Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

“May I help you, sir?” the agent asked.

Robert didn’t like the idea of having to account for his presence at Donavon’s house, but suppressed his emotions, not wanting to upset Alison further by causing a scene. He explained the reason for his visit, that he was a close friend of Donovan’s, hoping the agent would speak to his friend, not Alison.

“You’re the boy’s godfather, correct?” asked the agent, more polite than Robert anticipated. Robert nodded. The agent’s eyes softened. “One moment, Mr. Veil. Please stay here, I’ll see what I can do.” Robert said thanks, and a few minutes later, Donovan appeared at the side of the house. “Robert, follow me around back.” Robert opened his mouth to speak, but Donovan held up a hand, and motioned for him to remain quiet.

Donovan’s limp looked more pronounced. Dark circles outlined his now sunken eyes, and salt-and-pepper stubble crusted his leathery, basset hound face. Once they reached the guesthouse, Donovan went straight to the couch in the living room and collapsed into the Indian embroidery, exhausted. Robert had never seen his friend so distraught, not even when their lives were on the line out in the field when they worked for the CIA. Robert sat down, but only stared in silence, giving Donovan a chance to gather himself. After a little more than five minutes, the beaten down father sat up and wiped his eyes. Robert did the same.

“I’m sorry, but I haven’t slept much,” said Donovan. “Alison’s out cold right now, thanks to Dr. Vicodin.”

“Looks like you should swallow a few yourself,” said Robert, knowing it would take a cocked pistol to the head to get so much as an aspirin down Donovan’s throat.

Donovan stretched. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. This is more brutal than you know.”

Robert cleared his throat. “Donovan, have they…have they called, made contact?”

“No, nothing,” he answered, rubbing his eyes. “It’s got us twisted in knots. If the bastards would just tell us what they want, anything, it doesn’t matter. Nothing would be too much.” A jarring bolt zipped down Robert’s spine, but he held fast. “The boys at Quantico have any ideas? It’s what we pay them for.”

“No,” said Donovan, struggling to his feet. “They’re as much in the dark as we are.”

Donovan walked to the front window, leaned forward until his forehead touched it, and closed his eyes, his breath morphing into a deep fog on the glass.

Robert eased up behind his friend. “Thorne and I have been trying to chase down leads of our own.” Donovan straightened up and turned around. “I know you and Alison asked us to stay out of it,” Robert continued. “But did you really think we would? He’s as much of a son to me as he is to you.”

Donovan forced a smile, which looked out of place with the swollen sacks under his eyes, and heavily wrinkled brow. “I know you mean well, but I have to ask you and Thorne to stand down.” The words took Robert aback. “Obviously there’s something going on I don’t know about. Now, you know me. You know what I can do.

Why won’t you let me help?”

Donovan’s eyes widened. He gritted his teeth, made a fist, and lightly tapped it against Robert’s chest. Catching himself, Donovan relaxed and went back to the couch. Robert sat down next to him.

“I went by Samuel’s school today,” said Robert. “I talked to several of his friends. When I asked them if there was anything going on with Samuel, anything out of place, they both broke down in tears.” Donovan furrowed his brow. “What did they say was wrong?”

“I didn’t get a chance to finish questioning them. I was escorted out before I could find out.”

“Who were the children you spoke with?” Robert gave him Paul and Carla’s names. Donovan looked even more puzzled. “They’re Samuel’s best friends. They didn’t mention anything when the FBI talked to them.”

“The FBI?” asked Robert, surprised.

“Yes. A couple of agents went to their houses to see if they noticed anything out of place over the last couple of weeks. They spoke to several of Samuel’s teachers and the school staff.” Strange, why didn’t they tell me? Robert clenched his fists, but resisted banging them on the coffee table. “Donovan, what the hell is going on?”

“I wish I knew,” he answered. “That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“I mean, what’s going on with Samuel that you’re not telling me?” Donovan hesitated. “I can’t say.”

“You mean you won’t say.”

“It’s for Samuel’s protection, and probably has nothing to do with the kidnapping.”

“Probably?” Robert bit his tongue. “Does the FBI know?” Donovan squinted, as though measuring his words. “No, they don’t.” Robert sprang to his feet. “Goddamnit, I don’t get this! Samuel’s out there, stolen from us by God only knows who, and you’re holding back!”

“I know what’s at stake more than you! Don’t lecture me about my son,” Donovan yelled. In a huff he pushed himself up and headed for the door.

Robert grabbed his arm. “Tell me.”

Donovan’s chest heaved up and down, his eyes empty and black.

“Not yet. Not now.”

Robert leaned in close to Donavon’s face. “I’m going to find out anyway, and I won’t stop looking for Samuel.” Donovan pushed Robert’s arm away and limped outside toward the house. Robert saw Alison looking down from an upstairs window. She closed the curtains when she saw him.

Donovan turned. “Stay out of it, Robert. Please.” Robert opened his mouth to speak, but his friend waved goodbye, then disappeared inside the house.

O n the road back to Chicago, Robert called Thorne to find out if she’d had more success than him. He had tracked her down at Detective Reynolds apartment. His conversation with Donovan was a draining dead-end, and he needed good news.

“I haven’t found out much,” she told him. “But we should discuss this in person, not on the cell phone.” Robert agreed, hung up, and headed for Chicago’s south side.

Fifteen minutes later, he spotted a light brown sedan tailing him. The car looked like a standard government issue. Why tail me? You could’ve questioned me at the Napier’s.

Robert increased his speed to nearly ninety miles an hour. The sedan followed, but just enough to keep him in sight. Five miles down the freeway, Robert slowed down to fifty and made a sudden exit off I-94 at Illinois Route 60/Townline Road. The car stayed right on his tail, a red police light now flashing from the dashboard. Robert made a right turn onto Route 60/Townline Road, which was lightly trafficked, and kept going. The sedan fired up its siren. Robert pulled into a busy gas station and jumped out, hand on his gun. Two men exited the sedan.

On the passenger side, a tall, thick shouldered, African-American stared at him like a pit bull. The other, a half bald waif of a WASP, with a nearly finished cigarette hanging from his lips, Robert recognized. He was Assistant Director of Field Operations, Glenn Thompson, CIA.

“I knew you’d pick us up right away,” said Thompson, taking a long last drag and tossing the butt on the asphalt. “We were going to wait until you reached the city before we stopped you; thought you’d be less likely to shoot us in a crowd.” He laughed, marched over and stuck out his hand. Robert shook it, looking over at the stone-faced black man, who still hadn’t said a word. “Allow me to introduce Special Agent Kirk Maxwell. He’s here from D.C., and specializes in finding missing persons.”

Agent Maxwell walked over and shook Robert’s hand, but remained stoic.

“You’re here because of Samuel?” asked Robert.

“Yes,” said Thompson. “Thought we’d lend a helping hand to Donovan, he’s still family.”