by Brian Shea
The outer portion of his left thigh had been hit and Cain had taken a grazing shot to his left bicep. The flesh wound on his arm didn’t even register as a concern to him. It could be repaired with a few stitches or left to heal on its own and serve as a reminder of his second failed attempt. He felt around the circumference of his meaty thigh and was unable to locate an exit wound. That could be problematic. Retrieval of the lodged round could cause some additional damage.
The bleeding coming from his arm and neck had slowed with the applied pressure. The Quick Clot he’d poured on it also played a part. His survival bag was equipped to handle some potential trauma, but it only would serve as a temporary fix until he could get medical attention. In his line of work, going to a conventional hospital would be unacceptable. Too many questions. Answers to which would land him in jail for the rest of his life.
After fleeing the apartment complex, he had driven until he found a dive-bar outside of the city and had stopped there to triage his wounds. He figured he’d be less likely to be noticed by the drunken patrons meandering into the watering hole. Once Cain stabilized his injuries, he wiped his hands on his pants to remove the wet blood and then pulled out his phone. He wanted nothing more than to push on and find the Heathen, but he knew if he wasn’t patched up properly, he wouldn’t be physically capable of carrying out the task. He made the call.
A frail man with wisps of gray in his hair stood over him wearing a faded white medical coat. No nametag. No hospital. He didn’t speak and Cain was glad because he was in no mood to engage in small talk. This doctor knew not to ask questions and was paid well for his discretion. In times past, men like this had assisted in mending his damaged body. The consequences of his service to the Pastor. His service as God’s Hand.
As he lay on the improvised operating table in the empty warehouse waiting for the surgeon to begin his work, he recalled the phone conversation with the Pastor.
“Where are you, my son?” the Pastor said.
His words were similar to that of a concerned parent.
“I failed you,” Cain uttered.
“Failure is another opportunity to prove yourself, my son,” the Pastor said. It was something he’d often repeated during his sermons.
Another opportunity to serve, Cain thought.
A tear rolled down his cheek as the surgeon began digging into his leg to retrieve the bullet. The tear was not out of pain, but joy. An overwhelming sense of happiness filled him at the thought of his redemption.
35
Rusty stood in the parking lot of the Shell gas station, sweating profusely from the recent track. A bowl of Evian water was being lapped at loudly by his partner. The track had taken the pair from the Water’s Edge Apartment complex along the San Gabriel River and come to an end at the entrance to the mini-mart of the gas station. Several members of the Georgetown Police Department were on scene and had assisted. Jones was inside talking with the clerk, a heavy-set Hispanic woman. He exited a short time later as Jasper retreated to the backseat of the Crown Vic to lay down.
“Damn do-gooder!” Jones huffed.
“What’s up?” Rusty asked, trying to get a read on the detective’s comment.
“She got the kid a ride. She actually Ubered her back to Austin!” Jones seethed. He made no effort to hide the frustration of this added complication.
“Shit!” Rusty said.
He too had become emotionally invested in this case and, in particular, finding this missing girl. He was concerned that the next track would lead him to another small, lifeless body. The thought caused the seasoned tracker to shiver involuntarily.
“The Uber app on her phone showed the location where she was dropped off, but we are way behind the power curve on finding her,” Jones said.
The pudgy detective looked at his watch as he spoke and nervously rubbed at his temple. The track hadn’t been run until Nick was transported and the crime scene was worked. Georgetown’s detective division was still processing the apartment. Crucial time had been lost in the chaos.
Anaya had called Jones and notified him. He’d responded quickly, but with every passing minute the likelihood of finding the girl dissipated. Austin and Georgetown PD had an excellent working relationship, and Jones filled in their investigators on the case up to this point when he arrived on scene.
“It’s already past eight. The Uber dropped her off a few hours ago at the same damn Holiday Inn on Middle Fiskville Road where we found her at last time. Why there?” Jones paused as his brain struggled to make the connection.
“Beats me, but we should get Jasper over that way and see what we can find,” Rusty said.
“We better figure it out before someone else does,” Jones said. There was an ominous tone in his statement.
“Any word on the guy who attacked them?” Rusty asked.
“There’s footage of a Range Rover exiting around the timeline established. The Georgetown guys are working on trying to get a plate and an image of our guy. Nothing yet,” Jones said.
“I’m here for whatever you need on this,” Rusty said, looking back at the Crown Vic that contained his panting partner.
“With Nick out of commission and the girl on the run, I’m gonna need you two more than ever,” Jones replied, slipping back into his Texas drawl for effect.
Jones spoke briefly to the sergeant on scene at the gas station before departing for Austin with Rusty and his four-legged partner following close behind in their cruiser. He hoped they would have as easy a time of locating her at the hotel as they did before.
36
“How’s he doing?” Jones asked, holding the phone to his ear as he drove.
“He’s still out. Hopefully, he’ll wake soon. He’s stirred a few times but hasn’t opened his eyes yet.” Anaya relayed this in her gentle tone. She then added, “Any luck on your end?”
“Dead end. We checked the hotel. No sign of her. Nothing on camera. Jasper didn’t locate a track,” Jones said, sounding disheartened.
“Damn. That’s a problem. Any ideas?” Anaya asked.
“We’re heading back to headquarters. I’ve got to push one of the girls from the hotel to give us something. Otherwise, we’re running blind,” Jones said.
“I’ll meet you there. Maybe I can help you with coaxing some info out of them. I’m not doing much here. The FBI assigned a two-agent protective detail for his room. They said they’ll let us know if Nick wakes,” Anaya said.
“We’ll see you there.” Jones ended the call as he merged into traffic.
The girls saved from the depravity of the Stagecoach Inn had eaten and slept. Jones’s unit had a room with two beds. It was typically used for the detectives when a major case dictated long hours, but it also served its purpose in situations like this. They had to add three cots to accommodate the five girls.
When Anaya clicked the light, it looked more like a sleepover party. All five girls were snuggled into the two twin beds. It made sense; they were scared. She understood the unbreakable bond they shared. Connected through dire circumstance.
“Good morning, girls,” Anaya announced, softly. She did not want to startle them.
Murmured grunts and groans floated across the room as the girls adjusted to the introduction of light. Slowly, one by one, they sat up, rubbing their eyes and yawning. They looked inquisitively at the woman standing in the doorway.
Anaya didn’t speak Spanish. Although, in her many years of working in Austin, she’d seen the need and vowed to one day learn it. She’d planned to do a lot of things, but life seemed to get in the way. She could fill this small room with her to do list.
A translator from the detective unit stood behind her as she spoke, translating verbatim. “Girls, I need your help. Another girl is in trouble. The same people that did this to you are after her. We need to find her before they do,” Anaya said, waiting as the message was relayed to them in their native tongue.
Most of the girls stared vacantly at the social worker. Not in de
fiance. More in indifference. The brutality of their past circumstance depleted their empathy. Anaya knew this because she’d gone through it herself. Some victims never regained their sense of self.
One girl, a thirteen-year-old who referred to herself as Maria during intake, nodded slightly at the request. It was a subtle gesture, but Anaya was relieved to see it.
“Come with me,” Anaya said, gesturing with her hand as if beckoning a toddler to walk.
Maria looked around at her bunkmates timidly, hesitating momentarily as she slipped off the bed. She walked to the doorway and didn’t look back at the other girls, not wanting to see the judgment in their eyes. Anaya received her with a smile and escorted her out of the room. The remaining four girls resumed their supine positions as the light clicked off and the door closed.
Maria sat on a couch and Anaya in a chair positioned adjacent to her. The room had pale pink walls with three framed paintings, each depicting sunsets in swirls of bright colors. Potted plants were set in the two far corners. Out of context, it would look more like a small living room. It was done so by design. A room created to facilitate communication from young victims. Sad that such a room was needed. Sadder that it was needed with such an increased frequency.
Jones watched on the other side through the one-way mirror. Unlike the portrayal of television’s numerous police dramas, investigators did not typically interview child victims. That was handled by a select group of trained social workers. These forensic interviews were designed to elicit conversations without any manipulation, using a nationally recognized set of protocols. Anaya was qualified to conduct the interview. Something that she excelled at it. The translator sat in a folding chair positioned directly behind Maria to ensure the girl would only look and speak toward the interviewer.
The flow was slow at first, with the delay of each question being converted for Maria. The translator also relayed Maria’s responses in English for Anaya. But beyond the technical aspect of the interview’s pace, it was further hampered by Maria’s resistance to talk about her situation. Typical of these victims, but with the clock ticking on Mouse, it was more frustrating than usual. Anaya fought hard to suppress her anxiety.
“Maria, we need to find her. Her life depends on it,” Anaya said, almost pleading with the teen.
Anaya sat drumming her fingers against her notepad as the words were translated. At the conclusion of the translation, Maria’s head dipped a fragment lower in a mannerism that could only be described as sad.
Then Maria spoke for the first time since entering the room. She whispered, “They will find her. They always do.”
The words, spoken in English, caught both Anaya and the translator by surprise. Anaya didn’t admonish the child for holding back. She understood it. She knew it was the girl’s last defensive weapon and that she had just lowered her imaginary sword of distrust.
“What do you mean they always do?” Anaya asked.
“I got away once. Not for long, but I did,” Maria said, a small swell of pride entering her diminutive voice.
“What happened?” Anaya asked.
“I was small back then. I got out through a bathroom window at one of the motels,” Maria said, pausing for approval before she continued. “I thought I had escaped.” The teenager’s voice trailed off at this last statement.
“How long did it take for them to find you?” Anaya asked.
“Not long,” Maria said, flatly.
“What happened then?” Anaya asked, afraid of the child’s answer.
Maria didn’t answer. The emotional wall took shape again. The girl’s eyes look distant.
“How did they find you?” Anaya asked, redirecting the dialogue back to her comfort zone.
Maria shrugged. “They shouldn’t have. I was hiding in a tunnel pretty far away from the motel,” Maria said, looking for the social worker to provide an insight.
“Did they see you run off?” Anaya asked.
“I don’t think so. I was hiding and a man appeared out of nowhere. He told me to come with him. He had a gun, so I listened,” Maria said, defensively.
“And then what happened?”
“He took me somewhere else,” Maria whispered, her strength zapped.
The teenager pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. She began a gentle rocking motion. The trauma of that memory was still raw. Anaya assumed this was probably the first time she’d spoken about it to anyone.
“You’re very brave, Maria. I hope you know that. I hope you understand how special you really are,” Anaya said.
The words were designed to soothe the girl after this retelling. But they couldn’t have been truer. Some people repressed the memories of such trauma so deeply that the words to describe it are lost forever.
“What happens to us now?” Maria asked, softly.
“I will make sure that you’re safe. Those people will not hurt you ever again.”
“They’ll find me again,” Maria said, with a shiver.
“I promise you that will not happen,” Anaya said, but the confidence backing that statement waned. Especially after the recent events with Mouse.
“I’m tired,” Maria said.
Anaya registered the girl’s comment and understood its meaning. She was done talking and Anaya knew better than to push any further.
“Thank you for speaking with me, Maria. You were very helpful.”
Anaya escorted the girl back to the room. Maria quietly scampered back into the bed and found a comfortable spot among the sprawled bodies. She was quickly swallowed up by the scattered blankets and into the arms of friends. Her safety net.
“Well, what do you think?” Jones asked as Anaya returned.
The two now stood in the disarray of Jones’s cubicle looking at each other. Anaya drummed her fingers and Jones rubbed his stomach.
“At least she’s talking. That’s a huge first step in the right direction for us,” Anaya said, optimistically.
“True, but time isn’t on our side. We don’t have the luxury of waiting around to slowly bleed information out of these girls,” Jones said.
Frustration had set in and the comment’s tone came out rougher than intended. Jones quickly fumbled to add, “Sorry. I’m worried about the girl and I’m pissed off at what happened to Nick. I want this guy bad. I want his whole damn crew!”
“Me too,” Anaya said, placing her hand on his shoulder.
The touch’s effect was immediate. It did two things simultaneously. It calmed him, but also excited him. Jones regretted that his cheeks coloring did little to hide his emotions. He nodded and looked away, pretending to look for something in his stack of files.
“Next step?” Anaya asked.
“I’ve got every cop in the city keeping an eye out for the girl. The traffic unit is checking intersection cameras and license-plate readers to see if we can get a plate on the Range Rover. Maybe something will break in our favor,” Jones said.
He’d deployed similar tactics on abduction cases in the past and sometimes these measures helped. Sometimes it was the simplest of things that broke a case wide open. The infamous Son of Sam serial killer, David Berkowitz, was eventually caught because of a parking ticket.
“Who knows, maybe we’ll get a sighting of her and Rusty can track her down again,” Anaya said, widening her eyes with a hopeful look.
Anaya rubbed her head. She yawned as if trying to swallow all the air from the building.
“Get some rest. Rusty is refueling his vehicle and his partner. I’ve got it for a few hours while you reset yourself,” Jones said, giving a half-smile.
He attempted to give Anaya a comforting pat on her shoulder, but as he turned, the wide girth of his midriff tapped a teetering stack of papers. It was like pulling the wrong Jenga piece. A tidal wave of file folders splashed to the floor.
Jones reddened with a combination of embarrassment and exertion as he bent down. Suddenly, he stopped his feverish attempt at reorganization. He s
tood holding several 8x10 glossies. His eyes were transfixed on the images.
“What’s up?” Anaya asked.
“Not sure,” Jones mumbled, still staring at the pictures.
Anaya circled behind the detective and stood on her tippy toes to look over his shoulder at the images.
The two stared at the closeup images of the motel room girls’ burned hiplines. Jones shuffled between the branding mark of the eleven-year-old and the others. The doctor said the eleven-year-old’s burn had been done recently. He stated that pinkness and irritation of skin indicated it was still healing. Something caught the eye of the seasoned detective when he compared this girl’s picture to the others.
“Why does that one look different?” Anaya asked.
Her voice startled him. Jones quickly regained his composure and cleared his throat.
“Not sure, but it almost looks like there’s a square underneath it. Like something under the skin is framing the burn.”
“Okay?” Anaya said in a questioning tone.
“I want to get these girls back to the hospital. Now! I know I just told you to go home and get some rest, but I could really use your help with this,” Jones said, his eyes pleading.
“You don’t even have to ask. There’s no way I’d be able to fall asleep anyway. At least not until we find Mouse and I know that Nick’s going to be okay,” Anaya said.
“I’m going to let my boss know we’re going to be taking them back to medical,” Jones said.
He was already moving. He headed in the direction of his boss’s corner office with the file folder containing the images loosely tucked under his arm.
“I’ll start rousing the girls,” Anaya said, heading back toward the room where she’d just taken Maria.
Anaya quietly turned the knob and opened the door. She allowed the light to spill in from the office area and fill the room. Maria sat upright first. She cocked her head and raised one eyebrow. The question on her face was obvious. What do you want now?