A conference speaker had once said, “The more time that slips by, the more likely it is the victim will die.”
Ann couldn’t shake the words from her mind. She had seen firsthand the devastation that a prolonged investigation could have on a family. As usual with kidnapping cases, Ann’s thoughts turned to Gabriel Dawson, a boy about Jason Collins’s age, who’d been missing more than ten months before surfacing as a broken body in a field half a state away from his Virginia home. Finding the Collins family murdered like that would be infinitely worse than a long wait, but the agony of not knowing what happened also cut deeply. The search for justice continued in the Dawson case, but it had long since gone cold.
I haven’t forgotten you, Gabriel, Ann silently promised. She considered calling the child’s mother, but couldn’t bear the added emotional stress at the moment.
New stories like the spectacular internet robberies and the murder of a senator’s wife made the media forget about the Collins family, but Ann couldn’t forget the case. Not enough people died to make it interesting, she thought bitterly. The thought sickened her. Lord, have we sunk so low, forgetting the pain of others if the story doesn’t hold our interest?
Currently, she sat on the sitting room floor of her Virginia apartment surrounded by a sea of papers. Danny, her hyper golden retriever, barked and whined from his kitchen prison. Although pretty much over the illness that had recently plagued his system, Danny occasionally experienced a gross leakage from one end or the other. This made Ann extra cautious, especially where her plush living room carpet was concerned. Annoyed at being ignored, Danny yipped and yowled impatiently.
Ann sighed, struggled to her feet, and walked to the kitchen gate to chat with her pal. “I know you’re lonely, boy, but I’ve got work to do tonight.” She leaned over the gate and patted his head while he looked at her with sad eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Ann said half-heartedly. Finally giving in, she hauled herself over the gate and sat on the floor. Danny immediately climbed onto her lap. She laughed. “Okay, you can stay as long as you don’t deposit your lunch on me and ruin my nice pants.” She cupped his face and endured a sloppy kiss. “Whew! You have really, really bad breath.”
Note to self, invest in doggy breath mints.
Danny stepped over Ann, turned around, tilted his head, whined, draped his paws over her left leg, and lowered his head in between his paws.
“Comfortable?” Ann asked. Receiving no answer from the dog, save for the deep, regular hushed noises of his slumber, Ann absently stroked his soft fur and let her mind wander back to her two main cases.
A half-hour later, her leg started to cramp. She looked at the microwave clock. “Dinner time,” she muttered.
Do I have to get up? She grunted and dragged her stiff self to an upright position.
At her movement the dog stirred, repositioned his head, and went back to sleep.
Wish I could sleep like that, Ann thought, frowning as she recalled how little she had slept in the last week. She fixed herself a leftover meatloaf sandwich and sniffed at a takeout tossed salad that still looked edible. Since she couldn’t remember when she had gotten the salad, she settled on an apple to accompany dinner. She prayed, but her heart wasn’t in it.
After dinner, she took a shower, refilled Danny’s water bowl, and returned to her piles of papers spread all over her living room. The bank case still had a position in the newspapers, but five minutes later, Ann’s mind wandered as it often did when something deeply troubled her. She thought of an old song called “God Will Have the Last Word.” She let the words tumble around her mind for a while before humming the gentle tune. Before she knew it, she found herself singing:
“As the world falls apart around me,
I think of this truth and peace comes:
God will have the last word!
He has in ages past, He still does today,
And the future’s certain when it comes to this:
God will have the last word!
Our Mighty King came to earth
As a baby to live and love and die,
But that wasn’t the end by far.
Jesus had the last word, when He rose again!”
As she finished the song, Ann’s knees automatically shifted under her so that she was kneeling. As she spoke her heart, she forgot the papers around her. “Oh God, I can’t do this! You do have the last word, but I can’t see it. Forgive me for doubting Your sovereignty. Please be with Rachel tonight. I know she’s alive. Help us find her, Lord, and please guide me and the others as we work on this bank case. I just don’t know what to do. Help us piece together these mysteries. Thank you for who You are. Thank you for—just … thank you.”
Ann prayed some more with her heart and a poem called “Speak Soft Words” came to mind. She spoke the words as a part of her prayer:
“So, here I am again,
Baffled and confused,
Come before You, Lord God,
Saying please give me wisdom.
Please give me wisdom,
For my head is pounding with
The problems of the world around me.
Won’t You please give me wisdom?
Won’t You lead my heart today, Lord?
So, here I am again,
Worn and weary,
Come before you, Lord God,
Saying speak soft words to me, Lord.
Speak soft words to me,
For my ears are ringing with
The loud shouts of the world around me.
Won’t You speak soft words to me, Lord?
Won’t You speak soft words today?
Totally at peace
Is exactly where I’ll be,
When the Lord God is near.”
In her mind’s eye, Ann saw Rachel smiling and laughing. “Thank you for always being near, Father,” Ann murmured, recalling the long phone conversations and sporadic e-mails exchanged over the years since high school. “Place Your protective arms around the Collins family, I pray. Let Your will be done in their lives, and in mine. Amen.”
Nothing radical happened. No lightning bolts containing the answers to the mysterious cases fell from the sky, but Ann had a keen sense of peace after laying the heavy burdens in her heavenly Father’s capable hands.
Her eyes widened when she looked at her wristwatch and realized how much time had passed. Knowing she could do little more of use, Ann prepared for bed and slipped between the clean sheets. She fell asleep in record time.
Chapter 12
Cloak of Peace
Corra Compound
Stanley County, South Dakota
Thursday morning, Rachel Collins woke up with a wave of peace washing over her. She lay wide awake in her bed and began praying softly. “Father, forgive me for all of my doubts. I trust you. I just hate feeling helpless. Please protect my babies. I know You’re in control, but I’m still fighting You for that control. Help me to trust You more.”
Throughout the week, she had been worried sick for her husband and children. It had gotten to the point that prayer had not even entered Rachel’s mind. Every moment apart from her family hurt in a way she could only describe as a deep ache. Now, she felt starved for the Word of God. Doubting there was a Bible in the whole of Corra, she thought hard to remember some Psalms.
After a few minutes, Rachel remembered Psalm 18: 1-2. She whispered the words as a prayer. “ ‘I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge. He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.’ ”
Fortified by her short prayer, Rachel spent another half-hour in solid prayer. They were supposed to receive another ‘guest’ today so she prayed for that too. “God, protect and keep this person. Give them the peace that you’ve given to me.”
Soon after that, Logan Dales came to take Rachel to visit her children. After an enthusiastic greeting, Jason wandered off to play again, but Emily latched onto Ra
chel like a leech. Minutes passed while Rachel relished the reassuring weight of Emily in her arms. Just as sure as she felt Emily’s thin arm gripping her neck, she knew the child would be sucking a thumb. Rachel had tried countless times to break the three-year-old of the bad habit, but she was in no mood to cause her baby any more distress today. Mrs. Hart had said Emily threw several fits, and Rachel believed it. Her sleeping angel could be a firebrand at times.
“I love you,” Rachel whispered into Emily’s soft hair. She closed her eyes and imagined what havoc Emily would wreak upon entering those dark, scary teenage years. Would she grow up to be a rebellious young woman? Would she sneak out of the house and lie to her parents like Rachel had once upon a time?
Will you give me gray hair, Emily?
If they stayed in Corra, Emily would hardly have a chance to learn her letters and numbers. The more Rachel learned of this place, the more adamant she became about the necessity of escaping. Whatever they were up to here, it had no business being conducted around children.
Despite the long-term worries and missing her husband terribly, Rachel was finally at peace.
Find me, Chris. Better yet, find God. He knows where I am.
With eyes still shut against the world, Rachel held her daughter for a few more moments. Her arms started hurting, but she wanted to cherish the quiet, restful embrace for as long as it would last. A crash prompted her to open her eyes. Rachel whipped her head toward the disturbance then smiled at her son’s frantic efforts to keep the Jenson boys away from the toys he had claimed. Jason was quite out of his element with the twins.
Poor thing, he’s only had one sibling to contend with so far.
The rest of the morning playtime went fairly smoothly. Jason and Emily didn’t understand the situation, and Rachel kept up the illusion that daddy was simply ‘away.’ Their peace of mind outweighed the need for them to know the truth. To be honest, she didn’t fully understand the truth anyway.
“Doc?” said a shaky voice from the doorway. “The men said you would be in here … I—I don’t feel good.”
The newcomer didn’t look so good either. Giving the girl a reassuring smile, Rachel said, “Go get settled on one of the beds in the clinic. It’s two doors down on the left. You passed it getting here. I’ll be over in a moment.”
Poor child, how did she end up in this mess?
Reluctantly, Rachel left her children in Sylvia Hart’s hands. The woman and her husband both worked willingly for Mr. Parker, which surprised Rachel. She had assumed all of the workers were either illegal aliens or people in situations similar to her own.
Stepping into the clinic, Rachel found the girl lying on a cot staring blankly at the ceiling. She took in the girl’s curly dark hair and striking skin, which was the color of creamy coffee. When Rachel finished her observations, she said, “I’m Dr. Collins, but you can just continue calling me ‘Doc’ if you prefer. What’s your name?” She picked up the girl’s clammy hand and squeezed.
The youth looked at her blankly but said nothing.
Rachel gazed deeply into the girl’s forlorn black eyes. You have such beautiful eyes. With one more reassuring squeeze, Rachel let go so she could retrieve a damp cloth.
After cleaning the girl’s face and hands, Rachel said, “You don’t have to tell me your name, but it sure would make this easier. I bet you have quite a story to tell.” She forced a smile for the patient’s sake.
A few moments slipped by in silence before the girl spoke. “Jenny—Jenny Hapler.”
“Hapler,” repeated Rachel thoughtfully. “Any relation to the Illinois senator?”
Jenny’s weak smile confirmed Rachel’s guess. “My father,” murmured the girl.
Why would they kidnap a senator’s daughter? Rachel recalled several recent newspaper articles talking about Senator Orion Hapler. He was pushing hard for something. What was it? She absently checked Jenny’s vital signs, still trying to remember the details. It was something about strengthening borders … Border hardening! Hapler’s been bent on getting the Boarded Border Act passed. Or was it the Satellite Expansion Program? Either way, why does Mr. Parker care? Rachel’s mind hummed through things she had seen and heard in the last week. Smuggling! The answer seemed obvious once she thought of it. The new act—whatever its name—involved taking numerous satellite pictures of the U.S. borders and possible smuggling routes at random times. Okay, so they’re smugglers and photos would threaten their ring. What does that have to do with Jenny or us? How do Chris and I factor in?
“My—my mother is dead!” Sobs Jenny had obviously kept pent up for quite some time burst forth, shaking her body with painful force.
The statement slapped Rachel in the face. “How?” She breathed out the question, though she expected no answer. Tears stung her eyes as she watched the girl break down. Jenny couldn’t be more than sixteen. Seeing her in so much pain broke Rachel’s heart. Afraid the girl might choke on her tears, Rachel helped her sit up and held her while she cried.
When the stormy sobs finally subsided into a gentle stream, Jenny whispered, “She tried to stop them from taking me. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault!”
“No,” Rachel countered. She pulled away enough so she could look the teenager in the eyes. Although her eyes glittered with conviction, Rachel softened her voice when she spoke. “Jenny, none of this is your fault. Never believe it. Your mother did only what a mother ought to do in that situation. God knew this. Despite what it seems, God has a plan for your life. That may sound trite, but His plan is perfect.”
“He planned for my mother to be murdered?”
Rachel stopped to think before she got herself into trouble. Father, speak through me.
“Jenny, there is evil in this world and suffering comes with such evil. But along with the pain of loss there is hope because God’s love is perfect. That love can never be taken from you.”
“That sounds like something she would say,” Jenny said, sniffling. “She’d always be talking about Jesus loving this or that lost soul.” Her eyes glistened, but she had no more tears to shed.
“Remember her words and cherish them,” Rachel encouraged.
“But it hurts!” Tearless sobs shook Jenny’s slender figure.
Rachel’s mothering instincts kicked in again and she let the sobbing teen lean heavily upon her.
Lord, I don’t understand, but I know You can ease Jenny’s pain. Please cloak her in perfect peace.
Chapter 13
Rough Tip Off
J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Early Friday morning, “Wahoo! We got ’em!” ripped through the normal hum of activity in the FBI’s D.C. headquarters.
Ann Davidson hugged the wall to keep from being run over by stampeding agents, George Baker and Lyle Vice. A fresh cup of coffee wavered precariously in her hand.
What the—
Clamping down on several half-baked comments, Ann hurriedly followed them to the small conference room. Her high-heeled shoes clicked the cadence of her frantic pace.
“Hey, Davidson, you’re slipping these days,” Agent Baker joked.
She coolly arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean by—” she began.
Just then, ADIC Lance Morgan entered and a hush descended over the peanut gallery. “Agents, my savings account is missing $4.97,” he said grimly. “Whoever is behind all of this is getting on my nerves, and I want him taken out now!”
And we’re going to do that how?
George Baker’s cocky smile did little to improve Ann’s mood.
“A CART guy found this in his e-mail yesterday.” Baker triumphantly waved a piece of paper. Clearing his throat he read the note aloud, “ ‘Wallet feeling a little light these days?’ The origin was well hidden, but my guy’s good. He tracked it to an abandoned building
in Manhattan.”
Something about the situation bothered Ann, but everyone else was ecstatic over the news. Of course, Pat
rick wasn’t in the room to share her doubts. She frowned in concentration.
“Aww, cheer up, Davidson. You can crack the next case,” said Baker, mistaking her frown for disappointment. He draped a comforting arm around her.
The fact that he thought she was upset because someone else solved the case offended her. Ann didn’t trust herself with words yet, so she merely stood still, looking annoyed until he finally lifted his heavy arm off her shoulders.
Is it over? It sure doesn’t feel over.
“Why play with us?” Ann finally asked, breaking the jubilant mood.
Her colleagues and boss quieted.
“The son of a monkey’s uncle overplayed his hand,” Baker said. “Come on, Ann. What’s the big deal? It happens all the time.”
Ann respected Baker’s enthusiasm, but she found him a bit reckless at times and way too trusting of the bad guys to behave normally.
“It’s a setup,” said Patrick, coming through the doorway, his stride even and sure.
Ann smiled. The cavalry’s here!
“What makes you say that?” asked AD Morgan.
“Sir, this guy’s too good to let an e-mail foil him,” said Patrick politely.
“If he wanted to gloat, he could have done it from any public library and we’d have little chance of tracing it back to him,” Ann added. “Besides, I think there’s a team involved, and they probably wouldn’t take too kindly to someone giving away their hideout. If somebody’s leaving us a clear trail to follow, he’s probably got some sort of motive we’ve not predicted yet.”
“Hey! My CART buddy worked hard for that info,” said Baker.
Worked hard as in opened his email and printed it out? If that’s working hard, I am in the wrong branch of this organization.
The others considered the Duncan-Davidson logic for a moment but then seemed to dismiss it. Only Hank Klipper agreed with them.
Even AD Morgan looked ready to bust down Manhattan doors. “I’ve contacted the NYPD,” he said, breaking the mounting tension. “They’ll have their SWAT guys ready to go when you get there.”