Chapter XIX
The two-story colonial with its rose-colored brick, black shutters and graceful column set back on a five-acre landscaped lot with crape myrtles and lace pines. The drive up was graveled, lined with azaleas and gated with high topped iron spears. Closed-circuit TV cameras covered every inch of the driveway and the exterior of the house. And Secret Service Agents patrolled the grounds even though the home’s owner was retired. The name on the oversized mailbox said Daniel A. Kelstrom and the former Director (retired) of the FBI lived there with his wife and son.
The backyard had been a well-manicured formal garden and lawn but in the last year it had been transformed into a child’s playground geared for a youngster of perhaps five or six. The boy being tickled by the retired FBI Director looked much older physically although his face wore the innocent expression of a much younger child. He was laughing and giggling as he rolled on the ground, trying to get away from the tickling hands holding him tight.
“Cry uncle,” Kelstrom smiled and the boy did so. He scooped him up, hugged and put him on his feet. “Ready for lunch?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the unobtrusive guard and noted the smile on the man’s face.
For nearly 6 months, the boy had sat unmoving, unresponsive until the last few months where he slowly became aware of his surroundings. He still did not make frequent eye contact but it was obvious that he was trying to come back from his self-imposed exile. Only in the last few months had he begun to speak, in a childish baby talk that became more sophisticated as if he was going through his infancy all over again. Fully healed, he bore the scars of his last encounter, a ragged hole through the center of his chest and back, scars on both wrists and older ones from his ATV accident. He acted like a five-year-old with no knowledge of the past and spoke with a lisp in the piping tones of a young boy. He called the man Poppy and shyly took his hand as he was led into the kitchen where the Director’s wife was waiting. She smiled at the boy and told him to sit in his chair.
“Peanut butter and jelly?” She asked and he nodded resting his hands in his lap. She put the sandwich, cut into four quarters, in front of him on the placemat. His glass of milk had a straw in it. The ticking of a clock could be heard in the background and a strange expression flickered across his face. He looked up, studied the kitchen and opened his mouth.
“Granny?” His eyes were large and brilliant with unshed tears.
Marie Kelstrom stood back and sat down abruptly with a thump. Her husband stood next to her, his hand on her shoulder. “Are you remembering, Mark?” He asked softly, not pushing and following what the behavioral psychiatrist had suggested. As they watched, his face aged and the look of innocence disappeared.
Kelstrom wanted to gather him into his arms but remembered that the psychiatrist had warned them not to touch the boy unless he initiated it. They stood back and watched the internal struggle as memories flooded his mind and an inarticulate sound of pain erupted from his mouth. His hands with scars across both wrists fluttered to his chest and he screamed that it hurt. The guards came running in, guns drawn but stopped as he saw the Director and his wife standing back. “Call Jed,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “And the med team just in case.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the men ran as the other stayed behind the Director.
The screaming escalated, his eyes were wild and feral looking and objects began to fly around the room like miniature missiles striking the boy. Blood splattered. Instinctively, Kelstrom leapt to cover the boy and protect him.
“Mark! Stop it! You’re hurting yourself!” He cried as the cups, glasses and knickknacks pelted him. They stung. His body was rigid under Kelstrom’s grip. He heard his wife’s gasp of horror and realized that the boy and his chair were levitating.
“Holy crap!” He yelled and did the only thing he could think of. He slapped the boy’s face so hard that the imprint of his hand was visible in seconds, red against the white skin. Mark’s eyes blinked as his mouth open in a surprised ‘O’ and he was quiet. Awareness seeped back into his eyes.
“Ow,” he complained raising his fingers to his cheek. The objects whirling around the room hovered in midair until he glanced at them and everything scooted back into their places except for the broken ones. He looked around the kitchen at the mess of broken dinnerware, windows and gouged wallboard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Mark?”
“You can call me that. My name is Cale, though.”
“What happened?”
“I remembered everything and didn’t want to come back. Granny Elkins pushed me out and I fought her. I was winning, too. But if I had, I would have been psychotic for the rest of my life. When you hit me, it shocked me enough to let go and she got in and shoved me out.”
“For good?”
He shook his head. “I can’t answer that. I thought I was lost in there forever. At first, it was quiet and peaceful but then, I began to lose my sense of self. When Granny died, I gathered up her mind and brought her in with me. Sometimes, she was strong enough to come out. How long has it been?”
“You spent two months in the hospital, you’ve been with us for over eight months.”
“Another year of my life gone,” he murmured. He pushed back from the chair, realized that it was still hovering off the ground and set it down with a thump. Standing up, he seemed inches taller and years older. “You took care of me like I was your son,” he said.
“You are our son. We’ve raised you this last year, Mark,” she protested. “I changed your diapers, fed you and took care of you for this whole last year. It’s only in the last few weeks that you’ve even begun to speak and interact with us.”
“I don’t remember anything after Cassie died.” He frowned. “There was a woman who helped me. Alice?”
“She saved your life and rescued you from the Sheriff.”
“Is he…dead?”
“He was shot. He was the main supplier for the sex snatching ring. We’re still tracking the head of it; we know there’s a senator or congressman involved but he’s so far removed and has covered his tracks so that we can’t find him. We do have a list of his customers and the victims. The ones that survive grow up to become recruiters. The victims are tattooed with a barcode.”
“Where?”
“On the nape of the neck under the hairline. You weren’t done yet, you were a special order and they didn’t have time to do it. There’s no record to connect you to them. Still, someone has a standing running order for any child of your description. Whoever it is that wanted you, he hasn’t given up even though you were declared dead a year ago.”
The medical team burst into the room followed by the Special Agent Deleon.
“Cale!” He said as the paramedics set him down and checked him over.
“I’m okay,” he protested as they treated the bleeding scrapes from the crockery hits. “Just tired. I expended a lot of energy.”
“Your blood pressure is very low and your pulse is rapid,” the medical tech announced. “How do you feel? Does it hurt? You took some pretty good hits to the face.”
“That hurts, too,” he said ruefully.
“We want you to go to the hospital and have some tests. Just to make sure you’re okay,” Jed insisted.
“I’m not okay. I’ll never be okay. But, I’m sane and functional,” he returned.
“We still need to you to get checked out, Cale.” His eyes took on a hunted look and he was ready to bolt.
“Mark,” Kelstrom spoke softly and calmly. “Let us help you. For a year we’ve taken care of you and treated you like our son. We won’t hurt you now. Just relax.”
He made a deliberate effort to throttle back his emotions. “Please don’t drug me,” he begged. “Don’t drag me off to the hospital.”
“Cale, you know I’ve never lied to you,” Deleon stated. “I won’t let them hurt you but you have to go and let them check you out. We need to make sure you’re okay.”
He deflated and said in a small voice, “okay.” He let them put him on the stretcher and carried him out to the waiting medical Humvee. The entire party went with them to the hospital where they catered to VIPs and the elites of the US government. Jed and the Kelstroms rode in the back holding Cale’s hands while tremors wrecked his frame and he complained of being cold. She murmured to him, stroked his face and felt the cold of the skin. “He’s like ice.”
“His temperature is dropping, too,” the medic reported. He flashed a light into the violet eyes. “Still with us, son?”
Cale murmured. “I’m here. I won’t relapse. Granny Elkins taught me how to make my mind a shield so nothing can come in. Unless I will it. I’m just tired, I need to sleep and recharge. I’m going to crash but don’t worry. I’ll wake up in a few hours.” He closed his eyes slowly and went limp.
They were met at the ER doors by neurosurgeons and ER doctors as they whisked the boy straight into a private exam room and begin to work him up without benefit of registration or paperwork. Guards took up stations outside all the exits, followed him from the emergency room to CAT scan and back to a private room in a special wing reserved for high-profile patients. He slept through it all, did not wake as they applied the IVs, and was transferred to a bed in the private room under armed guards.
Kelstrom, his wife and Deleon sat out in the waiting room until the neurosurgeon came in. He shook hands all around and introduced himself. “Doctor Matt Albertson. His test results are scary,” he admitted. “But everything else looks normal. BP is good, 02 levels, UA, CBC and blood are all good. He’s not in a coma, just a deep sleep. He’ll wake-up when he’s ready. I think he’s just burned out. We’d like to keep him under observation for a few days, see why his EEG is off the scale and redo a series of MRIs. We want to compare them to his previous scans.” Doctor Albertson gazed at Kelstrom. “He’s your son, Director?”
The retired FBI D.O. nodded. “Adopted.”
“We have some paperwork for you to sign. You can see him, we gave him a mild sedative just so he’d stay relaxed. The paramedics told us he had an anxiety attack prior to admission so we’re not taking any chances. He’ll know you’re there, so talk to him but a brass band wouldn’t wake him.” He shook their hands. “Someday you’ll explain all this to me, right?” They didn’t answer but followed him to Cale’s room.