Authors: Catherine Palmer
Sam enjoyed it immensely, and his spiritual life had deepened in the months he’d been there. But he was eager to partake of the more solemn and reverent atmosphere in Ana’s church. He believed God accepted worship in many forms, as long as it was sincere.
They took a pew, and Sam tried to arrange his long legs in the cramped space. Ana folded her hands and stared down at her purse. He wondered if she was praying. In a moment, the service began, and he was gratified to hear the soaring old hymns he had learned as a boy.
When their mother abandoned them, Sam and his younger brothers had turned to their paternal grandmother for affection. She didn’t have much love to give the scrappy little fellows, but she did haul them to church every Sunday. Afterward they always stopped at the local mom-and-pop diner for lunch. Sam could hardly sing the familiar hymns without envisioning a plate of steaming fried chicken, a mound of creamy mashed potatoes drowning in brown gravy, gleaming ears of corn on the cob, green beans swimming in bacon grease and hot rolls dripping butter.
His stomach growling, Sam tried to concentrate on the message. He dug a pen out of his pocket and jotted a few notes on the back of the bulletin, but he was grateful when the pastor closed his sermon notes and stepped away from the pulpit. Ana rubbed her bandaged arm while the choir sang a chorus. Someone went to the pulpit and led in a final prayer, then Ana accompanied Sam down the aisle.
“Oh, look,” she said, hurrying forward. “There’s Jim Slater.”
Jim smiled as he greeted Ana. At the sight of Sam, his eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. “May I introduce a friend of mine?” he asked.
A stocky man with a dark crew cut stepped up and stuck out a hand. He wore a pair of khaki trousers and a blue oxford shirt with a small brown stain near the pocket.
“Jack Smith works with me,” Jim explained. “He’s visiting from our Arkansas office. Jack, this is Ana Burns and Sam Hawke.”
“Ana, Sam,” the man repeated. “Good to know you.”
“Arkansas?” Ana appeared surprised. “I didn’t realize your agency had offices in more than one state.”
As was Sam’s custom, he assessed Jim while the man gave Ana a brief answer. Though dressed in a gray suit, black shoes, starched white shirt and blue-striped tie, Jim clearly had been ill over the weekend. His skin wore an ashen cast, and dark circles weighed under his eyes. His grin appeared artificial, like the smiling mouth of a doll. But here he was, shaking Ana’s hand, and asking after her well-being. He mentioned the bandage on her arm, and she gave a detailed account of the incident.
“I must say I’m surprised to see you here, Sam.” Jim turned his focus from the woman. “When did you start attending our church?”
“Today,” Sam answered.
“Listen, Jim, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.” Ana cut in before Sam could continue. “Maybe you would have some thoughts on this, too, Mr. Smith. It’s about a little girl who’s been coming to Haven. We’d like to help her.”
And she was off to the races, Sam realized, amazed at how doggedly Ana pursued everything. He had seen her frustrated, angry and sad, but never tired enough to quit. Discouraged but never defeated.
“Honduras?” Jim asked, cocking his head to one side as his smile faded. “My goodness, I can’t imagine that. Are you sure that’s what she said?”
“Yes. The town is called La Ceiba.” Ana accompanied the two men outside the church into the bright noonday sun. Sam lagged behind, listening and watching. “It’s on the coast. Have you been there?”
“Actually, I always fly into the capital. The government offices are there, and that’s where I do most of our business. Filling out forms and such.”
“Then you would know about Honduran immigration law?” she asked. “And you, too, Mr. Smith?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” the stocky man said.
“I know a good deal about immigration law,” Jim spoke up. “Unfortunately, there are loopholes and small details in each country. Her parents must have found a way to get to the States. I’m sure they leave her at Haven while they work. I’ve seen many children in the same situation. Right, Sam?”
“Only not from Honduras.” Sam leaned against the handrail that led down the church steps. No telling how long Ana would interrogate Jim and his colleague. Sam had been hoping she might agree to go to lunch. Maybe some fried chicken.
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be comfortable talking to the girl,” Jim was saying as he shook his head. “My Spanish is not good, for one thing. The family probably moved here—maybe it was a refugee thing.”
“What do you mean by that?” Ana asked. “I thought refugees came from war-torn countries. Honduras is politically calm, isn’t it? So, how could a family enter the U. S. as refugees? Wouldn’t they need a sponsor?”
Jim’s eyes flashed toward the parking lot. “You know, Ana, I’d love to talk with you about this, but some friends are expecting Jack and me for lunch. We really need to be on our way.”
“Oh, sure. Sorry to keep you.” She started down the steps with them, Sam following. Despite her apology, Ana kept talking. “In Brownsville, I interviewed a family who had fled Romania during Ceausescu’s dictatorship. In order to get to the States, someone had to sponsor them—to make sure they found a place to live, learned how to buy groceries, kept their green cards up to date and got decent jobs. If Flora’s family had a sponsor, maybe we could find that person by contacting some kind of agency. From there, we could track down her parents. What do you think, Jim? Would we call Immigration or—”
“I’m not sure about that sort of thing, Ana.” Perspiring in the intense heat, Jim tugged a white handkerchief from his pocket and began blotting his forehead. “I work with adoptions. Refugees are not my area. I’m not up to speed on immigration.”
“But don’t you have to work with INS when you bring children here?”
“Not in that sense.” He headed for his car, speaking over his shoulder as he and Jack Smith walked away. “Listen, I’m sorry to run out on you like this, Ana, but we really have to go. See you next Sunday.”
“Hey, Jim!” Sam called out. “Could I drop by your house to pick up the pledge? I could swing by tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll call you, Sam. Soon.”
As the man ducked into a car, Sam jammed his hands into his pockets. “Great. Soon, he tells me. How many days is that?”
“He’ll come through for you,” Ana predicted as they headed for Sam’s vehicle. “Did you get the feeling Jim was trying to evade my questions?”
“Who wouldn’t? You go after people like a pit bull.”
“I’m trying to help Flora.”
“You hit the poor guy with everything from immigration laws to refugees and Romanians. He’s been sick. I’m surprised he didn’t toss his cookies right here in the parking lot.”
“How do you know Jim was sick? Did you talk to him over the weekend?”
“He had bags under his eyes.” Sam opened the passenger door for Ana, then slid into the driver’s seat. “And his breath…might have been cough syrup. Whatever he’d been drinking—it had alcohol in it.”
“Are you accusing Jim Slater of drinking before the Sunday-morning worship service?”
Sam looked into her brown eyes. A grin tickled the corner of his mouth. Then he leaned over, tipped up her chin with his forefinger and lightly kissed her lips.
“Do you ever let up?” he asked as she gaped in astonishment. “Don’t answer that. I already know. And by the way—you and I are going to have a fried-chicken-and-mashed-potatoes picnic in the park.”
“Bering is here, and he’s got the reporter in his sights. But he thinks she’ll be hard to do.”
“Why’s that?”
He sighed as he clutched the cell phone. Things were looking a little better now. Bering had arrived late last night, and seemed eager to get to work. Still, the situation in Springfield grew hotter by the day, and he hadn’t been able to throw up enough roadblocks to stop it. Step by step, inch by inch, the Feds were getting closer.
“The lady’s got a boyfriend, Stu. They’re together all the time. He’s at her place, she’s at his. And she’s on our trail. Asked me a bunch of questions about the kid.”
“Which kid?”
“The one who belonged to our client.”
“So, get Bering to do her first.”
“I’m sending him after her today. I’ll take him down there this afternoon and point her out.” The thought gave him some satisfaction. He would enjoy seeing the girl’s face when she realized he was back—with Bering at his side. She would know they had her, and she couldn’t get away. She’d feel the same terror she had made him feel these past few days.
Many months ago, before he had handed her over to the Springfield client, he had warned her. He warned all of them. They were not to talk. They had to obey, or they wouldn’t eat or have a bed to sleep in. They wouldn’t get any more toys to play with. And if they ever told anyone about him, he would personally come after them and kill them. Simple. Straightforward. And true.
Now this kid would find out he was a man of his word. He had the power to do whatever he wanted. Let this be a lesson to anyone who would cross him.
“So, what’s happening on your end?” he asked Stu.
“I think I’ve been hacked.” The breathless voice, so weak and filled with trepidation, defined Stu’s character. “My computer keeps rebooting all by itself. The screen goes black, the power shuts off and then the thing starts up again. Like it’s possessed. Last night I noticed some of my files were gone. Deleted, just like that. I don’t know how it happened. I think someone may have gotten in.”
“Did you do what I said? I told you to take the computer and your hard files to the dump. Did you do that, Stu?”
“Look, I don’t really know, okay? I’m so confused, I can’t remember what I’ve done and what I haven’t. I got Bering for you, didn’t I? Why don’t you just leave me alone? Stop calling me, okay? My wife keeps asking who I’m talking to. She wants to see what’s on my computer. She’s gotten all suspicious now. It’s coming at me from every side.”
“Well, get rid of everything, you idiot! Erase the data on your computer. Take the thing to the dump along with all your other—”
“But I’ve been collecting these photos for years. This is my life’s work. It used to be all I needed…until I met you. You’re the cause of my problems, you know. This is your fault for roping me into your schemes! I had a wife and kids and a happy life before you came along. Before your name popped up on my computer screen, I never did anything. It was all taken care of. I had my collection, and that was it. And then you started me with the real stuff.”
“You did that yourself. I didn’t make you do anything.”
“A fishing trip to Costa Rica!”
“You wanted to go on that trip. You paid your money, and you got what you were after. I provided you with a service. I’m just the dealer, Stu. You’re the user.”
“You used me! You got me into this trouble.”
He jammed his finger on the off button and slammed down the phone. That’s it, Stu, blame me. Just like everyone else. Blame me for giving you exactly what you wanted. What you had craved from the time you were a kid yourself.
“Stu’s a loser,” he told Bering, who had been sitting across the room eating a sandwich. “He’s going down.”
“Yeah, well, I’m keepin’ my nose outta that stuff. You guys are all a bunch of sickos, if you ask me.”
“Nobody asked you,” he snarled. “You just do your job, and keep your opinions to yourself.”
“Look, I’ll do the lady, no problem. But three kids? C’mon, man. You can’t be serious.”
“Am I paying you, Bering? Am I paying you thousands of dollars to do what I ask?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then you’ll do it. Don’t get sentimental. These kids aren’t the way you think. They ask for what they get. They come begging at my door. They want this life, and they love it.”
“Sure, that’s why one of ’em ran away from that freak who had her.”
“My client was not a freak! Stop denigrating us. You’re just like all the rest. No one understands. You think we’re creeps, sickos, nuts. You’re wrong. My clients are good men. Honorable, upstanding citizens who work hard for the money they spend on my services.”
“If they’re not sick, how come they mess with children? That’s disgusting.”
“I’m defending my morality to a hired killer? Please!” He leaned back in the chair and rubbed his eyebrows. His headache came and went now, but he hadn’t been able to back off on the alcohol. That bothered him. Made him feel out of control, and he didn’t like that.
“The clients I serve,” he explained calmly, “are unique. Special. Different from the run-of-the-mill crowd. My clients are doing these kids a huge favor. They provide a home, food, companionship. The children come from places where they don’t stand a chance anyway. My clients educate them about life.”