Rogue Alliance

by Michelle Bellon

“Thank you,” he said again. Then he turned and stomped away.

  FORTY-NINE

  Still recovering from a wicked hangover with a raging headache, sour stomach and cotton mouth, Shyla was also soaked to the bone in icy rain. After watching Brennan try to cope with the blunt trauma of facing his past, she felt hollowed out. She desperately wished she could go home, take a hot shower and crawl into bed.

  Instead, she bolted out to the parking lot and hopped into her Range Rover. Blasting the heat, she decided against going home to change. She’d probably just end up wet again anyway, as she resumed the search for Carmen.

  Carmen. She hadn’t worried over her for the last hour. Not since she’d first seen the photo. With that thought, she remembered she’d better call Shawn.

  He answered on the fist ring.

  “How’d it go?” he asked, “You okay? What’s going on?”

  “Slow down, Cowboy. I’m fine. It went as well as could be expected. What’s the status? Any luck yet?”

  “A classmate of Carmen’s said that she sometimes sees Carmen down by the river just outside of town, where they have the rope swing.”

  A flash of white lighting lit up the low horizon and a crack of thunder quickly followed.

  “Yeah,” Shyla said, “well I don’t think she’ll be down there in weather like this, but I’ll give it shot.”

  “Good. You make a pass on that end, then swing by the station. We’ll go to her dad’s work together.”

  “Got it,” she replied, and hung up.

  Twenty minutes later, she was pulling into the station. Shawn was just coming down the wide, front steps, taking two at a time with his long-legged stride.

  He swung open the passenger door and slid in.

  “Hey, you mind if we take your car? Jesus H. Christ, it’s hot in here.”

  Shyla reached out and turned the heat off.

  “Yeah, well I was soaked and freezing to the bone so I turned it up. I was almost dry but then I got out and walked down to the river bank.”

  Shawn buckled up but kept his eyes on her. She glanced toward him and almost laughed when she caught him staring at her chest. She reached out and backhanded him across his wide chest.

  “It’s not a wet t-shirt contest, Shawn.”

  “Sorry,” he laughed, “but I’m a guy. We can’t help but notice these things.”

  She couldn’t help laughing along with him. Self-conscious, she pulled at her shirt.

  “So I take it you didn’t see anything down at the river?” Shawn asked.

  “I didn’t really think that I would.”

  Ten minutes later, they were in the small lobby of Jiffy Lube waiting for Carmen’s father to take his first break of the day. The smell of oil was thick. The furniture was dingy with remnants of the black residue. There was a small television on the counter that looked to be about two decades old, with more white static than there was picture.

  Shawn shuffled to the coffee pot and jabbed a thumb toward the mud-like contents.

  “Cup of coffee?”

  She scrunched her nose.

  “I would kill for a cup of coffee, but not even on a good day, would I drink whatever that is.”

  He laughed.

  The tinkle of the door opening alerted them to someone entering the lobby. They turned and faced Mr. Dunsworth. He didn’t look scared, or nervous about the fact that his daughter was still missing, but irritated at being disturbed. He held a greasy rag in his hands and was viciously rubbing away at the oil on his palms. Shyla doubted that his hands were ever really free of the black stains.

  “I hear you two want to talk to me. I’ve got a fifteen minute break. We can talk right here since we don’t have any customers right now.”

  Shyla noticed that he kept his eyes on Shawn, refusing to even acknowledge her.

  Shawn reached out to shake his hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Dunsworth,” he said,” I’m Officer Daniels. This is Officer Ericson. We’ve been working to find your daughter.”

  Mr. Dunsworth looked down his nose at Shawn’s outstretched hand.

  “I’d shake, but my hands are filthy.”

  Shawn took the hint and tucked his hand in his pocket.

  “When was the last time you saw Carmen, Mr. Dunsworth?” he asked.

  “You can call me Dusty. I don’t see that girl much. I’m out the door well before she gets her lazy butt out of bed and she’s usually out running around with her friends by the time I get home. I usually stop by Dirty Dave’s tavern for a few hours after work, so shit, I guess maybe the last time I seen her was…Sunday afternoon?”

  Shyla noticed the small twitch in Shawn’s cheek. He was probably as irritated with Dusty Dunsworth’s lackadaisical attitude toward his runaway daughter as she was.

  “So, did your wife call you at work yesterday and tell you that Carmen was missing or did you find out later that evening when you got home?” Shawn asked.

  Dusty cocked his head to the side and looked out the window as if thinking about other things.

  “She called me at work all upset. But I told her not to get worked up. Carmen comes and goes all the time. She’s a teenager. She’s gonna be doing whatever she’s gonna be doing.”

  Shyla could no longer hold her tongue.

  “She’s only thirteen years old,” she cut in.

  The accusation in her tone had him snap his head around. Finally, he made eye contact and if looks could kill…

  His cold look blended into an arrogant sneer.

  “You’re Chad’s daughter ain’t ya?”

  Shyla clenched her teeth and tried hard not to show a response.

  “Yeah, you are,” he continued, “I remember seeing you with him a few times. You look the same. Little taller maybe. Bigger tits, but yeah, you’re her.”

  Shyla saw red. She wanted to pummel Carmen’s father in the face until his bones gave way to a bloody pulp. Shawn came to the rescue.

  “That’s no way to talk to a lady,” he said with a gruff tone of warning, “and I don’t see how that has anything to do with where your daughter is. Now if you could, we’d like you to help us make a list of possible places she might have gone or any friends that she might have decided to visit.”

  Dustin’s eyes were still locked with Shyla’s. At first, he’d refused to look at her. Now he was refusing to look away. She knew he was purposely messing with her head. No wonder Carmen was struggling at home so much. She imagined a few slaps from her mom was nothing compared to living with this asshole. For the millionth time, she mentally kicked herself for being such a coward and abandoning her. If she had just gone to the damn dinner, she thought, they wouldn’t be in this current predicament.

  “Seein’ as how I know who you are now,” Dustin said, licking his lips, “I don’t think I want my daughter hangin’ around you anyway. Maybe I should be asking you where she is.”

  Shyla gave him a cocky grin, refusing to give in to his intimidation.

  “So, Mr. Dunsworth, I have another question for you. Where were you the night before last, oh let’s say…around two in the morning?”

  Confusion knotted his brow and answered her question. Despite his clear disdain toward her, she doubted he was the one who’d thrown that brick through her window.

  “Two in the morning…” he said, “well, being that I had to work the next day, I’d say I was probably about two hours into sleeping in my bed. Listen you guys, this is fun and all, but I gotta get back to work. I got bills to pay. My wife can answer any questions that I can, probably more. Besides, Carmen’s fine. She’s probably pissed at us and trying to cause a bunch of unnecessary drama. It’s a woman thing. She’ll turn up.”

  Shawn held out his business card.

  “We’ll be in touch,” he said, “in the meantime, if you hear anything, or have any questions of us, just call me at that number.”

  Dusty snagged the card and popped it into his left breast-pocket, just behind where his name was stitched into his uniform.
r />   “Sure.”

  Shyla and Shawn walked out the door with a ringing of the bell above. To Shyla’s relief, Shawn didn’t bring up the way Dusty had tested her.

  *

  Shyla was starting to feel stretched to her limits, taught like a rubber band and ready to snap if anything else tested the tension. It was Saturday, day six since Carmen first went missing. At first, Shyla had been like everyone else and had assumed that Carmen would turn up within the first forty-eight hours. But, as each subsequent day passed, the dread in her gut cinched so tight, she thought she would turn inside-out.

  Where could she be? She thought as she paced back and forth from her kitchen to her living area. She and Shawn had been making their rounds for most of the day, but by sunset, they were both on edge with nerves. Shyla was grumpy, talking only when necessary and with biting, nasty sarcasm when she did. To Shawn’s credit, he’d been a good sport about it, but by the end of that day, he too was curt and gruff.

  With no leads, no signs of Carmen, she went home and hoped to let go of the worry for a few hours. What she needed was a nap. Sleep had been nearly nonexistent. What she really wanted was a drink. She’d managed sobriety all week hoping to be at her best, even wishing that by being clean she’d earn god’s favor and he’d return Carmen safe and sound, but her will was faltering and her smidgen of faith was wavering.

  When she scoured her apartment in search of something strong to drink, she came up empty handed. Restless, she decided it would be a good excuse to get out of that small, cramped unit anyway. For the first time since she’d been back in Redding, she decided to find a bar. There was a fairly nice wine bar just a few blocks down, but she didn’t want swanky. She wanted gritty and gnarly, to match the way she felt.

  Remembering Dusty Dunsworth’s mention of Dirty Dave’s, she grabbed her white Northface jacket and slammed the front door behind her.

  Snow was falling and beginning to stick to the ground and the tops of trees. She barely noticed. All she could think of was the anticipation of the burn of alcohol as it slid down the back of her throat and the relief as it chased away the sensation of drowning in her own misery.

  Dirty Dave’s was just that; dirty. There was a distinct odor of sweat and urine which permeated the air. Although they had a kitchen which boasted serving ‘the best hot wings in town’ and other assortments of fried food, she seriously doubted anyone could eat from there and not walk away with a deadly bout of food poisoning. But she wasn’t there to eat.

  Ignoring the stares, she bypassed the fifteen or so customers mingling around a single pool table or sitting at the few small circular tables and headed straight for the bar.

  The bartender was the only one who seemed less than interested.

  “What can I get ya?” he asked.

  “You got Patron?”

  “Does it look like we’d have Patron, missy?” he scoffed,” We got Sauza Silver, 1800 Select, and of course, good old Jose Cuervo.”

  She was in no mood to be picky.

  “I’ll take Jose on the rocks,” she said, “double.”

  With a raise of his eyebrows, he poured her a more than generous drink.

  Shyla took it down in two bold swallows, slammed it down and ordered another.

  The bartender gave her a nod of approval.

  “Now that’s a woman,” he said, poured her another.

  The warm, gold liquid was already caressing her soul, reminding her of its unwavering loyalty. It was always there for her.

  Music was belting out of a jukebox. It was some sort of grunge song, one she wasn’t familiar with, but it felt good to tap her foot to it nonetheless as it reverberated through her body. She was feeling so much better already.

  An hour later, she was two sheets to the wind.The room was starting to spin and Shyla was suddenly very anxious to get home. She headed to the toilet; sitting on the toilet, the world was refusing to stop spinning faster and faster and she knew that the night ahead was going to be rough. She just had to keep it together till she got home. She could do it.

  When she stepped out of the bathroom, the bartender gave her a wary look.

  “I’m not ordering” she explained, “I just need to call a cab,”

  Clearly relieved, he reached under the bar and pulled out the cordless phone.

  “No worries. I’ve got them on fast dial. I’ll give ‘em a call.”

  “Thanks,” she said. She hoped they’d hurry. Her tummy was rolling, “I’m just going to step outside for a bit, get some fresh air.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” he chuckled.

  Shyla made it out the front door and, as soon as the fresh, crisp air hit her nostrils, she felt instantly better; still woozy, but better.

  The parking lot was nearly empty with only three cars including her own. There was a light dusting of snow covering the landscape. One streetlight farther down the street was dimly lit. Otherwise it was dark and quiet out.

  She wondered if she’d made sure to lock her car and crossed the parking lot to check. It was farthest away, on the edge of the small lot, by the garbage and recycling bins. With a flick of her wrist she pulled on the handle and confirmed it was locked.

  “You gotta lot of fucking nerve coming back to my town.”

  Shyla spun on her heel. Between a wave of dizziness and the pavement being covered in snow and ice, she nearly toppled over. Instinct kicked in and she quickly regained her footing, facing the man with the dark, edgy voice. It was one of the men from the bar. He had a baseball cap over his balding head and a grungy denim coat with fleece lining zipped over his red shirt. But his menacing, bold stare was still the same.

  “I didn’t know this was your town,” Shyla retorted, “I guess I missed the memo.”

  “You always were a smart-ass little brat. Your dad and I were best friends all through high school. We grew up together. We hung out a lot less once he married your mom, and then when you came along even less, but I worked with him at the plant and we’d hang out at the bar when he could get out of that damn house. He’d tell me about your sassing him.”

  The warmth that had been in her gut from the burn of the drink suddenly dissipated. This was the man who’d thrown the brick; she knew it without a doubt.

  “You got a good memory, and a good arm. Takes a real brave man to throw a brick through a window and drive off.”

  Her reflexes were slow and her mind was muddled. When he rushed her, plowing into her gut with his fist, she doubled over and nearly vomited. When he came at her again, she was ready, despite the intoxication. Fighting off the wooziness, she locked in on years of training and bolted upright, landing a solid upper-cut on his chin. He fell back with a thud. Blood was pumping through her veins and the world was tilting. She squeezed her eyes shut tight then opened them wide before she rushed him, hoping to keep him on the defensive.

  She straddled his thick body and pressed her forearm against his throat. Suddenly, she was lifted up and set to the side. All she saw was a flash of color. Someone had intervened and was now snatching her attacker off the ground and slamming him up against her car.

  Brennan had her assailant’s jacket in a vice grip and was holding him up off the ground. The man kicked and flailed about, banging his heels against her car, to no avail.

  For a moment, Shyla feared Brennan would rip out his throat as he’d done to the man in his studio apartment above Victor’s shop. Relief flooded her system when he head-butted him with one solid crack instead. The man instantly lost consciousness. Brennan released his grip and let him slide to the snowy pavement.

  Before she could speak or regain her composure, he turned and plucked her off her feet. He carried her to his car, opened the door and plopped her into the front seat, slamming the door and walking around the car in swift, purposeful movements.

  “I have a cab coming,” she said stupidly, still reeling from the large intake of alcohol and the sudden change of events. Everything had happened so quickly.

 
“Are you okay?” Brennan asked. His tone didn’t convey worry. He sounded like a different human being, his voice raspy with suppressed rage. She imagined that he was fighting more than just anger, reminding herself that there was an instinct to kill built within him.

  She hit the button on the passenger door, rolling the electronic window down. Pulling in a few deep breaths, she nodded.

  “I’m okay,” she turned and looked at him, “I don’t want to go home yet. Take me for a drive.”

  Brennan didn’t answer but his grip tightened on the steering wheel and he took the exit out of town.

  Twenty minutes later, they were at the lower end of Shasta Lake. The moon was high and shone brightly over the new blanket of snow. They were both silent, reverent, as they stared out at the shimmering, calm water.

  “You were watching me,” she whispered.

  He shot her a quick glance then looked away.

  “I’ve been watching you. You know that. It’s a good thing too, or else you’d probably be dead right now.”

  She ignored his clipped tone, but was all too aware that his anger was simmering hotter and hotter. What the hell was he so mad about? She was the one who had just endured a physical attack from one of her father’s old drinking buddies.

  “Oh, that’s an exaggeration,” she said, “I was managing. He caught me off guard but I had it under control.”

  “Yeah, sure and you’re not drunk either, right?”

  “Oh, no,” Shyla laughed, “I’m drunk all right. But I’m tired of this conversation.” Irritable and woozy, she opened the door and marched out of the car towards a gravel path that cut through the woods. In seconds, Brennan was back beside her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  He spun her around and she nearly toppled over. He grabbed her by the front of her shirt, pulling her closer, in a hold resembling the one he’d just had with her attacker.

  She didn’t like to be grabbed like that. With as much force as she could muster she slapped him across the face.

  Her breath was coming in short, quick gasps. She was mad at the world and especially at men. Why did they always have to push her over the edge? She stared at him. His eyes were unreadable. When she tried to turn away her grabbed her again and spun her around.