WHERE'S MY SON? by John C. Dalglish

pen.”
    “Of course!” Jason agreed.
    “Anyway, I took a photo of the guy’s plate with my phone, and I was wondering if you could get me his number and address. I'd like to contact him without getting insurance involved.”
    “Well …I'm not supposed to...”
    Michael held his breath.
    “...but okay, don't suppose it'll hurt.”
    Michael gave the plate number to Jason and waited. Jason was back in five minutes with a name.
    Benny Carter. His address was near Hondo, a town west of San Antonio.
    “Thanks , Jason, I appreciate it.”
    “No problem . You staying on the straight and narrow?”
    Michael chuckled. “Yeah, just an occasional glass of wine.”
    “Glad to hear it. Take care and, I'll be in touch with any news.” Jason hung up.
    Michael stared at the name. A dark fire began to smolder in him. He knew this was the kidnapper. It had to be. He felt certain and he felt anger. Anger that pushed him to act.
    In the past, he ’d fought the anger, subdued it. This time, there would be no controlling it. He could feel it taking over, and he didn't care.
     
    *******
     
    Benny wheeled the '69 Mustang Mach One down his driveway. He'd bought it with the money from the kidnapping and had it repainted. Yellow with a black hood and black stripes. It looked fast, and it was.
    He drove around back and parked by the kitchen door. Getting out, he locked the car and went to let himself in the trailer.
    Putting his key in the lock, he saw a reflection in the window, but it was too late. Pain exploded from the back of his head. His knees buckled and his face crashed into the glass. He slid unconscious to the ground.
     
    *******
     
    As Benny slowly started to come around, he began taking stock of his body. He could feel liquid, which he assumed was blood, oozing down his neck and under his shirt. He could also taste it dripping from his nose, probably from when he hit the door. He had a splitting headache, and opening his eyes in the bright sun sent pain coursing through his brain.
    Once he could get his eyes to stay open, he found he was tied to something, his arms behind him. It felt like the huge blackjack oak behind the house. His feet were also bound with a rope that went around his ankles and around the tree.
    “So, you’re awake?”
    Benny's head swivelled quickly to his right, which made him wince in pain. “Who are you? What...what do you want?”
    A man Benny didn't recognize got up and moved in front of him, ignoring his question.
    “Who are you?” Benny demanded.
    The man just stared at him.
    “I said , who are you?”
    The stranger moved in very close, spitting his words into Benny's face. “Who am I? Who am I? I'm the father of the child you took.”
    Benny's eyes got huge, which made his headache even worse, and he thought he would vomit.
    “Child? What child? I don't know nothin' about no kid.”
    “Oh come now, ten years ago, small baby.” Michael nearly exhaled contempt. “Or do you do that kind of thing all the time?”
    Benny's head began to clear. That's what happens when fear pumps adrenaline through you, and Benny was afraid. He started looking around wildly for some means of escape. He didn't own a gun, and if he did, it would be in the house. His knife was in his boot, but the ropes were too tight, and his hands wouldn’t come free.
    Benny lo oked into his captor’s eyes. He saw a wildness, an anger, and a man filled with an evil Benny recoiled from. The man stayed in close, too close.
    “Now, where's my son?”
    “I didn't do nothin' with your kid...I don't know what you’re talking about.”
    The man put his hand across Benny's forehead, and drove the back of Benny's head into the tree. Benny let out a groan, his eyes rolling back in his head. When he opened them again, he spit in the man's face.
    The man stepped back and slowly wiped his face w ith his sleeve. Turning, he walked over to a woodpile and grabbed a twenty-pound sledgehammer. He hefted it up and down a couple of times,