by L. T. Ryan
Deliver Us From Darkness
Mitch Tanner Book Three
L.T. Ryan
Copyright © 2021 by L.T. Ryan and Liquid Mind Media, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.
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Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Also by L.T. Ryan
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Every book finds its muse, even if it takes a while for them to appear. This story is no exception. Thank you, Melissa, for being my cheerleader at the end.
1
“Let us go.”
She scratched at the weathered wooden floor, the grooves diverting her fingers like lightning scraping across a dark sky. The sole yellow light hanging from a string reflected off his leather shoes like a pair of eyes.
Tigah eyes, as her four-year-old daughter would’ve said.
What the girl had endured pained her mother far more than the splinters that knifed into the beds of her fingernails.
The right side of her face swelled. Her cheek ached. Her eye was closing. He’d hit her. Or had he smacked her? Backhanded? Pimp slapped as she used to call it when joking with friends about what she’d do to them when one called her a bitch or a slut or some other derogatory term they thought was cool or empowering, but mostly propped one up over the other. She missed those days. The swelling persisted until her cheek pressed into her eye. She blinked hard and forced it open. Double vision.
She focused on the shoes. Those shiny shoes. Four eyes now stared back at her.
Fo’ tigah eyes, momma. Be carful.
“What more do you want from me?” Sobs choked the life from her words.
She balled her fists and pounded them on the floor. The planks reverberated. Rough-sawn two-by-sixes with minimal support below. They bounced a little when walked on. Dust plumed up from the cracks between. She didn’t see it. The tears flooded and spilled over her cheeks. Her useless right eye went blind as the lids swole shut. Her left eye blurred. She tried to hide her tears. Her face dragged across the floor. More splinters. Who cared?
I do, momma.
“I don’t want nothing from you I haven’t already taken.”
He crouched in front of her. His right knee popped and grated. It always did. Old injuries never truly go away. Not ones like his from his time in the service. A Glock 17 9mm pistol hung loose from his left hand, dangling and pointing at the floor. He didn’t seem eager to use it. It was within reach for the woman. She wouldn’t dare. He reached toward her and ran his fingers through her greasy hair. Knots overtook his digits and threatened to swallow his hand whole.
“You know, it’s because you don’t take care of yourself this is happening.”
She sobbed and muttered something indecipherable. The words transformed into a high-pitched wail when he tightened his grip and balled his fist tight to her scalp. He yanked her head a foot off the floor. Her chest rose along with it. Her untamed breasts grated along the boards as he drug her across the room.
“Leave my momma alone.” The little boy managed the words despite the tears and snot and sobs.
“Hector,” he said to him.
“Leave my momma—“
“Enough kid.”
He stood six-four and towered over the boy. So when he placed his hands on the kid and lifted him up, the little guy shut right up. What was he to do? The boy wasn’t but five or six, maybe seven.
“Put him down.” She was on her knees. A knife was in her right hand. Blood trickled from splinter wounds on her face and breasts. Her resolve evident by the sharpness of the stare from her one good eye.
“What do you think you’re gonna do to me?” He shifted the boy’s weight to the side, working his arm underneath to balance. The pistol still hung toward the floor, but his grip tightened.
“Cal, please put him down. He’s only a boy. I can’t…” She battled with her tears. “I can’t...“
“Momma,” the boy said. “Don’t cry.”
“That’s right, don’t cry.” Smiling at the child, he set him down and ushered him out of the room. “Go to Molly now and get your dinner.”
The woman collapsed on the floor. The knife fell from her hand, clattered on the rough wood. She knew her time with Cal was coming to an end.
2
“Mitch, over here.”
Through the sea of travelers exiting Denver International Airport, I spotted the black Chevy sedan idling next to the curb, a thick plume of exhaust rising behind it. FBI Special Agent Bridget Dinapoli leaned across the passenger seat, a smile spreading across her face as we made eye contact. I wasn’t sure how she’d greet me, considering how things had ended.
A frigid gust of wind hit me like a cannonball and I hurried to toss my bag in the trunk. My windbreaker couldn’t cinch any tighter, yet it failed to do the one job I had purchased it for. Icy air found its way to every part of my body, exposed and otherwise.
I pulled the door open and poked my head inside. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“Yeah, yeah, good to see you and all that stuff. Now get in before I freeze.” She looked better than the last time I had seen her. Her hair was shorter, probably shoulder-length now, and pulled back tight. She’d dyed it darker. Made her eyes stand out.
The door clicked shut and a wave of silence crashed over us. Hot air piped through the vent. I adjusted it for maximum coverage, letting the warmth do its job.
“Where’d you think you were going, wearing that thin jacket?”
“Wasn’t thinking. Found it on the way to my gate back in Savannah.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “Georgia?”
“The one and only.”
She nodded. “What brings you out here?”
“The weather, obviously.”
Bridget glanced at her watch. “Mitch, don’t waste my time. I know you’re not here on a social call. I’ve got a full plate. We’re understaffed and overworked, and I just got a new case that’s—“
“I’m sorry.” I held my hands up as a peace offering. “Look, I’m here because of Robbie.”
&n
bsp; Her demeanor changed. “Your son?”
“Yeah.” I choked on the response. It hadn’t yet hit me I might be close to finding my son. I had pushed the feeling down the moment Cassie held the postcard.
She gave an exaggerated “come on” gesture with her hand. “You’re gonna have to give me more than that. Not a mind reader.”
“I got a lead he’s out here.”
“In Denver?” Doubt flashed in her eyes. “What kind of lead?”
I reached into my bag and pulled out the postcard, tracing my finger along the edges and down the crease in the middle.
She stopped at a red light and looked over. “What’s that?”
“Take a look.” I extended the postcard.
She traced her fingertips along the worn edges, down the crease, silently repeating the words written on the postcard. I had etched those sentences into my memory. She studied the postmark. Her eyes were wet when she looked up at me. The hardass act was just that. An act. She hadn’t been able to forget what we might’ve had, either.
“Seems legit, yeah?”
She nodded. “This isn’t far from here.”
“I figured. You know where the post office is?”
“Twenty minutes at most.” The light turned green, and Bridget flipped her blinker on and waited until she could cut across traffic and make a left. “Not the best area of town, though.”
“Marissa didn’t have much when we met. Didn’t take much when she left. Wouldn’t expect her to be living it up in the Waldorf.”
Bridget’s expression said she didn’t care much for the Waldorf either.
“Are you assuming she’s near there?” She sipped from her coffee mug. “That postmark was weeks ago. What are the chances she let Robbie send you a postcard and then remained there?”
“Maybe he mailed it on his own. Way I see it, what are the chances she let him send that to me? I’d bet he acted on his own. Got away from her, or whoever was watching over him, handed over a couple of crumpled dollars to buy that postcard and a stamp. Look at it. Not even a postcard stamp.” I reached over and tapped on the postage affixed to the card.
Bridget nodded, though I could tell she was composing her words to deliver them in a way that wouldn’t piss me off, because I was halfway there already just thinking about the mess.
“That all may be true, Mitch. I mean, it’s possible Marissa had him do it because she wanted to alert you. But what are the chances they’re still here?”
I turned my head away. “I’m aware it could all be a wild goose chase.”
“Yet you’re here. You flew across the country and now are sitting in a car with me, stopped next to a Cinnabon.”
I stared into her eyes. “Is there a question in there?”
“Yes.” She reached over and took my hand. “Why?”
“Why? Are you serious? Because of my son.”
“Is it all because of a postcard?” She squeezed tight enough that my knuckles smashed together.
I felt my cheeks go flush and the words that came out next rose above the decibel range considered proper for casual conversation.
“Why the hell wouldn’t it be enough? I’ve had nothing to go on since the day I came home and they were gone. Marissa had no family, no friends, and no extended network. As soon as she got fifty miles outside of Philly, she was a ghost. For months, I’ve hung onto a slight hope that I’d find my son. When that postcard arrived—“
Bridget released my hand and smacked the dash with her palm. She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. I could almost hear her counting back from ten in her head.
“That doesn’t explain why you are here in Denver right now and not the moment you received this postcard.”
My chin dropped to my chest. I stared into the vent, looking for the right words. Not that I needed to say them. Bridget already knew. She had to hear me say it, I guess.
“Cassie.”
Bridget remained quiet for a few moments. She’d met Cassie and even seen the medium at work. She had seen the results. But whether it was something deeply held in her beliefs, or just that she couldn’t believe it was real, Bridget couldn’t attribute us solving that case to the information Cassie had provided as time went by.
“Mitch, I…”
I looked up at her. The look on her face was a familiar one. Imminent rejection awaited.
“Look, Bridget, I know you have a lot on your plate, and I know that going to your superiors and saying you need to help me based on the word of a medium, well, that’s not gonna go over too well.”
“You think?” She shook her head. “What were you thinking coming out here like this and involving me?”
“That I want to see my son!” I slammed my balled up fists into my thighs. “I don’t care how small the clue, or how jumbled up the evidence, I’m going to find him. Everything I have has led me to Denver. He’s here. I know it. Cassie knows it. If you want to help me find him, great. If not, stop the car and drop me off now.”
I kept my thumb hiked over my shoulder, aimed at the sidewalk, and watched Bridget out of the corner of my eye. Any moment now she’d pull to a stop next to the curb and tell me to get out.
But she didn’t.
The muscles in my chest and shoulders relaxed. I let my gaze fall back on her. She studied my face.
“Okay, Detective. I’ll do this.”
I nodded.
“But you gotta help me out on a case, too.”
3
We were stopped in front of an old-fashioned diner, the kind with checkered floors and red vinyl booths. Bridget cut the engine. The last whispers of warm air slipped through the vent.
“Why don’t we go inside?” She reached behind her seat and grabbed a black backpack. She had it hooked on her right shoulder and was opening the door before I replied.
The cold overtook the cabin. I followed Bridget to the entrance, where a pudgy middle-aged woman gestured to the sparsely populated dining room and told us to take whatever booth we wanted. Bridget chose the one in the corner, giving us a decent view of the street. We ordered two coffees to start.
“Why’d you let me leave, Mitch?” Bridget eased back in the padded booth, which sighed in resistance. She let her hands fall flat on the table, her coffee mug between them.
I peeled back the lid to a single-shot of creamer and poured it over my coffee. The creamer and coffee swirled together. “It’s not that simple. Not black and white, as they say.” I looked up at her and could see she wasn’t satisfied with my answer. “Look, my life is a mess. I’m a mess. It’s not Marissa, it really isn’t. I’m done with her. I’ve moved on from that. But Robbie… until I find him, I won’t be the same.”
“Is the real you anything like the Mitch I got to know while we were working together?”
I fumbled with my reply. “That’s a good question.”
Bridget waited a few moments. “Isn’t it?”
“Sorry, I just, you know…”
She smiled, though it did nothing to hide the disappointment in her eyes. “Anyway, the reason I was excited to see you is this case we just received. Not so much in this case, but rather how similar it is to a few others in the area recently.”
“Guessing those weren’t solved.”
“You guess correctly.” This time, her smile seemed genuine.
Our waitress popped over with her pad in hand. “What can I getcha’ folks today?” She looked like the kind of person who would use the word ‘getcha’. We both ordered eggs and bacon, and the waitress scampered off to put our order in.
“Give me some details,” I said.
“This might hurt a little.”
“Doesn’t it always?”
“Good point, but this one is going to hit home.”
“Child abduction.” I felt a pang in my gut that hadn’t dissipated but had gone numb some months after Robbie disappeared. It flared back with the power of a thousand suns.
“That, and more. Woman, mid-thirties, disapp
eared with her two kids, ages four and six. Husband claims he knows nothing about their disappearance, but—“
“No alibi.”
Bridget nodded. “Sounds familiar, right?”
It was a story told every day, often without a happy ending. People fly into fits of rage, do unspeakable things. Some own up to it. Others think they can get away with it.
“Did he try to come up with something?” I asked.
“Nope. Gave the same story to the responding officers he gave to the detectives. When they started tightening the screws, he got smart and lawyered up. Wasn’t charged, so no bail to worry about, but the little bit of financial forensics work we did tells me he might fly.”
“What else do you have to go on?”
Bridget reached over and grabbed her backpack. It thudded against the table as though she were carrying around a sack of rocks. She unzipped it when her phone rang. She rolled her eyes and held up a hand as she answered with her last name. For the next thirty seconds, her gaze darted around the dining room and across the street while she muttered “uh huh” a few times. Then she hung up, placed the phone on the table and stared at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Looks like you’re going to get your opportunity sooner than later,” she said.
“This might be a good time to tell you I’m suspended.”
She shrugged.
“That doesn’t bother you?”