WHERE'S MY SON? (5 page)

He put the straw to her mouth again and sat back down.
He rubbed his eyes. “I guess I dozed off.”

She smiled weakly.
“You must have been upset, because you were kicking your feet in the air!”

Michael had always kicked wildly in his sleep and they
’d taken to sleeping in separate beds.

He leaned forward
and took her hand. “You need anything?”

“Yes,
I want to ask you something,” she paused to catch her breath.

“Anything.”

“If you ever see our son again, will you tell him I loved him?”

Michael nodded and gave her a smile, but inside he was breaking apart.
“Of course.”

F
rustration boiled inside him. He hadn't protected his son, and he couldn't save his wife. It wasn't fair. The anger that burned in him since the days after his son was taken threatened to take control.

He would fin
d the person who was responsible, and there would be payback for all the pain. Michael promised himself he would make the kidnapper pay.

His dream had been
unsettling, but less disturbing was how good it had felt. He imagined himself doing it for real. Killing was something he never thought was in him, but he could feel it now. He was capable and willing.

*******

A few months later, Michael found himself sitting beside her bed again, but this time they were in a nursing home. Tammy no longer knew Michael was even there. The weeks since Tammy passed into a coma had been filled with plans to somehow find the one responsible for his son’s disappearance.

T
he heart monitor started to beep. A long, steady droning, and Michael knew she was gone. He didn't run to get doctors, knowing she wanted it this way. He wished he could be gone, too.

A nurse rushed in and turned off the
beeping, but she didn't call for help, either. Tammy had made it clear not to try to resuscitate her when she went. A doctor came in and checked her vitals, looked at her pupils, and declared Tammy deceased.

Michael stood
, kissed her on the forehead and moved to the window. He stood staring out, not seeing, while people moved around him in the room. All he felt now was hate. Hate for whoever had taken his son. Hate for every couple that would grow old together. Most of all, he hated the pain. It ate at his insides and left him short of breath. Somehow, he had to stop the pain.

He heard the nurse say something. When he turned around, Tammy was already gone from the room.

“Take as long as you need,” the nurse said. “I'll be at the desk.”

Michael nodded and turned back to the window.

Somewhere out there was his son. The only connection he had left to Tammy. And now, he had a message to deliver. A promise to keep. He would not give up.

*******

A steady rain fell on the proceedings at Oakcrest Cemetery. Jason Strong stood across from Michael Barton, who sat next to his wife’s grave.

Jason could see
no life in Michael's eyes, and it worried him. Michael had shark eyes. Black, dead.

The last three
years had brought Jason close to the Bartons. He’d done everything in his power to track down their son. So far, it hadn't been enough.

He refused to give up hope, and he had called the
Bartons regularly to tell them he hadn't forgotten about their son. Until there was a body, Jason would treat it like a missing persons case.

Jason and his wife, Sandy,
had even asked the Bartons to church with them, but Michael had always begged off.

Jason
had been one of the first people Michael called when he’d learned Tammy was sick. Jason listened, but he didn't try to tell Michael it would all be okay. He’d thought of his own wife, and how he would feel about such news. Even with his faith, he couldn't fathom losing Sandy, and trying to survive.

He
and Michael met a couple of times for lunch, and Jason even prayed with him, but the detective sensed Michael was headed for a dark place, a dangerous place.

The service ended and people started to move away. Jason waited until there wasn't anybody left
before going over to Michael. “You gonna be okay, buddy?”

Michael gave J
ason a half smile. “Yeah...I'll make it. Thanks for coming.”

Even though Michael tried to smile, Jason saw
his friend’s eyes remained cold. “You know you can call me anytime, right?”

“I know. Thanks, Jason.”

Jason shook his hand and turned to leave. He couldn't imagine the pain in Michael's soul, but Jason had seen what pain like that could do; it had destroyed more than one man.

He said a prayer that night for
Michael. And he said one for missing Kristian, just as he had almost every night for the last three years. And lastly, he said one more. This one was a grateful prayer. He felt the need to count his blessings and to say thanks.

Chapter
5

This time of the year was most difficult for Michael Barton. His son's birthday was coming up, as well as the seventh anniversary of his wife’s death. It was always the darkest time of the year for him.

His life
became engulfed in a shroud of pain and anger. Each time, he’d been able to emerge from it, to carry on. This was going to be a particularly rough year. It was approaching his son's tenth birthday.

Ten
years since the happiest day of his life. Ten years of pain. A decade of suffering.

He let himself into the house and was met by the same old quiet.
In many ways, it felt as if time had stopped inside the walls of this house. The furniture, drapes, and decorations were all as they had been the day Tammy died. He had never had the strength, or the desire, to change them.

He threw the mail down on the hall table without lo
oking at it and set the bottle of wine on the coffee table in the living room, before going off in search of a corkscrew.

He
’d drowned in the hard stuff for a while after Tammy's death, but with the help of Detective Jason Strong, he’d seen the alcohol as pointless. It didn't take away the pain, only numbed it.

The detective had not given up hope of finding his son
. Jason also made him see, at the very least, that he shouldn't throw his life away.

“I have seen kids twice your son's age reunited with their parents
; what if we find him and you’re not here? What would I tell him?”

Michael
had found the question difficult to answer. After all, he had made a promise to Tammy and to himself. He couldn’t give up.

He rummaged around in the kitchen drawers, lo
oking for the corkscrew. Normally, he bought the cheap stuff with the twist-off cap, but decided ten years required something more. He’d splurged on his and Tammy's favorite wine.

Eventually
, he’d gone through every drawer but the junk drawer. It shouldn't be there, but he slid it open, and pushed stuff around anyway. Lying in the back was his wife's digital camera. He pulled it out and found the corkscrew behind it.

He tried turning the camera on
, but the batteries were dead. He carried the camera, corkscrew, and a wine glass into the living room. From the hall table drawer, he retrieved a penlight. Checking inside, he found the batteries were the same as the ones in the camera.

Pouring himself a glass of wine, he to
ok a long sip before changing the batteries. He pushed the power button and the camera came to life.

“
Okay, let see what we have here.”

He often talked to himself to break the silence in the house. He hit the album button and was met with a picture of his son.
He sipped his wine and stared at the screen.

“Where have you been hiding all this time?” he asked the camera, realizing that if it could talk, it would state the obvious
:
in the junk drawer
.

Gathering his courage
, Michael started to scroll through the pictures one at a time. They were mostly pictures of his son sleeping. The last few were the ones he had taken of Tammy and his son under the tree on that hot afternoon. He’d finally taken a good picture with the last shot and he sat staring at it for a long time.

Something caught his eye.
In the background behind Tammy, parked just down the street, was a car he didn't recognize. It seemed out of place. An old, maybe 1960-something Pontiac. He tried to magnify the picture on the camera, but it didn't help.

He to
ok the camera to his computer, plugged it in, and downloaded the photos. On the computer, he manipulated and expanded the picture. The old car sat partially hidden by a tree, but the plate was still visible, as was the man sitting in the driver’s seat. His heart skipped a beat.

Who are you? You don't belong around here.

He magnified the car and plate as much as he could, and was able to make out the number as his heart started to pound faster. The plate could lead him to the kidnapper, could lead him to his son. He wrote down the number.

Now what? If I call Jason Strong, he'll say that they'll lo
ok into it, and then I won't have any idea what's going on.

He wanted to check this out himself.
He could feel the darkness inside telling him this was what he needed. This could take away the pain. An idea came to him. He dialed the phone.

“San Antonio
Police.”

“Yes.
Can I speak to Detective Strong?”

“Please hold.”

Several minutes passed.

“Hello?” Jason's familiar voice came on.

“Jason, this is Michael Barton.”

“Michael, how's it going?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good...
very good.”

“And Sandy?”
Sandy was Jason's wife, a tall blonde with striking green eyes.

“She's good.
Listen, sorry I haven't called lately. There hasn't been anything new to report, and I've been swamped.”

“No problem. A
ctually, I called to ask you a favor.”

“You know I
’ll try to help if I can.”

“Well, I was in a little fender bender at the stadium parking lot the other day, and the owner
of the car wasn't around. Of course, I didn't have any paper or a pen.”

“Of course!” Jason agreed.

“Anyway, I took a photo of the guy’s plate with my phone, and I was wondering if you could get me his number and address. I'd like to contact him without getting insurance involved.”

“Well
…I'm not supposed to...”

Michael held his breath.

“...but okay, don't suppose it'll hurt.”

Michael gave the plate number to Jason and waited. Jason was back in five minutes with a name.

Benny Carter. His address was near Hondo, a town west of San Antonio.

“Thanks
, Jason, I appreciate it.”

“No problem
. You staying on the straight and narrow?”

Michael chuckled.
“Yeah, just an occasional glass of wine.”

“Glad to hear it. Take care and, I'll be in touch with any news.” Jason hung up.

Michael stared at the name. A dark fire began to smolder in him. He knew this was the kidnapper. It had to be. He felt certain and he felt anger. Anger that pushed him to act.

In the past, he
’d fought the anger, subdued it. This time, there would be no controlling it. He could feel it taking over, and he didn't care.

*******

Benny wheeled the '69 Mustang Mach One down his driveway. He'd bought it with the money from the kidnapping and had it repainted. Yellow with a black hood and black stripes. It looked fast, and it was.

He
drove around back and parked by the kitchen door. Getting out, he locked the car and went to let himself in the trailer.

Putting his key in the
lock, he saw a reflection in the window, but it was too late. Pain exploded from the back of his head. His knees buckled and his face crashed into the glass. He slid unconscious to the ground.

*******

As Benny slowly started to come around, he began taking stock of his body. He could feel liquid, which he assumed was blood, oozing down his neck and under his shirt. He could also taste it dripping from his nose, probably from when he hit the door. He had a splitting headache, and opening his eyes in the bright sun sent pain coursing through his brain.

Once he could get his eyes to stay open, he found he was tied to something,
his arms behind him. It felt like the huge blackjack oak behind the house. His feet were also bound with a rope that went around his ankles and around the tree.

“So,
you’re awake?”

Benny's head
swivelled quickly to his right, which made him wince in pain. “Who are you? What...what do you want?”

A man Benny didn't recognize got up and moved in front of
him, ignoring his question.

“Who are you?” Benny demanded.

The man just stared at him.

“I said
, who are you?”

The stranger
moved in very close, spitting his words into Benny's face. “Who am I? Who am I? I'm the father of the child you took.”

Benny's eyes got huge, which made his headache even worse, and he thought he would vomit.

“Child? What child? I don't know nothin' about no kid.”

“Oh
come now, ten years ago, small baby.” Michael nearly exhaled contempt. “Or do you do that kind of thing all the time?”

Benny's head
began to clear. That's what happens when fear pumps adrenaline through you, and Benny was afraid. He started looking around wildly for some means of escape. He didn't own a gun, and if he did, it would be in the house. His knife was in his boot, but the ropes were too tight, and his hands wouldn’t come free.

Benny lo
oked into his captor’s eyes. He saw a wildness, an anger, and a man filled with an evil Benny recoiled from. The man stayed in close, too close.

“Now,
where's my son?”

“I didn't do nothin' with your kid...I don't know what
you’re talking about.”

The man
put his hand across Benny's forehead, and drove the back of Benny's head into the tree. Benny let out a groan, his eyes rolling back in his head. When he opened them again, he spit in the man's face.

The man stepped back and slowly wiped his face w
ith his sleeve. Turning, he walked over to a woodpile and grabbed a twenty-pound sledgehammer. He hefted it up and down a couple of times, before he walked back over to Benny. Benny started to panic, squirming to get free.

Without saying a word, the man swung the hammer directly at Benny's right knee.

Benny's world exploded with pain. Waves of agony raced up his leg, through his body, and into his brain. He screamed, briefly lost consciousness, and then came to with a series of low moans. His knee was shattered and blood soaked his jeans.

The stranger waited for Benny to stop sobbing
, then asked his question again. “Where's my son?”

“I can't tell you...he'll kill me...” Benny sobbed.

“I'll kill you if you don't. Where's my son?”

“...Can't tell....”

His attacker started to heft the hammer again, and Benny freaked. “Okay...okay...this guy paid me to get him a kid.”

“What was his name?”

“Zeb...Zeb Johnson.”

Benny tried to stop sobbing, his voice breaking
, and just above a whisper. The man had to move closer, listening intently.

“How do I find him?
What did he look like?”

“I don't know...we used
throw-away cell phones,” Benny paused for breath. “He was a big man, red hair.”

“Where was he from?”

Benny scrambled for details. It had been ten years, and his brain was more concerned with the pain. “The contact I met was from Missouri, I think.”

“Contact...
what contact?”

“Some chick...I gave her the kid and she paid me.”

“What was her name? What did she look like?”

Benny didn't answer,
the pain making him light-headed. The man lifted the hammer and a surge of adrenaline shot through Benny.

“Wait...no...she was real sh
ort...red hair...had a tattoo of a tiger on her arm.”

“Anything else?”

Benny stared at the hammer. Something was rolling around in the back of his head. “She was in a van with a parking sticker…St. something…Lawrence…no, Luke’s…that's it…St. Luke’s, and the guy said she was some sort of nurse.”