San Francisco, California
2015
Sabrina crossed the street, approaching the cluster of badges that milled around the front yard belonging to the address Strickland had sent her. The uniform stationed at the perimeter gave her a head nod but not much more. No smile. No black-humored commentary on what was going on inside. He barely looked at her as she ducked under the tape. She straightened and looked around. More of the same. Somber faces and hushed voices. It was like someone had turned the volume down on the entire crime scene. Only one thing could do that. Turn a crew of hardened cops into a bunch of dour-faced librarians.
The murder victim was a child.
She made her way up the front walk, forced her feet to move faster than they wanted to go. No one wanted to work a child murder. Those were the ones you couldn’t shake loose. They stuck with you. Haunted you. She pushed her way inside and found another uniform standing just inside the door. She gave him a questioning glance and he tipped his head in the direction of the hallway.
The house was empty, the floor littered with fast-food wrappers and old newspapers. Windows painted over so the morning sun was defused down to little more than a reddish glow as it struggled to push its way through the glass. Another pale-faced uniform stationed just outside one of the rooms off the hallway.
She stepped into the room to find Strickland crouched over a body so little all she could see was the top of a blond head and small, bare feet. She dug a pair of latex gloves out of her jacket pocket and pulled them on. “Hey.”
He looked over his shoulder and jerked his chin at her. “Hey. Hell of a welcome back, huh?” he said, watching her circle around the body to stand opposite where he was. She looked down, steeling herself for what waited at her feet. It was a boy. No obvious cause of death, his body pale and still—naked.
She blew out a sigh, hunkered down to get a better look. She glanced at her partner. Strickland rubbed his hand across his mouth and shook his head. “He can’t be more than six or seven.”
He was small. She’d have guessed younger but she didn’t say anything. “Any witnesses?”
“No.” Strickland dropped his gloved hand and brushed his fingers along the ligature marks that marred the boy’s wrist. “Anonymous 911 call from a burner cell. I got a couple of uniforms doing a walk-through but so far—”
“Hey, you guys are gonna want to see this.” She and Strickland looked up to see a uniformed officer—his head poked into the room, like the rest of his body had refused to make the trip. His gaze drifted down to the body stretched out on the floor between them before bouncing back up. “Some pretty weird shit in the basement,” he said before retreating back down the hall.
________
She tried not to let her frustration get the best of her. But it was hard—really hard—to let Strickland take the lead. Especially when he led like an old lady.
“You want to move a little faster, Grandma?” she said from where she was, stuck behind him on the basement stairs.
“Your leg must be better, huh? A year and some change on SWAT and you’re ready to kick down doors,” he said. He clicked his flashlight on and swept it across the interior before taking a few more steps into the gloom. “Not sure if you remember but we take a more civilized approach here in the land of suits and ties.”
“More like the land of dentures and bingo,” Sabrina said under her breath as she followed, moving further into down the stairs. That's when the smell hit her.
“Busted sewer line,” Strickland said, but he was wrong. She knew that smell. Had been trapped in the dark with it for eighty-three days. The smell told her that this is where the boy had been kept. That he'd been held against his will. Confined somewhere that didn't offer the luxury of a toilet.
The single bare bulb that hung in the middle of the room did little except create a small circle of watery light—the rest of the room was dark. Strickland shuffled forward a few more steps, doing his best to keep her on the stairs until he knew it was completely safe. She could already see a habit forming. An irritating one that annoyed her. “Strickland, I swear to God...”
He shot her a look over his shoulder. “Better safe than—”
“You’re being ridiculous.” She shouldered her way past him, pulling her Mini-Mag from her pocket. She clicked it on. “I think I’ve proved it takes a lot more than a dark basement to kill me.”
Liar, liar…
“Nice, Vaughn—real nice.” Strickland shook his head. He hated being reminded of what'd happened to her. That he hadn't been there to help her.
“You been doing those deep-breathing exercises I taught you?” She was teasing him now, making light of a situation neither one of them could change. And even if she could, she wouldn't.
He aimed his light in the opposite direction. “Fuck you, Vaughn,” he said with no real heat behind it.
She scanned the opposite side of the room, her beam passing over a large wrought iron cage. Then another. And another. And another. Whatever she’d been about to say died in her throat. “Oh…” she let the word out on an expulsion of breath, too soft to sound like anything but a sigh. There were leashes clipped to the outside of each of them. Buckets full of shit and piss next to bowls that'd probably held food and water. There were four of them, which meant that the dead boy upstairs wasn’t the only one who'd been held here. So, where were the rest of them? It wasn't something she wanted to consider, but the body upstairs might not be the only body they find.
Home sweet home…
“Take a look over here,” Strickland said.
She turned in the direction of his voice and her flashlight found the back of his head. His was pointed at a video camera set on a tripod. “This just keeps getting better by the second,” he said in a disgusted mutter.
She aimed her light at the ground and crossed the room to the camera. “No tape. But we’ll get CSU down here, have them dust every square inch. No way this freak wore gloves the whole time. We’ll catch him,” she said, sounding more sure than she actually felt. She knew better than anyone that monsters weren’t always that easy to catch. Sometimes they were more than just dumb animals. Sometimes they roamed free.
She ran her flashlight along the floor, looking for something, anything that might point her in the direction of the sick bastard who thought keeping little boys in cages was an okay thing to do. Her light caught the edge of a curtain—she watched it flutter as if touched by a breeze. But there was no breeze. Not down here. It fluttered again.
She motioned for Strickland to be quiet and aimed her light at the edge of the curtain. She saw movement—something shifting slowly along the floor.
There was someone there.
14
Sabrina's heart slammed into her throat. She unsnapped her holster as quietly as she could, and shot a look over her shoulder. Strickland had seen it too. He drew his weapon and nodded. She lifted her SIG P220 off her hip and took aim at the curtain.
“SFPD—I know you’re back there. Come out with your hands where I can see them,” she said in a tone that gave little doubt as to her intent if her command wasn’t followed.
No response, just the slight flutter of the curtain that told her that who or whatever was behind it was still there.
“I said, SFPD. Come out—”
A pair of feet appeared, nothing more than the tops and toes. They were small and pale in the steady beam of her flashlight.
Holy shit. It was a kid.
She changed tactics, softened her tone but still held firm. "It's okay, you're safe. I'm a police officer—it's okay to come out now," she said but didn't lower her gun. There was a chance the child behind the curtain wasn't alone.
Small feet shuffled closer and a hand peeked out from the split between the curtains. The opening was pulled wider to reveal a white face—dark, vacant eyes and a sharp nose set in a face that was painfully thin. Equally thin shoulders and torso appeared as the kid moved forward slowly. Just like the dead boy upstairs, he
was naked.
“Are you alone back there?” she said. The kid didn't answer, just stared at her with those empty eyes. She motioned the child closer. “Come here, it's okay.” She looked at Strickland and tipped her head in the direction of the curtain. He nodded and moved forward, gun raised.
Sabrina reached out and latched onto the boy's arm, pulling him toward her. The second her fingers made contact, he went crazy—swinging and shouting in a language she didn't understand.
She dragged the boy clear of the curtain. He fought against her grip, screaming and flailing, while Strickland did a sweep of the room behind it. He came out a few seconds later. “Nothing. Just a mattress, TV and another camcorder.” he said over the din of the boy's screaming. “What the hell is he saying?”
She shook her head and looked at the boy, saw his face, white and stretched thin with terror. He wasn't speaking English but his fear was obvious. “Shhh, shhh—it's okay. We're here to help,” she said, hoping her tone would convey the message her words couldn't.
The boy darted away from her, nothing but a pale blur as he bolted toward freedom and she started after him, pounding up the steps, Strickland two strides behind her. She reached the top of the stairs and saw him running down the darkened hallway, darting this way and that.
“Stop him,” she shouted, hoping the uniform at the front door would be quick enough to catch him.
The boy cut to the left and she followed, through the living room doorway. He saw the uniform, blocking his way out and he darted to the left again, cutting across the room to the other side of the house. Toward the room where the dead boy probably still lay stretched out on the floor.
“Don't go in there,” she said, even though he didn't understand her. He disappeared through the doorway seconds before she reached it. She skidded to a stop, blocking the doorway. The coroner, Mandy Black, hunkered down next to the body on the floor but the whole of her attention was concentrated on the boy who just burst into the room. He was crouching in the corner furthest away from the doorway, knees drawn tight against his chest by arms so thin and pale they looked like twigs, bleached white by the sun.
He started rambling again, eyes, like miniature black holes, aimed at the body on the floor. She started to cross the threshold but Mandy threw up a hand and shook her head. Sabrina stalled out mid-stride and watched as Mandy stood, crossing the room on slow and steady feet. She said something in what sounded like the same language the boy was speaking and as if Mandy had thrown a switch, he stopped talking.
Sabrina watched and listened. Mandy got closer and closer, still speaking the strange language in a low, easy tone that seemed to sooth the boy. It sounded Slavic—maybe Russian. Strange coming from the woman crouched on the floor. She must've asked him a question because the boy nodded, eyes suddenly flooded with tears. He started to speak again but his speech had lost its hysterical edge. Mandy got close enough to reach out and touch him but she didn't. She kept her hands at her sides, shaking her head as she crouched low and slow in front of him. She kept talking. The boy kept listening.
“What. The. Fuck,” Strickland said behind her. “Coroner Barbie speaks gibberish.”
“It's not gibberish, dickhead. It's Russian,” Mandy said without looking up.
She felt a prickle, like electricity dancing along her skin. What was a Russian boy doing in an abandoned house in San Francisco? One that had obviously been held against his will?
She looked away from the boy crouched in the corner to the one dead on the floor.
“Ask him if he knows the victim,” she said.
Mandy spoke quietly and the boy answered, shaking his head. “No. He said he’s never seen him before.”
Sabrina studied the boy on the floor. He was small and blond. She entered the room and squatted down next to the body. She peeled back a lid and looked at his eyes. They were milky but she could see enough of the iris to know they were light in color.
She stood. “I need some air,” she said, brushing past Strickland on her way out the door. She could feel him watching her and she silently urged him not to follow.
She didn't need air. She needed to call Ben, because there was a very real chance that she'd just found Leo Maddox.
15
After Ben came clean about Sabrina's involvement with FSS, Michael didn't even try to pretend to sleep. He cleaned his weapons instead.
Laid out on the table in front of him, the muted gleam of gunmetal was familiar. Comforting even, in a strange sort of way. This was what he knew. What he did. Who he was. The person he'd been after Frankie's death—the one who fell in love with Sabrina—that wasn't him. Never had been.
He could hope and wish all he wanted. For a different life. To find a way clear of the two tons of shit he'd buried himself under... it didn't matter. Not when faced with the reality of what he really was. Not when he admitted that he would probably never be free of Livingston Shaw. He ran the bulk patch through the barrel of his gun and gave it a few twists before pulling it clear. It came out clean.
Besides, did he really think he'd been made to settle down? Fall in love—lead an average existence? Pancakes and crossword puzzles on lazy Sunday mornings. Walks in the park and neighborhood barbeques. He thought about Tom Onewolf. The only normal guy he knew. He had a wife and daughter. Ran his uncle's diner. For a moment, despite everything he knew about himself, he wished he could trade places with him. Be average. Be stable.
Be someone else.
Lark was right. Sabrina had done something to him. Made him want things he couldn't have. To be a man he couldn't even imagine. He tried to be angry at her but it was no use. He'd decided a long time ago that whatever his problems were, she wasn't to blame. He let her get too close. He had no one to blame but himself.
He swiped the bulk patch over the slide, clearing away imaginary debris before adding a few drops of gun oil here and there.
But it was possible now. She was in as deep as he was—he could finally have something, someone, he wanted. They could be together...
As soon as the thought came to him, he rejected it. She deserved better—a lot better—than him. He thought of the cop who'd had the hots for her. Nickels—he'd be good for her. He was clean. Capable. Just the thought of Sabrina with him made Michael want to kill something.
He passed the bulk patch over the body of the gun, careful to clear the rails and ran it over the lip of the magazine. A shadow fell over the table and he looked up, not at all surprised by who he saw standing over him.
Michael smirked, dropped his eyes back down to the gun in his hand. “Did you fall down and hit your head or something, asshole?” he said.
“Maybe, but I got enough wits to hear what Junior told you about your girl,” Lark said, still standing over him and still staring. Michael didn't answer. He reached for his gun cloth and started rubbing away the fluid residue left on his dismantled gun. He got busy ignoring Lark but it didn't matter, he just kept talking. “He's the one who told the boss about her, not me.”
“Technically, she turned herself in.” For me. His jaw clenched tight as he shot Lark a look. “Is this going somewhere or are you looking for a shoulder to cry on?” He'd never been able to stomach Lark's bitchy little girl routine for long—time had done nothing to stretch his patience. He fixed the slide back into place and racked it back to ensure it rode the rails without catching.
“What I’m looking for is an apology.”
He laughed. Tipped his head back and let loose. “Yeah? Well, keep looking because you won’t find one here.” He popped a fresh magazine into the grip of the gun and racked a bullet into the chamber before laying it on the table. He looked up at Lark. “You're just pissy because she beat you to the punch. I'm sure you would've loved to be the one to offer up that little gem to Shaw.”
“But I didn't.” Lark jabbed a finger over his shoulder at Ben. “He turned her and he gets a pass. What’s up with that?”
“He did it to save her. What you did, you did to save
yourself.” Michael stood, forcing Lark back a few steps, away from the table.
“I did what I did to save us both.”
“Remind me to send a thank you card.” He looked down at the gun on the table.
Lark read his mind. “Shooting me won't change anything. You can't have what you want. None of us can. We walked away from nine-to-five and minivans a long time ago. No use callin' bullshit now.”
Michael kept his expression neutral. “Have anyone ever told you that you have this annoying habit of repeating yourself?”
“Yeah, well, here’s another repeat, just so we're clear—I'm here to make sure you don't get any silly ideas about riding off into the sunset with your lady cop—”
“Funny, I thought that's what the dirty bomb attached to my spine was for.”
“—so, just remember... she's a hell of a lot more expendable than you are.”
Michael holstered his gun and curled his hands into fists, squeezing them so hard he felt his knuckles crack. “Pushing me… it’s a stupid move.”
“I'm not the one being stupid,” Lark nearly growled at him and he laughed again. Lark had him there. When it came to Sabrina, stupid was his middle name.
16
Cofre del Tesoro, Columbia
July ~ 2008
“What is it?”
Christina stood at the edge of the grass, small fingers worrying against the seams of her pale pink dress. She looked up at him.
“It’s a tire swing,” Michael said, jamming his hands into the pockets of his fatigues.
“What’s it for?”
“It’s for fun.” What seemed like a good idea this morning now felt silly. He grimaced at the old jeep tire and rope he’d found in the garage. He hadn’t even thought to wipe it down before stringing it up. Jesus, he was bad at this. “Never mind—you want to go back inside?”
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2 Page 6