The Hammer of God

9

H alfway to Lake Forest, a small suburb, thirty-one miles outside of Chicago, Robert took several measured breaths and flexed his hands out of nervousness. Freeway signs and highway shrubbery a blur, he gritted his teeth and suppressed the primal urge to bellow at the top of his lungs.

Samuel’s voice played in his head. “Uncle Robert, how come you don’t have any children?”

“I have a son.”

Samuel’s eyes widened. “Where is he?” Robert smiled. “I’m looking at him.” The rented, black, two-ton Explorer sped down Interstate 94 like a guided missile, weaving in and out of traffic, Robert barely aware of others on the road. For the first time since he and Thorne opened shop as guns-for-hire, the pangs of victim, not savior, filled his gut like hot coals, scorching his soul. More than he cared to remember, he’d sat in living rooms and offices across the globe, watching husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, lament feverishly to the point of collapse over a loved one. But now, his usually well-weaved nerves felt weak, unsteady and unraveled.

Get it together. You’ve done this before, and you’ve never lost one yet. Samuel won’t be the first.

Slowly, Robert’s pulse eased back to normal, his shoulder muscles and jaw relaxed. Two miles from St. Paul Catholic, the elementary school Samuel attended, he gathered himself, his surroundings a clearer presence. He heard the wind whistle through a crevice in the passenger door and bang against the windows. The partly cloudy sky cast a soft light on the surrounding area, much brighter than the veil of darkness his mood blanketed everything with earlier. The artificial scent of strawberries, from an air freshener the rental car clerk gave him, reemerged in his nostrils, signaling the near full return of self-control.

He found a jazz station on the radio at FM 89.3, Northwestern University’s station, and recalled the letters he and Samuel often wrote each other. Pen pals since the boy could scribble in crayon. The information Samuel had shared with Robert were no longer simply cute ramblings of an adolescent pre-teen, but lifelines, strands of potential clues that could save the boy’s life. Samuel had written about three individuals most often over the last year. Ms. Salomon, his fifth grade teacher, a woman Robert was sure Samuel had a crush on, and his two best friends, Paul Chambers and Carla Bryant. Robert couldn’t remember a letter that didn’t mention the three. Maybe one of them noticed something strange or out of place. In his experience, sometimes the smallest, seemingly insignificant detail could solve the unsolvable.

Just a year earlier, Robert and Thorne had been hired by the Wellingtons, a powerful family whose wealth was built on four generations of insurance industry profits. The commissioned them to find the murderer who beat their seventeen year old daughter, Amy, to death on the grounds of the Wellington estate in Westport, Connecticut. Police and federal agents were baffled, and on the advice of a mutual associate, Amy’s father, Nathaniel Wellington, offered Robert and Thorne five hundred thousand dollars to track down the killer.

One of the items listed in the mounds of evidence compiled by the authorities, and obtained in confidence by Mr. Wellington for their effort, was a dime size stain of butter pecan ice cream. Two months later, while questioning Briana Payne, one of Amy’s close friends, Robert noticed three empty Butter Pecan Hagan Daas containers in Briana’s trashcan. The stain revealed Briana’s favorite flavor, and set off an avalanche that locked Amy’s jealous friend away for the rest of her life.

Robert parked in St. Paul Catholic Elementary visitor parking lot.

Fifteen minutes later, under the guise of a federal agent, an illegal move Robert only resorted to in dire circumstances, sat in a plain, compact office with a large picture of the Pope on the wall, waiting to question Ms. Salomon, Carla and Paul. The portly, red-faced principal, Father Frank Gakowski, was hesitant initially, but finally agreed after Robert insisted that they not waste time that could save Samuel’s life.

Eyes closed, Robert took several deep breaths. Samuel, his patented full-face smile floating clear in Robert’s mind, slowly faded away, then dissolved. Robert struggled to regain the image, but the doorknob to the office door clicked, snapping him out of his trance. A slender, strawberry blond woman, with sparkling green eyes entered, with two nervous munchkins hiding behind her. Robert stood and introduced himself, taking note of Ms. Salomon’s soft, well-manicured hands and sweet apple scented perfume. Yeah, I’m sure Samuel has a crush on you. The two imps behind her stuck their heads out and stared. Ms. Salomon reached back and gently encouraged them out front.

“Now, this handsome young man must be Paul Chambers,” said Robert, as friendly as he possibly could.

Paul stuck his chubby hands in his pockets and stared at his shoes.

“Yes,” he mumbled, sneaking another glimpse of Robert, then abruptly looking back down.

“And you are?” asked Robert.

“My name is Carla, Carla Bryant,” said the bright-eyed, dark haired little girl Samuel described in his letters as pushy, but nice. “I know you,” she continued. “You’re Samuel’s godfather, the bounty hunter.” Robert smiled. “Something like that,” he answered. “Let’s all have a seat.”

Ms. Salomon left to get an extra chair. Carla and Paul plopped down on a small burgundy loveseat that looked as though it had seen its share of parent-teacher conferences, students, and no doubt, more than a few napping teachers. Ms. Salomon returned and they huddled together, Robert’s chair pressed back against the wall.

“Ms. Salomon, I’m here to find out if there’s any information you, Carla or Paul can provide, that will assist us in finding Samuel. It could be anything. A stranger outside the school, a car you noticed, anything,” said Robert.

“This is my first year here at St. Paul,” she said, hurt and strain replacing her smile. “I haven’t noticed anything I would deem out of place or strange. I guess I can give it some thought, but I’m afraid in that area, I won’t be of much help.”

Robert had been hopeful that Ms. Salomon would have something useful to add, but his real targets were now squirming and fidgeting on the couch in front of him. “What about you two? Have you noticed anything or anyone strange around Samuel over the last few weeks?” Both children looked at Ms. Salomon. “It’s okay,” she told them. “If there’s anything you think might help find Samuel, tell Mr. Veil.”

“Do you think Samuel’s okay?” asked Paul sheepish and unsure.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” answered Robert. “There are a lot of people working on getting him back, but we need your help.”

“Have you talked to him?” asked Carla.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then how do you know he’s okay?”

Robert forced a smile. Smart girl. “There are no guarantees, but if we think the best and stay positive, we have a better chance of finding him quickly. And right now, Samuel needs our positive thoughts and prayers.”

Ms. Salomon’s eyes said I’m impressed. Carla sat back, arms across her chest, eyes glued to Robert’s, looking less than convinced.

Robert asked again if they’d noticed anything out of the ordinary.

Both kids shook their heads no, but Paul rocked back and forth on the edge of the couch, eyes shifting from Robert to Ms. Salomon and back.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Paul?” Ms. Salomon finally asked. “Don’t be afraid, Mr. Veil is here to help.” Paul looked at Carla, who quickly turned her eyes away. Robert took a slow imperceptible breath, and leaned back.

“I guess Samuel’s pretty close to you guys. He writes to me all the time, and almost always mentions your names,” said Robert.

“We’re best friends,” said Paul, sitting up straight.

“Yes,” added Carla, “we’re the three musketeers.” Robert smiled. “Do musketeers share secrets?”

“Sure,” said Paul. “Musketeers always trust each other.”

“Did Samuel share anything with you that might help us find out where he is, or who took him?”

Paul’s eyes immediately fell to the floor. “He…there…is something.”

“We promised we wouldn’t say anything,” shot Carla. “Samuel made us promise.”

A surge bolted through Robert’s chest. He wanted to grab and shake it out of them. He took another deep breath. “I’m sure he’d want you to tell me,” he said, now leaning forward. “What is it?” Paul and Carla stared at each other.

Ms. Salomon moved to the edge of her seat. “It’s okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Carla bit her bottom lip. Tears rolled down Paul’s cheeks. He wiped his shirtsleeve across his face. Carla dropped her head into her hands, crying. “He told us not to tell. We promised,” she whispered.

Ms. Salomon’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. The door to the office sprang opened. Father Gakowski entered with two large security guards behind him, growling scowls on their faces.

“I’ve just gotten off the phone with the Archdiocese, and I’ve alerted the police. Mr. Veil, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave immediately,” demanded Father Gakowski.

Robert jumped to his feet. “But the kids, they know something! We need to find out what they know!”

The two security guards snatched out their batons and stepped forward.

“Ms. Salomon, take Carla and Paul out of the room,” ordered the priest.

The teacher gathered both children, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry we couldn’t help you, Mr. Veil,” she said.

“Us too,” said Carla, struggling to look strong.

“Yeah,” added Paul. “We hope you find Samuel okay.” Paul burst into tears and ran out of the room. Carla and Ms. Salomon followed right behind him, tears running down their cheeks too. When the door closed, Father Gakowski moved face-to-face with Robert.

“You lied, Mr. Veil. You’re not with the FBI, or any other agency.

Cardinal Polletto’s people said you were there this morning, and were told all we know.”

“Those children know more,” Robert fumed. “You heard them.”

“I’ll inform the proper authorities,” said Father Gakowski, opening the door. “Gentlemen, walk Mr. Veil to his car.” Robert felt the handle of his nine-millimeter press against his stomach. He relaxed, pushed past the guards, and stormed out of the building. Teeth grinding, he rumbled back down Interstate 94, blind with rage. Five miles down the highway, he abruptly snatched the wheel to the right, swerved off the freeway and skidded to a stop on the side of the road, car horns honking, and middle fingers up in his direction.

Paul and Carla wanted to tell me something. Something Samuel didn’t want anybody else to know.

Robert considered going to the Feds to get a court order, but knew his hunch wasn’t enough to get a judge to do battle with the Archdiocese, who obviously had something to hide. Besides, Robert was sure Cardinal Polletto, or whoever was pulling the strings, would see to it that neither child would be available for questioning after today. It was a long shot, but he’d run it by Thorne and Detective Reynolds anyway.

The cobalt blue numbers on the dashboard clock beamed 10:00 a.m.

A few more hours and Samuel would be gone for over forty-eight hours.

A near death sentence, unless the kidnappers made contact soon. Robert eased back onto the highway and headed for the Napier’s to have a talk with Donovan, and find out if the kidnappers had sent any word.

Head throbbing, heart pounding, Robert lowered the windows and let cool air blow through. Hold on Samuel, I’m coming.