Forgiving Paris: A Novel(15)

Ike tried to be polite as Agnes Potter’s visit came to a close, but every time his eyes met the woman’s, a chill ran down his arms. There was a meanness in her. Ike had seen it. Like she was onto his doubts, and for a fraction of a moment he had seen past the occasional flash of friendliness in her eyes to something else.

The darkest of evil.

Before she left, Agnes worked even harder to convince Susan and the children about visiting Belize City. “Paul David is sorry, Susan,” the woman told Ike’s granddaughter. “He really wants to see you and the children.”

By the time Agnes drove off, Susan had promised to come. Sometime the next week.

Ike took a deep breath as the memory faded. He should’ve said something, should’ve probed into the woman’s story. He would never forgive himself for not acting on his doubts that day. Once more he lifted the letter and found his place.

When Agnes Potter left that day, I noticed two things. First, she didn’t look me in the eye. And second, she didn’t pay a bit of attention to little Daniel. Only Lizzie.

I wrote down my observations, because they matter. Susan never should’ve gone to see Paul David. Never should have listened to Agnes Potter.



Ike blinked back tears.

In my heart, I want to hope Susan and the children are alive, even after all these years. I do not believe my family members drowned. But I am concerned something more sinister happened to them. And I believe it happened at the hands of Agnes Potter.

Possibly even Paul David James.

Sincerely,

Ike Armstrong

Historian—Lower Barton Creek, Belize



Ike never wept about this, not anymore. But once in a while—times like this—he could feel tears push against the walls of his heart. If Susan and Lizzie and Daniel really were dead, then the FBI agent needed to find Agnes Potter and Paul David James.

The only two people who knew the truth.



* * *



JACK’S FACIAL HAIR wasn’t a true Mennonite beard, but it would do. For this first part of the mission, Jack was Luke Armstrong. Great-grandson of Ike Armstrong of Lower Barton Creek, Belize.

The additional ID kit had been at the bottom of the satchel. Jack was glad for the second fake name. Never mind that Oliver and the FBI brass trusted the old man at Lower Barton Creek. They couldn’t risk a connection between Jack’s visit to the village this morning and the work he had in the week ahead of him.

As he moved through customs, Jack wore a black and red plaid shirt and black chino pants. A Mennonite man in the line ahead of him looked back and nodded. Jack returned the greeting. Mennonites stuck together.

Jack passed the test.

The wait at baggage wasn’t long. Jack grabbed his worn suitcase and caught a cab to a local car rental outfit. Ten minutes later he was driving a Jeep due east to Lower Barton Creek.

Ike Armstrong was just where Jack expected to find him. Sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch of his small house. Ike knew Jack was an agent, but not much beyond that. A few people from the settlement waved as he parked in front of Ike’s house.

“Hello, there!” Jack smiled and returned the gesture. Then he met Ike with a firm handshake, the way a young man would greet the great-grandfather he’d never known. Jack took the rocking chair opposite Ike, as if a relaxing chat was the only reason he’d come.

Everything Jack had been told about Ike Armstrong looked to be true. The man was old, but his eyes were sharp. His senses seemed keen. Ike spoke first. “I’m not sure why you came here. But I want to help.”

A smile tugged at Jack’s lips, like the two were talking about long-forgotten family members. The villagers would’ve been shocked to know the truth. “We’re taking down a sex-and drug-trafficking ring just south of Belize City.” Jack looked to the distant jungle.

“Sex trafficking?” The man knit his brow together. “A prostitution ring.”

“Yes. But these are teenage girls. Kept like prisoners. Slaves, really.” Jack hated talking about it. “Most of the victims are very young.”

Ike shook his head. His face turned several shades paler. “How could such a thing even happen?”

“Money.” The answer was simple and sickening at the same time. Jack worked to keep his happy face. “It’s a problem all over the world.”

Ike stared at his hands for a long time and then took a sharp breath. “And people doubt there’s a devil.”

This is an ordinary family visit, Jack told himself. Act the part. He grinned at Ike. “Can you tell me anything about a missing little girl from a Mennonite village? About a decade ago? She’d be nineteen now.”

For a few seconds the man only narrowed his eyes. Then he reached for the envelope on the table beside him. “Two letters inside. One about my family’s disappearance. One, more personal, a letter for them… if you find them.”

Jack understood the weight of it, of all it meant to the old man.

“My great-granddaughter went missing… around that time. Eleven years ago.” Ike shook his head. “But she’d be twenty-three now, I believe.”

“I know about that. Chief Averes shared the report from back then. Have you heard the name Anders McMillan?”

“McMillan?” Ike thought for a few seconds, but his answer was quick, decisive. “No. Should I have?”