Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

Devereaux’s eyes went from family member to family member, all of whose eyes dropped when they met his, until he came to Colonel Brice. His eyes did not drop.

“No, Agent Devereaux-it’s just begun.”

After the family had departed the command post, FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson got up from her station and went over to her superior. Agent Devereaux’s eyes were sad and tired. He slumped down in his chair. He exhaled audibly.

“If I ever get a child back alive,” he said, “I’m through. I’m giving up the chase.”

She nodded. “I made some contacts, about the mother, at Justice.”

“Proceed.” Then he added, “Not that it matters anymore.”

Jan checked her notes. “Her unit chief was an Assistant Attorney General named Raul Garcia-”

Agent Devereaux was rubbing his face.

“And what did Mr. Garcia have to say about Mrs. Brice?”

“Nothing. He’s dead, too.”

Devereaux stopped rubbing his face.

“ Both of Mrs. Brice’s superiors at Justice are dead?”

“Yes, sir. Garcia died two years ago, in Denver, shot in a carjacking.”

“Jesus.” Devereaux stood. “High mortality rate over at the Justice Department these days.”

“And I called the Army about getting the names of those SOG soldiers. All SOG records were destroyed in ’72.”

“Figures.” Agent Devereaux picked up his briefcase. “Jorgenson, it’s your case now. I’m catching a flight to Des Moines.”

Devereaux thought about Gracie Ann Brice all the way to the airport. Another life ended before it had begun. Another family destroyed by a sexual predator. Another failure for FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux. What good had he done here?

He was fifty-six years old. He had handled abduction cases exclusively for ten years now. It was getting to him. His wife had begged him to transfer to the public corruption unit: “What could be more fun than investigating crooked politicians?” she had said. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to give up the chase, one hundred twenty-eight dead children. Good God, one hundred twenty-eight dead children! And he wouldn’t have to travel as much; there were plenty of crooked politicians in Texas. He’d have more time with the family. And maybe in time he wouldn’t see the faces of dead children when he lay down in bed each night and closed his eyes.

Jorgenson pulled the sedan over in front of the American terminal and turned to him. “Agent Devereaux…”

“You can call me Eugene now.”

“Eugene… You taught me a lot. Thanks.”

He nodded. “You did good, Jan.”

“You know, most of the agents I work with in the Dallas office, they’re pretty cocky, like carrying the federal badge makes them special. You’re not like them. You’re different.”

“Difference is, Jan, I’ve seen dead children, up close. That’ll take the cocky right out of you.”

Devereaux exited the vehicle, shut the front door, retrieved his bag and briefcase from the back seat, then leaned in the front window and said to Jan, “Collect the outstanding evidence, write up a final report. I’ll review it when I’m through in Des Moines. You’ve got my cell phone number, call me if you need me.”

He was about to turn away when Jan said, “You really think Jennings took Gracie?”

“I don’t know… but I know she’s dead.”

“If we had jurisdiction, would you have closed the case?”

FBI Special Agent Eugene Devereaux stood straight, stared into the blue sky a minute, and then leaned back down to the window.

“No.”

Life is not a fairy tale.

But Katherine McCullough had not known that in 1968. She had married the man of her dreams only to lose him to the nightmare of war. Ben Brice had given his heart and soul to the Army and that damned war, only to have his heart broken, his soul blackened, and the war lost. When he had returned from Vietnam, he tried to find peace in a bottle. And he had never stopped looking.

The Army tried to put the war and its warriors in the past and move on to a peacetime military. The Army brass couldn’t very well demote the most decorated soldier of the war, but it didn’t have to give him a command. Ben said you don’t get a parade when you lose a football game or a war.

After his retirement, Kate had gone with Ben to the cabin he had built. She had hoped retirement would set Ben free; but he took the war with him to Taos. After a few years, she had woken one morning and accepted the truth: the war would never be over for Ben Brice. He would never find his peace, not until the day he died. And the way he was drinking, that day was not far off.

Kate Brice had refused to stay around for that day. She couldn’t save her husband from himself. So she had left him. Now, pacing her room, she felt like a teenage girl getting ready for her first date; she was working up the courage to go to him. She needed to lie next to him and to feel his arms around her, once more before he left her. He had left her many times, but she knew this time was different.

She knew that Ben Brice would not come back this time.

“When are you coming back?”

Sam was looking up at him, his face full of innocence. Ben Brice wasn’t about to say something that would change that.

“Soon.”

Sam shook his head. “Typical grownup answer-vague.”

Ben smiled. It was like talking to John at the same age. He sat on Sam’s bed.

“I’m not being vague. I just can’t say for sure.”

“But you will come back?”

Ben pondered for a moment. Vague was hard to come by now. He said what the boy needed to hear.

“Yes.”

Little Johnny Brice was small, weak, timid, and brilliant. He was teased and taunted, bullied and beaten. He was introverted and lonely, with no friends except his mother and an Apple computer. He was a mama’s boy because his father was off at war. He hated his life right up until the day he had arrived at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, where everyone was a Little Johnny Brice. He possessed a 190 intelligence quotient, he earned a Ph. D. in algorithms at the Laboratory for Computer Sciences, and upon graduation, he founded his own company and set about to write a killer app. Ten years later, today, he became a billionaire: at 9:30 A.M. Eastern time, BriceWare. com went public at $30 per share; by close of trading at 4:00 P.M., the price had bounced to $60.

John R. Brice was worth $2 billion.

This was the day he had dreamed about for as long as he could remember, like a teenage boy looking forward to the day he would lose his virginity, the day he would become a man. This was to be that day for John R. Brice. But now, standing in the master bathroom of his $3 million mansion and staring at himself in the mirror, he still saw Little Johnny Brice.

He had not found his manhood on Wall Street; perhaps he would find it in Idaho.

He had tried to imagine life without Gracie. He couldn’t. It was not the life he had lived or the life he wanted to live. And it would be a life without Elizabeth. Gracie’s birth had brought them together; her death would drive them apart. Elizabeth would leave him, and Sam with her. His family, his tenuous connection to the real world, would be gone; and he would give every dollar of his new fortune to save his family.

But he knew his money could not save his family. He knew his only hope lay with a drunk. Ben Brice offered hope. Hope that somehow, somewhere, Gracie was alive. Hope that one day she might come home. Hope that her father might again cup her perfect face and think how swell she was. He knew it made no sense. He knew there was no logic to it. No reason. No odds. There was just emotion. And hope. John had read about people with terminal cancer going to Mexico for enemas and other quack therapies, hoping for a miracle. He had wondered how desperate a person must be to do such a thing, to travel thousands of miles hoping for a miracle. Now he knew.