Reginald Cook - The Hammer of God

“Can I please have some more?” he asked, subdued and cool. “And may I have something to eat?”

Sister Bravo walked over and kissed his cheek. “Forgive me for hitting you,” she said, taking his cup.

Samuel smiled. Father Sin didn’t.

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.