WHERE'S MY SON? (9 page)

“Hello?” Wade repeated.

“You to
ok my son, I want him back.”

Wade didn't think he'd heard right.
“I'm sorry?”

“You to
ok my son, I want him back.”

Wade still wasn't sure he'd heard right.
“I'm sorry, there must be some mistake…you have the wrong number.”

Wade noticed Shirley
watching him rather than the game.

“You made the mistake
. You took
MY
son and I want him back.”

Wade pushed the disconnect
button. He stood there, staring at the number.

Shirley got up and came over.
“Everything alright?”

“
Yeah...yeah, fine. Just trying to save a big sale.”

She wasn’t buying
it. “I see. You looked like something upset you.”

“No,
it was nothing.” Wade didn’t like lying.

She gave him a
skeptical look, but didn't push the issue.

Wade returned with her to the bleachers and watched the rest of the game.
His mind kept playing the conversation over and over.

The man ha
s to be mistaken. He’s confused and has me mixed up with someone else.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, something was gnawing at him.
Wade just couldn't put his finger on it.

*******

Jason couldn't figure the connection between Michael and Benny Carter, and he hadn't found a link between Benny Carter and Susan Turnbull either. Michael’s son had to be at the center of the puzzle, but the detective needed more pieces to make it come together.

U
niformed officers had been to Stan Turnbull's place twice without finding him. They had a phone number, but it went to voicemail, so Jason thought he'd go poke around the brother's house. He got the address from Sam Garner and drove over.

Getting out of the car, he noticed privacy
was obviously a major concern for Mr. Turnbull. A tall wood fence surrounded the sides and back of the property. The fence was covered with ivy, which made seeing over it all but impossible.

Jason crossed the lawn and rang the doorbell. He waited a few minutes and tried again. He knocked. Cupping his hands
against the glare, he peered through the front window. Nothing seemed out of place, no sign of trouble. He tried the door. Locked.

W
alking around the side of the property, he stepped over piled-up newspapers, before finding the gate that led into the backyard. The latch gave and he let himself in.

F
ollowing the path to the back, Jason came around the corner, and found a covered porch, a table, and some chairs. A half-full cup of coffee sat on an outdoor table, which Jason put his finger in, and found to be cold. An open newspaper was lying next to the coffee cup.

Jason turned to check the sliding door and stepped on br
oken glass. The window opposite the table was shattered. He drew his gun and stepped over to the window. He didn't see anyone, nor did he see any blood.

“Stan Turnbull! Police!”

In the wall, across from the window, was a bullet hole. Jason pulled out his cell phone and dialed Sam Garner.

“Garner
.”

“Sam, Jason here.
I'm at Stan Turnbull's, and I've found a window in the back shot out. Can you send me back-up?”

“I'll send a black and white
, get out front where they can see you. I'm on my way.”

“
Alright, I'm moving out…wait!” Jason caught sight of something in the pool and quickly realized what it was. “I think I found Stan Turnbull.”

“Is he
okay?”

“I wouldn't say so, no
.”

*******

Jason waited in front while they pulled Stan Turnbull's body out of the pool. He'd swelled up like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, and Jason was glad he hadn't had lunch yet.

Jason already knew Stan
Turnbull was murdered, the handcuffs told him that. What Jason hadn’t figured was why Stan and his sister were targeted. It still seemed likely Michael Barton was responsible for both deaths, but they didn't have a solid connection there, either.

Sam came through the gate and joined him.
“Nothing. No fingerprints, no blood. The slug is a.44 and it didn't come from the victim’s gun. We found his gun in the nightstand, a.38.”

“Same story as the sister's place, nothing to directly connect my guy.”

Sam nodded. “I still agree with you, though. He seems the most likely suspect, just because of the trail of sightings, and the fact he’s still missing.”

Jason didn't like always being one step behind.
“Any other family show up on record?”

“No
.”

“His phone was on the table
. Did you find anything in it?”

Sam pulled out an evidence bag with the
cell phone in it. “I'm taking it downtown now to have the numbers checked. Until then, I guess we wait.”

Jason didn't like it.
“Wait for what? Another body?”

Sam gave him a wry smile.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a new lead.”

*******

Michael was sitting in his car just down the street from the Duncan home. It was a comfortable two-story, with dormers over the upstairs windows and ivy growing on one side. The lawn was cut but not manicured, and the driveway was clogged with bikes, skateboards, and a football.

The front door wa
s cranberry in color and flanked by two picture windows. The exterior was brick all the way around, giving the home a solid appearance.

This wa
s the third day Michael had watched their morning routine, and so far, they hadn’t varied from it. Around seven-fifteen, the boys came tumbling out the door and loaded up in their mom's van for school. He’d followed them one day to check on timing. From there, Katie went to her job at the local Sears store.

A
round eight-thirty, Wade Duncan came out and got in his car, usually talking on the phone, and headed for Golden Century Realty. Michael had remained for at least an hour after his departure each day to make sure no one returned. An hour would give him the window of time he needed.

Michael lo
oked at his watch: 7:14. The front door opened and the boys appeared, followed by their mother. Within a few minutes, they were gone. Wade was late leaving today. He wasn’t gone until eight-forty-five, which cut into Michael's safe window.

After Wade Duncan drove away, Michael got out and walked quickly to the front door.
Using a pick on the lock, he jimmied until it popped, then slipped inside. Closing the door behind him, he stopped to record a mental map of the interior.

The stairs
were to the right, and beyond them, the living room. The furniture was all browns and tans, the coffee table, glass. A large flat-screen TV hung on one wall. The living room appeared to run the length of the house, from the picture window in front, to a door that led out to the backyard.

Directly ahead wa
s a hallway. To Michael’s left was the dining room with a large wooden table and eight chairs. Running the length of the wall was a mirror reflecting the seating arrangement.

Mi
chael moved down the hall. Halfway along was a bathroom on the right with a closet opposite it on the left.

The hall
way opened up into the kitchen, which was bright and airy. White walls, white floors, and white appliances provided a stark contrast to the subdued shades of the front rooms. The only color in the room came from the red-checked curtains, place mats, and potholders. Another door opened into the backyard.

Michael retraced his steps and went upstairs.
At the top, he turned left into the master bedroom. The subdued colors picked back up here with greens and golds.

A large bed
sat flanked by a chest of drawers on one side and a vanity on the other. A bench ran along the bottom of the bed, facing the large mirrored closet doors.

With each step, he memoriz
ed, making his mental map. He needed to remember the entire layout so he could move around silently, and if necessary, in the dark.

Michael
walked back to the top of the stairs, and to the second bedroom door. As he stood looking into the room, he heard a noise at the front door. Sliding around the bedroom door, he closed it to just a crack.

Someone ca
me through the front door. An older woman Michael didn't recognize, holding a phone to her ear. “Hi, Katie. It's mom. I know you can't answer at work, but I came by the house to get my suitcase, and found the door unlocked.”

S
he climbed the stairs toward Michael. “You guys need to be more careful about locking up. Anyway, I'll lock the door when I leave. Call me when you get off, Bye.”

Michael squeezed the door shut a little more until he could barely see. Reaching behind him, he drew a knife
from his back pocket. The woman reached the top of the stairs and turned toward the master bedroom.

Michael could hear her rummaging in a closet
, and after several minutes, she reappeared carrying a small suitcase. As she reached the top of the stairs, she paused.

Michael's grip tightened on the knife.

Setting the suitcase down, she returned to the bedroom.

Michael considered bolting from the house, but before he could act, the woman returned to the top of the stairs, this time
carrying a makeup case. She picked up the suitcase and headed down the stairs.

Michael relaxed his grip on the knife and within a few minutes
, he heard the front door close. He stood up and put the knife away.

Lo
oking around, he realized the room belonged to one of the boys. Two pennants took up most of the main wall, one for the NFL Rams, and another for the NHL Blues. Looking at him from the back of the door, a poster of a Rams player, complete with a signature and the number 13 scrawled across it.

A Star Wars poster
hung over a small desk at one end of the room. A dresser and bed filled the other end.

Michael walked over to the dre
sser and picked up a picture of a boys soccer team. Smiling from the back row was his son. Next to the picture sat a trophy. He set the picture down and lifted the trophy.

Jack Duncan

Champions

Under 8 Boys Soccer

He was in his son’s room.

R
ubbing his hand over the inscription of Jack's name, he wished he could erase it, and rewrite it as ‘Kristian Barton.’

Michael
replaced the trophy and went over to the bed, sitting on the edge. He let his hand rest on the pillow where his son's head had been. Bunching up some of the blanket, he held it to his nose, inhaling the smell of his son sleeping.

Despite the anger within, he still could find a place in his heart for love. The love for his son that he’d tried to lock away.
Nevertheless, the anger always took over, and buried his sense of right and wrong, in an avalanche of the injustice.

This all should have been theirs.
His and Tammy's, and it was stolen. These people had taken it, and left in its place pain. He vowed they'd know what it felt like.

L
ooking at his watch, he realized his time was up, and after one last look around, went back downstairs. Cracking the front door to make sure it was clear, he slipped out, leaving it unlocked behind him.

*******

Katie Duncan parked her car in front of the grocery store.

“Come on
boys, we just need to pick up a few things before going home.”

She watched them take off their seat belts and put their backpacks on the floor.
She’d just picked them up from school and they weren't happy about having to stop on the way home. “Jack, take Jesse's hand.”

He rolled his eyes.
“I know, Mom. I always do.”

She smiled to herself.
He’s too young to be doing that already.

Jack
was used to watching over his little brother, he’d been doing it all his life, but she always reminded him anyway. Jack rarely put up a fuss. He and Jesse were best buddies.

Jack stood a head taller than Jesse
and had jet-black hair, which was wavy to the point of being wild. With green eyes and broad shoulders, he was handsome in a Tom Cruise kind of way. Add in the attitude of a big brother, and you had Jack.

Jesse, on the other hand
, has his dad’s straight brown hair and brown eyes. Small for his age, he was in perpetual motion. Jesse inherited Wade's big smile, and it never seemed to leave his face. “Will we still get our ice cream, Mom?”