Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (4 page)

CHAPTER SIX

George politely offered the canteen to Pete before taking a drink himself.  With a nod of thanks, Pete took a long drink and then gave it back to the boy who did the same.  Pete rubbed his lower back, twisted and turned to work out the kinks.  He hadn’t been on a horse since he was a kid, and to be honest, he didn’t like it much back then either. 

“Do you have those binoculars?”

George pulled them from one of his saddlebags and handed them to the agent.

“Okay, now show me exactly where you were.”

George led both horses away and tied them loosely to a Joshua tree and pointed to a rock just below the crest of the hill.

“See that rock, the one that looks like a chair?  I sit there when I eat my lunch or take a break.  I can sort of lean against the other rock, like a chair.”

Pete smiled.  The two rocks almost formed a chair, not quite at a slight recline.  He sat down heavily, took out his walkie-talkie and binoculars and stared far below at the crime scene.  He could see people move, but other than Summer, not well enough to make out who was who, much less what each brand of cigarette was used.  Then he brought up the binoculars and suddenly, what was far away, became arm’s length.

“Christ!  How could they not see you?”

“The sun was in their eyes.”

“Summer, come in,” Pete said in the walkie-talkie.

“Here.  How’re you doing?”

“Sore as hell.  Happy I’m not trying to have any children.”

He actually saw her smiling, shielding her eyes to try to see him. 

“I have to admit it’s not often someone goes horseback riding in a white shirt, slacks and wingtips.  You realize you’re going to get a raft of shit from the rest of the team when I tell them,” she said with a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah... very funny.”

“What can you see, Pete?”

“Everything.  I’m right on top of you.”

“It’ll hold up in court?”

“Right down to the last detail,” Pete said smiling.

“Come on in, and we’ll wrap it up.”

“I’ll be down soon.  I have a couple of things I want to go over with George first.”  Then

Pete added with a smile, “And I want to build up my courage for the ride down.”

*                                          *                                          *

George and Pete sat side by side thinking their own thoughts and chewing jerky that George had taken out of one of the saddlebags.  George had gone over the whole thing again and then once more.

“Who do you think gave the orders?” Pete asked squinting down at the crime scene.

“I think the tall one was in charge.”

“Why?”

George shrugged.

“A feeling... the way he acted.  He was sort of cold, like he didn’t care, like he didn’t notice the fat man talking.”

“What about the guy wearing the baseball cap and sunglasses?”

George squinted off in the distance, thinking.

“I’m not sure.  He was sort of watching the whole thing.  He didn’t seem to be . . . involved,” he said with a shrug.

“What was the fat man like?”

George stared at the scene, trying to picture the facial expressions of the men and the boy. 

“Angry . . . impatient.  Like an old bull being challenged by a young one.”

“But you said he wasn’t that old.  In his thirties or forties, you said.”

“He wasn’t old.  He acted like an old bull acts when he’s challenged, that’s all.  Like that.”

Pete thought about that for a bit, and then said, “You said the boy talked to them before the tall man shot him.  What do you think he said?”

“I think he asked them not to kill him,” George said quietly.

“Who do you think he asked?” Pete said curiously.

George thought about that for a moment.  If he were the boy, standing in front of them, knowing he was about to die, which one would he ask?  Pete watched him wrestle with this, knowing that he was going to make an incredible witness.  And further down the road, make an incredible young man. 

“I think . . . I think he knew he was going to die, so no matter what he said, it didn’t matter who he talked to.  Neither man cared.  They were doing a job.”

Pete couldn’t comprehend the coldness, yet the reality of the statement. 
Neither man cared.  A job. 
How is it possible that children couldn’t be regarded as children?  Just playthings, toys, to be gotten rid of when not needed anymore?

“May I ask you a question?”  George asked, looking down at his moccasins.

“I think you deserve more than just one question,” Pete said with a smile.

“Why did they kill him?”

Pete hung his head, his mind racing with statistics his own FBI accumulated in 1987; over one hundred-thousand
attempted
abductions each year, three hundred long-term abductions each year, one hundred-fifteen stranger abductions each year, forty-one percent still missing, twenty-seven percent found dead, thirty-two percent found alive.  Pete slipped an arm around George’s shoulders, squeezing him gently.  George felt the man’s pain coming off him in waves.

“I don’t know, George.”

They sat like that watching shadows grow before them, and when it was not quite dark, yet not quite light, they got up to start their trip back down the hill.  George led the horses back to the trailhead, but before Pete mounted, George stopped him.

He took the turquoise and leather necklace from around his neck and said, “You might need this more than me.”

Startled, admiring its beauty, he said, “What is it?”

“Protection.  You might need it.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“How many ponies do we have in our Chicago stable?”

Frank
knew
the man knew, and Frank
knew
that the man
knew
Frank knew.  Why this particular game was played was beyond him.  Everything was on line, but the man liked a hardcopy backup.   Frank looked through a three-ring binder listing the boys by name, complete with a picture and the boy’s age.

Frank scanned a couple of pages, looked up and said, “It looks like twelve.”

“How many are healthy?”

“According to Butch, all of them.  The Vega kid has a cold or flu or something.  Pretty much minor, but he’s been out of work lately.”

The short dark man ran a hand through freshly oiled hair, readjusted his robe and asked, “How long?”

“A week.”

“I want him put down.”

Frank didn’t like all of the horse metaphors, but he had to admit it kept things simple.  The word
Ponies
was a sort of shorthand or code that could be used in e-mail and phone calls, that sort of thing.

“It’s minor . . . just the flu.”

Besides, when Frank was in Chicago, Johnny was his favorite boy to mess with.

“We can’t afford to have a sick pony.  It’s bad for business, and word will spread.”

The short dark man glared at the skinny man, eyes narrowing, jaw set, and then he said, “If he doesn’t improve by the end of the week, I want him put down.”

Frank shrugged his shoulders.  The dark man wondered if the gesture was one of insolence but decided it wasn’t.  Frank wasn’t the type to be insolent.  Ron was, but not Frank.

“What are the ages in the Chicago stable?”

Frank glanced through the book and then looked up.

“Three of the boys are fourteen, but they look young.”

“How long have we had them?”

Studying the book, Frank said, “Two just over two years, and one just under two years.  They still get quite a bit of business.  One pulls down $1,800 a week and the other, the Pruitt kid, brings in $2,200 a week.”

“Ah . . . yes, I remember him; strong, athletic.”

“How many ponies do we have on the circuit?”

Frank flipped to the back of the binder and leafed through.

He looked up and said, “Four, all of them young, and all of them relatively fresh.”

“How fresh?”

“Um . . . looks like the longest has been in rotation four months.  The others are a couple of months old.”

“Who is it . . . the one who has been in rotation the longest?”

“The kid from St. Louis . . . Montgomery.”

The short dark man nodded with a smile, eyes glazed.

“We do have some beautiful ponies, don’t we?”

Frank nodded.

“Our sources have good eyes, and you and Ron do a fine job picking them up.  Beautiful boys.” 

The man reached for a cigar, took his time lighting it, offering one to Frank who declined.

“I should give you both a raise.  How about an extra $500 a piece?”

“That would be fine,” Frank said, though he didn’t think it was fine at all.

He and Ron took all the risks.  They were the ones who brought kids into the business and then disposed of them.  And $500 was pocket change compared to what the man got.

The short dark man studied Frank and then said, “I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking you deserve more.”

Frank shrugged.

“Consider for moment the overhead.  I have to make sure the ponies get fed, have a roof over their heads and clientele to pay for them.  I set up the circuit, the stable in Chicago and the stable in Los Angeles.  I pay for security and travel expenses.  I pay for protection, and that doesn’t come cheap.  All of this takes money, and I have no doubt that the figures that appear in those ledgers are nowhere near what’s actually brought in.  I know that.”

He rose from the padded leather chair, walked over to the window and gazed out across the pool to the rolling hills beyond.

“I’m certain of that, just as I know that both you and Ron take certain liberties with my ponies before you bring them to me, and that you pad your expenses for a little more pocket change.”

The dark man turned around and stared at Frank with a sly, conspiratorial smile.  Frank stared back, not willing to break eye contact first.  He wanted to win this battle and show the dark man he wasn’t afraid or worried.

The dark man turned back to the window, clasped his hands behind his back and said, “Knowing all of that, I think $500 is sufficient.  Don’t you?”

“I never said it wasn’t,” Frank said.

“No, but you thought otherwise, did you not?”

Frank said nothing.

The dark man let the silence drag on and then turned around, relit his cigar and said, “You and Ron take a trip to the Midwest . . . Wisconsin.  Why don’t you and Ron pick up another beautiful pony for me?”

“We can do that.”

“We’ll put him on the circuit, and put Montgomery in Chicago.  Of course, we’ll have to make some room for him there, but I’ll let you and Ron make those arrangements.”

Frank nodded and then got up to leave.

“And take Graham with you again.  I want him to learn the ropes, because I’m thinking of expanding.”  Just before Frank got to the door, the dark man added, “And Frank, keep a leash on Ron.  I don’t trust him.”

Frank nodded and left.

The dark man stared out the window.  He watched Frank as he drove around the circular drive and down the mile long, tree-lined driveway.  He continued watching long after Frank had disappeared, then stubbed out his cigar and sat down behind the desk.  He took out his cell and punched in the numbers.

“Yes?”

“I have a job for you . . .”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Pete was restless, waiting for word—any word—on the three men who killed Tyler Hart in the desert and the other kids across the country.  The descriptions of the men given by George Tokay and drawn up by a police artist were circulated to law enforcement agencies in California, Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Utah and Colorado.  Nothing so far, but it was early. 

The license plates drew a dead-end.  The plates on the van had been stolen from a driveway in Scottsdale and had been substituted by ones stolen from a parking garage in Phoenix, which had been substituted by ones stolen from a parking lot in Flagstaff.  Unfortunately, that was where the dead-end occurred, because the owner, Ralph Owens, knew his plates were stolen because none had been substituted for them.  They were just taken.

In retrospect, it wasn’t a
real
dead-end, because the trail led somewhat northeast, possibly from California.  But who really knew?  And, California was a big motherfucker of a state full of assholes.  At least, that was Pete’s opinion.

Summer had flown to Cincinnati, Ohio to speak with the parents of Tyler Hart.  She could have had the Cincinnati office handle it, but because she took an active—perhaps,
too
active interest in the kids’ lives, she felt obligated to deal with the endings, the deaths.

Pete worried about her involvement, cautioning her about crossing the line of objectivity, but she stated angrily, if not coldly, “They’re kids, for God’s sake!  Parents deserve to hear it from me and not from a suit with a canned speech.”

Pete felt equal parts of pity and admiration for her sense of duty, maybe a little guilt because he couldn’t bring himself to face the parents.

“Chet, you have anything yet?” Pete asked.

Chet blinked at him, rubbed his eyes, shrugged and shook his head.

“What’s taking so long?” Pete yelled in frustration, shoving his chair back into the wall behind him with a crash.  “It shouldn’t be this hard.  We have faces, heights, weights and shoe sizes for chrissake.  Even some sort of goddamn mole or scar on one guy’s face, covered with a beard.  We have one fat fuck, one baseball player-type, and one guy wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.  Isn’t there some sort of data bank of known perverts we can get into?”

“I’m doing that, but it takes time,” Chet answered through clenched teeth.

“We haven’t
got
time, Chet, because these guys are already planning another kidnapping and maybe already stole a kid off some street.  We’ve got to work faster, Chet.”

“I’m working as fast as I can!”

Pete rubbed his hand over his flattop and sighed.

“I know, I know,” Pete said sadly.  “It’s just so frustrating to be this close.”

“We’ll get ‘em, Pete.  I promise you that,” Chet said as he turned back to his computer, stabbing at the keyboard.

Pete slapped the younger agent on the back, got up and left the bullpen head down and deep in thought and walked into another agent carrying a stack of papers, sending them to the floor in a jumbled mess.

“Jesus!  Watch where you’re going!” the agent yelled.

But Pete was already down the hallway and into his office.

“Jerk!”

*                                          *                                          *

Summer sat on a park bench watching a mother push her daughter on a swing.  The girl laughed and giggled; the mother smiled and laughed along with her.  The happy scene made Summer even sadder if that was possible.  She had told Richard and Tammy Hart that their boy, Tyler, had been found.

“How?” they asked.  “Where?” they asked.  “How do you know it was . . . is Tyler?” they asked.

Summer didn’t want to tell them.  She didn’t want to give them all the sordid details, so she had given them an abridged version instead.  But it all boiled down to the same thing: their son, Tyler Hart, had been found dead.  His fifteen-month ordeal had ended. Another young boy dead; executed, alone.

Their
ordeal, however, would never end.  Not until their questions were answered.

Who took their boy as he had peddled papers on a city street?  Why did they take him?  Who would do such a thing?

Why?  Who?  Where?

Summer didn’t have any answers.  She never had any answers.

Maybe this time she would finally get answers once and for all.   All she and Pete needed was a little luck, a break.  Maybe the Indian kid would give them one.

Maybe.

As she watched the mother and daughter walk out of the park hand in hand, Summer pulled out her cell phone.  She had Thatch on speed dial and needed to talk to him.  Thatcher Davis, tall, slender, stately and divorced, was her mentor and friend; always willing to listen, always willing to let her cry on his shoulder.

He had warned her that joining Kiddie Corps, as noble as it was, was not only a dead-end career move, but a hopeless one at that.  He had warned her that rarely, if ever, would she find any child alive.  He had quoted her the statistics: that of the abductions each year, most kids were killed in the first hour after being taken; if they lasted past that first hour, a girl more than likely found dead in the two weeks following the abduction; if a boy’s body wasn’t found in six months, it would most likely never be found.

And, he had warned her about working with Pete Kelliher, viewed by some of the heavy-hitters in D.C. as long past his prime and on the downward slide of his career.  Summer had argued that she didn’t want to be a suit; that she had wanted to do some good and make a difference.  Something good.  Anything.  Even the
possibility
of good.

“Hi, it’s me.  I’m catching a plane for D.C.  Do you have time for me this evening?”

“Always.  Something happen?”

“I’ll tell you about it tonight.”