Annette's vision blurred with the onset of more tears. Her Massachusetts home was crowded, full of blue uniforms and other sad faces much like her own. A salty drop of water from her eye fell onto the stack of fliers laying on the kitchen table. Her son's beautiful face smiled back at her from the now damp paper. He had been missing for a week now. Would they ever find him?
Her sobs were cut short by a harsh ringing sound. It was the phone again. Annette didn't care. It was probably just another deadbeat homeless man, wanting a piece of the meaningless cash reward. They didn't care about her poor sweet Jacob. Nobody did, she thought. He's gone. The look of hope on her husband David's face suggested otherwise.
"Hello?" inquired David, trying desperately to conceal his sorrow and anxiety.
Only a small whisper came back in reply. "Your son is waiting for you."
David lept to his feet. "Where? Where is he?"
"He is with Saint John in the House of God."
"Saint John's Church? Is my son at the church?" Not even anger could hide the tears. The mysterious man had his only son. They could not have another. "I need to know! Where is my son? Where are you keeping him?"
"Only God keeps him now," the voice answered. The phone went dead.
David turned to face the crowd. "He's at the church."
No more than five minutes later, ten police cars surrounded Saint John's Catholic Church in Boston. The officers, followed closely by David and Annette, cautiously entered the old place of worship. The place appeared dark and deserted with the exception of hundreds of lit candles, which gave the church an eerie glow. Mounted on the wall behind the altar was a large wooden crucifix, but in the place of Jesus, a small, limp body had been nailed to the cross. Annette had found her son at last. He would never feel pain again.
Her sobs were cut short by a harsh ringing sound. It was the phone again. Annette didn't care. It was probably just another deadbeat homeless man, wanting a piece of the meaningless cash reward. They didn't care about her poor sweet Jacob. Nobody did, she thought. He's gone. The look of hope on her husband David's face suggested otherwise.
"Hello?" inquired David, trying desperately to conceal his sorrow and anxiety.
Only a small whisper came back in reply. "Your son is waiting for you."
David lept to his feet. "Where? Where is he?"
"He is with Saint John in the House of God."
"Saint John's Church? Is my son at the church?" Not even anger could hide the tears. The mysterious man had his only son. They could not have another. "I need to know! Where is my son? Where are you keeping him?"
"Only God keeps him now," the voice answered. The phone went dead.
David turned to face the crowd. "He's at the church."
No more than five minutes later, ten police cars surrounded Saint John's Catholic Church in Boston. The officers, followed closely by David and Annette, cautiously entered the old place of worship. The place appeared dark and deserted with the exception of hundreds of lit candles, which gave the church an eerie glow. Mounted on the wall behind the altar was a large wooden crucifix, but in the place of Jesus, a small, limp body had been nailed to the cross. Annette had found her son at last. He would never feel pain again.