The Getaway

by Hope Anika

  Goddamn it.

  “I found someone,” she said as he approached, but her eyes were bleak and sober, and Sam knew immediately it wasn’t someone they could help.

  Someone they could save.

  He stepped into what appeared to be the remnants of a bathroom. Piping stuck out from the floor, and a round hole indicated where the toilet had been. Lucia knelt beside a battered bathtub, where a bleeding and battered old man lay cradling a small dog. She held one of his gnarled hands in hers.

  Sam approached and crouched beside them carefully; his leg protested with a twist of breath-stealing pain. He ignored it and focused on the man.

  “Hey there,” he said quietly. Blood-creased lids lifted to reveal faded brown eyes with huge, unfocused pupils. Black bruises mottled skin that was spotted and so thin it looked like little more than tissue paper. Deep cuts bled sluggishly on his forehead, his chin and his nose looked as though it had been smashed by a brutal, relentless fist. “How are you doing?”

  The man’s mouth opened, and a harsh gurgle broke the eerie silence of the destruction that surrounded them.

  “Shhhh, abuelo,” Lucia murmured softly. “Do not try to talk.” She looked at Sam and shook her head and pointed into the tub. Sam looked down to see a metal pipe sticking from the man’s stomach, nearly two inches wide. Blood pooled beneath him, thick, dark, and deep.

  A dead man, Sam thought. And from the glint in the old-timer’s eye, he knew it. Sam met Lucia’s gaze; she knew it, too.

  The man’s mouth opened, and the ugly bubbling of blood and oxygen sounded once more. His free hand lifted and caught in Sam’s t-shirt, fingers like claws, shaking violently.

  “Easy,” Sam murmured, and clasped that hand, so cold and thin and fragile it was like holding delicate blown glass. “I’ve got you.”

  The man shook his head and tried again, another ragged, wheezing groan that made Lucia lean over him and put her hand on his papery cheek.

  “Shhhh,” she whispered again. “You must be still, abuelo. Please.”

  But the man jerked away. He tugged his hand from Sam’s, and it landed heavily on the little dog’s back. The animal flinched and lifted its head, revealing a bloodied, teddy-bear face. A pink tongue emerged and licked tentatively at the man’s chin. Tears glazed the man’s eyes; he struggled again to speak.

  “Sí, abuelo,” Lucia said, her voice thick. She touched the animal he held, a gentle stroke that made the dog quiver, golden hair shivering in the pale light. “Sí. We will take care of your pet. Do not worry. But you must be still now. Please be still.”

  The man’s gaze sought Sam’s.

  “I promise,” Sam told him, his heart like lead in his chest.

  “All will be well,” Lucia told the man, but her voice wavered and a tear slid down her cheek.

  The man held Sam’s gaze for a moment longer, the unwavering stare of a dying man looking for something only he could find. Sam had seen it before, from strangers, from enemies, from men he considered family. He only nodded again in silent affirmation of the promise he’d made; there was nothing else to be done. Death was inescapable, solace moot.

  At least the old guy wasn’t alone.

  Sam felt Lucia’s gaze, but she said nothing. Finally, the man nodded. He stroked the little dog he held with trembling fingers, and Lucia began to pray.

  Her voice was low, barely audible; she whispered in Spanish, a prayer he didn’t recognize, an invocation that spoke of circles and rebirth and hope. Sam stared at her, his throat thick and tight, his heart a heavy drumbeat in his chest. He’d seen enough death to last two lifetimes; it never got easier.

  Not even when it was a stranger.

  The man’s eyes drifted shut; one by one, his limbs relaxed. The dog he held whined mournfully, and as thunder rumbled in the distance, his last breath escaped, a harsh, wheezing rattle that echoed between them before being taken by the wind.

  Sam didn’t move, frozen in place. Beside him, Lucia took a deep, gulping breath. Then another. And then a harsh, angry sob broke from her, and she leaned her forehead on the edge of the tub and cried with quiet, wrenching fury.

  Sam’s heart contracted, and his hand lifted of its own accord and hovered just above her, a hairsbreadth from touching her. Just a small touch. Just to comfort her—

  No. His hand fisted; he forced it to lower.

  She murmured as she wept, another prayer he didn’t recognize, again in Spanish, and he said nothing, unwilling to let her know he understood, both her words and her pain. Watching her made his chest ache, and the nails of his clenched fist dug deeply into the flesh of his palm.

  He wanted to walk away. Just turn and go. His lungs burned, and his blood roared in his head like a vicious animal. He felt hollow. Furious. Alone. Touching her was a bad idea, and yet the need gripped him like a vise, an instinct as much about taking as giving.

  Dangerous and stupid; a war within himself he couldn’t afford to lose.

  Finally, she quieted and turned to look at him, her eyes dark and wet and desolate, and the need to touch her beat at him with razor-sharp wings. But then she looked away, turned her gaze to the little dog, and lifted a hand to stroke it gently.

  “Ah, little one, you will miss him, no?” Her voice was hoarse, and the dog trembled beneath her touch. “But do not worry. We will take very good care of you.” A deep sigh escaped her, and Sam knew she was thinking of the impossibility of keeping the promise she was making. “You are not alone, nene. I know a boy who will love you more than any boy has ever loved a dog.”

  She lifted the pup and curled it to her chest, pressing a soft kiss to its tiny head. Her gaze again sought Sam’s, and for a moment they just looked at each other, shaken, raw, aching with loss. A life they would mourn together; a connection neither would forget. A bond forged of blood and pain and death.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam heard himself say roughly. Which was too much and not enough, but all he had.

  “As am I.” Lucia pushed to her feet. “I must check on the boys.”

  She didn’t wait for a response; she only turned and left him.

  Sam watched her go, painfully aware that any illusion of walking away had just died an abrupt and brutal death.

  No, there was no walking away for him.

  Not until it was over.

  Chapter Eight

  The Cruz residence was located on the northern edge of the city, a tall structure of steel, rock and darkened glass that speared from the earth like a tower of smoky quartz. A lush sprawl of ridiculously green grass surrounded it, along with a wall built of stone, easily three feet thick and nearly twelve feet tall. Two giant palms flanked the home.

  Home, Isabel Bjorn thought. Hardly.

  Beside her, Detective Anthony Malone, swore softly. “What is this, fucking Jericho? What an asshat.”

  She almost smiled. Although she didn’t know the Detective well, and she didn’t trust him any further than she could throw him, she was tempted to like him. A mistake she wouldn’t make, of course, but still…it had been a long time since a man had made her smile. Long enough, at any rate.

  She supposed she was due.

  Because he was also arrogant, difficult, nosy, and a liar. She could handle arrogance—she was, after all, a woman in a field dominated by men, so she was quite used to ego leading the charge—and difficult was nothing new. Nosy was just an annoyance, but the lying…well, that was unacceptable. On every level.

  The good Detective knew Lucia Sanchez. Although he hadn’t confirmed that fact, it was quite obvious. They had a history, Isabel was certain. But what kind of history? Had they been friends? Lovers? The Detective was a handsome man; it was certainly possible. With his bronzed skin, light hazel eyes and that well-drawn, wide mouth, he would have no trouble attracting women. Even she was susceptible to the charisma he wore like the finest fragrance, and she was rarely susceptible to anything.

  Driven, intelligent, and—from all accounts—honorable, the Detective was formidable.
His record—which she’d checked discretely as they’d driven into the city—spoke to two factors: his relentless pursuit of justice, and his tendency to take matters into his own hands. She wondered if it was his stint as an Army Ranger that made him behave like a force unto himself. Why he got results. If that was the reason his people followed him without question.

  Even Detective Peabody, who’d shared his own reservations, had acquiesced. But Isabel didn’t take those reservations personally. The reputation her badge carried cut both ways. For her, it was simply means to an end.

  A tool in her arsenal.

  “Are we cleared to go in?” Tony asked, turning his gleaming silver SUV into the entry, where the stone gave way to thick iron gates.

  “Yes,” Isabel said. Although Mr. Cruz was not happy about it. But how could the man argue when his children’s lives were at stake?

  Telling, that she’d had to make the point in order to gain access. Asshat, indeed.

  Tony slid to a stop beside the intercom. He announced them, flashed his badge, and a moment later they were pulling through the gates and sliding to a stop before the arched entryway, a perfectly cut curve of thick granite that glittered in the dimming sunlight.

  It was almost six p.m. The drive down from Yellowgrass had taken three hours, time Isabel had spent making notes, downloading files on the good Detective, Donovan Cruz, and Lucia Sanchez, and ignoring how good the man beside her smelled. He’d asked questions, and she’d deflected them. Eventually, he’d let it go, and simply concentrated on driving. He drove with skill and competence; Isabel had a feeling that was how Tony Malone did everything. Like her badge, he would cut both ways.

  “I want a look at those kids’ rooms,” he said before they climbed out of the SUV.

  “I want a look at everything,” she replied and stepped out.

  He didn’t trust her, she thought as she headed up the entryway. Which was only fair, as she didn’t trust him, either. But trust wasn’t truly necessary, if they had the same goal.

  A big if.

  The large wooden entry door swung inward. It, too, was arched, and detailed by an intricate carving of a heavily-maned lion. Old growth wood, something dark and rich, maybe walnut. Beautifully done.

  “Agent Bjorn,” said the woman who appeared behind the door, a tall, narrow woman with hard features and flat green eyes. Her voice was cold. “Detective Malone. My name is Agnes Livingstone. I am Mr. Cruz’s head of household. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to Ms. Sanchez’s quarters.”

  She stared at them, as warm and welcoming as a frozen fence post. Her black hair was threaded with gray, wound tight at the base of her skull. Clad in pressed black slacks, an equally pressed black blouse and freshly shined black flats, she was a testament to severity.

  “Thank you,” Tony said from behind her. “We appreciate your cooperation.”

  “I do as I’m told, Detective,” Agnes replied and turned on her heel.

  Charming.

  Isabel followed as the woman led them deeper into the house. Walls of dark navy, slate-tiled floors dotted with sleek contemporary furniture. Abstract art filled the space, paintings harsh with bold color, misshapen and headless, free-form statues. Ugly, Isabel thought, but then art was subjective. Still, the environment contained a cultivated darkness that rubbed her the wrong way. There were no photographs, no knick-knacks, no toys, nothing that spoke of the children who occupied the home.

  Home, she thought again. Most definitely not.

  Agnes led them through a large great room with thick leather furniture, a massive stone fireplace and hand-knotted Persian rugs. The windows revealed a crystal blue, glittering swimming pool and the mandatory Las Vegas fountain, all surrounded by more stone.

  A tall, wooden staircase swept up to the second floor, more walnut, the handrails carved into thorned vines and roses with large, ornate petals. Agnes said nothing as she turned toward it and began her ascent. Isabel was aware of Tony following closely, his scent trailing her as effectively as any bloodhound.

  The second floor was much like the first: dark, ugly, with narrow hallways lined by macabre art. No plants, no flowers, nothing soft or warm. Nothing welcoming. They followed Agnes down a series of halls into the western end of the house, which was cut off from the rest of the residence by a set of thick wooden doors. Wolves snarled and circled on the doors; they looked ferocious and feral, as if fashioned from the ugliest of fairy tales. Isabel thought that if she was a five-year-old—as Benjamin Cruz was—they would scare the hell out of her.

  “Jesus,” Tony muttered.

  “This is the children’s wing.” Agnes flung open the doors. “Ms. Sanchez’s quarters are through the second door on the left. As her duties did not include overnight stays, she rarely made use of them. You are welcome to look, but I daresay you won’t find much.”

  Isabel looked around, surprised by the sudden appearance of color and light. The walls were pale yellow; several benches lined the hallway, long planks of thick wood covered by bright red pillows. Glossy prints decorated the walls: Alice in Wonderland, The Wizard of Oz, The Call of the Wild. Wide windows let in the sun. It looked…normal.

  “What did you think of Lucia?” Tony asked Agnes. “What’s your take on all of this?”

  Agnes halted. She turned slowly, her brows arched. “I am not paid to think anything, Detective.”

  “You have no opinion?” Isabel asked.

  That flat green gaze glinted. “No, I do not.”

  “That’s helpful,” Tony told her. “Thanks.”

  “How long have you been with Mr. Cruz?” Isabel asked, undaunted.

  “Mr. Cruz hired me immediately after the death of Mrs. Cruz, several years ago.”

  “A tragedy, that,” Isabel said, watching Agnes closely. “A car accident, wasn’t it?”

  “You have ten minutes,” Agnes said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Use them wisely.”

  She stood staring at them, clearly indicating they would not be left alone in their search. Isabel wasn’t surprised, but Tony scowled openly.

  “This is a federal investigation,” he said, his tone hard. “You do understand what will happen if you impede that investigation?”

  Agnes only blinked at him. “You’re wasting time, Detective.”

  Isabel turned and walked into Lucia Sanchez’s room. The walls were the same pale yellow as the hallway; the plush carpeting was deep, emerald green. A queen-sized bed sat in the center of one wall, flanked by two small bedside tables. A dresser, a wardrobe, a handful of tasteful flower prints. The closet sat open, empty of everything but a handful of wooden hangers. Looking around, anger flared through Isabel.

  The room had obviously been cleared and cleaned. Of everything.

  She checked the drawers of the bedside tables, the dresser, the wardrobe. Under the bed, under the mattress. The shelf of the closet, beneath each lamp.

  Nothing.

  A snarl in her throat, she turned to step through one of the two connecting doors that led off the room. Lucia’s quarters were, apparently, connected to each of the boy’s. The room she stepped into was much the same as Lucia’s, except for a small twin bed in place of the queen. Colorful posters covered the walls: The Muppets, Transformers, The Lion King. An overflowing box of toys sat on one wall; Legos littered the carpet. A stuffed Winnie the Pooh sat in one corner, Snoopy in the other.

  Benjamin Cruz’s room.

  Brightly colored clothes filled the wardrobe and dresser drawers. Several miniature suits hung in the closet, along with a mixture of shoes. A battered skateboard, a small pair of skis.

  Nothing unusual. Nothing she was looking for.

  Isabel strode back into Lucia’s room to find Tony going through the drawers of the wardrobe. He’d closed the door, shutting Agnes out, and Isabel walked passed him without comment, moving to the other connecting door and stepping through it. Alexander Cruz’s room was also pale yellow, with a larger double bed, a dresser, and a wardrobe. There was an additiona
l desk and chair, and the posters were more age-appropriate: X-Men, Avengers, The Flash. There were no toys or stuffed animals, but above the bed sat a bookshelf which held a small collection of books: Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Brothers Grimm.

  Like the posters, they were escapist work. Fantasy.

  Not that Isabel could blame him.

  The closet contained clothes, shoes, skis, a lacrosse stick and a bike helmet. The dresser and wardrobe were filled with expensive, logo-splattered clothing, most of which looked brand new and unworn. She could find no computer—no electronic devices of any kind—and the desk contained only a handful of pencils and a stack of copy paper. Isabel was about to give up when she spotted a set of sleek black drawing pens tucked into the back corner of the bottom drawer, their plastic casing cracked, cloudy and well-used. Her heart jerked to life.

  Maybe, she thought.

  She turned and looked at the bookshelf. A pair of cast iron owl bookends held the row of hardback books in neat order. Harry, Frodo, fairy tales…a few more, books she didn’t know, and tucked just behind a dog-eared dictionary, a slender, black, leather-bound book.

  A sketchbook.

  Adrenaline surged through her, and Isabel told herself sternly to calm the hell down. It might be nothing. Plenty of kids liked to draw. Yes, the pens were clearly well-used. Yes, they were stuck far in the back of a bottom drawer, when the top drawers were almost empty. But they were not, in and of themselves, auspicious. They did not necessarily mean anything.

  Yes, they do, experience whispered. Which she did not appreciate.

  She pulled the book out and flipped it open. The image that greeted her made her sit down, hard, on the bed.

  The drawing was done in black ink, no doubt with one of the pens in the cracked case. A boy lay curled into a fetal position in the center of the page, his expression so pained, so terrified, that Isabel felt a wave of emotion crash into her, unexpected and unwelcome. His arms were outstretched, as if to ward off something. Someone. His mouth was open, a silent, eternal scream that chilled her. Tears streamed from his eyes, and chains bound his feet.