Girl Jacked by Christopher Greyson

car and then the tears began to fall.
    Jack pretended to concentrate on driving as Replacement quietly cried. He thought back to one of his first criminal justice classes; Psychology of the Victim. The instructor’s words haunted him now.
    “When a crime is committed, who is the victim?” Hands shot up all over the room, along with one brave voice.
    “A person that suffers harm or death from another or from some adverse act.”
    “And using that definition, who is the victim in a missing person’s case?”
    “The person missing?”
    “Wrong!” The teacher had brought both hands crashing down on his podium with a loud bang. “What about the mother? What about the poor little brother? The uncle, father, sister, teacher, lover….” He had fired down the list, his words hanging in the air, suspended on the silent response to his question.
    “AND… If the VICTIM is a person who suffers harm or death from another or from some adverse act what about YOU? Will you not lose sleep wondering what happened? Will you not pore over the facts and interview all of the shell-shocked people who want to know what happened? Where is their loved one they ask, and they have turned to you for help, but you have no answer! You look at them with pity, but you look in the mirror at yourself with frustration! You turn inward and ask yourself the accusatory question why can’t you find them? In addition, what about your wife or husband who grows tired of asking 'what you are thinking?' You remain silent and become more and more removed? What about your little child who asks, ‘if I got taken, would you find me?’”
    The teacher had paused, the lesson now impaled into every head in the room. They had suffered a knockout blow and sat silently staring at their desks.
    With Replacement still forlornly gazing out the window, Jack again heard the professor’s final words. “For those of you who want to wear the badge of a police officer, you must know this. You will be a victim. You will know pain .”
     
    “Where are we going?” Replacement asked as the exit to downtown disappeared behind them on the highway.
    “I’m taking you home.”
    “But I thought we were going to look.”
    “I will.” He stressed the ‘I’. “I don’t know if Gina will–”
    “You said she won’t be back.” She protested as she turned in the seat to look at him.
    “Look, my landlady’s pissed. My girlfriend’s pissed. I only got a few hours’ sleep and I’m tired. I’m working the 2 to 10 pm shift tonight. I’m taking you home.”
    “But…”
    “Look, kid. My head’s too overloaded to ask the right questions now. You’re going home. That’s it.”
    That ended all conversation for the remainder of the forty-five minutes ride out to Fairfield.
     
    Jack couldn’t help but smile to himself as the small town came into view. It hadn’t changed so much since he had last been there.
    It hasn’t changed since the 1900s.  
    Fairfield was one of the larger counties in the middle of the state, but it was also on the poorer side. A large influx of artists in the 70s had rounded out the population of paper workers, loggers, retirees, and outdoors types that had earlier gravitated to the beautiful area nestled in the hills.
    This was his hometown. It wasn’t where he was born or where he’d spent the first seven years of his life, but it was his home. He remembered the drive into downtown where Aunt Haddie lived.
    Jack didn’t know if she couldn’t have kids of her own, but he did know she was married once. Alton had been his name, and the only picture she had of him was a wedding picture she kept by her bed. It was on the nightstand in an old, ornate frame.
    Over her bed, she had a large portrait of Jesus. It was one Jack liked because it made Jesus look like a real guy. Frames filled with pictures of smiling kids covered the wall opposite her bed. He couldn’t guess how many kids had gone through her care over the years.
    Her kids. That’s