Secondhand Sacrifice

I usually leave work at around six, after all the traffic north of Little Rock has dissipated. If anyone is going to need my help, it would usually be before five, anyway, so I am playing it safe. I grabbed my hat, walked out the door, and locked it. Just as I did that, the phone in my office rang. I started to get my keys out to go back in, but I realized that it could probably wait until tomorrow. Besides, I would have missed the call.

When I entered my office the following morning I noticed that I had a message waiting on the machine. That is normal, often someone asking if I could help with something petty. I had to brace myself for what I heard. A fearful voice trembled, saying that her daughter, Sheena, has disappeared. I held my breath and felt my heart stop for a second, remembering the dreadful ordeal dealing with a kidnapping on a personal level.

Although I became a private investigator to help others with what
I have had to deal with, my mind still freezes, going back to when my own daughter disappeared, never to return. At the time, I was a heavy equipment operator, working for the Highway Department. Katelyn, 12 at the time, never came home on her way home from school. We lived within a mile of her junior high so she thought it best to walk. The police were never able to find the person responsible. I know she didn't just run away because she was a very happy girl. She had many friends, whom she adored, and her life at home wasn't bad, despite her parents being divorced and not speaking.

I called the number the woman left on my machine to find out more details. Coincidentally, I had nothing more on my plate. I would have spent my day reading, otherwise. Breanna Fitzpatrick spoke with more composure, though just as fearful, explaining every detail that I would need, including when Sheena was supposed to arrive home, why she would not run away, what she was wearing, and who she hung out with. I only had to ask if there was anything unusual going on with her social life recently. At first, Mrs. Fitzpatrick said that there wasn't, and then, Shane, her husband mentioned that he overheard Sheena talking to one of her friends on the phone about a couple of guys they ran into at the mall.

Sheena was a sophomore in high school and hardly old enough to know how older guys manipulate younger girls. That was just the hint that I needed. Since I began private investigation six years ago, I found three missing teenagers, two of which ran away. All returned safe. My daughter disappeared seven years ago and I have not been able to forget about it for a single day since then. I learned in college that humans don't have instincts the way other animals do and that we can only trust our five senses when determining an outcome but when I hear something that strikes a chord within me, I know that I am onto something. What Mr. Fitzpatrick told me did just that.

I spent another two and a half hours finding out the specifics and went to my office. They had already spoken with the police, making the report. The detectives for the police department asked everything I had, but made less reassurance about making a recovery than I had. The Fitzpatricks knew that I would be a wise investment in the recovery of their daughter because of my reputation and because of what I, unfortunately, have dealt with. Aside from that, to them, their daughter's safe return was worth more than any price I quoted them. With cases like that, I feel bad charging my clients, but I guaranteed them that I would do all that I can to bring Sheena back, safely.

The next two days I spent talking with Sheena's parents and friends, penning down the details of who might know something critical to Sheena's disappearance. Her parents told me, and her friends confirmed that she had a boyfriend with whom she broke up just over two weeks ago. The two weren't together long but it was worth looking into. I got his number from one of Sheena's friends and tried to call but I got no answer. It was late, anyway. I resigned to trying again the next day. When I called and told this young man, Jesse, that I was looking for his ex-girlfriend, he seemed calm but still worried, not for him, but for Sheena's safety. He was upfront and told me that the two of them had problems but there seemed no sign of malice from either.

"There is something that bothered me," he admitted. "She met this one dude soon after we broke up and was always talking about him with her friends at school."

"Did she mention anything about going out with him? Meeting him anywhere?"

"Not that I know of. It sounded like she didn't even know much about him. But that still didn't make me feel better. I asked her who he is and she got defensive," he added. I thanked him for his time and hung up. Right before, however, he wanted me to know he hopes I bring her back safe.

I found out, through her closest friends, where this mystery guy, by the name of Marc, worked. They met him at a popular clothing store, frequented by teenagers. The best I could get was a description of the man. He appeared young, except that he had a noticeable dead arm. Her friend, Megan interjected that, although handsome, he seemed too eager when she and Sheena met him.

I went to the store and, right away, I could recognize the guy that Sheena and her friends had met recently. When I asked if he could spare a minute to talk, he said that he could not, obviously a lie because he had plenty of time to talk to a couple teenage girls just a couple minutes prior to my approach. He did look like he could pass for a teen, with a boyish face. His right arm hung limp, but no different from his left, in size.

I introduced myself. "My name's Liam Bennett. Just curious, what do you do in your spare time since you're out of school, just working?"

"I go out with my friends on the weekend," Marc declared. He never even confirmed that he was out of school. Marc lacked the competence, in my mind, to catch a trick question but used such simple logic in luring a young girl out of town with him. I didn't have the proof but I was determined to obtain it.

"I'm sure you do. Who do you hang out with, your old classmates?"
I asked, playing the ignorant, older man game.

"Actually, everyone I went to school with has just about moved away or got new friends since then."

"So, you resort to hanging out with high schoolers?"

He hesitated. "I don't keep track of how old my friends are.
Some are teens, so what?"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven," he replied.

I thought about that awhile. "You can't find other friends that are your age?"

"Hey, if a teenage chick talks to me, I'm not gonna turn her away cause she's younger than me," he blasted. "What does it matter, anyway?"

I thought about grabbing him and strangling him right there but that would take away any advantage I had in the first place. I thought about getting on his good side for a second, just to obtain an objective stance. Then I came across an epiphany.

"Do you ever hang out with a guy named Eric? He always knows where there's something fun as long as cops don't get involved"

"Yeah, every once in a while. How do you know him," he asked.

I knew Eric Baxter from a previous investigation. He was a troubled juvenile that always got into trouble. He was key in my last investigation pinning down a car thief. "He said to tell you, 'hope you get back into shape from that football injury'."

Marc just gave me a blank, confused stare before he uttered, "yeah, ok. I will."

Marc just shuffled off, looking like he gave away the Holy Grail. He may as well have, since he only knows the tip of the iceberg. I figured I would go to the studio apartment to pay a visit to Eric, for real this time.

On my way out, I called the Fitzpatricks. Shane answered. I told him that I was making progress. He seemed calm and certain that I would make gains. I asked to speak to his wife, Breanna. She did not seem so composed. When I reassured her of my promise to do all that I can, she settled down. I pulled into Eric's apartment, the same way I remember it a year ago when I questioned him about his role in stealing cars. When he answered the door, he made it known that he was staying out of trouble.

"I believe you. I just need to find out some things about a friend of yours," I said. "Marc Bradley said you've been into no good lately."

"That piece of shit," he exclaimed. Of course, it was not true, but only I knew.

"Actually, that's not why I'm here. I want to know something about him. Remember my girl, Katelyn," I asked.

"Yeah. I mean, my little sister went to school with her. That's too bad."

"Thank you. I need your help," I began. "You just have to trust me. Your supposed friend, Marc, helped the cops get you in trouble last year. The thing is, he's been doing a whole lot worse than you have, but I can't prove it. Why does he not move his right arm?"

"You won't believe me when I say it's a football injury."

"Not a chance," I replied.

"Didn't think so. Truth is, Marc likes to go for the younger girls. Well, one time a few years ago, while trying to pressure this chick to let him do what he wanted with her, she slammed his arm in the passenger car door while trying to get out. I think that he didn't go to the doctor to treat it because he felt so guilty and knew he'd slip up. He hasn't really spoken about it since then and asked me to keep quiet."

I was in a trance, taken in by everything he was saying. I heard all the same before, except for the specifics as to who was involved. "Was it my daughter?" I ask, anxious for any revelations.

"I'm not sure, Mr. Bennett. He spent much of his time going after jailbait."

"Thank you, Eric," I answered. I proceeded to leave, not knowing how to seal the deal. I was sure that I had the person I have secretly wanted to punish for years right under my nose. The only problem was figuring out how to apply the right pressure and still abide by the rules of justice. I decided to go to where he worked, half expecting him not to be there. A girl about Sheena's age told me where to find him.

"He's been spending a lot of time lately hanging out by the river.
He lives just a couple blocks down the road from Broadway. I think he's got another girlfriend," she extrapolated.

"How do you know," I inquired.

"Well, when he spends less time at the mall or football games it is usually because he's tied up with someone else."

Tied up is one way of describing things. Unfortunately, Marc wasn't the one tied up. Up to this point, the police made no progress at all in the disappearance. I drove three miles to the Arkansas River, on the North Little Rock side, where I saw a SUV with two younger people sitting outside. I walked over to Marc and snatched the beer from his hands. He approached me and tried to take it back. I refused and looked him straight in the eye.

"What are you going to do, try to force it from me?"

"Stop acting crazy, man. Just give me back my beer," he insisted, agitated. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

I looked at the girl with him and, sure enough, she looked just like Sheena. The girl was scared and appeared to have a dark blue ring around her neck, as if he'd strangled her. I started to walk toward her, getting a closer look. She would not give me eye contact. Marc probably physically intimidated her and made her obey him.

"Sheena, is that you," I asked. She started to look toward me, and then quickly turned back forward. Directing my attention back to Marc, I demanded, "I really don't think she's here by choice. How long are you going to keep her around before you kill her? Is that why you're here at the river? Let me ask you something else, how long did you keep my daughter, Katelyn around before you disposed of her?" I was livid.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Bullshit. Sheena, get up! I'm taking you to the hospital and calling your parents," I announced.

As I walked toward her, Marc hit me from behind with what felt like a large stick. When I turned, he stumbled. From this point on, I noticed that things would not be the same. Impulsively, I took a swing. After I hit him, he rushed me. We started rolling on the ground, not realizing how close to the bank we were. I got up before he did but he was not content to end things right there. As angry as I was, I wanted to hurt him but I knew the implications of physical conflict. He tugged at my shirt with his left arm, causing me to falter. I leaned toward him, with both of us falling a dozen feet into the river. With disregard for our safety, I clung to him trying to prevent him from getting out first. He clung to me, as well, probably out of fear, knowing that he would be less likely to be able to get out. We drifted deeper as we struggled. I felt most fearful when I realized that I could not bring my daughter back.

At this point, I had no fear. This lowlife took her from me. Minutes passed and we both fought to keep the other down. Even with one able arm, he would not let me above water. He kicked, as did I. He started to loosen his grip. As I realized this, I continued to hold him under to ensure that he could not get up. Without realizing it, I started to loosen, as well. I noticed that his eyes were beginning to close, but I focused less on him, as I was feeling fainter. He slipped from my grip and we both started drifting in the cold, dark water, and suddenly came darkness.

"Sir, please wake up. Please! Please! I want to thank you. I need to. Wake up," cried a female's voice.

Sobbing was all I heard, muffled, accompanied by some tingling and pain. Whiteness overcame me as I became numb again. Sounds became less audible and I began to relax. No longer could I feel the warm grip around my left hand. I heard more sobbing and a subdued siren in the distance. The wind began to drown out all noise as I stared at the quarter moon in the sky. Silence followed. My eyes shut.

© 2006 Christian Shireman

The Last Minute

This is my fourth short story. It also happens to be my favorite.

When I wake up, I am still oblivious to everything around me. I can only see what I need to in order to get ready for school. Today is alike and different in some ways. Physically, everything's the same. I do not feel like getting out of bed. However, mentally, I really can't grasp that today's going to be the last day I actually wake up. I have thought about this for a while, now. In the end, I have decided that this is the only way anyone is going to see how life has been treating me.

There are some regrets I already have. Like what my family's going to feel after today - that concerns me; but not as near as much as the way I've felt my whole life. I'm a junior in high school. I have had three girlfriends my whole life, and two of them were good friends I have known forever. I suppose I am average looking, making average grades. It would be a valid point to say I do not even exist to most people in my school. I have tried to change to suit life and other people. However, that's not how I should do things. Face it; the world got Terry in 1987. It's had plenty of time to get used to me.

"Do you want any breakfast, Terry," my Mom asks, when she sees me coming through the dining room.

"No thank you. Not hungry," I respond. It's the truth.

"You're gonna be hungry later," she insists.

Without a reply, I head out the door for school, with less vigor than usual. I would imagine so, considering I have my Dad's .45 in my backpack. My Dad does not attempt to hide it and takes pride in his guns, though he doesn't even hunt. I have this feeling in my chest similar to what I would feel as a kid knowing I am in trouble. But there will not be any consequences for me to feel after today. I've got a bullet for that jackass football player, David. And I've got one especially for myself. My shoulders are tight and my heart pounds on my ribcage like a hammer.

Of course, I'm scared. Yet what a relief this will be. For one, David's going to get what he's had coming for a long time. And I won't have to suffer anymore. I've held on long enough. I guess you could say that it's time for me to let go. In a way, this day is kind of a relief for me. It's raining outside and I walk slowly, without an umbrella, to the bus stop. For all I care, lightning could strike.

As I board the bus, nobody pays me any attention. Everyone is speaking to about five other people, and then there's my best friend, Cory. Cory's a good guy, a little optimistic for me, but whatever. No one talks to us but each other. He knows me better than anyone in my family does. I think he suspects what's going to happen today. He knows that I've been thinking about suicide, too. But he'll be more surprised when he finds out I killed David.

"Hey, Terry," Cory initiates.

I respond with only a nod. That is just slightly less than I afford on most days. Cory can understand me. And if anyone can take my mind off stressful things, he's the one. Cory is a little taller than I am and slightly luckier with girls. Those facts aside, he is even less popular. Unfortunately, I never have learned to trust people much, him included. The best I can clue him on is the extent of what I am feeling.

"I can definitely see that," I insist, still not finding that as funny as before. My stomach aches and yet the thought of eating is less appealing. God, please help me come to a decision. I feel like a wreck. Aside from these physical discomforts, I have the feeling that everyone can see into my head and tell what I am thinking. That cannot be good. Then again, when has life dealt me the good cards?

The bus pulls into the normal spot to let us out to school. I was really hoping something would delay the ride here. Well, it's time I step up to the plate, I suppose. Everyone else getting off the bus seems so carefree and blind to the troubles of the world. Would it be greedy to wonder why I am the one with the short straw? Of course, it would not! It would be foolish to take things as they are by compromising.

"Another day as the anonymous face in the crowd," Cory attests, with all kidding aside. He's got that part figured out. To the rest of the world, people like Cory and me must be mere raindrops in a thunderstorm.

"That's true. I guess I'll see you at lunch." After I say that, Cory looks at me with confusion, probably because I always sit with him at lunch. The truth is, I don't know where I will be at that time. These kinds of things I never planned. I just hope that my thoughts don't form my expressions. I cannot afford to blow this.

I never thought about exactly when I want to carry out my plans. That puts me on the spot in some way. I approach my locker and before I even get it open, David walks by and slings his backpack at me, pretending that it was an accident. Considering the mood I am already in, I drop my backpack and start to reach inside of it. My heart races until I look up again and see that he's turned the corner to another hallway. He is going to get what he has coming but I don't want to hurry it, either. I figure I will do it at the beginning of lunch. I will have plenty of time to carry out my plan without panic.

My first class of the day, English, goes by without me even realizing it. Physically, I was there. My mind was still at my locker, though. Our English teacher told us to continue reading the Shakespeare play we started a week ago. That would be easy enough to dwell on my mood for an hour. As I walk to my second class of the day, my friend Amy approaches, with a big, silly grin.

"I know someone who likes you," she announces

"That's cool," I reply unenthusiastically.

"It's Amanda, from chemistry class. I can give you her phone number," she insists.

"I guess."

"You seem upset," she says. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I am fine," I infer, secretly wishing that I could spill everything to Amy as if she was my personal counselor. I have tried speaking to the actual counselor, in fact, though I believe that he cannot give practical advice without knowing exactly how I feel. Of course, he would nod and say "uh-huh", but that is just empty listening, to me.

"If you want to know more, get with me after school. I think you would like her."

Any other day, that would cheer me up. Today, God would have to intervene to change my mood. The day is rolling by, like a freight train through the city. I know that I cannot make it stop and that I will have to do something eventually. The agony of conflicting emotions is eating me up. I sincerely want to abandon my plans. However, I know that I will be miserable for a prolonged amount of time. Pure emotion drives my passion to shoot David. Turning the gun on me is only the escape from the outcome.

My second class, Government, is a release in some ways. I have always enjoyed that class and the lesson usually takes my mind off whatever is troubling me. Despite this, I feel like I am stalling. Though I never had a timetable of when I would carry out my revenge, it seems that I am allowing excuses to postpone.

"Terry, you seem elsewhere," announces my teacher, Mr. Stein.

"Oh, sorry," I reply. I didn't think my preoccupation was noticeable. The last thing I want to do is be transparent. My palms are sweating already and my stomach feels like a boy scout tied it into his best knot. With block scheduling, classes are longer and scheduled every other day. So, after this class is lunch. If I plan to solve my problems soon, I need to suck it in and take care of business.

After the class lets out my next destination is my locker to drop off my books. I am surprised to see wrapped around the handle of my locker, a big, disgusting wad of gum. Isn't this the most ironic thing? Anyone would see that David wants me to blast him. Abandoning my locker, I walk slowly and purposefully toward the cafeteria. I have just lost all patience. On my way to lunch, I reach into my backpack and grip the gun. Detouring into a restroom, I decide to slip the gun into my waistband for now and head back out.

Cory glimpses me walking into the cafeteria and grins like a clown. I am glad everything is so peachy for him.

"There you are," he blurts.

"As promised. Would you be surprised if I were to just go nuts and fill David with bullets," I ask, mostly kidding aside.

"Not at all," Cory responds. I should have known he would think it a joke. "Oh yeah, the gum."

"You saw it?"

"Yeah. That's a shame."

"He will learn," I claim. He does not know yet how true that statement is.

Lunch rolls on without me seeing David. I back out of getting something to eat because I am still not hungry, despite what my mom claimed earlier. All the while Cory is filling me in on the ironies of school, I am scanning alternatives to my plans in my head. I cannot be home-schooled because both of my parents work.

"You wouldn't think Math could be any less boring. My last class has just reached heights I never before imagined," explained Cory, mostly in vain. "Man, you don't look too well. Did you eat a pepper, or something?"
I am angry to the point of physiological effects. My head is burning up and I wonder if my temperature is closer to one hundred than ninety-six.

"No. I'm okay. I am just flustered," I explain.

"If anything, the breeze in here is a little too strong," concludes Cory. I know it sounds unrealistic, yet I would be no less surprised if I passed out soon. When I get up to get something to drink the bell rings for the end of lunch. I swear it seems that fate is trying to rush me. Perhaps this is my chance.

Walking down the hall towards my next class, I see David talking with some of his friends. His girlfriend looks pissed. Is it possible that she has finally seen him for the jerk that he is? I notice David start to walk off, leaving her at her locker, looking angry. This is it. I reach underneath my shirt, preparing to deliver David his overdue punishment.

"Hey, Terry," someone shouts. It's Amanda. She waves me over as I start to walk past chemistry class. "Amy told me she talked to you earlier. I feel so embarrassed."

"Don't be," I insist. Already that is the most vibrant I appeared all day. When I look up again, David has left my sight. "To be honest, that is probably the little bit of sunshine I needed today."

"Having a bad day? You can talk to me," Amanda suggests.

"I don't really think you would understand. No offense, though." After that, she sulks as she walks back into the classroom. How did I manage to blow two things at once? I will never understand myself. I enter the classroom, sit, and find myself still no less preoccupied than before the class started.

After an hour of torturing myself with the same dreadful thoughts, I run into Amanda as we are leaving the class. She hands me a note and smiles. Every time I consider doing something litigious, some outside factor compels me to do otherwise, usually in the form of good news. Still, a miracle is what I need to turn things around for me. Lord, please guide me.

Nearly halfway through the last class, I remember the note Amanda wrote for me. I dig it out in a hurry to read what she has to say. Most of the note, which is written front and back, is typical small talk. Close to the end of the note, she says that she wants to go out sometime. Why couldn't she have brought this up sooner? I got myself into something of which I will not be backing out. Never could I have realized that my day would change in an instant. Amanda says that David got in trouble for taking his mom's car one night and will be transferring to an all-boys school a few miles away. My heart races again to account for my loss of breath. I have a feeling that this changes things.

After school, walking to the bus, I spot Cory. "Is it true that David Ivins is going to an all-boys school?"

"Yeah, and he's gonna have to wear a uniform, too," exclaims Cory.

I suppose this does change everything. For the first time all day, the first time all week, I smile. I never saw David at all since chemistry class, after lunch. I passed his girlfriend on the way to the bus and she was downplaying the whole ordeal to her friends. On the bus, Cory talked and I listened while the whole world seemed to invite me back in. The rain had quit and the rain-battered sunflowers were standing strong in the field right outside the school. The bus dropped me off and I took my time walking home. When I walk in, my dog lets me know that he is glad to see me. He will have plenty of time to visit with me after I grab the phone and call Amanda.


© 2005 Christian Shireman