Free WHERE'S MY SON? by John C. Dalglish Page A

and she recognized him. She said he came in asking questions a few days ago about a nurse named Susan Turnbull. You know Susan?”
    “Sure, nurse in OB.”
    “How about an address?”
    Jason dialed Sam Garner while the security chief looked up the nurse’s address.
    “Detective Garner.”
    “Sam, this is Jason Strong. I may have a lead on my guy.”
    The security chief slid a piece of paper with an address and phone number in front of Jason. While Jason relayed the address to Sam, Tom Evans called the nurse’s number.
    He shook his head as Jason watched him. “Went to an answering machine.”
    Jason told Sam . “Sam, no answer at the number. Do you know where the address is?”
    “ Yes. I'll pick you up in ten.”
    “ I'll be waiting.”
     
    *******
     
    Stan Turnbull climbed the steps out of his pool and grabbed the towel hanging on the fence. He tried to have a swim in every morning before starting his day. This morning was no different.
    Most o f the backyard was taken up with an Olympic-sized pool. Across the back and down the sides of the property was an eight-foot high, wood privacy fence. Blue morning glories grew over most of it.
    Attached to the back of the one-story house was a covered patio. He toweled himself off as he walked to his chair under the patio roof. The sun was out and the day promised to be hot.
    He sat down, sipped his coffee , and opened the paper. Unable to focus, and after a feeble attempt at the crossword, he set the paper down.
    Details ran through his mind. He was planning the next ‘adoption,’ and things had to be just right to make it equally as successful as the previous jobs.
    He needed to talk to Benny Carter and see if he wanted in on another deal. He’d tried to reach him a couple of times, but hadn’t got an answer. Picking up the phone, he punched in the number again.
    It rang three times before picking up. “This is Benny, you know what to do. Wait for…”
    Stan hung up. He didn’t leave messages; they were loose ends that could be traced back to him. He took another sip of coffee and decided to call his sister.
    He punched her speed dial number. “This is Susan, sorry I can’t answer. Leave a message.”
    He hung up before the beep. “What's the deal? Is no one around?”
    He heard the click of a gun hammer as it was being pulled back. “Sure, Stan. I'm here.”
    Stan started to turn around, when he felt the end of the gun barrel press against his skull. He froze as a black leather bag dropped into his lap. “Who are you? What is this?”
    “Open it...put ‘em on.”
    Stan didn't recognize the voice. “And if I refuse?”
    A tremendous explosion next to Stan’s ear was followed by shattering glass. The gun barrel returned to the back of his head, but this time the end was hot and burned him. Stan’s mind spun with the echo.
    “Open...it...and …put...them...on.”
    When Stan had gathered himself, he fumbled with the bag until the contents spilled out into his lap. Two sets of handcuffs. A chill ran down his spine and he hesitated.
    “Put them on, the feet first.”
    As Stan leaned forward to cuff his feet, the gun never lost contact with his body. It traveled down his neck and back as he bent over, then retraced the path as he straightened up.
    “Now the hands .”
    Stan complied.
    The stranger walked around in front of Stan and took a chair opposite the cuffed man. The gun remained pointed at Stan's chest. “So, do you recognize me?”
    “N o, but I won’t forget your face. I promise you that.”
    “Maybe if I showed you a picture of my son ,” he pulled a picture of a baby out for Stan to see. “He has my eyes, don’t you think?”
    Stan stared at it. It started to dawn on him what this was about, and fear quickened his pulse.
    “ Picture doesn’t jog your memory?” the man asked.
    Stan didn't answer.
    “Ten years ago, my son was taken from my home; does that help?”
    Stan now stared off in the distance, no longer looking at the