Help us with anything you learn, and I’ll do the same. You have my word. I’ll let you in on everything when you find the boy.” Agent Maxwell, groggy, tried to stand, but collapsed back to the ground, hands on his head. Robert headed back to his vehicle, ignoring Thompson’s calls.

  Back in the Explorer, Robert gripped the steering wheel tight. Why is Samuel drawing attention from the CIA? He racked his brain, but no scenario that fit made any sense. He started the engine and hit the highway. He dialed his office in Washington D.C. on his cell. Evelyn Hollis, their office manager, picked up.

  “Evie, it’s me. I want you to do a full background work-up on Samuel. Go back as far as you can, and list every name you can find.” Evelyn grilled him, and he brought her up to date as much as he could over the phone. She hung up with promises to move as quickly as possible. Robert dialed Thorne, who picked up on the first ring.

  “I have news, Robert. Come to Detective Reynolds apartment. It doesn’t look good,” said Thorne.

  13

  Robert sped into Chicago and headed for South Shore, where Detective Reynolds owned a condominium. Forty-five minutes past noon, most of the city’s faithful went about their daily routine with systematic ease. City street crews directed traffic around pylons, while they repaired chuckholes in the asphalt, and scheduled maintenance before a hard winter took its toll. Hustlers hawked their wares, some legit, most illegal, all under the occasional watchful eyes of Chicago’s patrolling finest.

  Detective Reynolds, a twenty year police veteran, was somewhat of a legend on the streets of Chicago. Tales of his exploits were many, however, one story stood out as Robert’s favorite.

  Late one Friday night, back when the detective was still a uniform patrolman, he and his partner were cruising through one of the seedier sections of the city’s South Side, when an explosion in a house the next street over rocked the neighborhood. Reynolds and his partner were the first to arrive on the scene and found an old, beaten down house quickly being gobbled up in flames.

  “My babies, my babies!” a distraught mother in a nightgown bellowed, running up to the car. “My son and daughter are up there! Help them, please!”

  “How old are they?” Reynolds asked, calm and controlled.

  “Six and eight,” she screamed.

  “What are their names?”

  “Carl and Kendra,” the mother told him, collapsing to the ground.

  Detective Reynolds’ partner called for backup and the Fire Department. Reynolds looked up at the flames filling the second floor, and without hesitation, rushed inside and bolted up the stairs, fire crackling all around, screaming the children’s names. He found both kids unconscious on the floor in their bedroom, the exit blocked by the raging inferno. Witnesses outside said they heard a loud crash, looked up, and saw Detective Reynolds falling toward them with Carl and Kendra under each arm. He landed hard on the grassless lawn, breaking his right leg in two places, but saving the children, who suffered a few bruises and were treated for smoke inhalation, but otherwise were okay.

  When Detective Reynolds returned to work he received the highest honors the police department and the City of Chicago could bestow, not to mention, street credibility any officer would dream of, and the nickname of a comic book superhero with the persona of a bat.

  As with many women, Thorne kept the intimate details of her love life guarded, but in all the years Robert had known her, no man could ever boast the impact Detective Reynolds had on her. Where most of Thorne’s relationships lasted six, nine months at the most, the detective had managed to survive close to three years, and Robert wasn’t surprised when she accepted the detective’s proposal of marriage. Thorne was the happiest Robert had ever seen her, and he was glad she found someone to share her life with.

  However, a month before they all flew to Martha’s Vineyard for a small ceremony, the whole thing was suddenly called off. Thorne spent a week at Robert’s place moping. He didn’t press her, and she never said a word about why the wedding was canceled. Thorne eventually shook it off and remained close friends with Detective Reynolds. They even took trips together on occasion, but the subject of marriage never came up again.

  Robert drove into the underground garage of the detective’s complex and parked. Shadowy and dark, the drab concrete felt more like a tomb, adding to Robert’s already foreboding sense of dread. He strode out of the elevator on the tenth floor and knocked on the white and gold trim door, numbered ten-twelve. Thorne snatched open the door, all smiles, and gave Robert a long, tight hug, as though she knew it was just the medicine he needed.

  Detective Reynolds, six-three, muscle plastered, with flawless, midnight black skin, emerged from the kitchen hand extended, and offered Robert his sympathy concerning Samuel. Words Robert found comforting.

  Robert plopped down on the sofa and filled them in on his encounters with Samuel’s friends at school, his conversation with Donavon, and his clash with Glenn Thompson and the CIA.

  “What the hell does Thompson and the CIA want with Samuel?” as
ked Thorne, forehead wrinkled, eyes tight.

  “Exactly,” exclaimed Robert. “The whole thing smells. Evelyn is looking into Samuel’s history; as far back as she can go.”

  “Maybe they’re just watching out for one of their own. A former

  ‘Company’ man,” said Detective Reynolds.

  “Not a chance,” said Thorne, beating Robert to it. “These guys don’t take a shit unless there’s something in it for them.” Robert agreed, shaking his head. “I wish the assholes who snatched Samuel would make contact, send a note, or something. At least we’d know he’s alive. Maybe even pick up their trail.” Thorne and Detective Reynolds looked at each other, then at Robert.

  “There is a note,” the detective finally said. “The FBI received it this morning.”

  Robert’s heart pounded. “But I talked to Donovan earlier, he didn’t mention a thing.”

  Thorne slid down next to Robert. “He knows, Donovan was there when it arrived Federal Express from a dead end address in Kansas City.

  The Feds read it, and then asked everyone to leave.”

  “Yes,” added Reynolds. “And when they let us back inside, everyone acted as if the note didn’t exist. I have an FBI contact, who says Donovan and his wife were briefed, but everyone else is being kept out of the loop. When I asked about the Fed Ex package, they said, and I quote, what Fed Ex package? ” Robert collapsed back into the deep blue leather couch.

  Thorne put a hand on his knee. “Partner, I’m afraid it gets worse,” she said.

  Robert snapped up, eyes on the two of them. Worse! How? No one spoke. Detective Reynolds shifted his eyes away from Robert’s. Thorne stood firm, her gaze never leaving his. Robert stood. “Well, is somebody going to tell me, or do I have to read your minds?” Thorne took a deep breath. “It concerns Father Tolbert.”

  “Yes,” said Detective Reynolds. “We’ve been getting complaints for the last six months, accusations that he’s been molesting children in the Church. A few have mentioned Samuel as a possible victim, but nothing’s been confirmed.”