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?”
“He runs the drug ring.” Jack set his rocker in motion, his eyes on Ike. If they could figure out McMillan’s past, they could figure out Eliza’s. Which could lead to more witnesses and more convictions. “Any other blond girls who went missing from the Belizean Mennonite colonies?”
“Yes.” Ike sighed. “Years ago a girl disappeared from Spanish Lookout, a colony northwest of here.” He swallowed. “You think the missing girl, she might be trapped in this… trafficking?”
“We do.” Jack explained that Chief Averes had an old report on file. “He told me you thought an American woman might have been involved in the disappearance of your family members. Is that right?”
“Yes.” Ike bit his lip. “Agnes Potter. She claimed to be the children’s aunt.” Ike looked straight at Jack. “That woman couldn’t take her eyes off Lizzie. My little granddaughter was so young.”
Jack had read the report on Ike’s missing family members. The case was closed, no foul play suspected. Jack had seen the police file from the day the family disappeared. Nothing had jumped out at him. But since Ike was the area historian, the bureau hoped he might know something about Eliza Lawrence and her father—Anders McMillan.
The old man blinked. “You… you think my Lizzie could be at this… Palace place?”
Twenty-three was too old. Which meant—with her blond hair and blue eyes—Eliza could’ve been the missing girl from Spanish Lookout, north of Lower Barton Creek… or maybe not. Maybe she was from the States. But if Ike’s great-granddaughter didn’t drown in the ocean with her family, and if she had been forced into slavery at the Palace, she was probably dead by now—aged out like Eliza’s friend Alexa.
“Ike.” Jack sighed. “I don’t think your Lizzie is there.” He didn’t want to go into details. Not when the man had longed for his missing family members for so many years. “But your information just might help us form a case against McMillan. Connecting him to one or more missing girls.”
Ike nodded. He looked off and tears built in his eyes. “My poor great-grandbabies.” He brushed his hand over his face and seemed to force a smile. “There’s a picture of my family in here. How they looked eleven years ago.” He rifled through the envelope.
Suddenly Jack had a thought. “You don’t think… maybe Paul David changed his name to Anders McMillan? I’ve seen photos of Anders. He’s thin, tall and clean shaven with thick red hair. Very intelligent. He’s kept from getting caught all these years.”