Deadly Holidays (3 page)

Soon, she nudged Shawn, "I'm meeting a few friends, so you're going home with your grandma."  Without waiting for a response, she left, heading toward the exit stairway.

Shawn knew that when his mommy said she was meeting friends, it meant she was going to be drinking and would most likely arrive home late and drunk.  He hated it when she drank.  She became another person — mean and grouchy.  He was sure to get another beating, just like he did every time she drank. 

He nodded absently and moved to stand next to his grandmother's wheelchair. She was talking with the neighbor who drove her to the hearing, and barely noticed him. 

Once his mother was out of sight, he pulled at her arm, "Grandma, I need to go to the bathroom."

"Well, just go," she said abruptly, before turning back to continue her conversation with her neighbor.

Shawn walked toward the men's restroom.  Once he reached the door, he glanced back at his grandmother, who was still talking.  He then raced down the hall to take the side exit stairs.  Once he reached the first floor, he walked out of the building and down the street.

<><><> 

Eve Isaac was pumped.  She was sure her no-good, loser husband was going to get the book thrown at him.  That alone was a great reason to celebrate.  Not that she needed a reason when she got together with her friends.  Sandy, Laurie and Stacie had been friends since their wild high school days.  Eve picked up the pace as soon as she saw her old red Pontiac Firebird parked nearby.  By the grace of God and her buddy, Larry, the car was still operational. 

Reaching the car, she opened the door, threw her purse in, slipped into the driver's seat and started the engine.  It was then she felt the knife at her throat.  Every nerve in her body told her to scream, but when she opened her mouth, only a rasp came out.  She looked in the rearview window to see the crazed, dark eyes of her estranged husband in the back seat.

"You look surprised, Eve.  Did you really think that 'No Contact Order' would stop me?  Just a damn piece of paper, bitch," he growled.

"Please, John.  You don't want to do this," Eve begged.

"That's where you're wrong.  Back the car out of the lot, and get on the road."

Eve slipped the car into gear and backed out of the parking space, feverishly hoping someone would notice that she needed help.  There were dozens of people leaving the courthouse, looking for their cars in the parking lot.  She only needed one of them to help her.

"Turn left here," he said, as she approached the parking lot exit. 

She obeyed and asked, "Where are we going?"

John adjusted the knife a bit.  It was no longer pressing into her flesh, but a painful bloody cut was left behind. "Do you remember what we did on our first date?" 

Eve searched her memory.  At first she could not remember, then it hit her. "We went on a picnic, didn't we?"

"That's right," John began.  "But where did we picnic?"

"By the river."

"The beginning and the end, Eve.  Every book and movie has one of each," he said.  "And now we'll have ours."

"Are you nuts?  What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Keep driving," he seethed with mounting rage.  To show her he meant business, he sliced the knife slightly across her neck, just enough to make a trickle of blood ooze down her neck onto her shirt.

Eve cried hysterically, running off the road, but jerking the car back onto the pavement just in time.  It was snowing now.  Snowflakes floated about and melted on the windshield, making visibility difficult as her outdated windshield wipers smeared back and forth.

A rectangular green sign for the picnic area appeared, and John shouted, "Turn right.  Turn right."  He fought Eve for control of the steering wheel when she refused to turn.

She hammered down on the gas pedal, driving past the picnic area and onto the bridge.  Pushing himself over the front seat, John viciously elbowed Eve in the face and thrust the steering wheel to the right, crashing the car through the bridge guardrails, plunging down into the icy waters of the Wabash River.

<><><> 

As the obstetrician moved a wand across Jennifer's swollen belly, Blake stared at the ultrasound monitor as their baby sucked his or her thumb within his wife’s womb.  Jennifer still wanted the sex of the baby to be a surprise, but Blake disagreed and searched the image for evidence it was a boy.  The sound of his cell phone ringtone disrupted his search.  He excused himself and stepped outside the room to take the call.  He saw on the display that the caller was Lane Hansen, his boss.

"Hey, Lane, what's up?" he answered.

"Blake, Shawn Isaac has disappeared."

"What?  I was just with him at the courthouse.  I left him with his mother," exclaimed Blake.  He was incredulous.  How could Shawn have disappeared?

"It seems Eve left to meet up with some friends, and left him with his grandmother.  He asked to go to the restroom and no one has seen him since."

"Damn it.  Where does his mother think he may have gone?"  Blake fumed.  Was it too much to ask for a mother to spend time with her little boy after he testified against his dad?  What was she thinking?

"Actually, we can't find her, either," said Lane.

"You're kidding.  Did you check the bars where she likes to hang out?" asked Blake.  He'd bet his next paycheck she was out drinking with her friends, instead of watching out for her son.

"Yeah.  Eve's not around, and no one's seen her.  She was supposed to meet up with some girlfriends at the Hoosier Sports Bar, but never showed."

"Did the security at the courthouse run through today's surveillance file to look for Shawn?"

"Yes, I've got the file on my computer.  We can see him walking toward the men's restroom, but he stops at the doorway to look back at his grandmother.  Then he runs to the exit door.  The next time we see him, he's leaving the building, headed toward Main Street, then we lose him.  We're at the office planning a search.  Can you come in?"

"I'll be right there."

Blake opened the examining room door.  He debated whether or not to tell his very pregnant wife that Shawn was missing.  Jennifer adored the little boy as much as he did, and he didn't want her to get upset, especially this close to her due date. 

Jennifer was still watching the sonogram monitor when he entered the room.  Blake nodded to the doctor, who left the room so the couple could be alone.  He wrapped his arms around his wife and kissed her lightly on the lips. 

"I've been the daughter of a cop long enough to know that look.  You have to go," said Jennifer, as her eyes scanned his face.

"I'm sorry.  I'll see if there is a deputy nearby who can take you home."

"No need.  Mom is on her way.  I called her when you went out to take the call," Jennifer began. "Your work cell wouldn't ring if you weren't needed." She looked at him again. Blake was good at compartmentalizing, but she knew him.  His brow was creased with worry.  She could tell this was no ordinary call.  Someone needed his help and it was personal.  "Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Honey, there is no reason for you..."

Jennifer interrupted. "Spill it.  What's going on?"

Blake sighed.  She was getting more upset by not knowing.  "We're looking for Shawn.  He's been missing since the hearing a couple of hours ago."

Quick tears filled her eyes.  In her experience as a law enforcement professional, the missing child was her least favorite case.  There were so many variables and often few leads.  "Where is he?  Shawn is only five-years-old. It's the middle of winter and we're expecting snow.  He can't be out there alone. Anything could happen to him."

Blake stroked her long blonde hair, then slowly ran his hand over Jennifer's back in an effort to calm her.  "Do you trust me, honey?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then trust that I will find Shawn, and I'll call you as soon as I do."

<><><> 

Private Investigator Frankie Douglas-Hansen sat in Mrs. Bea Holden's formal living room, waiting for her prospective client to come downstairs.  The Holden mansion was not hard to find.  It was the biggest and most ornate house in the entire county.  Frankie had visited many homes where the holidays were celebrated, but none as ornate as the Holden house.  There were elaborate decorations covering every inch of the first floor, from huge wreaths above the fireplaces, to decorated-and-lighted Christmas trees in every room, including the foyer.  Tiny burgundy ribbons were even tied on each crystal arm of the chandeliers. 

The Holden's maid stood in the doorway, looking like a character out of a fifties British mystery movie.   Dressed in a black dress with a lacy white apron, she announced she'd be in the kitchen making tea. Frankie hoped the woman brought back a tray full of goodies, too.  She was starving.

"I trust you haven't been waiting long," said Mrs. Holden as she entered the room, using the worst imitation of a British accent Frankie had ever heard.  In her sixties, the slim but shapely woman wore a red cashmere sweater with a diamond brooch. Three diamond and pearl bracelets danced around her wrists.  She was pretty in a classical sense, with a platinum bob haircut, and simple but elegant makeup.  She looked Frankie over from her head to her toes, as if making an assessment of her ability to do the job she was about to assign.

"Not at all," answered Frankie, as she straightened in her chair.  "You said on the phone you had an urgent assignment for me, so I left the office right away."

"The matter is both urgent and
confidential
," she explained, emphasizing the word "confidential."

"You can be assured your privacy will be protected.  What may I do for you?"

"I have reason to believe that my husband, Arthur, is being unfaithful," whispered Mrs. Holden, as she looked down at her folded hands in her lap.

"Has anything happened to make you suspect him of seeing someone else?"

"Yes.  He has a poker night with the boys scheduled for Wednesday and Saturday nights."

"That's not unusual, Mrs. Holden.  A lot of men play poker."

"My husband has not expressed an interest in playing any kind of card game in more than thirty years.  Why the sudden interest?"  She began, continuing with the fake accent.  "Besides, he's the worst poker player in the world.  If he had a believable poker face, I'd have trusted him about the games. I wouldn't be meeting with you now."

"I see,"  Frankie responded, as she clenched her jaw to keep from grinning.  "In that case, I recommend surveillance..."