Reynolds tapped his foot impatiently. He had been waiting for Benjamin Lawrence in the southeast corporate offices at Swift trucking for two hours. Finding out they actually had a truck, fifteen years ago, with the license number Caffrey gave him took about an hour. It took the company 3 days to come up with the driver's name, but they finally came through. He was told the man had to unload and park his truck before Reynolds could talk to him. So he waited…
Finally Lawrence came in glancing around nervously.
"Mr. Lawrence? I'm agent Thomas Reynolds FBI… do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
"Sure … What's this about?" Reynolds quietly held up the picture of the three boys
"First of all do you recognize the boy in the middle?" for a minute he thought the trucker was going to collapse as all the blood ran out of his face. Then he visibly collected himself.
"You aren't going to tell my boss about this, are you…? I need my job." Reynolds nodded
"Between you and me."
"Ok … I'm not supposed to pick up hitchhikers it could get me fired… but…I made an exception for that kid."
"Why?"
"I had nightmares about that night for months."
"He was that scary?"
"He looked that bad…D*#$* kid ran out in front of my truck. In the middle of the night, I almost hit him. Couldn't have been two feet from him by the time I got the rig stopped. Before I could open my door to see if I killed the kid, he was practically climbing my side of the cab."
"He ran out in front of you?"
"Yeah and he looked like he escaped from a slasher flick."
"What do you mean?"
"Someone had beat the heck out of him for starters. One eye was completely swollen shut, lip was busted, and nose had been bleeding, his cheek too. One whole side of his face was purple. He didn't look a day over 16… he was shivering so hard I could hear his teeth before I opened the door, I swear. No coat you know… and it was cold that night… 35...40 degrees and drizzling. The kid was soaked and muddy…leaves in his hair… grass all over his clothes… the kid was begging for a ride… choking trying to catch his breath."
"You gave him a ride?"
"What was I supposed to do… leave him there? Let the poor kid freeze, or let whatever he was running from catch him"
"So you took a risk
"I pulled him up into my sleeper. Told him to take the bed and wrap up…"
"And he did?"
"He said something about not getting my bed dirty and sat on the floor back there. He did wrap up in the blanket though… leaned his head back against the side of the cab and he was asleep in about 10 minutes."
"He did fall asleep? How far did you take him?"
"North Carolina. Henderson…it's about 4 hours from where I picked him up. There's a truck stop there I like to stop at…"
"And Henderson North Carolina on March 15th of 2000 that's the last place you saw him?"
"Yeah… I've wondered a 1000 times if the kid made it… I wish I had been able to do more for him."
"What do you mean… if he made it?
"See that's the part I had nightmares about… I pulled off for some coffee… figured I'd buy the kid a cup too before I left him… but when I tried to wake him up he wouldn't… not really anyway."
"Wouldn't wake up?"
"I yelled at him and got him to open his eyes for a couple of seconds but… so I tried shaking him... I grabbed his arm and the poor kid screamed and tried to shove me away… but then he was right back out. So I pulled the blanket off… that's when I saw the blood… all over him all, over my sleeper… I was almost sick."
"His blood? What did you do? Did you call for help?" a police report would be helpful Reynolds thought.
"Yeah his blood and lots of it. I drove him to the hospital… got him on his feet… sort of. Half dragged him inside and left him in the waiting room… Look I'm not proud of it. I should have done more but… I needed this job I had a wife and a baby… and if they found out I picked up a hiker, especially a kid who was probably a minor and took him across state lines..." He shook his head and shrugged.
"I cleaned up the blood and finished my run and never told a soul until today, but when I think of the poor kid back there in my sleeper bleeding for 4 hours it makes me sick. I never even got his name…Do you know what happened to him? Did he make it?"
"He made it." Reynolds couldn't help taking pity on the man. After all he was a decent man who was torn by concern and regret for a boy he met only once. "He's a witness to a crime… I'm following up on his statement. Thank you for your cooperation Mr. Lawrence" He excused himself.
Well that confirmed Caffrey's story… pretty spectacularly, Reynolds sighed, or did it? He could have paid off the driver… he had a reputation for being smart… thinking 3 steps ahead. It was possible, not probable, he admitted but possible and he would be negligent if he didn't make sure.
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A blink…
Just a tiny movement but Neal blinked
And Peter's vision cleared. Suddenly he could see the phone still clasped in his friend's left hand, the blood… He could hear Jeffries behind him calling for an ambulance, Neal's choking shallow breathing, the shower running in the bathroom. He was across the room on his knees in a heartbeat…
"Towels! Jefferies get me some towels!" the wound on the lower left side of his friend's chest was ugly… sniper shots always were. Ripped outward, he swallowed… an exit wound. That meant… he clapped his left hand over the wound he could see. Then ignoring the voice in his head that screamed "don't move him" he slowly carefully slid his hand under the younger man's back. He sucked in his breath as his friend tensed… "Sorry… I'm sorry. I have to find the entrance wound." No response… the blue eyes didn't focus on his face. There it was, his right shoulder. Peter tried not to imagine the damage a high velocity 50 caliber bullet could do ripping diagonally through his friend's chest as he cover the second hole with his right hand. The position meant he was effectively cradling the younger man in his arms. He tried not to think of temporary passage channels…a trail of shredded tissue…3 inches in diameter… or how Neal didn't cry out from the movement. He clenched his jaw. The picture of Neal in the morgue last year floated through his mind. He pushed it aside. He could fall apart later, right now he needed to be calm.
Jefferies was back with the towels and Thompson in tow… wearing pants and a t-shirt, no shoes.
"I'm sorry sir. He told me I could…" the boy looked sick. Peter managed a tight nod, he would deal with him later.
A cold hand pushed against his wrist, he glanced at Neal's face. He was trying to focus, his lips moving soundlessly "I know it hurts…I'm sorry." At least he was responding.
"Go…"he whispered, "should...n't … be… here…" Peter fought the urge to grasp the icy fingers that fumbled at his hand. He pushed harder on the wound… but the gesture seemed so useless given the type of wound. The thought made it hard not to just stop and comfort his friend. Let him feel safe in his last few moments. For a year he regretted not saying… No… Not now. He was not giving up yet… not quite yet but...
"No. you're my friend. I'm here and I'm staying… and so are you." He didn't believe it…not at all… the damage something like this causes… But he didn't think he could stand to watch him die. Afterward was bad enough. He let Jefferies tuck the towels under his hands.
"Dan…ger…ous" he was fighting to keep his eyes open…
"I see that. It's ok… it's going to be ok." Lying was not his strong suit but to keep the fear out of those eyes…Peter forced a smile. The image of that body bag last year floated though his mind, smothering his effort.
The paramedics were there then… pulling Neal away. Peter ran his hands through is hair and backed away… turned his back on the scene… he didn't want to see anymore. He stared at the splintered door and out into the night… how far away had the shot come from. That's what he needed to do focus on, who did this… that was better than… he glanced over his shoulder as the swirl of activity around his friend left the room. One last glimpse of Neal's face, deathly pale except for the blood that trailed down his cheek, before they took him away. "This is wrong… he can't die…"Peter closed his eyes at the thought. "He just came home. I made him come home…" He waved Jefferies to follow them… "Stay with him. Don't let him out of your sight."
"Boss? What happened?" Peter took a breath and faced Jones.
"We need to get a trajectory on the shot."
"You're not going to follow him?" Peter shook his head "I'm sorry we lost him" no he couldn't face that again. Couldn't be the one to ID and claim his friend's body in the morgue again either. Jefferies could handle all of that.
"We need to focus on finding the shooter."
"Ok Peter."
"And the bullet will be somewhere in the kitchen."
"On it…"
Peter watched the team work. He knew they didn't really need him but the alternative was… he never even met the boy. It came out of nowhere and he almost choked at the thought. He pushed it away. 30 minutes passed, an hour… he knew he should go. Should be the one who…but he just couldn't do it… couldn't bring himself to face that goodbye again.
"Peter" Jones voice cut through his thoughts "you're going to want to see this." He held up an evidence bag with a bullet. Peter gulped
"What have you got?"
"FMJ round for a 223/5.56 … a few years ago this was military issue" Peter nodded "Boss this is good news actually… well as good as we could hope for."
"What do you mean?"
" Military stopped using it because of its lethality issues" he smiled grimly " for starters it's only 45 caliber and it loses velocity easily… only has a range of around 300 yards … even then sometimes it… passes through… the target… without being… fatal."
"Thanks… any luck finding where the shot came from?"
"Working on it… boss you don't need to be here. I can call you when we get anything."
"I'm not sure I want to be there."
"If he is alive, Peter, he's going to need someone."
"You're right… I should…" he sighed, time to cowboy up and do what he needed to
"You need someone to give you a ride?"
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Reynolds paced the small office. Asking around the Henderson hospital for 2 days had led him here, the office of a semi-retired doctor. Dr. Gerald Dalton was 63 with greying hair and gentle smile lines around his eyes. He had the look of someone's favorite grandfather. He studied the file on his desk without looking up for a long time.
"I remember the boy...but I pulled this" he tapped the file softly "is to make sure I recall all the details."
"But you remember treating this young man?" he pushed the picture across the table again.
"I do. It was an unusual situation."
"How so?"
"This is a small town … we have our problems but it isn't often we have an 18 year old kid just dropped off in the lobby with multiple gunshot wounds… after that kind of beating."
"He had been shot?"
"Three times. None of them would have been life threatening if they had been treated in a timely fashion. One through and through in the left calf, the second cracked a rib but didn't penetrate… left a 4 inch gash in his side, the third was the most troubling…it was lodged against his right humorous, causing a hairline fracture of the bone. Because he had not received treatment immediately blood loss had become a serious issue. The boy was only partially conscious, in shock." Dr. Dalton shook his head sadly
"The injuries couldn't have been self-inflicted, could they?"
"Only if the kid could have shot himself from behind, at least 50 feet away. He certainly couldn't have given himself the beating."
Reynolds thought about the three dead boys. Donny had 2 cracked ribs when he died, Leo had a broken cheek bone, Rico a broken nose. At this point similar injuries on the survivor would no longer surprise him, he admitted.
"Pretty bad huh?"
"Two broken ribs which had caused quite a bit of soft tissue damage, some blood in the chest cavity. It was fortunate his lung didn't collapse. There were also 3 cracked ribs, 5 bruised, hairline fracture of his right cheekbone, orbital socket fracture, I have no idea how many bruises, a laceration on his cheek that required 3 stitches, his right lung was bruised. Left wrist was badly sprained also. He had several smaller lacerations. Both knees were skinned as well as his palms and right forearm."
"He was in pretty bad shape by the time you saw him then?"
"Yes…most definitely. For a few hours it didn't look good, but the kid was a fighter. He pulled through, although he was unconscious for over 24 hours. The police documented his injuries and took his clothes as evidence, but once he was awake he refused to talk to them. Checked himself out within 12 hours of waking up. I would have kept him for at least 3 or 4 days but he insisted. Walked out of here alone in a pair of borrowed scrubs. No one even came to get him"
"I see."
"The poor boy was terrified. He acted like he thought someone coming to finish him off. Watching the door and the window, refusing to let himself rest. He even tried to refuse pain medication. He never said anything about what happened to him… in fact he didn't say much of anything except to answer a direct question? Even then… he kept it short. Not that unusual after a severe trauma like that but… Agent Reynolds I assume you have some idea what happened to that boy"
"I can't go into specifics but he was the only surviving victim… of a terrible crime." Reynolds swallowed… victim, had he really just called Caffrey a victim. "Do you have better description?" he asked himself. "no" but his whole mind revolted against the idea for a moment… men like that were not victims… they hurt people, not the other way around but, maybe this time...for one moment he felt a flicker of sympathy for the man. Then he heard Caffrey's calm voice describing the murders… sometimes sociopaths were created by trauma…
In the end though there was no denying in this case… whether he liked the man or not… Caffrey was his fourth victim. Which meant the clothes the local PD collected 15 years ago were evidence in his case. He would collect them and go home to arrange protection for the man. He did give his word after all. It also meant he needed to take a serious look at the sketches Caffrey gave him and find those men.
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"Cautiously optimistic" The doctor had said… "Cautiously optimistic that he will survive." Not the words Peter had expected and dreaded. It wasn't a guarantee but it was really the best he could hope for right now. The man had talked about the damage to Neal's lungs, blood loss and the splintered shoulder blade… then he looked Peter straight in the eye
"Your friend is extremely lucky to be alive. The bullet passed between his aortic and pulmonary arteries without damaging either of them. That is nearly impossible. The bullet must have hit something else before it hit his shoulder blade which slowed it considerably." The wooden frame of the glass door came to mind. "That means the damage was no worse than a standard 45 at relatively close range. It helped tremendously that he received treatment as quickly as he did… even a few minutes longer…" he left it there "there is potential nerve damage in his shoulder, but I think his chances of getting through this are good."
For the first time all evening Peter could breathe. Yes, he was sitting in an ICU room but it beat the H*** out of the morgue.
"Ok … just say it. We need to do a much better job protecting you." He patted his friend's left shoulder gently with a soft smile. He didn't expect a response. Then more seriously "I promise we are going to do much, much better. I'm not going to let them get near you again. You have to meet my boy… I haven't even told you what we named him yet. I couldn't think how to without it sounding…"
He sank into the chair.
He was going to be here a while
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Reynolds sighed there was no avoiding it any longer. He had to call Burke and admit Caffrey was in fact a witness, no a victim, not a suspect. He was a man who could admit he was wrong. He still didn't have to like the man but, he needed to let the other agent know his plan to protect the man until Wit Sec could take over.
The phone rang long enough he thought it was going to go to voicemail before…
"Burke."
"This is Thomas Reynolds."
"Yes." The word was harsh
"Caffrey's story checked out… I'm arranging the protection detail as we -" a choked bitter laugh cut him off.
"You're a little late Reynolds."
"What do you mean?"
"They found him…"