by T. R. Ragan
“No. I tried, but it all happened too fast.”
“Did you tell Detective Yuhasz about this?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she said, frustration lining her voice. “These men are dangerous. They mean business, and I was afraid Yuhasz and my father might try to stop me from continuing on with my search for Lara.”
“Nobody is trying to stop you. Your dad wants to find Lara as much as you do.”
“I know. I’m tired, and I’m not thinking straight.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll call it in. Tell me what happened and where.”
After giving him the details, she said, “There’s more you should know. The judge who let me off is considering reversing his decision and having me put back behind bars. He’ll be making the determination in the next twenty-four hours. If that happens, I don’t know what I’ll do. Aster’s men are obviously kicking things up a notch. I don’t want my family hurt any more than they’ve already been. It’s all starting to feel so—”
“Faith,” Beast said. “Slow down. Take a breath.”
“Innocent people were killed last night because of my carelessness. And now Beth and Mr. Hawkins. I never should have—”
“Knock it off,” Beast cut her off again. “This poor-me attitude, look-what-I’ve-done, it’s-all-my-fault whining doesn’t suit you.”
“But—”
“Kirsten Reich and her friends approached you. Not the other way around. You never asked anyone else to put their life on the line. What’s done is done. We have work to do. If the judge decides to throw you back in the slammer, then that would mean your time is severely limited.”
Faith grew quiet, which was a good thing because he needed to think. He scratched the side of his neck as his gaze fell on Rage’s list of names. “I’ve got an idea. It’s a long shot, but it’s something. How quickly can you get over here?”
“Barring any more of Aster’s men coming after me, I can be there in twenty minutes.”
Eighteen minutes later, Faith pulled up at the curb. Beast waited for her at the door. As she walked toward him, she couldn’t miss the sadness she saw. More than anything, she wanted to wrap her arms around him, try to comfort him, and tell him how sorry she was about Rage. But the seriousness of his expression and unfaltering stance caused her to reconsider.
“Where’d you get that car?” He looked at her bandages. “And what happened to your hand?”
“Probably just a sprain,” she told him. “And I traded my Camry for the Corolla right after I left the police station. I was at a used car lot when I called you. After I got off the phone with you, the car salesman showed me the GPS tracker he’d found on the bumper of my Camry. Battery powered. Apparently he and his wife had purchased one just like it to keep track of their teenager. He said they could last anywhere from seven to thirty days.” Seeing the GPS had only served to fuel her anger. Their enemies were getting smarter, bolder. Although she felt more secure driving a car nobody would recognize, she knew it wouldn’t last.
Beast frowned. “Come on in.”
She stepped inside, watched him take a look around the neighborhood before closing the door. She followed him across the living area, through the kitchen, and to Rage’s room. The lights were on, and he opened the blinds, too.
“Is Little Vinnie around?” she asked.
“He’s out looking for Miranda. Long story.”
Judging by his tone, he didn’t want to talk about it, so she let it go.
He handed her a piece of paper.
She read it over. It was a list of three Patricks in the Sacramento area with scribbled notes in the margins. She looked up at Beast as he hovered close, waiting. “What is this?”
“Rage spent her last days looking up every Patrick she could find who lived within so many miles of Sacramento.”
Faith nodded. “We talked about the mysterious man named Patrick on more than one occasion, but ultimately we both concluded it would be a waste of time, considering we didn’t have much information and because there were so many people with that name.”
He nodded in understanding. “I didn’t try to stop her because it gave her something to do, kept her busy.”
“I wonder how the process of elimination worked . . . you know . . . how did she narrow the list down to three?”
“I asked her about it the other day. Mostly she used instinct.”
Faith had gotten her hopes up for nothing.
Beast went to the closet, scooped up a well-used backpack from the floor, then went to the bed and emptied its contents on the mattress: pens, sticks of gum, ChapStick, prescription medicine, tissues, and a crumpled piece of paper. He then proceeded to gather Rage’s notes and papers from the bed, side table, and nightstand and shove it all into the backpack. Faith picked up a crumpled paper that had fallen to the ground and handed it to Beast to put with the rest of the papers.
Forty-five minutes later, after Beast called in a couple of favors to get addresses and backgrounds on all three Patricks left on the list, Faith waited at the door for Beast to join her.
Since Little Vinnie had taken the truck, they hopped into Faith’s Toyota and drove off. Beast was a good sport, considering his head nearly touched the ceiling and his legs looked cramped.
The first house they visited belonged to Patrick Monahan in Auburn, located right off I-80. Beast jumped out of the car before she had a chance to shut off the engine. She exited the car and rushed to catch up with him.
On the way to Auburn, Beast had told her he would do the talking. That was it as far as plans went. Much too late now for strategizing. Faith stood at Beast’s side while he knocked on the door loud enough to wake the dead.
An elderly woman with wiry hair answered the door. Her back was stooped, and she used a cane for support. Before she could say a word, someone called out “Mom” from inside the house.
“How many times have I told you not to answer the door? Jesus.”
The voice belonged to a short, heavyset man. He grabbed hold of the woman’s frail arm and pulled her none too gently out of the way. Before he could shut the door, though, Beast stuck a booted foot inside, stopping him from doing any such thing. Beast was in one of his moods.
“Is your name Patrick?” Beast asked.
“Yeah, so what’s it to you?”
Beast stepped inside, pushing right past the man.
The elderly woman stood close by. She didn’t appear all too surprised to see Beast barge into the house uninvited. With help from her cane, she walked back to the living area and sat down in a cushioned seat in front of an old television set.
Despite Patrick’s threats to grab his gun if they didn’t leave his house and get off his property, Faith followed Beast, peering around as he went down the hallway.
They moved from room to room, checking closets and any space large enough to fit a child. Upset, Patrick Monahan pulled out his mobile phone and threatened to call the police.
“Be my guest,” Beast told him without slowing. He stepped into the laundry room filled with piles of dirty blankets and clothes. There wasn’t much room, so Faith stayed in the hallway.
“As soon as the police arrive,” Beast said, “I’ll make sure they’re aware of the criminal bench warrant that was recently issued for your failure to appear in court.” Beast opened the washer and then the dryer before he set off for the next room.
Faith and Patrick followed. He looked over his shoulder at her with narrowed eyes.
“I’d probably be doing you a favor,” Beast went on, “since it’s always better to address these sorts of situations sooner rather than later. You know, so you don’t risk being arrested when you least expect it.”
Patrick Monahan’s shoulders fell. “What is it exactly you’re looking for?”
They were inside the master bedroom now. The bed was unmade, and the room was cluttered with unwashed dishes and old coffee cups.
“We’re looking fo
r my daughter,” Faith said. “Lara McMann.”
“Seriously?”
Before Faith knew what he was up to, Beast had a fistful of the man’s shirt as he held Patrick against the wall. Beast’s nostrils flared, and the veins in his neck bulged. Faith had only seen him turn into the Hulk a couple of times, but this time was definitely the most troubling to watch. Rage was gone, and he was going to find someone to take it out on.
Beast, she figured, had been set off by Patrick’s seemingly complacent attitude. Faith was ready to step in if she had to. For now she waited.
“Do I look serious?” Beast asked through gritted teeth.
Patrick managed a nod. His voice squeaked when he said, “I sell drugs every once in a while, but I’m no pimp. I would never kidnap a child. I don’t know who might have given you my name, but I have nothing to do with that little girl’s disappearance.”
Inwardly Faith began counting to ten. She got as far as five when Beast put the man down. “I’m going to finish having a look around. And then we’ll leave. I suggest you shut up and stay out of my way.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Patrick tapped his fingers on the table and stared at his phone, willing it to ring. Every television station had been playing bits and pieces of the battle fought last night at the warehouse in East Sacramento. Patrick had yet to hear from Aster. Had he made it out alive? If so, where was he? In the hospital? In a prison cell? At home?
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” he muttered.
David Seamus was his last chance.
If the man didn’t call him back in the next thirty minutes, Patrick would have no choice but to drag the girl off to the same abandoned construction site where he’d shot and buried Eddie and Gage. There was no possible way he could or would let the girl go and risk getting put away for life.
He stood, paced the room, then walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and looked around for something to eat. He shut the door when he realized he wasn’t hungry. His stomach had been turning since he saw the first news story about Faith McMann and friends showing up at the warehouse with guns blazing. He was beginning to wonder if the woman was courageous or just plain crazy.
His phone rang. Music to his ears. “Hello?”
“We’ve got a deal. Meet me at the shipyard on Industrial Boulevard at six o’clock. Head for the North Terminal near the vacant lots. Make sure she has food and water. She’ll be traveling in a crate along with the next shipment of rice.”
“And where does she go from there?”
“Not your concern. Industrial Boulevard. Six o’clock. That’s your drop-off point.”
“What about the money?” Patrick asked. He wasn’t putting the girl in any crate without the money. He’d drown her and toss her overboard before he’d let Seamus have her for nothing.
“Calm down. I’ll have your money. Girl in exchange for cash. Quick and easy. Got it?”
“Sure. Yeah. Got it.”
The line went dead.
Patrick cursed. He had a lot to do and not much time to do it. First things first. He grabbed his key, unlocked the door to the basement, and hurried down the stairs. The girl was asleep. He turned the light on. “Wake up. Time to get ready.”
At the sound of his voice, Lara sat up, her mind hazy with remnants of last night’s dreams swirling about. It took a moment for his words to register. What was Patrick talking about?
“Get ready for what?” she asked, her voice groggy with sleep.
Patrick seemed nervous about something. He was walking back and forth, muttering as he went, his eyes wild.
He was acting crazy, and she didn’t like it. Hoping to get him away from the bed so he wouldn’t see the words etched into the wall behind her, she slid from her cot and headed for the stairs.
He followed just as she knew he would. Although it had been days since he’d allowed her upstairs, she knew he didn’t like her wandering around the house alone.
When she walked through the door into the hallway and toward the kitchen, he grabbed hold of her shoulder and pointed the other way. She followed his instructions, which were mostly hand gestures. She walked across the carpeted floor, past the TV, and into the hallway leading to the master bedroom. She’d never seen his bedroom before. His clothes were neatly folded and packed in open bags on the bed, everything orderly and in its place.
He pointed to the bathroom.
On the counter were a pair of scissors and a box of hair coloring—Clairol Nice ’n Easy. Natural black.
“Don’t cut my hair,” she pleaded. “I’ll wear a hat. Nobody will recognize me, I promise.”
“You can’t promise shit like that.” He grabbed her shoulder again and turned her about until she faced the mirrored wall behind the double sinks. She watched him pick up the scissors, tried not to cry as she watched strands and then clumps of long, blonde hair fall onto the counter and floor until she had nothing but jagged ends around her ears.
“Turn toward me,” he said. He cut her bangs and any flyaway hair longer than an inch. After signaling for her to face the mirror again, he emptied the box, read the directions, and put on the plastic gloves. “Once I apply this, it’s going to have to sit for a bit. So don’t mess with it. Got it?”
She sniffled. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” she said. “I like it here.” It was true. She didn’t mind reading books all day in the basement. She didn’t want to be sold to a crusty old man. She didn’t want anyone touching her like she’d seen happen again and again to other girls at the farmhouse. Those men were disgusting old pigs with rotted breath and dark, soulless eyes. She would rather die than be stuck with some sick old man.
“You can take your books with you,” he said. “You’ll be fine. The people I’m sending you with are friends of mine. They’re good people.”
She knew when he was lying. He couldn’t look her in the eye when he lied. He always cleared his throat, too, as if something was stuck. Dad had taught her a long time ago how to tell if someone was lying. It was the same day he’d caught her in a lie. Eager to go outside and play, she’d told him she was done with her school project. He’d known right away she was lying when she looked down at her feet instead of meeting his gaze.
“Why can’t I go home instead?”
“Because you can’t,” he said. “Stop moving. If this gets in your eye, you’ll go blind.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “For money?”
He squeezed the rest of the contents of the plastic bottle onto the top of her head, then massaged her scalp. His fingers pressed so hard it felt as if he might crush her skull.
“You’re hurting me.”
“Yeah. Good. No more questions.”
She eyed the scissors, thought about grabbing them and plunging the tips into his stomach. But they weren’t very sharp, and even if she did get a hold of them, there was no way she was strong enough to puncture him with them. She’d only make him angrier than he already was, and then what? No telling what he would do.
After making sure every blonde hair was covered in dark ooze, he peeled off the gloves and put everything inside the box, wrapped it all inside a plastic bag, and put the garbage with everything else on the bed.
She realized then that this was it. They were leaving for good, and he didn’t want to leave any evidence behind.
Her hands trembled, and her stomach felt as if butterflies were flittering about.
What would her brother do in this situation? He’d always been a problem solver like their dad. He would find a way out of this; she knew he would. Think, Lara, think!
She needed to find a pen or pencil, something to leave a note in one of the books downstairs. That’s what she would do.
TWENTY-FIVE
After checking in with Mom and Dad, making sure Hudson was OK, Faith told them she’d try to be back by dinner, but it was already three o’clock by the time Beast and Faith arrived back at Beast’s house in Roseville.
Since they had two more Patricks t
hey needed to talk to before dark, Beast and Faith decided to split up. One of the Patricks lived in Acampo about an hour and fifteen minutes away; that’s where Beast would go. The third Patrick lived in North Sacramento; Faith would head that way.
They knew their chance of either one of them being the actual Patrick they were looking for was slim to none. But what other options did they have at this point? They needed to keep moving, keep looking. By this time tomorrow, Faith could find herself locked up in a cell.
Despite losing two friends last night, Kirsten Reich had texted her a few minutes ago. She was still out on the streets, talking to people, asking questions, finding out what she could. She insisted that her two friends would want Faith to continue with the search. They weren’t finished yet, she told Faith. Her determination and willingness to keep on going were inspiring.
Since Beast’s truck was now parked in front of the house, Faith decided to say hello to Miranda and Little Vinnie before heading off. Beast pulled the key to the house from his pocket and opened the door.
Miranda flew into Faith’s arms the minute she stepped inside. Faith leaned back so she could take a good look at the girl. “You look good.”
“I’m doing OK,” Miranda said.
“Are you going to stick around for a while?” Faith asked.
Beast grunted as he proceeded to the kitchen, where Little Vinnie was doing what he always did, stirring something in a pot on the stove.
“I’m not staying,” Miranda told Beast. “So don’t get your panties all in a twist.”
“You can stay with Mom and Dad,” Faith said. “They would be happy to have you.”
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’ll be fine.”
“You’re staying here with us,” Beast told her. “No more running off without telling anyone. That’s it. Discussion over.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“Yeah, I am. You’re what? Fifteen? Sixteen? I am definitely the boss of you.” He used a spoon to taste his dad’s concoction, then nodded his approval. He then pointed the spoon at Miranda. “Rage liked you. She’d be angry as hell if I didn’t make you stay.”