Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

“Deputy Sheriff Cody Cox,” a voice answered.

“Deputy, this is Agent Jan Jorgenson, with the FBI, calling from Dallas. I need to speak with the sheriff.”

“Sheriff Johnson? He’s out with the missus, it’s their anniversary. Well, actually, yesterday was their anniversary, but the sheriff got tied up and-”

“Did a Colonel Ben Brice and a John Brice meet with the sheriff?”

“Sure did. They went flying around this morning with Dicky in his helicopter. Sheriff said he owed his life to the colonel.”

“Deputy, I need to speak to the sheriff. This is an emergency.”

“Give me your number-I’ll track him down, have him call you.”

Elizabeth closed the door to the study behind her. Agent Jorgenson was sitting on her sofa.

“What’s the emergency, Agent Jorgenson? I’m on my way to church.”

The young woman took a deep breath and said, “Tell me about Major Charles Woodrow Walker.”

“He’s dead.”

“Did you know he had a son?”

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been thirty years since my last confession.”

The Saturday evening before Easter Sunday was always a busy confession night. So far, Father Randy had listened to four dozen confessions from anonymous confessors kneeling on the other side of the confessional in St. Anne’s Catholic Church, all routine sins for which he had dispensed routine penances: ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. But he perked up upon hearing this confessor’s voice, for two reasons: thirty years was a long time between confessions and might require a non-routine penance; and the woman’s voice sounded oddly familiar. Her next words confirmed his suspicions.

“Father, I am possessed by evil. And now evil possesses my daughter.” Her voice was breaking up. “Father, Grace might be alive!”

Elizabeth Brice was in his confessional. Father Randy knew Gracie, the poor girl, and the rest of her family. He saw them every Sunday morning. But Elizabeth Brice had never set foot in his church.

“Gracie might be alive?”

“Yes!”

“What do you mean, she’s possessed by evil?”

“He’s taken her to Idaho!”

“Idaho? Who? ”

“The devil’s son.”

Father Randy shoulders slumped. The devil’s son? The poor mother was likely having a nervous breakdown. He decided to treat her gently.

“Why thirty years since your last confession?”

“My father was murdered when I was only ten. I blamed God.”

“For thirty years?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve not been to Mass for thirty years?”

“No.”

“Communion?”

“No.”

“You’ve lived without faith for thirty years?”

“Yes.”

“Why now?”

“I want to come home. I want my daughter to come home. I want God to give us a second chance.”

It was not easy being a Catholic priest these days. With so many priests being convicted of sexual assault on children and the Catholic Church becoming the favorite whipping boy of plaintiffs’ lawyers, he had often thought of quitting. What good was he doing? He was spending more time testifying in depositions than spreading the word of God via Masses and his website and the CDs and audiotapes and tee shirts. And did anyone really believe in God anymore? In Satan? That there truly was a daily battle between good and evil waged within our souls and for our souls? Had he saved even one soul in fifteen years? Now an odd sensation came over him and he knew: God was giving him his chance.

“Evil took me ten years ago,” Mrs. Brice said. “It won’t let go of my life.”

“Because you don’t possess the power to fight evil. Faith is our only defense to evil-we fight evil with faith.”

“But why my daughter?”

Father Randy now said words he did not understand: “Because there is a bond you and Gracie share, a bond with evil that must be broken.”

“Yes, there is. Father, how do I break this bond?”

“You don’t. Someone must die for the bond to be broken.”

“No! Don’t take her!”

The woman jumped up and barged out the door and opened the door to his side of the confessional. She lunged at him and grabbed the big silver crucifix hanging down the front of his vestment. Her eyes were wild.

“God, take me instead!”

“Patty, can you hear me?”

No answer.

Junior’s mouth was at the opening of the air vent and his hands were cupped around both, so she could damn well hear him. She was just being stubborn.

“You learn your lesson?”

Still no answer.

“Giving me the silent treatment, huh? I used to try that on the major when he put me down there, but he didn’t buy it then and I ain’t buying it now. You hear me?”

Silence from below.

“Okay, we’ll see how stubborn you are after another night down there.”

Junior stood and walked back to the cabin.

FBI Special Agent Jan Jorgenson walked into her apartment to a ringing phone. She answered; it was Sheriff J. D. Johnson from Boundary County, Idaho. He confirmed that the colonel and John Brice were in Bonners Ferry.

“They think the girl’s up on a mountain. Place called Red Ridge.”

“I think she’s up there, too.”

“Thought the FBI closed the case when the abductor hanged himself?”

“We were wrong. Sheriff, you ever heard of Major Charles Woodrow Walker.”

“Hell, yes, I heard of him. You people arrested him over at the hospital what, ten years back? Don’t know what happened to him after that.”

“He died in Mexico. Do you know about his court-martial?”

“Vaguely, something about a massacre in Vietnam?”

“Yes. Place called Quang Tri. Colonel Brice testified against him.”

“Don’t tell me this major was part of a team code-named Viper?”

“He commanded it.”

“Damn. Colonel Brice found their camp all right. Said this was about an old score. Guess that’s what he meant.”

“Major Walker’s son abducted the girl, but not because of Colonel Brice. Because the mother was one of his father’s prosecutors. The others are all dead, except Mrs. Brice and the president.”

“ The president?”

“Yes, President McCoy. He was the FBI Director back then.”

“Well, Colonel Brice done found your boy and that’s probably a good thing.”

“Why's that?”

“Because he don’t have to play by our rules.”

“In Indian territory, Lieutenant, we make our own rules. First rule, we don’t follow command’s bullshit rules, particularly the rules of engagement that say we can’t fire on the enemy unless we’re fired upon first. No one gets a free shot at Viper team. We kill them before they kill us.

“Second rule, they all look the same, the enemy we’re supposed to kill and the civilians we’re supposed to save. NVA regulars, they’ll be in uniform. But not VC. They’re guerrillas, fathers and sons of the peasant class. Out in the bush, you won’t know whether a peasant is going to welcome you or shoot you until he does. When in doubt, shoot the gook.

“Third rule, a conscience is a dangerous thing in a shooting war. Your conscience can get you killed-that’s your business. But your conscience can get your team members killed-that’s my business. Leave your conscience right here in Saigon. Don’t take it out in the bush. Out there, ain’t no right or wrong. There’s killing the enemy or going home in a body bag.”

The major finishes his meal and pushes his plate aside.

“Fourth rule, and the most important rule to remember: you’re not fighting this war for the American people. They don’t give a damn about you or this war or these people or the Communist threat to the world. They’re back home smoking dope and making love not war and enjoying the peace and prosperity we provide them. Don’t ever expect support from civilians.