By Brett Matthew West
Introduction:
While en route for a summer vacation with his grandparents in Florida, 13-year-old Brandon McCann mysteriously disappears from the baggage reclaim area at Orlando International Airport.
Word Count: 1,379
Member Cents: 77
**********************************************************************************************
**********************************************************************************************
An announcement transmitted over the intercom. A welcoming voice, one that painted the illusion of a broad smile on the face of the speaker, warmly said, "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. This is your pilot Jonathan Spencer and the local time is 1:08pm. The sun is shining brightly as we begin our descent into Orlando International Airport. I just thought I'd take this opportunity to let you know that in fifteen minutes I'll set you at the terminal gate. Once again, thank you for flying Southwest Airlines Flight 1618 and have a phenomenal day!" Then the effervescent voice was gone.
Thirteen-year-old Brandon McCann sensed the colossal bird begin its smooth descent. He yawned with his mouth wide opened as he stretched his arms over his blond head. His hands clinched in tight fists. Brandon's short catnap energized him. He was glad he was afforded a window seat by the airline for the lengthy flight from his hometown of Bangor, Maine.
Flying solo did not bother Brandon. He had done so before. In fact, Brandon traveled this journey all by himself for the last three summers. He felt the amicable people at Southwest always attended him well. This excursion was no different.
As Brandon stirred in his seat, he grew more excited about visiting his grandparents. He always spent many enjoyable hours on their farm. There were horses to ride, especially Desorno, his favorite chestnut. Not only that, there were cows to milk, eggs to gather, henhouses to raid, and hay to jump in.
A quarter mile from the O'Neil's spread was Anderson Lake where Brandon learned to swim when he was five years old. He could deer hunt in the woods past the lake. That's where Brandon tagged his first buck two years ago. The creature was a nice four-point whitetail, sport killed. Grandpa Mike always allowed him to shoot his old long barrel rifle. He could even fish. A plethora of times he'd brought dinner home on the end of his stringer. Brandon knew there was a surplus of activities to occupy his every waking moment.
However, Brandon wasn't sure he wanted to encounter any alligators. He remembered what his Grandma Betsy told him, "Expect to find at least one bull gator in every body of water you dive into in the state of Florida. And, whatever you do, leave them alone. Do not feed them. Little boys are one of their tastiest snacks."
Brandon thought his grandma was only trying to scare the life out of him with her warning. Still, he was not going to take any chances, or try to pet an alligator, if he found one sunbathing on a leisurely afternoon. Brandon focused out the window next to his seat. There he observed blue skies and fluffy white clouds of different shapes and sizes. He imagined one looked like an elephant. There was even one that appeared to possess a lion's mane.
The old man seated next to him wearing bib overalls whispered, "This is Florida. Give it a chance, it'll rain."
Dejected by what he was told, Brandon felt his shoulders sag low. The prospect of rain was definitely not in his forecast as the plane lightly touched down on Runway 12B. A slight bump was felt as the aircraft's wheels seized the tarmac.
This was Brandon's most favorite part of flying. He loved to watch the terminal whiz by as the plane decelerated and dropped him off at the proper terminal. He, along with 367 other passengers, that was. Brandon calculated they must be travelling at least a thousand miles per hour.
Contented with his mischievousness, the old codger faced forward in his seat. A sly smile creased his wrinkled face. The reaction of the youngster perched next to him once again proved his theory of how gullible little boys are.
A petite, fiery-redheaded stewardess approached Brandon. He knew her name was Becky. They'd talked several times during the flight. She'd brought him four Cokes and extra bags of peanuts to chomp on. She'd also served him his lunch consisting of a ham and cheese sandwich on white bread, an apple, and a piece of chocolate cake. Brandon liked Becky, and her flight attendant outfit. His hormones raged.
"Oh, to be a few years older," Brandon thought to himself, "then Becky and I could ooh la la!"
"You naughty boy," Becky affably rebuked him as if she could read his mind. It was the expression on Brandon's impish face that betrayed him.
"Now that we have arrived at Terminal B are you ready to exit the plane?" Becky questioned him.
As did all the other commuters, once the plane rolled to a complete halt, Brandon rose to his sneaker-clad feet. He answered Becky's question with, "I don't have anything but my iPad."
"Nothing in the overhead compartment?" Becky asked him to insure the boy wasn't forgetting any of his personal belongings.
"Nope. I checked everything through when I got on the plane," Brandon assured her.
"Got your claim ticket handy?" Becky wanted to know.
Brandon pulled the eggshell-colored stub out of the pocket of his plaid shirt and showed it to Becky saying, "I put it right here so I wouldn't lose it."
"Okay, Brandon, if you're all set then we can proceed down to the baggage reclaim area and retrieve your suitcase," Becky told him.
Patiently, they waited for several passengers in front of them to disembark the plane's cabin. There was no need to push and shove their way through. Lingering also provided the two of them more time to chit chat. Brandon enjoyed that.
Finally, they entered the passenger boarding bridge that led from the plane to the concourse. Becky accompanied Brandon down a long corridor on an escalator. They descended a flight of stairs and rode a second escalator to the baggage reclaim area.
Brandon's brown leather suitcase would arrive on Carousel Three. He kept watching the apparatus slowly rotate around knowing he would spot his luggage right away. He couldn't miss the bag. It had a wolf's head imprinted on its front part.
"Becky! Becky Johnson! How's you doing?" an elderly grey-black porter with snow-white hair called to her.
Having not spoken to Otis Mills for a couple of weeks, Becky turned her head in his direction, her attention diverted for a moment to respond to his question. She knew it was her responsibility to not take her eyes off Brandon until she'd safely delivered him to his grandparents anxiously awaiting his arrival at the gate. She had escorted several young fliers before. When Becky turned back to where Brandon was supposed to be, all she noticed was his suitcase riding around on the carousel.
In a crowded airport, among a massive horde of humanity scurrying about in a multitude of different directions, Brandon McCann vanished.
Cast of Characters:
Brandon McCann - 13-year old boy from Bangor, Maine. Vanishes at the baggage reclaim area of the Orlando International Airport.
Mike O'Neil - Brandon McCann's maternal grandfather.
Betsy O'Neil - Brandon McCann's maternal grandmother.
Becky Johnson - Flight attendant assigned to escort Brandon safely to his grandparents waiting for him at the passenger arrival gate.
Jonathan Spencer - Pilot of Southwest Flight 1618.
Otis Mills - Porter, distracted Becky Johnson immediately before Brandon McCann disappeared.
Unnamed old man - predicted rain in Brandon's future.
| Author Notes |
It really does only take a moment for a youngster to disappear, even in a crowded airport with a massive horde of humanity scurrying about in a multitude of different directions.
"How's you doing" is not spag. It is meant to reflect how he talked. Yawn, by cleo85, selected to complement this portion of my story. So, thanks cleo85, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with this portion of my story. |
By Brett Matthew West
LAST TIME:
"Becky! Becky Johnson! How's you doing?" an elderly, grey-black Porter, with snow-white hair, called to her.
Having not spoken to Otis Mills for a couple of weeks, Becky Johnson turned her head in his direction. Her attention distracted for a moment, to respond to his question. She knew it was her responsibility to not take her eyes off Brandon until she'd safely delivered him to his grandparents anxiously awaiting his arrival at the gate. She had escorted several young fliers before. When Becky turned back to where Brandon was supposed to be, all she noticed was his suitcase riding around on the carousel.
In a crowded airport, among a massive throng of humanity scurrying about in a multitude of different directions, Brandon McCann vanished.
Word Count: 1,689
Member Cents: 86
*******************************************************************************************
*******************************************************************************************
Arriving at his destination, Doctor Herbert McCann parked his 2017 ultra-luxurious Mercedes Maybach Landaulet convertible at the passenger entrance of the Bangor International Airport. An executive on his way up has got to play the part, and he did very well. His son, Brandon was set for departure on Southwest Airlines 1618 to Orlando, Florida for his summer vacation.
Brandon retrieved his suitcase out of the trunk of the vehicle. He was excited to once again be going to visit his Grandparents on the O'Neil side of the family. He preferred them over the ones on the McCann side. They were much too strict for him. The task completed, he slammed the trunk closed with a loud bang, drawing a stern look of consternation from his father, then entered the terminal doors.
Relinquishing his suitcase at the Southwest Airlines customer check-in counter, Brandon was previously booked for the flight. He held his ticket in his hand as they made their way to the boarding gate.
The agent at the front of the gate instructed Brandon to, "Remove your shoes, young man, and place them on the conveyer belt so they can be scanned."
Looking at his father, who nodded for Brandon to do what he'd been told to do, the boy quickly slipped them off and placed them on the conveyor belt. In all his previous times flying, this was the first occasion in which Brandon had to remove his shoes.
"Walk through the x-ray machine," the agent then told him to do.
Brandon complied, and wouldn't you know it? The machine beeped. Of course it did.
"Spread your arms wide out to the side so I can scan you," the agent operating the x-ray machine instructed Brandon.
The boy once again obeyed and the agent passed the black scanner down Brandon's chest, his right leg, back up that leg, and down his left one.
"Turn around so I can scan your back," the agent ordered, his tone not the friendliest.
Brandon slowly turned around. The agent passed the wand down his back, over his tail end, and down the back of his legs to his heels.
"All set," the agent told him.
Brandon reached for his shoes from off the end of the conveyor belt and put them back on his feet. His father stood there shaking his head in disbelief of the security measures his son had borne. Then, they headed down the corridor to Gate 11 where Brandon would catch his plane to Orlando. Arriving there, the announcement to board the airplane was not long coming.
'You behave, son," Doctor McCann told Brandon, "I know you will. However, I expect nothing but good reports when I call your grandparents to check up on you this summer."
"Yes, sir," Brandon solemnly promised his father saying, "I will mind their every little command like a good little puppy." He hugged his father tightly. His father mussed Brandon's blond hair and lightly cuffed his behind in a show of parental tenderness.
"Gotta go, Dad," Brandon excitedly said, "my plane's boarding. I'll talk to you soon." And, with that he disappeared down the tunnel to the plane.
Doctor McCann watched as Flight 1618 taxied down the runway, took off, and turned South. Then, he returned to his automobile. These were the thoughts occupying Doctor McCann's recollection as he arrived at the hospital after delivering Brandon to the airport. He knew he had an angioplasty patient waiting for him.
Although relatively young, just 42-years-old as of seven weeks ago, Doctor McCann chaired the fifty-five bed Cardiac Care Unit of the Bangor Cardiovascular Center. A highly skilled surgeon, with a well respected reputation in the operating room, his touch was artisan. Lately, unbeknown to his esteemed colleagues, Doctor McCann possessed a love affair with the bottle. Mixing the misery of his life in the personal realm with gin, a few drinks prior to performing a procedure calmed his nerves and stabilized his quivering hand. Doctor McCann saw nothing wrong, professionally or ethically, with his imbibing.
Mariah Lynn Moseby, a long time acquaintance of Doctor McCann's, was his patient that morning. After an echocardiogram, supported by a stress test, revealed clogged arteries, she determined the only doctor suitable to perform the angioplasty was her good friend Herbert McCann. Mariah Lynn Moseby became Doctor McCann's second patient to perish while on the operating table in the last thirty days.
Nurse Miranda Blevins could not testify to the fact, but she thought she smelled the pungent aroma of alcohol on the good doctor's breath as she handed him the stents he inserted in Mariah Lynn Moseby's arteries. The official cause of death was listed as a heart attack, a rare event during an angioplasty.
The question that tore Miranda Blevins' soul apart was should she report her suspicions through the proper channels, and risk destroying Doctor McCann's stellar career without rock solid evidence, or should she remain quiet and keep her assumptions to herself? After all, she knew Doctor McCann was a good and charitable man.
Sheila Tamarack was voluptuously designed with cascading auburn hair, and tempestuous eyes that would entrap any member of the male species. Brandon McCann's Guidance Counselor at his matriculation center, she first encountered Doctor Herbert McCann in a meeting concerning Brandon skipping school, for the third time, in an effort to prevent his suspension. Quickly exploiting her womanly wiles, she became Herbert McCann's first extramarital affair. Their relationship bloomed rapidly for the last three months. Sheila never knew love at first sight before. He knew all the right ways to please a woman and Sheila wanted this occasion to be extraordinarily special.
The honeysuckle red candles scattered around the room were lit. Soft, romantic, calm music played from the stereo setting the proper ambiance for their evening's tryst. Realizing the gem she'd discovered in Herbert McCann, Sheila knew tonight was a time to celebrate. She was not about to allow him to slip through her fingers. His touch inflamed her.
Sheila drew a relaxing, warm, bubble bath fragranced with rose oil. She placed two glasses of Ecstase wine on the tub and clean sheets on her queen-sized bed. She preferred the saucy scents of peach, lemon, apple, and acacia the wine contained. Two fluffy towels adorned the nearby rack on the wall. These would be used to pat each other dry, in an expression of passion after they stepped out of the bath.
Like a sentry on duty, a bottle of watermelon-flavored edible massage oil stood at attention on the nightstand beside her bed ... just waiting. Sheila planned a full body massage for Herbert. One he would never forget! Removing the delicious oil from his unclad body with her tongue was perfect foreplay to an evening between the sheets.
These were her desires. Could she accomplish what she yearned for? Would she be able to persuade Herbert to get up, close the door, and stay with her tonight? If she could, then she would believe the words of love he whispered in her ear.
Knowing Brandon was on his way to visit his grandparents in Florida for the summer afforded Sheila plenty of time to make Herbert her own. One more distraction had been eliminated from out of the picture. The small matter of Veronica McCann, Herbert's espoused, being in the way of the turbulent fire that devoured her affection for Herbert remained insignificant. Sheila Tamarack knew the way to her lover's heart. All she needed to do was navigate the course and her dreams would come true.
Ding Dong! Her doorbell rang.
Cast of Characters:
Brandon McCann - 13-year-old boy from Bangor, Maine. Vanishes at the baggage reclaim area of the Orlando International Airport.
Doctor Herbert McCann - Brandon's father and the Chair of the Cardiac Care Unit at the Bangor Cardiovascular Center.
Veronica McCann - Brandon's Mommy Dearest and Doctor Herbert McCann's spouse.
Mariah Lynn Moseby - Patient of Doctor McCann's. Died from a rare heart attack during angioplasty.
Miranda Blevins - Operating Room nurse. Torn between right and wrong.
Sheila Tamarack - Doctor Herbert McCann's extramarital affair. Sets her sights on making Herbert McCann her own.
Becky Johnson - Flight Attendant assigned to escort Brandon McCann to his grandparents waiting at the airport gate in Orlando.
Otis Mills - Porter at Orlando International Airport who distracted Becky Johnson just before Brandon McCann vanished.
TSA Agents - Operate the Bangor International Airport checkpoint gate Brandon McCann enters through on his way to board his airplane to Orlando.
| Author Notes |
People always seem to have many dimensions to them. Doctor Herbert McCann is no exception to this rule.
Evan is growing up, by Lilibug6, selected to complement my posting. So, thanks Lilibug6, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my posting. |
By Brett Matthew West
Previously I have introduced Brandon McCann to readers of this book. I have also characterized his father Doctor Herbert McCann. Now, I proudly present to you for your reading enjoyment his mother Veronica McCann...Brandon's Mommie Dearest!
After this chapter, I will then continue with the story, picking it up from:
"Becky! Becky Johnson! How's you doing?" an old, grey-black porter, with snow-white hair, called to her.
Having not spoken to Otis Mills for a couple weeks, Becky turned her head in his direction. Her attention diverted for a moment to respond to his question. She knew it was her responsibility to not take her eyes off Brandon until she'd safely delivered him to his grandparents anxiously awaiting his arrival at the gate. She had escorted several young fliers before. When Becky turned back to where Brandon was supposed to be, all she noticed was his suitcase riding around on the carousel.
In a crowded airport, among a massive throng of humanity scurrying about in a multitude of different directions, Brandon McCann vanished. (Which is the ending of Chapter 1)
Some reviewers have tried to read more into these characterizations than was intended to be reflected. Please, just accept this chapter for what it is: the introduction of Brandon's Mommie Dearest.
Word Count: 1,172
Member Cents: 82
********************************************************************************************
********************************************************************************************
Domineering, demanding, and controlling, Veronica McCann was a first class diva, and a spoiled rotten, whiney, little witch. Everyone who encountered her knew it. She'd latched onto Herbert McCann the moment he graduated from the Bowdan University School of Medicine. Dollar signs flashed in her emerald eyes. She figured he was her meal ticket.
Although there was little passion between the two of them, Veronica married Herbert in a lavish black tie affair ceremony in front of 250 acclaimed guests. Her extensive wedding gift harvest brought a huge smile to her puckered lips.
'The more the merrier!' she thought to herself as she adored each and every precious token she received.
On the other hand, Herbert McCann feigned interest to satisfy his new bride. He suffered from the "Yes, Dear" syndrome.
Eighteen months into wedded euphoria, Brandon Alexander McCann came on the scene. He arrived red and wrinkled, scared and crying, like newborns do and severely cramped his mother's style. Somehow, the maternal bond between Veronica and her infant did not develop as it should have. Veronica's nerves could not handle the baby's constant fussing.
A stay-at-home mother, Veronica never tried to improve their relationship either. Instead, she absorbed herself in some activity, like reading or watching Daytime Soap Operas, and ignored young Brandon's hollering ...until she couldn't stand anymore.
As Brandon aged, less and less he could discover ways to please her. He always seemed to be in his mother's path to other, more pleasurable, things she wanted to do. He was constantly belittled for every minor infraction he committed. The only time Brandon received any relief from his mother's relentless trepidation was when his father was home.
On those rare occasions, Veronica treated Brandon like he was made of solid gold. Herbert McCann never realized the depth of the ridicule Veronica held for Brandon. Somehow, she managed to keep the wool pulled over his blinded eyes.
'All I have to do is treat Herbert like a mushroom. Feed him bull and keep him in the dark.' Veronica impelled herself.
Upon Brandon's tenth birthday, Veronica organized his enrollment in the Union Fork Military Academy in Boise, Idaho. A school that maintained an ethereal reputation. When Herbert McCann learned about her intentions, the worst verbal altercation the couple ever engaged in erupted. Mount Vesuvius had nothing on their volcanic exchange. He would have no part of sending his son to any military school! Their compromise was to permit Brandon to visit his grandparents in Orlando, Florida for the summer.
'At least that eliminates that complication for three months' Veronica happily declared to herself. She could tolerate that arrangement.
Three years later, after Brandon departed for his summer vacation, Veronica's secret agenda appeared. She wrote a note and left it laying in the middle of the dining room table where Herbert was sure to locate the communication. She snatched her suitcase, and her cosmetic bag, and headed for the door. She would send for her other personal belongings after she settled into Baltimore.
Veronica's note read:
"Herbert,
While you provide me the finer things in life and a beautiful home, there is so much more that I need than to just be Brandon's mother and your wife. Too often you leave me alone, and you never give me little gifts. Not even on our anniversary. Which, by the way, was last Tuesday, though you forgot! For too long, I have accepted your career, and being the Chair of the Cardiac Care Unit at the hospital, are very important to you. However, I'm tired of being taken for granted. I can't even get a kiss, or a passionate hug, out of you anymore. Brandon's getting older now, and he certainly does not need me much, he never did, so I've gone to walk the streets of Baltimore in search of the kind of love I desperately seek. I just can't keep holding on. Don't come looking for me. I won't be there!"
The letter was signed with a simple, "Goodbye! My attorney will be in touch."
The only other item Veronica insured she had in her possession upon departing the home she'd broken, was the Gerber Grow Up Plan life insurance policy she'd faithfully paid on every month since Brandon was two years old. His own father never knew she purchased that policy.
Once en route, Veronica extracted her smartphone from her purse and called a number. She did not like loose ends. Veronica knew a house can not stand when it has an occasional wife. Doctor Herbert McCann no longer had that much.
Cast of Characters:
Brandon McCann - 13-year-old boy from Bangor, Maine. Vanished at the baggage reclaim area of the Orlando International Airport.
Doctor Herbert McCann - Brandon's father and the Chair of the Cardiac Care Unit of the Bangor Cardiovascular Center.
Veronica McCann - Brandon's Mommie Dearest and wife of Doctor Herbert McCann.
Becky Johnson - Flight attendant assigned to escort Brandon to his grandparents waiting at the gate at the Orlando International Airport.
Otis Mills - Porter who distracted Becky Johnson just before Brandon McCann vanished.
| Author Notes |
Some children's mothers are just witches!
Come To Me My Little Dearie, by beppe47, selected to complement this chapter of my book. So, thanks beppe47, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with this chapter of my book. |
By Brett Matthew West
LAST TIME (End of Chapter One where the book left off): In a crowded airport, among a massive throng of humanity scurrying about in a multitude of different directions, Brandon McCann vanished.
Word Count: 1,132
Member Cents: 90
********************************************************************************************
********************************************************************************************
Respectfully known among his fellow lawmen as The Bloodhound, Special Investigator David Brewster pushed thirty-three years in the Orange County Sheriff's Office, most of them with the Missing Persons Task Force. Brewster earned the name because once he scented a trail, and he could smell them a mile away, wild elephants could not impede his path.
More of a renegade than a team player, Brewster neared a felicious retirement. Perhaps Barbados, or Belize, figured into that picture? Or, more likely, Nome, Alaska. There he would construct an igloo, and wear snowshoes on his feet as his major means of transportation. A good dogsled team was also in order.
Brewster despised Florida and everything associated with the so-called Sunshine State. He always did. He dreaded beating the bushes in ninety-plus degree heat, that inevitably possessed the matching humidity, to go along with that unfathomableness.
It wasn't only the heat that annoyed Brewster to no end. The daily east coast sea-breeze meets west-coast seabreeze rainstorms, and their lightning displays that never relented, did too. Of course, those events also produced endless mosquitos, gnats, and love bugs.
Brewster was familiar with the regional folklore that love bugs were created in a lab at the University of Florida in Gainesville to eat mosquitos. Simply stated, they were a test tube experiment that exploded out of control. Wherever they came from, Brewster knew what kind of an annual nuisance these flying insects were.
All Brewster had to comment about that whole matter was, "Go Gators!"
Those were the slimy predators Brewster encountered too many times to recall. His journeys through various watering holes, searching for missing bodies over the last three decades, always resulted in their presence. Now, here he was, once again risking life and limb meandering through one of their lairs.
Yes, his team had been told in no uncertain terms by Captain Larry McNamara, "The department does not have the resources required to keep combing the same area we've already been over before!"
To which Brewster adamantly replied, "Then pull out, Larry! But, my team stays right here."
His team had previously searched several areas of the swamp they were exploring. They would keep looking there because the reports simply did not add up, for several reasons, as far as Brewster was concerned.
First off, John Bellinger admitted murdering the young prostitute while high on methamphetamines. Which meant there was a body out there, somewhere. Secondly, the swamp was the area where the killer claimed to have chained the girl to a stump, badly bleeding from the beating he'd put her through, but still alive. Bellinger asserted he did this so the bugs, and the snakes, and the creepy, crawly, critters, and the alligators could finish the "j-o-b" as he stated the word.
Most importantly, however, were Brewster's gut feelings. They convinced him he was on the right track. Therefore, he'd maintain this lead until it concluded, even if he had to go it alone. Brewster didn't care. He performed most of his best work that way.
So, there he was trudging through the mud and the muck. roasting under the sweltering heat, and cursing every step he took. That was the only way he could keep his sanity in a world gone mad. Retirement appeared better every inch of the slow-going way.
Brewster's radio crackled. He listened carefully to the transmission.
"Son of a fricken Seabiscuit!" he muttered audibly to himself, "Not another one!" he fumed.
'You could have been anything you wanted to be in life, Brewster. And, of all the professions out there, you chose to be a manhunter. As Ron White says, "You can't fix stupid!" ' he scowled at himself.
Then, he heard a loud, "Over here!" It was the young Deputy Anthony Siminelli calling.
As Brewster arrived, the youngster tossed his cookies. Brewster glanced down at the sight in front of him. There, exactly as John Bellinger ascertained, was Josephine Morrison. Or, more correctly stated, what remained of the victim. Brewster swore he'd do everything in his power to insure Bellinger received a hastened date with a needle in his near future. At this point, that was all he could do for the lass.
One down. One to go. This time it was a thirteen-year-old boy who disappeared at the Orlando International Airport. Brewster knew he should well be on his way to a leisurely, enjoyable, retirement at the close of business that day. But, somehow, he could not turn loose of this one last, final, hoo-rah.
Brewster headed for the Sheriff's Station and a piping hot shower. Afterwards, it was off to OIA to have a little chat with one each Southwest Airlines flight attendant named Becky Johnson. Whoever the Sam Hill she was?
The life of Riley that Brewster dearly pined for would wait. Come Helen Highwater he'd find the missing kid. Then, he would ride off into the golden sunset and get out of this racket for good. He'd gladly pass the baton to the next grinder in line who wanted to be a hero. David Brewster had had enough of this relentlessly proceeding train. Those shoes did not fit him anymore.
Cast of Characters:
Brandon McCann - Thirteen-year-old boy from Bangor, Maine. Vanished at the baggage reclaim area of the Orlando International Airport.
Becky Johnson - Southwest Airlines flight attendant assigned to escort Brandon McCann to his grandparents waiting at the passenger arrival gate at the Orlando International Airport.
David Brewster - Special Investigator with the Orange County Sheriff's Office Missing Persons Task Force. Known as The Bloodhound.
Larry McNamara - Sheriff's Captain.
John Bellinger - Cold-blooded murderer.
Ron White - Real life Comedian. Known for his truism "You can't fix stupid". Personally, I whole-heartedly believe this insinuation rings 100 percent correct and is repeatedly proven on a daily basis.
Anthony Siminelli - Young Deputy Sheriff who locates the remains of Josephine Morrison in the swamp.
Josephine Morrison - Prostitute grotesquely murdered by John Bellinger.
| Author Notes |
The Bloodhound is on the trail.
Evan is growing up, by Lilibug6, selected to complement this chapter of my book. So, thanks Lilibug6, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with this chapter of my book. |
By Brett Matthew West
LAST TIME: The life of Riley that Brewster pined for would wait. Come Helen Highwater he'd find the missing kid. Then, he would ride off into the golden sunset and get out of this racket for good. He'd gladly pass the baton to the next grinder in line who wanted to be a hero. David Brewster had had enough of this relentlessly proceeding train. Those shoes did not fit him anymore.
Word Count: 1,272
Member Cents: 1.07
*****************************************************************************************
*****************************************************************************************
The fluted Jim Beam shot glass sat on top of the congested airport lounge bar. Inside was the courage he needed. Around the stranger he heard various fragments of conversations as fatigued excursionists dashed to their destinations. For the last thirteen excruciatingly long years he'd withered away inside a penitentiary cell at the Union Correctional Institution, Florida's most notorious confinement for incarcerated criminals.
The accoster's atrocity? A penchant for little boys. Now, he was on the prowl again. The crushing obsession raged out of control. Ignited deep within him, the fire penetrated the swain to the core. That was the reason OIA appealed to him so much. Too many accessible targets called his name. The best part was, here at the airport, he fused into the environment. Nobody knew he existed. Soon they would.
He ordered another shot of bourbon and recalled a discussion he had previously had with the prison psychologist, Doctor Julia Stein, while he was locked away like a caged animal.
She'd clinically confided, "There are no known cures for your mental disorder. and the exact causes have not been exclusively established."
At first he faked interest in what she said. All he really cared about was meeting the stipulations of his pending parole.
"However, there are therapies you have undergone to reduce the possibilities of replicating your actions," she continued.
As Dr. Stein spoke, his mind drifted out to sea, far away from where she was. Perhaps it landed in French Polynesia and its famous black sand beaches.
"Pedophilia is not a chosen lifestyle," she stated, saying, "in your case, your displayed anxiety and depression, coupled with your psychopathological disorder, and anti-social characteristics, tend to engorge your aspirations."
'Will this woman ever shut her flipping flea trap?' he secretly wondered to himself, 'This is one b-o-r-I-n-g prattle session.'
All he knew was being highly introverted, he gravitated towards young boys who posed less of a threat to him than adults did.
Dr. Stein rambled on, "You also use cognitive distortions to meet personal needs. Whereupon, you then make a myriad of excuses for your wanton actions and exhibit your power over the children you groom. Now, let's discuss your collection of certain magazines."
The prisoner knew they were illegal to possess, and definitely not allowed in the prison. but, his child pornography publications were easily smuggled inside the four walls that contained him and fed his addiction.
"Your collection has been discovered to be organized, labeled, and categorized by age, act, and fantasy. This articulated fueling, defining, and validating your aspirations," Dr. Stein expressed.
Rickie Wolford believed he was incorrigible beyond the hope of ever overcoming his disillusionment.
"In order to be considered for release from incarceration, you have undergone cognitive behavior therapy, to reduce comportment toward your likelihood of repeating your crimes and re-entering prison again," Dr. Stein complimentarily elaborated, "you have also received relapse prevention therapy, to learn how to identify and better respond to risky situations, that may cause you to re-offend. Based on these significant findings, I am recommending you for parole." That was the news Wolford awaited.
Now, in the airport lounge he was a free man. A fresh haircut, and a three-piece business suit obtained upon his release from custody, provided the appearance of him fitting into mainstream society unnoticed. The sore thumb no longer stood out from the crowd. The trust factor they projected was an important aspect of his conspiracy.
All he needed to do was nurse the drink in his glass until it was gone and bide his time. Opportunity would soon present itself to him. He would be ready to pounce when the time arrived.
The afternoon crowd of nomads hustled past him in search of their flights. He, and his short, salt-and-pepper-colored hair were ignored by the travelers who rapidly raced for their flights, or to grab a bite to eat in the adjacent cafeteria, or to meet their parties at the gates.
'Life is all good,' Wolford theorized to himself as he watched the hubbub occur around him.
He witnessed a family of four drag their luggage behind them on little rolling wheels as they sped off past the newsstand and the Starbucks concession.
'No good,' he determined.
In all directions he looked, he saw the mass of mortals. He needed a target that was alone to make his move. They'd appear. Of that he possessed no doubt. Unsuspectingly, they always did. In the meantime, he ordered a third round of Jim Beam and sat back on his stool. If need be, he had all night.
Aimlessly, a boy walked past three silver elevators, and rounded the corner of a wood-paneled wall. The youngster seemingly did not have a care in the world. Perhaps it was his whistling softly to himself that first attracted Wolford's unwanted attention. Maybe it was simply the lad's adorableness? The attacker always did prefer blonds.
Observing the youngster, Wolford swallowed the last drop of bourbon in his glass and stood up. The time was at hand. The boy nonchalantly strolled halfway down the corridor. He slowed down to glance at the murals of airplanes that adorned the wall. Wolford fell in stride.
As he approached a wooden door with the word "MEN," and a picture of a male silhouette engraved in gold lettering on it, the boy pushed the door ajar. He located an empty stall and entered it. He forget to lock the door behind him. He'd performed this act daily and knew it wouldn't take long to complete. He seated himself.
Suddenly, the door to the stall burst wide open! Rickie Wolford stood there with a sparkle in his eyes and evil on his mind. The boy screamed at the top of his lungs. To no avail. Nobody heard his wretched cries.
"Hello, handsome. You're so-o-o-o-o cute! Wanna play?" Wolford haughtily asked the boy. He turned and locked the stall door behind him.
The bane for the preadolescent began. The knife in Wolford's hand eviscerated the sprout. He knew dessert was about to be served.
Cast of Characters:
David Brewster - Special Investigator with the Orange County Sheriff's Office Missing Persons Task Force. Known as The Bloodhound.
Rickie Wolford - Convicted pedophile. Attacked a boy at the Orlando International Airport.
Doctor Julia Stein - Prison psychologist. Recommended pedophile Rickie Wolford for parole.
Unidentified Preadolescent - Victim of pedophile Rickie Wolford.
| Author Notes |
Danger can lurk around any corner. And, in this book, it does!
Evan is growing up, by Lilibug6, selected to complement this chapter of my book. So, thanks Lilibug6, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with this chapter of my book. |
By Brett Matthew West
WRITER'S REQUEST:
If you start reading this chapter, and decide to quite before you finish it, I would appreciate knowing why. My intention with this story is to make it book ready. Therefore, all honest reviews, even if all you do is answer that question, are appreciated.
I am not overly worried about how many stars you provide this chapter. I would really like to shake loose from the "good old boy" review system, and simply make this chapter the best it can be.
My reason for asking for this is because the reviews I have received vary a wide range from changing the location of the murder from the men's room to a boiler room, to the usual "great stuff". And, honest reviews help to keep my writing much more focused.
*******************************************************************************************
*******************************************************************************************
WARNING: This chapter contains graphic violence as we delve into the twisted world of an insane pedophile. Aren't they all?
LAST TIME: Suddenly the door to the stall burst wide open! Rickie Wolford stood there with a sparkle in his eyes and evil on his mind. The boy screamed at the top of his lungs. To no avail. Nobody heard his wretched cries.
"Hello, handsome. You're so-o-o-o-o cute. Wanna play?" Wolford hauntingly asked the boy. He turned and locked the stall door behind him.
The bane for the preadolescent began. The knife in Wolford's hand eviscerated the sprout. He knew dessert was about to be served.
Word Count: 1,455
Member Cents: 1.02
**********************************************************************************************
**********************************************************************************************
"Oh, my dear God, no! Somebody get some help in here now! The poor boy. He's dead!"
These were the grief-stricken words uttered by the hysterical old man at the Orlando International Airport. He'd been the only person to occupy the facilities after Rickie Wolford accosted the youngster in the locked stall.
In a mad hurry to exit the men's room, the senior citizen tripped over his own two feet. He stumbled forward and almost fell flat on his face. Somehow, he prevented the fall, caught his balance, and spoke these words, "There's blood everywhere! I've seen gutted deer look better!"
Two uniformed patrolmen raced into the crime scene. The old codger did not know how accurate his perceptions were. Slumped down on the toilet seat, the boy had been split open from his belly button to his heart. Blood ran down the sides of the commode and pooled on the floor at his feet. His pants legs were soaked in crimson. The officers gagged at what they encountered.
This was David Brewster's welcome to OIA. He'd come to the airport to interview Southwest Airlines flight attendant Becky Johnson in regards to the missing youngster he'd been radioed about. Brewster didn't expect to be drawn into a gruesome murder.
The chaotic noise grabbed his attention the moment he stepped off the elevator. He wondered if fate had cruelly delivered the missing juvenile to him? Although for the kid's sake, he hoped that wasn't the case.
Having ditched his blood-soaked jacket in the trash receptacle in the men's room where he'd committed his violent rage, Rickie Wolford stood off in the shadows admiring his handiwork.
'The kid had it coming,' he justified his actions to himself, 'he shouldn't have rejected my advances.'
Wolford got the boy to tell him his name. It was Joshua McGirt. That was the last pronouncement the kid made before Wolford cut his tongue out of his mouth to keep as a souvenir. He also amputated the boy's genitalia and shoved it down his throat.
Wolford treasured the sound of the name "Joshua." It conjured up strength and excited fantasies deep within him. So sad what he had to do to the corpse though.
'If Joshua had only stopped screaming,' Wolford declared to himself, 'he might have lived to tell about their chance encounter.'
That was the reason Wolford killed the boy, to shut him up so the loud commotion wouldn't draw an unwanted crowd.
'Stupid punk! Oh well. It is what it is and it's not going to change now.' Wolford vindicated his savagery.
More running feet arrived at the location. The men's room was cordoned off with yellow barricade tape marked "POLICE" and "DO NOT CROSS". David Brewster approached the mulatto stationed outside the doorway that led into the men's room. He had questions he needed answers to. There was no better place to receive that information from. On the security guard's white shirt he wore a brass nametag that identified him as Ezekiel Belvedere.
Brewster flashed his credentials so the guard would know who he was responding to. "Got a make on the body?" he asked.
"Young boy. Maybe twelve or thirteen. From what I've been told he's been cut up badly," Belvedere replied. Shaking his head in disbelief he stated, "no one deserves to die like that! OCPD's got a handle on it."
"For crying out loud," Brewster muttered.
Desiring to see the remains, he stepped past the guard and entered the men's room. He also had additional questions to pose to the on-site officers. It wasn't every day a boy was slaughtered at the airport.
Never insecure about the world he lived in, David Brewster did not break easy and he had his pride. Upon witnessing what he found in the men's room, this case became personal. Although he overstepped his jurisdiction, Brewster welcomed the challenge of bringing the crazed psychopath who rendered this violence to justice. He made a mental note to confer with the dead boy's parents before he left the airport.
An announcement transmitted over the intercom system throughout the terminal that said, "David Brewster, please meet flight attendant Becky Johnson at the Southwest Airlines courtesy counter."
Brewster heard the page loud and clear. He observed the dead body one last time. It was spread out on the linoleum floor ready to be tagged, bagged, and carted off by the Coroner's Office upon their arrival. He obtained the information he sought from those working the crime scene and headed back out of the men's room. Brewster walked past Security Guard Belvedere and located the Southwest Airlines courtesy counter.
Rickie Wolford detected David Brewster's actions. He did not know who Brewster was but something warned him to be very suspicious of this stranger. Wolford also noticed his jacket as the evidence was carried out of the men's room in a plastic bag held by a uniformed officer. It was time for him to leave, as expeditiously as he could, out of the airport. DNA, from his sweat on the jacket, would unquestionably connect him to Joshua McGirt's murder.
Joshua McGirt, and his parents, had been on their way to Disney World from their home in London, Ontario to celebrate his twelfth birthday with Mickey Mouse. Joshua always fantasized about the fun he'd have at the Magic Kingdom. He especially wanted to visit the Frontierland Shootin' Arcade, the Haunted Mansion, and Space Mountain. None of that would ever materialize. For Joshua there would only be a slow ride in the back of a long, black, hearse and no brass band at the station to welcome his arrival.
People like to pretend they are in control of their destinies. They aren't.
Cast of Characters:
David Brewster - Special Investigator with the Orange County Sheriff's Office Missing Persons Task Force. Known as The Bloodhound.
Becky Johnson - Southwest Airlines flight attendant assigned to escort Brandon McCann to his waiting grandparents at the passenger arrival gate of the Orlando International Airport.
Rickie Wolford - Convicted pedophile. Gruesomely murdered Joshua McGirt.
Ezekiel Belvedere - Security Officer stationed outside the men's room of the Orlando International Airport. David Brewster encountered him entering the crime scene.
Assorted Police Officers - Responded to the crime scene at the airport.
Unidentified Old Man - Discovered the mutilated dead body of Joshua McGirt in the men's room of the Orlando International Airport.
Mr. and Mrs. McGirt - Joshua McGirt's parents.
| Author Notes |
Personally, I believe pedophiles are not able to be rehabilitated, and therefore should be permanently locked away from society, where they can not harm young children as depicted in this chapter.
OCPD - Orange County Police Department Evan is growing up, by Lilibug6, selected to complement this chapter of my book. So, thanks Lilibug6, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with this chapter of my book. |
By Brett Matthew West
Last Time: Suddenly the door to the stall burst wide open! Rickie Wolford stood there with a sparkle in his eyes and evil on his mind. The boy screamed at the top of his lungs. To no avail. Nobody heard his wretched cries.
"Hello, handsome. You're so-o-o-o-o cute! Wanna play?" Wolford haughtily asked the boy. He turned and locked the stall door behind him.
The bane for the preadolescent began. The knife in Wolford's hand eviscerated the sprout. He knew dessert was about to be served.
Word Count: 1,315
Member Cents: 88
*****************************************************************************************
*****************************************************************************************
Groggy, Brandon McCann slowly aroused. He reached up and felt the large lump on the top of his blond head. It hurt ...badly! He wondered if he had a concussion? He'd never had one before.
Brandon did not have any idea where he was. Nor could he guess how he'd arrived there. Immediately, he realized he was in pitch-blackness and thought he might be inside a hot, humid, mineshaft. Perhaps something similar, maybe even a well?
Slowly, he shook his head from side to side in an effort to clear the cobwebs from his mind. He could feel his brain rattle. The last memory Brandon recalled was waiting for his suitcase at the carousel in the airport.
"Ah-ha! At last, Sleeping Beauty finally emerges," Brandon heard an unfamiliar sounding voice say.
Startled, Brandon attempted to pick up on the accent. He couldn't quite make it out. Brandon decided it was possibly Alabaman? He wasn't sure. Quickly, Brandon examined what he could see, which wasn't much.
"Who are you?" Brandon courageously demanded.
"Uh-uh, clever boy. My name is not information you need to be concerned about at this time," came the callous response.
"Why are you doing this to me?" Brandon wondered, warning, "I'm supposed to be visiting my grandparents. When I don't show up they'll have the police come looking for me! Then you'll be sorry!"
As a result of Brandon's bravado, a slight chuckle was heard.
"Let them come, Brandon. They'll never find you out here in the middle of nowhere. And, if they happen to get real lucky, and come too close to where you are, you'll be transferred to another location before anyone can do anything about it," he was told.
"Why are you doing this to me?" Brandon once again demanded.
"Money by the pound, Cowboy," came the reply, "it's all about the dinero. You know, the big bucks. I'm being paid a lot of money to keep you here for a very long time."
"Why? By Who?" Brandon rapidly blazed his next two questions.
"You are a mighty inquisitive little mouse, aren't you, Brandon?" he was asked, "Why? Because I can. By who? Well, I'm afraid for that question I am not at liberty to divulge an answer to you, Squirrel."
The nickname caught Brandon's attention. Back in his hometown of Bangor, Maine he was known by all his friends as "Squirrel". A name that was given to him because of his non-stop, constant, chattering.
'How did this person know that about me?' Brandon wondered to himself.
"However, Brandon," he heard the unknown speaker tell him, "I very strongly suggest you put all thoughts you may have about trying to escape from me as far out of your mind as you possibly can. We all know how mule-headed you can be."
"Or what?" Brandon defiantly questioned.
"Don't stone the messenger, Brandon. You just be a good little tyke and do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it , and how I tell you to do it. Because if you don't, I will have to cage you, my little chickadee," he was informed.
The voice continued by saying, "It is not my intention to harm you, Brandon. Nor do I want to chain you. That would be most uncomfortable. But, I will if you force me to. As I said, it is my sole responsibility in the grand scheme of life to keep you safely and securely tucked away for a very long time. What condition that is in is entirely up to how you behave. Remember, Brandon, I'm watching every move you make."
"I want to leave ...now!" Brandon angrily retorted.
Stone cold silence.
Enraged, he demanded again, "Did you hear me? I said I want to leave ...now!"
Silence was all that responded.
Steadily, Brandon clambered to his feet. He decided if no one was there any longer then all he had to do was walk out of wherever he was. He took three steps. The path was clear. So far, so good. Unable to see because of the blackness encircling him, Brandon reached out with his hands to grope his surroundings. On the fourth step he took he walked headfirst into a barrier.
"Ouch! That hurt!" he loudly yelped.
Brandon turned around and walked eight steps back to another unseen barrier. He attempted the other two directions as well. The same results occurred. Brandon reasoned in his mind that he was interned inside a ten foot long, and eight foot wide, confinement space. The little mathematician unceremoniously plopped down on the ground in deep contemplation. Deafening silence echoed around him.
Known to pull rabbits out of his hat in difficult situations, Brandon seldom became unraveled by any tough circumstances he found himself in the middle of. He reached into his pocket for his cellphone. It was gone, along with his wallet, and everything else that would identify who he was.
The notion crossed his mind, and he asked himself, 'Who would want to kidnap the nobody son of a small town surgeon from Bangor, Maine? And, more importantly, why? My Dad ain't got no money.'
As creative as he was known to be, Brandon wished he had his computer video games to occupy his time until he was rescued, or better yet, could design an escape route out of this peculiar predicament he'd become entrapped in. Departing this hole, or whatever it was that held him a captured prisoner, became Brandon's only priority.
'Maybe I can dig my way to China?' he thought out loud to himself.
Brandon flexed his muscles and roared like the Incredible Hulk. Then, the boy quickly metamorphosed back into the scrawny weakling he'd always been. His adrenaline rush swiftly dissipated.
Realizing the futility of that Herculean effort, Brandon said, 'With your two wimpy hands? Give me a break!'
Resigned to his fate, he told himself, 'Get a grip on reality, Brandon. That's the only way you're going to wiggle out of this pickle.'
Cast of Characters:
Brandon McCann - Thirteen-year-old boy from Bangor, Maine. Vanished at the baggage reclaim area of the Orlando International Airport.
David Brewster - Introduced in Chapter 4, David Brewster is a Special Investigator with the Orange County Sheriff's Office Missing Persons Unit. Foregoes retirement to help find the missing Brandon McCann.
Rickie Wolford - Introduced in Chapter 5, Rickie Wolford is a pedophile. Eviscerated a boy in the men's room at the Orlando International Airport.
Unknown Voice - Informed Brandon he was kidnapped.
| Author Notes |
A REVIEW I RECEIVED:
"First, you gave us Cody Schroder in Astatula. He will always be my most favorite character of all. Now along comes Brandon McCann, a delightfully engaging story. It is just that good and that much fun to read. Brandon McCann has all the action any reader could possibly want. There are good men-none any better than David Brewster, and there are bad men, too-think Rickie Wolford. A deftly and honestly rendered book with an extravagance of well written dialogue in every chapter. SUPERB! Highly visual, original, deeply affecting, amply imagined, and crisply written. Now I have two favorite characters created by you. Can not wait for each chapter to unfold. Do write on!" Am I proud of this review? Of course I am. I did not realize my writing touched readers so deeply! Evan is growing up, by Lilibug6, selected to complement this chapter of my book. So, thanks Lilibug6, for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with this chapter of my book., |
|
You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author! |
| © Copyright 2015 Brett Matthew West All rights reserved. Brett Matthew West has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
© 2015 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement