Held Hostage

“You know you are family to us,” the officer spoke softly and sincerely to his former colleague. His thick brow furrowed as he continued, “You and Carly will always be family.”

Across the table, the target of this reassuring lecture sat motionless. His aloof stare remained unwavering from his own contemplatively folded hands.

“You know we have the full weight of the department on this. As a former agent, you can expect no less,” the officer resumed. “We believe this is a kidnapping, and we believe it is related to the Honniker case.”

The null response seemed to deepen.

“I am your contact. I am here for you, and I have full access to whatever resources we need to get this done. You know we don’t make promises, but I can swear to you, Agent Claude. I can swear we will find her.”

The sincerity in the speech finally roused Claude from his malaise. Without raising his slumping head, he cast a meager glance upward.

Pressing this minor breakthrough, the session continued, “We will keep you fully informed of the status of the investigation. We have this. And if there is anything you need, do not hesitate to contact me. We will handle it, ok? Thank you for your help getting us started. Now you need to let us do this thing. And again if you need anything, you just let me know.”

Another moment passed, and Claude subtly lifted his posture. “I appreciate what you are doing, Garrett,” Claude responded. “I know there are a lot of good men on my side. And I know you are one of them.”

As the shared moment waned, both men stood up. They each took steps slowly as if yearning for someone to speak parting words, until finally Agent Garrett broke away and migrated toward the front door.

“Alright, let us do this. We’ll keep in constant touch. And if you have anything to add or if you think of anything, I need you to let me know. Call me, anytime. You know I mean that,” Garrett reiterated. His hand reached up and patted Claude on the forearm.

Claude nodded as the conversation closed, and he shut and locked the door. Now alone in the house, Claude paused for a moment in thought. He eyes blinked slowly, giving him time to shed his melancholy. But his introspection soon passed, and, with a glimmer of fresh ambition, he marched down the hallway to an interior door. In paper cutout letters, this door clearly announced “Carly.” The silence of the lonely house belied the flamboyance and youthful spirit that no doubt once made a home here. There the agent took a somber pose for another moment before his hand grabbed the doorknob and he entered the room.

Inside, the walls were painted in vibrant pink and decorated with posters, crafts and hand-written notes. It was the epitome of a young girl’s bedroom. The agent’s eyes took it all in again, this time with the fire of purpose. He first navigated to the window and peered out. He could see Agent Garrett Fehrman’s wide-bodied, black car accelerating down the long dirt road – the private driveway to this secluded abode. Now satisfied of his restored solitude, his peering eyes jumped instantly to the small desk against an adjacent wall. Agent Claude’s thick hand snatched the tiny pull-chain of the small desk lamp and left the fluffy pom-pom on its end swinging chaotically. In the augmented light, desk drawers flew open to reveal a cache of hand-written notes. Agent Claude’s eyes narrowed to take in the pink and purple-inked text. He scanned feverishly for key words or phrases on each crumpled paper. Then his rummaging came to a worn violet envelope, emblazoned with a glittering pink heart. The agent’s attention focused as if he already knew what it was that he might find. And inside was just he was looking for – the notes from Johnny.

Just then, there was another knock at the front door. For this purposefully sheltered residence, this second intrusion was even more surprising. Closing up the girl’s room behind him, Claude answered the door.

“Rachael??” he said in utter astonishment.

There stood Rachael. She was a sight 20 years younger than her age, in a skin-tight, bright orange mini-dress. Her image was crafted for beauty, even more lovely than the night they had met.

“Hi, Claude,” she responded, almost bashfully.

Still aghast, words failed Claude. He hadn’t seen the mother of his beloved daughter since their ugly split all those years before.

Rachael stepped up and broke the silence, “Claude, we have to find her.” She lifted her arm, revealing a small folded piece of paper. Instinctively, Claude grabbed and opened it.

In simple typeface, it read, “WE HAVE HER. YOUR MOVE.”

Instantly brought down from his momentary high, he retched at the sight of it. After closing his eyes for a moment, he looked back up and locked eyes with his former love. The time had come to make his move.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Surveying the house, an unlocked first-floor window offered an inviting means of entry. And prowling the property had revealed only one occupied room. This was the house of young Johnny Duffy, the boy with whom Carly had grown entangled in puppy love.

Sensing the limits beyond which she was not yet able to go, Claude looked at Rachael. “I need you to stay here as a look out. Just stay here out of sight and I’ll be right back.”

“You’re going in there??” she questioned.

“I’m going wherever the trail takes me to find Carly,” he replied firmly. “I’ll be right back.”

The agent snuck into this back bedroom and scanned the scene. This was the master bedroom and it was unoccupied. The doorway to the hall was open, revealing the flickering light of a television. And the accompanying audio of the action movie was a welcome aid to the agent’s covert penetration throughout the house.

Exploring from room to room, the one that was occupied revealed two children in front of the television. But they were engrossed in the more than just a movie. Young Johnny cuddled on the family couch with an unnamed young girl. This unidentified girl pressed warmly against her pubescent companion beneath a blanket that followed their every contour.

From the irregular illumination thrown by the television screen, the agent skulked among the dancing shadows. He searched for any clue to shed light on the disappearance. One desk drawer proved particularly bountiful. The boy’s father clearly was a trucker, and he clearly had hauled a lot of shipments for Agro Chemical. Agro and its management were under investigation for many things, among them supporting the manufacture of illegal narcotics. Was this the linchpin to the Honniker drug case? Was this the link to the disappearance? He read on.

The agent slinked his body out from the same window into which he had entered. There stood Rachael, dutifully waiting.

“What did you find?” she asked impatiently.

“Port of Miami-Dade” was his terse reply.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Claude felt his eyes growing weary. He glanced to his right and saw Rachael also exhausted. Using his turn signal, he took an exit ramp and the pair found a room at the roadside Crimson Cross motel. From this point, the night should have been uneventful.

Finding the key unnecessary for the unlocked door, Claude and his girl made their entrance into the room. The duo immediately began making plans to relax for the night. Claude watched as Rachael eyed the single bed and then looked at him. His natural response was only to smile, as their mutual gaze lingered.

At just that instant, the moment was broken. The door violently swung open from the outside as a large man barged in. Before a word was spoken, the altercation ignited. After an initial flurry of erratic swings, the two men found themselves circling each other between the foot of the bed and the cheap wooden dresser. Rachael, recoiling from the sudden surge of masculine primalism, tucked herself into a corner against the back wall.

“Nice try,” uttered the sudden guest. His break in concentration rewarded him with a blindingly fast assault. A gut-busting kick, forward jab and left hook toppled him. Then several kicks to the head confirmed the end to the fight. Claude’s rapid-fire pugilism echoed his past experience and training.

Breathing heavily, Claude knelt down next to the battered assailant. By the hair, he lifted the unconscious head from its limp resting place on the floor. Rachael, meanwhile, removed a shoe, and comically hopped over from her corner. Using its hard heel as a blunt-force weapon, she began wailing on the lifeless intruder. Her nostrils flared with the adrenalin-fueled rage.

With a laugh, Claude raised his hand to block the onslaught. “Rachael,” he said, “you are a shoe-in.”

The lighter moment didn’t last. As Rachael retrieved moist towels from the bathroom to nurse Claude’s superficial injuries, the agent wasted no time pillaging the body for clues. Blue-jean pockets yielded only a set of keys on a Playboy bunny key chain.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Now in the stolen 4x4 truck, the pair continued down the highway. The conspicuous vehicle, with its shiny nude figure mud flaps and gleaming chrome roll cage, drew undesired attention. But the change in vehicle seemed prudent for whatever clues it might produce.

“Give me that atlas,” Claude demanded as his mind raced to uncover the next step. With his one free hand as he steered along the passing lane, he flipped the pages franticly. Placed between two of the pages was a large piece of paper. It was a recent invoice for tractor-trailer brake repairs. And still hours out from their destination, the location of the shop just happened to be at the container terminals at the Port of Miami-Dade. Claude’s eyes widened at its significance.

Claude looked up at Rachael, who was already returning his glance. With a whimsical expression and an emphasis on the pun, he delivered his line. “I think we just caught a break.”

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

“Hey,” a scrawny, young man announced as he emerged from the office of Grinnin’ Gator Heavy Truck Repair.

Claude, barely out of the truck, softly commanded Rachael to remain inside and out of sight.

“Hey,” he then responded to the approaching young man.

“Where’s Jimmy?” the man replied.

“Oh, he got himself into some trouble. I’m here to take care of some business for him. … He lent me his truck.”

“Alright, uh, let me get something. I’ll be right back,” the incredulous man countered, as he reversed direction and made a speedy beeline for the shop’s office door.

In excited pursuit, Claude followed. The two men began to race in an open sprint for the door. As the young man’s hands fumbled with the door’s handle, Claude’s barreling frame rammed him against the glass.

“We just need to talk, you hear me?” Claude growled.

“Yeah, ok!” the kid replied. His hands were bound behind his back by Claude’s oppressive grip, as he found himself ushered into the dark office.

Once inside, the questioning began.

“You alone in here?”

“Yeah.”

“Now who is Jimmy??”

“I don’t know him. He’s just some guy who brings his rig in sometimes.”

“Yeah? What else do you know about him?” By this time, Claude had muscled the kid against a checkout container and had begun manhandling him repeatedly against it.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

With another shove, Claude pressed, “Try again.”

“I know he’s got some girl in Palm Beach.”

With renewed vigor, “Whadda mean ‘some girl?’”

“I don’t know. Some girlfriend. I’ve never seen her. I don’t know anything else.”

Just then a door in the rear of the office swung open.

“What going on in here?” a silhouette in the door demanded.

Without a moment’s notice, the kid wound up on the floor and a shot rang out. The silhouetted figure collapsed, as the door partially closed against his body. Claude promptly withdrew from his shooting stance and returned his attention to his original target.

“Get up!” Claude screamed, kicking the kid in the back of the leg. “Get up!”

Timidly, the kid rose to a squatting position with his arms anxiously flexed above his head.

“Run!” Claude shouted, now banishing the gun violently. “Run and don’t you dare look back.” Without further delay, the kid took the direction and dashed for the propped back-office doorway.

Claude ran out to the truck and jumped in. Not until the truck was some distance away from the scene did Rachael turn and ask, “What happened to that kid back there?”

With whimsy, Claude turned to her and replied, “He had to run.”

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

The two drove a distance before finally pulling into a gas station. Claude immediately reexamined the map bookmarked by the repair invoice. Indeed the page was open to Palm Beach, and, with the scrutiny of a more careful inspection, Claude saw that in fact a location on the map was lightly circled.

“Looks like I might have you home for dinner. We’re going to Palm Beach.” Palm Beach is where Rachael had found her new home. And Claude, sensing his own discomfort, immediately noticed the passive unrest in Rachael’s reaction. Her unconditionally supportive sidekick role was suddenly unavailable. For the first time, an unease grew as Claude climbed out of the truck and filled the gas tank.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

“Linton Boulevard? Don’t you live off of Linton Boulevard?” Rachael hadn’t been one for conversation over this latest leg of the journey, and her failure to respond to this query only deepened the strain. With a sharp right turn, Claude decided to explore this prospect for himself.

Finally they arrived at the end of the road and approached the condo with the familiar address. Claude whipped into the driveway. Still Rachael’s ugly reaction was continued detachment.

Claude slammed the door of the truck behind him and jogged the path to the front door. The door was unlocked, and, with the gun in hand, he entered the house. His eyes darted around the open interior space and back toward the kitchen. He cautiously maneuvered along the wall, his eyes preceding every step forward and his gun directly targeted along his field of view.

The downstairs was vacant. He carefully began his assent up the stairs. At their apex, he faced a short hallway branching into several small bedrooms. He cautiously weighed his next move.

“Claude,” a disembodied voice called out. “Agent Claude Sylvester Schwartzenator.”

Although echoing throughput the space without a clear origin, the voice was instantly recognizable. It was Agent Garrett Fehrman.

“Claude, listen to me. I’m here to talk to you. Carly is safe. We found her. She is ok.”

Claude stood, wide-eyed, at the top of the stairs. His gun was clenched and ready.

“Carly is safe,” Agent Fehrman repeated. “We found her here with her mother. Ok?”

With that, Fehrman slowly emerged from within the bedroom directly ahead of the staircase. His palms were facing downward and his forearms extended forward at the hips. His blue flak jacket spoke to his being on duty.

“We took down Honniker, no problem. He was a small-time distributor. We just arrested him at Wal-Mart.”

Claude finally spoke, “What are you doing here?” His composure was tentative.

“Listen, Claude. We found Carly. She was here with Rachael. She had just run away. She had just wanted to be with her mother for a while because of everything that was going on.”

“What are you talked about??” Claude interrupted. “What is this?”

“Listen, Claude…”

“No! Now, they got to you too. They got to all of you!!!” Claude shouted in desperation. His grasp of the gun tightened as he took aim at the agent. At that moment, a team of officers emerged from every room in a semi-circular arc around the panicked man. A moment later, the front door was flung open, unveiling another wave of officers from below.

“Claude, listen to me. We can help you. You are having some trouble right now, but I came here to help you. Please, listen to me.”

Claude’s bewildered stare broke and his eyes came into focus on a picture hanging beside the stairs. It was a picture of Rachael – a current picture. Her frizzy, graying hair and plump body stood happily in an embrace with young Carly. The truth was now suddenly so clear. Claude regained his composure, took a slow final breath, and then decidedly lunged forward – into a semi-circle of gunfire.

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