Need to know. You mean, go fuck yourself. “Donovan says there’s something special about Samuel,” Robert lied. “Do you think that’s why they took him?”
Robert watched his fabrication worm its way through Thompson’s mind. The Assistant Director, his reputation built on calculating intuition, seemed to suppress a smile. “And exactly what is this special thing Donavon shared with you?”
“Something valuable enough to put the boy’s life in danger,” answered Robert. “Any idea who’s behind this?” Thompson continued to measure Robert. “None at this time. We were hoping you’d picked up their scent.”
“No such luck. If I knew where the bastards were, I wouldn’t be here bullshitting with you.”
Thompson smiled and lit another cigarette off the one he’d just finished. “If you do find them, we’d appreciate a phone call. We’ll provide any assistance you ask for, including intelligence, hardware, money. It’s your call. Name your price.” Robert, off the bench before he knew it, grabbed Thompson by the collar. “Price! There’s no price you could pay for this, asshole! He’s my godson, not a bounty!”
Thompson continued to smile, the cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth. Two cold taps on the nap of his neck, and Robert turned his head.
“Let the director go,” said Agent Maxwell, his. 357 automatic pointed at Robert’s right eye socket.
Robert didn’t let go right away. He wanted to shake Thompson till his brain scrambled. Agent Maxwell cocked the hammer on his weapon.
Robert let Thompson go and took a step back. When Agent Maxwell checked to see if his boss was okay, Robert grabbed the agent’s wrist, and spun clockwise, twisting the gun out of the agent’s grasp and flipped him over his shoulder. Agent Maxwell let out a grunt as he pounded down, back first, to the ground. Robert fired a shot in the dirt just past the agent’s head.
“You pull a gun on me, use it,” he snarled.
“I won’t forget,” said Agent Maxwell. “You can believe it.” Thompson, seated again on the bench, lit another smoke, took a deep drag, leaned back and blew a hazy cloud into the air. He looked down at the two, amused. “Please let him up, Mr. Veil.” Robert stared at the agent, his forearm pressed hard against Maxwell’s throat. But it wasn’t the FBI agent he saw on the ground, it was one of the masked men who kidnapped his godson. Robert hit Agent Maxwell on the temple with the butt of the gun, knocking him out cold.
Then he tossed the weapon to Thompson, who fumbled it, losing his Camel in the process, sending orange ash sparkling in the air.
“That was uncalled for,” raged Thompson, standing.
“So is all this crap you’re trying to hand me,” fired Robert. “And until the CIA learns to share, don’t call on me again.”
“You’re one of us,” growled Thompson. “You know how this is played. Help us with anything you learn, and I’ll do the same. You have my word. I’ll let you in on everything when you find the boy.” Agent Maxwell, groggy, tried to stand, but collapsed back to the ground, hands on his head. Robert headed back to his vehicle, ignoring Thompson’s calls.
Back in the Explorer, Robert gripped the steering wheel tight. Why is Samuel drawing attention from the CIA? He racked his brain, but no scenario that fit made any sense. He started the engine and hit the highway. He dialed his office in Washington D.C. on his cell. Evelyn Hollis, their office manager, picked up.
“Evie, it’s me. I want you to do a full background work-up on Samuel. Go back as far as you can, and list every name you can find.” Evelyn grilled him, and he brought her up to date as much as he could over the phone. She hung up with promises to move as quickly as possible. Robert dialed Thorne, who picked up on the first ring.
“I have news, Robert. Come to Detective Reynolds apartment. It doesn’t look good,” said Thorne.
13
R obert sped into Chicago and headed for South Shore, where Detective Reynolds owned a condominium. Forty-five minutes past noon, most of the city’s faithful went about their daily routine with systematic ease. City street crews directed traffic around pylons, while they repaired chuckholes in the asphalt, and scheduled maintenance before a hard winter took its toll. Hustlers hawked their wares, some legit, most illegal, all under the occasional watchful eyes of Chicago’s patrolling finest.
Detective Reynolds, a twenty year police veteran, was somewhat of a legend on the streets of Chicago. Tales of his exploits were many, however, one story stood out as Robert’s favorite.
Late one Friday night, back when the detective was still a uniform patrolman, he and his partner were cruising through one of the seedier sections of the city’s South Side, when an explosion in a house the next street over rocked the neighborhood. Reynolds and his partner were the first to arrive on the scene and found an old, beaten down house quickly being gobbled up in flames.
“My babies, my babies!” a distraught mother in a nightgown bellowed, running up to the car. “My son and daughter are up there! Help them, please!”
“How old are they?” Reynolds asked, calm and controlled.
“Six and eight,” she screamed.
“What are their names?”
“Carl and Kendra,” the mother told him, collapsing to the ground.
Detective Reynolds’ partner called for backup and the Fire Department. Reynolds looked up at the flames filling the second floor, and without hesitation, rushed inside and bolted up the stairs, fire crackling all around, screaming the children’s names. He found both kids unconscious on the floor in their bedroom, the exit blocked by the raging inferno. Witnesses outside said they heard a loud crash, looked up, and saw Detective Reynolds falling toward them with Carl and Kendra under each arm. He landed hard on the grassless lawn, breaking his right leg in two places, but saving the children, who suffered a few bruises and were treated for smoke inhalation, but otherwise were okay.
When Detective Reynolds returned to work he received the highest honors the police department and the City of Chicago could bestow, not to mention, street credibility any officer would dream of, and the nickname of a comic book superhero with the persona of a bat.
As with many women, Thorne kept the intimate details of her love life guarded, but in all the years Robert had known her, no man could ever boast the impact Detective Reynolds had on her. Where most of Thorne’s relationships lasted six, nine months at the most, the detective had managed to survive close to three years, and Robert wasn’t surprised when she accepted the detective’s proposal of marriage. Thorne was the happiest Robert had ever seen her, and he was glad she found someone to share her life with.
However, a month before they all flew to Martha’s Vineyard for a small ceremony, the whole thing was suddenly called off. Thorne spent a week at Robert’s place moping. He didn’t press her, and she never said a word about why the wedding was canceled. Thorne eventually shook it off and remained close friends with Detective Reynolds. They even took trips together on occasion, but the subject of marriage never came up again.
Robert drove into the underground garage of the detective’s complex and parked. Shadowy and dark, the drab concrete felt more like a tomb, adding to Robert’s already foreboding sense of dread. He strode out of the elevator on the tenth floor and knocked on the white and gold trim door, numbered ten-twelve. Thorne snatched open the door, all smiles, and gave Robert a long, tight hug, as though she knew it was just the medicine he needed.
Detective Reynolds, six-three, muscle plastered, with flawless, midnight black skin, emerged from the kitchen hand extended, and offered Robert his sympathy concerning Samuel. Words Robert found comforting.
Robert plopped down on the sofa and filled them in on his encounters with Samuel’s friends at school, his conversation with Donavon, and his clash with Glenn Thompson and the CIA.