Hostage Zero (13 page)
C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
Jonathan entered the mansion at ten-thirty, feeling human again after a very long, very hot shower. The two hours of sleep didn’t hurt, either. Officially, the massive colonial-style behemoth held the administrative offices for Resurrection House and housed Venice and her family. Unofficially, to the rest of the town, it would always be the Gravenow mansion, Jonathan’s childhood home. He’d happily deeded it away at his first chance for the whopping sum of one dollar.
Its towering, wainscoted memories were worthy enough of forgetting that Jonathan rarely entered the place anymore. When he did, it was only for a very good reason.
He barely slowed as he strode the ornately inlaid foyer and crossed under the massive staircase to open the narrow door that led to the basement. Jonathan tried not to remember the days when the basement suites housed teams of servants. Back then, they all worked for Mama Alexander, who, with her daughter Venice, had qualified for better-ventilated quarters on the mansion’s third floor.
Jonathan thought it curious that the basement suites looked bigger than he remembered, and far less like a dungeon. The hallways were wide to accommodate the various food carts and cleaning apparatus that used to be shuttled from one service elevator to the next, and the sleeping quarters on either side were reminiscent of his dormitory days at William and Mary, twelve feet square with ten foot ceilings. Now these spaces were largely empty, except for a few that were stacked with junk that someone had deemed worth saving.
“Ven?” he called.
“Down here!”
He looked behind him to see Venice step into the hallway and beckon with one hand. In her other, she held a manila file folder. She looked five years older than she did two days ago. Her chocolate-colored skin had a slack, sallow look to it that spoke of too many tears shed over too short a time.
“Is Jeremy in there?” Jonathan asked as he closed the distance, nodding to the room Venice had just left.
She shook her head. “No, he’s in the rectory with Dom.”
“Is he okay?”
“Physically, he seems okay,” Venice said. “Dom had Doctor Hamilton come in to take a look at him.”
Jonathan felt a flare of anger. “I thought I told you—”
“Dom impressed on him the need for secrecy,” Venice said, heading off the exact objection that Jonathan was about to launch. “He’d been drugged, Dig. We had to have him looked at.”
She was right, of course, but at this juncture, the best way to keep Jeremy alive was to let everybody think he was still missing. Whoever had lost track of him the first time wanted him back badly enough to dispatch a team of killers. That kind of desire doesn’t go away just because it gets difficult to do.
“Just make sure that the word is limited to as few people as possible.”
“Does that include Doug Kramer or not?”
“Not just yet,” Jonathan said. “Let’s keep him out of the loop until we don’t have a choice. He’s busy enough handling this firestorm. How’s Mr. Stewart?”
Venice winced and shrugged with one shoulder. “They think he’ll come out of it okay, but they’re worried about his liver and spleen. Apparently the bullet did damage to both, and then when they punched him ...” She stopped as her voice broke.
Jonathan didn’t need to hear the rest. The important part was that he’d survive. On a day when few things were going well, he’d take it. “And what about our new friends?”
“Of the two you shot, one is invisible. I can’t find any record at all. He’s like you—he never officially existed.”
Jonathan’s stomach tensed. In this day and age,
everybody
had a fingerprint on file somewhere—all except those whose fingerprints had been deliberately erased. To do that on every file was not easy. “What about the other one?”
everybody
had a fingerprint on file somewhere—all except those whose fingerprints had been deliberately erased. To do that on every file was not easy. “What about the other one?”
“Sean O’Brian,” Venice said. “We only know that because he was fingerprinted as a child offender twenty years ago. That’s the
only
print on file, even though his juvie record shows that the judge pushed him to join the Marine Corps, which he did. That’s clearly documented in his criminal file.”
only
print on file, even though his juvie record shows that the judge pushed him to join the Marine Corps, which he did. That’s clearly documented in his criminal file.”
“Let me guess: the Marine Corps has no record.”
Venice nodded. “Databases never heard of him.”
Jonathan folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “So they were government agents,” he thought aloud. “Or civilian contractors working for them. That fits with what Jimmy Henry told us, too.” He briefly recapped the prisoner’s version of his role in the kidnapping.
“Why would the government be involved in an assault on a school?” Venice asked.
“Clearly, they wanted those boys.”
“But they’re only
children
. What could they have done to deserve this?”
children
. What could they have done to deserve this?”
Jonathan suspected that they hadn’t
done
anything—at least not knowingly. There are only so many reasons to kidnap someone. When governments get involved, the list boils down to three: to extort information; to ensure silence; or to leverage cooperation. He chose not to mention any of the options to Venice.
done
anything—at least not knowingly. There are only so many reasons to kidnap someone. When governments get involved, the list boils down to three: to extort information; to ensure silence; or to leverage cooperation. He chose not to mention any of the options to Venice.
Instead, he said, “I need any and all information you can find on the shooters and on the children. Those boys have something in common—a shared secret—and we need to know what it is.” He paused for a breath and a change in topic. “What about the hippie?”
Venice pointed toward the closest room. “He’s in there,” she said. “He’s not talking, though. His name is Harvey Rodriguez. Born in Venezuela, moved to the States when he was fifteen. He’s a child molester.”
Jonathan recoiled.
Venice handed him the file. “It’s all right here. In fact, there’s a lot in there. You should give it a read before you talk to him.”
He took the folder, but held Venice’s gaze for a couple of seconds before he opened it. Was there anyone left on the planet who just wanted to let kids grow up normally?
“Don’t tell Boxers about this,” Jonathan said, hoisting the file. “He’ll kill him.”
“And that would be bad because ... ?” She headed for the stairs.
It took Jonathan only a few minutes to absorb the basics of Harvey Rodriguez’s file. When he was done, he opened the door and entered.
Despite the availability of a chair and a desk, Harvey stood in the corner, his back to the wall and his arms folded across his chest. An empty plastic water bottle lay on its side on the desk next to a full one. “You have no right to hold me here,” he said in a rush as soon as Jonathan crossed the threshold. It was as if he’d been rehearsing the line and needed to say it quickly before he lost his nerve. “You’re not a cop. You can’t make me stay.”
Jonathan cocked his head, then shrugged. “Leave,” he said, stepping aside and clearing the way.
Harvey’s eyes narrowed. “You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack. As far as I’m concerned, we’re protecting you, not imprisoning you. You want to leave, leave. The easier a target you are on the street, the less I have to worry about you bringing trouble here.”
Harvey hesitated.
“Seriously,” Jonathan said. “Go.”
The hippie’s eyes darted, as if looking for the scam. Then they grew wide as the reality dawned on him. “People are going to try to kill me if I leave,” he said.
Jonathan helped himself to a folding metal chair on the front side of the desk. “It certainly seemed to be on the agenda a while ago,” he said.
“Where’s the boy?”
“Someplace that’s none of your concern. Why don’t you take a seat?”
“He’s the one they were after,” Harvey said. “They left him for dead. Did you know that?”
“And you saved him. You did a good thing. And now I’m saving you.” He paused for effect. “Unless you want to leave.”
Harvey thought on that for the better part of a minute. “You know I can’t do that.”
“I do.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Jonathan took his time answering. This was a negotiation of sorts, and as in all negotiations, the elements needed to be put in terms of the other party’s best interests. “I’d like to think you’d accept this hospitality for what it is.”
“You put me in the basement.”
“Only because it’s out of sight,” Jonathan explained. “Things are happening here that don’t yet make much sense to me. But I know this: If people are willing to kill a child, they’re willing to kill anyone.”
Harvey’s face turned wistful as his eyes focused on a point that didn’t exist in the real world. “I don’t like people,” he said. “Never had much use for them. Then this happens right in front of me, and I’m stuck holding the bag.” His eyes rolled up to bore through Jonathan. “Does that make any damn sense to you?”
Jonathan liked this guy. He couldn’t articulate why, but he liked him. “There’s a lot in this world that doesn’t make sense to me, Harvey.” He let a beat pass. “Like how a man like you—a Marine Corps medic—ends up molesting children.”
Harvey’s jaw set at Jonathan’s accusation, but his eyes just remained tired. “You’ve done your homework,” he said.
Jonathan nodded. “I have. And I have to tell you that knowing this makes me wish you’d died out there with the others.”
Harvey’s eyes went red. He said nothing.
“Is it true?” Jonathan pressed.
“It’s true that I’m a registered sex offender, yes.”
Jonathan scowled. “Is there a ‘but’?”
Harvey smiled without humor. “Not one that you’d be interested to hear.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because nobody’s interested in hearing it. I’m a kid toucher on the record, and that’s all that matters.”
“That’s a lot,” Jonathan said.
Harvey glared through Jonathan’s brain. “You tell me what your mood dictates,” Harvey said. “Do you want to draw conclusions, or do you want to hear the truth?”
“The truth always works for me.”
Harvey sat in the chair on the opposite side of the desk from Jonathan. He took his time assembling his thoughts, then launched into the story. “I had ...
difficulty
in 2004 after the first battle for Fallujah. I don’t know if you know anything about military operations, but that was pretty intense. They called it ‘urban warfare’ and I guess it was, but to me ‘urban’ means city. Fallujah was like a thousand years old. I was with Company K, three-five, and we caught nothing but shit for days on end.”
difficulty
in 2004 after the first battle for Fallujah. I don’t know if you know anything about military operations, but that was pretty intense. They called it ‘urban warfare’ and I guess it was, but to me ‘urban’ means city. Fallujah was like a thousand years old. I was with Company K, three-five, and we caught nothing but shit for days on end.”
Jonathan recognized “three-five” as Third Battalion of the Fifth Marine Regiment.
“Those Hadji fuckers were everyplace. We took a lot of casualties. I was up to my elbows in brains and intestines for days on end. I’d get one Marine packed up for transport and then another one would get hit. It was fucking awful.”
It was also the most intense urban combat that United States armed forces had ever encountered, Jonathan didn’t add, although he had studied it. He’d been separated from the Army for more than a few years by the time Operation Iraqi Freedom was launched, but he’d stayed in touch with many of his buddies who were still on active duty. The American press denied people at home the story of the stunning victory, choosing instead to concentrate on U.S. casualties and collateral damage, but the strategy and tactics developed during that weeklong battle would be studied in military textbooks for generations to come.
Harvey continued, “Anyway, if you’ve never been there, it’s hard to describe how something just breaks inside of you. I just wasn’t the Marine I thought I was. One day I was a damn good medic—and I mean
damn
good, even thinking of a way to use G.I. benefits to get to medical school—and then I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
damn
good, even thinking of a way to use G.I. benefits to get to medical school—and then I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
He stripped the cap off his water bottle and took a long pull. “They called it PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. That’s a great name when you’re using it on someone else. When it’s you, it just feels like ‘crazy.’ They sent me to Bethesda for a while, but then they drummed me out. I was fine with that, but what was I going to do for a living? I didn’t want nothin’ to do with the blood-and-guts business anymore, so I thought I’d try to help kids. You know, the future of the world?”
His bitter sarcasm triggered a humorless chuckle. “I took a job at a community health club in Braddock County, up near Brookfield.”
Jonathan recognized it as a neighboring county in Northern Virginia.
“I taught swimming, did some lifeguarding. Even taught first-aid courses. It was exactly the kind of gig I needed. Kids are basically, nice, right? They live in a world where the only violence is the stuff you see on TV. They’re refreshing to be around.”
Jonathan jumped ahead. “So, refreshing, in fact that you—”
A white-hot glare cut him in half. “You gonna listen, or are you gonna talk?” Harvey spat. “See, this is why it’s not worth explaining the facts to people. You see the label, and then everything just falls into place for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said. And he meant it.
Harvey’s eyes held him for a while longer, testing. “All right. Well, the fact is that kids are shit, too. I had one, Amanda Goldsbury, a loudmouth punk maybe thirteen years old whose parents dropped her off every day in the summer at seven in the morning, and then picked her up at eight at night. Our job was to babysit her ass for the six-buck-a-day admission charge. She wasn’t the only one like that, but she was the one who was easiest to hate. She thought she was queen shit. She terrorized the other children, and she had no compunction about telling an adult to go fuck himself. You know the type?”
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