STOLEN

by DAWN KOPMAN WHIDDEN

  “Is this really necessary? Hasn’t she been through enough?” She questioned Marty, her eyes still targeted in her husband’s direction. He assumed that Mrs. Sandberg was torn between which one required her attention more; the bleeding husband or the distressed child. She stayed in a protective stance over the child and it became obvious the little girl was the victor. Marty didn’t know if it gave the woman any sense of relief, but whatever Jean was doing seemed to be working and the bleeding seemed to have slowed up and was no longer saturating the towel. However, the man was ashen, his face pale.

  Marty overheard Jean tell him he had to go to the hospital, but Marty didn’t think she had him convinced. He turned his attention back to Michaelah and her mother. “I’m afraid so,” Marty answered “Please.”

  She shifted her hip, moving aside, leaving him room, giving him access to the little girl.

  Marty kneeled down and felt a weird sensation at the same time he heard a soft crack coming from his knee. He recalled the earlier incident when Tristan let a giggle escape when he attributed the noise to him farting. Obviously, Michaelah didn’t have the same reaction because she didn’t crack a smile. Her hand was formed in a fist; her thumb deep in her mouth, her index finger hooked over her nose and the blanket dangled from her grip. Marty secretly wished that Hope had accompanied them. He knew this child had been traumatized, and he was scared to death even the slightest reminder of what she had been through would cause her more psychological damage. He chastised himself for not thinking about that earlier. If this was a teenager, he might not have had quite as much concern, but he was looking into this little girl’s face and he suddenly felt a sense of guilt about showing her the photos of the two men. If they were accomplices, and contributed to or were responsible for any of the horrors she recently experienced, he might be doing irreparable harm by showing her the photos.

  It occurred to him that living with Hope had altered his way of thinking. Listening to Hope’s stories and experiences with the children she treated gave him a totally different perspective on how children react, and how they are affected by physical and emotional abuse. Before Hope came into his life, he may have felt a great deal of pity for the kid, but now he actually felt this little girl’s fear. Marty looked at Michaelah and he literally felt his own intestines twist and pull into a tight knot.

  “Michaelah, I’m going to show you some photos on my phone,” he explained to her. “I want you to tell me if you ever saw these men. I want you to tell me if they were with the bad man. Okay?”

  She nodded her head.

  He found a dry spot and sat down on the side of the couch that her grandmother previously occupied. He was on her right, her mother positioned herself a few inches away from the towel that had been placed down to absorb some of the wetness. Mrs. Sandberg’s hand was cupping Michaelah’s hip and buttock area as if she was in a position to scoop her up and grab her away if it became necessary.

  Marty turned the face of the phone towards her so she could see the screen. The first photo was the high school photograph of the man in the hospital. The one they now were convinced had to be Troy Blakey.

  She took the hand that wasn’t occupied and reached out and touched the screen with her index finger. Her expression didn’t change; she looked calm and didn’t appear to be frightened.

  “Do you recognize this man, Michaelah?” Marty asked, as he watched her intently. She looked up at him, her eyes clear and dry. Slowly, she slipped her thumb out of her mouth and lifted her eyes to meet his.

  “He was yelling at the bad man,” she related.

  She continued to touch the phone screen and maneuvered her finger over the face of Troy Blakey.

  “He was yelling very loud and I was scared and I hid under the blanket. I was scared so I made myself invisible. He’s not the man that came in the room with that boy. This is the man that came in the house and he yelled at the bad man. The other man, he saw me when I was invisible and told me to be very quiet and not move.” The thumb went right back into her mouth.

  Marty slid his finger over the screen and the picture changed so it was now showing Shane Blakey’s mug shot from Oregon. She sat up, her posture changing immediately.

  “He came in and said—” she took her thumb out of her mouth and placed her index finger over her lips and imitated someone saying “Sshh.”

  She put her thumb back in her mouth, gave two long sucks and once again she took her thumb out and continued to relate her story. “Then he went into the other room and there was yelling; and the boy looked out the door and then I heard a very big bang and the boy was screaming. And I got scared so I made myself invisible again. The boy ran out of the room and ran away. I was scared, so I didn’t run away. Then the hunting men and that lady came, and the policeman, and they saved me.” The last few words had come out softly, almost in a melody, as if she was singing them. She leaned back and dropped her head onto the safety of her mother’s breast.

  Marty hung on every word the child was saying and tried, unsuccessfully, to block out all the commotion going on in the background. Jean was not happy about her nursing skills and was insisting that Michaelah’s dad seek medical care. She tried to get Marty’s attention, without letting Michaelah witness her father’s bloodied condition.

  “Okay, Michaelah, thank you. You are a very brave little girl!” Marty stood up and blocked her view so she couldn’t see her father’s arm wrapped in the kitchen towel, soaked in blood.

  Michaelah’s grandmother, in a nineteen-sixties classic-printed muumuu, slowly made her way over to her grandchild and took the girl’s hand. It may have been because of her size, but it was obvious she was having trouble breathing. Each word she spoke was accompanied by a wheezing sound.

  “Come on, baby, let’s go upstairs and visit with Grandpa Wilbur.” The mention of her grandfather’s name seemed to delight the child, who, without a moment of hesitation, jumped off the couch and trotted to the front door, as if she hadn’t spent the last four months in the company of a madman.

  As they walked out the door, another family member entered. Marty thought he recognized him as the family spokesman who appeared on the news when Michaelah first disappeared. Apparently, while Marty was speaking with the little girl, Jean had made arrangements for Mr. Sandberg to go to the Emergency Room with the man and have his wound tended to.

  Marty thanked Mrs. Sandberg for her compliance and wished them all well.

  As soon as they got into the car, Jean let Marty know about Tristan. While Marty was otherwise occupied, she had received a phone call from Frank who relayed a message from Hope.

  “Kid’s safe. Believe it or not, Hope’s got him.” She lowered the sun visor and uncovered the vanity mirror in an effort to inspect her face. Slamming it closed, Marty got the distinct feeling she wasn’t happy with what she saw.

  “Hope? How the hell did that happen?” Marty asked as he backed out of the parking spot, nodding to the officer who welcomed them earlier. He stopped the traffic to allow them onto the road; and Marty headed out of the city, extremely grateful to be headed back home.

  “Hope was at Sweet Magnolia’s, which is just down the street from the foster home. They think the kid recognized her and climbed into her car while she was getting her hair done. Hope found him hiding in the backseat.”

  She dropped the vanity mirror down again, and once again she slammed it shut, her mouth twisted in disdain.

  “You know, Marty, you really need to talk to her about leaving her car unlocked. She’s way too trusting.”

  Marty laughed. No words were needed. Jean knew, as well as he did, you didn’t tell Hope what to do. In matters of her safety, she would agree wholeheartedly and listen to Jean. There would be no problem for her to concur and most likely admit to anyone how irresponsible she was when it came to her own safety. Maybe the woman would make an honest effort to lock her doors for a week or two and then things would go back to the way they were.

  Tristan wasted no time.
As soon as he saw Shane coming out from behind the stall door and now standing in the center of the restroom, he grabbed him by the pants’ leg and hung on. The sounds from his throat became muffled as he grunted into the denim material.

  Looking around cautiously, Shane picked the boy up by the seat of his pants and took him into a stall as a precaution in case someone decided to use the facilities. Lifting the boy onto the ring of the open seat, he stretched his leg out behind him, making sure the door was securely shut behind them. Shane looked the little boy over carefully, raising the sleeve on each arm over the elbow. He methodically studied each arm—turning them over, exploring the boy’s skin, looking for marks or signs of injury. It was as if he was taking an inventory, making sure the child was not harmed in any way.

  Satisfied the boy hadn’t suffered any injuries, he pulled the sleeves down to their original positions.

  “Don’t worry, we are going get Troy out of here and find out—”

  The outer door to the restroom cracked open as the lady’s voice called out, her voice sprinkled with a touch of anxiety. “Tristan, are you almost done?”

  Afraid the boy was going to make a sound, Troy immediately put his hand over Tristan’s mouth. He climbed up on the toilet seat as he lowered Tristan down to the floor and mouthed for him to flush the commode and to leave the stall. Shane leaned over and whispered into the boy’s left ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll find you, now go.” He held onto Tristan’s shoulders for a moment, hesitating before giving him a slight push and peered out from above the stall as he made his way out the door. He was about to hop down when the door opened again and he heard the woman’s voice call out to the child again.

  “Did you wash your hands? Go back and wash your hands, okay? That’s very important, especially here.” Hope coaxed Tristan back inside the bathroom, holding the door open wide enough so she could watch. Barely able to reach over the tall sink, Tristan stood on his tiptoes, enabling him to turn on the faucet. He managed to pump some hand foam into the palm of his left hand. He kept his eyes on Hope as he rubbed his palms together, letting the lather build up, but he was waiting for her to give him some sort of signal he could stop, that the job was satisfactory. As soon he interpreted her expression to mean she was satisfied and his hand washing was sufficient, his feet went flat on the floor. He rubbed his wet hands on his pants’ legs in order to dry them, scooted under her arm, ran out the door and made his way down the hallway.

  Finally, sensing he was alone and it was safe to come out of the stall, he took advantage of where he was. He jumped off of the toilet rim and turned around, opened his pants and relieved himself. He took a deep breath as he zipped up his jeans. He was about to leave the bathroom when the lady’s voice echoed in his head. He heard her voice as if she was still there, insisting Tristan wash his hands. Suddenly, he had an overwhelming desire to mind her and wash his own hands, thinking to himself, “She’s a lady doctor, she’s got to be smart.” His thoughts envisioned her tiny stature and how her ample breasts looked in the white, almost sheer blouse she was wearing. “She sure is hot,” he carelessly said aloud as he pushed on the plastic soap dispenser and meticulously and repeatedly washed his hands while he watched himself in the mirror. It took him about a minute to realize that his hands were already clean, but the sound of the pretty lady’s voice echoed in his head repeatedly. For a brief moment, he actually felt a sense of calmness. His thoughts traveled back in time when he felt this same calmness, to a moment very similar to this. The time when Tristan was much smaller and M’leigh was still alive and they all spent a very rare day at the beach. A time before it all went to hell and he found out the truth about them all.

  The drive home was hampered by the fact they were stuck in stop-and-go traffic due to a ballgame at Yankee Stadium that night. By the time Jean got home, her clothes were plastered to her skin from perspiration. She was going to say something to Marty about having the car’s air conditioner checked out, but he appeared to be comfortable. The man didn’t have so much as a bead of sweat anywhere on his body, so she refrained from whining. Besides, it occurred to her they hadn’t been partners long enough for him to think she was just a grumpy old lady. Now if it were Joe Moran, her ex-partner, who was driving with her in the car, she would have made a stink for the entire two-hour ride. She wondered how he was doing. “Maybe I will give him a call this weekend,” she thought to herself. “Maybe Glenn and I can take a week off and go visit Cliff and then drive down and visit Joe and Annie.” Her thoughts went to her son Cliff and how much she missed him. He was in his second year at the University of Florida and was doing great. He was playing first base on the Gator roster on a regular basis since last semester and was making quite a name for himself. She felt a pang of sadness when she recalled how Cliff mentioned briefly that he wouldn’t be coming home for summer break because his coach wanted him to go to a special baseball clinic somewhere out west. Well, if the mountain wouldn’t come to her, she would just have to go to the mountain. Maybe, if Glenn couldn’t get the time off, she would take Bethany out of school for a few days and they would make it an adventure. She was doing so well in school, a few days wouldn’t hurt, and maybe, just maybe, she would get her mind off of that teenage heartthrob—she smiled at the thought that someone stole the kid’s motorcycle. If that wasn’t cosmic intervention, she didn’t know what was. Now she wondered if she could actually pretend to be upset when Bethany brought it up. Well, it would take some acting, but she was sure she could manage it.

  The garage door was open so she pulled right in. She entered the house through the kitchen door and was immediately welcomed by her golden retriever, Roxy, who rubbed up against her thigh. The canine’s butt wiggled and her tail whipped back and forth. As soon as Jean rubbed Roxy’s head, the dog dropped its rear end down, landing on her shoe, making it impossible for Jean to walk any further into the house with the weight of the large animal pressing down on her already painful toes.

  “Anyone home?” she called out, trying to maneuver her shoe by sliding it out from underneath the golden retriever’s backside.

  “Is it raining out?” Glenn asked her as he walked into the room and proceeded to open the freezer section of the refrigerator. The cool blast of air from the stainless steel box felt so comforting on her neck and upper back.

  It took her a while to comprehend the question. “Raining? No, it’s not raining.” She couldn’t imagine how he was standing there looking so comfortable in this premature April heat wave. He was standing there; all six feet of him, gray at the temples, still as handsome as the day she met him twenty-six years ago. He was broader now in the shoulders, and a bit thicker in the waist, but it suited him.

  Glenn handed her a tall glass of iced tea and placed the palm of his hand on the back of her blouse. “You’re soaking wet Jean . . . .” Concern dotted his speech.

  She guzzled the liquid down and placed the glass down on the counter. “It’s hot in here, why isn’t the air on?” She walked over to the wall where the thermostat was and tapped on it. She couldn’t make out the digital number because it appeared blurry, so she stepped back a bit until her eyes were able to focus. The digital thermostat read seventy-nine degrees, unchanged from the usual setting.

  Her confusion was evident by the way she twisted her mouth and screwed up her face, and she was about to lower the temperature when she realized she no longer felt the cloud of heat that, moments earlier, had wrapped around her body like an invisible cocoon.

  “Any new developments in finding out who the little boy is?” Her husband asked.

  Glenn grabbed a towel and opened the oven door, pulling out a plate of food he had kept warm in the appliance for her.

  “We may have something. Apparently, the man in the hospital may be the kid’s father. There is a possibility the kid may not be a kidnap victim or a missing child at all.” She pulled a chair out and sat down, studying the plate he placed in front of her.

  “What is that?” Jean looked at h
er husband suspiciously, as her fork played with the green concoction suspiciously placed next to a thick slice of New York Strip.

  “Brussels sprouts in mustard sauce, try it, it’s delicious. I saw the recipe online. Bethany loved it.”

  He pulled a chair out and sat down across from her. “Now I know you’re full of it.” She looked at him in disbelief.

  “No, really, Jean, she did, just try it. It’s loaded with calcium, good for your bones.”

  “Since when are you so concerned with my bones?” She stabbed a small portion of the concoction with the fork and lifted it to her nose and sniffed. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she brought it to her tongue and closed her eyes as she swallowed.

  “Where’s the kid’s mother?” Glenn asked her.

  “Deceased, from what we found out so far, and it’s a pretty complicated story. The dead man and the injured victim may be father and son. There is another suspect somewhere out there as well, another son, and the brother of the guy lying in the hospital. We are still not sure who shot who, and in what sequence, or for that matter . . . why?”

  She leaned over and took out her iPhone and hit her message icon. She scrolled through the messages until she came to the photos Frank had messaged over, earlier in the day, and placed the picture of both Troy Blakey and his brother, Shane, on the table for Glenn to see.

  “Mom?”

  She turned around to see her daughter Bethany standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. Bethany, who was now almost fifteen years old, was almost as tall as her mother who measured five-foot-seven in heels. The once childish figure had now turned into a very sensuous one; her blue jeans sat low on her hips, accentuating the teenager’s flat stomach and small waistline.

  “Did they find it?” Bethany asked as she made her way over to the other side of the table.

  “Find what?” Jean asked, looking totally confused.