The Prodigal Son Read online

  “Mama, that does seem strange,” Cassandra said. “Father Brennan is driving that man’s car, and leaving his over there in the parking lot. Why do you think that man had Father do that?”

  “Yeah, Cassandra, it is strange,” her mother replied. “But white folks sure enough do some strange things anyway.” She turned toward the front door. “Even Father Brennan. I’ve known that man an awful long time and he do the strangest things sometimes. Why one time, it was Halloween a few years back, when he was still at St. John’s and I was just finishin’ makin’ his dinner at the rectory, and he comes in dressed up like that Frankenstein monster. Sat down at the table. Acted like it was normal, somethin’ he did every day. Then he looked at me again and started laughin’, thinkin’ it was real funny. Shoot, wasn’t nothin’ funny about that, far as I could see.”

  Estelle turned to go back inside the apartment.

  “Well, child, let’s get inside. Your daddy will be home soon and we got lots of things to do.”

  PART TWO

  FOUND

  CHAPTER 9

  The alarm beeped and Jack rolled over toward the clock and noted the time: 7:00. He hit the SNOOZE button and drifted back to sleep. It beeped again fifteen minutes later and he reached over, shut it off, and slowly pulled himself upright in the bed. He put a pillow behind his head and leaned back against the headboard. The fog in his brain was slowly beginning to lift as he reached over to the nightstand and pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. He inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs, desperate for the first of the day’s nicotine to course its way into his system. He tried not to think, but the harder he tried the more he thought anyway. He began recalling the visit by the demons; he wondered if their intrusions would ever end, and if the memories of Vietnam would ever go away. He wished to God they would someday.

  He had dreamed of the little boy as if it were yesterday. He remembered seeing himself yelling at the six- or seven-year-old, ordering him to no avail to drop the grenade he held in his hand. He saw the boy pull the pin and cock his arm to throw it into the LT’s tent; then he saw himself fire two rounds from his .45 into the kid’s chest and watched as the kid fell backward, dead before he ever hit the ground. He watched as the grenade landed at the boy’s side, blowing his small head and right arm and leg off his tiny body. He watched again as the boy’s insides spilled out, watched as the blood pooled beside him, unable to penetrate the hard, sunbaked ground.

  Brainwashing those little village kids, getting them to do stuff like that! he thought. I hope you VC are rotting in hell!

  He wondered if God ever could, or would, forgive him for what he did. He knew he had to do it to save the LT, and he also knew he lost his soul that very day. Each time he awoke from this dream, he was certain of it. Besides, the demons were there to remind him, just in case he ever forgot.

  He began to focus again, to get his mind away from it. He needed to simply think of the next thing to do, and maybe another minor function beyond that one. Finish the cigarette. Hit the head. Get some coffee. One step at a time, Jack, one step at a time, he thought. It was the only thing he could think to do.

  He stumbled to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and stood at the toilet emptying his bladder for what seemed like an eternity. A slight temptation surfaced in his mind to head back to the bed for some more sleep, but he knew he could do no such thing—there were more urgent things calling out to him to be done today. Besides, the demons might return; they usually waited until the dark of night, but they could very well come in the day if he allowed them to. He wasn’t about to begin. He couldn’t take that chance.

  He finished, flushed the toilet, and turned to the sink. Leaning against it, he stared at himself in the mirror. He felt exhausted; it was showing on his face. The dark circles under his eyes were beginning to concern him, and he wondered how much longer it would be before his mind and body gave in and he collapsed from the broken sleep. As much as he wanted to, he knew returning to bed would serve no purpose.

  He turned the handle for the cold water, splashed some on his face, rubbed it into his eyes, dried off. He looked at himself in the mirror once again. Not much better than before. What the heck, he thought as he walked out of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen, and the coffee maker that beckoned. All he had to do was flip the on switch and the magic elixir would begin to drip into the pot. I can handle that.

  He waited until he heard the first gurgle and hiss of the machine before he walked over and opened the refrigerator door. He stood in front of it, staring absentmindedly inside. Its contents held nothing of interest to him. He closed the door, walked back to the counter, and stood in front of the coffeepot, waiting for the coffee to finish dripping into the pot. Drip, drip, drip. An eternity, it seemed.

  He was counting on the first cup to finally clear the fog; a second to begin thinking clearly. Anything after that was simply to get him wired for the day ahead.

  * * *

  Jack finished showering, shaving, and downing another cup of coffee before he ambled back down the hallway to the kitchen. The caffeine began working its way through his system; he was beginning to feel as though he would somehow make it through the morning. And making it through the morning would get him through the rest of the day. He finished towel drying his hair, and ran his fingers through it in a feeble attempt at combing it. He poured himself another cup and carried it with him into the living room.

  He turned on the television and held the switch until he found Channel 5 out of Mobile. He stood in front of the set watching Mel Showers, the morning anchor for the station, wrap up a story about an accident between a tractor trailer rig and two cars just beyond the exit of the eastbound interstate tunnel earlier in the morning. It was still not cleared completely and Mel reported it would tie up traffic heading across the bay to the Eastern Shore area for at least another two hours. Jack breathed a sigh of relief, knowing he would be heading in the opposite direction through the westbound tunnel later this morning; the traffic snarl wouldn’t interfere with what he had to do today in the city. He walked back into the kitchen, fixed a bowl of cereal, and walked over to the small dinette and sat down to watch the rest of the morning news show while he ate.

  Mel Showers had turned the show over to the meteorologist, and Jack half listened to the man drone on about the high and low temperatures for the day, the noticeable lack of rain lately, and the forecast for the next several days. Then it was back to Mel, and the story he began telling immediately caught Jack’s attention.

  “For those of you in the Channel 5 viewing area who are just joining us, good Thursday morning to all of you,” Mel stated. He continued. “We begin by recapping the story we reported during last night’s broadcast. Police in New Orleans are requesting that anyone who may have information regarding the whereabouts of Father Edward Brennan of the Archdiocese of New Orleans to please contact them at the number at the bottom of your screen.” In addition to the phone number, Jack saw the station was showing a recent photograph of the priest.

  Mel continued reading. “As mentioned at the beginning of this hour, Father Brennan, the associate parish priest at the Sacred Heart of Jesus Catholic Church, located on St. Charles Avenue, was last seen in the company of a white male late Tuesday afternoon. They were reported by two residents of the Desire Housing Projects to have left in a late-model four-door silver sedan. Though the make, model, and license number of the vehicle are unknown at the present time, the residents—a mother and her teenage daughter—were able to provide police a detailed description of the man who accompanied Father Brennan. They described him as approximately thirty to thirty-five years of age, with light-brown, neatly trimmed hair, brown eyes, five feet nine or ten inches tall, weighing approximately one hundred seventy to one hundred seventy-five pounds. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer, tan slacks, white shirt, and striped tie. The New Orleans Police Department has not gone on record to say if foul play is involved as the residents reporting the incident said
Father Brennan didn’t appear to be threatened in any way. As of this broadcast, however, Father Brennan has not been seen at Sacred Heart Church, nor has he reported in at the Catholic Charities Office on Baronne Street, where he serves as the administrator there on weekday afternoons.

  “Again, if you have any information regarding the disappearance of Father Edward Brennan, please contact the New Orleans Police Department at the number on your screen. All calls will remain confidential.”

  Jack turned off the television, got up, and walked over to the kitchen sink and placed the coffee mug and cereal bowl in it. He figured by now the Hertz rental agency at the airport would have reported the rented Cutlass as missing; certainly the New Orleans Police would have found it by now where he abandoned it on Poydras Street. Maybe they have, and they’re not reporting it to the public yet. Doesn’t matter anyway, he thought. What’s done is done.

  He knew the police would find it sooner or later; they’d dust it for prints but wouldn’t find any. He left it clean, no prints. Nothing to tie it to him. He was careful and figured he was a step or two ahead of the police anyway. He was always cautious with them. Sooner or later they’re going to make some connections—the Catholic Charities Office on Baronne, the church on St. Charles, and the apartment on Abundance Avenue where the priest was last seen, he thought. Hopefully it would end there for them. He was counting on it to be a dead end.

  He knew there were uncertainties in his trade. Things happened that way. He was, however, a very cautious, calculating man, and tried his best to limit them. There were things he could only be hopeful for, and based on experience, he was counting on them to vigorously pursue the disappearance, exhaust all possible and probable leads, and then finally give up when they hit that dead end and realized that both Richard Pittman and Raymond Patterson did not exist and that Father Edward Brennan, who did, had simply vanished into thin air.

  CHAPTER 10

  Jack went back to the bedroom and packed some clothes into a duffel bag and placed the bag on the bed. He walked to the closet and pulled out three small boxes from the front left corner of the top shelf. He placed the boxes on the bed next to a second duffel bag and opened each box. He saw he had five loaded clips to his .45 in each of the first two; a third box contained two full boxes of 12-gauge buckshot. He reached into the corner of the closet and pulled out the sawed-off Remington Wingmaster he had placed there, and from his nightstand he pulled out the .45 ACP. He placed the weapons in the second duffel bag, along with the boxes of ammunition, and zipped it up.

  He grabbed his prepacked travel shaving kit, picked up the other two bags, flipped off the light to the bedroom, and walked down the hall toward the living room. He placed the three bags next to the front door, then went into the kitchen. He filled a cooler with several cans of sodas and bottles of water and threw some ice from the freezer bin on top of them. He considered grabbing some food, as well, but figured he could get that later on the road. He slung the bags over his shoulders, walked out the front door, locked it, and headed for the stairway.

  He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. He made a mental calculation and figured he would be through with his business at the bank by ten at the latest and on the interstate by ten forty-five. Should have no problem with being in downtown Mobile by noon as he had planned. He was anxious to get going, and figured to skip breakfast and instead get lunch during his meeting with his source, then pick up dinner somewhere in Gulfport and take it to the motel. That’ll take care of today, he thought. One day at a time, Jack. One day at a time. A familiar phrase popped in his head; he wasn’t sure where it came from and had meant to find out where but never bothered to do so. It had served him quite well in the past and would again for now, and that was all that mattered. Don’t worry about tomorrow. Worry about today; it has enough problems of its own.

  * * *

  Jack pulled out of the apartment complex, made a right onto the busy four-lane road, and felt the warmth of the midmorning sun streaming through the driver-side window. He drove south on the broad avenue, passing through several lights, finally stopping at the intersection with Cervantes Street. He couldn’t help but notice the HOT DOUGHNUTS neon sign flashing at the Krispy Kreme on the far corner. It was tempting, but he knew he’d need something more substantial and let the thought pass.

  When the light changed he cruised down the sloping hill to the traffic light at Gregory Street; he made a quick right and followed it into the downtown area. He turned left onto Palafox, and pulled into a parking space just opposite the Bank of Pensacola. He turned off the ignition, grabbed an empty brown leather briefcase from the back seat, pressed the LOCK button on the door, and got out. He waited for the oncoming traffic to clear the first two lanes, passed beneath the tall palm trees that lined the grassy median in the street, and crossed the final two lanes in front of the bank.

  He entered the lobby of the bank, went over to the large counter that sat in the middle, quickly filled out a withdrawal slip, then turned and walked up to a very attractive brunette seated at the second teller’s window. He smiled at her. My God, she’s beautiful, he thought. Must be new. I would definitely remember seeing her before. He slid the withdrawal slip across the counter toward her.

  The teller picked up the slip and looked at Jack. “Good morning, sir. How are you today?” she asked.

  “Fine, just fine,” Jack replied. He noticed she wore no rings on her left hand. That’s good. He glanced at the nameplate that sat on the counter in front of her. Nancy Richardson. “I don’t remember seeing you here before, Nancy.”

  She smiled demurely at him. “I’ve only been working here part time and just started full time last week.”

  Jack held his gaze upon her. She nervously looked down at the form, then back up at Jack. “Mr. Brantley, this is quite a substantial amount of cash you are requesting. Would you like that in the form of a cashier’s check instead?”

  “No, Nancy, I would not. I need it in cash. That’s not a problem, is it? I mean, I know I have the funds available in my account. I wouldn’t think it’s a problem.”

  “No, sir, it’s not. It’s just that I don’t have that amount of cash in my drawer. If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll get the bank manager to handle it,” she replied.

  Jack stood at the window and watched her walk to the manager’s office and knock on the door. A moment later she emerged, followed by a man in a black suit. Jack remembered meeting him when he first opened his account, but never saw him any other time he was at the bank. He couldn’t for the life of him remember the man’s name. Didn’t matter. All he wanted to do was to get his money and be on his way. The man came to the teller’s window opposite Jack.

  “Good morning, Mr. Brantley,” he said to Jack. “I’m Scott Andrews, the bank manager. Nancy has informed me of your request for a withdrawal today. She has also told me you want it in cash, not in the form of a cashier’s check. I can do that for you, of course, although I strongly suggest that a check for that amount would be much safer than carrying such a large amount of cash.”

  “Look, Mr. Andrews, I don’t think that should be a concern of yours. First, it’s my money. Second, the funds should be made available to me in whatever form I wish. And third, you don’t need to worry about my safety. I know how to take care of myself.”

  Jack noticed Nancy was listening very intently to the conversation and that she was looking directly at him. He wondered if she was as interested in him as he was in her, but told himself, Maybe another time.

  “Very well, Mr. Brantley. I’ll handle the transaction personally. If you’ll wait right here, I’ll get the necessary funds. I’ll need your identification, for the bank’s records, of course. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “No problem,” Jack said as he reached for his wallet. He pulled out the license bearing his own name. He wondered for a moment if he should have set up the account under one of his aliases, but so far it had not been a problem for him. Too late to worry
about that now, he thought. The bank manager examined the license closely and then returned it to Jack.

  “I’ll be back in a moment, Mr. Brantley,” Scott Andrews said. Jack placed the brown leather briefcase on the counter in front of Nancy’s window and waited for the bank manager to return with the cash. He glanced down at his watch. Not quite ten o’clock. Still okay, still on schedule, he thought. Man, I wish I wasn’t in a such hurry to leave town. He looked at the brunette teller once again. I’d love to ask her out to lunch today.

  * * *

  An hour later Jack crossed Mobile Bay on Interstate 10 and took the exit for the Bankhead Tunnel. He emerged from the tunnel onto Government Street and followed it for a few blocks until he saw the sign for North Jackson on his right. He signaled to turn, made a quick right, and drove through the intersection of Conti, then Dauphin, and spotted Jake’s Bar and Grille on his left. He pulled into the parking lot, found an empty space, and turned off the engine. He glanced at his watch. Eleven thirty. He had a half hour to spare and figured he’d go in, have a beer, and look over the menu while he waited.

  He recalled that it had taken most of yesterday afternoon on the phone to locate the accountant’s office and set up a lunch meeting with him today. Jack planned to extract the information he was seeking on his client from him over a couple of drinks and lunch. He opened the briefcase, counted out twenty one-hundred-dollar bills, and placed them in an envelope and put the envelope back in the briefcase with the rest of the money. The sniveling little weasel, Jack thought. If it’s bad information, I’ll track him down at his office one day and put a bullet in his head. He grabbed the briefcase, got out of the Camaro, and headed toward the front door of Jake’s.

  * * *

  After the bespectacled accountant had talked at length with Jack over a couple of beers and a superb lunch of rib eye steaks, loaded baked potatoes, and house salads, Jack reminded him of the dire consequences of providing false information. The little man assured Jack it was completely accurate and that the client they both worked for would never know where it originated. Satisfied with that response, Jack passed him the envelope and picked up the check the waitress laid on the table. The accountant thanked him for the lunch and Jack watched him walk out of Jake’s.