Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (27 page)

“Why Rawson?  Why did he get involved?” Cochrane asked.

“Greed . . . old fashion money,” Summer answered.  “We don’t think he ever took advantage of the boys . . . at least there’s no record or video of him in Chicago or Long Beach.”

“Chet looked into the agents in Albuquerque and Phoenix and found someone in each office with almost as much money as Davis and Rawson.  We think the pilot was clean and was coerced into taking the helicopter up.  We suspect the agent out of Albuquerque of executing the helicopter pilot and the two guys who murdered George Tokay’s family,” Pete said. “You know, tying up loose ends.  We’ll never know who pulled the trigger for sure.”

“Why did you suspect someone in Albuquerque or Phoenix?” O’Brien asked.

“George’s cousin, Leonard, is a deputy with the Navajo Tribal Police, and he had discovered the helicopter service was out of New Mexico.  We knew Bosch’s ranch was outside of Phoenix in Chandler.  We figured he had to have protection or at least eyes in both places,” Pete answered.

“We also uncovered protection from local PD in Chicago, Long Beach and Los Angeles,” Chet said.  “This whole thing was well organized with a lot of money that helped with the organization.”

“And the rest . . . well, you know the rest,” Summer said.

“Nice investigative work,” Cochrane said.

Pete and Summer exchanged a smile, and Pete winked at Chet.  He smiled for the first time in a long time.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Jamie and O’Brien left to check on Fitz, Skip left to check on Brett, and Cochrane left for his office.  Pete had asked that Summer and Chet stay behind, so he could speak to them.  They sat around the same table where they had been sitting, Pete on one side, with Summer and Chet facing him.

“Guys, I’ve handed in my resignation.  I’m too old for this.”

“Come on, Pete,” Summer said. “You’re tired, that’s all.”

“No,” he said shaking his head. “A boy hangs onto a gun and gets shot when I should have shoved his butt back with the other boys.  Two assholes catch me off-guard, and I’m running up and down stairs out of breath and wondering what the fuck is happening.  I can’t do this any longer.”

“Oh bull!” Chet said.

“I’ve already sent a message to Dandridge.”

Deputy Director Thomas Dandridge was in charge of the wing that Logan Musgrave and others on that side reported to.  His kingdom, as he liked to call it, ranged from computer crime, to auto theft, to crimes against children, including the Rapid Response Team that were the actual first responders in abduction cases.  He and Pete had entered the FBI at the same time and had become friends and stayed friends, even though Dandridge had moved quickly and quietly up through the ranks, while Pete stayed with cop work.  Pete had quietly kept him in the loop ever since he had received the phone call from George’s cousin while investigating the murder scene in Pembine.

“Pete, we just closed a ring that ran across half the country, and we saved a bunch of kids.  Probably more when you consider this ring could’ve kept going on and on for who knows how long.  It was your hunch . . . your gut that closed it.  Ask Dandridge to sit on it for a week or two, and then see what happens,” Summer pleaded.

Pete looked down at the empty and chipped mug that held the last drops of coffee he drank earlier.  He held onto it with both hands, and he didn’t respond, so the three of them sat there in silence, not sure what to say.

*                                                        *                                                        *

The nurse didn’t want to let them in at all, but the doctor overruled her, allowing them in the boy’s room for a moment to just have a quick word.

Brett’s eyes blinked open, but he lay still, first staring at the ceiling, then out the window, and then the wall at the foot of his bed.  He stared at his left arm that had an IV in it, and it seemed that he noticed that his left shoulder ached under the heavy bandage.   He turned his head slowly to his right and spotted both Skip and Pete and he smiled weakly.

“I’m not sure who you are, Kid,” Pete said. “I’m used to having you run around naked and calling me names.”

He mouthed something, and Pete bent low so he could hear him.

“Lift the sheet and take a peek, Fuck Head,” Brett said quietly with a smile.

“That’s the Brett we know,” Pete said to Skip with a laugh. “Had us fooled, didn’t he?”

Brett reached out his right hand, and Pete took it and held it, and then Brett shut his eyes still smiling.

After a short time, he opened them, focused on Skip and said softly, “Sorry for not sticking with the plan.”

“It worked out okay,” Skip said.

“I could’ve gotten everybody killed.” Tears filled his eyes.

“Kid, you saved everyone’s life. 
Everyone’s
life,” Pete said. “Don’t forget that.”

Brett looked at Skip and said, “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, Kid.  You’re one of the bravest guys I know,” Skip said.  And then with a laugh added, “Probably one of the most stubborn too.”

Brett smiled, turned his head and fell asleep.  Skip’s cell vibrated and he got up, looked at the number but didn’t recognize it, so he stepped into the hall to take it.  Nurses moved up and down the hall.  The overhead intercom asked for this doctor to call that number.  Orderlies pushed patients in wheelchairs or on gurneys this direction or that direction.  Lots of hustle and bustle, all purposeful and orderly.

The phone vibrated again and he opened it up and said, “James Dahlke.”

“Please hold for Deputy Director Dandridge,” a women’s voice said.

He had heard about him just that morning but was puzzled as to what this was about.  Probably Pete called this guy in order to have him running off again to look at a crime scene.  He guessed that would be okay, since he didn’t have much to do at the moment.  After a pause, he heard someone pick up and then a man cleared his voice.

“Skip Dahlke?”

“Yes, this is James Dahlke.”

“My name is Tom Dandridge.  I’m a Deputy Director with the FBI, and I’d like you to work for us.  You’ve come highly recommended, and I’ve seen some of the results of your work.”

Skip guessed who it was that had contacted him.  He glanced through the window into Brett’s room.  Brett was asleep, and Pete sat in the chair with his head in his hands.  He looked like he was dozing.

“Oh and I also want you to give a message to Kelliher for me,” Dandridge continued.  “Tell him to take his resignation and shove it up his ass.  Tell him I’m not accepting it.  Got that?”

“Um . . . yes, Sir.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

While Randy made the rounds talking to each of the boys, mostly listening, sometimes sharing tears, Jeremy met with the Pruitts, the Baileys and the Ericksons.  Understandably, the parents didn’t want to meet with him but instead wanted to be with their sons.  Yet, they listened respectfully, asked questions, and sought advice.

He repeated what he had shared with the Forstadts the night before, after their son had phoned Randy and told him that a pizza owner, Jim Rodemaker, might have had Stephen Bailey and Mike Erickson.  That conversation seemed so long ago, days ago and not just a few hours ago.

They sat around a dark oak or mahogany table in soft leather chairs in a comfortable conference room used by the hospital for telling loved ones about imminent death or required surgery or surgical complications.  Fortunately, there would be none of that at this meeting.

“Your boys will be anxious to see you, but at the same time, nervous and ashamed.”

“Nervous?” Jennifer Erickson asked, not in anger, but in confusion. “We’re their parents.”

“Yes,” he said nodding, “But nervous and ashamed because of what these boys had to endure, go through . . . do.  These boys had to survive any way they could.  They obeyed.  To
not
obey meant severe beatings or even death.  Stephen and Mike didn’t witness this, but the others did.”

He paused and started again.

“All kids want to please their parents . . . make them proud. Your sons want no less.  Because of what they were forced to do, they might feel you’ll be disappointed in them . . . they might feel they let you down.”

“But we aren’t disappointed in them.  They’re our kids.” Mark Erickson said.

“Exactly” Jeremy said. “But remember, it isn’t what
you’re
feeling, it’s what the
boys
are feeling.  They’re confused.  They’re tired.  They’re angry.”

Jeremy paused and said, “They had a good-sized chunk of their lives stolen from them, and they won’t get it back.  Ever.  The best they can do . . . with
your
help, with
your
love and with
your
support is to go on from here.”

The parents looked at one another not quite sure what to make of Jeremy or what exactly had happened to their kids.  They were also pretty sure they didn’t want to know what had happened to their kids.

Sitting around the table with Jeremy were Detective Jamie Graff, Captain Jack O’Brien, and Agent Summer Storm.  Sitting off to the side were the two surgeons who had worked on Tim and Mike.  They listened intently, nodding every so often to a point Jeremy made or a question that was posed to him, but otherwise just listened.

“We were told Tim had surgery,” Thad Pruitt said. “Why?”

The two surgeons looked at each other, deciding who would answer the question.  Finally, Blaine Flasch cleared his throat, took his glasses off and sort of played with them, debating what words to use.  Finally, he shook his head and ran his hand through his hair, giving up on any polite, sanitized way to say what needed to be said.

“Both Tim and Mike had similar injuries to their anus and rectum.  They’re going to be fine in the long run, but in the short term, there will be discomfort and some pain.  They’ll have to wash carefully, take Sitz baths, apply antiseptic ointment, but they’re going to be fine.”

The parents stared at him, not comprehending what he was saying, and then slowly the meaning of his words seeped in, showing first on their faces.  Two of the mothers covered their mouths.  Tears spilled out of each of the mothers’ eyes.  The fathers grew pale, and Thad Pruitt clenched his fist.

“Our sons were raped.” Ted Bailey didn’t ask the question.

He merely voiced what had registered in each of the parents’ minds.

“They were . . .” he didn’t, couldn’t finish.

“Oh my God,” Sarah Bailey said, clutching Jennifer Erickson’s hand. “Oh my God,” she repeated.

Thad Pruitt put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, their heads together in a silent hug.

“Tim’ll be fine,” he said softly.

“This is what you meant when you said it would be difficult for the boys to tell us what they went through, isn’t it?” Mark Erickson asked.

“Yes,” Jeremy said nodding. “At the very least, these boys have been forced to do things that we don’t want to imagine children doing.  In some cases, the boys were tortured and what they experienced no one . . . not me, not you . . . no one can imagine.”

Jeremy paused then said, “They might not
ever
tell you exactly what happened or what they went through, but what they
do
tell you will be painful for them to share and painful for you to hear.”

“What about . . .” Ted Bailey searched for the words, and then finally said, “AIDS?”

The other adults turned and looked at Doctor Flasch who shrugged and said softly, “The boys will have to be tested every six months for at least a year or two, maybe longer.”

The statement was met with silence.  It was a thick and living thing, enough to choke, enough to suffocate.  Each adult wrestled with their thoughts, their feelings.  They tried to rationalize and deny.  They were angry.  But mostly, they were helpless.  There was nothing they could do to make it go away, to make it disappear, and they certainly couldn’t have a do over, either for themselves or more importantly, for their sons.

Jeremy had seen this same reaction in each of the adults he had spoken to in the years he’d been on call for law enforcement agencies.  Hell, he still felt this way at times when he looked at his son, Randy.

“What now?” Laura Pruitt asked. “What do the boys need now? How can we help them?”

Jeremy smiled sadly.

“They need each other.  The boys suffered together.  They cried together.  They watched other boys get taken away, never to be seen again.  They need you.”

The parents nodded and wiped away tears; took Kleenex and wiped their eyes, their noses.  Somehow, someway, they garnered up their courage.  Jeremy saw it building, if ever so slowly, weakly, but it was there.  A resolve.

“Wouldn’t it be better if they didn’t talk about it?  You know, just move on?” Laura Pruitt asked.

Jeremy shook his head and said, “No.  That would just bottle things up.  If you discourage them from talking about it, that might confirm to the boys that you are disappointed in them and that what they did, even though they didn’t have any choice in the matter, was wrong.”

“Can the boys talk to you?” Sarah Bailey asked.

“I’m willing to work with them, but they might need someone with more experience.  But yes.  We’ll make sure the boys have my number as well as my son’s number.  My son, Randy has been through this too, though not as long or as extensively as your boys.”

The adults stared at one another in silence.  Mark Erickson puffed out his cheeks and slipped an arm around his wife, Jennifer.  Thad and Laura Pruitt rested their heads on each other.  Sarah and Ted Bailey said nothing.  They had been feeling guilty because they had blamed Mark and Jennifer because the boys had been taken from their house.  Though they had apologized and though that apology had been accepted, the guilt was still there and would be for a long time.

Trying to lighten the mood in the room, Jeremy said, “Don’t forget . . . these boys survived.  They lived.  They have incredible courage . . . and hope . . . and resilience.”  He paused and then said again, “They survived.  Honestly, you can be very proud of them.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Tim had climbed up and sat on the end of Brett’s bed.  He wasn’t supposed to be there, but Skip had snuck him in and guarded the door so the friends could talk.