John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

“What was I supposed to do? He was dying.”

Jonathan cocked his head. “Are you going to tell me that you weren’t tempted to just pull out and go the other way?”

Harvey looked at the floor.

“It shows that you made a choice,” Jonathan pressed. “You could have walked away, but you didn’t. You could have sold the boy out in the bar, but you didn’t, and by remaining quiet you almost got yourself killed. Like it or not, that’s heroic behavior. Somewhere out there, there’s a drill sergeant who’s damn proud.”

Harvey wanted to argue. You could see it right there on the front of his face. His mouth worked to form words, but none flowed.

“Come on, Harvey,” Jonathan said, moving to seal the deal. “When was the last time you got the opportunity to do something noble?”

He was close. So close. “Why me? There must be a hundred eager soldier wannabes who’d piss all over themselves for the opportunity to shoot up a jungle.”

“Because I don’t have time to recruit. And because once you walked into this thing, you got skin in the game. You’re a native Spanish speaker, right?”

Harvey shrugged.

Jonathan tapped a point in the air. “I thought so. Deep down inside, you’re thrilled to be involved.”

Harvey smiled. “I am, am I? How deep down inside?”

“Actually, not deep at all.”

They shook on it.

Jersey City was nowhere near as terrible a place as Gail had thought it would be. Nestled up next to the Hudson River, with some of the best views possible of the Statue of Liberty, the rows of well-kept town houses and the forests of neat single-family bungalows reminded her of the working-class neighborhoods of Chicago that housed her youth.

Her GPS had taken her directly to Wilkinson Avenue-in fact right to the front door of the house she was looking for.

Gail climbed out of the rented Celica, closed the door, and scanned the neighborhood for trouble, just in case. Some habits were too ingrained ever to be broken. Outside the protection of her vehicle, the neighborhood looked less inviting. Perhaps it would have been a better idea to make this visit during the day. Tucking her purse under her arm, she walked over the curb and toward the rotting steps that led to Alice Navarro’s house.

She’d paid calls like this a thousand times over her career as a cop and an FBI agent, but it had only been since working with Security Solutions that she’d been paying them solo. A badge bought the luxury of backup. In the private sector, the best you could count on was your weapon and the skill to use it. In her case, she carried two: a Glock in her purse, and a backup. 38 snub nose strapped to her ankle. In New Jersey, the mere presence of either one could get her put away.

Better to be tried by twelve than carried by six. Cliches become cliches for a reason.

The Navarro house was every bit of seventy years old, its facade built of brick, including the pillars that supported the porch roof. The screen door was locked. She rapped with her middle knuckle on one of the glass panes that flanked the door.

Fifteen seconds passed before a shadowy hand parted the sheer curtain and the worried face of an old man appeared. “Who are you?” He shouted much louder than was necessary to be heard through the door.

“My name is Gail Bonneville,” she replied. She tried to gauge her own tone to be loud enough to be heard, but not so loud as to involve the neighbors. “I’m here to speak with Alice Navarro.”

“Why? What do you want?”

Both reasonable questions, she thought. “Can you open the door please, sir?” she asked. “It’s an important matter.”

“I don’t open the door after dark,” the man said.

“I understand, sir. But again, it’s very-”

“That’s the second time you called me sir. Are you a cop?”

Gail had to smile. “No sir, not anymore. But I used to be. I’m a private investigator now.”

“What do you want?”

A set of curtains pulled away from the front window next door. “It’s about Alice’s brother, Bruce,” she said.

Two locks turned, and the door flew open, quickly enough to make her gun hand twitch. He fixed her with a furious glare. “Step inside.” He swung his body like a gate-like an extension of the door-and ushered Gail into the foyer.

The decor was old and boring. Dark wood flooring had worn yellow in the front hall. Dark wood molding outlined the staircase, and the large flowered pattern of the wallpaper reminded her of the eighties.

The living room sat to the left of the foyer, bathed blue in the light of the muted television. Cast in that flickering light, the woman Gail presumed to be Alice Navarro looked terribly pale.

“Do you have some kind of a badge or something I can see?” asked the man who had let her in as he pushed the door closed and locked it. He looked younger in real life than he had through the window. She pegged him to be around fifty-five. He wore the wife-beater sleeveless T-shirt that seemed to be the universal working-class lounging uniform, but his muscular arms made it look good on him.

Gail pulled a silver business-card case out of her pocket and opened it. The lid bore the official seal of the Samson, Indiana, Sheriff’s Department-her only parting gift from her previous employer. She saw her host’s eyes catch the emblem as she slid a card out of the slot and handed it over.

She offered her right hand as a greeting. “Gail Bonneville,” she said.

He scowled to read the card as he shook her hand. “Ken Harper. Says here you’re a ‘lead investigator.’ What the hell is that?”

He’d pronounced it as “led”-like the metal. She corrected him. “It basically means that I have a senior position within our firm.”

The woman from the living room materialized in the archway to the foyer. She, too, looked much younger in the full light, though during the day Gail was pretty sure she’d do something with the disheveled mop of brown hair on her head. She looked as if she’d been sleeping. “Did you say you have news about Bruce?” the woman asked.

“Are you Ms. Navarro?” Gail asked, proffering another business card.

“Mrs. Harper now,” she said. “Call me Alice. Keep the card. One will do. No sense killing more trees than we have to.”

Gail slid the case and its contents back into her pocket. “Can we please sit for a moment?”

“You’re lucky you’re inside,” Ken said. “Don’t push your luck. If you’ve got news about Bruce, just say it.”

Gail winced as she tried to figure out how best to put it. “I didn’t say that I have news, sir. I couldn’t because I don’t. I’m here to see if you can help me find him.”

Ken’s ears flushed. He reached for the doorknob. “That’s it,” he said, sliding the locks away. “Get out.”

“But I-”

“Now.”

He was clearly angry, but nowhere near to the point of violence. If Gail judged the expression correctly, he was embarrassed. She shot a pleading look to Alice. “It’s to save a life,” she said quickly. “A child’s life.”

They hesitated. Neither was sold yet, but she had a window, if she worked quickly. “I represent Resurrection House,” she said. “That’s a school down in Virginia, where-”

“The kidnapping,” Alice said. “I heard about that on the news. An orphanage, right?”

Gail hemmed. “Well, no, actually, but it’s okay to think of it that way. One of the kidnapped boys has ties to your brother.”

The final lock turned. “No more of this,” Ken said.

“No,” Alice interrupted. “No, I want to hear what she has to say.”

“Alice, no,” Ken argued. “There’s no good that can come of this.”