That's My Boy

That's my Boy by Peggy Rockey

Prompt: Lethal | Word Count: 1800 Words Exactly | Genre: Action? Suspense?
Warning: Foul language
Due June 19


The boy is beautiful. Tall for his age. Fearless in the way he charges into the skirmish, risking bruised ankles and shins while tangling for possession of the soccer ball. Confidence shines in the boy’s dark eyes and wide grin as he kicks the ball to a teammate downfield, charging after it with all the energy of an active twelve year old.

Of all the kids on the field, this one has captured his attention. The way he moves. The combination of dark hair, tanned skin, lithe athletic body. His breath comes more rapidly as he watches the boy. Saliva fills his mouth and he swallows reflexively. His body tightens deliciously, almost painfully; first time since being released from incarceration.

***

“Come on, Ian, get in there.”

“Way to play, Ian. Nice pass.”

“Block him, Mary, block him! You can do it.”

The energy on the field is contagious as onlookers call orders and encouragement to the players. Cheers of victory and groans of disappointment sound as the ball is kicked downfield, kicked again by a fellow teammate. It soars past the goalie; into the net for the score.

Three to one. Four minutes left to play.

***

Ian intercepts another pass from the opposing team, kicks the ball downfield again.

“That’s my boy!” Sara beams with pride. He’s been the star of the game. May not have scored any goals himself, but he’s been the one to set up the plays, passing the winning scores to his mates.

She scans the crowd surreptitiously to see if anyone else has noticed how well her boy is playing. “Darla, who’s that bald guy over there?” Sara nods towards a shabby looking man sitting off by himself in a lawn chair, sipping from a large cup. “He’s kinda creepy.”

“I dunno.” Darla says. “He drove up in that old van a little while ago. I thought maybe he was someone’s grandfather, but he’s just sitting there by himself. He hasn't spoken to anyone, as far as I've seen.”

The guy's dressed in a faded white tank top, sweat-stained and stretched taut across the flab of his chest and stomach; dirty sweat pants; flip flops. As a parole officer, she’s been trained to interact with hardened criminals, has learned to be observant and suspicious. Sara’s instincts move into high alert as she takes in his ruddy cheeks, the sheen on his forehead. That look of fierce longing should not be on the face of an old man watching young kids playing soccer on a spring morning.

“Get in there, Tony, get that ball away from him.”

“Kick it, Ian! Kick it!”

The shouting draws Sara’s attention back to the game, but not before committing the van’s license plate to memory.

She looks up just in time to see Ian leap, stopping the ball’s flight against his chest.

“That’s my boy!” She yells, again, hugging pride close to her heart, as she would have liked to hug her son, who’s recently become too old for hugs from his mom.

***

"His name's Ed Garcia. He's a damned pedophile.” Sara’s voice is low, clipped. She stabs her finger at the man's picture on the monitor, scowls at his beady eyes, balding forehead, scarred nose.

She and Matt are sitting at the desk in her home office. Ian and Jared have gone to bed. Matthew leans in, nuzzles Sara’s neck, tugging playfully on her ponytail.

“He definitely fits the profile of any one of a dozen guys I’ve arrested over the years.” Matt says, before reading the charges. “Indecent exposure. Lewd and lascivious acts with a child under fourteen years of age. Fuck. I don’t know why they don’t castrate these bastards before they let ‘em out of jail.”

“At least they have to register, so people know where they’re at.” Sara relaxes as Matt massages her shoulders. Suddenly, she stiffens again. “Look, he lives out by Will and Maggie's place."

Sara clicks on the address, zooms in on satellite view. "Yeah, see; here's where Will's brother lives, across the street. Damn! Andy and Gina are just two homes away from the guy. We should warn them there’s a frickin pedophile next door so they know to keep an eye on their grandkids when they come to visit."

***


Sara’s waiting at the bus stop Monday afternoon when the bus bringing Ian home from middle school arrives. Several kids get off the bus, but Ian isn’t among them.

"Mandy," she calls to one of the girls, "where's Ian?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Stefani, I saw him when class got out, but he wasn’t around when the busses arrived.”

Worried, Sara begins making phone calls. She calls her older son, Jared, and some of Ian’s friends, the ones that have phones, or the parents of those that don’t. No one has any knowledge of Ian’s whereabouts.

With increasing concern, she drives to the school. The last time anyone saw him he’d been heading for the bus. The school is too remote for Ian to have just walked off by himself, and Sara knows he wouldn’t have gone with anyone without first asking permission.

Frantic now, she calls Matt while driving home.

“Honey, I can’t talk right now. We're in the middle of a drug sting; my guys are about to take down the suspect.”

“Matt, Ian’s missing. He wasn’t on the bus, and no one knows where he may have gone.”

“Did you call Jared? He’s probably with his brother.”

“He’s not. Jared’s home from high school already, says he hasn’t seen Ian since morning."

“What about Jeffrey, or Daniel?”

“I’ve called them, too. If you’d let Ian have a phone, like I asked, he might have called me, or I could trace his location.”

“He doesn’t need a phone, Sara. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“But what if that pedophile got him,”

“Oh, come on! Why are you jumping to the worst conclusion? This is so unlike you.”

“I don’t know. I just have this feeling. Something’s not right.”

“Listen, I have to go. I’m sure Ian’ll call. Don’t do anything rash, Sara. Be patient.”

But patience is not in Sara's genetic makeup. Not when her son's gone missing.

Sara’s had rigorous self-defense and martial arts training, carries a concealed weapon. If this makes her a bit cocky and over confident, well, Matt’s probably the only one that knows this, and these are traits he loves about her.

Finally, she decides to call Andy. After explaining the situation to him, he reluctantly agrees to help her scope out Ed Garcia’s place, warns her about the guy’s dog.

The sun is just beginning to set as Sara pulls into Andy's driveway. She removes her Ruger subcompact .380 from the glove box; gets out of her car as Andy comes out to greet her. In his late-sixties, he’s tall and in fairly decent shape. She gives him a quick side-hug, raises a hand to Gina, standing in the doorway.

“Still no word from Ian?”

She shakes her head, doesn’t trust herself to speak past the lump that’s formed in her throat.

“Okay. Well. We can hike down to the creek bed over there.” He points to an overgrown trail that disappears down the steep hillside, where the tops of oak and pine trees are seen. "I hike down there often enough,” Andy says, “Garcia won’t think twice if he sees me. We can come up the backside of his property from there; but like I said, he’s got a dog.”

The trees cast eerie shadows as the sun descends below the horizon. They reach the little valley at the bottom of the property, continue up the steep trail, breathing heavily as they crest the hill where Garcia’s house comes into view.

The dog is an ancient German Shepherd Pitbull mix that may once have been quite vicious. It lets out a weak growl, gets to its feet and charges at them in a doddering, limping pace. Sara coolly shoots it with a fast acting tranquilizer and by the time it’s just a few feet away, it falls at their feet. If it whimpered, the sound is lost in the gusting wind that whips through the trees.

It’s almost dark. A single light shines from a window. They creep stealthily onto the porch, peer inside. What she sees causes the blood to pound in her ears. Adrenalin surges through her and she finds it difficult to breathe.

Ian’s head is covered in a dirty cloth. She can't see his face, but Sara would recognize her boy anywhere. His tall, lean frame is so dear to her. He’s obviously gagged; she can hear muffled curses, stifled screams. His hands have been duct taped together and he’s been pushed to the ground where the maggot is trying to tape his legs.

The boy’s arms and neck are bruised. He’s struggling ferociously, and from the blood seeping from the man’s nose and mouth, Ian hasn't made this easy on the bastard. Sara aches for her son, but she’s proud to see him fight.

Freeing her gun from its holster, she gives the nod to Andy. He crashes through the door while Sara sprints across the room, barreling into the pedophile. As they sprawl across the floor, Sara’s phone begins vibrating in her pocket. She supposes its Matt checking on her, but of course she can't take the time to answer. She just wants to kill this fucker for what he'd been about to do to her son.

Sara's thoughts have gone lethal and she has to restrain herself.

She raises her gun, tempted to shoot him straight though his rotten heart, cracks him over the head with a satisfying thud instead, watches him fall to the ground. Andy rushes over and between the two of them they restrain the asshole and tape him to a chair.

Sara realizes it's all been a bit too easy, but surprise had been on their side, the man too caught up in his debauchery to be aware of his surroundings. Perhaps he'd grown careless in his old age, thinking he was safe in the relative remoteness of his home.

Her phone rings again as she frees Ian from his bonds. She pulls the head covering off her son, hugs him close to her chest before the shock of recognition hits her. She holds him at arm’s length, gazing into the face of this frightened, shaking boy, pulls him back into her motherly embrace and lets the child sob into her shoulder.

"That's not my boy."

The phone rings again, and she pulls it from her pocket. Unknown caller. Not Matt then. She almost ignores the call but instinct tells her she should answer.

“Hello?”

“Mom? Dad said you’re worried about me. How come you’re not at home?"