The Paladin's Message (The Keepers of White Book 2)

by Richard Crofton

  His Beretta was trained on a young man sitting directly in front of him, not ten feet away. The first distinction Jim noticed was that he was confined to a wheelchair. His head was covered with an old, blue New York Mets baseball cap, and he was plainly dressed in a black Mets jersey with the number 31 stitched in blue. A soft, thin blanket made of hunter-green felt was spread upon his lap, and it draped over halfway down the front of seat. No legs extended beyond the edge of the blanket, indicating his obvious need for the accommodation provided by the wheelchair. He was a pale, thin, short man; even if his legs were still attached, Jim guessed that he wouldn’t be any taller than about 5’ 6”. The man appeared unusually relaxed and unintimidated in spite of the deadly weapon that was pointed at his midsection. Whether or not he truly felt his life was in immediate danger, Jim could not tell. He only raised an eyebrow at him, and regarded him quizzically.

  Even more surprisingly unexpected were the two small children, a young girl and a younger boy, sitting together on the beige, thinly carpeted floor of the living room that lay adjacent to the linoleum floored hallway that the young, disabled man sat. They were working on what appeared to be a puzzle, but at this moment they had paused their recreational activity and stared at him. Unlike their keeper in front of him, they remained frozen with widened eyes, unsure of him and his purpose, and clearly frightened.

  Suddenly, Jim felt equally unsure of himself.

  Chapter II

  “You know,” the young man stated with a carefree tone as if discussing the weather, “it’s not polite to point, Mr. Panco. Especially with a loaded pistol. I hope you’ve had training with one of those things. Nothing more dangerous than a firearm in the hands of an amateur.”

  Jim did not speak nor move. He was used to having the confidence of knowing what to do at all times, and when he didn’t know what to do, he simply acted like he did. Now, however, he was so stunned by the unreality of the moment, combined with everything else he had failed to make sense of during the past two days, that he hadn’t the slightest idea how to respond to the situation. He found that he couldn’t even act like he knew what to do, so he did nothing.

  “Of course,” the man in the wheelchair continued, “if I’m not mistaken, that’s a Beretta M9 you’re carrying; exact replica of the model used by military personnel. Me being a betting man, if that’s your weapon of choice, I’m guessing you know what you’re doing.”

  No, he did not know what he was doing. If he could have stepped outside of his body and look at himself, aiming his pistol at a legless man in a wheelchair, with two children in the adjacent room, he would have stared at himself in disbelief. But he was already deep in disbelief, so much that it froze his thoughts completely.

  The man seemed to sense Jim’s confusion, or perhaps he had expected it. He sighed simply, and spoke again with the same lighthearted tone: “Okay. You got me. But if you shoot me, you’ll have to take over looking after the little ones over there. And good luck figuring out what to cook for them. They’re picky eaters. Hell, you don’t even know which one likes their PB and J sandwiches cut into squares and which one wants triangles. Not sure how you’re gonna make it on your own.

  “Speaking of food,” he went on, “We were about to have dinner. I’m sure you’re hungry after your trip. There’s plenty to eat, Mr. Panco. I’ve also got cold ones in the fridge. But you’re gonna have to put the gun away if you want me to share them with you.” He smiled. “House rule, I’m afraid.”

  Jim shakily found his voice, or rather his voice found itself, as the words he produced were the representation of his confusion. They were not what he had expected himself to use as an opening: “You’re not… Roger Clemens.”

  “Not even close,” the man replied. “And you’re not Joe Pepitone. That was just precaution. My name’s actually Robert. Rob for short. Though most people…”

  “Who is that, Uncle Moonie?” the little girl’s voice piped in from her frozen seated position in the great room.

  “…call me Moonie,” the young man finished his interrupted sentence to Jim as he indicated toward the girl with his left hand. He now turned his head to address the little ones nearby. “It’s okay, kids. This is Mr. Panco. He’s here to visit.”

  “Why does he have a gun?” the girl asked with a shaking voice that sounded like it might break into a fearful cry. “Is he a bad man?”

  “No, no,” Moonie answered her disarmingly, his eyes now meeting Jim’s. “He’s just looking for bad guys, that’s all. Don’t worry, hon. He’s not going to shoot us. You’re not going to shoot us, are you Mr. Panco?”

  Having found his voice again, Jim now regained his motor skills, offered a weak smile toward the children, and finally lowered his weapon. “No,” he said quietly, “of course not.” He slid his pistol now into his jeans at the small of his back. “Sorry, young lady. False alarm. Just making sure there wasn’t any danger.” He turned his eyes back toward the young man who introduced himself as Moonie.

  “No danger here, Mr. Panco,” Moonie confirmed. “Can I call you Jim?”

  “You can if you can also tell me what’s going on, Mr. Moonie.”

  “I can, but all in good time.” He looked over toward the children, who were still eying Jim suspiciously, still not moving from their seated position. “Jim, this is Emily and her younger brother Alex. Kids, why don’t you come over here and say hello to Mr. Panco?”

  The two children hesitated, but obediently picked themselves up and moved to the corridor, where they came close to Moonie’s side, keeping their distance from the stranger who had burst through the door moments ago, not taking their suspicious eyes from him.

  “Hello,” the little girl said with a wary voice. She was tall and thin, with wavy, light brown hair that reached down to the middle of her back. She wore a purple headband to keep her bangs out of her eyes that matched the color of her hair. Jim smiled at her as warmly as possible. Her skin had a light complexion, with tiny freckles that dotted her little nose and thin cheeks. She was dressed plainly in black capris and a pink tee shirt with a blue pony decorating the front.

  “Hello… Emily,” Jim answered. “It’s nice to meet you. That’s a pretty horse you got on your shirt.”

  The girl, upon Jim’s compliment, seemed to shake off her reservations a bit. “I have four shirts with horses on them, and I have eight toy horses. They’re my favorite things to play with. I’ve also read The Black Stallion once, and Black Beauty twice.”

  “Emily just loves horses, don’t you hon?” Moonie smiled, wrapping his left arm around her shoulders and giving her a quick squeeze.

  Emily nodded. “One day, I’m gonna buy my own horse farm, so I can ride real ones whenever I want.”

  “That’s a good goal to have, little missy,” Jim replied. “Horses are great companions. And how old are you, Emily?”

  “Ten,” she answered proudly. “But I’ll be eleven on August 29th.”

  “Wow,” Jim commented, purposefully sounding surprised, “you’re already in double digits! Won’t be long now before you’re runnin’ your own horse ranch.”

  Emily was beaming at this. Her frightened state when he first entered had all but dissipated. The boy, however, apparently needed more time to get comfortable with the new guest, as he remained quietly next to his older sister.

  “This is my brother Alex,” Emily spoke for him. “He’s nine. But he won’t be ten until March 14th.”

  “Hello Alex,” Jim regarded him with the same, warm smile. He was also thin, but not so tall as his older sister. He had large, inquisitive, brown eyes, darker and deeper than his sister’s, with reddish brown hair that was cut very short into a high and tight style. His skin was of a slightly darker complexion than that of Emily, whose very fair skin most likely required sunblock of a high protection factor when outdoors. Except for the nervous scuffing of his sneaker along the linoleum floor, he stayed motionless next to his sister, keeping his hands in the pockets of his jean shorts and hanging
his head down, as if not paying attention to the conversation.

  “Alex,” Moonie prompted the boy, “aren’t you going to say hello?”

  The boy lifted his head slightly, and gave a quick, one-motioned wave to Jim.

  Emily shook her head. “My brother’s really shy, Mr. Panco.”

  “Well,” Moonie corrected, “I wouldn’t say that, Em. He just takes a little more time to warm up to new company, that’s all.”

  “It’s okay;” Jim said calmly, “it’s probably my fault.” Then he addressed the boy. “Sorry if I scared ya, little buddy. To tell you the truth, I was scared when I came here. Probably more scared than you were. Like your uncle said, I was looking for bad guys. But there aren’t any bad guys here, are there Mr. Moonie?” He gave Moonie a suspicious look. Though he had finally determined that there was no immediate threat, and that his expectations upon arriving here were completely inaccurate, he hadn’t forgotten that he was sent here according to Fruitcake’s instructions, and that the man in the wheelchair was awaiting his arrival. Therefore, as strange as this misadventure was becoming with every step he took, he also hadn’t forgotten that it all related to his missing daughter.

  “No, Mr. Panco,” Moonie replied sincerely. “No bad guys here.”

  “Is that a real gun?” the boy, Alex, finally chimed in, unexpectedly.

  Jim regarded him. “Yeah. It is. But don’t worry; the safety’s on. That means it’s locked, so it can’t shoot.”

  “Are you a police officer?”

  “Well… I used to be. Long time ago. Now I’m an electrician.”

  “If you’re not a police officer anymore, then how come you’re looking for bad guys?” The boy, Jim decided, may have been slow to speak, but he was a quick thinker.

  “Um… it’s kinda hard to explain, son. I’m just…”

  “Did you ever have-ta shoot anyone,” Alex interrupted, suddenly inquisitive, “when you were a cop?”

  “No,” Jim laughed uncomfortably.

  “What’s an electrician?” Emily cut in.

  “Kids,” Moonie spoke in a pacifying tone, “Mr. Panco’s had a long drive. Why don’t you guys let him get settled in first? Tell you what: finish your puzzle while we get dinner ready. We’re having burgers and hotdogs tonight. If you’re good, we’ll even have some ice cream afterwards. Now, who wants what?”

  After both children requested hotdogs with ketchup, and after gleefully high-fiving each other from the notification of the after-dinner treat, they hurried back to the great room to work on their unfinished project on the floor. Emily had given Jim a sweet smile as she passed by. He watched them in their innocence, suddenly wondering how they, or the man they referred to as “uncle,” had anything to do with this mystery.

  “Good kids,” Moonie commented, also watching after them, “but they can be a handful at times. So freakin’ energetic. They can help you carry your things in from your truck after we eat.”

  “So you’re their uncle?” Jim asked curiously.

  “Not really. I’m just looking after them.”

  “And where are their parents?” Jim’s suspicious mind began to turn again. Had these children also been abducted like Megan? It didn’t appear to be so; they seemed very comfortable here, and there was no indication in their behavior that they had suffered any mental trauma. But with all Jim had been through recently, nothing could be ruled out.

  Moonie lowered his voice. “Their mother died years ago. Their deadbeat father… who knows? Last I heard, he was living abroad, running an internet business or something. Left his fatherly duties ‘cause he didn’t want the responsibility anymore.”

  Jim felt a twinge of guilt himself, even though his heart immediately went out to the little ones. He never would have given up his rights as a father if Cheryl had died before Megan became a legal adult, but reflecting back on himself, the way he had closed himself in because of his own grief, because he had lacked the courage and desire to move on, he knew he hadn’t been much of a father since then. It wasn’t until he had first been contacted by the Pennsylvania State Police and informed that Megan had been reported missing, that he slapped himself out of his slump and realized his faults.

  Only now, when it might be too late, did he promise himself that he would do everything he could to repair the now distant relationship with his daughter, that he would make amends and always be there for her from now on. If he could just get her back.

  These beautiful children however; they had a father who distanced himself, not from grief, but from plain-old selfishness. Jim wondered if this deserter, wherever he might be, would one day wake up and regret his decision, also too late.

  “So how did you come to be their guardian?” he continued to inquire the wheelchair bound man.

  Moonie spun the wheelchair 180 degrees and headed down the corridor. Jim followed. “I’m just a temporary one. Of course, if their legal guardian doesn’t come back, I suppose I’ll be upgraded to permanent. And won’t that be a life changer!”

  “Their legal guardian?”

  “Yep. The guy who sent you here.”

  Jim stopped himself short just as Moonie rolled to the left into the kitchen, halfway down the corridor. Fruitcake…

  Jim picked up his pace again, until he was standing in the small kitchen area behind Moonie. He immediately wanted to know everything about the strange messenger, who had claimed to have been following him in Lancaster, and who had sent him on this trip for God knew what purpose, specifically how anyone could entrust such a shady character to raise two innocent children. But before he could begin any further questioning, his thoughts were distracted when he noticed Moonie drawing a pistol of his own from underneath the blanket covering his lap; a Glock 19 from what he could tell. Without acknowledging Jim, focusing on his task, he pressed the magazine release button on the side, catching the piece as it slid out of the grip.

  “All this time,” Jim commented, somewhat impressed, “you had that thing pointed at me under your blanket.”

  “No,” Moonie corrected as he checked the weapon to make sure it was clear of ammunition, “just until you stopped aiming yours at me.” Then he held up the magazine toward Jim, who curiously took it to inspect it closer. “Except,” Moonie continued, “these babies are nonlethal rounds, though I’m told they hurt like hell.”

  “Rubber composite,” Jim observed as he ran his index finger along the bullet that was exposed at the uppermost part of the magazine chamber. He handed the magazine back to his host.

  “I’m guessing your rounds are more deadly,” Moonie state matter-of-factly.

  “Hollow point,” Jim admitted. “Never disengaged the safety though. But now I know how you were so calm with my gun pointed at you.”

  “I’m also wearing a vest,” Moonie shrugged as he slid a different magazine into his pistol.

  “Me too,” Jim admitted.

  Moonie gave him a finger-point that meant, “Touché.”

  “Hollow point’s a good option,” he noted. “That’s what’s in this second magazine.” He opened the cabinet door underneath his kitchen sink and placed the Glock inside a hidden holster attached to the roof. On the side was a small, electronic panel with a numbered keypad. He pressed a small, red button on the side, and a quick, staccato clicking sound followed immediately. To Jim’s questioning glance, Moonie stated, “Keeps it locked in place so the kids or anyone else can’t get to it. Only the passcode releases it. I’d keep it higher up out of their reach, but…” he motioned a short nod to his chair where his legs should have been, “you know…”

  Jim nodded empathetically as Moonie closed the cabinet door. “You seem to have a lot of electronic gadgets around here,” he mentioned. “That sliding gate at the front of your property must have cost a pretty penny.”

  Moonie smiled. “You don’t know the half of it, pal. The gate and that speaker you were talking into was only part of the package. Underneath the ground at that stopping point are thousands of high-tech
scanners. They were checking your vehicle and everything inside for bugs and anything electronic. I know you said you did your laundry, but we still have to be sure you’re not being tracked by anyone. I could tell you were clean. I also knew you didn’t have a cell phone, which means you followed directions and got rid of it, or left it home. And…” his smile widened a bit, “I knew you were armed.”

  Jim stood perplexed for a moment. “You shitting me, son?” he blurted out finally.

  “I shit you not,” Moonie answered. “If you think that’s something, did you know that, while on my front porch, you were standing on a trap door? Made for anyone who might come here looking for trouble. If I had to activate it on someone like that… well, they wouldn’t survive the fall, I can tell ya.”

  Jim could only blink. Aside from the gate, everything about this property appeared ordinary, and the furnishings and other interior appliances indicated that Moonie lived simply. It certainly did not suggest that he was loaded, but if he was honest about his boasting of technological additions to the home, then he must not often have to worry about his bank account. Jim didn’t know much about the digital age, but he knew that devices like this weren’t easy to come by.

  “What is this place?” he asked, feeling both amazed and skeptical.

  “Simply put,” Moonie replied, “a one-of-a-kind safe house.”

  “You said,” Jim stated, “that the kids could help me with my things after dinner. I take it that you expect me to stay here?”

  “It would be best,” Moonie answered simply. “There are several spare bedrooms that you can choose from.”

  “How long am I expected to stay?”

  “If all goes according to plan,” Moonie replied with a more serious tone suddenly, “about a week or two. Maybe a little longer.”

  “Well, if I agree to stayin’ here, would you mind tellin’ me if there are any other booby traps I should know about? I’m not gonna get shot by a poison dart accidentally while I’m tip-toeing to the bathroom in the middle of the night, am I?”