Hybrid (4 page)
The downside was working for somebody else—taking direction and following orders. Those were the two things he never did well. It wasn't that he couldn't follow direction. After six years in Special Forces, you learn how to take commands. Erik just didn't like the idea of not controlling his own fate. That was the key element that led Margaret to finally leave him. He had turned down a lucrative job in New York in order to start his own agency in the Metro West region of Massachusetts. Margaret was home with their baby, and he was out all hours of the night doing work.
He came home after a two-day stint to find their small apartment vacant and a note in their empty bedroom. Margaret had wasted no time in finding a new man. They had both known Richard for several years. He had been a good friend of Margaret's, and had been present at their small wedding. Erik had always sensed something more between the two of them, and wasn't surprised when they started seeing each other. Two weeks after they started dating, he was served the divorce papers, and just like that, he was alone.
Margaret had used Richards's hired gun attorneys during their divorce. They had done everything possible to degrade and destroy Erik's character and credibility. They had painted him as a lazy, shiftless man with no ambition or sense of responsibility. Erik had to admit, in some warped sense, Margaret was right. A more responsible man would have accepted the job offer for the sake of his family; a more mature man would have probably made some different choices.
Erik knew he couldn't blame all of this on her, but she had more than made him pay for his mistakes. He had spent all of his savings on attorney fees and wound up losing the few clients he had, thanks to the personal and professional smear campaign put out against him. It had taken him over three years to recover from the disastrous events of his divorce, and he still had the lingering debt to show for his troubles.
The more Erik recalled those bitter memories, the harder his blows struck the heavy bag. His rhythm of strikes increased, and he began sharper exhalations with each blow against the heavy canvas. He punched and kicked his way through the memories, reliving every loss and humiliation Margaret's lawyers put him through. The heavy bag flew backward against the force of his blows. The more he remembered the difficulties of his past, the harder his blows became.
After nearly an hour, he was dripping with perspiration. The bag he had been pummeling so mercilessly now had several creases and indentations caused from the impacts of exceptionally hard kicks and punches. After all his exertion and thought, he was no closer to finding a solution to his problem than when he started.
Deep down, he knew Richard was right. If Richard wanted to take Brianna there would be nothing that Erik could do. Erik quickly amended that thought; there were plenty of things he could do, and probably get away with, but he was above that. Richard knew all the right attorneys, had all the right connections in high society, and he had hundreds of millions of dollars behind him. Erik had done the wrong things in the past, but never out of spite. He admitted to himself that Margaret was partially justified in doing what she did, but it was still painful to him.
For all his strength, Erik felt very weak and helpless. It was a feeling he loathed. Erik walked over to the breaking blocks and began stacking them one atop another. He was still in thought before he realized that he had stacked six of the three-inch thick breaking blocks. As he looked around, he was aware of the other students and instructors staring at him.
He kept thinking about Richard and that smug expression of superiority that he wore. Erik channeled that anger as he raised both his fists over his head. He focused his concentration, and felt his body respond by unleashing a surge of energy throughout his system. He shouted a savage cry and smashed his fists down in a hammer-like blow upon the top brick. The top four bricks exploded under the impact of his blow, while the other two split evenly at their centers and crumbled under the impact of his strike. Erik felt better, momentarily, until the pain shot up his arms and reached the neural synapses in his brain.
“Oh shit,” he whispered to himself. “That was really stupid.” He masked the pain and silently disposed of the fragments in the dumpster behind the training facility. Erik shook his hands in an effort to stop the stinging. He didn't hear the lead trainer come up behind him.
“I'll bet that hurt,” a voice said that half startled Erik.
Erik spun around quickly, his hands instinctively raised.
“Easy, big man, I'm not looking for a fight. I just want some conversation,” the man replied calmly.
“I know you,” Erik began. “You own this building; this is your school.”
The man nodded. “The name is Dawkens, Neal Dawkens, and you are?”
Dawkens was a man in his early fifties with short cut salt-and-pepper hair. He stood as tall as Erik, but had a much thinner build. Dawkens sported a dragon tattoo on his left forearm, and a tiger on his right. His black belt was covered in gold stripes, indicating that this man was a martial artist with decades of experience.
“Erik Knight,” Erik answered as he approached the man with an open hand. The two exchanged a firm, powerful handshake, each man taking a slight measure of the other.
“My associate was right; he described you perfectly. You have some excellent talent, Mr. Knight—good techniques and fantastic power. Besides myself, I've only seen two other men go through four of those concrete blocks, and you just smashed through six. I wouldn't have thought it possible. I'm impressed, and I don't impress easily, Mr. Knight,” Dawkens complimented.
“Thanks,” Erik said, “but it's been some time since I did any formal training. My last pro fight was over twelve years ago.”
Dawkens raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I didn't realize we had any professionals at this school. Do you mind telling me a little bit about your training background?”
“I studied Shotokan for about five years, about three years of Northern Shaolin Kung Fu when I was in Jr. High and High School. I studied some formal hand-to-hand and weapons training techniques at Fort Bragg with the 45th Combat Infantry after college; I owed them some time since they were kind enough to pay for my education. I went pro in the Army, fighting at different bases. There were always kick-boxing or Ultimate Fighting tournaments going on back then. The Army looked at it as good PR for recruitment—get some of the younger fit men into the service.
“After that, I hooked up with the Fighting Arts League in Chicago for almost five years. They didn't teach any forms of martial art in particular. It was more like fighting arts, lots of great hand techniques, weapons, with only basic foot applications. That's where I learned the best way to train on a heavy bag.” Erik imagined his background probably paled in comparison to Dawkens'.
“I see,” Dawkens remarked with genuine interest. “I'd like to discuss using your talents in a more constructive way rather than pummeling my equipment sometime. But right now, I'd like to discuss a more pressing matter with you.”
“Such as?” Erik nodded, inviting the man to continue.
“Well, Mr. Knight, I've been told that you're a private investigator, and a fairly competent one. Is there any truth to this?” Dawkens gestured Erik forward.
Erik nodded as both men headed back inside
“Yeah, among other things. Do you need something?” Erik asked hopefully. Another case so soon after the last one would be the wildest stroke of luck.
“No, not me personally, but my sister could use the help of someone like yourself. Are you available for hire?” Dawkens asked intently.
“Yeah,” Erik answered as calmly as he could. “What kind of trouble is your sister in?”
“Missing person,” he answered. “Her daughter, my niece. We've been to the police, but they haven't been able to do anything. Let's face it, this is a small town. There ain't a lotta crime here. The cops aren't prepared for a kidnapping case.”
“Whoa!” Erik gestured. “There's quite a big difference between a kidnapping and a missing persons case. Kidnapping is one of those messy federal crimes where the guys with suits and dark sunglasses usually get involved.”
“I'm aware of that. We can't actually prove she's been kidnapped, but I can't think of any other reason for a child to be missing,” Dawkens replied.
Erik nodded. “Does your sister know where Madame's Restaurant is?”
Denton nodded. “The large diner off of Route 141, the one with all the fancy decorations.”
“That's the place. Have her meet me there tomorrow afternoon for lunch, 12:00 sharp.”
“12:00 sharp,” Dawkens agreed.
* * * *
Erik quickly showered and changed. As he left, he nodded towards Dawkens who was teaching a class. Dawkens returned the gesture with a half smile, and then returned to his students.
Erik thought about the several scenarios that could possibly lead to a missing child. During his experience as an apprentice investigator, these types of cases rarely had a happy ending. Usually, the child had run away or was abducted for hideous purposes. He silently hoped that this case wouldn't evolve into something that deep. His mind kept asking questions, each question leading to another.
“Easy, Erik,” he said to himself as he got in his truck. “You have no information and no idea what you're getting into just yet. Just keep cool and keep your mind open.” But as he drove away, his extra sense—that little voice in the back of his head that he told very few people about—seemed to trigger a subtle warning. Erik had learned early not to ignore that warning; it had saved his life on a few occasions. Silently, he continued to wonder what he might be getting himself into.
Chapter 2
A woman of early middle years walked into the reception area of Madame's Restaurant, she looked around hesitantly. Erik recognized her from Dawkens’ description.
“Mrs. Reynolds, over here.” Erik gestured as he stood from his booth in the main dining hall.
“Mr. Knight, I'm Andrea Reynolds,” she answered with a relieved smile as she made her way toward his booth. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
“You're most welcome,” Erik answered as warmly as possible.
Erik knew the one most important thing about people who came to him: they needed help. To him it wasn't about the money; it was about a chance to make a difference in somebody else's life. Erik did his best to make his clients feel special, like their problems were as important to him as they were to them.
This was one of the reasons why he liked to operate out of Madame's. The atmosphere was incredibly comfortable, and everyone was exceptionally friendly. These elements made it easier to relate to people on a more personal level than he could get in an office setting. Also, one of the best benefits was that they served the best chicken breast sandwich and beef vegetable soup in all of New England.
“Please, sit down. I've taken the liberty of ordering for us.” He gestured to one of the waitresses who disappeared into the kitchen area. Erik poured her a steaming cup of coffee from the pot placed on his table and sipped his while Mrs. Reynolds began her story.
“Four days ago, Lisa came to me and said she thought that something was watching her and her friends from the playground. I really didn't pay much attention because she's always had such an overactive imagination. You know, monsters in the closet, ghosts in the basement, the typical ten-year-old fears and phobias. I told her not to go to the park unless she was with her older brother or going with a group of children—”
“Excuse me,” Erik interrupted. “You said some
thin
g and not some
one.
”
“Yes,” she replied quickly. “Again, you know how active a child's imagination can be, or so I thought.”
As she continued her story, Erik focused on her eyes. If she were making up anything, her eyes would give her away. He had been taught that the eyes were the gateway into a person's essence. If someone were lying, they could not look directly at someone for any length of time. Their eyes would look off in a different direction and dart back, only to pull away again.
If someone were creating a story, their eyes would wander to their left, as if the person was accessing the creative part of their brain. If they were remembering some detail or fact, their eyes would usually look straight up of veer off to their right, as if querying the logic centers of the brain. Erik knew that these methods were not one hundred percent reliable, but human body language was very difficult to camouflage, and he had seen these methods proven again and again.
“As I said,” she continued, “I told her to stay with her friends and not wander off if she was playing there. They said that she only left for a minute to use the bathroom; she just never came out. And when they went to look, all they found was her necklace behind the bathroom door.” She began weeping as she concluded her story.
Erik reached over and gently took her hand.
“That was two days ago.” She wiped her tears with a dinner napkin. “I would have expected something, a ransom note or a phone call, anything.”
“Have the police given you anything at all?” Erik asked.
“No,” she answered sadly. “They've talked with all the children and they've all said the same thing: It got dark like the night and terribly cold. When the sun returned, she was gone.”
He considered her story and analyzed it quickly: a young girl abducted amongst other children, darkness in place of the daylight, and a sudden drop in temperature. The whole story seemed more a like a bad fairy tale than an abduction. Erik knew that nobody simply vanished; the police were smarter than that. He knew, as they did, if she had not received a message from the girl's kidnappers by now, there would most likely be no message. It did not bode well. There was something about the necklace though. He felt an eerie buzzing in the back of his head.
“May I see your daughter's necklace?” he asked.
She handed him the plastic bag that contained the necklace. Erik studied it carefully: A fourteen-karat gold chain with a large heart-shaped locket. As he opened the bag, a chill went up his arms and down his spine; he caught the scent of something foul. He emptied the contents of the necklace into his hand, and let the jewelry sit in his palms. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on edge as he held the gold chain. Erik struggled to maintain his composure as he carefully slipped the item back into the plastic bag.