She reluctantly accepted the fact that her only chance for survival was to be picked up by a passerby. Her legs would carry her no further. Mouse stumbled up the drainage ditch and back onto the asphalt of the roadway.
Mouse tripped over a rock, sending her to the ground. The impact kicked up dust. The dryness in her throat fought against the dirt’s introduction into her open mouth. Coughing, she crawled forward slowly. Her palms seared by the hot surface. She waited. She did not fear death. She had been surrounded by it since before she could remember. Sometimes it came swiftly. Other times it was slow. But it always came. She was aware that nobody could escape its eventuality. In that simple understanding about the fragility of life, she found peace.
It was not death that she feared. It was the failure of the promise she’d made. Her father had given her the tools to endure under the harshest of circumstances and prevail against all odds. But her mother had given her the will to survive. Mouse was a balance of her father’s strength and her mother’s wisdom. Her mother took ill shortly after her father’s disappearance. Terrified that Mouse would be left in the streets of Juarez to fend for herself, she entrusted her life’s savings to a man who promised to get her daughter to the United States.
Mouse sat on the side of the road and thought of her mother’s dying wish and the words of their last conversation. “Mouse, my littlest angel, it’s time. Time for both of us to go. The road you must travel is much longer than mine, but I will be waiting for you at its end. Promise me that you will make a life for yourself in America. Promise me that you will find your way.”
The thought of her mother’s words reverberated within Mouse’s mind. She welled up with the emotion of her failure as she prepared to die all alone on a highway in a country she never had a chance to know. No tears fell because her dehydrated body had long ago lost the ability to produce water. She lay down, finding a patch of dirt that was still cool enough to touch. She let in death, as the ground began to rumble.
Weightless. Floating. Just as she’d always thought it would feel like. Death is easy. The sound of a guitar began to fill her ears. Confused by the sound, she thought, Why are the gates of Heaven playing American country music? A flicker of white light blinded her. As her vision cleared, she saw a tiny hula girl wiggling in her grass skirt. Heaven is a confusing place. And then the light dissipated. The sights and sounds faded into obscurity.
“How long’s she been out?” The woman’s voice was shrill.
“Darned if I know. Found her layin’ on the side of the road. Thought it was a dead fox when I first came up. I mean, Jeez Louise, never seen nothin’ like it.” The man’s voice pitched high and low in an animated fashion as he spoke.
“When’d they say they’d be here, Bertram?” the woman asked, pointedly.
“Dunno. I called 911 and told them I was gonna bring her here. So, I’m guessin’ ‘bout half hour?” the man replied.
“I’m gonna fix’er up a whole mess a grub. Can I getcha some too?” she asked, sweetening up her tone.
“Coffee’s fine for me, hun. Much appreciated.” She smiled as she walked away, taking a moment to appreciate the ample figure of the departing waitress.
Bertram Hadsworth had been coming to Ma’s Diner since he was a boy. And he’d been flirting with Jackie Masternick since before he could remember. The years did nothing to increase his confidence and, at forty-two, he’d never upped the nerve to ask her out on a date. Someday, he told himself but today would not be that day. Today, he needed to get this young girl help.
The diner began to fill with the regulars. None took much notice of Bertram until they saw the girl slumped in the booth seat across from him. But these were good country folk and they only gave a quick glance before going about their business. People in Bertram’s town didn’t mind the affairs of others. It wasn’t their way.
The bell above the entrance to Ma’s Diner rang out the newest arrival. Bertram had been close to right about the Sherriff’s timeline. Thirty-seven minutes after Bertram had placed the call, Deputy Bill Parsons entered. He stood quietly on the worn-out welcome mat, stopping at the door’s threshold. He surveyed the patrons. Bertram nodded discreetly at the lawman, who registered the gesture and responded by walking toward him. The girl stirred but didn’t wake.
“She’s sure a tiny little thing. Doesn’t look too good neither. How long would you say she’s been out?” Parsons asked.
Bertram took a moment to look at the clock on the wall, performing the calculation. “Since I dun found her ‘bout an hour ago. Don’t know how long before that.”
Parsons gingerly bent down as the starched creases of his light brown shirt gave way to his new position. He placed two fingers across her wrist and waited for the answer. The formed plastic of his shiny pistol belt squeaked loudly as he stood abruptly.
Parsons took another hard look at the girl and grabbed at his lapel mic. Clicking down on the plastic button, he relayed to headquarters, “217 at the Diner. I’m gonna need those medics to expedite.” His voice was steady, but there was an air of urgency to his request.
“D’ya think she’ll be okay?” Bertram asked of the deputy. Concern stretched across his wide sunburnt forehead as he looked intently at the unconscious child on the seat in front of him.
“I hope. Time will tell. Once I get her situated with the medics, I’m going to need to get the details from you.”
Deputy Parsons glanced around the small diner and could see that the other customers were trying hard to mind their own business, but his presence made that difficult. Forks and spoons clinked as they feigned interest in their meals.
Chapter 7
“How long are we talking?” Harrison asked into the cellphone.
“If I knew, I’d tell you, but at least a couple hours. Maybe more. No way to know for sure, until one of the other girls decides to enlighten us with some conversation,” Jones relayed, standing with one foot in the room and the other on the landing. It was like he was standing between two completely alternate worlds.
“I make no promises. But if you’re going to have any luck in picking up that scent, then it’ll be with Jasper.” Harrison’s confidence in his partner’s ability was evident in his words and tone.
“I’ve heard. That’s why I requested you by name,” Jones said, allowing time for the compliment to be received. “We’ve got a good group of K9 teams here in the city, but from what I hear you two are local legends.”
“I can be on location in less than thirty. I just got to clean Jasper up from his last adventure. He’s still got a little bit of meth-head stuck in his teeth.” Harrison and Jones both laughed at this. Harrison quickly returned to the business at hand and added, “If you could minimize the people in the room until I get there, that would help. And don’t let anyone else touch the item. The less contact, the better the scent.”
“Consider it done. See ya soon.” Jones hung up the call and stared off into the distance, looking at the city he called home and thinking about how much his current assignment had changed his perspective of it.
Jasper was greedily lapping up the water from his large metal bowl. His second bottle of water since the conclusion of his early morning’s jaunt through the hilly terrain. Harrison was accustomed to days like this, where the request for his services seemed to stack. He also had quiet days. But this apparently was not going to be one of those. Jasper’s fur around his mouth was soaked with the Evian water. For some reason unbeknownst to Harrison, it was the only water Jasper would drink. He often laughed at the quirkiness of his K9 partner. Harrison allowed his four-legged friend to finish before wiping the last bits of blood from his jawline.
“C’mon, boy! Let’s go. Time to do God’s work,” Harrison said, and Jasper’s ears perked.
God’s work. Their code. There was a truth behind those words. Harrison bore witness to the awful things people do to one another. He’d come to the conclusion that God must be pretty busy to let these things slide by unpunished. He
felt the calling at an early age and figured maybe he could help out in lessening the Lord’s burden.
Travis County was an expansive jurisdiction that included the state’s capital of Austin. Jasper’s early morning track of the tweaker, who’d fled after a botched home invasion, took place in the outskirts of the City of Round Rock, not too far from Austin. He told the detective thirty minutes but would probably be there before the estimated timeframe. Still, he had to make one stop before he headed to the scene.
Harrison pulled into the parking lot of Round Rock Donuts. It was tradition. Whenever a call took him to the city, he made sure he paid the iconic bakery a visit. Rusty Harrison did not break from his regimented dietary restrictions except on special occasions. And this was one of those. He was back out in less than two minutes. A chocolate-covered doughnut for him and a glazed for his partner. The two savored the flakey treat as they sped south on I-35 toward Austin.
“I’ll be right back, buddy,” Harrison said, as he closed the door to his cruiser.
Jasper stared at him with his large dark eyes. The golden hair that filled in around his eyes gave a softness to his intimidating stature. The car was left running with the air on full blast. The fan built into the right-side rear passenger window blew out the interior heat and created a continuous flow of air for Jasper.
“Up here,” a portly man in a sweat-soaked button-up shirt called down from the second-floor landing.
“Rusty Harrison.” His hand extended to the detective after making quick work of the stairs.
“Kemper Jones. I’m glad you were available. You were atop a shortlist of preferred trackers,” Jones said, extending his hand with the compliment.
“Where’s the shoes?” Harrison asked.
“Inside on the floor near the head of the far side bed. I haven’t moved them and barely touched them. We thought there were only seven girls, but this extra pair of shoes has me concerned.” The implication of the statement was clear.
“Understood. I’m going to bring my partner up and we’ll get started. Do me a favor and grab your fittest patrolman to call the track. We move fast,” Harrison said, recalling the failed support from Officer Fontaine during their earlier adventure.
Jones looked around for a minute and then called to a tall, thin Black officer talking with a neighboring guest. “Calhoun, you’re going to run the track with Harrison.”
The officer smiled and thanked Jones with his eyes. Running a track obviously trumped the door-to-door canvass for the young, fit officer.
Harrison clicked the button on his fob and the latch to the rear door of his cruiser made an audible popping sound. Jasper nudged it open and trotted up to Harrison, tapping his wet nose against his partner’s hand. Rusty untethered the leash that crossed his shoulder like a bandolier. He clipped it to the collar and the two proceeded into Room 204. Harrison guided Jasper to the shoes. He couldn’t help noticing how small the sneakers were. A sick feeling filled his stomach at this reality. Jasper sniffed hard and then popped his head up. His right ear flickered. The track had begun.
Jasper moved onto the landing and out to the stairs that he had just ascended minutes before. The Malinois’ head swiveled while he moved, looking for the scent that had been cast from the owner of those little shoes.
Jasper held the track. He moved quickly as they broke from the frontage road that paralleled I-35, heading west on East 12th Street. Calhoun had no trouble keeping up. He was stride for stride with the duo, calling in radio updates as they progressed. They passed through the grassy park that surrounded the State Capitol building. Jasper stopped only long enough to avoid a passing vehicle, but the streets were quiet on a Sunday morning.
Jasper stopped at the intersection with Rio Grande Street. The track had taken them on a straight line west, but it appeared that it might be lost. Jasper shifted his body.
“Do you want me to call it?” Calhoun asked, after giving this latest location over the radio. Calling the track would announce that it was over.
“Give him a minute. He’ll tell me when it’s done. And he hasn’t yet,” Harrison said, awaiting the familiar look from Jasper that the scent was gone. The dog’s head continued to push around the ground, bobbing up and down slightly.
The pull of the leash caught Harrison off guard. The track had resumed, still pushing west. They doglegged south onto North Lamar Boulevard, but only for a block until they pushed west again. This time on West 11th Street. Jasper stopped at the T-intersection with Baylor Street, scanning the tiered rise of concrete ahead. The brightly-colored walls of the Hope Outdoor Gallery were set in the middle of the old Austin neighborhood. Graffiti artists shared their talent without reprisal. A unique and vibrant visual representation of Austin’s massive artistic patronage.
Jasper left the street, hitting the dirt-covered path that intertwined with the kaleidoscope of images. His movements were more erratic now as he zigzagged up the slow rise. This time when he stopped, Harrison saw his furry partner’s ear twitch and matched the direction of his gaze. Then he saw it. The surrounding walls shadowed the form sprawled on the ground.
“Platz,” Harrison said. The command given, Jasper took a prone position at his foot. “Blieb.” With that last utterance, Jasper would not move until told to do so. Then Harrison directed his attention to Calhoun. “Let’s go.”
The two men approached slowly, not wanting to scare the girl. She did not react to their approaching footsteps. Both officers crouched low, and it was Calhoun who spoke first.
“Hey, sweetheart, I’m Darius. We’re here to help you.”
His words were kind and his voice smooth. They’d be a welcome sound to anyone in distress.
Unfortunately, the small girl’s ears would never hear those words. As Harrison gently rocked her shoulder, he could feel the damp stickiness of her blood-soaked shirt. Panicking, he rolled her from her side to her back to check her vitals. She was cold to the touch. Those vacant eyes would never be able to capture the beauty of her surroundings. Harrison and Calhoun exchanged pained glances, the two strong men momentarily emotionally crippled by the girl that lay before them.
Rusty bent forward, placing his hands on his knees. The dead girl brought up an image he’d long since repressed. It dizzied him. He swayed, fighting back against the memory.
Chapter 8
It was quiet except for the crunching and slurping of the small girl hunched over the tray of food. While chewing, she would lift her eyes and scan the room’s interior. The walls were a dull color, like an offspring of beige and gray. No pictures. No windows. A square table and some cheap plastic chairs were its only furnishings. She swallowed and returned to the mountain of food in front of her. She forked a mouthful of syrup-covered pancakes into her mouth, breathing through her nose.
“Look at her. She eats like a Coyote in Spring,” Deputy Parsons watched on the monitor.
The camera affixed to the corner of the interview room relayed the live feed of the girl’s ravenous consumption of the food generously provided by Jackie Masternick of Ma’s Diner.
“I wonder how long it’s been since she last ate?” Anaya Patel said this with genuine concern. “She could make herself sick.”
“The doc said it was hard to tell, but at least a few days without food and water. The IVs really helped. I thought she was a goner. A few more hours and she probably would’ve been,” Parsons relayed.
“I’m going to go in and say hello.”
“I don’t think she speaks English,” Parsons said.
“Why do you think that?” Anaya asked.
“Cuz she didn’t say nothin’ to me.” It was a defensive response by the lawman.
“Maybe she didn’t like you,” Anaya said, lessening the blow with a smile and wink.
“I’ll be watching from out here if you two need anything,” Parsons said, accepting his role.
“Will do. Thanks for the call, Bill. Hopefully, we can get her some help.”
The door opened slowly,
and Anaya Patel’s slender body stood at the threshold. She did not enter the room. The girl looked at her but said nothing. Anaya allowed the girl time to evaluate her. Damaged children were like stray dogs. They needed time to acclimatize to new surroundings and new people. Anaya knew this better than most and she was patient. The girl’s eyes shot back to the food. The initial threat assessment was apparently over.
“Can I come in?” Anaya asked the small girl. The first step to establishing trust was to empower.
No words. The girl only moved her head in the slightest of nods.
“Thank you,” Anaya said, genuinely.
Nothing. A long slurp of water filled the silence.
“I know you’re hungry, but you may want to slow down. Too much food too fast could make you sick,” Anaya said.
Anaya had a gentle way. It came naturally to her. Her kindness was a byproduct of her own childhood trauma.
The small girl paused, contemplating the words. The fork balanced between her thumb and forefinger. It hovered above the diner’s generous portions. She put it down on the table. The subtle standoff over, she cast her eyes toward Anaya but ensured that she avoided making direct eye contact.
“I’m Anaya. I work for an agency called Child Protective Services. My job is to help children like you. And I want you to know that you’re in good hands because I’m very good at what I do,” Anaya said, knowing the importance of establishing primacy. She needed the girl to believe in her abilities if any early trust was to be built.
Anaya had gauged that the girl had an excellent grasp of English without ever asking. She had appropriately responded non-verbally to everything said up to this point.
The Lion's Mouth Page 3