by Joseph Lewis
He watched absent-mindedly, thinking about his next steps and wondering what he should do and where he should go. He didn’t know how much time he had before they found him.
If they found him.
If they were even looking for him.
With each minute, each hour that went by, he gathered hope like a snowball rolling downhill that he had somehow, someway escaped.
He jumped when his cell chirped, but he didn’t move to answer it. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood ramrod straight. His stomach tightened, and he had the sudden urge to run to the bathroom and throw up again, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood at the foot of the bed, biting his knuckle hard enough to draw blood, and he continued to bite it for a full two minutes after it had stopped chirping. Finally, he picked it up to see who had called.
Bonnie, the receptionist.
He dialed up his voicemail, punched in his password and listened.
“Hey there. Just wondered if you’d be in today. We’re celebrating because they found the two boys in the Amber Alert . . . Stephen and Michael, and they’re coming home today. Isn’t that wonderful? Give me a holler to let me know if you’ll be in. Catch you later!”
He listened again to try to catch any sign of a trap or if they had suspected anything but didn’t find anything remotely suspicious. Bonnie was just being Bonnie: happy, bubbly, efficient. Just to be sure, he listened one more time. He tossed the phone on the bed, drained his Mt. Dew, threw the empty into the garbage can by the little desk and then ran both hands over his face. He sat down on the edge of the bed to watch the news reports, flipping between Fox and CNN.
CHAPTER SIX
Chicago, Illinois
Skip Dahlke was a twenty-seven year old who looked more like a seventeen-year old. He had dishwater blond hair and was perpetually pale no matter how much sun he got. If anything, he would burn bright red, then peel, and turn back to white. Never tan. He was a skinny young man, perhaps twenty-five pounds underweight who chose to wear wire rim glasses instead of contacts. He stood only five foot ten and maybe weighed a hundred-fifty pounds soaking wet.
He was also incredibly bright, having earned an undergraduate degree in Chemistry with a minor in Biology from Carroll College in Waukesha, Wisconsin and a Master of Science in Forensic Science from Michigan State. Up until a day or so ago, he had worked in one of the state crime labs out of Wausau in Northern Wisconsin and was the lead forensic technician called to a crime scene near Pembine involving a dead boy and two dead male adults later identified as the individuals who had executed a boy in Arizona. But after he had participated in the raid to free the boys in Chicago and while waiting for Brett to get out of surgery, he had received a phone call from a co-worker that the Wausau lab was being shut down because of budget cuts. He was invited to apply for a position in either the Madison or Milwaukee lab, but neither had openings and neither one was hiring at the moment.
So Agent Pete Kelliher, who was co-leader of a team called the Crimes Against Children Unit that operated within the FBI, contacted Deputy Director Tom Dandridge. Dandridge was an old friend and the boss above Pete’s immediate supervisor, and because of that phone call, the day Skip lost his job, he gained a new one, a better one, working in a forensic lab for the FBI and had become an unofficial member of Pete’s unit, or Kiddie Corps as many of the agents called it. Of course, he’d have to go through the academy in Quantico where he would eventually be stationed, but he’d have a steady job doing what he loved doing and working with a team he had gotten to know and who he enjoyed being with.
He had a lot to thank Kelliher for, including the nickname that seemed to stick. Most people in the hospital didn’t even know his given name was James, or at least, didn’t seem to care because everyone addressed him as Skip.
Dahlke spent his days with Brett and the other boys and then spent each of his nights in Brett’s room, because he didn’t want Brett to be by himself. He also had to admit, to himself anyway, that he was responsible for Brett getting shot.
Yes, Brett was bullheaded to the nth degree. But Skip should have demanded that Brett stay in a room, or at least, after delivering his line to the guards holding Kelliher prisoner, “Butch sent me to get you . . .” should have either gone back into the room or around the corner out of harm’s way. But Brett had insisted that he could take out one of the men who had kept him and the boys captive. But instead of just taking out one guard, he tried for two and was shot in the left shoulder for his effort, leaving Skip to finish off the other guard.
So Dahlke suffered from a large case of the guilts.
After getting up and seeing Brett’s bed empty, he gathered up some clothes and a towel and showered, shaved what little whiskers he had, brushed his teeth and then stepped out into the hallway. He saw that cops were still posted at either end of the hallway, and he walked over to the nurses’ station.
“Um . . . Good morning,” he said, smiling at the nurse at the computer.
“Well good morning yourself,” Dee said. Then she looked over her shoulder and said, “Hey, Carol . . . look who’s awake.”
Skip smiled and blushed scarlet.
“Oh, Hey. Good morning,” Carol said, coming over to the counter.
“Um . . . Hi,” he answered, smiling shyly and blushing some more. “Have you seen Brett?”
“He got up about a half-hour . . . forty-five minutes ago,” Carol said, looking down the hallway. “The other guys aren’t up yet, so I think he went down to see Johnny.”
“How’s Johnny doing?” Skip asked.
Dee and Carol exchanged a look that said it all.
Dee shook her head and said, “Not too well.”
Carol added, “I’m worried about him.”
Skip nodded, wondering how the boys, Brett and Tim in particular, would react if Johnny didn’t make it. He glanced down the hallway in the direction of the boys’ room.
“I’ll look in on Mike and Tim, then head down to see Brett and Johnny,” Skip said already moving down the hall at a slow walk.
His cell went off and he answered it as he stood in the hallway leaning against a wall near Tim’s and Mike’s darkened room. An aide pushed an empty gurney one way, and another aide went the other way carrying an armful of blankets and boxes of supplies.
“Dahlke.”
“Skip, this is Kelliher. Where are you?”
Dahlke noticed an edge in Pete’s voice and answered, “At the hospital . . . third floor.”
“Are cops still on the floor?”
Skip looked to his left and saw a young looking cop who had rocked back in a chair as he read a folded sports page. Then he turned to his right and saw an older cop with a graying crew cut and with arms folded on his chest, head lowered, perhaps dozing.
“Yeah, they’re here.”
“Agent Vince Cochrane out of the Chicago office will be up there in five, maybe ten minutes. Watch for him. I’m about twenty out because of the damn traffic. Find Cochrane when he shows up. I gave him your number. Don’t leave the boys.”
“What the hell, Pete . . . what’s happening?”
“Where’s Brett?”
“On second with Johnny, why?”
“It’s probably nothing. Get to him but don’t alarm him, got it?”
“Pete, what’s goin’ on?” James asked as he began moving to his right, towards the nearest stairwell.
“His uncle’s in the wind . . . gone. They fucked up in Indianapolis, and we don’t know where the fuck he is.”
Dahlke reached down and touched the .45 holstered on his hip.
“I’ll find Brett.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Between Indianapolis and Chicago
Victoria McGovern sat in the front passenger seat of the blue Dodge Durango staring out at nothing in particular. Houses turned to farmsteads, and beyond that, turned to nothing but country. Various billboards advertized this and that. Cars and trucks either passed by or were passed by. She saw all of it, but none of it, l
ost in her thoughts, worrying about what her son would be like, how he had changed, if he still remembered them.
She had given up hope of ever seeing Brett again long ago, perhaps at the one year anniversary of his disappearance or perhaps even earlier than that. In her mind, that made her a terrible mother. She suspected that her husband, Thomas, had given up hope too, but she didn’t know because they had never talked about it past that first year. In fact, they didn’t talk much at all anymore. Period. Like the laughter, the sex, the time spent together- everything had stopped, including the talking. Talking always seemed to be the first to go, but all of it had pretty much stopped about the same time as when she, perhaps they, had given up hope.
Around the one year anniversary mark, Victoria had begun taking on extra shifts at St. Vincent Heart Center. Being an RN, it was easy because the other nurses were always looking to take a three day weekend or a night off. Thomas hadn’t seemed to notice, and if he had, he didn’t seem to care. He was an English professor at Butler University in Indianapolis who had written a thesis as a doctoral student comparing Poe to Hawthorne and parlayed that into a fairly successful book with even more successful reviews. He had also written a textbook on Early American Authors, which was also very successful. Thomas had taken on extra classes or just stayed on campus to grade papers. The time he and Victoria had actually spent together was, well, missing, just like their oldest son, Brett.
Both of them had an unstated rule, however, that one or the other would be home for Bobby, their youngest. Bobby, eighteen months younger than Brett, spent a lot of his time at friends’ houses or with his cousins. He was more bookish like his father and not as athletic like Brett. Until fairly recently.
They looked alike. It was often said that Bobby was a smaller Xeroxed version of Brett. Friends and family teased them that they looked like miniature Tom Bradys, obviously shorter and younger and without the cleft chin. This didn’t sit well with either of them, particularly Brett, because they were rabid Colts fans, and Brett’s favorite football player was Brady’s archrival, Peyton Manning.
Victoria wasn’t exactly athletic, but she had always figured Brett’s athleticism came from her side of the family, the Dominico side. Her younger brother, Tony, excelled in everything he did. Like his Uncle Tony, Brett was a natural. Whatever Brett did, he did well, especially football, basketball and track. The one trait that she and her husband shared and seemed to have passed onto both boys was stubborn determination.
Detective Anthony Dominico, or Uncle Tony, was on the Indianapolis Police force and specialized in narcotics. Before Brett was abducted, Tony had spent time with Brett- Colts games, Pacers games, or at the river shooting. It was only recently that Tony had begun spending time with Bobby.
Uncle Tony had never missed one of Brett’s games, and when Brett went missing, the detective had spent hours- on and off the clock- running down every lead he could to find him. He spent weekends away, telling Vicki and Tom that he had gone underground among perverts and pedophiles looking for Brett. He had come up empty each time, but swore that he’d never quit until Brett came home.
And now, Brett was coming home.
Bobby had spent the evening before at a friend’s house while Thomas had worked late at the university, and Victoria had worked late at the hospital. No one was at the house when the call came telling them that Brett was found, alive, and was at a hospital in Chicago recovering from a gunshot wound. Neither had checked the answering machine that evening, and it wasn’t until the following morning after Victoria had gone off to work at the hospital that Thomas had seen the blinking light and played the message.
At first, he thought it was a hoax.
The voice identified herself as Agent Summer Storm with the Crimes Against the Children Task Force of the FBI. Who would possibly have a name like ‘Summer Storm’? He thought.
Then he replayed the message, listened again, took down the number and dialed it.
Less than an hour later, after making sure Bobby could stay at his grandmother’s house, he threw some of his wife’s clothes in a small red suitcase, topped off the gas tank and picked up Victoria from the hospital. He hadn’t said anything when he showed up, but he was agitated and ghost-like, so she had assumed the worse.
It was only when they got into the car in the hospital parking ramp that he turned to her and repeated the message from the FBI agent. She stared at him in disbelief, searching his face for any clue that it was a sick practical joke. He seemed shaken and anxious, but earnest and sincere, so she changed out of her whites as they drove to Chicago.
Two hours later north of Indianapolis on Interstate 65, about forty-five minutes from downtown Chicago, Thomas reached over and took hold of Victoria’s hand. It had been so long since they had held hands, so long since there was a touch of any kind that she had stared at their hands, their fingers intertwined.
When she looked over at him, she noticed that he was weeping.
She didn’t know what to say, much less how to say it. It had been so long since they had comforted one another, had even tried to comfort one another that she was out of practice, so she just held his hand.
“Vicki, I don’t know if Brett will recognize us,” he said quietly, wiping his eyes with his other hand, holding the steering wheel temporarily with his knee. “I’ve been thinking about what he went through, what he was forced to do . . .” he didn’t finish, he just shook his head. Victoria began to tear up and turned to look out the window so Thomas wouldn’t see it. “I think both of us thought we’d never see him again. I expected a phone call telling us he was found dead. I never, not in a million years, thought we’d get a phone call telling us he was alive.” He paused and made another swipe at his eyes. “Hell, we even made his room into a guest room and packed his things away.” He stopped and shook his head. “Jesus! This is so unbelievable!”
Victoria searched frantically for something, anything to say but came up empty. Gratefully, her cell chirped. She freed her hand from Thomas’ so she could get to her phone.
Puzzled because she didn’t recognize the number, she said, “Yes?”
“Vicki, don’t mention my name or let on that it’s me,” the man said.
Of course Victoria knew who it was and had recognized the voice immediately.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
“By now you’ve heard the news. You’re going to hear all sorts of lies and fabricated stories.”
“Yes, but-”
“-let me finish. I’ve been undercover, and I still am. You’re going to hear things about me that aren’t true. You have to believe me. They aren’t true. In time, I’ll explain everything. Do you understand?”
Victoria frowned, turned her head to the passenger window and said, “No, I don’t . . . not at all.”
“But I promise you will . . . in time . . . all of it. But it’s important that you believe me and not the lies you’re going to hear. Can you trust me, Vicki?”
She nodded and whispered tentatively, “Yes, I guess so.”
“It’s important, Vicki. Don’t tell anyone it was me. Tell Tom it was a call from the hospital. You can make something up. When I can, I’ll call to give you updates.”
“Yes . . . okay,” Victoria said nodding.
“Who’s that?” Thomas asked. “Is that the FBI? How did they get your number?”
Victoria waved at him to be quiet.
“Stay in touch . . . please . . . okay?” Victoria said.
“Yes . . . Gotta go.” And with that, the call ended and Victoria held a dead line, more puzzled and confused than when the trip began.
Thomas asked, “Who was that?”
Victoria shook her head absentmindedly, very confused.
“The hospital. Nothing important,” she said more to herself than to him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chicago, Illinois
Brett stepped quietly into Johnny’s room and stopped in his tracks. There were more tubes and machines hooke
d up to his friend than there were the night before. An oxygen tube helped Johnny breath. There was a tube collecting urine and emptying it into a plastic bottle attached to his bed. There was a similar machine that Brett was on after his surgery that collected Johnny’s blood pressure and heart rate with tabs and wires stuck to his chest and ribs with a Vaseline-like substance. His mouth was closed as were his eyes, and his skin was pasty and sweaty.
Brett crept up to the bed and gently took hold of his friend’s hand, careful not to disturb the finger monitor. His hand was cold and damp.
With his other hand, he smoothed Johnny’s hair off his forehead and whispered, “Johnny, you have to fight . . . gotta fight, Johnny, please.” He leaned over the bed and touched his forehead to Johnny’s and whispered, “We’re safe now, Johnny . . . it’s time to go home, so please fight Johnny, please.”
Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he felt Johnny’s grip tighten.
“That’s it, Johnny, fight back.” The grip relaxed, and Brett brushed his lips on Johnny’s forehead and said, “You’re one of my best friends, and if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have made it. Never.” He paused and added, “I owe you, Johnny . . . all of us do. So please stay with us, okay?” Again, he felt Johnny’s grip tighten and Brett added, “I’m going to go get cleaned up, but I’ll be back with Tim . . . I promise. Be tough, Johnny, fight, please?”
Johnny’s grip relaxed and Brett eased his hand away. He smoothed Johnny’s bangs again, though he didn’t really need to do that. He did it more for one last touch before he left the room. He knew Johnny was in bad shape and getting worse and was torn between getting ready for his parents and staying with Johnny. Someone should be with Johnny from now on to help him fight. He bent down and kissed Johnny’s forehead, took hold of his hand with both of his, gave it a squeeze, let go and then took a couple of steps backward, turned and left the room, but stopped in the hallway and leaned against the wall just outside his room and wept.
