by Mark Gimenez
She had missed her father terribly. But somehow she had gone on with her life, always thinking of everything they would never do together. That was before evil had come into her life. Afterward, she had been relieved her father hadn’t been there; it would have broken his heart to see what his happy ten-year-old daughter had become: a forty-year-old rage-filled lunatic forever haunted by her encounter with evil. Just as it was breaking her heart to imagine what her happy ten-year-old daughter would become—if she survived her encounter with evil.
What if she didn’t?
How could this child’s life story end this way? After the way her story had begun? She had given this child life, and this child had saved her life. How was she now supposed to go on with her life without this child? Without Grace? How was Elizabeth Brice supposed to get up one day—when, next week or the week after?—drive to the office, and again care about guilty clients? How was getting a rich white-collar criminal off supposed to fill the empty space inside her?
Her private phone line rang. It was her mother, offering to help in any way she could—which was in no way. It took only a few minutes of pleading to get her to stay in New York.
Mother had been only twenty-nine when Father had died. She had married him right out of high school, while he was in law school. He was her life. After his death, Mother had retreated into her own world, seldom leaving the house, helpless in a harsh world. For all intents and purposes, her mother had died with her father.
And Elizabeth Austin had grown up alone.
“I don’t want to be an only child.”
John squeezed Sam’s shoulder and fought back tears. He had come into Sam’s room to comfort his five-year-old son. Sam had finally begun to grasp the reality that he might never see Gracie again. As had his father.
“I don’t want her room or her stuff,” Sam said. “I just want her to come back. I miss her.” He wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. “That guy on TV, he said she’s probably dead.”
“She’s not dead,” John said, trying to sound convincing. “She’ll be back soon, buddy.”
“But you don’t know that for a fact, do you?”
“Huh? Well, no, Sam, I don’t know that for a fact.”
“So you’re just saying that to make me feel better ’cause I’m just a stupid kid.”
John beheld his kindergartner son, indisputable evidence that cloning works.
“Sam, A, you’ve got a one-sixty IQ, so you’re not stupid, and B, I’m saying that because I believe Gracie will come home.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you believe she’ll come home?”
Cripes, Sam was like Microsoft after a competitor!
“Uh, well, because I have faith.”
“In God?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s it.”
“So you believe in God?”
John hesitated. Fact is, he wasn’t sure he did believe in God. As a kid, Little Johnny Brice had often begged God to save him from the bullies’ beatings, but God never did. And John R. Brice hadn’t spent much adult time thinking about God, what with getting the Ph.D., hacking code for a killer app, and now working the IPO. And he went to church with the kids only because Mom would be disappointed in him if he didn’t. A week ago, if Sam had asked such a question, he would have automatically clicked into avoidance mode and responded to Sam like a big brother: “Hey, buddy, God is one of those deep philosophical choices that each humanoid must make for himself or herself, kind of like whether to go Windows or Mac. But look, man, don’t worry about that serious stuff now, wait till you’re older, you know, after your own IPO. Hey, let’s go to the kitchen and get down on some Rocky Road ice cream, dude.”
And that was the role he had played all these years for the kids, which was, in fact, the role he preferred: big brother, pal, buddy. Nothing more had been required of him. And besides, with Elizabeth around, the man-of-the-house role had already been taken.
But now, looking into Sam’s eyes, he could see that Sam needed something more from him. At the office, John was the Big Kahuna because he always had the answers to the toughest technical queries posed by his employees. But their questions paled next to Sam’s: Is there a God? The answer couldn’t be found in the online Help menu. John wanted to say, Shit, dude, I don’t have a freaking clue! But his five-year-old son didn’t need the big brother mode; he needed the mature adult fatherly mode. So John lied.
“Of course I believe in God.”
“But you don’t know if there really is a God, do you? I mean, like, you don’t have any evidence that proves He exists beyond a reasonable doubt, right?”
“No.”
“But you believe God is real?”
“Yes.” The second lie required less consideration.
“So you believe Gracie’s coming home because you believe in God and God takes care of kids, right?”
“That’s right.” No consideration at all.
“See, that’s why I decided God is bogus.”
“Sam, don’t say that. God’s not bogus.”
“Well, if God is spending so dang much time taking care of Gracie now, why’d he let that cretin take her in the first place?”
John gave up. “I don’t know, Sam.”
Sam frowned and said, “You think that cretin wants more than twenty-five million bucks to let her go?”
“I … I don’t know.”
Sam stared up at John for a moment, then said, “Your face looks better. From when Mom smacked you.”
4:33 P.M.
“Please take the money.”
Elizabeth touched the image on the computer screen and gently traced the outline of her daughter’s face. She had logged onto the FBI’s website, the Kidnapped and Missing Persons Investigations page at www.fbi.gov/mostwant/kidnap/kidmiss.htm. Two columns of pictures and names of children abducted in Saginaw, Texas; Deltona, Florida; Santa Fe, New Mexico; Oregon City, Oregon; Jackson, Tennessee; Oklahoma City, Oklahoma; Chicago, Illinois; San Luis Obispo, California; Las Vegas, Nevada.
Where in America are children safe?
She clicked on the image of her daughter. She saw the same photo of Grace enlarged on a page that read:
* * *
http://www.fbi.gov/mostwant/kidnap/brice.htm
KIDNAPPING
Post Oak, Texas
GRACIE ANN BRICE
DESCRIPTION
Age: 10
Place of Birth: Dallas, Texas
Sex: Female
Height: 4’6”
Weight: 80 pounds
Hair: Short Blonde
Eyes: Blue
Race: White
THE DETAILS
Gracie Ann Brice was kidnapped after her soccer game at approximately 6:00 P.M. on Friday, April 7, at Briarwyck Farms Park in Post Oak, Texas. She was last seen wearing a soccer uniform, gold jersey with “Tornadoes” on the front and a number 9 on the back, and blue shorts, blue socks, and white Lotto soccer shoes, and a silver necklace with a silver star. Gracie may be in the company of a white male, 20 to 30 years, 200 pounds, blond hair, blue eyes, wearing a black baseball cap and a plaid shirt. He asked for Gracie by name at the park.
REMARKS
Gracie Ann Brice has a muscular build, light complexion, and short hair. Her elbows may have recent abrasions.
REWARD
The parents of Gracie Ann Brice are offering a reward of $25 million for information leading to her recovery. Individuals with information concerning this case should take no action themselves, but instead immediately contact the nearest FBI Office or local law enforcement agency. For any possible sighting outside the United States, contact the nearest United States Embassy or Consulate.
* * *
Elizabeth grabbed both sides of the monitor and put her face against her daughter’s image.
“Take the money! Let her go! Please!”
11:39 P.M.
A child abducted by a stranger warrants a featured slot on the network mornin
g shows and a mention on the evening news. But when the victim’s mother puts a $25 million bounty on the abductor’s head, dead or alive, that’s lead story news.
Under orders from headquarters, FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux had given live interviews on the network evening news, back to back to back. He had protested that he was too busy trying to find the girl, but he had been informed that his orders came straight from Director White himself. The Bureau brass liked its agents—particularly articulate agents like himself—on national TV. Good for PR. And next year’s budget requests.
Devereaux sighed; his investigation had become a goddamned $25 million sideshow.
He was now in the command post, slouched in his chair and alternating between his left and right buttock so as not to put additional pressure on his inflamed prostate while reviewing the latest leads. He had yet to read one that rang true.
“Prostate?”
Devereaux looked up to see Colonel Brice standing there.
“Recognize the butt position,” the colonel said.
“You, too?”
The colonel nodded. “Try saw palmetto.”
“Saul who?”
“Saw palmetto. Berry from the palmetto tree. Relieves the pain. You can buy it in any health food store.”
“I heard about those places.”
The colonel gestured at the stack of leads. “Anything?”
“Yeah, over two thousand sightings,” he said. “Couple more days, we’ll know where every blonde, blue-eyed girl in the Southwest lives.”
“You think they’re after the money?”
“I’m afraid so, Colonel.” The colonel sat in an adjacent chair; Devereaux adjusted his butt position. “Rewards of a few thousand dollars can be productive, but $25 million—that’s a whole ’nother ball game. Two thousand sightings, we’re wasting too much time chasing too many false leads.” He put his hand on the stack. “What if there is one good lead in all this?”
“May I?”
“Sure. Here, I’ve been through these.” Devereaux pushed a stack of papers toward Colonel Brice and yawned.
“You need some sleep. Give your prostate a rest.”
“I’ll sleep after we find Gracie.”
The colonel gave him a firm look. “You’re a good man.”
“And you were a great soldier.” The colonel did not respond. The silence was awkward, so Devereaux broke it by confessing to an American hero. “I wasn’t. I just wanted to come home. Nineteen days left in my tour and I’m walking point on patrol again and all I’m thinking is, My luck, I’m gonna be the last American soldier to die in Vietnam, when this VC steps out from behind a tree not ten feet in front of me, his weapon on me. I’m a dead man. Except his rifle misfires—it was an old bolt-action piece of shit. I raise my M-16 and shoot him dead. I step over to him, see he’s just a kid, maybe fourteen. I threw up.” Devereaux was too embarrassed to look directly at the colonel. “I’ve carried a weapon most of my adult life, but that’s the only time I’ve ever killed another human being.” He paused and shook his head. “Looks like we’ve both done some confessing now. I’ve never told anyone that story, not even my wife.”
The colonel’s voice was almost a whisper when he said, “Killing isn’t an easy thing to talk about … or live with.”
The two men were silent with their own thoughts of war and killing until Devereaux said, “How long were you a POW?” The colonel appeared puzzled, so Devereaux answered his unasked question. “Agent Randall, he saw the scars on your back, during your polygraph.”
The colonel nodded. “Six months, barely enough time to get settled in.”
“Hanoi Hilton?”
He shook his head. “Outlying camp, San Bie. After we escaped, NVA closed all the camps, moved all the Americans to Hanoi.”
And then it dawned on Devereaux, why the name Ben Brice sounded familiar.
“You’re the one. You’re the guy that rescued those pilots.” He paused and stared at this man. “You saved a lot of soldiers that day.”
Colonel Brice showed no emotion. He broke eye contact and squinted as if trying to see something in the distance. Or in the past. When he spoke, his voice was soft.
“Commander Ron Porter.”
“Who?”
His eyes returned to Devereaux. “One of those pilots, he flies out of Albuquerque.”
“Colonel, they gave you the Medal of Honor.”
The colonel picked up the papers, stood, and said, “So they did.” Then he walked away.
Six months before the day he had walked into the San Bie POW camp in North Vietnam, Colonel Ben Brice had been living in the jungles of Vietnam with the Montagnards, the indigenous inhabitants of the country known to GIs as the “Yards,” a people much like the American Indian. The men wore loincloths; their bronze-skinned bodies were lean and muscular and their facial features were hard and sharply etched, but they were not without humor or intelligence. The tribal elders spoke French fluently, learned when the owners of that language took their ill-fated turn at colonizing Vietnam. Eighteen million people called Vietnam home; the Montagnards numbered one million, scattered among numerous tribes. Ben’s tribe was the Sedang.
When first deployed to Vietnam, the Green Berets’ primary mission was to organize the Montagnard tribes into Civilian Irregular Defense Groups to stem Communist infiltration into South Vietnam along the western borders with Laos and Cambodia. Ben was supposed to teach the Sedang guerrilla warfare tactics; but it was the Sedang who taught him: how to live off the land, how to hunt wild game and Viet Cong on the mountains that rose eight thousand feet and in the thick jungles that covered the valleys below, and how to move through the night like a shadow. The Sedang were natural hunter-killers. He became one of them. They even presented him with a hand-fashioned brass bracelet, which represented membership in the tribe; it was a great honor for a white man. Ben Brice had “gone native.”
They were operating in North Vietnam just inside the Seventeenth Parallel—the DMZ that divided North from South, Communist from free—when they spotted a USAF F-4 Phantom flying low overhead and trailing smoke, hit on a Rolling Thunder raid over Hanoi. The two-man crew ejected just before the jet crashed and exploded in a fireball; both parachutes opened, so Ben and the Montagnards made for the Americans. But they arrived too late; the NVA had captured them.
The NVA marched the pilots north to the San Bie prison camp. On still nights, camped a thousand meters out, Ben heard the blood-curdling screams of the Americans being tortured. The next morning he heard them sing “God Bless America.” Ben and the Montagnards planned a rescue, which required he be captured. The NVA had standing orders to kill their American prisoners in the event of a rescue attempt. The only successful rescue would come from inside, with help on the outside.
Now, six months a prisoner of war, he will escape and take one hundred American pilots with him, with the help of the Montagnards. Ben Brice had taught them a few things too, including the proper use of C-4 explosive. Together they destroyed enemy arms depots, disrupted supply convoys on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, ambushed VC, assassinated NVA officers, radioed in grid coordinates for B-52 Arc Light bombing raids, and snatched that Marine slick driver back from the NVA in Laos. Today they will rescue American POWs.
He remains sprawled in the same position on the concrete floor in which he had been deposited five hours earlier, awaiting the morning guard. He soon hears the familiar sound of keys rattling, so familiar that he knows the guard’s exact location in the hallway outside as he comes closer and closer to Ben’s cell. The guard arrives and bangs on the cell door, then looks in through the small barred opening and sees the American colonel still lying on the floor, the blood on his raw back dried and caked and the rats nibbling at his feet. Ben hears metal grating against metal as the guard slips the key into the rusty lock. The key turns, and the lock releases. The door creaks open. Footsteps, a bit wary, come close; the guard wonders if the highest-ranking American officer in the prison survived the
fierce beating inflicted by Big Ug and his fan belt last night. Ben braces himself not to react to the kick that is sure to come and does; he stifles a groan as the guard’s boot drives into his side. The prisoner did not respond, so the guard circles around and squats to check his pulse.
It is his last living act.
Ben grabs the guard by the throat with hands made strong in the oil fields of West Texas and the jungles of Vietnam and chokes off all sound and jerks him to the floor. Ben Brice does not kill him out of vengeance; he kills him because he must. The guard’s neck sounds like a brittle chicken bone snapping when Ben rotates his head past the breaking point.
Ben stands and surveys his cell for the last time. The thick odor customary to the cell is joined by that of fresh urine and feces as the guard’s body accepts its death and surrenders its dignity. More death will follow. He must kill to save these pilots. He takes no satisfaction in the killing, but he is skilled in the art of killing. It is what he knows.
This is his moment in the great human tragedy known as the Vietnam War.
John ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and walked into Gracie’s room. He hit the overhead light switch.
“Hiya, pal,” she would always say when he knocked on her bedroom door each day when he got home. He would usually find her on the floor, reading the sports pages or doing her homework or singing a new song. But her room was empty tonight. Her stuff was still there, but without her there was no life in this room. Or in this house. Gracie Ann Brice had been the life of the house.
He turned on the nightlight and turned off the overhead. He crawled into her bed. He pulled the comforter up and buried his head in her pillow. He cradled her big cushy teddy bear. He closed his eyes, breathed in his daughter, and remembered.
“One day you’ll be singing on the radio,” he had said to her once, sitting right here on this bed.
She had frowned and said, “You know how hard it is to get radio stations to play a new artist’s songs?”
