STOLEN (12 page)

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 contributed 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 her 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.

“Dylan’s motorcycle. Did they find the bike, Mom? He’s just
brokenhearted. He needs that bike to get to work and school.”

“Did you really eat this stuff?” Jean asked as she raised
the loaded fork full of the green concoction into the air.

“Mom! Honestly!” Bethany cried out, her voice tinged with
impatience.

“I’m sorry, Bethany, I have a lot on my plate right now.”
She hesitated, realizing she meant it literally as well as figuratively. “I
have a murder investigation and a possible armed and dangerous suspect on the
loose. Dylan’s bike is not a priority. Let him take a bus to work. Or better
yet, walk.”

Now she was frustrated and just shoved the vegetable side
dish in her mouth and swallowed. It was starting to taste a little bit more
appetizing. When she looked up, she was struck by the look of hurt on Bethany’s
face. She quickly glanced over and saw Glenn’s expression; indicating he also was
disappointed with her response.

Suddenly, feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt, she put
down the fork. “I’m sorry, honey, it’s just been a long day. Did Dylan file a report
with the police?”

“Yes, as soon as it happened. We all saw it, this guy, he
just got on the bike and took off.” Bethany pulled her long blonde hair back
into a ponytail, and took one of the utensils off of her mother’s plate,
helping herself to a spoonful of the side dish.

“You were there?” Her mother suddenly perked up now,
concerned. It didn’t occur to her until then her daughter may have been in
danger.

“Yes,” the teenager answered with a hint of exacerbation.
“It was so fast; we were in the store getting sodas, and Dylan had come in to
pay for his gas. I turned around and I saw this guy ride off with Dylan’s bike.
I screamed for him to stop; but he just turned around and looked at me. I
thought he was going to stop, but then he just gunned it and took off.”

“Did you get a good look at this man?” Now, as if she was in
auto-mode, she put a fork full of roast potatoes into her mouth.

Next thing she knew, Bethany’s attention had shifted; her
eyes focused on the table. She lifted her mother’s cellphone off the table and
held it up. “Mom! Him, that’s him, Mom. This is the guy that stole Dylan’s
bike.”

Jean stopped eating and quickly swallowed what was already
in her mouth. She looked at Bethany in disbelief. “Are you sure, Bethany? Are
you positive?”

“Yes, Mom, I’m sure, that’s him. That’s the guy! That’s the
guy that stole Dylan’s bike.”

Glancing over at Glenn, Jean pushed the plate away, got up
and took the phone back from her daughter. She paced around the room as she
proceeded to punch in Marty’s cell number. At least she knew now exactly what
to look for, and if the second Blakey brother was still around, she knew how he
was getting around. Suddenly, much to her daughter’s delight, finding Dylan’s motorcycle
was about to become a priority.