by Olive Balla
Once inside the hospital, David stopped at the information desk to get Beth’s room number, then moved to the elevators. He punched the elevator button then tapped his fingers on his thigh. “Come on, come on, come on.”
Losing patience, he’d turned and headed toward the stairwell when the elevator’s bell dinged, and its door opened. He jabbed the button for the fourth floor and caught sight of a sign picturing a cell phone with a huge X through it followed by the words Please do not use cell phones on these floors.
David turned off his phone and slipped it into his pants pocket as the elevator jerked to a stop. He checked the sticky-note on which the woman at the information desk had written Beth’s room number then made his way through the maze of corridors.
Nurses bustled about their duties, offering up the best they could to their patients. Family members wandered the halls, their facial expressions projecting helplessness, anger, and fear in the face of human frailty.
Beth was sitting up in the hospital bed staring at a television set suspended from the ceiling when David poked his head around the open door. The movement caught her eye, and she looked up.
Huge, bright green eyes peered at him from under thick, black lashes. That, and the long, shiny brown hair, cupid’s-bow mouth, pale skin, and cheeks sunken from the extended hospital stay set up an almost physical reaction in David’s midsection.
Get a grip, she’s only a kid. Way too young for a thirty-year-old. He pasted what he hoped was a professional smile on his face and approached the bed.
“Good morning, Mrs. Elliott. I’m Detective David Ruiz with Los Lunas Police.”
“Just Beth, please.”
David nodded. “I apologize for the early hour, but I need to ask you some questions about your sister Jillie.”
Beth sat up straighter, and her eyes widened. “Have you found her? Oh, please tell me you’ve found her.”
“That’s one of the reasons I’m here. Have you heard from her in the last couple of days?”
Beth chewed on her lower lip. “No. I’ve called the Elliotts every day for the past week, ever since I woke up. But Margo always makes some excuse about why Jillie can’t come to the phone. I called Social Services, and they said her caseworker’s last visit indicated she was fine and doing well in school. But the nurse said Jillie’s only been to see me once, and that’s not like her. She’d live in this room if she could.” The muscles in her arm trembled from disuse as she pushed the cart bearing a tray of half-eaten food away. “Who would award custody of a kid to the parents of the man she accidentally killed, anyway?”
“It may seem weird, but the judge was pretty well constrained by county policy to put her with family, if at all possible.” David pulled a steel-framed, blue vinyl-covered chair closer to the bed and sat down. “And the Elliotts asked to be allowed to take her.”
Her voice quavering, Beth continued, “The Elliotts seem fairly normal on the surface, but they’re not. With the possible exception of Cleg, they’re vile, truly evil.” She struggled to lift a hand to wipe tears from her eyes as a sudden flash of anger brought a flush to her cheeks. “I just know they’ve done something with Jillie. I know it.”
David took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and stared down at the hand he hadn’t realized he’d laid on Beth’s forearm. He cleared his throat to cover his reaction to the almost electric charge that shot up his arm at the contact and pulled away. For the next several minutes, with his gaze focused slightly above Beth’s head to allow him to concentrate, he recounted what he’d been able to find out about Jillie’s movements from the day of Digger’s death.
Beth shook her head and blew a puff of air through pursed lips. “So, she thinks I’m dead?”
David nodded. “As of last night, she did. Has an elderly woman named Dixie contacted you by any chance?”
Beth’s brows came together in a frown. “No. I haven’t had any visitors since I woke up. Who’s she?”
David explained about his aunts and their involvement with Jillie.
“I’m sorry about your aunt and I hope she’s okay, but Jillie’s just a kid. She must be terrified. How’s she getting food? Where’s she sleeping? It can get cold this time of year—”
David held up his hand, palm outward, in a gentle shushing motion. In a voice he hoped sounded more reassuring than he felt, he said, “Your little sister’s tough, she’s smart, and she’s resilient. She’s managed on her own for several days now.”
“What about sending out an Amber Alert? Has that been done?”
“That only comes into play when the child is taken against her will and considered to be in imminent danger. Since Jillie ran away of her own volition, she’s been listed as a runaway and missing person.”
“That doesn’t seem right. She’s only eleven.”
“We have reported her to the NCIC, um sorry, that’s the National Crime Information Center. That means the whole country will be on the lookout for her.”
Beth’s eyes bored into David’s. “You have to find her before the Elliotts do, if they don’t already have her. Those people will stop at nothing to get what they want.”
David had assumed unselfish love was a figment of artists’ and poets’ imaginations. Yet here was a woman who’d loved her little sister so much she hooked up with an abusive prick like Digger Elliott to ensure they could stay together. What must it feel like to be wrapped in that kind of love?
Sadness and a sense of loss pulsed through David’s midsection. He’d never loved or been loved like that. Not even close.
But that had been his choice. Years ago, he’d decided to allow only veneer relationships—shallow and uncomplicated. Best for all concerned, since over the past several generations the Ruiz men had died young. The term emotionally unavailable had been thrown in his face during more than one drama-filled breakup.
He sighed, switched on his electronic tablet, and tapped it open. “Tell me every place your sister might go, any friends she might contact, favorite fast food places, anything you can think of that might help.”
Beth looked thoughtful. “She didn’t really have many school friends, at least no one she’d want to stay with. Her favorite food?” Beth chuckled. “Anything that doesn’t bite back. Then there’s Mrs. Potter, Jillie’s godmother. She often walked there when things got tense in the house.”
“Tell me about Mrs. Potter.” David typed furiously as Beth described the woman.
“She’s our closest neighbor. She was a good friend of our mom’s, kind of looked out for us after mom died.”
“I’ll check it out. Anything else?”
Beth raised her chin. “If Jillie finds out I’m still alive, she’ll find a way to get here. But if, like you said, she thinks Margo’s had me cremated, nothing will stop her from finding my ashes and taking them home. It was a pact we made when Pops died. Whichever one of us is next, the other will make sure the family stays together.”
“Thanks.” David shut off his tablet, stood, and smiled down at Beth. “You’ve been a great help.”
Beth looked up, and her eyes filled with tears. “You have to find Jillie; she’s the only family I have left. I don’t think I could…”
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through, and I don’t want to minimize the situation. But don’t let yourself focus on what might never happen. I promise you this, I won’t stop looking until I find your sister.” He left the room and headed for the exit.
He’d worked on several missing person’s cases over his years on the force. The majority wound up with the missing person showing up and wondering what all the fuss was about. But not always.
A couple of years earlier, he’d helped break up part of a human trafficking ring that dealt exclusively in children. It had been pure coincidence that a passing motorist had seen a child’s terrified face staring out a small, round van window the either overly confident or intellectually dim kidnapper had failed to cover. The quick-thinking motorist had snapped a cell phone photo of
the van’s tags and called the police. Since David’s location was nearest the sighting, he’d responded to the call.
After a miles-long, high-speed chase, he managed to stop the van. The driver jumped from the vehicle and ran into the desert, but David brought him down with a flying tackle. He’d handcuffed the smirking bastard then frog-marched him to the police vehicle and locked him in.
The blonde-haired, blue-eyed little boy in the rear of the van had soiled himself while bouncing around inside the van’s metal confines. But David held the little guy and told him stories until paramedics arrived and checked them both over.
The female paramedic had eventually pried the little boy out of David’s arms. Talking in low, soft tones, she comforted them both, as if sensing the turmoil in David’s head—as if she understood his fear that once the child was out of his arms, he might be unable to keep himself from beating the kidnapper into a pile of stinking red meat.
It had taken David the better part of two months to decide whether or not to quit the force. But the memory of that little boy’s face along with the images of what he’d have been enduring made him realize it was more important to help rid the country of that kind of leprosy than to change his career path. Once that decision was made, he’d never looked back.
Back in his Jeep, he clicked open a file on his tablet and studied his notes on Aunt Lil’s description of Jillie Ross. With unusual eye and hair coloring, she’d be a high-value target. And at only eleven, she’d be easy to train.
He’d make three stops on his way to Mrs. Potters’ place: his aunts’ house in Los Lunas to grill his aunt Lil for details, the Elliotts’ in Belen in hopes Jillie’s foster parents might know something helpful, then to the godmother’s in case the little girl had gone to her for help. Hopefully, somewhere along the way, he’d find Aunt Dix.
As he pulled into traffic, David touched his holstered sidearm. He’d learned early on neither to assume anything nor to take chances. Anyone who’d go after a kid wouldn’t hesitate to hurt one or two little old ladies who tried to interfere. He had a sick feeling borne of years of experience that someone was going to get hurt.
****
David drove into his aunts’ driveway just as the sun was coming up. It didn’t seem possible it was only a few hours ago he’d been there for dinner, complaining inwardly at having to listen to his aunts throw verbal spitballs at each other.
Right then, he’d have been overjoyed to hear them going at it again. But, like the timer on a homemade explosive device, the minutes were ticking by. Unable to shake the feeling that he was missing something vital, he rang the bell.
Something someone had said? Something he overheard? Whatever it was, the harder he tried to pull it from the shadows, the further back it slipped.
He rang the bell again and counted to thirty. When no one answered the door, he used the key his aunts had given him and went in.
A quick reconnaissance of the house told him what he suspected—his aunt Lil was out looking for her sister in spite of his request that she stay home.
David couldn’t remember ever feeling as angry and afraid as he did right then. Angry at himself for not recognizing the signals he’d sensed from his aunts the night before and fearful of what the next thirty-six hours would bring.
Statistically, the first forty-eight hours were the most critical to finding his aunts and the little girl. After that, a whole new set of data kicked in.
Grim-faced, he left the house, locked the door behind him, and hit the road to Belen.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cleg frowned at the dull amber light describing a small target against the wall. He hoped there were fresh batteries; he didn’t want to think about what would happen if the flashlight burned out while Margo was using it. Of course, it’d be his fault.
Moving as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow, he rummaged in the kitchen’s junk drawer. Pushing aside the too-short pencils, rubber bands, and paper clips, he grabbed what he hoped were two good C cells. He tossed the old batteries into the drawer, put in the new ones, clicked the light on and off a couple of times, and then started for the door.
But, like a magnet, the pantry drew his gaze. No telling when he’d have another chance to grab a bite. Margo could go a full day without food, but Cleg’s system was more delicate.
He retrieved the key from a pegboard on the wall, unlocked the pantry’s padlock and pulled the door open. He eyed the stored food, initially unable to decide what he wanted. Then he grabbed a couple of king-sized candy bars and stuffed them into his right pants pocket and reached for a package of his favorite treat in the world—chocolate-covered marshmallow cookies. He tore open the package, but before he could shove a cookie into his mouth, Margo’s voice stabbed through the air, loud enough to pierce his eardrums.
“What do you think you’re doing?” She bared her teeth at him like something feral.
In a panic, Cleg stuffed both cookies into his left pants pocket—a move he immediately regretted. Since the girl left, Margo did the laundry. And she’d boil him in oil when she found the remnants of those melted cookies.
“I was just making sure the flashlight works,” Cleg said.
Margo grabbed his upper arm and squeezed. “I’m going to take a whiz. By the time I get done, you’d better have the pickup running and the heater on full blast.” She threw her coat over the back of a kitchen chair, spun on her heel, and headed for the stairs. Her voice floated on the air behind her, “I hate cold weather. I don’t thrive in cold weather.”
As the sound of Margo’s clopping footsteps faded, Cleg took the opportunity to retrieve the cookies from his pocket, gobble them down, then grab another handful of snacks. If he was lucky, he’d have time to eat the candy bars and maybe even some of the caramel popcorn before the woman he’d begun calling The Shrike came back.
The nickname he’d first heard in an old Alfred Hitchcock movie couldn’t have been more suited to his wife. A tiny, deceptively lovely bird of prey, the shrike impaled its dinner on a thorny bush before leisurely taking time to devour it alive.
Unaware his reveries had eaten up his free time, Cleg jerked his head toward the stairwell at the sound of his wife’s flouncing footfalls.
“You still here?” Margo’s voice could have shredded beef. She yanked her coat from the chair back, knocking the chair over in the process. “Pick that up.” She jerked her head toward the chair and jammed her arms into the sleeves.
Cleg stooped, lost his balance, and nearly toppled over before righting the chair. “I was just—”
Margo stepped to the still-open pantry and peered inside. “I’m telling you, she’s been in this house.” Something on her blouse caught her eye, and she used a fingernail to peel a speck of food from just above her right breast. She lifted her head and gazed at the wall thoughtfully, “If she still thinks her sister’s dead, what will she do next? If I were a kid looking for my sister, what would I do?”
Cleg started to say something, thought better of it, and choked on his own saliva.
Margo whirled on him. “What?” Her eyes narrowed, she took a couple of steps toward him. “Do I hear echoes of a judgmental comment you had sense enough not to say?”
Cleg shook his head. His eyes wide, he stammered, “I was just remembering your own dear sister Chlorine, and how devastated you were when she went missing.”
Eyes filled with suspicion, Margo squinted at her husband then resumed pacing. For the next several minutes, she walked back and forth, mumbling to herself.
Suddenly, she whirled, a triumphant look on her face. “The photo.”
“What about the photo, Sweet Potato?”
Margo sneered. “You haven’t been paying attention. When Mort searched the kid’s luggage, he found a photo of her dead mother with a note on the back.”
“I don’t get—”
“Connect the dots, Jelly-butt. It makes sense that old man Ross would have left a clue for his kids. Now if I could just remember
what that note said; it’s right on the tip of my tongue.”
“But we pulled up most of the floor. And Digger fairly dug up the whole yard. If there’d been anything there, wouldn’t someone have found it?”
Margo continued pacing and mumbling. Suddenly, she stood stock still and thrust an index finger upward. “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also…that’s it, that’s what old man Ross wrote on the back of that photo.”
“Sounds like something from the Bible.”
“Makes no difference where it’s from, it’s got to be the clue we’ve been missing.”
“You think he buried a map with his wife?”
Margo grinned unpleasantly. “That’s exactly what I think.”
Before he could stop himself, Cleg said, “You mean we’re going to dig up that girl’s mother?”
Margo made an exasperated noise. “It’s just ashes, not a full-on cadaver.”
“But surely he wouldn’t leave instructions for his girls to dig up…I mean…he wouldn’t want his girls digging around…no one would think of—”
“Just listen to you. That’s exactly why he would bury it there.” She strode toward the front door. “Come on, there’s work to be done.”
Startled by sudden loud knocking on the front door, they swiveled their heads in unison toward the sound.
Cleg looked quizzically at his wife. “Mort forget his key?”
Margo shook her head and motioned for silence.
Another knock, louder. “Mr. and Mrs. Elliott?” The voice sounded young, masculine.
“Who’s that at this time of morning?” Cleg whispered.
Margo shook her head. “How do I know? Probably someone looking for a handout.” Her upper lip curled into a sneer, and she cracked her knuckles in a way that didn’t bode well for the poor sucker at the door. “This won’t take long. Go start the pickup.”
Cleg took his time moving toward the front door, loathe to miss the coming fireworks, especially since he wasn’t the target.
Margo moved to a window, peered out toward the drive then turned her head toward her husband. “Do you know anyone who drives a copper-colored Jeep?”