by J K Ellem
Shaw turned away from her, his brain automatically imagining the direction of where the shot had come from. He pivoted like a compass until he was facing the right direction. His gun was already up, how, he couldn’t remember. The Beretta kicked smoothly as he emptied the entire clip, fifteen shots in the direction where his mental compass needle had settled.
He reloaded in a less than a second, determined to kill the person whoever it was. Two of the fifteen bullets found their mark through the labyrinth of trees and slammed into the chest of the security guard who was standing on the road, rifle raised, optical night-sight focused on Shaw. The guard bucked backwards and collapsed.
Shaw turned and stumbled to where Clare lay, a cloak of red unfurling behind her, warm blood seeping into the cold snow.
“No! No! No!” he screamed. He recovered the backpack, ripped it open and pulled out the medical kit. Blood smudged his hands, slippery and wet as he ripped open clothing.
She stared at him vacantly, her mouth open, dribbling red, a wheezing, gurgling sound coming from her lips. She smiled, then her eyes began to fade as her life began to haemorrhage out of her.
A black hole of torn skin oozed blood just under her breast. Shaw rolled her on her side and pulled back the material to reveal another dark hole where the bullet had hit. He ripped open a sealed bandage and pressed it against the bullet wound, but in seconds it was soaking wet. He opened another and did the same, pressing harder, trying to stop the bleeding.
He could feel her skin getting colder. She was dying in front of him.
“Come on, Clare, I need you to stay awake,” he shook her face, pleading with her. “Don’t die on me now.”
It was no use. Shaw discarded another blood-soaked bandage. He ripped open another and pressed a powdery substance into the bullet hole with his finger. “Come on, Clare,” he yelled.
Dull eyes looked at him. She was fading, but he didn’t give up. He peeled away the wrapping of two halo seals, used specifically for gunshot penetrating wounds and stuck one on her chest over the exit hole then rolled her over and pressed one securely over the entry hole in her back.
He rolled her over.
She had stopped breathing.
Shaw felt for a pulse on her neck.
Nothing.
The wind groaned, thrashing at the tops of the pine trees, dislodging the snow from their branches. It began to fall serenely around two people. One dead, the other pressing down repeatedly on their chest in silent prayer.
The wind got louder, the trees shook more violently, a rhythmic beat, the air vibrating.
Shaw ignored everything and kept trying to pound life back into Clare. He didn’t notice the man walking through the forest towards him, leaving a stain of blood in the snow.
Morgan held a gun in his bloodied hand, his face a broken mask of red, his skull fractured, his jaw hanging crooked giving him a heinous snarl of a rabid dog.
He aimed at Shaw, five feet away from behind, back of the head. Couldn’t miss.
It was like the sun came out in that instant, a brilliant orb of blinding light that threatened to melt the snow. It swept then pooled around the three figures, a halo of white searching amongst the torrent of wind-driven snow that swirled around them.
Morgan’s head jerked back, half of his head coming away from the rest of his skull, his body hung in the air for a second before collapsing lifeless to the ground. The sound of the rifle shot lost amongst the deep thump of the rotor blades.
Shaw kept going, counting the compressions in his head, oblivious to everything around him, his sole aim to save her.
The helicopter peeled away, searching for a place to set down, the parking lot the safest bet. The chopper came down fast, its skids hitting the cold asphalt, bodies piling out; three men, two in the lead, carrying assault rifles ready to kill anyone in their way, the third carrying what was needed to save a life.
51
He had been by her bedside for three days, and the nurses were starting to talk. It’s not that he was in the way, they certainly didn’t mind, a nice young good-looking man was always welcome in their ward.
He brought no flowers, no cards, no gifts, none of the typical fanfare visitors tended to bring to a hospital when they visited a sick or dying patient. Instead, each day he brought his undivided attention to the woman in a coma inside Room 14. From the start of visiting hours to well past the conclusion for the day, it was the same. He sat beside her.
At first they thought he was the woman’s husband, but a quick check of the medical records of the patient revealed that no next of kin was listed. Apart from Alice Munroe, and the usual parade of police who came and went, the woman had no other visitors except for the young man. Each day he came, pulled up a chair beside her bed and held her hand. Every day for three days straight. Occasionally he would leave the room to go to the bathroom. Sometimes the nurses would see him downstairs in the hospital cafeteria where he would eat his meals. He would sit in the corner, alone, his back against the wall, silently eating or drinking coffee.
On the third day a young nurse finally plucked up enough courage. She asked him if he was a relative. He smiled politely and said he was just a friend.
When asked by the head nurse, the police said the stranger was fine to stay, and that he was the person who had saved the patient’s life, stopped the bleeding from the gunshot wound and applied CPR until the paramedics arrived.
After this new revelation, there was a steady and distinct increase in the flow of nurses, young and old, all wanting a look at the mysterious young man in Room 14. He was an unlikely hero who wanted no attention or credit for what he had done. He shunned the attention and at times looked down right embarrassed. But he was polite and respectful of the nurses as they fussed around the patient.
On the fourth day the patient awoke. She had made an amazing recovery considering the injuries she had suffered. Maybe it was her resilience, maybe it was a testament to the team of surgeons and theatre staff who had operated on her for fourteen hours non-stop. Maybe it was the post-operative care of the nursing staff of the hospital. However, the nurses believed that her miraculous recovery was due to the young man who unselfishly sat beside her bed for almost four days holding her hand and talking to her.
He gave her hope and something to live for.
* * *
“I must look like a real mess,” Clare said, her voice croaky, her lips dry and peeling. She was sitting upright, a swathe of puffed-up pillows propped behind her. Warm sunshine poured through the window making the room bright, warm and safe.
Clare had tubes in both arms, a bank of computer monitors sat to one side, colorful lines, numbers and symbols scrolling across the flat screens.
“You look fine to me,” Shaw said, sitting on the edge of her bed. He leaned over, gently moved aside a strand of hair from Clare’s forehead and kissed her. It was long and unforgiving in its tenderness.
For a brief moment the lines on the monitors climbed upwards, the beats-per-minute spiking before settling back into a normal rhythm. A nurse poked her head in to see what all the electronic commotion was about. She saw the man leaning across the bed, kissing her patient. The nurse smiled, quietly withdrew from the room, closing the door behind her to give them some privacy,
“Best damn medicine you can get, if you ask me,” she muttered as she walked back to the nurses station, wondering when was the last time she had been kissed properly like that. Too long, she decided as she settled in behind her desk.
“Gods knows what I taste like,” Clare said, a little embarrassed, holding back the tears in her eyes.
Shaw sat back. “You taste great to me. You always do, not just your mouth either.”
Clare laughed then grimaced slightly at the pain. “Don’t make me laugh too much, I’ll split my stitches.”
They said nothing for a while, just content to look at each other, both glad that the other was alive. The nurses had already explained to Clare that she was in one of th
e best Trauma Centers in Denver. Shaw said he was staying at a motel nearby and had been staying there ever since she arrived for emergency surgery.
Shaw held a cup with a drinking straw to her lips and watched Clare as she drank. She had lost weight, people always did after a stint in hospital.
“We were wrong, Clare,” Shaw said, settling back on the edge of the bed. “I was wrong.”
Clare took Shaw’s hand in hers. “Don’t ever apologise to me. Ever, you got that?”
Shaw nodded. His eyes glistened and he turned away for a moment, partly shocked and partly embarrassed from the sudden display of feelings he had for her, thankful beyond words that she was alive.
“You found me, saved my life. Saved the lives of all those children.”
“Not all,” he said, wishing he could have saved more.
“We did our best, I was stupid. I should have told you, I shouldn’t have gone up there by myself. I should have waited until Denver PD arrived.”
“That’s not you, Clare,” Shaw said. “You needed to act, you needed to do something instead of just sitting around waiting.”
“And Carl Jessup?” Clare asked.
Shaw shook his head, “Let’s just say he won’t be needing a hospital.”
Clare looked out the window, her head resting softly on the pillow. The sky was clear and a glorious shade of deep blue. Everything looked clean and fresh, that look you get after a storm has passed and washed away the filth and grime, leaving behind a new day.
“And Emily?” Clare asked.
Shaw spent the next hour telling Clare everything, leaving no detail out. On his visits to the hospital and by phone, Dan Reynolds had given Shaw daily updates on the progress of the search and investigation on the mountain.
Clare laid quietly and just listened, content, warm and safe in her drowsy state. Nurses flittered in and out, checking her vitals, filling out her chart, taking slightly longer than required, stealing a sideways glance at Shaw as they recorded their notes in Clare’s file. The nurses were already taking bets on the age difference, more due to extreme jealousy and a lot of envy rather than criticism.
Shaw ignored them as he spoke, Clare still holding his hand like he was her lifeline, and for a few precious moments four days ago he was the only thing standing between her and certain death.
Dan Reynolds and his team were the first on scene. Responding to Emily Bell’s frantic phone call, it was Dan in the helicopter together with two officers from the tactical response group plus a paramedic who had flown up to the mountain. Once stabilised, Clare was bundled aboard the chopper and flown to the nearest Level One Trauma Center in Denver together with Shaw.
Reynolds and his men remained on the ground on the mountain but weren’t prepared for what Shaw had told them and what they eventually discovered deep within the bowels of the Church of Moral Servitude. They found the young girls in the specially constructed containment cells underneath the main building of the complex. It was like a rabbit warren. Sixty-two girls in total, including two fatalities, were kept in an elaborate underground setup. They also found a fully equipped medical suite with a large supply of opioids and hallucinogens that had been used to drug the girls.
Reynolds secured the site with what little manpower he had until the rest of his team arrived an hour later.
Then they found the body of Carl Jessup hanging from a beam in a subterranean area that could only be described as a sprawling dungeon. Suicide was the initial conclusion. Jessup, overcome with guilt and remorse, must have hung himself rather than face the shame and consequences of his actions. It didn’t explain how he managed to use cable ties to secure his hands behind his back after he had placed the noose around his own neck. But when confronted with the enormity of the child paedophile ring that Carl Jessup had established and presided over, no one really cared how he died.
A full contingent of FBI agents invaded Echo Mountain by midday and quickly took over Clare’s office, turning it into a forward command post for the duration of the investigation. They were liaising with Denver PD in a joint effort to sort out the mess.
A full medical team arrived from Denver. The girls were isolated, given thorough medical examinations, photographed and DNA swabbed. Most of them spoke very little English. Test results would come back showing that eleven of the girls were pregnant. The eldest of this pregnant group was twelve years old.
Reynold’s men found the stolen pickup truck from the logging camp at the base of a hillside just off the main road. But there was no trace of the driver.
No employees of the logging camp were allowed to leave and Ray Taggart had been brought in for questioning by the FBI.
Molly Malone’s house was cordoned off as a crime scene and Molly was released from hospital two days later after she had given a full statement of what had happened at her house. She credited Shaw with saving her life and explained to the FBI that, in her opinion Shaw had acted completely in self-defense.
The bodies of Freddy Myers and David McDonald were transferred to the morgue in Denver. Freddy Myers’ DNA had been matched to the trace DNA found under the fingernails of the Syrian girl and to the DNA found on the body of Anita Hobbs, who had been brutally murdered in Memphis two years ago.
Emily Bell took FBI Special Agent Alina Coronado and her team out to the old tannery where they recovered Marcus Eddleton and the body of a young woman Eddleton had tortured and murdered. A wider search of the area would eventually take the FBI to an old hunters cabin where Eddleton had another cache of supplies and weapons.
The entire church complex was placed into total lock-down while statements were taken from all staff and students. It would be months before the full extent of the complex child paedophile ring would be known.
When Shaw had finished explaining, he sat back and gazed out the window for a while, thinking about the last few days and how tired he suddenly felt.
A few minutes later he glanced back at Clare. She was sleeping peacefully.
He wanted to tell her something else, but it could wait he decided.
He gently placed her hand on the bed, kissed her again then quietly withdrew from the room.
52
It was like a million other visitor rooms in a million other hospitals. A brown laminate table sat in the middle, a pile of ancient gossip magazines, well-read and dog-eared. There were three beige chairs in padded vinyl, worn and faded from a lifetime of silent anguish. Light shone through a large window that overlooked the parking lot, filling the space with a haze of suspended particles.
“She’s going to make a full recovery.” FBI Special Agent Alina Coronado sat across from Shaw. Part Mexican, part Puerto Rican, she was petite with shoulder-length brown hair and expressive brown eyes that were watching him intently. She was the lead investigator from the FBI who had spent the last few days up on Echo Mountain trying to unravel what Sheriff Decker and this man had literally stumbled upon. What had started out as a routine follow-up on a missing person from the hand that had been found in the forest was now something far more sinister and widespread.
“What else did you find?” Shaw asked. She seemed honest and trustworthy, but Shaw remained guarded. He had spoken to her just briefly during the last forty-eight hours, in the hospital corridors, trying to avoid the conversation they were having now. But eventually he knew the FBI would corner him. Dan Reynolds had given him space and was just happy Clare was alive.
Shaw just wanted to go, to leave Denver after he first said good-bye to Clare, and let the authorities deal with it. It was not his job, he had done what he could and that’s all that mattered to him.
“We found a lot,” Alina replied. “Enough to keep us busy for some time. All of the girls came into the US illegally and we’re working with other agencies to determine the various sources.” Alina went on to explain that it was just the early stages of the investigation, but from the information they had discovered so far they were dealing with a massive, well-organised child sex and slavery ne
twork that spanned multiple states with similar hubs to the one they found on Echo Mountain. “From what we can determine most of these girls are abducted refugee children, supplied by Eastern European crime gangs. There’s an entire supply pipeline coming out of Greece, Italy and Germany into the east coast of the US. The pipeline then splits into distribution channels where girls are trucked to specific centralised locations or hubs. The entire operation is run and co-ordinated from the facility on Echo Mountain.”
“Sounds like a real ant hill up there,” Shaw replied.
“More like a massive spider’s web,” Alina suggested. “With Carl Jessup sitting at the very centre. We don’t know how wide this goes, but already we’ve located another three child hubs on the west coast. Not as elaborate as this one, but one location had nearly two hundred children in it, all drugged, groomed and rented for sex. The conditions in that location were inhumane.”
Shaw shook his head in disbelief.
“This is going to be a huge cross-agency exercise, but we will get to the bottom of it, I can promise you that.”
Shaw nodded.
“I really appreciate all the help you’ve given us too,” Alina said, leaning forward.
“I’ve done nothing.” Shaw could feel his guard go up a little higher. “Credit should go to Sheriff Decker, not me. It was the sheriff who made the link to Carl Jessup’s father. He’d been grooming his own son. Some kind of succession plan, passing it down to the next generation.”
Alina regarded Shaw for a moment. Good-looking as well as humble, she thought. “True,” Alina said, thinking about what her team had briefed her on so far including the files, emails and search results from Clare’s computer.
Albert Jessup, Carl’s father, had first established a religious commune in Lake County back in the 1970s that spawned his taste for young girls.