David Putnam: The Replacements

I said, “Forget Milky, answer a simple question about this other thing, about these two kidnapped kids. Why me?”

She took another sip as she probed my eyes. This close examination made me uncomfortable. She finally smiled and reached with her hand to touch me again. I stepped back.

“Okay,” she said, “for several reasons.” She raised a finger to tick them off. “One. I know it’s trite, but it’s true, you are the best at what you do. Robby said you were the best he’d ever seen at tracking down assholes. And with that man’s ego, you have to know how difficult it was for him to say.”

I wished she wouldn’t keep saying his name.

“Two. Because I know who’s involved.”

“If that’s the case, put a team together and follow the suspect. Pick him up in the morning and put him to bed every night. He’ll trip himself up.”

“We can’t find him, and you know how important time is in a kidnapping.”

“Listen, I know you have people who are good at turning over rocks. The news reports said you have a joint task force with Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. Get John Mack. He’s good.” I’d said John’s name to see if she’d react. He was the only one who knew where Marie, my dad, and the kids had landed in Costa Rica. While I spoke, I started having a bad feeling about where she was leading me.

She was good, didn’t even twitch. John Mack had been the one to tell her where I lived. Had to be. But I had trusted him with my life or I wouldn’t have told him. He had to have a good reason for telling her.

John Mack had the skills; he would have no problem tracking down this suspect, but he still had a job and a career to consider, where I didn’t. If John found the suspect and the suspect didn’t want to talk, John wouldn’t put the guy’s nuts in a vise like I would and twist until he gave up the kids’ location.

“You want someone off the grid to come in and black bag this guy, that’s it, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer, just stared.

“No?” I shook my head and looked into her eyes, trying to glean the answer she found so difficult to utter. “It’s something else, isn’t it? It’s because of who it is, right?”

She nodded.

“Who is it? Tell me.”

“He left a note, Bruno, said he’d only deal with you. He wrote your name in the note, Deputy Bruno Johnson. I have the note. Only my department knows.”

“Me? Why me?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t answer because I’d asked the wrong question.

I said, “Who?”

“Bruno, it’s Jonas Mabry. Not the father, Micah-the kid. Jonas.”

My head swam and my knees went weak. I grabbed the bar for support.

In an instant, I was transported back to that day the house bled and relived the incident, complete with all the regrets. The water. The blood. The two dead girls. The race to the hospital with Jonas Mabry.

I snapped out of the memory and returned to reality. My current life was still running full tilt. I was in Costa Rica tending bar in a cabana on the beach with Barbara Wicks sitting all alone, her Cosmo glass empty. She must’ve recognized my need to zone out, to relive that horrible event, and didn’t shake me out of it. Why would she? The memory only served to further her cause.

Sweat beaded on my forehead and rolled down into my eyes. My voice croaked. “Micah Mabry, the old man?” I swiped at the salt burning my eyes.

“No, Bruno, you heard me. I said Jonas Mabry .”

I had heard, but my mind, for protective reasons, had blocked it out. His name in this context made me sick to my stomach, reminded me of failure, one strongly attached to a heavy dose of guilt.

Jonas was the small child I’d held in my arms as I rolled code three to St. Francis. He’d survived, only to be shoved into the foster care system. His father had had a nervous breakdown over grief and guilt. The last I’d heard, the father, Micah Mabry, had not responded to treatment. I couldn’t blame him. Under the same circumstances, I’m not sure I would have been any different.

“Why me? What does he want with me?”

“He said in the note that he wants to pay you back for what you did. Are you going to go, Bruno?”

“Pay me back? That doesn’t make any sense, not when he kidnaps kids to get my attention.”

“Bruno?” I had waited too long to give Barbara Wicks my answer. She said, “If for nothing else, you do owe me.”

She didn’t need to throw that one out there. I had all but decided to go. How could I not go, given the circumstances? I had saved Jonas Mabry, only for him to be ruined by the social welfare system. I had known better. Why had I not adopted him myself? The opportunity had been ripe for adoption. I went to see him in the hospital, housed in intensive care for three weeks, not expected to live. After they moved him to a regular room, his father still had not come to see him. I brought him books and read to him. He didn’t say a word for several weeks. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to see your own mother standing over you with a gun. The hospital discharged him, and social services placed him in a good home. I saw to that, vetted the folks myself. He didn’t want to go with them; he wanted to stay with me. Then I was transferred to the Violent Crimes Team and my schedule turned hectic, all but impossible. The job became my life and we lost touch. Regrets. Twenty years ago I was a different person, still too selfish and self-centered. I wanted my career and didn’t want to be burdened with a second child. I was already caring for a young daughter.

Jonas would be twenty-six now.

I asked, “What did the note say?”

She took out a crumpled-up piece of paper that had been in her pocket the entire flight down. She smoothed the note on the bar. I didn’t want to look, words a magic carpet to the past, someplace I didn’t want to ever revisit. But I had only moments ago. The letter printed in all capitals, crooked, written with a shaky hand: “ TWO DOWN, ONE TO GO. I’LL ONLY SPEAK TO DEPUTY BRUNO JOHNSON. GET HIM. DEPUTY BRUNO JOHNSON OWES ME A GREAT DEBT THAT NEEDS TO BE SETTLED .”

I couldn’t believe this note came from the child I knew. Now he’s a psychotic. “So there’s going to be a third?”

“Yes.”

“And you think I’ll have some emotional connection with Jonas, and will be able to get through to him, and get him to tell me where he’s stashed the kids, is that it?”

“Yes.” But she looked away.

“And?”

She didn’t answer, which meant, worst case, I’d run Jonas down, ask him nicely and, if that didn’t work, ask him the hard way. I did have an emotional link to Jonas and, under normal circumstances, I would not be able to interrogate him in the manner she thought I could. But if he had taken two small girls-just the thought made my blood turn hot with anger. Of course I would go. How could I not?

I would have to explain my departure to Marie. I’d met Marie the night almost three years ago when Robby Wicks took me into custody for the killing of my son-in-law, who’d abused my grandson to death. I did two years and got out on parole. That’s when Marie and I started our relationship full of romance and love and caring and respect. Now I had to tell her I had to go back. No way did I want to hurt her like this.

I looked Barbara in the eyes and nodded. She didn’t smile, but reached out and laid her hand on my arm. “Thank you.”

Her gratitude touched something in me. A form of forgiveness I’d craved so badly for what had happened to Robby. I leaned over the bar and hugged her. She hugged back. Tears burned my eyes. We stayed that way a long time. “We’re still good?” she asked.