Chapter 2
For a second, nobody moved.
The whole street seemed to hold its breath.
Franklin Voss stood ten feet away from me, smiling like a man who had never been questioned in his life.
He wore a white shirt, pressed slacks, and a parade marshal badge polished bright enough to catch the sun.
Millie trembled against my chest.
“Caleb,” she whispered. “Don’t let him take me.”
I tightened my arm around her.
Franklin lifted both hands.
“Folks, this is a misunderstanding. The child is troubled.”
His voice was smooth.
Too smooth.
“She and her brother have been stealing from vendor booths all morning.”
Millie jerked her head up.
“No!”
Franklin’s smile did not move.
“She knocked this gentleman’s motorcycle over because she wanted attention. Now she’s making wild claims.”
The police volunteer looked uncertain.
I did not.
I had seen men like Franklin overseas.
Different clothes.
Same calm voice.
Same empty eyes.
I lowered Millie behind me.
“Get the power shut off.”
Franklin’s eyes flickered.
“It’s a ceremonial siren. It goes off every year at noon. There’s no danger.”
“There’s gasoline under my bike.”
“Then move the bike.”
“No.”
The word came out flat.
The crowd murmured.
Franklin took one step forward.
“That motorcycle is blocking public equipment.”
“And your equipment is sitting on exposed wires with a kid underneath it.”
His jaw tightened.
“There is no child under there.”
Ben cried again.
This time everyone heard it.
A woman screamed.
A man shouted, “There’s a boy!”
Franklin’s face changed for one heartbeat.
Not fear.
Rage.
Then he covered it.
I dropped to the pavement and pressed my cheek close to the gap.
“Ben, can you hear me?”
A tiny voice answered.
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Five.”
Millie sobbed behind me.
I kept my voice steady.
“Ben, what’s holding your foot?”
“A chain.”
The crowd gasped.
Franklin backed up.
I saw it.
So did Millie.
“He’s leaving!” she cried.
I pointed at him.
“Stop that man.”
Nobody moved fast enough.
Franklin turned and walked quickly toward the alley behind the grandstand.
I wanted to chase him.
Every part of me wanted to grab him and put him on the pavement.
But Ben was under my feet.
Millie was behind me.
The clock read 11:59.
I made the choice in half a second.
“Everyone back!” I roared.
My voice carried like it used to when men had to hear me over explosions.
People stumbled away.
I grabbed the police volunteer by his shirt.
“Where is the power box?”
He pointed toward a gray metal panel behind the announcer’s stand.
“It’s locked.”
“Key?”
“The mayor has it.”
Of course he did.
I ran to the panel.
Millie followed on bleeding feet.
“Stay back!”
She shook her head.
“I know where he hid the key.”
“What?”
She pointed under the bunting on the announcer’s table.
“I saw Franklin put it there.”
I ripped the red, white, and blue cloth away.
A brass key was taped to the underside.
The volunteer stared at it.
“I didn’t know.”
I jammed it into the panel lock.
The clock clicked closer to noon.
My hand slipped once.
Sweat burned my eyes.
The lock opened.
Inside were labeled switches.
Lights.
Audio.
Vendor row.
Siren.
I grabbed the siren breaker and pulled.
Nothing happened.
The red indicator stayed on.
My stomach dropped.
“It’s bypassed,” the volunteer whispered.
“Who would bypass it?”
He looked toward the alley where Franklin had disappeared.
I ran back to the bike.
The fuel had spread wider.
Ben was crying harder now.
“My foot hurts.”
I lay flat and looked under the grandstand.
I could barely see him.
A small boy in a dirty blue shirt.
One ankle chained to a beam.
A padlock glinted in the darkness.
Above him, old electrical lines sagged toward the broken siren.
Millie threw herself beside me.
“Ben, look at me!”
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” she cried. “I got help.”
The clock began to chime noon.
One.
The crowd screamed.
Two.
I grabbed the edge of the Harley with both hands.
If I moved it wrong, the siren could spark.
Three.
I shouted to the volunteer, “Find a fire extinguisher!”
Four.
Millie grabbed my wrist.
“Don’t lift it!”
“I’m not lifting it.”
Five.
I pulled my pocketknife free.
Six.
I cut the fuel line clean and shoved my glove hard against the leak.
Seven.
Gasoline slowed.
Eight.
The siren box under the bike hummed.
Nine.
The air changed.
I felt electricity before I heard it.
Ten.
Ben screamed.
Millie screamed louder.
Eleven.
Then the siren tried to start.
The sound was not a full wail.
It was a choking metallic groan under my Harley.
Sparks jumped beneath the crushed housing.
I threw my body over Millie and shouted, “Down!”
The volunteer emptied a fire extinguisher beneath the bike.
White chemical blasted across the pavement.
The sparks died.
The siren coughed once.
Then went silent.
For one heartbeat, nobody spoke.
Then Ben cried again.
Alive.
Millie sobbed into my arm.
“You promised.”
“I’m not done yet.”
I turned toward the crowd.
“Somebody get bolt cutters!”
A mechanic from the next block ran forward.
“I have some!”
While he sprinted away, I looked toward the alley.
Franklin was gone.
But he had left something behind.
A black leather folder under the announcer’s table.
It had fallen when I ripped away the bunting.
I opened it with one hand.
Inside was a stack of papers.
Insurance forms.
A demolition permit.
And a photo of the grandstand marked with a red circle exactly where Ben had been chained.
At the top of the page was one sentence.
Accidental electrical fire during parade ceremony.
I looked down at Millie.
Her face was streaked with soot and tears.
She was not a runaway.
May you like
She was a witness.
And Franklin Voss had planned to burn the truth with her brother under the stage.
