Noah's Rainy Day

by Sandra Brannan

  “Uh-huh,” Gates said.

  The judgment in the men’s eyes grew heavier.

  “And you don’t think it’s a kidnapping?” I challenged.

  “Nope,” Gates said.

  “Come on, Chief. I don’t want to be the only one in the confessional. I poked holes in my logic, let’s hear yours.”

  “I told you. My guys are digging through the garbage for a corpse. I’m assuming homicide. Just speculating. Because just as you can’t imagine a woman abducting a child on Christmas Eve, I can’t imagine a traveler or employee changing holiday plans in a moment of opportunity without changing his mind just as quickly and deciding to cover up his momentary lapse in good judgment.”

  “By killing his victim?”

  Gates nodded, holding my gaze. “And I can only hope my logic is flawed.”

  “Me too,” I said, dread weighing heavily in my gut and replacing the optimism I earlier felt at finding some answers with Beulah.

  “Want to clue me in on the basics, so I’m up to speed and can join the debate?” Jack asked. “I feel like I’m watching a movie in reverse.”

  “Next time maybe you’ll remember to charge your phone,” Streeter said, rising to his feet and pacing near the windows. “The missing boy is Maximillian Bennett Williams III, son of Maximillian Williams II and his wife Melissa. The kid sometimes goes by little Max. As far as we know, the five-year-old boy was put on a plane in New York City by his father. The father paid a BlueSky Airlines escort, Kevin Benson, to take the kid to his mother in California. Los Angeles. The kid and escort were supposed to change planes here at DIA. Benson got distracted for a moment and the kid’s gone.”

  Jack nodded. “So what distracted the guy?”

  “A call from his girlfriend who lives in Denver. It’s a Denver-based crew,” Streeter answered. “At least that’s what he tells us.”

  “You believe that story?” Jack asked.

  We all answered at once.

  Streeter said, “No.”

  Gates said, “Definitely not.”

  I said, “Not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too many holes,” Streeter said. “And Kevin Benson isn’t a good liar.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “WHY CAN’T I LEAVE? Haven’t I gone through enough in one day? It’s almost ten o’clock and I’ve been up since—”

  “Sit down,” Gates interrupted. “And shut that mouth of yours.”

  Kevin Benson’s mouth gaped. Apparently he was unaccustomed to such directness. I noticed a tiny curve to Phil Kelleher’s lips as he escorted Benson to the makeshift conference table opposite Chief Gates and Streeter. I was relieved that Streeter allowed me to hang back so I could participate in the second interview with Benson. I was even more relieved that I didn’t have to go with Jack to the outer parking lot. If I had, we would have been alone, forced to talk, and I hadn’t decided how to handle the lie that Jack wedged between us. Not yet.

  I had convinced Streeter to let me linger so I could hear Benson’s follow-up interview, in case he continued to lie about where he went after deplaning at DIA and Streeter needed me to confirm Benson’s movements by using Beulah to trail his scent through the airport. With my decision to stay at case headquarters a bit longer, not only could I help Streeter dig the truth out of Benson but also I could avoid one-on-one time with Jack Linwood. Jack would go alone to the outer parking lot, get to work on organizing the collection of evidence from the priority grid, and then be on his way back to the office downtown to view video footage with Dodson. Before I arrived with Beulah to search the isolated grid, I hoped Jack would be long gone and I wouldn’t have to pretend that I didn’t see him come off the Kansas City plane at B30.

  Benson asked Streeter, “Why is he being such a jerk?” indicating Chief Gates.

  “Where’s the boy?” Gates demanded.

  “What? I don’t know.”

  “Where is he?” Gates repeated.

  “I told you before, I don’t know.”

  “You told us a lot. Most of it lies,” replied Gates.

  “What do you mean? What lies?” Benson looked from Gates to Streeter and back to Gates.

  Both men glared at Benson.

  “Where did you take the boy?”

  “I told you, I didn’t take him anywhere. He took off, got lost, and—”

  “Zip it,” Gates said, suddenly on his feet. He lunged across the table and gathered Benson’s shirt collar in his fist. “Remember me? The only time you speak is when we ask you a question, got it? And the only kind of answer you give us better be the truth. I swear if you …” his words trailed.

  I didn’t blame him for not finishing that thought. Judging by the look in his eye, Gates might have knocked Benson’s teeth in before he ever had a chance to finish that sentence.

  “We know you lied about taking the boy from gate B31 to B51,” Streeter said.

  A knock on the door forced Gates to let go and Benson shrank back in his chair as I opened the door. A police officer handed me a file. “From the airlines. The tickets bought today, including those traveling with a minor. There’s an email address if you want the electronic file sent.”

  I said, “Thank you.”

  “Thanks, Lou,” Gates called out as the officer left.

  “You’re welcome, Chief,” the officer called back before I closed the door.

  In response to Streeter’s nearly undetectable head motion, I laid the file on the table between Gates and Benson.

  “What’s this about?” Benson looked over at Streeter, studied him, and then leaned back in his chair. It appeared that Benson was sizing up which menacing man he’d rather deal with, and I could have told him neither option was good.

  Streeter explained, “You didn’t take the boy from gate B31 to gate B51.”

  I could see the Adam’s apple of Benson’s throat bob as he swallowed.

  “And if you’re assessing how much trouble you’re in for lying to a federal agent, let me save you the trouble and tell you. Deep. So deep, your nostrils are plugged with excrement,” added Gates, his words measured. “If you start digging your way out now, you just might have a snowball’s chance. Tell us where the boy is.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” Benson said, shaking his head.

  “But you do know something,” Streeter said. “You know what happened from the instant you exited the plane from New York City to when you no longer had the child in your possession here in Denver.”

  “I …” Benson closed his gaping mouth and lowered his face into his hands, his elbows propped on the table.

  I thought he was about to spill his guts, but then he seemed to reconsider.

  The long silence was finally broken by Streeter. “Chief Gates, your offer to go easy on Benson—if he tells us what he knows—is quite generous, considering you were planning on hanging him by his scrotum from the scoreboard in Bronco stadium,” Streeter said, without a hint of sarcasm. He stood up, rounded the table, and leaned on the table next to Benson. Close enough that I knew Benson could smell his cologne, although it was more likely Streeter who was detecting the smell of fear on Benson.

  Benson’s face grew white. “He really did? What’s wrong with him? You’re serious.”

  “I am,” Streeter said.

  I hadn’t seen this side of Streeter. He was growing as impatient as Gates and neither man would hesitate to cross the line if it meant getting to the boy sooner.

  “We are,” Gates added, commanding Benson to look his way.

  “Talk,” Streeter growled.

  The man blew out a long breath, a prelude to a decision he hadn’t wanted to make. “You’re right. I lied. I didn’t argue with my girlfriend on the cell phone. We argued in person.”

  “You met up with her?”

  He nodded.

  “The same woman who kicked you out of your apartment?” Gates asked.

  He nodded. “Threw me out. I didn’t lie about that.”

  “Th
en what did you lie about? And be quick about it,” Gates snapped.

  “She sent me a text. She told me to meet her. At a bar on the main concourse.”

  “The Buckhorn Bar and Grill,” Streeter said.

  Benson’s eyes widened. I saw recognition on his face, which meant he finally fully believed the FBI and Denver Police knew the truth and that he’d better come clean.

  “How did you …” Benson alternated looks from Streeter’s face to Gates’s, both too stony for him to find purchase in his climb out of the deep hole he was in. “You saw the text messages. Well, then you know. She gave me no choice. I had to meet her.” I knew Streeter and Gates probably hadn’t received any records from the cell phone company yet, but every text message would eventually be ours to review. “I had a decision to make. She left me no choice. I had to take the boy with me and meet her.”

  “So the boy was with you.”

  He nodded.

  “Start over,” Streeter commanded. “Tell us what happened step by step, from the moment you and the boy stepped off the plane from New York City here at DIA.”

  “Be specific this time. Were you holding his hand? Carrying his backpack? Buying him ice cream cones?” I thought Gates’s tone was far calmer than his body language would suggest. But I’d only met him today.

  Benson was shaking his head. “We arrived on time. Normally, we would wait until all other passengers got off the plane, but I told my fellow flight attendants that the boy had a tight connection and I wanted to get him some food. So they let us off first.

  “Within minutes of landing, I’d say no later than 12:45 p.m., we were off the jetway and in the concourse. I was carrying the backpack and told him to hurry. At first he was running beside me, but when he started to fall back, I grabbed his hand. We went straight from the gate to the escalators.”

  “Which one?” I asked, wanting to know if Beulah had tracked it correctly.

  “The one on the left.”

  “And which door of the train?” I asked.

  “I can’t remember.”

  Gates stood up and Benson leaned back with his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. The one in the middle because it’s the least crowded.”

  “And you were carrying the backpack?” I asked.

  “And the boy.” With everyone staring at him, Benson asked, “What?”

  “When did you go from holding his hand to carrying him?” asked Streeter.

  “I left that part out by accident,” Benson whined. “You guys are freaking me out with all these questions. It’s not like I’m lying. I just forget steps.”

  “You get off the plane first, you tell the boy you’re in a hurry and that he should keep up, and you’re carrying his backpack for him. Take it from there,” Gates instructed.

  Streeter walked around the table and sat by Gates, which made Benson relax.

  “I told him to hurry, but he couldn’t keep up. His legs were tiny. He was running. I grabbed his hand, but people started staring at us because I was practically dragging the kid. My legs were so much longer than his and we didn’t have a lot of time. I knew we’d have to go back through security.”

  “So you picked the kid up at what point?”

  “By the newsstand, where they sell magazines, books, candy, that stuff. Just before the escalator. I remember because Brat Boy—I mean, the boy—stopped and asked me for candy. I picked him up and told him if he behaved, I’d buy him candy in a few minutes but that I had to meet a lady first.”

  “Before you reached the escalator down to the trains,” I confirmed. Streeter shot me a look that told me not to interrupt again. I was only trying to confirm Beulah’s results.

  Benson nodded. “Once I started carrying the boy, we made it through the crowd onto the train and then to the main terminal and the Buckhorn Bar quickly. And people stopped giving me dirty looks for dragging him. My girlfriend was waiting at the bar. Her arms were crossed and she looked pissed.”

  “About you bringing the boy? Being late? What?” Gates asked.

  “No, nothing like that. She was still pissed over a text message another flight attendant sent me. She said she saw it on my cell, broke into my Facebook account, and said I was flirting with her, which I wasn’t. Anyway, I told her I didn’t have much time because I had to get the boy to his next flight, and she told me what she had to say wouldn’t take much time.”

  “And did it? Take much time?” Gates asked.

  “Five, ten minutes tops.” Benson’s mind was working the timeline. “She told me our relationship was over and shoved a piece of paper in my hand that I later saw was an application for a restraining order to be served on me here at work, which would mean I’d lose my job. We started arguing. She said she threw all my stuff out the apartment window and that I better go get it before the snow buried it; that is, what was left after neighbors had picked through the good stuff. I was so angry at her I could have …”

  We all stared at him, wondering.

  “You could have what? Killed somebody?” asked Gates, the calmness in his voice more unsettling to me than his earlier gruffness.

  “No, I didn’t mean … I wouldn’t … I didn’t touch that kid.”

  “Where was he? While you and your girlfriend where fighting?” asked Gates.

  “Arguing, not fighting.”

  Streeter reminded, “Step by step, as you arrived at the bar carrying the boy.”

  Benson drew a breath. “As soon as I got there I put the kid down right next to me. All three of us were standing near the empty chairs at the bar, kind of not really in the bar but more like in the main concourse. The bartender was busy helping the waitress serve the people at the tables and the kid started watching the TV hanging above the bar. I told him to stay there and I’d get him some candy if he did.”

  “And when did you notice he wasn’t standing there anymore?” Streeter pressed.

  “After my girlfriend and I finished arguing. Like I said, maybe five or ten minutes after that.” Benson drew in a deep breath and admitted, “By the time my girlfriend stomped off, the boy was gone.”

  CHAPTER 21

  THE ODOR THAT WAFTED from the refrigerator as he opened the door reminded him of how neglectful he’d become in the past few months. His spirits buoyed now by a renewed sense of purpose, he was motivated and eager to scrub every square inch of his home. To cleanse himself of the past and prepare for a better future. He wanted to get started immediately. But first, he wanted a bite to eat.

  So many choices.

  He had bought turkey and ham and hot dogs and apples and carrots—he hated vegetables, but the boy had asked specifically for them—and cookies and bread and peanut butter and lots and lots of boxes of macaroni and cheese. His refrigerator was packed with goodies and his mind filled with memories of shopping for groceries and the joy of seeing the world again through a child’s eyes.

  “Beautiful daughter, you have,” one shopper had commented to him as the child ran about the store, pulling item after item from the shelves.

  The compliment made his chest swell with pride, and the memories of such a simple moment tasted sweet on his tongue.

  It would be the best Christmas ever.

  He pushed aside the box filled with packages of peanut M&M’s so he could reach the deli sandwich and the jar of dill pickles that had been shoved to the back of the refrigerator. He bumped the door closed with his hip, feeling his buttocks jiggle from the motion, bringing another smile. It had been too long since he felt like moving again, dancing again, living again, which only confirmed that his decision this morning had been right.

  Without the light from the refrigerator, he was standing in the darkness of his kitchen, not wanting his neighbors to study his movements. He moved toward the cupboard, felt for a plate, unwrapped the meatball sandwich, and slipped the meal into the microwave. As the light shone over the food turning in the oven, his mind floated back to the lightbulb in the closet and the voice of his father demanding that he think
about what he had done wrong. He recalled the terror of knowing what would follow his answer and the feeling that he would never measure up to whatever it was his parents wanted of him. Snap! The sound of his father’s leather belt sounded in his childhood’s mind. And he remembered screaming.

  The beep of the microwave yanked him from his long-ago nightmarish life and alerted him to the seconds remaining before he was once again left in his pitch-black kitchen.

  Wrapping his hands around the warm bread of the sandwich, he leaned against the tile counter and took a bite. As he chewed, he fished out a spear of pickle and munched it to a nub. The food was satisfying, necessary.

  He needed to clean, needed to scrub the house. Needed to erase any memories of the horrid past and prepare for the beautiful future that he had always deserved.

  Although his intentions of bringing joy to a sad child’s life were pure and good, his execution had always fallen short of his goals. That, he knew, was his parents’ fault for not providing him with better role models on proper parenting. But unlike his parents, he refused to throw the children in a closet until they complied. Instead, he was more kind and benevolent. When any of his kids violated rules, disobeyed, or fell short of his expectations, he chose instead to free the little creatures in the woods, turn them back to the wild lives they insisted on living rather than to tame them by forcing them into a closet for days at a time. What good was it to cage the poor creatures when they were born to run wild?

  But this child was different. The wildness had been tamed almost the instant he’d held out the package of peanut M&M’s.

  This time, it would work.

  He wouldn’t cry, or scream, or bite, or run away.

  This time, he had chosen wisely.