Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
“Before your time. Generational thing. The important thing is that you have to ask yourself what you want to do now. Do you stop here and be happy with seeing her on Saturdays or go on and have no money and risk never seeing her again until she’s eighteen and emancipated.”
“She’s nine. That’s nine years of Wendy’s and hugs in parking lots.”
“Right. And you leave her with Gramps and he has nine years to turn her against you. I get it. I’ve seen this all before. The choice is a shitty one. It’s extortion. It sucks.” Matt took a gulp of highball.
“What would it take to beat this?” Isaac said.
“Money. Enough money to overcome the doc’s old boy influence and bring this to court for a ruling. Enough money to let the other side know you’re all-in so they stop slow-walking. Do you have the kind of money?” Matt shrugged and took another long pull.
“I know where I can get it,” Isaac said and walked from the bar, leaving Matt choking on his last swallow.
“You said you wanted printouts,” Joe Bob said and slid a stack of paper folders across the counter.
Isaac riffled through them. Neatly typed reports from an investigation firm in Tampa. Less neatly typed county papers with handwritten notations. There were maps and lists and an envelope packed with an inch-thick stack of bills.
“Expenses. Jabroni money. Whatever you need it for. It doesn’t come off the fifty thousand,” Joe Bob said.
Joe Bob called it his mancave. It was a daylight basement in his six thousand square foot house in Liberty Park. There was a home theater and a matched pair of pool tables and a wall of vintage pinball machines. The wall opposite was a gallery of photos, framed jerseys, footballs and helmets from Joe Bob’s storied past. They were sitting at a granite topped table set by a fully stocked wet bar.
“What do you want for your money?” Isaac said.
“Excuse me?” Joe Bob said.
“I need to know what we’re talking about here. You want her found. I get that. What if she can’t be found? What if I find her and it’s not good news?”
“That’s cold talk, son.”
“I need the terms. Your terms.”
“The money’s yours. All of it. No matter what. I need commitment. You’re my last play.”
“Good news. Bad news. No news. The fifty is mine. That’s a lot of trust, sir.”
“It’s a lot of pressure, is what it is. If you’re the man I think you are, Kane. And I know you are. You won’t stop until you’ve earned every dollar.”
“Fair enough, sir.”
“When can you start, son?”
“If you can cover my shifts this week I’ll head down to Tampa tomorrow first thing,” Isaac said and dropped the sheaf of files into the waiting satchel and the envelope of cash into his jacket pocket.
“Hell, if I can’t I’ll walk the site myself,” Joe Bob said standing.
They shook hands and Isaac left the house.
And went on the hunt.
“That was Isaac,” Marcia Roth said, setting the cordless down on the kitchen table.
“What did he want?” Dr. Jordan Roth said without looking up from his open laptop.
“He said he’ll be away this weekend. Something with work. He won’t be able to take Merry.”
The doctor said nothing. He was reading and scrolling.
“She’ll be broken hearted.” Marcia sighed.
“Hm,” the doctor said.
“She needs those visits, Jordan.”
The doctor looked up at her over the screen. His eyeglasses had dropped over his nose and he was looking at her over the top of them. It was a look she was certain sent interns and surgical nurses away crying. After thirty years of marriage she was used to it.
“You know it’s true. We’re her grandparents but he’s her father,” she said.
“How many times must we have this conversation, Mar?” He set the laptop, still open, aside.
She shrugged and waved a hand. Dr. Roth sighed.
“Of course she’s happy seeing him. He spoils her with junk food and cheap toys. This isn’t about what Merry wants. It’s about what’s right for her. Do you want to see her end up like her mother?”
Marcia turned away from him. He went on.
“And don’t tell me he’s changed. And so what if he has? One dead-end job after another. He has no skills. No trade. Except for the one the government taught him. We don’t even know who he really is. All we know is what Arlene told us and that’s not a fraction of what he told her. And how much is there that he didn’t tell her?”
“So he was a soldier,” Marcia said.
“You make it sound like he marched in parades. He was a killer. He killed men for the government. He killed in secret and he must have at least been good at it. He stayed in their service for twelve years. Most of those years he was married to our daughter. Can you imagine the stress she was under? The constant strain of the life he chose?”
“It’s over now. He’s away from that.”
“It’s not over for him. That’s not something you walk away from.”
“He told us, he talked to you, about the PTSD. He was getting treatment, talking to people,” she said.
“He was following protocol. Like a soldier. Doing what they told him to do. See a therapist. Take the pills. Stay the course.” He snorted.
“Isaac is trying.”