The Greatest Gift (15 page)

Hewitt peered through the window, noticing an old lady pushing a box into a closet. She returned with a smile and opened the door.

“Mrs. Farmer,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Special Agent Hewitt Paul.” He flashed his identification.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“May I step inside so we can talk?”

“What would you want to be talking about?”

“Your husband.”

“Come in,” she said, moving aside. “I’ve been expecting you anyway.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“The local police have been here. The county police have been here. Why not the FBI? Besides, you looked upset at the service for our pastor. You looked like you needed to talk to someone.”

“Yes, I am upset. But why would you think I would need to talk to you?”

“You gave me a suspicious look at the service. Like you thought I was hiding something.”

“I did a little research on those who attended the church on a regular basis. People who might know the pastor. Or might know Michael Stewart. Should I be suspicious?” Hewitt asked, stepping into the living room.

“Would you like some hot tea?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll make it just right for you,” she said as she turned and walked into the kitchen.

Hewitt walked around the living room and inspected the bookcase.  

Several minutes later, Mrs. Farmer returned with a tray. Steam rose from the two cups and two cookies were arranged side by side. Hewitt sat in the bigger of the two chairs in front of an old record player. She handed him a cup and placed a cookie on a napkin in his lap. Sitting down next to him, she took a bite. “One of my best batches.”

Hewitt broke off a piece of cookie and chewed it. “Delicious.”

She smiled. “You’re not here to get my recipe or sample my baking skills. How can I help you?”

He leaned sideways. “First, I want to express my condolences for the loss of your husband.”

She nodded and took a sip of her tea.

“I’m trying to find Elizabeth and Michael Stewart. I was wondering if your husband had mentioned them at all.”

“He had. He was worried about them.”

“Why?”

“George only mentioned him once. I really didn’t think much of it because he was always worrying about someone here in town.”

“Did he mention anything in particular?”

“He worried about Michael and his daughter, especially when he found out he was a widower.”

“Did George talk about Michael having any … crazy as it might sound, ability to travel places?”

She shook her head.

Hewitt sat back in the chair and sighed. “What about Michael? Did you speak to him?”

She broke off a piece of her cookie and nibbled on it. “We spoke. Michael was very generous with his time when I was grieving. He gave me great comfort.”

“Did he ever tell you about places he wanted to visit? Anything that bothered him?”

She sipped her tea some more. “He spoke a lot about his daughter. He was worried sick about her. He told me how sad he was and couldn’t live without knowing if she was safe. I saw a man with a broken heart.”

Hewitt leaned forward. “Breaks my heart too. Were you close to Pastor Dennis?”

“When George was alive, we saw him almost every weekend at the Sunday service. He was a good man. But he’s helping George now.”

“What?” Hewitt put his tea down.

“George is helping the pastor now.”

“Where?”

She pointed to the wall.

“Mrs. Farmer, please forgive my ignorance. We are talking about him, right?”

She nodded.

“Where is George helping Pastor Dennis?”

“There,” she said, again pointing at the wall.

Hewitt stood. He went to the wall and stared at the picture. “I see a painting. So what?”

“Is that all it is to you?”

“Yes,” he said, turning around to face her. “Did your husband paint this?”

“Yes. He worked on it for many years. What do you think of it?”

Hewitt studied the four-by-two-foot framed picture. There were eight soldiers with spears drawn, towering over women, their arms up, defending their children. “Very disturbing.”

“I thought so too.”

“Did he talk about why he painted this?”

“Sometimes. He said it kept him mindful of the cruel realities of this world.”

“I’ve read enough biographies about artists,” Hewitt said. “Studied it a bit in college too. Tortured souls, some of them were. Most of them had no grasp of reality; that’s probably why many drank or committed suicide.”

“Oh, that’s not true, is it?” Mrs. Farmer asked.

“Well, I may be reaching a little,” Hewitt replied.

“Well, my George wasn’t like that,” she said, taking another piece of cookie off the tray.

Hewitt returned to his seat and took two sips of the simmering tea.

“George said painting helped remind him of his travels.”

“Where did he say he traveled to?”

“He would never say. He liked to take long walks. Said it kept him in teenage shape.” She laughed and finished the last bit of the cookie. “This is my best batch.”

“How did your husband die?”

“Don’t you know that?”

He nodded. “I just want to hear what you thought.”

“The police would only say he died from a suspicious wound in his chest. They told me they were investigating it as a suicide. George was not that way. He loved life.”

Hewitt rubbed his forehead and went back to the picture. He placed his finger around the outline of a soldier. He turned to face her, keeping his left hand on the painting. “What did your husband do before he retired?”

“He was a pastor’s assistant. For Pastor Vincent.”

“Did you say Pastor Vincent?” asked Hewitt as he walked back to Mrs. Farmer.

“Yes. They were very close, until the incident.”

He sat down. “What incident?”

“George came home all bloodied, screaming and yelling. I never saw him so upset. He said he got hurt at the church.”

Mrs. Farmer picked up her cup and grabbed his, placing them on the tray. She walked to the kitchen and dropped them in the sink. She rejoined Hewitt and sat down, placing her hand on his. “George was a good man. He cared about Pastor Vincent.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t talk about it again.” There were some seconds of silence between them. “That’s when he started to paint,” she said.

“From what I’ve heard, Michael had a close relationship with Pastor Dennis.”

“I believe so. That’s what Michael told me.”

“Close enough where they would share secrets?”

“I can’t tell you one way or another whether they would. But I can tell you it’s tragic for everyone here in Northport that the pastor is no longer with us.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Hewitt as he got up from the chair.

“Why would you say that? How awful. You should be praying for him. Pastor Dennis has gone home to the Lord to work with George.”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t believe he’s with the Lord right now.”

Hewitt stared into his refrigerator. He saw a half-empty box of pork fried rice, three cans of Bud Light and an unopened bottle of white Chardonnay. He grabbed the bottle of wine and with some difficulty, extracted the cork from the top. Pouring the wine into a tall beer glass, he watched a piece of the cork bob around the top. He put his finger in it and pressed the cork against the side of the glass. He pushed it up and smirked.
Got ya.
It fell back in as he lifted his finger to pull it out.

No. You’re not going to get the best of me.
Hewitt reached into a drawer near the stove and grabbed a spoon.
Come on. Come to me. Come to Papa.
He twirled the spoon around and the piece dipped on and off of it a couple of times. Frustrated, he started to pour the wine into the sink.
Get out of there. Now.
The wine fell smoothly down the drain while the tiny piece of cork hung on for dear life in the glass. When it was empty, he held it to the ceiling light.
I don’t believe it.
He banged the faucet on and let the rushing water flood the glass, finally pushing the stubborn cork into the sink and down the drain.
That’ll teach you.

He stared at the remaining wine in the bottle and then at the glass.
I’m losing it. I’ve been drinking myself into oblivion, and now I’m fighting a piece of cork. On top of that, I’ve got a bunch of religious freaks almost convincing me a man time travels to the time of Jesus. Think of that, Hewitt. Think of what these people are trying to sell. This is absolute horse crap. I’m college educated and part of the world’s best governmental agency
.
I am the best at what I do – finding missing children.

“You’re not going to break me,” he said as he poured the remainder of the wine into the sink. He opened the three beers and did the same, holding the last can up high to make it more dramatic. “No one is going to make a fool out of me anymore.”

Hewitt went upstairs to change and sat on the bed with fresh pajamas in his hands. He listened to the silence of the house for a few moments before going to open Hailey’s bedroom door.
She’s not coming home. It’s time for me to accept this.

“Daddy, Daddy, help me,” Hailey’s voice echoed in his mind. He squeezed his head with his hands and dropped to his knees.

“I’m trying, honey. I’m trying.”

He sat against the edge of the door for several minutes, keeping his mind blank until his cell phone rang.

“You have something that can help me, Connie?” he asked, answering the phone.

“No. Sorry.”

“Why are you calling me then?”

“To warn you. I saw a photo of you at the cemetery. What were you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Um, you digging.”

“Oh Lord,” he said, standing up.

“Yeah. Are you okay? Even the best people lose it.”

“I’m fine. I haven’t lost anything.”

“You can’t be fine if you’re digging up someone’s body after he was just buried. It sure looks like you’ve lost your mind.”

Hewitt put the phone to his side for a brief moment. He took a deep breath and put the phone back to his ear. “Where did you see this photo?”

“I just saw it. It’s only a matter of time before every social network is either sharing it or tweeting the link. The captions I saw are funny though.
Crazy FBI guy digging up clues
was my favorite.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“Sure looks like it.”

“Oh, Lord,” Hewitt said again. “What am I going to do now?” He paused.

“Do you need a friend?” Connie asked.

Hewitt didn’t answer. He went to the kitchen and dropped the phone on the table.

“Hewitt? Are you there?”

He picked it back up and reluctantly placed it on his ear. “I’m here. I can’t believe how much I’ve screwed this up.”

“Do you need a friend?” Connie asked again.

Hewitt didn’t answer and sighed. A knock on the door shook him out of his momentary trance. He opened it and turned away. “I’m not getting rid of you, am I?”

“Nope,” said Connie as she hung up her cell phone. She walked in and looked around. “Well, well, so this is how a big shot FBI special agent lives.” She proceeded into the living room. “Not too impressive.”

“How did you get my address?”

“You wrote it down on the
business card
you gave me.” Connie picked up a pillow off the couch. “What is this?”

Hewitt grabbed it out of her hands. “Don’t touch or move anything.”

“Okay.”

Hewitt went into the kitchen, placing the pillow on the table. “I’d offer you something, but I just dumped whatever wine that was left into the sink.”

“Good for you,” she said, joining him at the table. “There’s been far too much drinking lately anyway. How are you holding up?”

Hewitt gave her a puzzled look. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. Anyone who has gone through what you have in the last few years has to be hurting.”

“I see you’ve been busy on the Internet.”

“The Internet helps.”

“I’m fine.”

Connie shook her head. “I know what fine looks like. Behind that tough FBI macho-man exterior is a heart that’s bleeding. You’re human like the rest of us.”

“We don’t bleed,” Hewitt said with a glare. He poured himself a glass of water from the sink. He raised it in a gesture of an offer.

“No, thanks,” she said.

“Are we done?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t understand where this conversation is going.”

“I’m no criminal investigator like you, but when I see an FBI agent digging up a grave, I know there has to be something funny going on. You may as well tell me before you lose your job.”

“I won’t lose it.”

“Come into the Twenty-First Century with me, special agent,” Connie said, leaning closer. “Your picture is about to be all over the Internet shoveling out a casket where a beloved preacher was just buried. Do you really believe you’re not going to be fired? There will be thousands of people sharing your pretty face all over the world. Or do you not live in the Twenty-First Century?”

Hewitt pushed away his water and stood, rubbing his forehead. He grimaced and looked at a picture of his daughter on the refrigerator door. He stared for several seconds and sighed.

“Are you having a breakdown?” asked Connie.

“No.” He took a quick glance at her. “But I’m not all right. I haven’t been all right since my daughter disappeared.” Hewitt walked into the living room and sat down.

Connie followed and joined him on the couch. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know about loss.”

“What would you know?” Hewitt asked. “You were never a parent, never lost a son or daughter like I did, like the parents out there who cry during the day and can’t sleep at night thinking about all the terrible situations their kids have gone through.” He turned to her. “Tell me, how do you truly know what I have gone through?”

“I may not know how your specific situation feels, but I’ve miscarried three times. I’ve had a newly painted room full of baby clothes and toys sit in my house for years because the child I thought I would have was never born. I’ve had a man who I thought would stay with me during my darkest times abandon me.”

Hewitt looked away and moved to the far end of the couch.

Connie continued. “I’m sorry you’ve gone through it. True, I will never know exactly how you feel. I do know for four glorious months, my ex and I were so happy, watching our baby grow on the ultrasounds, excited when the baby would kick. We were going to be a family.”

Hewitt turned to her. “Three times?”

“Yes.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “I guess I wasn’t meant to be a mother. I was never the nurturing kind anyway. Look at me. I’m an absolute wreck. I’m chunky now. The hourglass figure is gone. Imagine me trying to carry a baby? I’d be a blimp.”

She laughed but Hewitt wasn’t sure how real it was. He shook his head. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Why do you put yourself down?”

Connie flinched. “I don’t know. I thought I would lighten the moment.”

“Do you do that a lot?” he asked.

“What are you, a shrink now?”

Hewitt moved closer. “No. But I know a good woman when I see one.”

Connie smiled. “You think I am?”

“Didn’t I just say so?”

“Why are you answering my question with a question?”

Hewitt sighed. “Why do I have to repeat myself?”

“Because a woman likes to hear she’s special over and over again.”

Hewitt waved his hands in the air. “Whoa, I didn’t say you were special.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Special Agent, you did say I was a good woman.”

“Yes, good. I didn’t say special.”

“Why does saying special scare you?”

Hewitt laughed. “Oh, you’re good all right. You’re good at twisting my words.”

“Ha. Men need to be told what they’re feeling. And I think you feel something for me.”

“Oh, no,” said Hewitt. “It’s not like that at all.”

“Oh, I think it is,” Connie said as she moved closer to him.

Hewitt leaned back on the couch and picked up a picture of him and his daughter off the side table. He gazed at it for a few seconds and looked at Connie. “She was special.” He took a deep breath. “I couldn’t protect her. Me. So big and strong. Mr. Macho. We had all the money in the world, the best security system to keep her safe.” He lowered his head and placed the picture back on the side table.

Connie touched his hand. “It’s okay to hurt.”

“I can’t take the time to hurt. Don’t you understand? Do you know how many parents and children rely upon me? I can show you cartons of letters from those parents, telling me about their suffering. There isn’t any time for me to rest and feel hurt.”

Connie squeezed his hand. “Maybe you don’t have the time to hurt but you should allow your heart to grieve.”

Hewitt shook his head. “I have too much anger inside me to grieve.” He tried to pull his hand away.

“I’m not letting go. I’m here for you. I wasn’t there for my brother when he lost his wife. I feel terrible about that. I want to help.”

“No one can help me. I’m broken.” Hewitt watched a drop fall from Connie’s eye onto her cheek. “Ever feel lonely?”

“Yes,” she said. “Every night.”

“Well, that we do have in common.” He pulled her close and shivered.

“What’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath and sighed. “I’d better explain the picture to my boss.”

“Good luck with that,” she said.

He clicked his phone to call as he waved Connie away.
I hope Wrightman won’t be upset with me.
He ran his hand through his hair a couple of times.

“Why are you calling me at this hour?” Wrightman said when he answered his phone. “I told you I’m on vacation. I don’t want to hear from anyone. I’m only picking your call up because of the publicity in this case. Can’t you handle this yourself?”

“I’ve put the FBI into an awkward situation.”

“Awkward,” yelled Wrightman, his voice shaking Hewitt’s ear. “How much more awkward can it get? Do you know how embarrassing it is for the world’s top agency to have a middle-aged man elude us when we had the entire perimeter sealed off?”

“I know, sir. I’m working every angle.”

“Every angle? If you were working every angle, we’d know where he and his daughter are by now. Right?”

“Sir, he had some help. He had to. I’m working on those who could have helped him escape.”

“We’re wasting time. Who knows how far he’s gotten by now. Isn’t it about time we start pulling some agents away from that church?”

“No, sir. Not right now. I believe he made his escape from inside that church, and we have to find the room or area he did it from.”

“We’ve been sitting in that crummy church for several days now. We’re looking like the biggest fools since the Keystone Kops.”

“I have some breaks in the case.”

“Then solve it. Immediately.”

“Yes sir.”

Hewitt coughed and glared at himself in the mirror. “No one makes a fool of me,” he said, forgetting he was still on the phone.

“Excuse me?” said Wrightman.

“Yes sir. I’ll solve this case.”

“All right, that’s my best Knute Rockne speech,” Wrightman said. “What’s the reason you called?”

Hewitt paced back and forth in his bedroom. “Sir,” he said, lying, “I just needed a pep talk.”

“You got it,” shouted Wrightman. “Now go solve this case and stick it to the media.”

The line went dead, and Hewitt dropped the phone on the bed. “I need a strategy,” he said. “I can’t let my feelings interfere with my work. Not anymore.”

Connie snuck into the room. “Are you just using me to help you find my brother so you can put him away?”

“What?” Hewitt said, turning around.

“Using me. Was all that heavy-hearted talk just a bunch of nonsense to get to know me so you can solve the case? I thought you cared. Do you care more about my brother and me or about being a hero?”

“I care about solving the case. I didn’t become the best in the business by letting my heart sob for everyone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Connie said, sitting next to him. Her cellphone rang. She held it away from her ear. “Yes, Dad. Is everything okay?”

“You didn’t stop by,” he said.

“I know. I’m sorry. I am trying to find Michael and Elizabeth. I’ve been busy with the search parties.”

“How’s that going?”

Connie stayed silent for a few seconds. “He’s not here.”

“I guess it’s been a waste of time,” he said.

“Yes, Dad. A waste of time. I have to go.” She hung up and shook her head.

“I know you’ve got your boss on your butt, Hewitt,” she said, “but do you really believe my brother would harm his daughter? Does he fit the profile of such a person?”

Hewitt stood and took a couple of steps to the door. He opened it. “Yes.”