The Family Man

by Amy Cross

  Copyright 2018 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  First published in June 2014

  as The House of Broken Backs

  This edition: May 2018

  He seems perfect in every way. Happily married, with a loving wife and a teen daughter, he seems to have everything. But this particular family man has a dark secret that he's managed to hide from his family. From all his families.

  But all that is about to change.

  When a dying girl crawls to the door of a remote farmhouse, the police are led to a horrific warehouse where scores of other girls are chained in horrifying conditions. Somebody has been farming human beings, using them to create new identities that can be sold on the black market.

  And now the perfect family man is about to learn that he can never truly escape his past.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  The Folded Man

  Part Two

  Flames

  Part Three

  Burned

  Part Four

  Ashes

  Part Five

  The Paper Man

  Part Six

  Hunted

  Part Seven

  A Face in the Crowd

  Part Eight

  The House of Broken Backs

  Epilogue

  The Family Man

  Prologue

  "What was that?" she asks suddenly, looking over at the window. "Joe, did you hear something?"

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the TV screen, Joe tries to ignore his wife's question. It's getting late, and he's used to the woman's constant paranoia. Ever since they moved to the new house, at the end of a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, he's had to endure her constant requests to 'go check it out' every time Kath hears even the slightest sound. It's nothing. It's always nothing. He's got more important things to do, like watch the news or pick his nose or just stare at the screen.

  "Joe," she says after a moment. "I heard something. I think there's someone out there. I mean it this time."

  "There's no-one out there," he says glumly, taking a sip of stale beer but still not looking away from the TV.

  "I heard someone," Kath continues, her voice filled with concern. "This isn't like last night, Joe. I definitely heard someone. Go check it out."

  "You always hear someone," he replies. "There's never anyone out there."

  "This time I heard someone," she says, glaring at him with barely-concealed annoyance. "Joe Wash, are you gonna go and check or do I have to do it myself?"

  "Door's right over there," Joe mutters, although he immediately realizes that he probably should have been less sarcastic. Grunts normally do the job, and the last thing he wants is a conversation.

  "My God," Kath says, wheezing as she lifts herself up from the armchair and starts limping across the room. "There was a time when men were only too willing to grab the shotgun and go check the view from the porch. Not today, though. Not in this house, anyway. The only time you're ever gonna notice anything is if it happens on that goddamn TV. I thought I married a real man."

  "Moved you out to a farm, didn't I?"

  "And for what? It's not like you use the land."

  "Huh," Joe replies, barely even listening.

  "What if it's a murderer?" Kath says as she gets to the door. "Or a coyote?"

  "Could be," Joe says quietly.

  Sighing, Kath peers out the small glass panel at the top of the door. "Why'd you have to get frosted glass, anyway?" she asks after a moment. "Can't see a damn thing. We need a peephole, Joe. Why can't you get us a peephole? Go down the store some time and buy a goddamn peephole!"

  "I'll do it Saturday," he mutters.

  Sighing again, Kath limps over to the window, pulls the curtain back and takes a look outside. "I can't see anything," she says eventually. "Just the porch light and the porch and then darkness."

  "That's 'cause there's nothing to see," Joe replies, watching as the weather report starts. "Nothing to see and no-one around for miles." His lips continue to move as the hot young weather-girl comes onscreen, but this time he keeps his thoughts to himself.

  "There could be a gang of mass murderers out there for all you know," Kath says, turning the latch to unlock the door. "I don't know why I let you persuade me to move out here. It's not like this land's any good for anything; hell, if it was, your family would've made a go of it by now instead of letting you rent it for a couple of peanuts a month." She pulls the door open. "I'm not cut out for -" she starts to say before stopping suddenly and letting out a scream.

  "What the hell is wrong with you now?" Joe shouts, hauling himself to his feet so fast that he's momentarily a little light-headed.

  "Oh my God!" Kath shouts, taking a step back as a bloodied, painfully thin young woman slumps through the doorway and lands on the welcome mat, groaning with pain.

  "Where the fuck did she come from?" Joe asks as he stumbles around the sofa and makes his way over to the door, pushing Kath out of the way before crouching down next to the woman and immediately checking her pulse. "She's alive, alright," he says, glancing out at the darkness that surrounds the house. "Who the hell is she?"

  "Check for coyote scratches," Kath says urgently.

  "There's no coyotes for miles," Joe replies. "Stop with all the crap about goddamn coyotes!"

  "Who is she?" Kath asks, taking another step back. "Joe, she's bleeding. Call an ambulance! Jesus Christ, look, she's hurt!"

  Grabbing the girl's shoulders, Joe drags her inside and then kicks the door shut before kneeling next to her and brushing the matted hair from across her semi-conscious face. There are a couple of large gashes on her cheek, and a series of sore red lines run around her neck.

  "Can you hear me?" Joe shouts, leaning down toward her ear. "Can you tell me your name?"

  The girl whispers something.

  "What was that?" Joe shouts. "I need to know your name!"

  Again, the girl whispers something, but it's too quiet to make out.

  "This blood's dry," Joe says, gently tapping the side of the girl's face before reaching up and turning the latch to lock the door. "Kath, call for help. Tell 'em we've got an injured girl out here. Tell 'em there's no sign of any major injury, but..." He stops as he notices thick, worn wounds around the woman's wrists and ankles, and for a moment he struggles to comprehend what he's seeing. Finally, he turns back to his wife. "Are you calling or not?" he shouts. "Jesus Christ, woman, this is an actual emergency! For once in your life, can you move your ass?"

  "I told you I heard something," Kath replies, her hands trembling as she grabs the phone and dials 911. "I told you, but you wouldn't listen. I told you there was a noise, but you were more interested in that goddamn television."

  "Yeah yeah," Joe says, looking down the girl's body, which is barely covered by scraps of a thin, faded beige cloth dress. Wiping his brow, Joe pauses for a moment, trying to think of the best thing to do. "You got through to someone yet?" he asks eventually.

  "I'm on hold," Kath hisses.

  "Did you dial the right number?" he asks. "They don't put people on hold when you need an ambulance."

  "Well they are right now!" she shouts.

  "She's got a fever," Joe replies, running his hand over the girl's brow before checking her pulse again. "Her heart's weak," he adds. "She's in a bad way. Look at her skin, she's so pale." He pauses. "Where the hell did she come from? There's nothing for miles. Nearest building's that gas station on the interstate
, but there's no way she could've walked ten miles in this condition."

  "I need an ambulance!" Kath shouts into the phone. "818 Sycamore, out on Dewey Farm! It's a young woman! I don't know what's wrong with her, but she's hurt!"

  While Kath explains the situation, Joe looks down and sees that the woman's bare feet are covered in scratches and cuts, as if she's been walking for miles and miles. There are gashes around her ankles and lower legs as well; in fact, her whole body seems to have been through the wringer, and as Kath puts the phone down, Joe looks up at her with a sense of disbelief in his heart.

  "They said twenty minutes," Kath tells him. "That's as fast as they can get out herE."

  "You need to get a cold towel or something," Joe says, checking the woman's fever once again. "She's burning up. And get some water too." He runs a hand across her wrist. "My God, I've never seen anyone so thin. She's -"

  Before he can finish, there's a faint banging noise out on the porch.

  Joe and Kath look at one another, neither of them daring to say anything.

  Seconds later, there's another knock, fainter this time, less certain.

  "Who's that?" Kath mouths silently.

  Another knock.

  "It's okay," Joe says quietly, getting to his feet and grabbing a rifle from the closet. Hurrying to the window, he looks out at the darkness. "I can't see a damn thing," he mutters.

  "You should've got a peephole," Kath says. "I told you, you should have -"

  "It's okay," Joe replies testily, interrupting her. "Whatever it is, it's nothing I can't handle. Maybe it's just someone come to help."

  "Someone come to help?" Kath replies, watching as Joe makes his way to the door and turns the latch. "What the hell are you doing?" she asks, her voice filled with panic. "You can't seriously be planning to open that thing! You have no idea who's out there!"

  "Ain't nobody who can take me down while I've got this," Joe replies, checking his grip on the rifle before grabbing the door handle. "This is my property, and I'm not letting anyone act like they can have the run of the place." Pausing for a moment, he suddenly pulls the door open and aims outside, his finger poised on the trigger. At first, he doesn't see anyone standing in the doorway, but just as he's about to relax, he spots a frail, weak arm reaching up to the porch from the lawn.

  "What is it?" Kath whispers. "Be careful!"

  Joe nods cautiously as he steps through the door. Looking down at the edge of the porch, he sees to his surprise that there's a second girl on the grass, trying desperately to pull herself up onto the decking. Unable to quite process what he's seeing for a moment, Joe stares in stunned horror as the girl painfully attempts to haul herself up; finally, snapping out of his daze, Joe reaches down and grabs her arm, pulling her up the rest of the way.

  "Oh my God!" Kath shouts from inside. "Another one?"

  "Another one," Joe says, getting ready to drag the second woman inside before glancing across the lawn and freezing in his tracks.

  "Joe!" Kath shouts. "Get back inside! Now! It's not safe out there!"

  "Holy shit," Joe whispers, letting go of the second woman and walking to the edge of the porch, with his rifle raised as if he expects trouble at any moment.

  "Joe!" Kath shouts. "What is it? What the hell's going on out there?"

  Unable to draw his gaze from the horror unfolding in front of him, Joe finally manages to step down off the porch. His wife is still calling out to him from inside, but Joe no longer has any interest in listening to her. He's too focused on the sight before him: the entire lawn, and much of the scrub-land further off, is covered in weak, crawling women, all of them groaning as they try to pull themselves toward the little house. There must be at least twenty of them, maybe even more, and they all look to have more or less the same clothing and the same injuries as the first girl.

  "Jesus Christ," Joe says, as the women crawl past him, as if they've barely even noticed his presence. All he can do is stand and stare as more and more reach the house, their groans conspiring to fill the night air with an anguished cry.

  Part One

  The Folded Man

  Katherine Shaw

  "Katherine Shaw," I say, annoyed that the dumb pharmacist doesn't recognize me after all the weeks I've been coming to his stupid store. "Katherine with a K, not a C."

  "Do you have a middle name?" the pharmacist asks, staring at the computer screen.

  I wait for him to give me my pills.

  "Do you have a middle name, M'am?"

  "Yes," I say with a sigh.

  "To confirm your identity," the pharmacist replies, his droning voice making clear that he doesn't really care, "I need to see government-issued identification and I need you to verbally confirm your middle name for me."

  "Seriously?" I ask.

  "Seriously."

  I check over my shoulder to make sure that no-one's close enough to hear, before turning back to him. "Marilyn," I say quietly.

  "I'm sorry?" he replies. "Can you repeat that?"

  "Marilyn," I say, more firmly this time. "Katherine... Marilyn Shaw."

  "Katherine Marilyn Shaw," he repeats as he types something into the computer, and I swear to God there's a faint smile on his lips. "And your identification?"

  I hold up my old police card, hoping that he doesn't notice it expired a month ago.

  "That's great," he replies, barely even paying attention to the card as he types some more details into the computer. Reaching over to the far counter, he grabs a large paper bag containing my seven separate prescription medications. "The first drug I'm going to be giving you this morning is -"

  "I know," I say, snatching the bag from him. "I've been taking this stuff for three months now. Believe me, I know what pill to take when, and how many, and what color it'll turn me pee."

  "I'm obliged by state law to list the dosage requirements," he says blankly.

  "And I'm obliged to get going," I reply, turning and heading to the door. Ignoring the pharmacist's call for me to return to the counter, I push the door open and emerge onto a bright, busy New York street. Heading back toward the subway station, I stop by a trash can and dump the entire bag of pills. Nearby, a homeless guy is watching with keen interest.

  "Help yourself," I tell him, before turning and walking away. I have no doubt that he'll be dumpster-diving for my pills by the time I reach the next corner, and I'm sure he'll get quite a high from the mixture of pain medication, cancer-fighting drugs and nausea-relief pills that Dr. Gibbs has been prescribing for the past few months. Of course, if he's smart he'll skip the drugs and sell them instead; I paid almost ninety dollars for this latest prescription, and I'm sure the pills are worth at least twice that on the street. Then again, if the guy was smart he probably wouldn't be going through street trash in the first place.

  As I head around the next corner, I feel a buzzing sensation in my jacket pocket. Fishing my phone out from the detritus of candy and old tissues, I look at the screen and see that it's just Dr. Gibbs, doubtlessly calling to make sure that I'm following his instructions to the letter.

  "I just picked them up," I say wearily as I answer the call. "You don't need to check up on me."

  "I know you picked them up," he replies, his voice sounding a little faint over the line. "Believe it or not, I have the system set up so I get an email whenever you pick up any prescription that I write for you. Clever, huh? The wonders of modern technology."

  "What's wrong?" I ask, glancing back around the corner and watching as the homeless guy lifts my bag from the trash. "Don't you trust me?"

  "I prefer to keep tabs on you," he replies, "just in case the pills cause any memory issues." He pauses. "Has anything like that been happening? To be honest, I'm a little surprised you haven't got in touch to report any side effects."

  "What can I say?" I reply. "I've got a strong gut and I'm not much of a moaner. I guess all the years of chemo and radiotherapy have toughened me up."

  "Just make sure you stick to the regimen,
" he says. "Those pills are going to help you, but you need to take them at set intervals during the day. The instructions on the side of the boxes are there for a reason. Every time you skip a pill, you reduce the overall efficacy of the whole treatment. You have to keep the faith."

  "That's why I never skip them," I lie, glancing across the street to make doubly certain that he isn't loitering nearby. It's been three months since I last took one of his goddamn pills, and I'm damn well not going to start now; the side effects were too strong and they made me feel like I wasn't myself, and I figure that if I'm gonna die anyway, I might as well keep my head clear during the time I've got left. "I appreciate the very personal and attentive care you're providing," I continue, "but I've gotta run. Police business, you know?"

  "I thought you were still off duty?" he replies.

  "I'm consulting on a case by case basis," I say, lying again. "Sorry, someone's waiting for me. Gotta go. Thanks for the call, though!" With that, I end the call and start scrolling through my list of received calls, finally finding the most recent call from Dawson.

  Five weeks ago.

  Five weeks.

  What the hell's going on here? There's no way he hasn't needed my help, or at least my advice, in five whole stinking weeks, so why hasn't he called? I know for a fact that the department's swamped with cases, and I also know that they're gonna be missing my input like crazy. I don't want to get big-headed here, but the fact is, I'm pretty much indispensable to them. So what's going on? Why am I being completely ignored by the people who need me the most?

  John

  "Hey, honey!" I call out as I swing the front door shut. "I'm home!"

  "Hey!" Sharon calls out from the kitchen. "The family man returns from his travels! Right on time, too! You hungry?"