Arrived (Book One)

Chapter 12: The Great Game Is On

After Dad paid the taxi driver, we both headed to the park and scurried past the happy visitors then sat next to Senior Goodman, who seemed surprised when he saw us.

"We are going to help you find your son," I said. "But just to let you know," Dad added in an unconvinced tone. "I want you to tell us everything you have forgotten yesterday. If you disobey my orders, it will cost you dearly."

Senior Goodman stared hard at my father, but slowly nodded. "Alright, Ben." Goodman responded. He retold the story about going to his job, inviting us to his home, and found his men and wife on the floor, covered in blood.

"Did you tell the police what you have seen?" I asked. He shook his fat head no, pulling out some sort of note from his chest pocket. It was a blank sheet of paper with letters cut out of a magazine.

Dad took the letter then studied the glued words then stared at the bottom of the page. It had a small drawing of a tarantula skeleton. "This is a threat," Dad mumbled. Senior Goodman nodded again, but this time, in terror.

"I don't know what to do," he whimpered. I took the paper and glanced at it for a minute before handing it back to Dad. Around the borders of the dark letters were a thick layer of glue, the letter a had been torn up, and the person who did it was either a grown man or a toddler.

And besides, the phrases on the paper were scrambled somehow. I don't know if the kidnapper did it intentionally, or there was something hidden inside the page.

"What else do you have that can help us with the investigation?" I asked. Senior Goodman gave me a curious look. "Aren't you a little bit too young to asking these questions?"

I gave him a menacing stare. "Do you want us to find your son or not?" I asked bitterly. Dad flashed me a reprimanding look, but I ignored it. "What else do you have that can help us with the case?" I repeated.

Senior Goodman pulled out his suitcase from behind the bench then handed it to me. It had a golden lock and a brown leather fitting on the box."Here is everything I have," Goodman explained.

"Are you sure?" Dad asked. "You don't trust me?" Senior Goodman asked. Dad didn't answer his question, instead he planted a fake smile on his face then rose up from the bench. "Thank you, Ben," Goodman said. "For finding my son."

I clutched the suitcase handle and the note to my sides as I got up from the bench and walked up to Dad's side. "I am only doing this because it is my job," Dad replied bluntly. "Not because I like you."

Much to my surprise, Senior Goodman laughed at the insult as if it was a joke. "It's no wonder you don't have any friends," he joked. I didn't know if he meant it to hurt my dad's feelings so my words flew out of my mouth.

"Maybe there's no wonder of why you weren't in jail." I retorted. "You know, being a cocky pimp and all." Dad held his laughter while Goodman's plump face instantly turned red and his huge mouth opened wide.

Senior Goodman stopped laughing then glared at me. "Your father should teach you some manners," he snarled in embarrassment. "A young lady should not say these words to an adult-"

"When the young lady is speaking her mind?" Dad interrupted defensively. Goodman and I both stared at him in shock: It was the first time that I heard Dad defending me.

"And besides," Dad added. "I kinda like it when a woman has a backbone." Perfect timing, I thought snidely to myself. He took me by the hand then walked away. As we walked, I felt proud that Dad stood up for me.

We kept walking until Dad reached into the cafe. The ceiling fan spun around in a full circle, catching dust, almost every table is empty, and the floor is slicked with dirty mop water.

A Cuban waitress was standing behind the counter, scrubbing the same dark coffee spot with washcloth. She wore a dreary white uniform and dark hair. Her brown eyes must have been tired of staring at the grimy coffee stain.

As soon as we got seated on one of the chairs, I smoothed out the wrinkles of the letter then flipped it on its backside. "Do you have the suitcase?" Dad asked. I nodded then gave the case to him.

He then set the case on the table then fumbled into his pocket. My eyes grew wide he pulled out a small golden key then fitted it to the lock. Since when did he have that key with him? I thought. To be honest, I thought that he had forgotten to ask Goodman.

Sensing my surprise, Dad replied that Goodman loaned him the key to his suitcase a couple of years ago. "But doesn't he need it?" I asked. "He has a spare key in his chest pocket," Dad shrugged. "Anyway, let's figure out what he's got inside there."

The insides of the suitcase clicked like a computer mouse. Dad took the huge pile of papers and read them one by one without even blinking. While he is reading, I thought about the threatened scrambled message:

Dear Mr. Goodman,

Your son's life is in danger. Malcolm will be extremely distraught when his 'evangelical' father won't save him. Around the corner is a dangerous snake, ready to kill you at every turn. malcolm's time will be running out soon.

He won't be safe under the hot sand by midnight. Don't worry, as long as youdon't call the police, your son will be safe...for now.

Reaching for my bag for a pen, I scribbled, dangerous snake, on the page. It has to be a metaphor, a dangerous snake maybe a killer or an assassin. But what does the son, supposedly named Malcolm, has to do with the threat?