Last Word

Prologue - Cash, age 23

I smoothed a hand down my shirt to where it was
tucked in my slacks as I climbed out of the car. Today
was the day.
My first day as an official FBI agent.
I’d graduated college at the top of my class and after
almost a year of rigorous testing and background checks, I
had finally joined the Bureau. A sense of accomplishment
settled on my shoulders as excitement filled my chest,
knowing I’d soon be working my own cases.
If I’d expected any kind of praise from Pops, I would
have been sorely disappointed. I almost snickered to myself.
His nod when I was introduced to the team was good
enough.
Us Morgan men weren’t the emotional type anyway.
For my first day, Pops had snagged me to be his tagalong.
And the team had agreed to allow him to help me get my
feet wet as he checked in with some of his informants.
I was stoked. All my life I’d wanted to follow in Pops’
footsteps. Work the unsolvable cases. Save people. But most
importantly, uncover hidden puzzle pieces to see the bigger
picture.
It was all about the puzzles and the patterns.
“Who are we meeting this time?” I asked as we left the
parking lot of the park and moved deeper under the trees.
This park was a decent size for a small midwest state. Big
shade trees provided some semblance of privacy.
People were scattered throughout the park running with
their dogs, watching their children play, or lounging on a
blanket having a late lunch.
Pops pointed to two benches situated caddy corner to
each other. I sat down on the end closest to the other one,
avoiding the white bird shit on one of the slats. I would
wager the informant would take the other bench and I
wanted to be in the thick of things.
“Here,” Pops said as he handed me a sub out of a sandwich
bag. An Italian with extra seasoning and oil and vinegar.
My mouth watered as I unwrapped it. Hopefully, he had
some bottled waters in that bag to wash it down.
I had finished off half the sandwich when a man of
medium-tall height distractedly walked our way. Dark hair,
bright eyes, and decent if cheaper clothing all made the
man less than remarkable. If you didn’t see the intelligence
shining from his sharp eyes…
From the way Pops’ frame tightened on his approach, I
knew this was our guy.
Except Pops grinned as the man took a seat next to me
on the other bench.
Pops never smiled at anyone. I scratched my cheek as I
studied my old man. He didn’t like most people—period.
Hell, I barely thought he liked me some days.
“Thad, it’s great to see you.”
The man nodded his greeting and pulled out his own
homemade sandwich in a plastic baggie. “Morgan.” He took
a bite of his sandwich and slowly chewed. His gaze flicked
over me then moved back to Pops. Everything this man did
seemed deliberate. Methodical. “Why did you ask me here
and who is this?”
“This is my son, Cash. It’s his first day on the job.” He
cleared his throat, then continued onto more important
things. “I was put on a case. Out in West Virginia, four boys
were found in an abandoned house. They’d been
kidnapped, but when they were recovered, they were the
only ones in the house.” Pops used one of the napkins from
the bag to wipe crumbs from his mouth.
The other man paused in his eating as he watched Pops
with a hard, unwavering stare. "I saw that on the news…You
don’t have any leads?”
“Well,” Pops drawled. “That’s what I wanted to talk to
you about. What do you know about a man called the
Curator?”