The Tears of Odessa: A Vigilante Justice Thriller

Book 1: Atlas Hargrove

by R.B. Schow

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR AND AMAZON ALL-STAR AWARD WINNER!

A stolen fifteen-year-old girl…

…in a country this killer barely understands.

Atlas Hargrove is officially on the hunt.

 

Former SWAT commander, Atlas Hargrove, just earned himself back-to-back life sentences in a California supermax prison. One emotionally-charged moment cost him his wife, his family, his life. All is not lost, though. On the fringes of polite society, financiers with leverage and influence are in constant search of a brute like Atlas, an unlikely asset with a perfect alibi and the skill set needed to stir up hell in the middle of hell itself.

 

Halfway across the globe, a kidnapped child is being moved from one country to the next. With time as his enemy and the rule of law behind him, Atlas will rely on a dodgy group of mercenaries and the instincts of his past to find the girl, kill those who took her, and stamp in the minds of monsters a single message: if you meet Atlas Hargrove, your life is likely over.

 

Fast-paced and packing one hell of a punch, this no-holds-barred action/adventure thriller will send you to the edge of your seat and leave you glued to the pages long into the night!

 

If you like Jack Carr, Mark Greaney, Lee Child, Vince Flynn, and Blake Banner, you’re going to love Atlas Hargrove in the bold new series-starter early readers have calling, “A resurgence of both power and heart in the thriller genre,” and “2020’s biggest surprise!”

 

If you’re ready for a night of edge-of-your-seat, unputdownable fiction, fire up your kindle, grab some caffeine, and prepare yourself for a wild night with the pride and joy of NorCal State Prison: the enigmatic, unpredictable Atlas Hargrove.

 

NOTE: This book contains the kind of brutal violence, strong language, and sexual content one might expect in a R-rated movie. The Beasts of Juarez and The Betrayal of Prague are now available with The Devil in Cologne arriving in April, 2022!

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SELECT PRAISE FOR R.B. SCHOW:

“A true feast for the avid reader! I read the whole thing in about 5 hours, then read it again. Can’t wait for the next installment!”

– Scott S., Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

“Holy smokes! To say it’s a page turner is an understatement. The characters are rich and come alive off the page. I will be anxiously awaiting The Beasts Of Juarez!”

– Melissa Rosenfield, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

“This book blew me away and I could not stop reading it. I have read many thrillers but this one was particularly well crafted, great characters all mixed in a great way.”

– Sytse, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

“Fast paced with well developed characters, and a storyline that kept me reading into the wee hours of the night. Can’t wait for the sequels!”

– Scott Abbey, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

“I lost sleep because I couldn’t put this book down! If you are going to read this book, prepare for a roller coaster ride. It’s intense, fascinating, scary, hilarious, and just all around amazing!”

– Amanda Frederich, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

“This book gives hope that every last horrible person, man or woman will get their due! Can’t wait for the next Atlas Hargove book!”

– Kindle Customer, Amazon Reviewer ★★★★★

 

Read more

Release date: September 9, 2020

Publisher: River City Publishing

Print pages: 412

Sample

CHAPTER 1

 

ATLAS HARGROVE

 

Two years ago.  On the fourth anniversary of his nine-year-old daughter’s disappearance, Atlas Hargrove threw his entire life away.  It was a regular Tuesday afternoon, not unlike a hundred Tuesdays before it.  Atlas had just shut his blackout curtains and was about to climb into bed alone when the call came in.  After a ten-hour shift, he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.  Begrudgingly, he picked up the call.

“Hargrove,” he answered.

“I’ve got a package for you,” Foster Truitt replied.  Truitt was Vacaville PD, a former co-worker.  Atlas sat up in bed, his eyes wide open.

Even though he was anticipating the call, Atlas felt his stomach drop.  Truitt had been conducting somewhat of an “off-the-books” investigation for Atlas, the nature of which was rather…sensitive, considering it was about something other than his missing daughter.  

“Talk to me,” he said.

“I’ve got a package for you,” Truitt replied.  It sounded like he was chewing gum. 

“And?” Atlas asked.

“I didn’t come up empty-handed.” 

He’d found something. 

“Yeah, okay.”

He was about to ask a question when Truitt hung up. 

Despite a personality devoid of warmth, Foster Truitt was one of the better detectives at the precinct, one of the guys Atlas not only liked, but respected back when he was one of the department’s two SWAT commanders. 

After he’d left Vacaville PD, Atlas had needed someone on the inside—a contact to keep him apprised of new information, should it present itself.  He never thought he would use the man for purposes other than to keep an eye on his daughter’s case, but that day came and Atlas made the tough decision to reach out to Truitt.  When he’d heard what Atlas had to say, Truitt didn’t argue, he’d just set the fee and promised to get back to him.  A part of him was scared to see what Truitt had found. 

Half an hour later, Atlas strolled into the precinct’s lobby to meet Truitt; he reconnected with the watch commander, Fred Albanesi, while he waited. 

“How you doing, Hargrove?” 

“Hanging in there,” Atlas said.  Just being in the precinct again reminded him of everything that had gone wrong there.

He and Albanesi went back to their academy days, but apparently they hadn’t been good enough friends to stay in touch after his daughter had gone missing and he’d 5150’d out of the job.  Atlas understood.  Around the precinct, when a guy burned out and burned up, the best thing you could do was pretend he’d never existed and go on.

“Whatcha doing for scratch these days?” Albanesi asked.

 “Working private security.  The Hollywood celebrity types, a few politicians going to fundraisers, a CEO every so often.”

“Lowlifes with money,” he said.

Atlas laughed.  “You don’t know the half of it.” 

“Does it pay well?”

“When I can get the work, yeah,” he said, surprised at the actual weight of his smile.  “But I can’t seem to get enough work these days.”

“They might take you back here.  Lots of guys punching out with this whole antipolice agenda dragging on.  Jenkins had acid thrown at his face the other day.  By a freaking kid no less.  Said fried pigs equaled bacon, or something stupid like that.”

“You catch him?”

“We will.” 

Foster Truitt appeared moments later.  Where Fred Albanesi hadn’t seemed to have changed at all, Truitt had clearly refined his look over the last year.  He was already a good-looking black man, but now the haircut looked more expensive, the suits more form-fitting, the wingtip shoes flashy enough on their own to steal the show.  If ever there was a man worthy of being the face of Vacaville PD, it was Foster freaking Truitt. 

“Atlas,” Truitt said.

“Foster.”

He handed Atlas the sealed manila envelope then said, “Good luck to you.”

“You want to catch up at all, maybe grab lunch?”

“Maybe when things calm down,” Truitt said, heading back to where he’d come from.  “I’ll call you.” 

Atlas turned and looked at Albanesi, who shrugged.  “He’s perfected the art of the dismissal.”

“I’ll say,” Atlas said, stunned. 

The contents of the envelope felt scant.  Was that a good thing or a bad thing?  His entire future could be in that envelope, a fact that wasn’t lost on him.  He drew a deep breath, measured its release.

“Whatcha got?” Albanesi asked. 

“A roadmap to my future,” Atlas replied. 

His former associate didn’t even pretend to hide his curiosity.  But Atlas didn’t want to be inside the precinct when he read Truitt’s report, especially if what he was reading turned out to be bad news.  Yet there he was—standing out in the open like a man who couldn’t make up his mind. 

“I’ll see you later,” he finally said. 

“Not if I see you first,” Albanesi replied before going back to work. 

Swallowing hard, Atlas tucked the manila envelope under his arm and headed out to the parking lot where his matte black Dodge Challenger sat baking in the hot California sun.  He started the engine and relaxed to the burly Detroit rumble.  In the background, he tuned out the chatter of an active police scanner he kept with him. 

Taking a deep breath, he stared at the envelope.  Eventually, he turned the scanner’s volume down, wiped a bit of perspiration off his neck, then shook his head.  Was he really that scared to see what was inside?  The temperature gauge on the dash read one hundred and three degrees.  You could practically see the heat coming off the blacktop.  It wasn’t the heat that was doing him in, though.  He really was that scared. 

He turned on the A/C, made sure it was ice cold and blowing hard.  “Get ahold of yourself, Hargrove,” he mumbled. 

When he mustered the courage to open the envelope, he was rewarded—or punished as it were—with multiple eight-by-ten photos of his wife, Jade.  Based on the lighting, the rake of the shadows, he guessed this was a late lunch, sometime around two o’clock.  That was when he saw who she was with.  He was a good-looking twenty-something guy Atlas didn’t recognize.  She didn’t have male friends that he knew of, nor would she have lunch alone with a stranger without first telling Atlas.  He wasn’t insanely jealous, but he was protective of her, and protective of his marriage.  Dread curled his insides.  A fresh, cold sweat broke over him, and he suddenly felt very sad.  He hadn’t expected that.  Anger perhaps, or rage, yes.  But grief?  Not so much. 

There had been an unstoppable distance forming between them since their daughter’s disappearance, one he felt powerless to control.  Even though he fought it, she seemed to have accepted it.  Somewhere along the way she began to change, her moods lightening—in spite of him, in spite of their circumstances—and for some reason, this spiked his suspicions.  Looking at the photos he wondered if this was confirmation of an affair. 

A familiar heat burned behind his eyes, and he found himself hating this guy.  Why did he have to be so good looking?  He was practically a male model.  How was he supposed to compete with that? 

He tossed the photos onto the passenger seat in disgust. 

“Unbelievable,” he growled.

Staring through the tinted glass window at the parking lot full of cars, he saw everything and nothing.  He tried to lower the temperature on the A/C further.  Unfortunately, it had reached its coldest setting.  Adjusting the vents, he took the full force of the A/C in his face.  Then it was back to the envelope.  The pictures.  Jade. 

You paid for this, he told himself, at least see what you’ve bought.

Swallowing hard, he picked up the nearest photo, studied the pretty-boy enjoying Jade’s company.  He was twenty-five years old at best, shoulder-length curly hair, strong jaw and brilliant eyes.  He couldn’t look at this home-wrecker for one more second.  That was why he turned his attention to Jade.  The Belarusian beauty.  He studied her face, wondered about her expression.  What was she feeling in that exact moment?  Was she thinking of him at all?  Of their daughter, Alabama?  Lately, when it came to Jade, he couldn’t seem to read her right.  She’d become wholly unpredictable.  He finally recognized the location: the Garden Bar & Café at Farmstead in St. Helena.  Sitting under the café’s signature blue spruce, the two of them looked happy. 

Seeing Jade with another man, dressed up and looking so good, he felt his heart squeeze to the point of pain.  She wore a black pencil skirt, a sheer white blouse unbuttoned low, black heels and a stack of gold bracelets on her wrist, the solid bangles she used to wear when they first met.  Her makeup was bold, her hair pulled back, her eyes sparkling.  God, she looks incredible.  Atlas fought hard to subdue his thundering heart, but it was no use.  When was the last time she’d dressed up like this?  When was the last time she’d even cared what he thought of her? 

Atlas was more than aware that things had changed between them, but he didn’t know the divide had grown so vast.  Seeing the pictures, sharpening his suspicions, he wondered if the bottom had finally dropped out of their marriage.  When he realized she wasn’t wearing her wedding ring, he knew it had. 

His cell phone rang, startling him.  Jade.  He stared at her photo on the screen, felt nothing but antipathy.  He listened to it ring three more times before sending the call to voicemail.  The minute he did that, the police scanner came to life, jolting him out of a deep, self-loathing trance. 

From the scanner, the female officer’s words alone hadn’t caused him to sit up fast.  The intensity in her voice was what piqued his interest.  

“Reports of a 10-71 at the corner of Merchant and Mason,” she said, her tone clipped, sharp with hints of anxiety.  Multiple gunshots.

“What’s your 10-20?” the dispatcher asked, her voice calm, measured.

“We’re outside 401 Merchant Street,” the officer replied.  “City Gas and Food.  Multiple unsubs leaving now.” 

“Sending additional units.”

“Copy that,” the young officer said, her voice severe.  “We’ve got eyes on three unsubs, all white males, ranging from five-eight to six feet tall, medium builds, shaggy hair.  They’re getting into a late-model Ford Mustang GT.  Bright yellow, hood scoop, early nineties.” 

She sounded new.  He recognized her voice, couldn’t quite put a name to it.  A moment later, the officer read off the license plate.

“Copy that,” the dispatcher said.

“Pursuing the Mustang now,” she said.  In the background, a siren began to wail.  “Looks like you’ll need to send an ambulance to Merchant.”

“Copy that.  All units we have a Code 3,” the dispatcher’s voice came back.  “Requesting 10-88 on Unit 12A, heading east on Mason Street.” 

Atlas let off the brake, smashed the gas and fishtailed out of the precinct parking lot in a smoking, barking roar.  He shouldn’t even be considering this course of action, but he was desperate for a distraction.  Glancing down at the photos on the seat next to him, he swallowed his revulsion.  No, he wasn’t looking for a distraction.  That was a lie.  He needed an outlet for the rage boiling up from deep inside him.

“Heading south on Peabody,” the officer said. 

Atlas took a right on Merchant, slowed for traffic.  Seeing his opening ahead, he dumped the clutch, roasted the rear tires, powered up into third gear.  Three blocks later, he tapped the brakes, downshifted to second, swung the wheel hard and carved his way through traffic.  The road ahead opened into a straightaway.  Instead of punching it, he tapped the brakes and took a hard left onto Alamo. 

“Calm down,” he mumbled, the familiar urges returning. 

Private security was an overpaid babysitting job at best, but the rush of a chase?  He missed those days.  At his core, he was an adrenaline junkie.  After surrendering the badge, he resigned himself to a “has-been,” a “bird-with-clipped-wings.”  But now he was flying again, and the mad charge into danger was every bit as euphoric as he remembered it to be. 

As he approached Butcher Road, the threat of slowing traffic sent his anxieties soaring.  He swerved into the bike lane, rode the brakes, then eased up onto the sidewalk, cringing as he scraped the undercarriage.  Straddling the sidewalk and the bike path, he cut around the traffic that had stopped for the red light.  He had to keep going, though.  Gritting his teeth and gunning it, he roared through the red light, dodged a rancher’s pickup that braked for him, ignored the cacophony of honking horns. 

“Unsubs just clipped a late model Prius,” the young woman who sounded a lot like Officer Julie Holloway relayed to dispatch. 

If he was remembering correctly, this would be the same young woman who was two years on the job.  She was bright and tenacious, but she was also far too pretty for law enforcement. 

“Unsubs just sideswiped a Nissan Sentra.  Dammit, they just clipped a girl on her bike.  Requesting an ambulance to Peabody and Hume in front of Will C. Wood High School.”

“Copy that,” the dispatcher said.

At the 7-Eleven, Atlas saw the elbow curve ahead.  He stayed on the gas, navigated the turn in a controlled drift.  Once he hit the straightaway, he crushed the accelerator and cut a clean line through traffic.  Blowing past several stopped cars, he caused a slight fender bender, but nothing noteworthy.  Easing off the gas, he noticed the tremors in his hands.  Too much adrenaline too quickly.

“C’mon, Atlas,” he mumbled. 

The voice in his head, the voice of reason, told him he wasn’t a cop anymore, that he wasn’t some dog chasing a bone.  He was a civilian.  Nothing more.  That same insistent voice reminded him that real-world actions had real-world consequences.  He couldn’t hide behind the badge anymore.

When he shot onto Peabody, he missed the Mustang and the pursuing patrol car by a good thirty feet.  The Mustang swung left at California Drive, then fishtailed right onto Madison Avenue.  Atlas kept going straight, looking to use speed and the straightaway to his advantage.

“Heading south on Madison Avenue,” Officer Holloway said. 

“Be advised, there’s a school nearby,” the dispatcher warned.  “Foxboro Elementary.”

“Copy that,” Holloway said.

Atlas’s daughter, Alabama, had gone to Foxboro Elementary before she’d been taken.  Images of her flooded his mind.  He could see her now—long sandy-blond hair, big blue eyes, a petite body small enough to be considered delicate. 

Thinking of this out-of-control situation, he felt an intensifying dread unraveling within him.  There were so many things wrong with this scene, his behavior, this insane outburst.  Then again, this was why he’d been put on psych leave in the first place.  This and the effect Alabama’s disappearance had had on him.  He hadn’t been the same, not since that day. 

Staying on the gas, he tore up Peabody, kicked out the ass end of the Challenger and burst onto Morning Glory Drive like a hellion.  Laying on the horn and swerving hard, he barely avoided a group of kids bolting for the sidewalk. 

With no other kids in sight, he smashed the gas, getting back on it.  If he could outpace the Mustang, maybe even cut him off before he reached Foxboro Elementary, he might have a chance at stopping this thing before anyone got hurt.  At least, that was what he’d hoped for before realizing school had let out already.  There were kids everywhere. 

“No, no, no, no, no,” he heard himself saying, frantic. 

By now his heart was slamming into his chest, the adrenaline rush so ferocious, he wondered if a heart attack was imminent.  And the voice of reason?  Yeah, that voice was bullhorning the insides of his head, demanding he pull over, turn around, leave it be.

He drifted left onto Madison, ready to block the Mustang’s path to the school.  He might have to martyr his car to do so, but at that point, saving the kids from potential harm felt critical, the consequences be damned. 

“Oh God, no,” he groaned as the scene unfurled before him.

Up ahead, he saw Unit 12A nudging the Mustang off the street and into Pheasant Country Park.  Atlas understood the strategy, but they were going way too fast and the angle was all wrong.  Even worse, there were kids crossing the road, heading for the park.  Atlas’s eyes shot open and he rode the brakes hard.  His grip on the steering wheel tightened, loosened, then tightened again.

“You moron!” Atlas exploded. 

Holloway’s partner should’ve backed way off; instead, Unit 12A bumped the Mustang’s rear end too hard, shoving the muscle car into a slide.  The back wheels broke loose, causing the Mustang to drift right into the kids in the street.  Holloway’s unit locked its brakes, came to a sliding stop in the gutter.

A horrified cry left Atlas’s mouth as he watched the kids get mowed down.  What he saw was the proverbial bowling ball striking the pins.  After mangling all those delicate little bodies, the Mustang slammed into a parked car.  The scene came to a violent, poignant halt.  All Atlas saw was the trail of bodies left behind. 

The former cop in him was enraged; the father in him was heartbroken.

He drove up next to the Mustang, shut off the car and set the parking brake.  Climbing out of the Challenger, he made a beeline for the kids.  Did they need CPR, a medic, or body bags?  He didn’t know.  What he saw, however, stopped him in his tracks.  Blood and ruined bodies were everywhere.  The sound of kids crying, and kids dying, was pure torture on his ears, an assault on his mental well-being.

He somehow managed to tear his eyes off the grisly scene.  Farther down the street, Unit 12A’s doors flew open and the pursuing officers hustled toward the kids.  Like Atlas, Holloway saw the carnage and froze.  Then she looked up and saw him.  He recognized her immediately, just as she recognized him.

“Secure the Mustang!” she yelled, clearly out of sorts. 

Nodding, he turned back to the Mustang and saw the driver’s head resting on the seat back.  He was not visibly injured.  For some strange reason, though, he seemed to be smiling.  Something in Atlas cracked.  One second he was ten feet away from the car, the next second he was ripping open the front door. 

“Yo,” the driver said, sounding like he was in some faraway place. 

This twenty-something mutt was looking up at Atlas with pupils the size of dinner plates.  He had sticky white goo in the corners of his mouth, his skin was mottled and pimply, and his hair was unkempt.  Looking down, the tips of his fingers looked burned, picked raw around his nail beds.  Briefly tearing his eyes off the driver, he eyeballed the two passengers, felt they posed less of a threat than the man before him. 

Without hesitation, Atlas punched the driver in the jaw so hard, he sagged where he sat.  A cheap pistol slid off the seat, clattering on the asphalt at Atlas’s feet.  He kicked it under the car.  For a long second, he studied the man.  He knew he should walk away while he could, but…the kids.  The kids!  Grinding his molars, yielding to his primal instincts, he grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked the punk out of the seat.  He landed on the ground with a thud.  Atlas then propped his unconscious body against the Mustang’s back wheel.  When he looked up at the two idiots still inside the car, he felt his eyes narrow.

“Are either of you two jackasses armed?” he barked.

Both boys shook their heads; one looked like he was high as a kite, while the other leveled him with a sly grin.  Like this was all some big joke.  The ambivalent one looked past him, to the dead and dying children.  Atlas turned and followed his gaze. 

Several adults were now on the scene, one or more of them calling 911.  One young girl in particular caught his eye.  A student.  She was blond, delicate like Alabama.  The face of a cherub.  Sniffling, her eyes dripping with tears, she held her cell phone out, using the camera feature to film the scene.  For a brief second, the girl looked exactly like his daughter.  But then he blinked and she didn’t.  This child was maybe ten years old.  If Alabama was still alive, she would be thirteen in a few days. 

On the ground before him, the Mustang’s driver regained consciousness.  Atlas drove a kick right into his face.  The impact of his head against the car left a decent-sized dent in the Mustang’s panel. 

“Get away from them, Atlas!” Officer Holloway shouted.  She was with the kids, but apparently she’d returned to her senses, realizing he was no longer with Vacaville PD.

Atlas ignored her completely.  Turning back around, he roared at the other two men in the Mustang.  “Get out!”

The pair was wholly unmoved, which further enraged him. 

“Seems cozier in here,” the grinning kid said.  Lazy eyes, mottled skin, chewed fingers, scabs on his arms—some scratched off, some tall and rough looking. 

Freaking meth heads. 

“If I have to come in there,” Atlas snarled, “one of you is coming out dead.”  Neither moved so much as a muscle.  “Get out, NOW!”

“Atlas Hargrove!” Holloway yelled again.  It sounded like she was coming after him, but he chose to ignore her.

The first kid climbed out of the cramped back seat.  His dirtbag friend in the passenger seat was slow to respond, that sour, taunting look firmly in place. 

“I’m about to kick that grin off your stupid face,” he growled.

“Go for it,” the kid said, sneering.

To the kid who got out, Atlas said, “On your knees, face the car.”  He complied.  The other kid, not so much. 

“Atlas,” Holloway called out again.  “Dammit, Atlas!  You shouldn’t be here.  You can’t be here!”

He reached in and dragged the second moron out by his shirtsleeve, shoved him to the ground and kicked him twice in the kidneys before slamming the Mustang’s door shut. 

“Smash your faces up against the paint.  Both of you!”  Finally compliant, the two men did as they were told.  “Hands behind your backs now.  Don’t move a muscle.” 

“This isn’t your job, Atlas,” Holloway said, now at his side. 

Below him, at knee level, the driver was regaining consciousness.  Atlas sat him up, leaned him against the car and slapped him so hard he lost feeling in his hand for a second.  The man’s chin dropped on his chest and a line of pink-tinted slobber drizzled from his mouth. 

Pointing to the other two, he said, “Stay!”

He finally turned and acknowledged Officer Holloway.  One look and he knew she was both pissed off at him and way out of her depth.  He wouldn’t be surprised if she turned in her badge when she got back to the precinct.  Looking past her, seeing bodies scattered everywhere, he felt a deep-seated pain mixing with acres of hostility.  How was he supposed to process all this?  You just can’t be a normal human being and not get blindsided by the sight of dead children. 

Before Holloway could demand once more that he leave the scene, Atlas asked, “Are there any survivors?” 

“A couple of kids, yeah,” she said, glaring at the three unsubs.  “How am I supposed to pretend you didn’t just beat the crap out of all three of them?”

“How many of these kids didn’t make it?” he asked, making eye contact.

Officer Holloway was a striking young woman, but something about her had changed since he’d last seen her.  Atlas imagined the change was occurring in that very moment.  He noted the shine of barely restrained tears in her eyes.  He recognized that look.  He felt it. 

“If this is the merry-go-round,” the driver mumbled, flippantly, as he regained consciousness, “I think I want a refund.”  He started laughing, like he was high and not sure where he was.

“Shut up!” Atlas barked. 

“Are you the guy who’s gonna give me my money back?” he asked, undeterred.  Lifting his hand, palm up, he said, “Pretty please yes, because I feel kinda sick.”

Holloway’s partner stalked over, an arrogant-looking rookie who seemed oblivious to the mess he’d created.  Atlas recognized him but drew a blank when it came to his name.  It was sitting on the tip of his tongue. 

“Get the hell out of here, Atlas,” he growled.  “You washed out forever ago, and now you’re tampering with a crime scene.  You being here…it’s bad optics for all of us.” 

“I’m about to leave,” Atlas said, chewing on his anger. 

“See that you do.”

The kid’s name badge said Petty.  Lucas Petty.  Atlas remembered not liking him.  Glaring at Officer Petty, he wanted to set fire to his soul.  But Petty was right.  Atlas was too wound up, too close to the edge, and no longer an LEO.  Looking past him, he saw a young boy with bean-pole arms and open, unblinking eyes.  Still on the child’s back was a blue backpack.  A small stuffed animal had spilled out of the pouch, face-down on the asphalt.  The animal looked worn, like it might have been his first stuffed animal, and he couldn’t bear to part with it.  Beside the child’s lifeless face was a pair of prescription eyeglasses, one lens shattered, the frame twisted.

Farther down, he saw a blond-haired boy with blood oozing from his scalp.  The small size of him made the aching in Atlas’s heart worse.  He’d been pitched into the gutter, where he lay on his side in the fetal position.  Was he even alive?  Atlas didn’t think so. 

Farther still was the limp body of a brown-haired girl, her back cranked all the way around, her spine clearly broken.  There was no way she was alive. 

He couldn’t look at them anymore.  Was this his fate?  Would he be haunted not only by Alabama’s disappearance, but by the deaths of these children, too?  Was this an omen?  The thin veneer holding him together after Alabama’s abduction snapped.  He couldn’t stop thinking about his stolen daughter, the job he torpedoed, and now Jade—his seemingly unfaithful wife. 

Instead of vacating the scene as ardently instructed, he went to the trunk of his car, grabbed his Remington shotgun—the 870 Express Super Magnum—and racked a load.  He was only vaguely aware of choppers in the air, an audience of bystanders, or really anything else for that matter. 

He’d officially gone to that place. 

An older woman saw the matte black shotgun.  She drew a sharp breath, but said nothing.  There was a vacancy to Atlas’s eyes that someone would later describe as “a calm before the storm.”  Atlas went straight for the Mustang.  Before either officer saw him, he nudged Holloway out of the way and fired the shotgun.  The first load pulped the back of the ambivalent kid’s head. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Petty go for his weapon; Atlas drove the Remington’s buttstock into his solar plexus.  Petty bent over, gasping for breath.  Atlas racked a fresh load, shot the second kid in the side of the head as he scrambled to his feet.  That shitty little grin would never ugly up his hideous face again.

Holloway grabbed Atlas by the arm, tried to restrain him.  He shook free of her hand, then turned and screamed, “NO!”  She drew her arm back, eyes wide and horrified, as if Atlas was the hot stove she’d just burned herself upon. 

Racking a third load, he glared down at the last man, the driver.  Atlas’s heart was jackhammering away in his chest, fueled by an unremitting surge of adrenaline.  He felt his cheek twitching, knew he was at the point of no return, that done was done, and he was cooked.  5150 all the way.

“Put the weapon down,” Petty managed to say behind him, still winded from Atlas’s assault.  He heard Petty rack his slide as a warning.  But the action was slow, the officer still catching his breath.  Atlas was beyond veiled threats.  He was now looking down the barrel at a dead man. 

“Put it down, Hargrove, or we’ll put you down!” Holloway stepped back and yelled, false strength in her voice.  He could barely hear her over the rush of blood in his ears. 

In that moment, the world around him slipped out of focus, save for a single, clear point: the driver’s face.  This absolute waste of space glanced over at his two dead friends.  Something in his expression changed.  When he turned his attention to Petty and Holloway, the left side of his mouth twitched again, transforming it into a slow, lopsided grin.  He returned his attention to Atlas.  The weight of that evil gaze registered in him as something repulsive, something odious and inhuman, something that needed to be erased from all of human history. 

“Look at you, Chuck Manson, going all gangster with your little shotgun,” the driver chided.  The corner of his front tooth was chipped.

“C’mon, Atlas!” Holloway warned, frantic, gun obviously drawn on him.  “There are a thousand eyes on you.  Please, put the shotgun down.  He’s not worth it.”

Breathless, teetering on the edge of something bold and warranted, Atlas felt the tremors hit his trigger finger.  The second he squeezed the trigger, the second he watched the meth head’s face disappear in a wet blast, he knew he’d punched his own ticket.  In quick confirmation, two bullets slammed into his back, putting him down. 

As he lay crumpled on the asphalt, bleeding, stricken with pain, he wondered what had hit him so damn hard.  Were they shooting nines or forty-fives?  In the end it didn’t matter.  The pain would chase him from this life, the damage the bullets did making sure he never found his way back into polite society again. 

He lowered his head onto the asphalt street, the heat of the day and grit pressing into his cheek.  Blood drizzled out of the corner of his mouth, the pain sharp, his breathing labored.  The light on the edges of the world began to dim, something hypnotic beckoning him, its embrace familiar, soothing.  For some reason he felt assured, sheltered, like this mysterious force was unconcerned with his life, his many failures, all the irreversible consequences of his actions. 

Even as he heard the distant sounds of Officer Julie Holloway kneeling over him, crying, he heard Petty yelling, “Shut that damn camera off!” to someone nearby.  Was he speaking to the girl who looked like his daughter?  Maybe it was someone else altogether.

“Atlas?” Holloway asked.  Something wet dripped on him—her tears he suspected.

“It’s okay,” Atlas whispered.  The two words blended together on a single garbled exhale: ishokay.

In that moment, he thought about the life he was giving up, the lives he’d leave behind, the countless unanswered questions surrounding Alabama.  There was nothing left for him.  He was done with this life. 

Finally, deliberately, he closed his eyes and let out that last shallow sigh. 

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

HALDEN BARNES

 

Now.  Halden Barnes knew he shouldn’t have gone to the party.  His wife, Astrid, was recently deceased, taken too early by an aneurysm.  The last two years had passed at a snail’s pace in some regards; in other ways, they’d slipped by too quickly.  Now his daughter, Kaylee, wanted him to get out and have a good time.  As if that were possible.

“It’s been two years since Mom passed and all you’ve done is work and sulk around here.  I understand why, because I feel the hole she left behind, but she’s never coming back.  And even if she was, she’d probably look at you and tell you to pull yourself together.”

“I know,” he said.

“So go out and stop thinking about me, Mom, work…just have a good time!” 

Kaylee was fifteen years old and clearly better at grieving than he was.  How was that possible?  How was she this strong?  Looking at her, he couldn’t help but marvel at the woman she was becoming. 

Two years ago, at thirteen, Kaylee had watched her mother die.  The second Astrid had collapsed, Kaylee had called 911.  After that, she’d called Halden.  For months after the funeral, Kaylee had cried, just as he’d cried.  They’d had each other for a long time.  But then she’d started to pull out of the dark, all-encompassing grief, and he couldn’t.  Now, she was relatively normal, but he was lodged in the past, still sucked down in the bog of this terrible tragedy, and the memories of everything he’d lost. 

That didn’t mean he’d stopped trying to put his life back together.  Going to this party was proof he was still fighting.  Rather it was proof that he cared for his daughter.  The last thing he needed was Kaylee losing faith in him.  He’d all but lost faith in himself.

When he’d finished dressing for the evening, he appraised himself in the mirror.  Frowning, he wondered if his look was too formal.  He wished Astrid was there to advise him, or at the very least fix the knot in his tie.  This knot! he thought, trying to shape his tie just right.  If there was one thing he was lousy at, it was the double Windsor.  Even when he tried his best, the knot was always off-balance.  Eventually, he gave up seeking perfection, walked downstairs and said a hesitant good-bye to his daughter.

She got up from the table, gave him a hug and a kiss.  “Just try to relax, Dad.  Go with the flow.  Mingle.” 

He looked at his beautiful daughter and nearly refused to leave her.  Ever since Astrid had died, he didn’t want to spend a minute away from Kaylee.  He’d smothered her, though.  He was fully aware that he was clinging to whatever remnants of Astrid he could find.  In this case, he was too attached to Kaylee, which he feared was unhealthy for them both. 

She kissed his cheek once more.  “Mom would want this.”

“I know.  You’re right.”

Outside, he got into his Bentley Continental GT, started the engine, then sat there thinking of all the ways to skip out on the get-together.  Eventually, he put the car in gear, backed out of the driveway and forced himself to go, to just take it a mile at a time. 

Halden casually negotiated the busy Philadelphia streets, heading for the highly desirable Chestnut Hill.  His friend and former business associate, Marcus Aetós, had recently purchased an eight-thousand-square-foot home for just under six million.  The estate sat on three luxurious acres and backed up to the Wissahickon Valley of Fairmont Park.  Everyone who’d been there said it was gorgeous.

When he arrived at the property, he slowed to meet the staff, who looked more like bouncers in tuxedos than hired valets. 

“Good evening, sir,” the man said.  He was Greek, like Marcus, but taller and far more muscular. 

“Halden Barnes,” he said. 

“ID please.”

Halden produced his ID, had it scrutinized, and was then greeted again warmly and waved through.  A young valet waiting at the circular driveway welcomed him to the Aetós estate, then parked his car. 

Halden wasn’t accustomed to so many greetings, let alone ones that felt both protective and genuine.  For a moment, he relaxed, told himself everything would be okay. 

As the last of the Pennsylvania daylight burned off, the sunset bathed Marcus’s new home in a molten, fiery light.  The tile roof glowed while the covered stone porch and the open columned archways reminded Halden of something he’d seen in Scotland, rather than an estate on the outskirts of the city of brotherly love.  The rock work alone was breathtaking, at least for such a tidy price.  Either way, he was happy for his friend, and pleased to have received an invitation to his housewarming party. 

Upon entering the sweeping estate, he was greeted by Marcus.  The Greek entrepreneur was tipsy, with booze-heavy eyes, a loose smile and too much welcome in his embrace. 

“Halden Barnes, my eccentric friend, I wasn’t sure you’d make it!” 

Marcus slapped his back a bit too hard before letting go and just standing there, looking at him with an unrestrained smile.  A waft of alcohol assaulted Halden’s nostrils, lessening Marcus’s otherwise natural charm.  His friend turned and hailed one of the hostesses, a devastatingly attractive twenty-something wearing only high heels and a small patch of pubic hair. 

“Drinks, please!” he said to her.  “For my friend!”

The nude woman arrived a moment later, put a flute of something amber and bubbly in Halden’s hand, then softened her gaze and looked him over as if he were special.  Even if he was, Halden was sure of one thing, and that was that he wasn’t special to her.  There were twenty years between them, if a day.  He sipped the liquid cautiously, let it roll down the back of his throat and settle into an otherwise empty stomach. 

“This is your first big getaway,” Marcus said. 

Halden nodded. 

“That’s good,” he said, as if there was nothing else to say.  “Really, really good.”

Yep, nothing to say at all.

Ahead of him, a large staircase led to the top floor of the palatial mansion.  The enormity of the home impressed him.  Glancing up, he saw that the ceiling was at least thirty feet tall.  The grandeur was quickly lost on him, however, for all along the hardwood floors, trailing up the two carpeted staircases, were bodies in various stages of undress.  From somewhere deeper in the house, or from a sound system hidden in the walls of the house itself, seductive lounge music played, the heavy notes and lofty runs not only soothing his heart but speaking to his soul. 

In that moment, he tried once more to relax, but there was something about the party that felt off.  Partway up the stairs, a man had his mouth attached to a woman Halden couldn’t see.  His hand was snaking up her extra-short dress.  She wasn’t wearing underwear.  Taken aback, he looked at Marcus, who smiled, then returned his eyes to the couple.  Neither of them seemed to mind that others might be looking at her privates. 

Blushing, Halden returned to his friend, struggling to hold the merriment in his eyes.  “I don’t often find myself in the mood for social affairs.” 

“We all miss Astrid, but it’s been two years,” Marcus said, as if her passing needed only an allotted amount of time to reach resolution.  Halden was not sure such a finite time existed.  “Surely you’re anxious to get out into the real world again, yes?”

“I haven’t left the real world,” Halden replied, seeing a man cutting through the clot of bodies and heading their way.  “I’ve merely chosen to be less a part of it than before.”

The man walked by them, shamelessly clinging to a child, a girl so young she hadn’t even gotten her hips, let alone the fullness of her breasts.  A creeping dread set in.  Startled, not sure he was seeing this right, Halden watched the older man and the child all but float up the staircase.  Bile rose in his throat.  He felt the tender lining of his esophagus burn.  Discreetly burping, his eyes watering in the corners, he fought to swallow past the gigantic lump in his throat. 

“I didn’t realize our children were invited,” he managed to say.    

“They weren’t,” Marcus replied.  He held Halden’s eye too long, as if he were studying his reaction through that ugly alcohol-addled haze.  “This is a party for adults, a place to alleviate your inhibitions.”

Marcus turned and summoned someone.  The next thing Halden knew, there was a young woman standing before him.  She was prettier than his daughter, but younger.  Thirteen, maybe fourteen years old to Kaylee’s fifteen years of age.  The way she was looking at him, with that empty gaze, it was as if her soul had long been scraped from her body, and standing before him was not a human being but a thoughtless, expressionless vessel. 

“Hi,” she said, no interest in him, no interest in life. 

He bit back his revulsion but worried that his flaring nostrils would affirm his discomfort with her, with this entire situation.  A soft pain started in his heart.  Was this hypertension?  Or was he so sickened by the idea of being with a child that he turned and looked away, unsure of what to do next?  He burped again, a second slick of bile coating the back of his throat.  Again, he swallowed the acid excretion. 

Turning to her, he asked, “How old are you?” 

With absolutely no change in expression, the young girl said, “How old do you need me to be?” 

The cold sweat of dissatisfaction came—not unexpectedly—yet he was fascinated with her, unable to pull his eyes from hers.  Her expression was devoid of all life.  Was she even real?  She had a smattering of freckles, bony shoulders, a straight frame and makeup meant for someone twice her age.  He slid his gaze to her neck, to her carotid artery, where he saw a steady beating pulse. 

To Marcus, he said, “I’m not sure…” 

“There’s all measure of candy in this world, my friend.  And for men of our stature and persuasion, I find it perfectly natural to sample life’s more eclectic delights.  Who knows, you might acquire a new taste.  And wouldn’t that be wonderful for a man of your distinction?  I mean, for God’s sake, Halden, you have everything.  But I assure you, you have not had a taste of the forbidden fruit until you’ve had a taste of her.”

Halden did not have everything.  His wife was gone.  And if he had any interest in this kind of “fruit”—which he most certainly didn’t—it would be because he’d lost his conscience, his respectability, the very blessing of a soul.      

“There’s not a single cell in my body that yearns for this.”  Squaring his shoulders, trying to drain the horror from his face, Halden turned to the girl.  “It’s not the way you look, my dear.”

“I’m too old for him,” she said to Marcus.  She made a pouty face, sticking out her lower lip like a five-year-old child.  The sight of it sent shockwaves through him.

“Perhaps you are,” Marcus said with a smile.  “But that’s not your fault.  Run along, see who else would like to play with you.”

With that, he turned to Halden, his face no longer merry, his cheeks untouched with rosy delight.  What Halden saw in its place was tempered anger.

“Halden, my old friend,” he said, lethally calm, “you need to stop being so judgy and just go with the flow.”

“I’m afraid I’m new to the party circuit.”  He was embarrassed, yet enraged at having been put in this situation in the first place.  “Well, I’m new to parties like these.”

“We were all new at one point or another.” 

Marcus was a good-looking man, late forties, no stranger to the gym and certainly well-to-do.  He didn’t need a child when he could have any number of women.  But there he was, offering Halden these morsels of youth like he’d been partaking for years.

“There’s being new to a scene,” Halden explained, “and then there’s the question of morality.  Or decency, at the very slightest.  My God, Marcus!”

“Don’t lecture me from some moral podium.  I saw the way you were not looking at your drink when it first arrived.”

“Excuse me?”

“That drink in your hand,” Marcus said, pointing to the champagne flute.  “The woman who brought it to you, that’s what you saw.  Her body.  Not the drink.  Don’t you see, my friend?  There’s no need to play coy with me or anyone else here.  When you live like us, when you can have everything you want, it becomes difficult to satisfy your more carnal enchantments.  We all need a little something extra.  That surge of newness.  A fresh thrill to sweep us away, to allow us to finally return to that one delicious moment in time when we understood what it meant to be mesmerized, to swim in abandon, to lose ourselves.” 

Just then a young boy walked up.  He was wearing white underpants, his chest and shoulders boasting the pink remnants of bite marks.  He appeared to be no older than the previous girl, but there was a pastiness to his skin that caused a slight, barely noticeable whimper in Halden.  The boy had no muscle definition to speak of—just shoulders, a rib cage, and eyes that had never known a day of happiness in their entire life. 

“Are you serious?” Halden turned and growled. 

“First off, he’s not for you.  And second, you’re really starting to piss me off,” Marcus said, his anger far less tempered than before. 

He shooed the boy away, then brushed his hair back and undid the top button of his shirt.  Calming him for what Halden felt was the last time, he forced a smile that was every bit as false as it appeared. 

“Look, I get it,” he said.  “Everyone’s tastes vary.  I see yours are more pedestrian.  My apologies.  What’s your acceptable age range?  And do you prefer male or female?  Or are you indifferent?” 

“I’m not indifferent.  It’s female and within five years of my age either way, but I’m not going to be part of this.” 

“Stop being such a stick-in-the-mud.” 

“I’d like to go now.” 

Marcus appraised him through molten eyes.  “When their clothes come off, and their skin is like porcelain, yet to be ravaged by the difficulties of life or the cruelties of age, you will find that all of your pitiful attempts to—” 

Halden turned, walked right to the coat check attendant and said, “I’d like my things, please.”  He couldn’t eradicate the heat in his eyes, let alone soften the edge on his voice.

“Is something wrong, sir?” he asked.  Halden glared at the man; he had that same dead stare as the kids.

“Get me my damn coat!”  Marcus was suddenly at his side.  Halden turned and said, “You and your friends are sick.” 

“You are free to leave, but there are repercussions to discussing the affairs of these people, myself included,” Marcus warned.  “We’re friends, Halden.  For that reason alone, this is a bridge you don’t want to cross.”

“Are you threatening me, old friend?” 

“Yes, Halden, I am.” 

“Well, you aren’t the first to do so, and you certainly won’t be the last.” 

“I get that you miss Astrid, but brother,” Marcus said, hostility twisting his face, “you have got to move on.” 

“Not like this.” 

The attendant returned with Halden’s jacket, but he did not immediately hand it over.  Instead, he looked to Marcus for permission.  Marcus gave the man a curt nod.  The attendant handed Halden his belongings. 

“Sir…,” he said to Halden as if this exchange were nothing. 

Halden grabbed his coat, practically threw it on, then turned to face his former friend.  “Lose my number, forget you know me, put our entire friendship out of your mind now and forever.” 

“Don’t be like this,” Marcus said. 

“You just watch me,” he barked on his way out the front door. 

 

 

CHAPTER 3

 

HALDEN BARNES

 

The nightmares started the minute Halden laid his head on the pillow and continued through to the next morning.  The first thing he did when he woke was quietly curse to himself.  He was thinking about the boy with the bite marks, and the young girl who’d been offered to him as a snack, or a treat. 

Throwing back the blankets, he plodded rather quickly to the bathroom, lowered himself to his knees in front of the toilet, and wondered if the surging feeling of sickness would pass.  It wasn’t passing, though.  He kept burping, swallowing hard, waiting for that forceful bucking sensation, that charging-up-the-throat feel of him throwing up.  Was he really sick, though?  He didn’t think so.  He was revolted, disgusted, scared. 

In the back of his mind, all he saw were those rich men—a collection of old perverts and deviants who couldn’t get laid on their own if not for their power, their money, their influence. 

Invariably his thoughts turned to Kaylee.  She was a young woman, her body evolving, her interests in life taking on a more adult nature.  These physical and emotional changes she was experiencing were to be expected.  What he’d never expected, however, was that he would have to raise his daughter alone.  Or that he’d look at every man who saw her as a potential predator.  Now he knew otherwise. 

He saw the way boys and men alike looked at Kaylee, how their eyes wandered with a barely moderated need over her developing body.  But to think someone would ruin such innocence—that sexual vampires like the ones he’d met last night would so willfully damage a child, or children—triggered his more protective instincts.  He needed to do something!  Tell someone!  Then again, he couldn’t get Marcus’s threat out of his head. 

Memories of the night before scratched at his brain, showed him all the things that had brought him there, to that place of disgust, that moment of steep, unchecked loathing.  The era of being a bystander was over.  He needed to be bold, brave, courageous.  If these kids couldn’t speak for themselves, then by God, he’d speak for them!

His stomach made another hard roll, his lower back flaring.  Halden wasn’t old like many of the men he had seen at the party.  He didn’t feel the desperation he imagined they felt as vigorous relics who no longer held the physical appeal or the erectile stamina of their youth.  Halden was still young enough, handsome enough, and human enough to steer clear of those parties, and those well-dressed bottom-feeders.  But the kids?  Dear God, the kids. 

A swift convulsion squeezed his insides.  The thought of one of those monsters exercising his perversions on a child was nauseating.  He couldn’t focus on that, though.  He had to calm down, lest he work himself into a frenzy.  Instead of letting his imagination run wild, he focused on his breathing, tried to slow his heart rate.  Whatever sickness clutched his abdominals finally relaxed its grip.  Sitting up, he blew his nose, wiped the gathering sweat from his brow, then got to his feet.  He took a deep breath, blew it out.  Avoiding his reflection, he splashed cold water on his face, but then he looked up and met his own eyes.  He knew exactly what he needed to do. 

 

* * *

In his home office, Halden shut the door, sat down and scrolled through his list of contacts until he found William Kim at the Washington Post.  He’d met William at a D.C. fundraiser a few years back, something posh and overrated.  Shortly after that night, Astrid had died and nothing was ever the same again.  Halden hadn’t thought of the man until now.  Taking a deep breath, he dialed the number, waited a couple of moments, then breathed a sigh of relief when the journalist answered.

“William Kim,” he said, sounding preoccupied.

“Hello, Mr. Kim.  I’m not sure if you remember me, but my name is Halden Barnes.  We met a few years back at a function in—”

“Even if we hadn’t met, Mr. Barnes,” William interrupted, “I’d know exactly who you are.  And please, call me William.”

“Ah, well, thank you, William.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Barnes?” 

Halden suddenly found himself short on words.  How do you explain something like this?  Where do you even begin? 

“I wonder how brave you are as a journalist these days,” Halden said.

“The way your name is synonymous with self-made billionaires is the way my name is synonymous with investigative journalism,” Kim said, as if he’d leaned on some cute variation of this self-aggrandizing proclamation for years.

“I have something that might be outside the bounds of normal journalism, a story that—if told right, if given the right permissions by your editor—just might earn you the Pulitzer you were denied last year for your coverage of the slave blocks in Somalia.”

“Did you actually read that story?”

“Of course I did.”

“People in this country are so spoiled with their freedoms and their selective views of life, they have no idea the atrocities still occurring in other countries.  So when you break a story like the one in Somalia, you get significant pushback.  But you also come to realize people will steer certain less flowery stories away from the Pulitzer in order to maintain the status quo.”

“Which is?”

“That the bad things that happen in this world have no place on our doorstep, or in front of our faces.  The soft belly of American society makes me want to puke.”

“What I have for you isn’t a flowery PG-13 story, William.”

“I sense that, Halden—if I may call you that…”

“You may.”

“And this is why I’m suddenly intrigued.  Which is rather arresting since I’m never intrigued by anything this early in the morning.  Not before my first cup of coffee, and most days not even before my second.”

“What if I told you there is a group of elite businessmen, CEOs, philanthropists and politicians who hold pedophile parties for their friends, the very people who have the means, the position and the motivation to hide their crimes?”

“I’d tell you that’s a story as old as time,” William said, yawning. 

“And if I gave you names, times, the location of the events, along with firsthand knowledge of underage children being prostituted to the wealthy elite?  Men and women who are easily thirty, forty, and even fifty years older than the kids they’re entertaining?”

“First, that’s gross,” William said, new life in his voice.  “And second, I’m all ears.  So long as this isn’t some giant conspiracy theory, because I haven’t had enough sleep to deal—” 

“What are you doing later on this afternoon?”

“Clearing my schedule,” he said.  “If you’d like to pick the time and place—”

“Before you say yes,” Halden interrupted again, “I need you to know this could be dangerous.”

“Things like this are always dangerous.  But I didn’t take this job to camp out at my desk copying stories off the wire, or perusing blogs for real stories by real investigative journalists.”

“Good,” he said. 

Halden gave him a time and place, insisting on the utmost discretion.

A few hours later, the two of them met at a faraway deli, making small talk over fifteen-dollar sandwiches and five-dollar sodas, and then Halden laid out the details of his evening at Marcus’s home.  He provided names, descriptions of the kids, the exact location of the event.  When William pressed for more intricate details, really anything else Halden could remember, it was with the promise that everything he wanted to be off the record would indeed be “off the record.” 

To drive this point home, William said, “You’ll be afforded the same protections as those who come forward under The Whistleblower Protection Act.  I don’t want you to worry.”

            “Do you remember Jeffrey Epstein?”

            “That’s like asking if I remember Oprah Winfrey, or Stephen Spielberg.  Of course I know about Epstein.  Who can forget that human stain?”

            “I think this is the next Epstein-related service, except the handlers are smarter, more insulated.  And the girls and boys being provided?  I think they’re protected.”

            “By whom?” he asked.

            “You can start with those names I gave you,” Halden said, pointing to his list. 

“Of course,” William said, sipping the last of his soda.

The warmth of the sun felt good on his body, but the unburdening of himself was what truly lifted the weight from his shoulders.  But not all the weight.  He really didn’t think William knew the peril he was facing.

            “Have you ever had your life threatened, Mr. Kim?” Halden asked, thinking his own life had never truly been in jeopardy, but that something like this—if it blew back on him—could very well cost him everything.

“Only a dozen times.  The last threat I received was so unoriginal, I told the caller that the guy before him threatened me the exact same way and that maybe he should be more creative if he wanted me to take him seriously, which I said I didn’t.  Shockingly, nothing ever came of it.”

With a smile, but solemn in his heart, Halden said, “I admire your courage.”

            “I appreciate you coming forward.  I’ll keep your name off my lips and out of my notes.  These perverted fools don’t know the power of the press, but as sure as we’re sitting here now, they’re going to!”

They concluded their long lunch with a handshake and best wishes, then Halden returned home, where he spent the rest of the day with Kaylee.  They talked about her college choices, the upcoming weekend, how much she missed her mother.  He and Kaylee didn’t engage in deep talks that often—mostly because she didn’t seem interested—but on the occasion that she did open up and stay inside the conversation, they’d cover the entire spectrum of things, events and emotions.  In exchanges such as these, Kaylee would invariably funnel her way down to one question, the same question every time: “Why did Mom leave us?”

            “The mysteries of life and death sometimes confound even the smartest and most devout of souls,” he answered this time.

“Even you?” she asked, eyes shimmering.

            He took her hand, wiped his own eyes with his free hand, and said, “Even me, sweetheart.  Even me.”