Sufficient Ransom (14 page)

Squeezing Pastor Todd’s hand in thanks, Ann turned to her husband. “Richard please, you do it. Thank everyone for coming and all the volunteers too. I would fall apart up there.”

After a few more words of encouragement, Pastor Todd left the Olsons to introduce the ministry leader to the crowd.

At the podium, Zoekler announced, “Our mission is to join with parents to bring the love of Jesus into their children’s hearts.”

The subject of children and religion reminded Ann again of Kika. With that Madonna medallion at her neck, Kika was obviously a believer. Unbidden, images of the little boy who was killed by his fanatical parents all those years ago came to Ann’s mind.
Children at the mercy of evil grownups. My child at the mercy of a crazed woman
.

When Señor Valdez took the stage to talk about his missing son, Ann’s eyes swam with images of a father—Valdez—and a mother hunched over a child’s small form. She dug her nails into her husband’s arm to keep from crying out.

Pastor Todd took the stage next. He spoke of finding light in the darkness, of the need to open one’s heart to the Lord. In a voice full of feeling, he began the Lord’s Prayer.

The crowd joined hands and prayed, their collective voices rising in unison.

Ann looked around in awed disbelief. Several people near her and Richard reached over and clasped their arms and their hands. The woman standing in front of Ann turned around and embraced her. “My thoughts are with you both,” the woman said, her eyes filling.

Their kindness touched Ann. “Thank you so much,” she whispered, overwhelmed with the outpouring of concern for her child, and for her and Richard.

Arms outstretched, eyes lifted to the sky, Pastor Todd was saying, “We have only to open our hearts to be joined with Him, our Holy Father.”

Joined with God?
The very notion of being joined to an invisible being was an alien concept to Ann.
If I’m not joined with God, then I must be separate from Him
. Maybe that was the problem: the separation. Was the joining the same as the believing? And if Ann didn’t believe, would she be shut out forever from this? From all these people who came out to support her and her husband?

A sudden rush of love unlike anything she had ever experienced before washed over Ann. She wanted to hug these strangers, to thank them for caring whether her boy lived or died. For caring whether
she
lived or died. For the first time in her life Ann felt a sort kinship with the suffering of others. Though she had always considered herself an empathic person, she realized that there had been a detached quality to it. Almost as if she had erected an outer shell of reserve to protect herself from feeling too much. But now that her protective armor had been split wide open by tragedy, all kinds of new emotions were reaching her, making her feel connected to everyone else in the world. It was a strange sensation, but comforting too.

The preaching and the praying ended, Ann felt as if she were awakening from a beautiful dream. She turned to Richard eager to tell him about her new feeling of peace. Seeing his drawn face was like having cold water dumped on her head. Guilt washed over her. For a few moments she had actually been happy while her husband suffered in silence. If only he could understand that she had glimpsed another way.

Hoping that Richard would feel even a small part what she did, Ann whispered, “That was beautiful.” Her husband gave her a searching look
as if trying to understand what she was saying. She again tried to share her feelings. “Is it so wrong to feel hope?”

“Of course you should feel hopeful,” Richard said, shaking his head. “It’s just that religion’s starting to appeal to you, Annie. I can see it in your face.”

“What if it is?” she said.

“If we lose our ability to think and to act,” Richard said, “because we’re too busy praying, or whatever else they tell us to do, then we’re done for. We’ll never find Travis.”

“They’re not telling us to sit around and
pray
,” Ann said. “If anything, they’re taking action. Look at all the searching the church’s doing. And tonight’s vigil. They’re the only ones helping us. What more do you want from them?”

“I’m sorry if I sound ungrateful,” Richard said, his voice earnest. “I appreciate everything Chet and Todd have done. It’s hard to explain. There’s just something about them. Chet especially. He seems to have a hidden agenda. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Maybe you’re letting the past color your judgment, Richard. It’s true—Chet wasn’t very nice to me before. But I think he’s trying to make up for it now.”

Richard’s brow cleared. “Maybe you’re right.”

Ann felt a hand on her shoulder. Turning, she saw Tom Long. The detective was dressed in faded Levi’s and a maroon USC sweatshirt.

Richard looked equally surprised to see the detective. “What’re you doing here, Tom?”

Tom Long’s gray eyes scanned the dispersing crowd as he answered. “Wanted to see for myself what the good church has been doing. And I was looking for you. Agent Fox said the FBI located Max Ruiz.”

Ann’s heart lurched. “Did they find Travis?”

The detective’s expression was solemn. “Not yet. They’re still trying to find Kika Garcia. Apparently Ruiz’s brother was murdered a few days ago in Tijuana by the local drug cartel. That’s probably why he wasn’t around to talk to you.”

Ann remembered the Hummer parked at Max’s factory. “Do you think Max works for a cartel too?”

“According to the FBI, it was his brother,” Tom said. “And some cousins and uncles. It seems every Mexican knows someone in the narcotics trade.”

What if Kika took Travis to the funeral?
Her little boy surrounded by drug dealers and kidnappers. Ann felt sick.

Her husband voiced her thoughts. “Kika could’ve gone to the funeral. With Travis.”

“The security’s pretty tight around the Ruiz family,” Tom said. “It’s possible Ms. Garcia is with them, or was. We’ll know for sure when we get the footage at the border crossing. There was a glitch in the system. As soon as they recover the data, we should know whether she’s in Mexico.”

C
HAPTER
8

Sunday, October 7

8:00 A.M
.

S
tanding by the front door, her bags packed, Kika reached up and caressed Max’s cheek. “I’m sorry to leave so soon after Pablo’s funeral. But I need to be alone, to think.”

Max waved his hand, indicating his home. “Cariño, I’ve got the whole house for you to think in. Why do you have to go all the way to Mesa Grande?”

“I told you already, Max. I want to be alone.”

“I still get the feeling you’re hiding something, Kika.”

She shrugged. “I have a lot going on, that’s all. With work and things...” She didn’t tell him she had quit her job. She had put off her responsibilities long enough, dealing with Pablo’s funeral. Not that she regretted it—Max had needed her. The time had come to decide what to do about the Olson boy. She didn’t like keeping things from Max, but he was in no condition to help her decide a course of action. Not this time.

Her voice softer, Kika said, “Ever since I found out I was born there, I like going to Mesa Grande. More so, since I discovered Mary’s church.
Remember I told you? The little place with the beautiful statue of the Blessed Virgin?”

Max ran his hand along her hair, a worried expression on his face. “The narcos set up roadblocks all along those highways, Cariño. You could be kidnapped. Why don’t you leave later in the day? When there are more people on the road.”

Max’s talk of kidnapping reminded Kika of her early efforts to discover her own roots. The two ancient women Kika had managed to find in Mesa Grande, who knew her family, had mentioned a rumor that
she
had been kidnapped as a baby. They wouldn’t tell her more, either because they had forgotten, or because they were afraid. Kika had understood. With the advent of the narco wars most Mexicans feared to speak of disappearing people, even if the event had happened decades ago.

Kika kissed her Madonna medallion. “It’s only a three-hour drive, Max. Mary will be with me, as always.”

10:00 A.M
.

A
nn and her husband were in San Ysidro, a mile north of the Mexican border, to talk to Pedro Valdez’s family.

Though the police had set up a support group for the families of the missing children, Ann had not, until now, felt a need to talk to any of them. Their situations were different from Travis’s. No one seemed to know who took their children; there was little doubt in Ann’s mind that Kika Garcia had kidnapped Travis. But seeing Señor Valdez at the vigil the night before had awakened in Ann a need to reach out to the other families. Though she was afraid to witness another parent’s pain, in the end, her desire to alleviate their suffering—whether through friendship, advice, or even money—overcame her fear of calling on them.

Now, standing in front of the Valdez home, Ann was afraid she wouldn’t be able to control her own emotions. Breathing deeply, she glanced around to get her bearings. A broken, white picket fence enclosed the Valdez’s small property. Patches of long grass clung to dusty dirt in the front yard. Wooden steps leading to the covered porch were cracked, the bare planks strewn with plastic trucks, and a headless doll. The small house seemed to bulge under a great weight.

Richard’s Land Rover, his white running shoes and polo shirt, along with her light hair, looked glaringly out of place in this working class Hispanic neighborhood. Ann tightened her grip on her husband’s arm. “Richard, I’m afraid.”

Smoothing her hair from her face, he said, “You have to believe Travis will come home. Come, Ann. We won’t feel so alone after we meet these people.”

Señora Valdez was a heavy woman in her early thirties. She wore a thick braid down her wide back. Her brown eyes looked too small for her face. Ushering Ann and Richard into her home with an anxious ghost of a smile, she seemed to cower from her guests. Ann couldn’t help feeling that for some reason Señora Valdez wished they hadn’t come.

Their hostess led them to what appeared to be a newly constructed sunroom at the back of the house. The waxed pine floors were dust free. The windows seemed to sparkle in the morning sun. The few pieces of freshly painted wicker furniture were covered with bright floral cushions. In contrast to the unkempt front yard, the backyard was covered in thick grass, its sweet scent wafting through the open windows.

Señora Valdez placed coffee and Mexican sugar cookies on the table between them and waited for Ann and Richard to begin. From Señora Valdez’s downcast eyes Ann guessed that she preferred to defer to others.

“This is so difficult,” Ann began. “I’m not sure where to start.”

Eyes averted, Señora Valdez’s face glistened with perspiration. Fumbling with a tissue she seemed at a loss.

Ann knew from past comments from friends and even Richard that she could be a little intense. She hoped Señora Valdez wasn’t intimidated. She glanced at her husband unsure how to help Señora Valdez overcome her shyness. Richard’s eyes encouraged her to take the lead.

“Señora Valdez,” Ann said in a quiet voice. “We understand that your son was last seen playing in the street nearby.”

Señora Valdez dabbed at her nose. “Yes.”

“Does he usually stay close to home?” Ann was careful to use the present tense.

Señora Valdez looked up startled. “There are some old buildings down by the train tracks,” she said haltingly. “Pedro and his friends liked to visit sometimes. They catch lizards. They play on the rocks.”

Ann made a mental note to ask Tom Long if the police had investigated Pedro’s old hangouts. Maybe Pedro had done something to anger someone, pulled a prank or something, and he was taken out of revenge. He was obviously a mischievous child. The fact that he had doused a man with water the day he disappeared spoke to that.

A mischievous child. Like Travis
. The ache in Ann’s heart deepened. Her son had a wonderfully vulnerable side too. She remembered the day he had bruised himself jumping off the swing. She and her husband
had returned home from Richard’s high school class reunion. She went up to check on Travis while Richard paid the sitter.

“Mom,” Travis said, when she looked in on him. “You’re home.”

He looked so small in his bed
.

She knelt and kissed his cheek. “You should be sleeping, Travis.”

He winced
.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“My leg hurts.”

She rose to switch on the light. When she pulled back the sheet, she gasped. “What’s this?”

Deep splotches of black and blue covered Travis’s legs and his backside. “Who did this to you?”

“No one did it, Mom. It was the swing. I jumped off it a bunch of times.”

Ann ran out of the room. “Richard!”

He was shutting the front door
.

“Call that girl back!”

“Why?”

“Just do it! I’ll show you after.”

Richard opened the door and disappeared outside. Moments later he entered Travis’s room alone. “She’s gone. What’s this about?”

“I’m bruised, Dad.”

Ann pointed to their son’s legs. “See for yourself.”

After inspecting Travis’s body, Richard said, “How do you feel, champ?”

Travis pushed a pillow under his head. “A little sore.”

Richard gently ran his hand over his son’s legs. “It looks worse than it is.”

Travis seemed so small and defenseless. “We should take him to a doctor, Richard.”

“I don’t want to go to the doctor,” Travis said. “I hate the doctor!”

Richard shook his head. “It’s late, Ann. He needs to sleep. We’ll decide what to do in the morning.”

When Ann reached down to kiss her son, he threw his arms around her neck. “I love you, Mom.”

She buried her face in his warm hair. “I love you too, sweetie.”