Game Time Pt. 03

****

I held Lana and cried with her. Little Angela had not warmed up to me sufficiently to allow me to hold her yet, but she leaned into Lana's side opposite from where I stood and held her mother.

"Sweetie," I said to Lana, "we will get through all this. We will get well and continue our life together--the life that was interrupted by this unspeakable infamy." We just rocked together in each other's arms as we stood there, until Angela tugged on her mother's elbow and indicated through some hand signal that Lana recognized that she needed to have her diaper changed.

****

Later, I would look up information about human trafficking on my own. It was appalling the degree to which it had spread in the world, and especially galling that it was occurring right here in the so-called 'Land of the Free.' And the horror that was visited on the children by all of this unsavory business was even worse.

According to one Department of Justice web site, some 300,000 children may become victims of sex trafficking each year in the U.S., and the average age of entry into child prostitution is 13 to 14 years old. Pimps, who typically have 4 to 6 girls each, can make $150,000 to $200,000 per child each year. Human trafficking generates $9.5 billion each year in the United States, and the industry has been on the rise since the FBI's multi-year anti-trafficking special task force--called Operation Cross Country--was founded and began to keep track of the data. And that does not even take into account the many thousands of adult women involved.

****

Lana, Steven, Angela, and I were finally settling into a routine--if you could call it that--after living in our new home near Sharpsburg and Peachtree City within a few months of having moved in. We had gotten used to the feel of the new house and the area in which we lived.

We had accomplished all the necessary administrivia required to get Steven into the Coweta County School system. Lana did not really want to go back to work, and we really did not need for her to do that--my income was sufficient, and the cost of living in our area was reasonable, despite its overall affluence. And, with Lana choosing to stay at home, she was there for Angela--who was really starting to add to her almost two-year-old vocabulary almost daily--thus, we did not require the incursion of the cost of day care for the little one.

If there was one area--besides any residual issues associated with Lana's psychological reintegration--where Lana and I disagreed, it was concerning our spending habits. Seeing our situation now as one with a sole breadwinner for the family--me--I felt as if we should take a more frugal approach to the family spending. Lana seemed to approach our financial situation as one that posed no concern whatsoever. While I could not understand her seemingly nonchalant attitude about our finances, I at least got her to realize that I DID consider our finances as a matter of concern, especially with the lingering lethargy in the U.S. economy.

Lana and I came to an agreement that we would discuss any major purchases and do a thorough analysis of our finances before making any major purchases. She did convince me to allow her to purchase a high-end computer and multi-function printer-scanner-fax so that she could get back into practice using her computer skills that she felt may have atrophied somewhat. She also wanted to attempt to catch up with new technology that had emerged over the three years of her servitude. We agreed on this and, after a big shopping trip to Best Buy, we set up her computer system in the same bedroom that we had converted into a nursery for when the new baby finally arrived. That way, Lana could take care of the baby and keep her own mind occupied on her computer with something other than maternity, so that she would not get bored, frustrated, of simply burned out with perceived isolation from the rest of the world.

****

We celebrated Steven's eighth birthday in late July--just over five months after his mother's return and the immediate expansion of our family with the addition of Angela. Since we had not been in the Newnan-Sharpsburg-Peachtree City area for very long and did not know that many people yet, we only celebrated among ourselves. Steven's grandparents, Alexei and Sonja, and my mom and dad, had sent presents by mail, and I had purchased a couple of things to give Steven from Lana and me, since she was not quite up to dealing with major shopping venues yet--being prone to mild anxiety attacks among large crowds of people.

After the party, and after the cleanup following it, I found Lana in our basement, crying softly. When I asked her about it, she apologized. She was happy for Steven's joy at turning eight; it was just that she still harbored a mother's heart-felt longing for the return of our son, Nathan. If he were with us now, we would be preparing to celebrate his third birthday in the middle of September. And Angela would be turning two in early November, just before the arrival of the new baby. My head swam at the idea of going from being the single father of one child to prospect of now having my wife back and being the head of a three-or-four-child household; all within just a mere six-month period.

As I had mentioned earlier, Steven was into sports; and, eventually, I also found a Cub Scout pack for him--make that US; him and me both--to join ("Relax, Maddux," said the Cubmaster, "it's only an hour a week." Yeah; right). Luckily, the pack was sponsored by the Presbyterian Church that I believed would be a good fit for our whole family as a church home in the area--thankfully, it was part of the more conservative PCA, rather than the increasingly liberal PCUSA. We had already begun to attend worship services there, and Lana and I had enjoyed meeting other couples our age there. In fact, we had become comfortable to such a degree that we were about to consider joining one of what they called their Connect Groups that met in a member couples' homes during the week, so that church was not simply a matter of a Sunday-morning-only event.

Yes! The Brodie family was finally settling into suburban living. We were enjoying the simple pleasures of being a family and the activities associated with the community around us. There was only one thing that could have allowed the situation to give us a feeling of completion--the return of the missing member of our family; Nathan.

****

It was about the second week in August when Special Agent Barney Fife contacted us to say that he might have a development in the situation with Nathan, our missing son. I had to hold Lana physically as she shook and cried at the possibility of getting our son back. I, on the other hand, while still hoping for good news, believed that there was still some chance that this could be a false lead or misinformation. I did not want to allow my still-delicate wife to get her hopes up too high; only to be crushed by disappointment if things did not pan out.

Fortunately, I did not have to be quite so cautious for very long.

News broke during coverage of the upcoming election season about allegations that had been leveled against a one-term U.S Congressman in Pennsylvania. He was facing a tough opponent in the upcoming Democrat primary for his seat in the U.S. House of Representatives. It seems that the Congressman and his wife had adopted a child just about two-and-a-half years earlier; but, somehow, the paperwork involved with the adoption was now coming under scrutiny. It was possible that the child's adoption was the result of improper dealings with an illegal adoption ring.

Special Agent Fife informed Lana and me that the DNA check on the Congressman's adopted son matched the DNA data that the Bureau had on file for Lana and me--within the ninety-ninth percentile probability of match. Lana and I held each other and cried with joy in our relief at this development.

The FBI had questioned Congressman McAllister with his attorney present. Under possible penalty of perjury, the Congressman confessed that he had made the deal to acquire our son from 'potentially-less-than-reputable sources,' as he called them--he would not admit to knowing of any direct criminality associated with this supposed 'adoption.'

Fife went on to tell us that the FBI and Pennsylvania's Bureau of Child Welfare Services were overseeing the removal of the child--our son--from the custody and premises of the wife of Congressman Donald McAllister. It seems that Congressman McAllister no longer resided there, and his wife, Connie, had filed for divorce while she had waited for the authorities to come and retrieve the child she had loved as her own for almost three years.

A little over a week later, our doorbell rang late in the day, after I had gotten home from work and just before we were about to sit down to supper. Glancing out through the etched-glass storm door, I saw Special Agent Barney Fife exiting a black Suburban, along with a woman in a business suit. Given that their sunglasses matched, I assumed that she was with the Bureau as well.

Lana sort of surprised me by touching me on the shoulder from behind when I was not expecting her. I flinched a bit and then smiled back at her and opened the storm door for us to go out to meet Barney and the lady with him as they came up our front walk.

After greeting us and shaking my hand, Fife introduced us to the lady with him, Special Agent Conway, and led us back to his Suburban where he showed us a small boy asleep in a car seat strapped to the middle bench seat of the SUV. Fife said that Congressman McAllister and his wife had named the boy James Alan McAllister.

I made up my mind right then and there that we would not confuse the child, but allow him to keep some piece of the name that he had by now surely become used to responding to, according to Fife--Jimmy. He would be Nathan James Brodie. Later, we would petition Arlington County, Virginia--with the help of the FBI--to record an official birth certificate for the boy to that effect. His first name would be 'Nathan' to make the point that he had truly been ours from the beginning, and his middle name would be 'James' in order not to confuse the boy as he became part of his new family. Lana concurred, reminding me of the need to have the child's formal baptism and name christening scheduled at the church, and thus it came to be. Nathan James Brodie was officially returned to his biological family.

****

CHAPTER 7

Our newly-returned son, Little Jimmy, upon his return to his biological family, did not take to us right away. He cried at night for a few weeks, sometimes calling out for his mommy--Mrs. Connie McAllister, the only one he had known in his short life. After Congressman McAllister's primary defeat to another Democrat candidate--mainly because of the exposure of his illegal adoption of the infant Jimmy from Russian gangsters, he also faced the very-much-publicized and ugly divorce proceedings from his wife.

Connie McAllister had not realized the illegal nature of her husband's actions with respect to their acquiring a son almost three years before from a source that had proved now to be definitely illegitimate. The U.S. Attorney's Office for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia also had a formal criminal investigation under way on the soon-to-be former Congressman.

Crushed at losing the son she had thought would be hers, Connie Fletcher--her maiden name, to which she reverted following the divorce--had contacted us through her attorney and asked if she could somehow remain a part of Jimmy's life, even if it were only in some small way. Lana and I discussed this request and prayed about it.

Lana impressed on me the agony and heartbreak that she herself had experienced at having children ripped from her life, as had the other women with whom she had been in captivity. I finally caved and we said that Connie could indeed be a part of Jimmy's life in some fashion, but we would like to hold off on personal visits by her until the child psychologist--that we had engaged as part of the family therapy necessary to reintegrate the boy into his biological family--gave the okay. She agreed, and we set a tentative date of sometime in the coming New Year time frame.

****

Nadia Doreen Brodie joined our happy growing family just two weeks before Thanksgiving. She was a beautiful redhead, with a rich tuft of hair already showing when she was born, following a rather uneventful labor and delivery on Lana's part. Even with the previous addition of Angela and Jimmy to our household, we had plenty of room for this new little miracle.

Only once did Lana make a comment about wishing that her daughters had the DNA of both of us, but I squashed that conversation quickly. I informed my wife that, from that day forward, we would only refer to them as OUR daughters--never mind who the sperm donors were. We would reap the bounty of love that came from having, raising, and enjoying the loving family relationship with these two little darling girls.

And not only was I now an official member of the Mushy Pushover Club--being the father of daughters. I was actually already envisioning my future role as the father figure in their lives. I would help them learn how to play softball well so that no one could accuse either of them of 'throwing like a girl.' I would ensure that, when they became teenage girls, and began to date, I would meet their first dates while cleaning my shotgun. I looked forward to the day when I would walk each of them down the aisle, fulfilling my role of handing them off to the poor sons of bitches who might be brave enough to take on my sure-to-be-hardheaded little girls as life partners.

****

We had settled into what I felt now was somewhat of a routine as a family. Sure, there were visits to the child psychologist for Jimmy that would probably taper off to an eventual end sometime this summer. He had begun to accept being part of the family now, especially with all the love he found with his new siblings--especially his older brother, Steven.

Even though Nadia was being the typical new-baby-handful, she did not detract Lana or me from recognizing the need to offer all the love and parental attention necessary for all of our children--WOW; four now!

Even though there was a five-year age difference, Steven and Jimmy seemed to get along well enough to share a bedroom. They also did not appear to pick on poor little Angela in the manner to which older brothers seemed prone in other families.

They would still annoy her when they did 'boy' things, to the exclusion of Angela. She did not want to be left out of anything that was going on with the boys. Lana and I both made special efforts to comfort Angela when she went into a crying spell caused by Steven's and Jimmy's apparent ignoring of her.

****

Suddenly, one day in March of the following year, I noticed that Lana appeared to be especially tense for no apparent reason. I was at a loss to understand this sudden step back along the progress trail that we had been on since Lana's return; progress that had been reinforced positively by the return of her son and the arrival of a new daughter.

When I asked her about what was going on with her, Lana was vague, saying that it must be hormones. I advised her to see the doctor if this kept up; but she smiled and told me not to worry. Then she said something very strange.

"I will do whatever it takes to protect myself and my family from bad things, bad thoughts, and bad people." I had accepted her excuse of her being in a temporary hormonal funk--after all, women's physiology and psychology were still deep mysteries to a mere man, such as I. Thus, I simply attributed her strange comment to a passing phenomenon.

I also noted and mentally catalogued some of the details of that tension that I had detected in Lana--she was a bit jumpy at sudden noises and she seemed a bit reserved around me. She also seemed a bit overly protective of Steven, Jimmy, Angela, and Nadia all of a sudden.

Lana surprised me again when she asked me to allow her to practice her shooting again, now that we had some place in which to do this. When I asked her what had brought on this sudden interest in shooting again, she smiled at me innocently and said that it was nothing really; she simply wanted to get back into practice.

This conversation occurred during a week when things had picked up considerably at work, so I did not have the time or the mental focus to delve into the matter any further. I simply showed her the key to the gun cabinet, where I kept the Ruger Blackhawk, along with the ammunition, shooter's glasses, and acoustic hearing protectors.

One day later that week, as I was going to work, I noticed that Lana was very quiet and brooding; she was snappish with me and did not even acknowledge my attempt to give her a goodbye kiss, as she turned away to look out the back window of the kitchen when I tried. She did not even return my statement of, "I love you." I shrugged in my ignorance of what might be going on in her mind at that moment, as I was beginning to run behind schedule, but I would be sure to talk to her in more detail about what might be going on with her later tonight. I did not want her to begin to slip back into her psychological difficulties associated with her years of captivity.

As it turned out, I did not find a need to talk to Lana about her snappishness and contrary attitude.

That night, when I returned from work, Lana was a different person entirely. Even though I was later than usual getting in, due to a problem at work--one that I had alerted her about when I had called her and left a message on the machine that afternoon when she had not answered the phone--she seemed to be pleasant and relaxed. We greeted each other just inside the door with hugs and kisses and I was relieved to see some of the old Lana back again.

After the children were asleep that night, Lana almost killed me with her appetite for sex. Needless to say, I went to sleep a very happy man.

****

The following weekend, I had taken a 2-1/2-gallon pump tank of Roundup spray to the back area of my property. I wanted to kill off at least one of several patches of the poison ivy that I was determined to eradicate from my property--good luck with that, I know; but, shit; I had to try.

As I sprayed in an area down near the berm where I had established my shooting site, near what I had confirmed to be a deer trail, I noticed my gamecam. I mentally kicked myself as I removed the spring band that held it to the tree where I had left the gamecam weeks earlier; I just could not believe that I had forgotten and left it in place without checking on it for so long. Sticking it in my cargo pocket, I continued to spray the Roundup on the offending poison ivy vines near me, figuring in the back of my mind that Steven would probably enjoy seeing the wildlife shots snapped by the gamecam when we reviewed them together later.

As I continued spraying around the area behind my makeshift shooting range, I spotted what looked like the beginnings of a hole in the ground. I could tell that it had been made by a person with a shovel or spade, as the shape and configuration did not lend itself to one created by the fore paws of an animal. I noted, as I looked into the very shallow hole, that the rock layer was only about a foot down from the surface in this spot. Some ONE had begun to dig here, and had hit the rock layer, thus frustrating whatever purpose that person might have had for the hole.

I knew that I had not been the one to dig back here. And, with the ages of our children being such that they were too young to wield a shovel that big, the situation pointed to another adult. That led me to realize that either Lana had been doing something back here, or else some trespasser had paid us a visit, possibly looking for something buried back here--or doing something else back here that involved digging. Naturally, with all that we had been through over the past few years, I went into 'family protection' mode.