Jessup's Offer

1

The pain came down like a hammer. Nathan Lewis hit the ground and felt his left knee buckle beneath him. He grabbed hold of the wrought iron fence he had just jumped over, in order to keep from falling. The pain was tremendous. His vision clouded for a moment and he bit his bottom lip in order to keep from crying out.

Nathan, who was almost always called Nate, had been a private investigator for seven years and not once, until now, had he really injured himself in the course of his duties. Sure, he had been in the occasional fight, even got shot at once, but nothing like this. Not since he was in college, anyway. He had been quite the football player when he was younger. Burnell University had offered him a four year football scholarship which he had snatched up like a starving child grabbing at a roast beef sandwich. Everyone seemed to think that he had a promising career in football until the homecoming game of his sophomore year. He was the star running back of the team. He took the hand-off from the quarterback and darted to the left. That was when the linebacker from the other team delivered what Nathan's coach later called one of the worst cheap shots he had seen in years. The linebacker dove at Nathan's legs, spearing him in the left knee with his helmet. Nathan felt and heard the tearing sound. It didn't sound at all unlike the wet, sucking sound that is made when you pull your foot out of the mud. The linebacker hit his head against Nathan's knee hard enough to knock himself unconscious. Nathan wasn't so lucky. He collapsed to the ground, feeling his knee swelling like a balloon inside his pants. He tried once to stand, but his knee was not the equal to the task, and he felt white hot rods of pain shoot through his entire left side. He fell to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Nathan had been taken to the hospital where the attending physician told Nathan that his football career was over. He had torn the lateral and medial ligaments around the knee and had reduced the cartilage to essentially nothing. In short, the doctor had told him, there wasn't a whole lot even holding his knee together at this point. They would go in and perform arthroscopic surgery and repair as much damage as they could, but he would probably always walk with a bit of a limp. And, the doctor added, he would probably experience considerable pain every time it was raining or was about to.

Wonderful, Nathan had thought as he drifted off into a drug induced sleep. Now I'm a walking barometer.

Nathan, still biting his bottom lip, took two deep breaths and very tentatively put a little weight on the injured leg. The pain was almost enough to make him vomit. He didn't though, and he kept telling himself there is no pain, there is no pain, as he hobbled as quickly as he could from the property of Orlin Jessup, the man whom he had been watching, over to his awaiting car.

Over the years, Rawlings had been the sight of more than its fair share of strange occurrences. It was only a couple of years ago that one of the Rawlings PD homicide detectives had taken to killing young women in his off time. And there was the murder of that student teacher over at the middle school. Now, it appeared that there was another rash of strange happenings in good ol' Rawlings. Ten days ago, the third child in as many weeks had come up missing. The boy's name was Barry Steinberg. What made this disappearance exceptionally disturbing to Nate was that his own son, Christopher, had been good friends with Barry. In fact, Nate recalled, it had only been a couple of weeks ago that Barry had invited Christopher and several other boys to spend the night in tents in Barry's back yard. Barry, it seemed, had been walking home from school. When he had not arrived home by dinner time, his parents became worried. The police said that it looked like another runaway. Nate was amazed at how quickly the police were willing to attribute the disappearances to being runaways. Three days later, a man by the name of Robert Malcom had been fishing out at Shallow Crest Lake when what he thought was either a snag or an extremely large fish turned out to be the rapidly decomposing body of Barry Steinberg. At the moment, the police were calling it accidental death, but they were not ruling out suicide. That was when Mrs. Steinberg had called Nate Lewis.

2

"Suicide!" she shrieked at Nate. "What on God's green earth would an eleven year old boy have to kill himself over?"

Nate nodded but said nothing. Mrs. Steinberg was on a roll, and he didn't want to do anything to interrupt her discourse. Nate had found that this was when you tended to get the best information from people.

"And I don't buy that accidental death story, either," she continued. "Barry was a good boy. He would never, and I do mean never, go out to the lake after school without letting someone know."

Mrs. Steinberg burst into tears again and Nate reached over the desk and handed her his box of tissue. She forced a smile and accepted the box gratefully. "I don't know what else to do, Mr. Lewis."

"I'll do what I can," Nate said and gave her his patented "don't worry, I'll take care of everything" smile.

She nodded and stood up, replacing the box of tissue on the desk.

"I'll do some checking around," Nate said as he escorted her to his office door. "I'll let you know when I come up with something."

Mrs. Steinberg nodded again, trying desperately to fight down sobs.

"Barry was a good boy," Nate said as he patted her gently on the arm. "I am very sorry, and I'll do everything I can."

Mrs. Steinberg smiled and descended the steps, leading out to the parking lot.

"Shit," Nate muttered under his breath. He walked over to his little refrigerator, got a can of Pepsi, and sat at his desk. He opened the can and took a long drink. He set the can on the desk blotter, leaned back in his chair, let out a long sigh, and ran both hands through his hair. This was his usual deep thinking, problem solving posture. At last, he sat back up and picked up the phone. Nate refused to believe that the three disappearances in three weeks were unrelated. It was time to call a buddy of his down at the police department and get what information he could on the other disappearances.

His buddy told him the whole story. The information he received seemed to be a dead end. The first disappearance was a young girl by the name of Tabatha Baxter. She had disappeared on a Saturday afternoon while riding her bicycle over to a friend’s house. Nothing was recovered, no bike, no body. The second disappearance was young boy, just a year older than Christopher and the recently deceased Barry Steinberg. His name was Martin French. He had been walking over to the East Dock on Shallow Crest Lake to go fishing with some friends. The only thing recovered from this disappearance was Martin's fishing rod and his smashed tackle box.

All three children lived in different areas in and around Rawlings. That would rule out someone stalking a particular neighborhood. There were no ransom notes and Barry, at least, was found dead. This would rule out kidnapping for ransom as a motive. Nate looked over the dossiers again and again, hoping to find some shred of evidence that he had overlooked previously. For the lack of anything else to do, he pulled out his map of the Rawlings area. He put an X in blue ink on the areas where the children had been coming from. He put an X in red ink on the children's supposed destination, and then drew a line connecting each blue X with its corresponding red X. All three lines intersected at exactly one place. They intersected on the outskirts of Rawlings, about a half mile down Orchard Lane. It was an unpopulated area, mostly fields of wheat and corn, and the shore of Shallow Crest Lake was about 200 yards to the north. The only buildings out that way were the Eagle's Nest, one of the local taverns, and the old Carlisle place, now owned by Orlin Jessup, the man who owned the Eagle's Nest.

Interesting, Nate thought as he stood up and got his 9mm Browning out of the drawer and put it in his shoulder holster. Perhaps, he thought, I should go have a looksee over at Mr. Jessup's place.

It wasn't much to go on, but at this point, there wasn't much to lose.

3

Orlin Jessup lived in what everyone in town called "the old Carlisle place." Charles Carlisle died in 1966 and the huge, Victorian mansion, with its wrought iron fence, sat vacant until Orlin Jessup moved in and cleaned the place up in 1989.

It was just after dusk when Nate pulled into the parking lot of the Eagle's Nest. Though it was still relatively early and a week night, business was brisk. Nate had on occasion come down to the Eagle's Nest for a brewski or two. That was, however, not the plan for tonight.

After parking in the back corner of the lot, Nate got out and looked around. A young couple, arm in arm, made their way into the bar. Other than that, it was silent. The old Carlisle place overlooked the Eagle's Nest like some sort of vengeful Greek god. A single light could be seen in a second story window. Nate casually drifted over to the wrought iron fence and looked around once again. Nothing.

There was no foliage between the fence and the mansion, but it was getting dark quickly and the distance was no more than fifty yards. As long as he stayed low, there shouldn't be too much of a risk of someone seeing him.

He grabbed the fence and vaulted over in a single motion. He hit the ground and rolled and then lay perfectly still in the grass to listen for someone raising an alarm. There wasn't one. Slowly, Nate rose to his feet and keeping low, ran for the mansion. When he was within ten feet, he dove for the ground again. He crawled the remaining distance to the mansion and listened again to ascertain if anyone had seen him. Again, silence but for the sound of chirping crickets.

He surveyed his surroundings. This side of the house was close to the garage which stood open. Staying below the window line, Nate made his way over to the garage. He peered in, and in the near darkness, saw virtually nothing. There was something, though, that caught his attention. He moved a few feet further into the garage, and his suspicions were confirmed. It was a bicycle. Not just a bicycle, but a child's bicycle. A girls bicycle, judging from the streamers affixed to the handlebars and the plastic flowers attached to the basket.

So what, he thought. A bike. Big deal.

The problem was that Jessup had no children and was something of a recluse, notorious for having few if any visitors.

Interesting. Very interesting.

Nate turned and left the garage. He glanced up at the lit window. The second floor window was the only window of the entire mansion to show any life within. Given a choice, Nate would have preferred not to climb drainpipes, but . . .

He checked the drainpipe to see if it would support his weight. It seemed that it would. Taking a deep breath and quietly muttering obscenities, he began his ascent.

He arrived at the short outcropping at the second story with little trouble. Carefully, he scooted in the direction of the lit window. After nearly falling only twice, he reached his destination. He took a quick peek in the window. There was no one standing right inside so he ventured another, much longer look.

There were two men in the room. The shorter of the two was holding a child, a girl, who was apparently asleep or unconscious. The second man Nate recognized as Orlin Jessup. Jessup moved slowly about the room with the grace of a dancer. After a moment, Jessup approached the unconscious girl.

Which girl is this, Nate thought. Is this the missing Baxter girl or someone else, a fourth missing child?

Nate's internal soliloquy came to an abrupt end. Jessup slowly, almost lovingly, stroked the girl's long, blonde hair. The shorter man said something, Nate had no idea what. Whatever it was, made Jessup smile. What Nate saw made his breath stop short and he nearly fell from the ledge. As Jessup's smile broadened, Nate saw, quite clearly, two long, white fangs. Jessup tilted his head back and then plunged his teeth into the girl's neck. The sight made Nate recoil in revulsion and in doing so bumped the window with his knee.

Nate grabbed frantically for purchase to keep from falling. Once he had secured himself again and gathered his wits, he once again looked through the window, only this time, Jessup and his companion were looking right at him. At once, the shorter man tossed the child onto the sofa as though she were so much dirty laundry, and then rushed the window. Without pausing to think, Nate lunged for the drainpipe and climbed down as fast as he could.

He hit the ground with a thud. Upon doing so he heard the window slide open. Nate looked over his shoulder long enough to see Jessup poke his head through.

"Shit," he heard the man say and then his head disappeared back through the open window so fast that it may never have been there at all.

Nate got to his feet and ran. No longer was he concerned with staying low so people would not see him. He just ran as fast as his feet would carry him. He reached the fence at full stride. Nate vaulted for the top, missed his footing and lost his balance. He toppled over the fence but managed to right himself somewhat in order to keep from landing on his head. As it turned out, he landed with his left leg at an odd angle beneath him and he felt his bad knee give way. He managed to make it to his car, being very thankful that it was an automatic. Had it been a stick shift, he would never have been able to press down the clutch, with his knee rapidly swelling to the size of a watermelon.

Nate took a quick glance behind him, expecting to see Jessup, with a flowing black cape, swoop down onto the trunk of his car. But there was nothing. Only silence and the steady ticking of the car's slowly cooling engine.

He shoved his keys into the ignition, revved the engine, and slammed the car into drive. Nate left a cloud of dust behind him as he drove down Orchard Lane like a madman to the relative safety of home.

Nate managed to gather his composure somewhat by the time he pulled into the driveway. He hobbled out of the car and slowly limped to the front porch. The porch light came on and Nate heard the front door open.

"Nate?" Michelle said as she stepped onto the porch. "What the hell happened?"

"Later," he said, shooting a quick glance back over his shoulder. "Help me inside, would you please?"

With a look of deep concern, Michelle put her husband's left arm over her shoulder and helped him assail the front porch steps.

4

"What happened, Dad?" Christopher asked as Michelle gently placed the ice bag on the swollen and discolored knee.

"I just slipped. I'll be all right."

"That's your football knee, isn't it?"

Nate always referred to his bad knee as his "football knee."

"Yeah."

"It looks kinda gross."

Nate started to laugh but it made his knee hurt. "I know it does."

"Christopher, why don't you go do your homework."

"Mom . . ."

She gave him that look. The look that every mother knows, the one that is capable of withering her child's most steadfast resolve. Not another word was said, and Christopher went off to do his homework.

"All right, hotshot," Michelle said as she pulled over a kitchen and sat beside Nate. "Now will you tell me what's going on?"

5

Michelle looked at Nate as though he had just sprouted a third arm from of his forehead.

"You must be joking."

"No."

She took her glasses off, set them on the table, and rubbed her eyes.

"So what are you going to do, Nate? Or should I call you Professor Van Helsing?"

He smiled, but it was a forced smile and it didn't touch his eyes. "I'm not really sure."

6

Nate spent the next day at home, popping a handful of aspirin every few hours and watching television, trying to get some perspective on the previous night's events. He sat on the sofa with the weather almanac on his lap. He was carefully plotting out the exact time of sunrise and sunset for the next month. He checked his chart again. Sunset tonight would be at 7:17.

It was early evening. Michelle, the only full time employed graphic artist in Rawlings, sat at her drafting table, working on sketches. Christopher was still at play rehearsal, but neither Nate nor Michelle was unduly concerned. Rehearsal would be over at 7:00. Mrs. Morrison from next door was picking her daughter up from rehearsal and had kindly volunteered to pick Christopher up as well. And, Nate thought, and not for the first time, rehearsal will be over well before sunset.

7

7:22 p.m.

Mrs. Barker, the music teacher at Rawlings Middle School, kept the cast a little longer than had originally been anticipated. Tonight was the first night that they had been able to rehearse with the orchestra, such as it was. The first orchestra rehearsal always ran long. It was the nature of the beast.

Mrs. Morrison was standing outside her car, enjoying the sunset, when Christopher and her daughter, Angie, emerged from the building.

"Hi, Mom!" Angie yelled, trying desperately to sling her backpack once again over her shoulder.

"Hi, hon," her mother replied and opened the passenger door for the children.

The parking lot was suddenly filled with laughing, screaming children as they erupted from the gymnasium where they had been rehearsing. Awaiting parents escorted their children into their cars, all the while hearing the details of that night's rehearsal ad nauseam.

Christopher was jogging along behind Angie when he heard a man call his name. He stopped and turned around to see Mr. Jessup pull up in his midnight blue Buick Regal.

"Hi, Mr. Jessup," Christopher said as he walked over to the car.

Even with the profound sense of unease permeating the town with the recent disappearance of the children, no one really took any notice of Mr. Jessup. Everyone knew nice old Mr. Jessup. He was nothing to fear. Maybe he was a little strange, but certainly no one to be afraid of. Mrs. Morrison kept a close eye on Christopher, just the same.

"I wonder if you could do a favor for me, Christopher, my man."

Christopher shrugged. "Sure. What?"

"I'd like for you to give this letter to your dad for me."

Jessup produced a sealed, business size envelope from his jacket pocket.

"Sure," Christopher said as he took the envelope.

"Thank you, Christopher. I need to talk to your father regarding a business matter. I would have called, but I'm on my way out of town as we speak. And I do hate to just stop by someone's house without being invited."

"Sure," Christopher said again. "I'll give it to him."

Mr. Jessup winked at Christopher and nodded and then drove off.

8

7:37 p.m.

"Hi, Dad," Christopher said as he pushed the front door open, school books in tow. "Where's Mom?"

"She's in the kitchen on the phone. Are you all right?"

Christopher gave his father a puzzled expression. "Yeah, why?"

"Did rehearsal run late?"

"Yeah," Christopher said as he dropped his book bag on the floor and sat at the end of the sofa to remove his shoes. "We practiced with the orchestra for the first time tonight. Man, the orchestra is bad this year."

"Is that a good bad or a bad bad?"

"A bad bad."

Christopher set his shoes on the rug and pulled up his sagging socks. He scooped up his book bag and started to walk off. "Oh," he said, turning back to his father. "I almost forgot. Mr. Jessup asked me to give this to you."

Nate froze like a deer pinned in the headlights of oncoming traffic.

"Mr. Jessup?" he repeated.

"Yeah," said, handing the envelope to his father. "He said he was on his way out of town and he didn't feel right about stopping over uninvited."

I'll bet, Nate thought as he took the envelope from his son.

Christopher waved to his mother as he passed the kitchen on the way to his room.

Nate looked at the envelope for a long time. He felt his heart pounding in his throat. Finally, he opened the envelope and removed the letter.

Dear Mr. Lewis,

I understand that you are a reasonable man, so let us discuss this reasonably. I have no quarrel with you. Let me continue with my work and I will allow you to simply continue. A fair trade, yes? Should you live up to your end of the bargain, you have my word that I will not touch you or your family. You and your wife are entirely too high in profile; it would not be in my best interest to "insert myself" into your lives without a good reason. It would cause far too much publicity. Consider my offer, Mr. Lewis. I shall not make such an offer a second time. Incidentally, another thing that you may wish to think about while considering my offer, if I could get close enough to your son to give him this letter, don't you think I could get close enough to him to do something else?

Sincerely,
J-

9

7:44 p.m.

"Jesus," Michelle said as she set the letter on the table. "I had no idea shit like this really happened."

"Me neither," Nate replied. "You and Christopher should be safe as long as you stay in the house."

He started to rise and Michelle clamped her hand down on his arm.

"What do you mean, Christopher and me? Where do you think you're going?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. But I have to do something. I don't buy the story about leaving town."

"I don't either," Michelle confessed. "What are you going to do?"

"I thought that if I could get some proof to use against him, maybe he'd leave town."

"What kind of proof? You mean the girl's bike in the garage?"

"No, I'm sure that's long gone. I was thinking I'd try to get him on video. I have all of that surveillance equipment at the office and I've only used it a couple of times. Now seems as good of an opportunity as any."

A minute later, after wincing at the dull rod of pain that shot through his knee, Nate was in his car, driving away. Half a block away, just as Nate’s car rounded the corner on the way to his office, a pair of headlights switched on. Silent as a whisper, a midnight blue Buick Regal began to follow. But not too closely.

10

8:04 p.m.

Nate, with his old, almost forgotten rosary stuffed in his right front pocket, limped up the three steps into his office. He clicked on the desk lamp and unlocked the reinforced cabinet behind the desk. He removed the camcorder and carefully pulled out the parabolic microphone.

If we're gonna see him, we might as well hear him, too, Nate thought as he gently set the equipment on the desk behind him.

He was unwrapping a new video tape when he heard a car pull into the parking lot. He drew his gun, slapped the video tape home, and hit the record button on the camera. As an afterthought, he turned off the desk lamp, and then made his way to the door. Standing several feet back so as to be obscured by shadow, he looked through the window on the security door.

As he feared, Orlin Jessup had just gotten out of his car and was casually walking toward the office door. Nate involuntarily took a step back as Jessup reached the security door, saw Nate in the almost total darkness, and waved at him. Jessup proceeded to grab the door handle and, finding it locked, yanked the door off its hinges.

Nate dropped the camera and fired a double tap into Jessup's chest. Jessup flinched, paused, and then looked down at the smoking holes in this chest.

"That's very painful, Mr. Lewis. Please don't do it again."

Nate tried to fire again, but Jessup was too fast. He swept across the room, knocked the gun from Nate's hand, and threw him back against the wall. Nate saw flashes of light as his head slammed against the wall. He slid to the ground, dazed. Even in his confused state, Nate saw the man pick up the camcorder and remove the videotape. Jessup looked carefully at the videotape as though pondering its significance. Then he clinched his hand into a fist, shattering the tape. Pieces of plastic flew in all directions as the hundreds of yards of tape spilled out onto the floor.

Jessup then looked over at Nate who was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to sit up. Jessup walked over, squatted down beside him, and helped Nate prop himself up against the wall.

"There," Jessup said. "Better?"

Still sluggish and dazed, Nate reached for the rosary in his pocket. Jessup slowly shook his head and grabbed Nate's right hand.

"I don't think so," he said. And squeezed.

Nate felt the bones in his hand shatter like cheap porcelain.

"Somehow I didn't think you'd take me up on my offer. You really should have. It would have made things much easier."

He sighed.

"You're turning out to be almost more trouble than you're worth, Mr. Lewis. Do you mind if I call you Nate? Well, Nate, over the years I've learned nothing if not patience. And prudence. I'm going to be leaving this little piss water town tonight, Nate. That's what you wanted, isn't it? But I want you to remember something. I'll be watching you. And one of these days, when that cute little boy of yours winds up being dragged out of the river, or they find pieces of him in dumpsters all over town, I want you to think of me."

Jessup rose to his feet, swung the camcorder into the side of Nate's head, and disappeared into the night.

11

Mr. Brigham, the vice president in charge of operations at the Manchester Center for the Mentally Disturbed, was taking the new night maintenance manager on a tour of the facility. The tour lasted nearly an hour, after which they retired back to Mr. Brigham's office.

"So what do you think of our little place, Mr. Jessup?"

"It's very nice. I think I will fit in quite nicely here."

"Good. Oh, by the way, I would advise you to be very careful when you are in H wing.
That's where we keep the seriously disturbed patients. It gets a bit . . . unruly down there from time to time."

"I'll be careful," Jessup said as picked up one of the photographs off of Brigham's desk. "She's very pretty. Your wife?"

"Yes. Here's a picture of my two boys from last year when they were playing soccer."

Brigham beamed as he handed the photo to Jessup. Brigham loved to brag about his family, especially his twin boys. This was the first time in years someone actually seemed to show an interest in his family.

"Very handsome boys," Jessup said, admiring the photograph. "I do love children."

Brigham smiled. "Yes, Mr. Jessup, I think you will indeed fit in quite nicely here."

Jessup nodded and replaced the photograph on the desk.

"I think so, too."