by Kava, Alex
He glanced over his shoulder, and now, he recognized what was making her anxious.
Grace could smell the approaching storm.
Weather patterns produced their own distinctive odors, and Grace was like a canine barometer. She wasn’t afraid like some of Creed’s other dogs, but she did become restless by a drop in pressure, and she could sense any shift in the static electric field. From the curl of her tail and the pitch of her ears, Creed knew she was already on edge. The incoming storm was close.
He still hoped Jason and Scout could do a fresh search of the field. He didn’t like the idea of leaving Elizabeth Garner out here to be battered by a second round of wind and rain. It no longer mattered whether she was alive or dead, he just wanted to find her. But the clouds were snuffing out the few hours of daylight that remained.
Sheriff Krenshaw waved at him and walked over. There was no hesitation as he sloshed through the receding water.
“We have to pull the response teams,” he yelled to Creed. His hands were shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. The man didn’t look happy about it but also looked exhausted. “I have a couple of rooms reserved for you guys.” He gestured back to the interstate. “You can get on and head up north toward Montgomery. About five miles.”
“That’s nice of you, Sheriff. You didn’t need to do that.”
“It’s the least I could do. If it wasn’t for you, we’d never have found that little one.”
“Grace found him.”
“That, she did.” He gave her a genuine smile, but Grace had started pacing at the end of her leash. “She’s picking up another scent?”
“No, it’s the storm.”
“Look, Trooper Sykes told me you’ve been beating down this field looking for that missing driver.”
Creed rubbed at his bristled jaw. In the back of his mind he could hear the mantra: Grief belongs to the families. Dread belongs to the handlers. Did he do enough? Was it possible he missed something?
“Right now,” the sheriff continued, “You need to go take care of yourself and your dog, but I hope you’ll stick around the area tomorrow. Meteorologists are saying we’re in for a helluva weekend. I’d sure appreciate having your crew nearby and available if that’s possible.”
“Of course.” Creed’s eyes were on Jason and Scout. Despite the darkening sky Jason had the tailgate up and was getting his gear.
“We might do one last search,” he told the sheriff. “A fresh dog could make a difference.” He saw Jason glance back at him, and Creed gestured to him.
“Just make it quick. You know the way it is down here. Sunshine one minute and the next, all hell breaks loose.”
Scout was already bounding toward them. A couple of hours in the SUV would have the dog eager to get to work. He looked like an undisciplined jackass, practically dragging Jason, but the young black Lab had come a long way. And so had his handler. The two misfits made a perfect team.
Creed glanced over at the sheriff and saw the man’s gaze lock on Jason’s prosthetic. It was six months new to Jason and sometimes Creed saw the kid as uncomfortable with it as he had been with the empty hanging sleeve.
The technology was state-of-the-art, DARPA’s newest and best, but it came in stages. Jason’s version didn’t hide the black metal. A skin-like material was still to come, along with more sensors. For now, he looked like a bionic man with a sleek black robotic arm, hand and fingers. Hannah’s boys called him the Transformer, and Creed could tell Jason liked that. But then the kid would get out in public and practically hunch his body in a defensive mode. It had taken Creed a while to realize Jason’s chip-on-the-shoulder attitude wasn’t exactly all about the missing arm.
He introduced the sheriff to both Jason and Scout. Grace had come over to greet the Lab then she wagged in front of Jason until he reached down and petted her. They were close to the smashed vehicle, and Jason’s eyes were already scanning over it.
To Jason, Creed said, “The passenger was found belted in, but the driver’s missing. You might be able to get some scent from the inside. The seat, the floorboard. Maybe even the steering wheel.” By now, Michael Garner’s body had already been removed, but Creed knew Scout might still be distracted with the smells left behind from it.
Just then, Creed noticed the small door to the gas tank was open. The tornado had done strange things to the vehicle and prying open that compartment was the least of the strange things. But the gas cap hung loose by its cord. Would the storm’s pressure be able to unscrew the cap?
He turned to look back up the incline to the interstate junction. First responders, law enforcement officers and volunteers were packing up. Where there were once buildings—a gas station, convenience store and fast food restaurant—now stood piles of bricks, shredded drywall, cinder blocks and two-by-fours. A couple of tow trucks and a trailer were loaded with the crumpled remains of vehicles.
“Sheriff, is there anyone up there who went through the storm?”
“Owner of the gas station is trying to salvage some of his inventory before the next downpour.”
“Do you mind if I ask him a few questions?”
“What’s this about?”
“Just a hunch.”
Creed expected the sheriff to push for more of an explanation. Instead, he said, “Come on.”
The name Roscoe was embroidered on the man’s sweat-stained blue shirt. Gray dust clung to his trousers and ball cap. The scratches on his arms looked like he’d wrestled his way out of a tiger’s cage. When he greeted Creed and the sheriff, Roscoe still had that glazed look in his eyes that Creed had seen in others who had escaped death and knew it.
He was packing plastic containers with packaged food items from the shelves that appeared untouched by the storm. Bags of chips and candy bars had stayed on an end-cap, not a single wrapper torn. The shelf stood surrounded by bricks, ceiling tiles and pieces of drywall. Everywhere Creed stepped he heard glass crunch beneath his feet, and he was glad he’d put Grace inside his Jeep.
It didn’t take much to get Roscoe talking.
“Out here there’s no sirens,” he told them. “My building faces the east. We never saw the damned thing coming. The wind picks up. Thunder. Lightning. Downpour. A little bit of hail. It’s crazy. People pulling in off the interstate. They’re putting gas in. Still running inside to buy crap.”
He tugged his ball cap off and swiped his arm across his sweaty forehead. Plopped the cap back on and started again. “Then it calms. Y’all know how it is. That freaky, eerie quiet. And then it’s right there. Wind blasting. Debris flying. It’s throwing around stuff it picked up a mile away. The doors blew open. Glass shattered.”
He shook his head and gestured to what must have been the front of the building. “I yelled for people to move inside. Told them to get to the back. Pile into the restrooms. Those are made of cinder block.”
He looked back at the area, a portion of it still standing. A door hung from its hinges in a doorframe that was no longer connected to anything.
Suddenly, Creed’s Jeep started up, the engine roaring to life just ten feet away from them. The sheriff looked at the vehicle then back at Creed.
“Your dog knows how to drive?”
“Heat alarm system. It’s backed up with it’s own auxiliary battery,” Creed explained. “Turns the ignition and the A/C on when it reaches a certain temperature inside the vehicle.” He wanted to get back on track. To Roscoe, he said, “I know it was crazy during that time, but do you remember a woman...”
Then he stopped himself. He realized he didn’t know what she looked like. A name wouldn’t matter. They didn’t even know if the vehicle had been a car or an SUV. Some of the paint had been peeled away. He did remember seeing the Ford emblem. And the only remaining tire was small.
“She may have been in a white Ford sedan,” he finally told the man. “Virginia license plates. She was with a man and a baby.”
“You the one that found that baby?” he asked Creed.
&nbs
p; “Yes sir. My dog did.”
“Now you’re looking for its momma, huh?”
“We’re hoping.”
“Let me think.” Roscoe squinted, adding creases to a brow already filled with lines. “The place was going nuts. Pumps were full up. Cars pulling in just to get under the awnings.” Then he blinked a few times and pointed like he was trying to get his finger on an image. “Wait a minute. There was a woman in line to pay. She was anxious to get back out. I think she may have said something about a baby.”
“Did she go back out?” the sheriff asked.
Roscoe was quiet. Still thinking. He pulled his cap off, again, and did the swipe through his sweat-plastered hair. Tugged the cap back on and seesawed the brim like it helped him concentrate.
“Y’all know, I can’t say for sure.” Then he looked at the sheriff. “First paramedics took about five people just from around here. Maybe she was one of them?”
The sheriff looked from Roscoe to Creed. He turned around and Creed knew he was assessing how far away the vehicle was.
He looked back at Creed. “What makes you think they were here?”
“Gut instinct. And the gas cap was off. I know tornadoes do weird stuff but can they screw a gas cap off?”
The sheriff didn’t reply. Instead, he fished his cell phone out of his breast pocket. By the time he walked the short distance to his patrol car he was barking out instructions.
28
Florida Panhandle
The lightning spiderwebbed across Brodie’s bedroom wall. A rumble of thunder followed. Rain started tapping against the roof, a soft pitter-patter. It was a comforting sound, almost a lullaby helping her fall asleep.
Brodie pulled the blanket up around her neck even though the breeze coming in through the curtains was warm and damp. The blanket was so soft. So were the socks. Pink and fluffy, they made her feet forget about the cold and damp concrete and all the cuts and scrapes she had learned to endure. Ryder had bought her a whole drawer full of socks, waiting for her when she arrived.
The drawer of socks was just one of the luxuries of living in this house surrounded by a beautiful forest. She wasn’t cold or dirty or hungry. No rats. No foul smells. Instead, fresh air brought the scent of blooming flowers and wet pine. She could feel and hear the comforting purr of Kitten curled up in the nook of Brodie’s knees.
She already missed Ryder. She had felt safe just knowing he was close by. It didn’t feel right with him being gone. She liked Hannah. She trusted her. She liked Jason, too, and Dr. Avelyn. They’d all made her feel welcome. But Ryder made her feel safe. He had been there when she woke up in the Omaha hospital room back in October. He had promised that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
In the shadows she could see the basket Hannah had left on the table in front of the window. Her eyelids were heavy, but it helped her sleep to think about the good things that surrounded her. Today the basket was filled with two bananas, an apple and an orange.
Shortly after Brodie arrived, she started finding a basket of food inside her room whenever Hannah left fresh towels or linens for her. The basket usually contained fruit. Sometimes there was also a freshly baked muffin or a few cookies, each individually wrapped and tied with a ribbon. They reminded Brodie of little gift packages given for a special occasion. But there were no special occasions, and yet, the gifts continued.
Brodie mentioned the baskets to Ryder once when she still worried that perhaps all that food wasn’t meant for only her.
He told her, “Hannah believes food can feed the soul as much as the body. It’s probably her way of telling you that you’ll never go hungry in this house.”
Brodie didn’t really understand the part about the soul, but she certainly knew what it was like to go hungry. Iris Malone had withheld food as punishment dozens of times. And when she did feed Brodie, too often there were drugs hidden inside.
The drugs played games with Brodie’s mind. They blurred her vision and sometimes incapacitated her so much she felt paralyzed. Almost always they made her sick to her stomach. Sicker than going without food. And now, she still broke apart her food, unconsciously looking for the capsules, the pills, or the powder that didn’t belong. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Hannah. It was like her fingers did it on their own.
She thought she’d gotten better, but over the last several days she found her mind playing tricks on her. The memories, the nightmares seemed to trigger something inside her. And then, it took concentrated effort to tamp down the unwanted thoughts that came without warning. There were voices, too.
For a long time after she’d been rescued she still heard Iris’ voice, so close, so real. And it sounded exactly as it had so many times before: Iris lecturing her from the top of the basement stairs or outside the locked door. Lately, it wasn’t Iris that Brodie heard. Instead, it was some version of Brodie’s own voice, whispering to her, reminding her of things, raising suspicions, questioning her judgment.
But tonight Brodie listened to the storm outside. Her eyelids closed against the flicker of lightning that danced across the ceiling. The thunder remained in the distance, a low, gentle hum that couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. The rain increased its tempo, the tapping now accompanied by running water flowing through the gutters and downspouts.
She had no idea how long she’d been asleep when something startled her. Brodie jerked awake. She glanced around sensing someone’s presence. A flash of lightning illuminated the bedroom, and she bolted upright when she saw the child standing in the open doorway.
“Issac? Thomas?”
A second flicker of light revealed that it was neither boy. The little girl had long, stringy hair. The front of her dress was stained. Her shoes muddy. She gestured for Brodie to come follow her.
“Charlotte?” The question came in a whisper that Brodie barely recognized as her own. “What do you want?”
A crack of thunder woke her up for real this time. Brodie sat up. She was drenched in sweat. Her jolt startled Kitten. Her eyes darted to the doorway and strained to see. The door was closed. She scrambled out of bed and hurried to check the doorknob. It turned easily in her hand, and relief washed over her so overwhelmingly, so completely that she felt a deep chill.
She pulled the door open and peeked around the frame. There was no one in the hallway. Her pulse raced. She found herself tiptoeing to the top of the stairs, clinging to the railing as she walked. She was breathing hard. No, not breathing...panting, almost ready to hyperventilate. And yet, she wished she could hold her breath as she passed each door, straining to listen. In the back of her mind she could remember walking down another hallway, dark and quiet. Each door she passed eased open just enough for eyes to peer out at her. A door had opened a sliver more, and she saw the little girl watching her.
“Who are you?” Brodie remembered asking the girl.
“My name is Charlotte. Who are you?”
Then another door opened. Another little girl. Down the hall, a third door and another pair of eyes.
Brodie shook her head, wanting the images gone. Her knees wobbled as she crept passed the closed doors. Her pajamas were soaked with sweat and she was shaking from the wet dampness. She made it to the top of the stairs and her legs collapsed under her. At the bottom of the stairs a shadow emerged, and her heart skipped a beat. Her hand flew to the railing, gripping it and hoping she had the strength to pull her body away. She needed to move. She needed to hide. But already she heard a door opening behind her, down the hall.
“Brodie?” The voice called from down below. “Are you okay, Sweet Pea?”
It was Hannah! Not Iris. Iris Malone was in a prison a thousand miles away.
Relief unclenched her fingers from the railing. She let her body slide back to a sitting position on the top step. Something brushed against her side and startled her until she felt the soft fur against her arm. Kitten climbed up into her lap.
There were footsteps behind her and before she turned, Isaac sat down on the
step beside her.
“Sweet Pea, there are no locked doors that you can’t unlock,” Hannah called up to her.
It wasn’t about the doors. It was what was on the other side. The eyes peering out at her. Little girls that looked exactly like her. All of them named Charlotte. Just like her.
But then she remembered what Hannah was talking about. Something similar had happened one of her first nights here in this house. She woke up and didn’t recognize where she was. She’d raced out of her room and down the stairs, straight for the front door, frantically searching and pulling and twisting at locks.
The next day, Ryder had taken her around the entire house. He showed her every single door and explained how she could undo every single deadbolt and every simple push-button doorknob lock.
“Are you okay?” Hannah asked, again, but she didn’t attempt to climb the stairs. She’d give her space. In the beginning, Brodie had flinched from their touch, not used to being hugged. Actually, she wasn’t used to being touched without it coming with pain.
She nodded that she was okay. She tried to relax and breathe. Tried to calm the pounding of her heart. Then she realized Hannah might not be able to see her nod in the shadow of the stairwell. She felt Isaac lean against her, and something brushed her on the other side. It was Thomas squeezing in between her and the railing. He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Now, Brodie hoped Hannah wouldn’t be upset that she had wakened the boys.
“I’m okay,” she said.
Before she tried to explain, Isaac asked, “Can’t sleep?”
He said it like one kid to another.
Brodie looked down at him and nodded.
“Monsters?” Thomas asked from the other side.
She startled at his question. What did he know about monsters?
“When we’re afraid of monsters hiding in the closet or under the bed, mom says we should sing.”
“Sing?” Brodie was sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. His voice was as groggy as his eyes.