Lindsay McKenna - Firstborn

“How long were you a captive?”

Shrugging, Jason said, “A month or so…”

She saw the pain in his eyes. “Can you tell me what you remember of you captivity?”

Shifting uncomfortably in the chair, Jason said, “Yeah, I guess…”

Annie waited. She could feel the tension radiating from Jason, saw the way his shoulders hunched, as if to deflect a coming blow. Her questions must be like blows to him. She had so many questions she wanted to ask, but she had to be patient.

“The dude that took me was an old man. He hated my father for disrupting the worldwide drug trade. Every chance he got, he’d make sure I heard how bad my father was.”

“And did you talk back to him? Fight or resist?”

Mouth thinning, Jason said, “Yeah…at first. I used to yell at him that my father was a good man. Every time I did, he’d slap me.”

Wincing inwardly, Annie said, “I’m so sorry….”

Again, her soft words haunted him, touched his aching heart and soothed him in a way no one ever had. Jason stared at her wordless for several seconds before he continued. “I learned real fast not to stand up for my father. And when the old bastard kept brainwashing me on how bad my dad was, I would cry instead. I cried out of anger, because what I wanted to do was punch out the old man’s lights, but I knew he’d kill me if I tried. He always had two goons with guns hanging around the room when I was there. I knew they’d kill me.”

“So you cried? Out of fear and frustration?”

“Yes.”

“What else happened?” Annie dreaded asking this, but she had to in order to understand the man Jason was today.

“I got regular beatings from him when I cried. So I eventually learned to say and do nothing.”

“To swallow all your feelings. To say nothing and stay silent.”

“Exactly.” He gave her a level look. “You understand.”

“Yes…I do. Prisoners of war often experience the same thing you did.”

“I was a prisoner of a war. I learned to trust no one there. I was watched twenty-four–seven, and I got at least one beating a day from the old dude, or from one of my guards. They said it was for being Morgan Trayhern’s son. When they finally rescued me, I was black-and-blue, I had a broken nose—” he touched it with his finger “—and several cracked ribs.”

Closing her eyes, Annie placed her hand across them. Her heart swelled with anguish for Jason. No wonder he didn’t trust! Allowing her hand to fall away, she opened her eyes and stared at him. He sat there tensely, as if expecting a blow. “That’s really terrible. You were badly abused by them.”

He chuckled darkly. “You’ve said a mouthful, Ms. Dazen.”

“Did your parents get you therapy?”

“Oh, yeah…all kinds. The shrinks said I had PTSD, posttraumatic stress disorder.” He flexed his fingers and chuckled again. “No surprise there.”

“And how did you do with the therapists?”

“Not well, I guess. I didn’t trust them.”

“Of course not. They were adults.”

“That’s right,” he said grimly.

“You probably felt abandoned by adults in your time of need. And the adult who held you prisoner hurt you badly.”

“Yep, that about sums it up.”

“And have you had problems trusting adult males since that time?”

“A little,” Jason muttered, looking away. “I’m not on good terms with my father, either.”

She hurt for him, because she saw undisguised pain over that admission not only in his narrowed blue eyes, but in the thinning of his full mouth. “I’m sure your father tried to regain your trust?”

“Oh, yeah. He did….”

“But?”

“It didn’t take. I was—I am—angry at him for what happened. He should have protected us, his family. Instead, he was arrogant and felt we were safe enough in Washington.”

Annie sighed. “What about your mom? How did she get through this mess?”

“She had a lot of years after the kidnapping when she wasn’t really available to us kids. I mean—” he opened his hands “—she was raped. I’m still angry over that. I see what it did to her…and how it’s affected all of us….”

“And now?”

“She’s pretty much worked through the worst of it, although I still see it in her from time to time. I’ve learned what rape does. It’s a terrible thing. It murders part of a person and you never get back that piece again.”

“It sounds like the drug lords got the revenge they wanted.”

“And then some.”

“Your father must have been affected by this, too? You said he was tortured?”

Jason nodded. “Yeah, nonstop. You can see the scars on his arms and legs when he’s in a bathing suit or a short-sleeved shirt.”

“And how has he recovered from the kidnapping?”

“Better than any of us, but then, he’d been wounded in the head during the Vietnam War, and had amnesia for years after that. The U.S. government screwed him, too. He didn’t know who he was, and eventually joined the French Foreign Legion. Several years after that, he suddenly got his memory back and went home to the U.S.

“From there, he met my mother, Laura, and they were finally able to find the men responsible for branding him as a traitor, and to get his named cleared. My dad is a hero to a lot of people.” Jason looked away. “So, my two cents’ worth is that because of his past experience, he was able to roll with the kidnapping better than my mother or myself. He seems the least affected by what happened.”

Annie nodded. “Thank you for telling me this. I promise it will go nowhere, but it helps me to understand you.”

She saw him lift his head and study her, and instantly, her heart flew open. The look in his eyes was one of relief and hope. There was no more anger or distrust there. How badly she wanted to get up and throw her arms around Jason. Annie sensed that being held was exactly what he needed—and that, since the kidnapping, he’d never let anyone beyond those armored walls he’d built up.

Somehow, Annie knew he’d let her in. And that realization was as startling as a lightning bolt.

“Have you found out anything, Morgan?” Laura asked as she laid out china plates of a colorful floral pattern on the kitchen table. It had been two weeks since she’d talked to Jason, and she hadn’t heard a word from him since. She didn’t know who worried more about their son, her or Morgan.

Wiping her hands on her peach-colored apron, she moved back to the counter. Today, Kamaria was being watched by their baby-sitter, Crystal Harding, a local woman from Phillipsburg who dearly loved the little tyke. Crystal and Kamaria were in the toddler’s bedroom at the other end of the large, two-story home, having Kamaria’s favorite lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while watching reruns of Mister Rogers on television.

Scowling, Morgan went to the drain board and picked up the bowls of salad Laura had made for them. “I just got off the phone with Red Dugan,” he said as he placed the wooden bowls on the table.

“And?” Laura shot him a questioning look as she placed pink linen napkins and silverware next to the teak bowls. Morgan pulled out her chair and she sat down. One of the many things she loved about her husband was his gallantry. She knew it came from the fact that he’d been a Marine Corps officer, a throwback to another time, but she loved his sensitivity toward her in this way. Smiling to herself, she realized she was most likely a throwback, herself.

Watching as Morgan sat down at her left elbow, she waited impatiently to hear what he had to say about Jason. Because of her husband’s broad intelligence network, which spanned the world, and his contacts with the higher-ups in every military branch, it was easy for him to pick up a phone to check in on Jason or Katy without their knowledge.