The Replacements (6 page)

She pointed her finger at me and opened her mouth to speak.

I raised my hand. “Wait, please wait and let me explain.” I swallowed hard. I didn't like reliving the story of the Mabry family and the house that bled. In all the years after the event, I'd never told anyone the story except Marie. One hot summer night while lying with Marie on damp sheets, my need to share overwhelmed my need to keep the images, pain, and emotions buried. Her hot body up against mine, her head resting on my shoulder, I told her the entire story. Her breath increased, her body tensed. When I finished, she said, “I am so very sorry, Bruno.” She, too, had been outraged by the brutality, the cold insensitivity. The evil. We never spoke of the event again.

“I have to go, because it's Jonas Mabry who has the children. He took them in order to get me to come back to the States.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide as tears filled them again.

I pulled her into me. After a time, still in the embrace, I asked, “You hungry? I am.” I really wasn't, but wanted her to eat something.

“You're wanted,” she said in a quieter tone. “The odds are not in your favor. They catch you, I'll never see you again.”

“Baby, I have to go. I'll be all right. I promise you, it'll be all right. No one's going to catch me. I'll get in, find out what this is all about, find the two little girls, and get right out. One day, two at the most.”

She wouldn't look at me and pulled away. She plopped down on the chair, tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes aflame with anger. A reaction to be expected under the circumstances.

“What about the next time? Huh? What about the next time, Bruno ‘the Bad Boy' Johnson?” For emphasis, she'd used an old street moniker the guys on the Violent Crimes Team had labeled me.

I spoke in a lowered voice, words I wanted to be true more than anything else. “There won't be a next time, because there is only one Jonas Mabry.”

She searched my eyes for truth and nodded.

I went over and turned the light off. In the dim light from the candles, I went back and picked her up the same as I would a child, blew out the candles, and carried her to the bedroom. I was hungry for her, all of her. The ache I would have being away from her was already there. I wanted to savor every second of our time together.

I laid her gently on the bed and kissed her long and deep. I unbuttoned the top button to her blouse and she grabbed my hand. She got up on her knees and pulled my shirt off over my head, kissing my neck and chest. I slipped her blouse over her head and unhooked her bra so her breasts fell loose. We lay down, went slow, stretched time, tried to pretend we could make it last forever.

The next morning, Marie put on a fake smile as she loaded a bag of Wally's clothes and toys and books. Dad and Marie turned away to wipe tears as they said good-bye. The kids were confused, but most of all, four-year-old Wally.
Kids are so intuitive
.

We made it out the door, me carrying Wally close, even though he could walk. In an hour I would never see him again. The thought snatched my breath. I suppressed it.

I walked straight to the center of town where the 200-year-old, five-tier fountain provided a watering hole for birds from miles around. We sat on the edge and tossed dried bread to the bold pigeons. Wally giggled and chased after them. The birds flew and came right back, more intent on filling their stomachs than concern for their safety.

Right on time, a white stretch limo pulled around the cobbled street that encircled the fountain. I fought an urge to change my mind, scoop up Wally, and run like hell.

This was the first time Mr. Kim had even met his son. He'd
come to Los Angeles for a world summit five years ago, to exchange ideas regarding the use of land mines in No Man's Land between North and South Korea. He'd met a younger, prettier version of Wally's mother, who had just started working the high-end convention center hotels, plying her trade. Before she'd given it all up for the glass maiden. They conceived Wally without Mr. Kim's knowledge. Later, she contacted Mr. Kim and told him about his son, said for $100,000 he could have his son, no strings attached. Marie and I hadn't been aware of any father when we took him from his mother, who was so sketched out and goggle-eyed with cocaine paranoia that she didn't know what day it was. The mother later died of an overdose. Mr. Kim had been looking for Wally ever since.

Mr. Kim was smart. He stopped on the other side of the circle. Approaching on foot would be far less intimidating. Two thick-necked bodyguards with sunglasses got out first, their shaved heads rotating from side to side searching for any threat. Mr. Kim, smaller, dressed in white linen pants and a cream silk shirt, emerged. He saw Wally and his face went from all business to a megawatt smile.

Relief flooded me. Giving Wally up to this man was going to be all right. Any doubt that this man was Wally's father, wasn't there now. Wally had his chin and jaw line.

Mr. Kim hesitated and then headed over. His bodyguards followed and he waved them off.

I said, “Wally, son, come here.” The child stopped chasing the pigeons and hurried back. I hugged him and kissed the top of his head. I picked him up and sat him on my lap as Mr. Kim walked up. He took off his sunglasses and we locked eyes. He bowed and then extended his hand. I took it, fighting tears. He sat down next to us. He knew not to rush the exchange, not with a small child.

“Thank you for calling,” he said. “I have been frantic to find him. Thank you for taking care of him and keeping him safe. I understand your motives and how it happened, and I can never repay you.”

I had a large rock in my throat and found it difficult to reply. And even though this was the best deal for Wally, I still transferred some anger to Mr. Kim for making us go through this. The emotion wasn't logical, but I understood its basis.

“Wally,” I said, “I want you to meet a good friend of mine.”

“Who? Who's this?” For a brief second, Wally lost his smile. That intuition thing again.

“He's a good friend, and—”

Mr. Kim again proved this was the right decision. He pulled out three Tootsie Pops from his pocket. Wally's face lit up. He wiggled down off my lap and went over to his father, an action that displayed a child's natural vulnerability. Mr. Kim didn't try to pick him up. He took his time. “Hello, Wally.” He handed over the chocolate sucker, the one Wally pointed to. Mr. Kim smiled and a tear ran down his cheek. He helped Wally unwrap his Tootsie Pop. Wally stuck it in his mouth and immediately tried to come back to the safety of my lap.

I held Wally off. “Wally, do you want to know a secret?”

He nodded, too involved in his sucker to take it from his mouth to talk.

“Mr. Kim, my very good friend here, is going to Disneyland and wants to take a little boy with him. Do you want to see Dumbo and Mickey Mouse?”

Wally looked at Mr. Kim then back at me as he thought about this offer. He shook his head “no,” and tried a little harder to get back in my lap.

Mr. Kim looked scared. “Wally, I have some toys in my car right over there.”

“What kind of toys?”

“A bright red fire truck and some race cars.”

I hoped for Wally's sake that Mr. Kim really did have the toys in the car. Wally was going to be scared enough.

Wally hesitated, then again shook his head “no.” Mr. Kim couldn't resist himself and gently stroked Wally's hair. This spooked Wally and he wiggled harder. I let him get back up in
my lap as I tried to think of what else would work, short of physically forcing him. Mr. Kim looked back at the limo. If he was going to call the car, this was going to turn emotional for all three of us.

I turned Wally around to face me. “I guess you don't want to go with Mr. Kim, do you?”

This time he pulled the sucker from his mouth. “No.”

“Okay, too bad, you're really going to miss out.”

“Miss out on what?”

“Oh, Mr. Kim is on his way to buy a puppy.”

Wally's head whipped around. “A puppy?”

Mr. Kim laughed. “That's right, a puppy. Do you want a puppy?”

Wally nodded his head “yes,” wiggled down off my lap, and went over to Mr. Kim. “Let's go. Let's go get a puppy.”

Mr. Kim wiped the tears from his face. He extended his other hand. “Thank you again, Mr.—”

I took his hand and shook, “Luther, John Luther.”

We each took one of Wally's hands and walked him to the limo.

“I know you told the Korean embassy that you would not take the million-dollar reward. Please, the money means nothing to me, not compared to what you have done.”

Marie and I hadn't done it for the money, and taking it would somehow trivialize our acts, all of them.

“I won't take the money, but there is something you can do for me.”

Later that same night we stood in the open front door. At our feet sat a beat-up, black leather valise packed with one change of clothes and $20,000 from our savings. Money to get the job done and money to get me home. In a kidnapping, the first twelve hours are the most crucial; after that, the odds of a favorable outcome diminish to single digits. I wasn't going to be gone long.

I'd said my good-byes to the kids when I put them to bed. I held Marie in my arms, my face resting on the top of her head. Her hair smelled of green apples. I imprinted her scent in my memory. We stood quietly with the knowledge the trip would begin once the limo from the embassy pulled up out front. I didn't want to go.

Marie had said little throughout the evening. Now she spoke. “I need to tell you something.”

I didn't move. In an instant my mind spun out a thousand scenarios, the most obvious from similar B-movie situations:
I won't be here when you get back
. But Marie would never pin an
or else
on this trip, not with these stakes.

After I squirmed a little, she said, “I fought with myself over whether or not to tell you. You have so much on your mind already. But I decided you'd be mad if I didn't.”

“What is it? Tell me, please.”

“I don't want you to worry while you're gone. You have enough—”

“Marie.” I tried to pull her away to see her eyes. She clung to me.

“He told me not to tell you.”

“Who, Dad? What is it?”

“There's something wrong with him.”

This time I wouldn't let her get away with it. I pulled her back and watched her expression. “What are you talking about?”

“Your dad's sick. I don't know what it is. He won't go to the clinic.”

“Cancer? Is it cancer?”

“I can't tell. No one can until there are tests. It could be anything.”

My knees went weak. “How long have you noticed the symptoms?”

“He hasn't been eating right for a while and, when he does, it's a little at a time. Haven't you noticed his weight loss? I've been trying to get him to go to the clinic for about two weeks now. I was about to tell you, then all this mess happened. He's going to be real mad I told you. He said that if I didn't tell you, he'd go to the clinic tomorrow after you left.”

I nodded, taking in this news and weighing it against canceling the trip. What price did one have to pay to do the right thing? This one could come with a heavy toll. “How bad do you think it is?”

She put her head back on my chest. “Bruno, don't worry about it. There's nothing to worry about until there are tests. Odds are, this is something minor.”

The limo pulled up out front, the headlights illuminating the trees and other houses in diffused blacks and grays.

Decision time.

She said, “I didn't want you to go without knowing. It's probably nothing. Tomorrow we'll know more after he sees a doctor. I'll call you first thing, I promise.” She reached down and picked up the valise. “Come on.”

She wasn't going, but carried the valise to show me in some small way she approved of the trip. She went out the door into the night. I could do nothing else but follow along like a wayward orphan.

The walk down the flagstone entry to the street went on and on as I fought the desire to stay behind, to let someone else handle the problem thousands of miles away, a problem that had the potential to impact our lives to an unimaginable degree.

Over the six months before we'd left the States, Dad had aged twice as fast. He'd literally wilted right before my eyes. I assumed that the stress from hiding the kids caused this damage. Cancer studies have proven that stress is a serious causation factor. I couldn't have deterred him from getting involved with bringing the children to Central America. He'd always been a protector of the neighborhood.

But this wasn't necessarily cancer. I had to keep telling myself this wasn't cancer, this was something minor, like an intestinal virus.

Marie, slightly ahead, passed through our ornate wrought-iron gate. “Look at this.”