To whom it may concern,
In the month before my granddaughter, Susan James, and her children went missing, her husband, Paul David James, left in the middle of the night without warning. A few weeks later, Lower Barton Creek was visited by a strange woman who presented herself as Paul David’s American sister. Aunt Agnes Potter, she called herself. The woman came to the village to give Susan a message: Paul David had started a job in Belize City and he wanted Susan and the children to come visit.
Agnes Potter had red hair and heavy makeup. She was almost giddy, as if she’d known Susan and the children all her life. But Susan had never met the woman. Agnes worked hard to convince Susan to take the trip to Belize City.
That’s strange, right? Why did it matter so much to Agnes Potter?
That wasn’t all. From the moment she met my great-granddaughter, Lizzie James, Aunt Agnes never let her out of her sight. It wasn’t normal. The way she looked at my little great-granddaughter made my skin crawl.
Ike lowered the letter and looked to a far-off spot above a cluster of towering mahogany trees. He should’ve taken charge, sent the woman on her way. Maybe asked her to prove her connection to Paul David. Because something had been off about her.
Instead, Ike had hung back. Sizing up Agnes Potter and letting his suspicions grow.
That afternoon, when Lizzie ran off to join the other children, Agnes had followed.
“Lizzie,” the woman had called out. Agnes never stopped smiling, but her eyes were flat. “Come here, Lizzie! I have something for you.”
Of course sweet little Lizzie had no reason to doubt Agnes Potter’s sincerity. The child had skipped closer and when the strange woman pulled a blond porcelain doll from her bag, Lizzie’s eyes had lit up. Belize didn’t have dolls like that one.
“Really?” Lizzie’s beautiful light blue eyes shone in the sunlight. “For me?”
“Yes.” Agnes put her hands on the child’s shoulders. “For the prettiest girl in Lower Barton.”
Throughout the meal, Ike had watched Agnes from his spot at the end of the table. The woman sat next to Susan and across from Lizzie and Daniel. Before long Susan was spilling her heart to the stranger.
“I miss Paul David, even though he left us,” Susan told the woman. “I keep thinking he’ll come home.”
“That’s just it.” The pitch in Agnes’s voice raised and she talked faster. Like she was nervous. “He would come to you if he could. But he can’t because of his new job. He can’t leave Belize City.” She glanced at Lizzie. “He wants you to come to him.”
Ike tried to be polite as Agnes Potter’s visit came to a close, but every time his eyes met the woman’s, a chill ran down his arms. There was a meanness in her. Ike had seen it. Like she was onto his doubts, and for a fraction of a moment he had seen past the occasional flash of friendliness in her eyes to something else.
The darkest of evil.
Before she left, Agnes worked even harder to convince Susan and the children about visiting Belize City. “Paul David is sorry, Susan,” the woman told Ike’s granddaughter. “He really wants to see you and the children.”
By the time Agnes drove off, Susan had promised to come. Sometime the next week.
Ike took a deep breath as the memory faded. He should’ve said something, should’ve probed into the woman’s story. He would never forgive himself for not acting on his doubts that day. Once more he lifted the letter and found his place.
When Agnes Potter left that day, I noticed two things. First, she didn’t look me in the eye. And second, she didn’t pay a bit of attention to little Daniel. Only Lizzie.
I wrote down my observations, because they matter. Susan never should’ve gone to see Paul David. Never should have listened to Agnes Potter.
Ike blinked back tears.
In my heart, I want to hope Susan and the children are alive, even after all these years. I do not believe my family members drowned. But I am concerned something more sinister happened to them. And I believe it happened at the hands of Agnes Potter.
Possibly even Paul David James.
Sincerely,
Ike Armstrong
Historian—Lower Barton Creek, Belize
Ike never wept about this, not anymore. But once in a while—times like this—he could feel tears push against the walls of his heart. If Susan and Lizzie and Daniel really were dead, then the FBI agent needed to find Agnes Potter and Paul David James.
The only two people who knew the truth.
JACK’S FACIAL HAIR wasn’t a true Mennonite beard, but it would do. For this first part of the mission, Jack was Luke Armstrong. Great-grandson of Ike Armstrong of Lower Barton Creek, Belize.
The additional ID kit had been at the bottom of the satchel. Jack was glad for the second fake name. Never mind that Oliver and the FBI brass trusted the old man at Lower Barton Creek. They couldn’t risk a connection between Jack’s visit to the village this morning and the work he had in the week ahead of him.
As he moved through customs, Jack wore a black and red plaid shirt and black chino pants. A Mennonite man in the line ahead of him looked back and nodded. Jack returned the greeting. Mennonites stuck together.
Jack passed the test.
The wait at baggage wasn’t long. Jack grabbed his worn suitcase and caught a cab to a local car rental outfit. Ten minutes later he was driving a Jeep due east to Lower Barton Creek.
Ike Armstrong was just where Jack expected to find him. Sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch of his small house. Ike knew Jack was an agent, but not much beyond that. A few people from the settlement waved as he parked in front of Ike’s house.
“Hello, there!” Jack smiled and returned the gesture. Then
