Episode 015
Mercy will do anything to find Cindy, but will it matter?
The police hadn't flinched when Mercy claimed Cindy was her daughter, or when she lied about her age. Her biggest concern now, was that they didn't have access to Cindy's apartment, nor to any evidence inside it which might lead to her whereabouts if examined by a seasoned investigator. But, she reasoned, getting national media coverage had to be more beneficial to the search than combing for clues that probably weren't there anyway.
Golden Boy, it turned out, had an alibi. Jesse Shelton, the name given him by his parents, was captured on video surveillance at a convenience store eight miles from Cindy's apartment filling his S10 Chevy pickup with gas. From there he dropped by his parents' house (where he still lived), and then left for a party a few doors down. Several witnesses placed him at the party, recalling he and his ex-girlfriend Trisha had appeared to reconcile. He was a player after all, but not Cindy's abductor. Mercy called him and told him she'd personally verified his story and that it all checked out. The she told him she would kick him in the balls if he ever showed up at High Hopes again. Turns out Jesse was twenty-three years old.
But Henry Whitmore didn't have an alibi--not yet--because neither Mercy or the police had been able to reach him. By the time the story broke just three short hours after Mercy filled out the report down at the station, the sound-bite on the lips of every local news anchor was: Controversial evangelical minister wanted for questioning in the disappearance of sixteen-year-old Cindy Hernandez.
Updates came on the top of every hour. By seven, the local networks were reporting a variation of what Eileen Sepe said best:
"Still no sign of the beautiful sixteen-year-old Cindy Hernandez, who went missing from her mother's condo last night around midnight. And still no sign of the thirty-eight-year old man she was secretly dating, the evangelical lighting-rod, Henry Whitmore.
"Now from sources exclusively with Fox 6, we've just learned that Whitmore used to go by the name ‘Harris Whiting.' Whitmore was forced to change his name when he tried to publish a paper in "The Journal Of Theological Studies" which relied upon made up sources-sources he claimed, were the divine revelation of God.
"If you have any information as to the whereabouts of Cindy Hernandez or Henry Whitmore, please contact the authorities by dialing the hotline number that appears at the bottom of the screen."
The update ended with a split-screen of Cindy's picture and a leering black-and-white artist's sketch of Henry. Mercy had provided the detective with a photo of Henry as well, but fortunately the PR department down at the station "lost" it, and the creepier version got aired.
#
Over half a million television viewers saw Cindy's and Henry's picture on television that evening. By eight-o'-clock the following morning, groups were already organizing to canvas neighborhoods and to search local parks and wilderness areas.
We'll find your daughter, the Detective had told her. Her lie had paid off. For a little while.
Mercy heard the latest news in her oncologist's waiting room before what would hopefully be her second-to-last scheduled chemo treatment: "Missing Teen, Cindy Hernandez, Not A Teen After All-And Marriage Family Therapist, Mercy Anne, Not Really Her Mother."
Eileen Sepe went on: "Apparently Miss Anne lied to authorities about Cindy's age, the nature of their relationship, and even Cindy's place of residence. Detective Hansen, whom I spoke with moments ago, says he's not sure why Mercy Anne lied to him, but speculates it was to get more exposure for her missing friend. Detective Hansen says that resources allocated to a missing persons case increase dramatically when a minor is involved, a point of the law Miss Anne was undoubtedly familiar with given her experience as a volunteer youth counselor at High Hopes Youth Center in El Cajon.
"When I asked if charges will be filed against Miss Anne he told me it was up to the City District Attorney. He added that while Anne is not yet a suspect in Cindy's disappearance, that could change if further investigation warrants it. Detective Hansen would also like viewers to know that finding Cindy is still a priority for his department, and that Henry Whitmore, aka Dr. Harry Whiting, is still wanted for questioning regarding this case.
"Stay tuned to Fox 6 for the latest updates in the disappearance of Cindy Hernandez."
Well that didn't take long. Mercy risked a glance around the room at the other patients. Were they reading? Or were they staring intently at the closed captioning on the muted television?
About 50-50. Four people who might recognize her any moment from the unflattering driver's license photo Fox 6 posted next to Henry's ugly pencil-rendered mug. Four people too extroverted to read Time or People or Sports Illustrated or Cosmo. The kind of people, in remission or not, who were just dying to chat you up.
Sure enough, one of them was looking right at her. An older woman with a red wig and bifocals pushed down to the tip of here nose.
This time Mercy had to vomit before her chemo treatment. She practically ran out of the waiting room, sending goldfish darting beneath their plastic castle as she slammed the door and rushed for a bathroom.
"Tell me, Senator, why is your boy on the news?"
"Mr. Pre-"
"-Don't you say another word," the President said, "especially that one. Just fix it."
The line went dead and the Senator considered his options: Make a few calls and kill the story? or manufacture a new one? An easy choice. Now was not the time to call in favors with the press. Later, their help would serve a more important purpose. If the beast was hungry, he would simply cook it a new meal.
#
"You can remove the hood now, but remember the rules. Got it?"
It was the driver. His accent suggested a Midwest upbringing with college years spent on the East Coast and recent work in one of the Virginias. His cadence lacked a certain deliberative, veiled quality Henry had heard when the Brotherhood spoke to him, and so he assumed his two escorts were mere grunts. Hired help. Probably as ignorant as he was as to the identity of the SOJ leadership.
"Yes, of course," he said, and started to loosen the drawstring which cinched the hood tight around his neck.
Presumably, a hooded man in the back seat of a car might draw suspicion in a busy transportation hub like the trolley station they said they were taking him to. They'd been driving for thirty-minutes, taking random twists and turns intended to disguise their exact route. Not only was he to be denied membership into the ancient fraternity, these goons would insure he didn't even learn the location of his rebuke.
The MIDI ring-tone version of Queen's Another One Bites The Dust, played muffled inside the suit pocket of the man riding shotgun. Henry pretended to fumble with the clasp on the drawstring and attempted to eavesdrop on the conversation.
"Yes," the man in the passenger seat answered.
Henry stained to hear the voice on the other end of the line but he could not.
"Affirmative," the man repeated and ended the call. Then he told Henry to leave on the hood and whispered something into the ear of the driver. The car braked and changed lanes and signaled at a stoplight before making a U-turn.
"Sit tight," the driver said. "There's been a change in plans."
After the call, the car accelerated from stop signs a little quicker, and braked a little more forcefully than Henry had grown accustomed to. He started sweating again.
Another ten minutes passed before they took a left into a parking lot of some kind, as evidenced by the speed bumps. They ordered him out and they each gripped an arm as they guided him across some rough asphalt. The fishy stench of pelican shit was the only odor strong enough to penetrate Henry's hood. That smell, and the clanking of sail rigging against aluminum masts placed them at a marina. Harbor Island? Mission Bay? Chula Vista? It didn't matter. Henry's chauffeurs-turned-guards locked him in the cabin of a powerboat and motored around in circles long enough to confuse Columbus. And since his linguistic genius certainly didn't generalize to marine navigation, he hoped they'd stop their redundant efforts to disorient him before he got seasick.
He thought about what ‘a change in plans' might mean to take his focus off his growing nausea. Only an hour ago, the Brotherhood had publicly humiliated him. They'd threatened to remove limbs with a large sword, and even promised to kill Cindy if he didn't cooperate--all this, in spite of the fact he'd been nothing but cooperative. Why couldn't they simply leave him to the work he, they, and God/>God for heaven's sake, so obviously wanted him to do? As badly as he needed to know the secrets of their scrolls, was knowing worth it if harm came to Cindy? She had, in so many ways, become his unlikely (and admittedly undeserved) shot at redemption. A chance to show the Lord a devotion beyond his intellectual gifts and facility with prophecy. Here was a woman he could-dare he admit-love. She didn't undo what he'd put the others through, but she was a start. A good start. He couldn't let these bullies ruin what he and Cindy had together--especially when it was so unnecessary. Surely God was testing him, seeing if His prophet could become something more than a modern day Enigma Machine.
Maybe I can, he thought.
#
"Mercy...are you there? Mercy..."
The way Cindy's voice cracked and her throat burned was response enough; a reminder she was somewhere Mercy couldn't find her.
The dark room smelled of dampness and mildew, like wet rope, or the Astroturf in the locker rooms at a YMCA pool. It was slight, but if she held her breath and listened closely, she could hear water lapping against the exterior of her prison. A boat, she thought.
She felt nauseous, either from the ether, or from the steady rocking of the hull, she wasn't sure. The vessel was docked; or at least anchored in a protective harbor or bay of some kind. San Diego Bay? Coronado? Mission Bay? No way to tell. Not without a peek.
Cindy stood cautiously, leaning forward with her weight centered over the balls of her feet, hands raised above her head checking for a low ceiling, or some other blunt object capable of braining her. The links of a heavy chain clinked together as her motions disturbed it. She reached down to her ankle and felt the thick band of steel which the chain was padlocked to.
She sat back down and blinked several times, waiting for her eyes to adjust. But there was nothing to adjust to. The room was completely devoid of light. That, or she was blind, but she chose to remain hopeful on this point. Maybe it was a huge boat, and this compartment was a deck or two below the water line, eliminating the need for a porthole. Or maybe it was a cargo ship, which wouldn't have portholes anyway. Or maybe...maybe she shouldn't waste her energy wondering what kind of boat she was on, because she sure as shit didn't know jack enough about them to make a difference in her present predicament.
"I really need to use the bathroom," she said.
She knew there'd be an answer the same way she used to know which johns would turn violent the second the motel room door closed.
"About three steps to your right you'll find a camp toilet. Take care not to trip over it." The male voice came from speakers mounted all around her. The sound was rich and free of distortion, like the best car stereos.
She stood and wasted no time stubbing her toe on the side of the toilet's waste tank. Then she considered that the owner of the voice would be watching her pee, too. She hesitated, briefly, but the cramping pain of holding it even a second longer forced her pants down and her butt on the low toilet seat. She emptied her bladder and felt both relieved and violated.
"You'll find a roll of toilet paper to your right on the floor."
She wadded up two or three plies and did her best to conceal herself as she patted dry. She stood and pulled up her pants and tried to distract her audience with a demand:
"What in the hell do you want with me?"
"From you? Very little. From Henry on the other hand… We expect much."
"What do I have to do with Henry?"
The voice ignored her question.
"Cindy, I want you to think deeply on how good you feel right now. I want you to appreciate how well we've treated you. Doesn't it feel almost orgasmic to relieve yourself after holding it for so long? Weren't we kind to dress you before taking you from your apartment? And notice how you draw breath without even having to think about it… Savor the fact we didn't take turns raping you in your cozy bed; acknowledge what gentlemen we must be to resist such a nubile temptation lying naked and vulnerable before us. Do you see how amazingly good it feels to be alive and unmolested? Do you? It's a question, Cindy, shake your pretty little head."
Cindy shook her head ‘yes.'
"Good. Good. Now remember this profound sense of tranquil calm and peace you're now experiencing. Frame a picture of it in your mind. Focus on it. Meditate upon this blissful moment of joy. Remember it, Cindy. Because very soon, we'll be taking it away from you."
Author: Jeremy James
Shelved In: Episodes
Main Topic: kidnapping
Keywords: God • Anne • Brotherhood • Chapter 16 • Chapter 17 • Cindy • Coronado • Detective • East Coast • Eileen • Enigma Machine • evangelical • Fox 6 • God • Golden Boy • Hansen • Harris Whiting • Henry • Hernandez • Jesse • Mercy • Midwest • Mission Bay • police • President • prophet • Queen • San Diego Bay • scroll • Senator • Sepe • Shelton • SOJ • The Journal Of Theological Studies • Whitmore •
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