by Hope Anika
Not that Alexander didn’t dream of escape. Of freedom. Of his father’s blood marking the walls; of his hoarse screams echoing across the vast, endless desert. And he knew that, if the opportunity ever presented itself, he would make that happen. No matter the price.
Fantasies, his busy brain distracting him with hope. Something to live for. He knew better than to believe.
But now there was Sam. Sam…who bore his own father’s marks. Who’d saved them. And who’d promised to get them where they were going.
Wherever that is. Lucia had talked about Alaska, somewhere in the far north where she knew someone, but so far they hadn’t even made it any further than Idaho.
Alexander had strained to listen to the conversation that had taken place between Sam and Lucia the night before, as he lay beside Ben, but he hadn’t heard much over the hiss and crackle of the fire, the drum of the rain and faint howl of the wind. He’d seen Sam touch her—the tension between them made Alexander uncomfortable—and he’d seen Lucia walk away. He remembered the sad look on her face, and the determined one on Sam’s, and he worried about what it all meant.
He didn’t understand the dynamic of human relationships. He never had; he didn’t particularly want to. He was alone, but for Ben, and he always would be. Still, he knew the value in understanding that dynamic, that there was knowledge and power there, something he could benefit from. That he should work to comprehend the complexity of inter-personal relationships, because even though he felt nothing but isolation and cold rage when it came to the world around him, others did, and it was important to his survival that he understood them.
So this morning, when he’d seen Sam leave the cabin, he’d snuck out behind him and followed, and now he stood watching as Sam dug through an old pile of junk in the small lean-to behind the cabin. There had been heavy silence this morning; the rain came down in a torrent, and Ben had woken with a runny nose and a fever. Sam decided they would stay put, at least for a few hours, and Lucia hadn’t argued. They’d eaten a silent breakfast of oranges and granola, while Sam watched Lucia like a cat watched a mouse, and Lucia pretended not to notice.
“You need something?” Sam suddenly asked, and Alexander started and realized he hadn’t been nearly as stealthy as he thought.
“No.” He took a step closer. “What are you doing?”
“There’s an old fishing pole here. Thought I might find some tackle, maybe try and catch a fish or two. We could use the protein.”
Alexander stared at the broad expanse of Sam’s back. He wore a flat black coat that the rain rolled right off of, and Alexander knew there was a gun beneath that coat, because this morning, he’d seen it. Gleaming, black and big—way bigger than the tiny little one Lucia had in her purse—and Alexander wanted to know why he had it.
He wanted to know who Sam was. Really was.
“Can I come with?” he asked, even though he had no interest in fishing.
Sam looked at him over his shoulder. “You prepared to be wet and cold and get skunked?”
“Skunked?” Alexander echoed.
“It means we probably won’t catch anything but a cold.”
“Then why try?”
Sam arched his brows. “Aren’t you hungry for something besides an oatmeal pie?”
“Yes.”
Sam nodded. “Then go tell Lucia, and put something warmer on.”
Alexander turned, then halted. “You’ll wait for me?”
Sam met his gaze, nodded.
Alexander hurried into the cabin. Lucia was on the old, worn out bed, reading to Ben—Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, his favorite—and the warmth of the fire made Alexander shiver. He dug through his bag and pulled on another shirt, then his fleece. When he reached for his coat, Lucia narrowed her gaze and said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going fishing,” he replied, words he’d never before said, which seemed heartening somehow. “With Sam.”
“Does Sam know this?” she asked.
“He invited me,” Alexander said, which was kind of true. “He found an old pole out back.”
“I wanna go fishing with Sam, too,” Ben said and sat up. Lucia pushed him gently back down.
“No, monkey,” she said. “You are already not feeling well. No fishing for you today.”
“I’ll catch one for you,” Alexander told him, even though he had no idea how to catch a fish.
“Okay,” Ben said, disappointed.
“Are you sure it is alright with Sam?” Lucia wanted to know, watching him with suspicion.
“Yes,” Alexander said, ignoring that suspicion. “He’s waiting for me.”
She looked like she wanted to launch an investigation, so Alexander hurried back out of the cabin. Sam stood waiting out front, a fishing pole in one hand, a battered, five-gallon bucket in the other.
“No tackle,” he said. “But I found a few hooks. You’re on worm detail.”
“Worm detail?”
“We need bait.” Sam turned and headed toward the stream they’d followed for most of the day yesterday. Instead of heading back the way they’d come, he headed further up the stream, which was narrow and frothy and cold. Alexander knew, because he’d been the one to fill the water bottles last night, and he didn’t think he’d ever felt such cold water.
“Bait,” he echoed.
Sam shot him a look. “How much fishing have you done?”
Alexander felt his cheeks flush. “None.”
“Every man should know how to fish.” Sam shook his head. “Guess you’ll get your first lesson.”
“Why should every man know how to fish?”
Sam halted and looked down at him. “Because every man should know how to take care of himself—and those around him. If you can fish, you can feed yourself. Maybe that’s something someone like you takes for granted, but you shouldn’t.”
“Someone like me?” Alexander asked, and unease rippled through him.
Sam started walking again. “Someone whose never had to worry about being hungry.”
Alexander hurried to keep up. His stomach began to churn. “How do you know I’ve never had to worry about being hungry?”
“Son, I know exactly who you are. And damn sure you’ve never stared into an empty fridge with your belly aching so hard you feel sick.”
Alexander halted. He said nothing, his heart beating too hard, that odd, inexplicable welling in his chest growing tight. He watched Sam get further upstream, and his hands clenched into painful fists at his sides.
He knows. How does he know? Had Lucia told him? Why would she—
“You coming?” Sam wanted to know.
But Alexander didn’t move. He’d wanted…he didn’t know what he’d wanted. To not be who he was. If only for a little while. A stupid wish, impossible, like everything else. He should’ve known better. Nothing was ever—
“I know everything,” Sam said, suddenly right in front of him, staring down at him. “And it’s okay.”
Alexander looked away. His fingernails bit into his palms, and he wanted to throw up. He didn’t want Sam to know. He didn’t want Sam to look at him like—
“Alexander,” Sam said and reached out to settle his big hand on Alexander’s narrow shoulder. “Look at me.”
Alexander trembled and fought the urge to pull away. He didn’t like being touched, not by anyone. But Sam wouldn’t let him go; he already knew that, and he couldn’t win, not against Sam. Asshole. And he hated the feeling washing over him, like he was nothing, shit, worthless and useless, a waste of skin and space. He stood still, trying not to move. To fucking cry. He should just go back and—
“Look at me,” Sam said again, his fingers squeezing gently.
Alexander’s jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He held himself tensely and made himself meet Sam’s eyes.
“What I know doesn’t change anything,” Sam said.
But he was wrong. It changed everything.
“Not for me, it doesn’t.” Sam shook his
head. He stepped closer. “You think you’re the only one? Hell, if only. My pop might not have hurt me like yours hurt you, but he sure as fuck hurt me, and there are days I’m sorry I didn’t kill him with my own two hands.” A muscle ticked in Sam’s jaw; his scar was white, and for a moment Alexander glimpsed something dark and roiling in Sam’s eyes, something he recognized. “He’s been dead for almost twenty years, and sometimes I can still feel his breath on my neck. It never goes away, son. Not ever. That’s why you’ve gotta deal with it—or it will haunt you every second of every day for the rest of your life. And that bastard’s already taken enough. Don’t let him have that, too. Don’t let what he did define you—because that was about him, not about you. That was all him. And you mark my words, Alexander, he will pay for what the fuck he did to you. I’ll make certain.”
Alexander stared at Sam. Tears stung his eyes, burned his throat; the swelling in his chest felt like a bubble ready to burst. His lungs hurt, and his nails dug so deep into his palms, he knew he was bleeding.
“Fuck him,” Sam said bluntly. “Let’s go fishing.”
And then he turned and began to walk upstream again. Alexander watched him, uncertain, his knees strangely weak, something he didn’t understand loosening within him.
“You coming or what?”
Sam didn’t stop and wait. He kept going.
After a moment, Alexander kept going, too.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You feel it, don’t you? I want to feel it, too. Submit.”
Isabel studied the faces of the men around her.
Bob Peabody stood at the back of the room, next to the door, his hands shoved into the pockets of his polyester pants. He watched the video she and Tony had procured—stolen—from Donavon Cruz’s external hard drive with a killing look on his face. A mark in his favor.
Beside him, Special Agent Kent stared at the screen, his face drawn, his eyes dark.
Seated before the screen was Tony’s Lieutenant, a man named Lester Forks. He was short, round and solid, and when he’d shaken her hand, he’d met her gaze and said, “I’ve heard about you. The pleasure’s mine.” And while she was rarely swayed by flattery, Isabel was affected by his sincerity. So few appreciated what she did. The Lieutenant watched the scene with a flat expression, but a muscle ticked in his jaw like the flutter of rapid wings.
Tony stood at the window, staring out at the rain. The video disturbed him deeply; his revulsion and rage were obvious. He’d been shaken violently by what he’d seen in Donavon Cruz’s cabin, and he’d been so angry on the drive back into the city that he hadn’t even managed words, just growls and insensible mutterings of rage.
If Tony had his way, Donavon Cruz was a dead man.
However, it was the look on Special Agent in Charge, Lawrence Gill’s face—her boss—that concerned her. He stared at the rape of Alexander Cruz as though it was a painful infomercial he was being forced to sit through.
She’d worked under Gill for only six months and didn’t know him well. He’d come to the Violent Crimes Against Children unit from Domestic Terrorism, and so far, he’d left her mostly alone. He was a man more concerned with the politics of the Bureau than the actual policing it did, which was not uncommon, and so long as she was left to her own devices and allowed to work freely, Isabel hadn’t paid much attention to him. She saw now that had been a mistake.
Politics. A word dirtier than any expletive.
“Fuck,” Agent Kent said when the video ended and the screen went blank.
Bob Peabody met her gaze and nodded, just once. Tony stood motionless, the line of his body so tense he appeared carved from stone. Lieutenant Forks leaned back in his chair, silent, and Gill turned to her and said, “That’s all you’ve got?”
Isabel straightened, clasped her hands before her, and said coolly, “You need more?”
“A video from an anonymous source is inadmissible. You know it, I know it. It doesn’t prove shit.”
She arched a brow, aware of Tony slowly turning around, of Bob Peabody stiffening, of Lieutenant Forks stilling in his chair. Even Agent Kent shot Gill a sharp look of disbelief.
“I agree it’s inadmissible; that point is moot,” Isabel responded calmly. “The bigger picture here is the fact that Donavon Cruz is a sadist, a pedophile and a rapist—a fact now known by law enforcement, if not proven by a court of law—and he is—at minimum—unequivocally guilty of raping his son. I daresay it isn’t the first time. I also doubt his son is his first and only victim; men like Donavon Cruz spend their entire lives stalking and victimizing their prey. When you take into consideration Mr. Cruz’s wealth and reach, that pool becomes an ocean. He is a predator. I have no doubt that if we can secure a search warrant—”
“Forget it,” Gill said and pushed to his feet. “We have no evidence the thing is even legit. Anything can be Photoshopped nowadays.”
“According to our techs, it’s unedited,” Lieutenant Forks put in, his tone sharp enough to cut. “And that sure as hell looks like Donavon Cruz to me.”
Thank you, Lieutenant Forks.
“I don’t care,” Gill said shortly. “We’re not acting on it. We don’t let anonymous sources dictate our investigations.”
Isabel stared at her boss, and he looked away. He smoothed his faintly wrinkled, expensive suit and straightened his tie. He was not an unattractive man: tall, lean, his dark hair threaded by silver. Well-dressed and cloaked in professionalism. But color flushed his cheeks, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his brow.
You know it’s real, you son of a bitch. And he was going to bury it.
“You’re going to protect that fucker?” Tony asked softly, staring at him.
“There’s no evidence that film is legitimate,” Gill repeated. “And even if it is, it’s a family matter.”
“No,” Isabel said then, rage suddenly blossoming within her like an ugly, thorned bloom. “It’s a criminal matter.”
Gill turned away, dismissing her. He focused on Agent Kent. “Where are we in the hunt?”
Tony took a step, but his Lieutenant stood and cut off him with a dark look.
“We believe we’ve narrowed down their general location,” Kent muttered. “FEMA has given us permission to enter the area tomorrow, and they’ve agreed to let us use the airspace. We’ve confirmed that the vehicle that was spotted was Miss Sanchez’s, at least what’s left of it, but we have no idea what direction they headed after abandoning the vehicle. They would have been on foot, and most of the surrounding area is high desert and foothills, so their options for shelter would have been limited to surrounding towns. At least two of those towns were destroyed by the tornado that touched down. Quite frankly, sir, we don’t even know if they survived the storms, and we won’t know until we get people on the ground. Even then, we’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”
For a long, silent moment, only the patter of the rain was heard. Special Agent Gill stared at Kent, and Isabel wondered if Kent realized both of his hands were clenched into tight fists.
“Cruz is not a patient man,” Gill said softly. “I’d suggest you people start doing your jobs or there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“For us or for you?” Tony asked, watching Gill with a grim, predatory stillness that made Isabel aware, for the first time, of the man who’d spent so much time killing.
Gill stilled, as if catching a hint of that man. “For everyone involved. Cruz isn’t Joe-Blow off the street, he’s the fucking one percent, and no one in this room can afford to make an enemy of him.”
I can, Isabel thought. She met Tony’s enraged hazel gaze and saw the same answer reflected there. Even the Lieutenant arched a brow.
“So we let him get away with raping his child?” Isabel asked, but she already knew the answer, and the fury that always existed, far down in the cold storage of her memories, flared high and bright within her.
Gill turned and met her gaze, and she saw resignation. Acceptance. His sense of decency had been surpa
ssed by whatever motive drove him. Greed, perhaps—because going up against Donavon Cruz would break any ladder that had once existed to be climbed—or maybe simple fear, because Cruz did have power, an unspeakable amount. The man could, in fact, erase every single one of them. And even though that threat was not enough to stop Isabel, she knew she was not the norm. For her, it was personal. But for others, it was just a job, no matter the atrocities witnessed on a daily basis, and for them, Cruz was simply too big a fish to fry.
Too much personal risk.
But for Isabel…fuck personal risk.
“Any allegation of abuse is not our immediate concern,” Gill told her sharply. “We need to find those boys. So let’s just start there, shall we?”
She only arched a brow. This was not a battle she would win; Gill was as dirty as the window behind him. He was going to force her to take matters into her own hands.
“Good luck with that,” Tony said. “Let us know how it turns out.”
Gill looked at Lieutenant Forks. “I have the full authority to utilize any and all resources of this department. I trust that won’t be a problem?”
Tony smiled, and Isabel’s gaze narrowed on him. It was not a smile she’d seen before; no humor, just the promise of pain and death. Chilling. And not something she should have responded to, but she did.
Damaged soul that she was, she liked that smile.
“I’ve got a city to run,” the Lieutenant responded with a shrug.
Gill turned fully to face him. “Which means?”
“You want to be Cruz’s personal little FBI force, go for it. But my people are real cops, and I’ve got kids who go missing every day. There’s murder and mayhem twenty-four seven in Sin City, and I’ve got an ass-deep pile of case files on my desk as it is. Your crime scene is here, fine. We’ll give you any support you need to deal with that. But I won’t send my men on a seven-hundred-mile goose chase. It’s not happening, not even for Donavon Fucking Cruz. So don’t ask.”
No wonder Tony was smiling. Kent looked between the two men: the Lieutenant, who spoke matter-of-factly, his gaze hard, shoulders back, clearly willing and able to deal with the Special Agent in Charge, and Gill, who watched him, his features a mask of cold, unbending arrogance.