Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series)

by Melissa Brown

  Sergeant Ross paused, his brow wrinkled and tense, then he nodded. “How’d you know?”

  “I have one of my own.”

  “Yeah, but you get along. Mine wants to take me to the cleaners so she can collect her fucking alimony checks. God forbid she go a week without getting her nails done.”

  Ross took a seat at his desk and ran his fingers through his blond crew cut, hardening his expression. In no way were Edward Ross and I friends. He was my boss and that was all. In fact, this tiny amount of small talk was probably the most we’d spoken about our personal lives in years. Literally years. He wasn’t exactly known for being a personable guy around the station. Most people were terrified of him with his 6’5” hulking stature and barking voice, so they avoided him whenever possible. But I could handle him.

  “Listen, Cooke, what the hell’s going on with you?”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re hardly out in the field, your reports are lazy, you were late this morning, and every time I walk past your office you’re staring at the fucking wall.”

  “Sorry, this case I’m working on is . . . well, it’s consuming. I haven’t had time to focus on much else.”

  “Rape? Murder?” he deadpanned. As odd as it would seem to civilians, crime was our business and there was no sense in mincing words.

  “Not sure yet. It’s, uh . . .” I hesitated, knowing if I told him about Aspen and the prophet that a lecture from Ross was close behind. “It involves Short Creek.”

  Sure enough, he closed his eyes and shook his head back and forth at the mention of the FLDS compound. He pressed his lips into a thin line and cocked his head to the side like I was a fucking two-year-old.

  “Seriously, Cooke? Do we have to go over this?”

  “I know, but this case . . . it’s important, sir.”

  “Everyone in this department knows my policy on this. Just leave them the hell alone. We stay out of their business, they stay out of ours, and everybody wins.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  He crossed his arms, looking slightly amused at my involvement with this group of people. “And since when do you give a rat’s ass about the fucking FLDS? You avoid them like the plague.”

  It was the truth. I had a reputation in the department for my outspoken disdain for the FLDS and their way of life. I thought plural marriage was ridiculous and that the men of their so-called community kept their women as possessions, restricting everything about their day-to-day lives from their clothing to their hair. In fact, I was a little notorious around the station for telling a certain dirty joke involving a polygamous couple, a braid, and the required long underwear.

  It’s in poor taste, no need to share.

  That joke wasn’t funny anymore, not in the least. In fact, part of me was ashamed for ever telling it now that Aspen was in my life.

  Funny how things change.

  I rubbed the goosebumps from my neck as I realized how protective I’d become over this woman I’d only known for a few short months. “It’s more complicated than that, sir.”

  “Bullshit. Wrap it up and get back to work. Sherman’s been bailing your ass out for weeks. Time to pull your weight.”

  Detective Sherman was a kiss-ass, and I didn’t give a shit if he had to deal with a few extra cases on my account. I was focused on Aspen and the children of the compound, who we assumed were the prophet’s victims. The innocent lives under the thumb of evil. And no matter what Ross said, I knew they were where my focus would remain.

  “There’s children involved, possibly dozens. We’re talking systemic abuse.”

  Ross froze, scratching his forehead with his eyes locked on mine. He sighed before speaking. “I don’t care. They’re not our concern.”

  I pushed down the anger that built in my gut. “I don’t think you’re hearing me.”

  He waved me away, placing flimsy reading glasses on the bridge of his nose as he opened his laptop. “I hear you just fine. I want your focus on the taxpayers of this city, not on the fucking polygamists living in the crick. They do all kinds of weird shit; you know this. We all do. Hell, they marry them off when they’re still kids. Why are you even surprised?”

  “Because this is more than marriage; this is rape and possible prostitution. It runs deep and the prophet is behind it. All of it.”

  His face reddened and he slammed his laptop shut, rising to his feet, and chucking his glasses across the desk, pushing his knuckles into the wood.

  “I’m not going to tell you again, Cooke. Get off the fucking compound.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Now, get your shit together and find another case to work on. One for the taxpayers—the people who pay your goddamn salary.”

  “Sergeant, I really think—”

  “That’s all, Cooke. Get out of my office.”

  I gritted my teeth and managed a terse nod, accepting my dismissal. “Yes, sir.”

  My frustration and anger bubbled to the surface when I reached the sanctity of my office. Slamming the door behind me, I kicked the nearest chair, sending it flying against the wall, landing on its side with a thud. Reaching down, I grabbed its arm and threw it again until it bashed against my office door, leaving a gash in the white paint.

  Running my fingers through my hair, I paced my office, not sure what to do next. Not only was I pissed off at Ross for denying our responsibility to the innocent lives on the compound, but I wanted nothing more than to go tearing out of my office, get in the car, and drive to the compound to check on Aspen. However, I could never do that. I couldn’t expose our partnership, especially after that sinister phone call from Clarence Black.

  My phone rang and I fumbled with my pocket, trying to retrieve it as fast as possible. It slipped from my hands and bounced on the linoleum below.

  “Shit!”

  UNKNOWN CALLER lit up the screen.

  Bending to my knees, I scooped up the phone and answered. “Hello? Hello?”

  A soft whisper came through the receiver. “Jonathan.”

  “Aspen, are you all right? Did he hurt you? Your kids? Are you safe?” The questions spilled from my mouth.

  “I don’t have much time. Pennie took the children to the park, and she left her phone behind. The prophet still has mine.”

  “Of course.”

  “The prophet called us all to the temple yesterday to make a grand announcement . . .”

  Her voice trailed off and my stomach churned. This could only end badly.

  “He’s taking her early.”

  “What?” my voice croaked.

  “When she’s twelve, Jonathan. In just two months my baby will be married to that . . . that monster.” Her voice cracked and I heard her sniff. Not one to usually show her emotions, I knew she was at the very end of her rope.

  “Twelve?” Stunned, I sat cross-legged on the floor, staring into space, imagining her poor daughter as a child bride. It made me nauseous.

  “He said it was a revelation, but you and I know better.”

  “Yes, we do. He’s full of shit. He just wants to keep you quiet—he feels threatened by you, Aspen. He knows he underestimated you.”

  “But he thinks I’m his puppet.”

  “Nonsense. He’s afraid of you, terrified actually.”

  “I wish I could be so sure.” She paused, then sighed loudly into the phone. “I, uh . . . I need to go. Flora’s been on the warpath all day. I need to busy myself.”

  “What can I do?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I’m going to need you, that’s for certain.”

  “I’m here,” I attempted to assure her. I didn’t care what the hell Sergeant Ross said, I would see this case through to the end. I would help Aspen Black and her children . . . and if possible, everyone within the clutches of the so-called prophet.

  She sighed again. “I know you are.”

  With that, I hung up the phone and crossed the room to retrieve the thrown chair. Placing it back in fr
ont of my desk, I retreated to my chair and searched my brain for a place to begin. I needed to gather as much information as I could to help Aspen and the children of the FLDS. And then it came to me: I would call the person who led Aspen to me in the first place. With a satisfied half smile, I grabbed my phone and dialed Porter Hammond.

  Chapter 3

  I didn’t make a habit of befriending perps I’d busted while on the job, but there was always an exception to the rule. And in this case, Porter Hammond was the exception.

  Years back, before I made detective, Sherman and I had entered an apartment to investigate a domestic disturbance call. A neighbor reported screaming and was nervous that the “unruly youngsters” were hurting each other in the apartment next to hers. Domestic disturbances were, by far, my least favorite part of my job. Seeing women brutalized—some mentally abused, others physical—was terrible.

  After knocking several times and announcing our arrival, a girl finally answered the door, high out of her mind—her hair a rat’s nest, her blue eyes wild.

  “It’s about time, man, I’m fucking starving!” she yelled as she opened the door, but when she saw Sherman and me in our uniforms and realized we were not who she was expecting, the girl gasped, paused for a second, and ran back into the apartment.

  Sherman sighed and we were forced to enter, knowing this was no longer a domestic disturbance call. It was a drug call.

  We found a room full of teenagers, some huddled over a coffee table where one guy (too high to notice our entry) was holding a lighter under a glass bulb and after a few seconds, inhaled the toxic shit into his lungs.

  Meth.

  While he held the smoke in his lungs, his eyes met mine. His hands dropped to the table, and his mouth released the smoke in haste. “Oh shit.”

  That was the day I met Porter Hammond.

  Of all the kids in that apartment, Porter was the only one I interviewed at the station. He sat in the interrogation room, knees bobbing up and down. With bloodshot eyes and pimples across his cheeks, Porter wobbled in his seat and scratched his hands until they bled. He was so high he had trouble stringing words together. He already had a file, and I studied it while we sat together in silence, the only noise to be heard was his strung-out fidgeting.

  He was fresh off the FLDS compound, only in the outside world for a year or so, and was staying with his cousin Charlie, who’d introduced him to his addiction. He didn’t know anything else. This was the third time he’d been hauled into the station for drug use. First time was pot, but he’d quickly found his way to meth, the drug of choice in Colorado City.

  What a fucking mess.

  “Are . . . are you . . . um . . . I mean . . .” He scratched the back of his head and closed his eyes, trying to process his thoughts.

  “Am I going to lock you up?” I asked.

  He nodded, tapping his fingertips against the drab fabric of his sweatshirt while his other hand rested in his mouth. He bit his nails while he waited for my answer.

  I sighed, not wanting to give him the answer.

  “Yeah, it’s policy for third offense.” I shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t wanna . . . this isn’t me, man,” he said, shaking his head and digging his elbows into the cold metal table. His fingers trembled against his forehead.

  God, he’s just a kid.

  “You gotta get clean,” I said, patting his elbows. “If you don’t, you’ll just end up here again and again. The apartment’s on our radar now.”

  He jerked away from my touch.

  “It’s the only way, kid.”

  He sat up straight and locked eyes with me. He shrugged, tears forming in his bloodshot eyes as he pressed his lips together, trying not to cry. He wheezed, “I can’t.”

  Despite having to put him behind bars for two days, I felt for him—he lost his family, his entire community, the only life he’d ever known. And instead of finding any sort of normalcy in the real world, he was thrust into the greedy and fucked-up life of meth heads. I urged him to get help, explained there were clinics that could help him, even gave him a pamphlet. It didn’t matter. When he left the station, I knew he had no intention of stopping. Even though the kid was a mess, he hadn’t hit rock bottom yet, or found any reason to save himself. And there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.

  You can’t save them all.

  Those were Elizabeth’s words, she knew that every once in a while a case lingered in my head. She knew I had trouble letting go of the kids. Even though I had no intention of having my own, I was easily affected by the plights of children. Always.

  It would be two more years before our paths would cross again, but cross they did. And again, Porter and I sat three feet from one another, separated only by the cool metal table of the interrogation room.

  “I remember you,” I said as I paged through his file.

  “Yeah?” he asked, scratching his neck. “Congratu-fucking-lations.”

  “I’d hoped to never see you again.”

  Porter sneered. “Well, aren’t you kind?”

  “Listen, smart-ass, I hoped you’d get yourself clean, but obviously that hasn’t happened. You look worse than the last time I saw you.”

  And he did. Porter’s face was not only covered in pimples, but several open scabs, evidence of his drug use. He was destroying his body. Not even old enough to drink, and his body was on the verge of collapse, his brain barely functioning except for the occasional snide remark.

  Dropping his file onto the table, I leaned back in my chair. “What’s it gonna take, kid?”

  “I’m not a kid anymore.”

  “Yeah, you are, you’re barely twenty.”

  “Whatever.” He shook his head. “You don’t know me. I’ve got a job. I pay my bills. I get shit done. You. Don’t. Know. Me.”

  I nodded. “You’re right, I don’t. But you seem like a good kid—er, guy. And you’re fucking your life up. There’s a world outside those doors, ya know. A world of possibilities.”

  “Bullshit.” He shook his head, slamming his hand on the table. “That’s nothing but garbage. I’m garbage.”

  You can’t save them all.

  Yeah, Elizabeth, but maybe I can save just one.

  “Listen to me. What if I could help you? You know . . . get you clean. Would you let me do that?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked with suspicious eyes.

  “I mean, like . . . if I set you up with a sponsor. Took you to Narcotics Anonymous every week. Would you go?”

  “No. That’s lame as fuck.”

  “C’mon, kid, work with me.”

  “Look, I don’t need your help, all right? You don’t know how many times I’ve fucking tried. I can’t do it.” He pounded his fist into the table, sat for a moment, and then raised his eyes to meet mine. “Jesus Christ, can you just take me to my cell?”

  I sighed, nodding my head slowly, knowing it was no use.

  Stop trying to be a hero, Cooke. It ain’t gonna happen.

  Fast-forward several years later, and our paths crossed once more. Only this time, Porter was sober. I hadn’t busted him, he wasn’t under arrest, and I was no longer a patrolman. I was a detective sitting in my office when there was a knock at the door. My mouth was agape as I stared at the clean-cut man in front of me. His pimples were gone, and his eyes were clear, but I remembered him immediately.

  “Excuse me, Detective. I don’t know if you remember me, but—”

  “Sure I do.” I nodded, gesturing for him to come in. And then I noticed the bruises on his right hand. “You all right?”

  Porter looked down at his hand. “Aw, this? Just got into an argument with a wall.” He laughed uncomfortably and took a seat in front of my desk.

  “Porter, right?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  That was the first time he’d ever called me that—yep, the kid was definitely sober.

  “How can I help you, Porter?”

  “Well, uh
, I kinda . . . well, I met a girl.”

  Aha.

  “Well, um . . .” I wasn’t sure what to say exactly, so I tipped my head forward, urging him to continue.

  “A few months ago, and uh . . . well, she’s from my old . . . she’s from Short Creek . . . like me. But she left. She’s free now, staying with her cousin.”

  “Oh . . . well, that’s good to hear.”

  “I need to get clean,” he blurted, staring down at his trembling hands. “For her.”

  “I see.”

  “A few years ago, you offered to help me, remember?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  Offering a decisive nod, I locked eyes with Porter Hammond. “One hundred percent.”

  He sighed and scratched his forehead. “Good, ‘cause I need it, man. I can’t do it on my own. I’m too weak.”

  “So if I set you up with a sponsor, you’ll go to NA?”

  He nodded, his eyes welling with tears. “Yeah, I . . . uh, I think so. I want to make a life with her, a real one. I can’t do that if I’m fucked up all the time. She’ll leave me, I know it.”

  “I’m not picking up the phone until you’re sure.” I shook my head. “Only if you’re sure.”

  He paused for a moment, wiped his tears with the back of his sleeve, and nodded. “I’ll go. I’ll go every fuckin’ week, man, I will. I swear it.”

  “All right.”

  Retrieving my cell phone, I dialed the one person I knew who could handle Porter Hammond—my uncle, Jesse Goodman. A drug addict for years, my uncle had finally turned his life around and was a dedicated member of NA.

  After explaining Porter’s situation to Jesse, my uncle gave me the address of the NA meeting he attended every week. I thanked him profusely, but he cut me off. “If he shows up, I’ll consider sponsoring him. If not, you can forget it.”

  He never did mince words.

  Four days later, I drove Porter to his first NA meeting. I dropped him off at the local Mormon church and used the time to sit in my car, avoiding my wife, who I knew was planning to ask for a divorce. It was just me, a burger and fries, and my smartphone . . . a perfect Tuesday night. Later, Jesse told me he took notice of Porter immediately and knew he wanted to help the kid. I guess there was something about that former FLDS kid that fostered compassion in others.