Father

by Patrick Logan

  “I know what you’re thinking, and they aren’t violent or anything like that—my wife would never hurt Lacy. But something’s different. For my wife, it’s like—it’s like—”

  “Son—”

  “I just don’t know how to describe it, but it seems like she’s getting more protective, like waaay overly protective about little things.”

  Father listened patiently, thinking that maybe he had overestimated the urgency of this confession. He waited, and Peter continued.

  “And, and I know it doesn’t seem like it’s that big a deal, but it is, Father. I can’t stress that enough. I mean, she was always a little sensitive, but we had a sort of unspoken agreement, a laissez-faire attitude with parenting, kind of letting a kid be a kid, you know? I mean, I understand this whole post-partum thing, and with how difficult it was to get pregnant and the complications… I guess it’s natural for her to be a bit overprotective. But, still, Father. And it seems to be affecting Lacy as well; she’s having these terrible nightmares… normal too, I guess. But, here’s the thing, she never wants to see Mommy when it happens. She says that Mommy just gets angry. Angry… for what? For having bad dreams?”

  Peter paused to collect himself.

  “It doesn’t really sound that bad, I guess, when I say it out loud, but I’m just worried. It’s—it’s—I dunno, it’s not normal, I guess. Not for her, anyway.”

  Father bit his lip and mulled this over. Then he took a deep breath.

  “Son, don’t second guess yourself. The fact that you are here is something to be proud of, not ashamed. If there’s anything I’ve learned as a priest, is that people are creatures of habit… that changes in behavior are almost always indicative of some underlying concern or worry. Usually it’s nothing, but sometimes—sometimes, it can be a symptom of something more serious. Communication is the key, Peter. I can’t stress how important it is to talk to your wife. To really talk to her… to get to the root of the problem.”

  He waited a moment for his words to sink in.

  “Peter, you mentioned complications to do with the pregnancy? What sort of complications?”

  The question clearly caught Peter off guard.

  “Oh, Jenna was just really sick, super sick; in fact, she spent most—no, not most, nearly all—of the pregnancy with her aunt, who looked after her. And this is after many years of trying to get pregnant.”

  “And about these ‘protective bouts’ you speak of… do you think your wife would ever get violent? Would she ever physically harm Lacy?”

  The answer was immediate.

  “No. No way—she would never hurt Lacy.”

  “And yourself?”

  The man recoiled as if he had been punched.

  “Me? I would never—”

  “No, son, not if you would hurt Lacy, but if Jenna would hurt you.”

  Peter took a little while longer before answering.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Father nodded.

  “And herself? Do you think that your wife would ever want to hurt herself?”

  The pause that ensued went on for so long that Father almost felt it necessary to repeat the question.

  But patience was something else that decades in the cloth had instilled him with. Eventually, Peter answered, and it was clear by his tone that he was telling the truth.

  “I don’t know, Father. I really don’t know.”

  Father John cleared his throat.

  “Thank you for coming to me, son, it was very brave of you—”

  “I don’t know if it’s brave, Father, it’s just—”

  The priest raised his hand, a gesture that could be clearly identified even through the dark lattice that separated the two booths.

  “Communication, Peter. And if you don’t think that you can open a dialogue, bring her to me. Allow me to act as a sort of intermediary.”

  Peter shifted uncomfortably on his bench.

  “I dunno, Father. I mean, she was reluctant to even come to the service today. I’m afraid she doesn’t have the same sort of, uh, belief system as I do. I doubt she’ll come.”

  Father bowed his head.

  “You must try, Peter. You must try.”

  And more than a year later, Jenna McGuire came to him, only the tale that she told was very different from that of her husband.

  Kendra’s lips moved again.

  Adoption?

  Father John shook his head, shaking the reverie away. The action must have been detected by Agent Wilson, as she suddenly looked up and, for the briefest moment, their eyes met.

  He saw hatred in those eyes, hatred and a strange sense of recognition on her part, and he deemed it wise to step back into the house, allowing the door to close silently behind him.

  The lump in his throat wouldn’t go down with a swallow, and even gulping his scalding tea only helped a little.

  Yes, Agent Wilson was scarred.

  But so was everyone, including Father John.

  Chapter 20

  It was against Agent Brett Cherry’s better judgment to let his partner follow him back into the house after her emotional outburst.

  But he knew that he wouldn’t have been able to stop her even if he had wanted to.

  The director probably couldn’t even stop her now.

  At least he had been able to calm her by reminding her that a little girl was missing—several little girls, in fact—and that whatever distaste she had for the church would have to be dealt with later. And while Kendra had done an affable job of masking her emotions after that, he had been unable to convince her to relay whatever information she’d been told over the phone.

  Adopted.

  That much Brett had overheard, but he wasn’t sure who was adopted.

  Lacy? Stephanie?

  He couldn’t rightly be pissed at her for this, given his own proclivity for secrecy with the director. But despite her unwillingness to answer any of his questions, she had made her requests—demands, they were more like demands—explicitly clear.

  Ask your questions, and then when he is disarmed, ask him about how they conceived Lacy—ask about how long they tried.

  It made Brett uncomfortable just thinking about it, but he knew that if the question didn’t come from him, she would ask it herself.

  And Kendra lacked any semblance of tact.

  No, it was definitely better if he asked the question, no matter how awkward it was going to be.

  Brett sat down in the same chair as before, avoiding eye contact with Father John and Peter McGuire until after Kendra joined him.

  Scowling.

  Fuck.

  Brett clasped his hands together and leaned forward, trying to put on a neutral expression.

  “Mr. McGuire, my partner would like to apologize for her behavior earlier. Rest assured that we are both dedicated to finding your daughter.” He took a deep breath and turned to look at Kendra. She was staring daggers at him. “And Agent Wilson is the best and most experienced the FBI has.”

  Peter nodded, his eyes darting from Brett to Kendra and back again.

  “Is everything all right? Did they find something? Did they find—?”

  Brett held up his hand, stopping the man before he got too excited.

  “We have two search teams combing the area, and the local officers are canvasing the neighborhood, asking everyone if they heard or saw anything suspicious either of the last two nights. So far nothing, but they are asking everyone. I know that this is hard—just sitting here—I know that you want to be out looking too. But I assure you that you are more valuable here, telling us everything you can about what happened. This is the best thing that you can do to help us find your daughter.”

  Tears started to spill down Peter’s cheeks again, and Father John leaned over to rub his back.

  “Peter, tell me what happened the night that Lacy disappeared.”

  It was standard protocol, even if the man had told his story before to the local police. It was unlikely
that there was any key piece of evidence that suddenly occurred to the man, or that there was a wee nugget of valuable information that materialized from this exercise, but it served two purposes nonetheless: one, to see if the story he told now matched the one that Brett had read in the report. Peter’s recounting should be the same, but not exactly the same. If it was identical, then this was a clear indication of rehearsal, that there was something else, something more insidious going on.

  But when Peter told his story of the night Lacy went missing, there were enough details missing or slightly changed from what Brett recalled from the initial report to make him credible.

  And, two, to analyze his demeanor when he told the story.

  It was part of their basic training in the Agency: the more times that a parent told the story of how their child went missing, the fewer tears they shed. This was because telling the story had a numbing effect, and that when they were remembering something that actually happened, rather than something rehearsed, a different part of the brain was activated, a part which seemed to cut off pure emotion, at least for a short while.

  Peter passed this test as well.

  “Thank you, Peter. This is valuable information that we can use to develop a profile,” Brett lied. “Just a couple more questions.”

  Peter nodded, but he was the one who posed the next series of questions.

  “Who would do this?” His words were breathy. “What do they want? Is it a ransom?”

  Brett quickly glanced over at Kendra, but she seemed preoccupied staring into Father John’s soul. It was almost as if she knew him, which made him wonder… was he from the church—was this Father John from the church where Kendra was brought up?

  He shook his head.

  Impossible.

  “At this point, I—we—don’t know. Yet.”

  “Forty-eight hours,” Peter whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  Peter looked up.

  “I heard that after forty-eight hours of being missing, finding Lacy drops to less than twenty percent.”

  Brett held his head firm, resisting the urge to nod.

  What the man was saying wasn’t completely accurate, but it was close enough. But what one didn’t usually find while searching the Internet for information about lost or kidnapped children was that many of the remaining twenty percent of children they found alive were never the same again.

  The reality was that closer to five percent of the missing that were found after forty-eight hours ended up capable of living normal, productive lives.

  “It’s been forty hours already, Agent Cherry. Are you going to find Lacy? She means—” His voice hitched. “—she means everything to me.”

  It was hard for Brett to keep his emotions in check, especially when staring into the face of pure desperation. He did his best.

  “We are doing everything we can, Peter. And I do mean everything.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Stay here, stay with the officer—in case someone calls.”

  Brett went to stand, but Kendra’s hand landed heavily on his arm, and he sat back down again.

  Ask your questions, and then when he is disarmed, ask him about how they conceived Lacy—ask about how long they tried.

  He swallowed.

  “Just one more thing, Mr. McGuire.”

  “Yes?”

  Brett hesitated. While the questions that he had already asked were part of protocol, the next definitely was not.

  “Did you, umm, did you and your wife have a hard time conceiving?”

  A shadow passed over Peter’s face.

  “I’m sorry to ask, but it’s important.”

  Is it?

  Brett hadn’t thought so a few moments ago, but the look on Peter’s face…

  “Did you guys do IVF to conceive Lacy?”

  Peter’s eyes went wide and he turned to face Father John. They held each other’s gaze for a short moment, then Peter turned back, his head bowed.

  “I’m sorry, but I think Peter has had enough questions for today.”

  It was the priest who answered, and Brett cringed. He knew what was coming next, and Kendra didn’t disappoint.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Although Kendra was occasionally prone to these sorts of outbursts, the sheer venom in this one in particular raised alarm bells in Brett’s head.

  “Are you his lawyer?”

  The priest’s face sunk as if it had been caved in. Brett brought himself to his feet, preparing to intervene if things escalated any further.

  “We are trying to find a missing girl, for fuck’s sake!” Kendra also stood, but her posture was aggressive, a manicured finger extending and aimed at the priest like a quill. “Don’t interrupt, Brett. Best I can see, Peter didn’t ask you to speak for him.”

  Both Brett and Peter looked at Kendra. Clearly, neither of the two men had expected to be called out in this manner.

  “Kendra, why—?”

  Kendra turned to Brett, her eyes blazing.

  “Get him to answer the question.”

  He took a step toward her, but she moved away.

  “Get him to answer the question!”

  “Please, let’s—”

  “Get the man to answer the fucking question!”

  “Kendra, that’s enough!”

  Brett went to her then, and pushed her arms away when she tried to shrug him off. This was descending into madness. The poor man who had lost his wife to schizophrenia, then his daughter to…

  “Yes,” Peter suddenly said, rising to his feet. All four of them, plus the officer who had crept into the room when Kendra had raised her voice, were standing now. “We tried IVF. So what? How is this going to help find Lacy?” Then his voice broke and he turned to the priest, who quickly held him in his arms while he sobbed. “How?” he said again, the word muffled this time by the priest’s thick black shirt.

  “Let’s go,” Brett hissed into Kendra’s ear. He wrapped his arms around her, and forcefully turned her to the door. Thankfully, she had gotten the answer she wanted and her body had become less tense. When she took the first step by herself, he let her go.

  “I’m sorry,” Brett said over his shoulder. He caught the horrified look on the police officer’s face as he passed and quickly looked away.

  Then the door was thrown wide and he followed Kendra out into the bright sun.

  Chapter 21

  “Give me the keys,” Kendra demanded. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket as she spoke.

  When her hand remained empty as she walked toward the car, she looked up prior to clicking ‘send.’ She could see that Brett was torn, but she also could see that he was curious as well.

  Which was good; it meant that he would eventually acquiesce.

  “Keys, Brett.”

  The man handed them over begrudgingly and she unlocked the driver’s side door and got in. Brett hurried around the other side and did the same.

  Kendra started the car and then clicked ‘send’ on her cell phone. When she got a busy signal, she swore and hung up.

  Tossing the phone on top of the center console, she put the car into reverse and they pealed out of the driveway, the tires spinning when she jammed the gear into drive again.

  Then they were off, tearing down the road.

  “Kendra, you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she grabbed her cell phone and hit redial.

  “Well I can tell you one thing, it’s not back to the hotel. We are definitely never fucking again, not after you called the director.”

  Brett threw his hands up in despair.

  “Kendra, I didn’t call the director… at least not yet. But how can I not call him now? After you, uhh, you exploded in there. Fuck, Kendra, the man just lost his daughter. And what the hell is with you and the priest? You know him or something?”

  The final question caught Kendra off guard. Her initial revulsion for the man had been because of
what he was and not who. But there had been something undeniably familiar about the man—or, more specifically, of a much younger version of him.

  The ringing stopped as someone answered.

  “Hello? Paul? I need you to tell me where Jenna McGuire is staying… yeah, I know… but what fucking facility?”

  She paused.

  “For fuck’s sake, Paul, I don’t give a shit what the director says, just tell me where she’s staying.”

  There was another pause, and then Paul gave her the address. With a nod, she hung up the phone.

  They drove in silence for the next twenty minutes, Brett staring blankly out the window, Kendra watching the road as they sped along at breakneck speed.

  Eventually, when they pulled into the winding drive of a nondescript seven-story building with white walls and curtains blanketing the many windows, Kendra spoke again.

  “Well, one thing is for sure,” she said, putting the car in park and preparing to exit. “Peter lied. They didn’t use IVF… or if they did, it didn’t work.”

  * * *

  Even after showing their badges and insisting that they go in alone, Kendra and Brett were followed closely by two large men in white nurse scrubs. Both had shaved heads and matching arms that looked thick as country hams. One of the men—neither had offered their names as introduction, and they wore no name tags to speak of—the shorter of the two, had a series of tattoos that extended out of the neck of his scrubs and twisted in barbed-wire or tribal fashion up behind his ears.

  Kendra paused outside the room with the brass numbers that read 156. She turned to Brett and posed a question that should have been asked earlier—would have been asked, if the priest hadn’t thrown her off.

  “Does she know?”

  Brett looked sad, and for the briefest of moments, Kendra felt badly for the spot she had put him in.

  She didn’t know if he had been telling the truth about not calling the director, but he was right; he had to call now, after her outburst.

  The fact that her nerves were frayed, her emotions not just on her sleeve but on the back of her hands for everyone to see, bothered her. But there was something about this case… something that for whatever reason just struck too close to home.