The Getaway

by Hope Anika

  Isabel made herself turn the page. A man lay, eviscerated. His intestines spilled out, his ribs thrust through his skin. His arms and legs were missing, and his decapitated head sat at his feet, his black eyes staring into hers. There was no mistaking his identity.

  Donovan Cruz.

  Drawn in exquisite detail and blood curdling; Isabel couldn’t look away. She’d seen things like this before; she understood—better than anyone—what it meant. But understanding was different from feeling, and as she stared at the picture, the past whispered to her, dark, restless, ever-present. The hair at her nape stood to attention, and the contents of her stomach simmered like a pot set to boil.

  “Five minutes,” Agnes called, and Isabel started.

  She closed the book, swept the room with another glance, and went back into Lucia’s room. Tony stood next to the window, staring down at something in his hand. He didn’t move as she approached, and when Isabel halted beside him, she realized it was a photograph.

  An old, worn, creased photograph, faded with age and curled at the corners. Three kids sat on a set of cracked concrete steps, two boys and a girl. The boy on the left was grinning; thirteen, maybe fourteen, a good looking kid with a wide smile and laughing eyes. The boy on the left stared soberly into the camera, no smile in evidence, his features drawn. A girl sat between them, a year or two younger, a shy smile curving her mouth. Isabel’s gaze returned to the grinning boy. There was something about him—

  “That’s you,” she whispered, and Tony jumped, as though she’d screamed “Boo!”

  He turned away.

  “Where did you find that?” she demanded. “I looked everywhere.”

  “It was on the floor behind the bedside table.” He stared down at the picture, so tense Isabel could’ve bounced a quarter off of him. “I’m surprised she even had it. We didn’t…part well.”

  “Is she family?” Isabel asked, moving around him to look at the photo again.

  “No,” he said. Lines bracketed his mouth; his eyes were dark. “But she was close to it. Once. A long time ago.”

  Not lovers, Isabel thought, looking at the girl in the picture with new eyes. Childhood friends. Something she would not have expected, although she couldn’t have said why.

  Foolish of her, she thought.

  “What’s that?” Tony asked, looking at the book she held. Isabel opened it wordlessly to the picture of the headless man and showed it to him.

  “Jesus fuck,” he said, staring at it in horror.

  “Yes,” she agreed quietly.

  His gaze met hers. “That’s Cruz.”

  “Yes,” Isabel said again.

  “Does that mean what I think it does?”

  She shook her head. She wasn’t willing to define anything. But—“Abused children often utilize…certain outlets to exorcise their abuse.” And punish their abusers. “Some kids cut, some hurt others, some keep journals, and some…draw.”

  Tony’s brows rose. “Was that a yes?”

  Annoyed, Isabel closed the book and tucked it into the waistband of her pants, pulling her suit coat down over it. Tony watched, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, and she turned away.

  “Statistics estimate that four out of five girls will be the victim of an attempted sexual assault in their lifetime,” she told him. “Three out of every five boys. Those numbers are based on victims who come forward; you can image where the true figures lie. It isn’t guns and drugs that turn the global marketplace—above ground, or below. It’s human beings.”

  He stared at her. “What makes you an expert?”

  Isabel held his gaze. The book was cold against her back. It had shaken her, but it had also firmed her resolve. This was what she did. No matter how hard it was. She might not trust Tony Malone, but they were in this together, now. And there was no reason to lie.

  “I’m part of the Bureau’s Violent Crimes Against Children unit,” she said after a moment. “That’s why they sent me.”

  A dark look crossed his face. “They think she’s guilty.”

  “No stone unturned,” Isabel replied diplomatically. She could’ve told him that she was one of the Bureau’s best, that it wasn’t just professional expertise that drove her. That she understood in a way few could. That it was always personal, something that made her very effective at her job.

  But she didn’t.

  The door opened abruptly, and Agnes stuck her head in. Tony turned away, sliding the photo into his pocket. Isabel looked at her, aware of the book digging into her hip.

  “Time’s up,” Agnes said, her gaze sweeping the room, as though she expected to see upended furniture and slashed curtains. “Did you find everything you need?”

  “From a cleared and cleaned room?” Isabel asked coolly. “Doubtful.”

  Agnes didn’t so much as blink. “I’ll escort you out.”

  Isabel’s hand itched, which was both aggravating and amusing. It had been a long time since she’d been tempted to smack anyone around. But Agnes had managed it.

  They followed her out, along the narrow hallways, down the wide, sweeping staircase. As they came to the bottom of the stairs, a cell tone sounded, and Agnes pulled a sleek black phone from her pocket.

  “Agnes speaking,” she announced into the phone. She halted abruptly; a look of irritation swept over her features. “No. Don’t do anything. I’ll be right there.”

  She poked the touchscreen angrily and turned to them. “I have to attend to something. I trust you can find your way out?”

  Beside Isabel, Tony tensed.

  “Of course,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”

  Agnes grunted and walked away, leaving through one of the sliding glass doors that led out to the swimming pool.

  “Thanks for nothing,” he added, watching her go.

  Isabel had to agree. They turned toward the front entry, but as they walked down the wide hallway, Tony moved to the side and began to open doors, peeking his head into each one as they passed. Isabel glanced behind them, to where Agnes had disappeared, her heart pumping hard.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Looking for an office,” Tony replied, opening another door. “Bingo!”

  “You can’t—” Isabel began, but he was already gone. She stuck her head in the door he’d disappeared through. “Ten to one, there are cameras covering every square inch of this place.”

  “I hope so,” he muttered, looking around. The room was dark, thick wooden blinds drawn tight against the harsh desert sun. A huge wooden desk, two plush leather chairs. A barrister, a small bar, and a stylish wooden filing cabinet. A zebra head was mounted above the desk, its glassy eyes staring blankly down at her.

  “Ick,” she said.

  “Like I said: asshat.” Tony scowled. “No computer. No PC, no monitor, no printer. What kind of corporate kingpin doesn’t have a computer?”

  “He probably has it with him,” Isabel pointed out, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure Agnes wasn’t headed toward them. “Let’s go, Detective. Getting thrown into jail for criminal trespass isn’t going to help your friend Lucia.”

  Tony shook his head, still looking around. “There has to be one he doesn’t travel with.”

  “Why?” Isabel asked, exasperated. “Tech has come a long way. Plenty of people have downsized to tablets and phones.”

  “Not him.”

  “Come on,” she hissed.

  The sound of the glass door sliding open made Isabel’s heart lunge against her ribs.

  Tony’s gaze narrowed, but he stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. Footsteps sounded, and they booked it toward the front entry. Tony opened the large door; Isabel walked through, her blood a loud roar in her ears.

  Agnes approached from the rear, frowning, suspicion written clearly in the harsh lines of her face.

  “Just checking out the art,” Tony told her. “That’s some sick shit.”

  Then he closed the door in her face.

  Cha
pter Nine

  “Did you find anyone?”

  Lucia glanced up from the dog she carried to see Alexander waiting for her, his eyes shimmering in the pale light.

  “Not anyone we could save,” she replied, her chest tight. The beat of her heart was painful; even in the blood-drenched hours of her worst day she’d not felt so hollow. So hopeless and helpless and angry with fate.

  “Can we go now?”

  “Sí,” she said wearily. “We can go.”

  Sam had not followed her; instead, he’d gone the opposite direction, further into the twisted mass of wreckage that had once been a town. They would have no better opportunity to leave him behind, and even if that thought suddenly sent an unexpected pang of regret through her, it must be done.

  The dog squirmed against her, and Alexander focused on it with laser beam intensity.

  “What’s that?” he demanded.

  “What does it look like?” Lucia walked past him to kneel beside Ben, who sat balancing himself on one of the sleeping bags, his thumb in his mouth, his eyes dark and wide and scared.

  “Here,” she said and carefully placed the little dog in his lap. The pup was a sweet, tiny little thing, more fur than dog, trembling and cold. In shock, Lucia thought. Like all of them. “She is all alone now, so you will have to take good care of her, Benjamin. Can you do that?”

  “No,” Alexander said behind her, his voice cold.

  Lucia ignored him. Ben immediately wrapped his arms around the animal and looked up at her as though she’d handed him a living rainbow. “Holy cow, holy cow, holy cow, it’s a puppy! A real live puppy! Can I keep her, Lu? For really?”

  “Sí,” Lucia said, because what she needed on top of everything else was a dog. But she couldn’t abandon the animal any more than she could its owner, and she and Sam had promised. “But do not put her down until we can find something to use as a leash. She might run away, and that would be very, very bad in this place.”

  “No,” Alexander said again, more forcefully.

  Ben only nodded solemnly. “I won’t. Promise and hope to die.”

  “That’s not how you say it,” Alexander growled.

  “Her name is Daisy,” Lucia continued. And according to the tags on her flowered collar, she was both vaccinated and microchipped. “She is very scared and very cold. You must keep her warm, and pet her gently.”

  “No,” Alexander repeated.

  “I’m a good petter,” Ben said earnestly and carefully ran his hand along Daisy’s back. The little dog shivered and burrowed closer. “I think she likes me.”

  “You can’t keep her,” Alexander snarled. “She’ll just slow us down. Let her go, Ben.”

  Lucia rounded on him. “Stop it.”

  “What are you going to feed her?” Mockery, as biting and sharp as the wind. “An oatmeal pie?”

  Sometimes she really, really wanted to swat him. A good, stinging smack on the butt, the kind her grandmother had delivered. But he’d suffered enough blows in his young life; they would gain her nothing.

  “Are you jealous?” she asked instead, her brows arched. “Is that the problem?”

  Color rushed into his cheeks. “No. I don’t want a stupid dog.”

  “No?”

  “No!”

  “Then zip it.”

  “This isn’t smart,” he said coldly.

  Lucia met his pale gaze. “Nothing about this is smart.”

  The boy looked away, and a dark scowl settled across his face. Lucia followed his gaze to see Sam walking back toward them, and the sight of him both calmed and annoyed her, because she didn’t want to feel anything when she looked at him.

  But she couldn’t forget. Not about the storm he’d sheltered them from, nor the dying man whose hand he’d taken in effort to offer comfort. Not the promise he’d made to that man—one Lucia knew he would keep—nor the calm, cool acceptance he’d displayed at the man’s death. Sam had clearly seen more death than anyone ever should, a realization which had shaken her. Death was nothing new to him, and although it was not new to Lucia either, she was not able to treat it as graciously. Death took from everyone and gave back nothing; she despised everything about it: the grief, the mourning, the intractable amount of time it took to make one’s peace with it. As a healer, she fought death with every weapon in her arsenal, and when it won, she was the sorest of losers.

  No, death was her enemy. That Sam could look it in the eye without flinching was something she both admired and feared. Because if death didn’t make a man flinch, what did?

  He was still limping as he walked toward them. Lucia was tempted to make him sit down so she could look at his leg, but he was hardheaded, and he would argue, and that would annoy her. Beyond that, they needed to get out of this town before the police and emergency personnel showed up. They had to get away from him, which meant they needed a convincing distraction, a method of travel, and a route of escape.

  Sí. No problemo.

  “I’m going to get rid of Sam,” Alexander told her, as if echoing her thoughts. “And then we’re leaving.”

  He strode away before she could stop him and headed toward Sam, his hands clenched into fists. Lucia watched, nerves twisting in her belly. The boy was incredibly smart, but so was Sam. He wouldn’t be put off easily, and he wouldn’t go away simply because Alexander told him to.

  But Alexander was pointing off to the left, talking rapidly, his face ripe with expression; he looked, for once, like a normal boy, earnest and concerned, which was both disconcerting and disappointing. Lying. He was lying, something he was quite proficient at, much to Lucia’s dismay. Although he couldn’t put much past her, he didn’t have the same trouble with others, and he had absolutely no qualms about telling a tale so tall it dwarfed Everest.

  Sam’s gaze lifted, flickered to hers, and Lucia did her best to give him a poker face. She knew she wasn’t good at it, but she also knew it was necessary. Because they did have to separate. Nothing good would come of allowing this…whatever it was to continue.

  Alexander was right. Even if she didn’t like his methods. Even if some tiny part of her had arbitrarily decided that—perhaps—it wasn’t right to leave Sam behind.

  It must be done.

  Sam said something she couldn’t make out and turned to limp in the direction Alexander had pointed. The boy waited until he’d disappeared behind the rubble to hurry back toward them.

  “What did you tell him?” Lucia asked, uneasy.

  “I told him we heard cries for help.”

  Her stomach dropped. “Did you?”

  Alexander shot her a narrow look. “Of course not.”

  Yes, just one good swat.

  He picked up his pack and slid it on. Lucia reached down reluctantly to take hers. The sleeping bags and the tent protruded from the top, and it was awkward to slide on. Ben’s Snoopy bag was last, and when she lifted it, she almost dropped it again due to its unexpected weight. She opened it and looked inside.

  Food. Beef jerky, nuts, granola bars. Apples, a package of bagels, a wedge of cheese. Hot dogs. Pretzels. And more Little Debbies. Enough food to feed them for several days, if they were careful.

  She looked at Alexander, who only stared back at her, his silent equivalent of duh.

  “Good job, mijo,” she told him quietly.

  “I know,” he replied in a tone of frost.

  She sighed. Ben watched them, holding Daisy close. “Are we gonna leave now?”

  “Sí,” Lucia replied. “Are you ready?”

  Ben’s gaze slid to where Sam had disappeared. “But what about Sam?”

  “We don’t need him,” Alexander said. “He’s trouble. Get up, Ben. We have to go.”

  Go where? Lucia wondered. But he was right. They had to go. The next storm was almost upon them, and the wind was getting stronger. There was nothing here for them: no shelter, no protection.

  Nothing but Sam. And if she felt a flicker of guilt over leaving him, she didn’t allow it to catch flam
e. The man was law unto himself; he would survive their defection. No matter their shared experiences, he was still a stranger—a snarly stranger—and one to whom they posed a grave threat, whether he knew it or not.

  An odd, inexplicable sorrow filled her at the thought. Another thing there was nothing to be done for.

  “But Sam’s our friend,” Ben protested, clearly confused. “We can’t leave him behind. What if he needs us?”

  Lucia could not imagine Sam needing anyone. “We must,” she said simply and held out her hand.

  Ben sighed, took her hand, and stood up, Daisy firmly anchored to his chest. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

  Me either, monkey.

  “Forget him,” Alexander ordered. “And follow me.”

  He turned and marched away, leaving them little choice but to follow. They made their way carefully through the debris fields, around what remained of the buildings, past overturned cars and demolished homes. They headed north—or at least Lucia thought it was north—until Alexander suddenly halted and turned to look at them, something that looked suspiciously like pride stamped across his features.

  “I found our ride,” he said, and Lucia blinked, because he was almost…smiling.

  “Sí?” she said, confused.

  “Yes,” he said, and stepped to the side. Behind him was a camouflage four-wheeler, completely enclosed, with a thick black roll bar, sturdy plastic windshield and two round headlights.

  Lucia stared at it. The vehicle was untouched. Whole. And uniquely capable of getting them out of the mess they were in.

  Thank you, Destiny. I am sorry I told you to suck it.

  “It will get us approximately 120 miles per tank of fuel,” Alexander said, and there was no doubt that it was pride she saw gleaming in his eyes—something so rare, she wasn’t sure she’d ever witnessed it before.

  “Only if it starts, mijo,” she pointed out.

  “It does. They key was in it, so I checked. And the gas gauge is on ‘F.’”