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Silent Protector
Barbara Phinney
His life as a U.S. marshal was something Pastor Ian McNeal had left behind…until he's asked to care for little Charlie Troop. The boy witnessed a terrible crime and hasn't spoken since–except to his Auntie Liz, the one adult he trusts. Ian just wants to find the truth, something only Charlie can reveal. But Charlie isn't talking, and Liz is determined to protect Charlie against anyone who'd hurt, frighten or pressure him–including Ian. Yet with a killer dead set on making sure Charlie never speaks again, a protector like Ian is just what Liz and Charlie need.
“Charlie is a witness, Liz. He has seen his father’s killer. We need him.”
“You need him?” She tightened her lips before speaking again. “What about his needs? Hasn’t he suffered enough without being dragged from everything he’s known to live with strangers? He needs to feel safe, not scared.”
Ian held her gaze. “If Charlie testifies against his father’s killer, he can bring down that man—a man who could destroy many lives—more than you know.”
Liz went cold, despite the lapse in the breeze that had offered relief. So that was it. They stole Charlie, hoping her nephew would give a statement that they could use in court, without caring about his emotional well-being.
“So as long as you get your killer—that’s all you care about?”
Sighing, he shook his head, then looked into her eyes. “That’s not true.”
BARBARA PHINNEY
was born in England and raised in Canada. She has traveled throughout her life, loving to explore the various countries and cultures of the world. After she retired from the Canadian Armed Forces, Barbara turned her hand to romance writing. The thrill of adventure and the love of happy endings, coupled with a too-active imagination, have merged to help her create this and other wonderful stories. Barbara spends her days writing, building her dream home with her husband and enjoying their fast-growing children.
Silent Protector
Barbara Phinney
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as
a little child, he shall not enter therein.
—Mark 10:15
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LETTER TO READER
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
Someone was trying to run her off the road!
Liz Tate gripped the rental car’s steering wheel tightly, her heart pounding in her ears as she struggled to keep the car straight.
And not careening off the edge of the newly built causeway and into the deep water to her right.
Please, Lord, help me!
The SUV beside her, some dark blue thing she didn’t dare get a good look at, scraped up against her driver’s side once more. A painful sound grated through her senses. The sickening shove bumped her closer to the loose gravel and rocky edge.
She swerved back, slamming on the brakes to help control her car. The tires bit into the gravel then spun and slipped farther. The other vehicle backed off.
She was losing control of the car! With a wild glance over her shoulder, she yanked the vehicle back onto the road again.
Filled with dust and gravel, her brakes squealed in protest. She fishtailed uncontrollably.
Close to the end of the causeway, the SUV beside her rammed her side again. The force knocked her against the driver’s door.
Liz felt her rental spin and lurch over the gravel, catch and bump on the jagged rocks that lined the water’s edge and saw nothing but slushy, dark water ahead.
She’d come down here to Florida to find her nephew Charlie, following a set of circumstances almost too fearful and incredible to believe. And now, as the hood of her rental splashed into the murky water, as that water surged over her windshield, she knew that she’d never see Charlie again.
Keep him safe, Father God. Because I’ve failed him again.
“Are you thirsty, son? Do you need a cold drink? Something to eat?”
But Charlie Troop sat mutely across the cluttered office from Ian MacNeal, his young eyes downcast, just as he’d been for the entire flight down here from Bangor. The child hadn’t said a word to him. Not a single word. This was the boy’s second full day here and still nothing. He refused to speak.
Even when the boy’s hair had been shorn off yesterday, that matted, dirty mess of dark curls and knots that perpetually fell into the boy’s eyes, he’d said nothing. It was too hot to bear here, Ian figured, but that wasn’t the whole reason for the cut. After Charlie’s hair had been trimmed down to a longish crew cut, Ian had bleached the remaining length a dark blond. He had then given the boy a pair of glasses to wear.
Charlie had studied his new look in the mirror. But after that, his gaze fell to his feet again.
It cut Ian to the core to change the boy’s appearance, but his safety was too important. He needed his look altered.
Ian had tried several times to initiate a conversation with the ten-year-old, but Charlie would drop his gaze and bite his lip. And remain completely silent.
Even Ian’s new assistant, Monica, a young woman whose own parents died suddenly a few years ago, tried to reach him, but Charlie stalwartly refused to speak to anyone.
Patience, Ian told himself. The psychologist who’d assessed the boy said he’d been traumatized by what he’d seen. With patience, trust and time, the child would talk. Just don’t push him or he’d slip further into his mute shell, the specialist had advised.
Looking across from him this hot July day, Ian sighed. Even when he’d been a U.S. Marshal full time, long before he’d given up that life for the no-less-busy one of a pastor, he’d never had to deal with someone who so completely refused to communicate with him.
Only recalling his own turbulent youth, the gypsy lifestyle forced on him by a long line of uncaring relatives who were too busy to bother with an orphan, was he able to anticipate Charlie’s basic needs. That and the wealth of experience that his neighbors, Elsie and George Wilson, could offer.
The older couple was an invaluable help. George, himself, had been a U.S. Marshal back in the day. In fact, he’d met Elsie there when she’d been hired on as part of the administrative staff. It was Elsie who had first told Ian about the need for a pastor on Spring Island, and he was happy to be working near his old friends. Especially now. Even though the Wilsons weren’t officially on Charlie’s protective detail, the marshals had agreed to let the boy stay in their home. Their trailer was right next to Ian’s house, and they were all hoping Elsie’s grandmotherly ways would have a positive effect on the frightened child.
Ian removed his cell phone pouch on his belt and dropped it on the desk, realizing only then that the phone inside was missing. For how long? He’d used it shortly after he’d brought Charlie here, but he was sure he’d put it back into the pouch when he was done.
Searching his desk caused several files to flutter to the tile floor. “It’s nice and cool in here, isn’t it?” he asked Charlie conversationally as he stooped to pick them up. He turned to set them on top of the filing cabinet. “Remember, I told you that this building has the only decent air conditioner in the whole village. So we’ll stay in here as long as you like, okay, son? It’s hotter than Bangor, isn’t it?”
Again, silence. Ian looked over his shoulder at the small ten-year-old. He wanted to engage the child in conversation. Talk about the island here, about Florida and Moss Point and how the village came to be. But he knew he shouldn’t name specific places. The less the child knew of his whereabouts, the safer he was. “But Elsie has a good fan. It really blows around the gulf air, and that’s cool. Well, it’s supposed to be cooler, I think.”
Charlie made no comment.
After learning he was to be reinstated with the U.S. Marshal Service, thanks to a clause in his retirement agreement, Ian had read Charlie’s case file and knew right then he had to take the child into protective custody.
Funny how he’d never expected to be reinstated after he’d retired to become a pastor. He’d seen all the legal mumbo jumbo added after 9/11, the revised nondisclosure agreements, the reinstatement clauses. But it didn’t hit home until he met Charlie and was asked to return. And knew he was truly a marshal again for this very reason.
His services were needed. Charlie Troop needed a place safe enough to give his statement. The man he had seen murder his father was so dangerous that not convicting him could destroy any chances of a normal, safe life for the boy. Without a statement, the police wouldn’t be able to prosecute Jerry’s killer and hopefully bring down others high in the drug cartel for which Jerry had begun to work.
Ian stood and moved to his filing cabinet. He had a ton of other work to file away, things he’d ignored for the last month as he’d been preparing for Vacation Bible School and finishing off new programs, work he had been planning on doing before the reinstatement. The rec center here had become multifunctional, with a fully stocked clinic in back, his office up front and church in the main hall. Ian picked up a file, intent on starting some of the filing. Monica had the week off now that Vacation Bible School was over with.
But he stopped when he caught sight of Charlie. The hollow expression he cast Ian’s way cut through him.
The boy was hurting—missing his father as only a boy could. Despite the fact that Jerry Troop was a known drug dealer, the man had been Charlie’s father. And Charlie missed him.
“I know how you feel, son. I still miss my dad, and he died a long time ago.”
Charlie blinked rapidly then bit his lips and frowned, as if fighting the urge to speak.
“Do you need to say something, son?” he gently asked the boy.
As expected, the boy didn’t answer. But this time, he’d met Ian’s eyes in silent but crystal clear communication. I want to go home.
Ian tightened his jaw against the compassion lancing through him. Being a pastor sometimes meant giving bad news but to tell the boy he had no home to go to, well, that really hurt.
Instead, all Ian could do was watch him. Just tell me what you saw when your father died. Tell me, son, so I can stop that bad man.
Ian had already tried that line several times on the plane coming down here but to no avail. The child was too traumatized to discuss it. He was still in shock, still trying to push aside the painful emotions until he could cope with them.
Again, Ian hated his inability to get the boy to talk. He’d been trained to deal with frightened children, and his failure here irritated him. His supervisor was expecting results, and Ian hated that he had none to offer him.
Ian searched his messy desk for his cell phone. He’d shown Charlie a picture of William Smith, the one he had on his cell. Their only suspect. But the boy had remained mute. Maybe this afternoon would be different.
Ian needed him to talk, because their only suspect wasn’t the kind to allow any witnesses to live.
Abruptly, the front door banged open, the sound vibrating through the quiet building. Monica threw open his office door.
“Pastor Ian! You have to come quickly! There’s been an accident. A car drove right over the causeway and into the water. Whoever’s in it will drown!”
“Call 911!” Ian took flight. In one swift motion, he grabbed his hat and his handgun, as was his first reaction, then he grabbed Charlie. He wasn’t about to leave the boy alone.
It was exactly as Monica had said, Ian noted as he hurried down the road, Charlie in tow. She’d said she was out for a walk and had heard the crash. A quarter mile stretch through the forest broke free at Spring Island’s side of the sun-bleached, half-built causeway. It wasn’t ready for public traffic, yet. But Ian could see that someone had moved the large barriers. The ferry sign still stood, though the ferry was gone. The causeway was still gravel atop larger boulders that made up the foundation.
Now in the bright sun, Ian tugged down the brim of his hat. He scanned the edges of the causeway, finding what he expected on the north side. A small car bobbed in the water. Bubbles danced all around it, and it was slowly sinking.
A woman was slumped over the steering wheel.
“Stay here, Charlie. In the shade.” Ian pointed to the edge of the forest nearest the sign. Then he raced along the center of the causeway and down over the other side.
At that moment, the front end of the car dipped into the murky water, and its driver lifted her head. Ian could see water filling the interior. The woman turned to the door window, panic exploding on her face in one swift swell of fear as she slapped her palms against the glass.
“Roll down the window!” he called to her.
Ian leaped into the water, reaching the car door after one hard stroke of his arms and a push off the rocks. He caught the woman’s attention. She was panicking, unable to free herself with her fevered movements.
Ian tried the door. It was locked.
“Unlock the door! Pull up on the knob!” he yelled at her.
She obeyed quickly. Working against gravity and time, Ian tugged open the door and jammed his body against it to block it from slamming shut again. The door hit his back hard as he braced himself against the frame.
