Back AT You

by John W. Mefford

  He cried out, and the SUV swung wildly. He let go of the steering wheel and yanked on my hair. He finally jerked his sweaty wrist out from my teeth, fumbling with the gun. We were still moving. I threw my body at him, pawing at the gun while throwing punches at his face, his body. He screamed, cursing at me. I kept going, but so did he.

  He finally got a good hold of the gun and aimed it at me. I grabbed his wrist with both hands and shoved it away—and then we crashed. I heard the gun fire just as my body slammed into the dashboard.

  I moaned and lifted my eyes. That was when I saw a man with no face—he’d shot himself in the face when we crashed into the trailer. I closed my eyes, crawled out of the SUV, and dropped to the dirt. I was alive, but the man who knew where my daughter was had just died.

  I wanted to die, too.

  18

  Ivy

  Over the course of a couple of minutes, I rang the doorbell three times. No one came to the door. I stepped back and took note of the Mazda sedan in the driveway. I wasn’t certain, but I believed that car belonged to Jill Bailey.

  The skies were overcast, which matched my mood at the moment. Checking up on a mother who might be neglecting her child sent a plethora of memories flashing to the front of my mind. During my tenure as a special investigator for CPS, I’d witnessed some of the most horrific conditions for any human being to be living in, let alone a child. I’d also heard countless excuses and justifications. Lies.

  I wasn’t oblivious to the struggles parents experienced—stress, these days, could hit at any time from almost any direction, including job, lack of money, relationships, mental-health issues, social media, you name it. But none of that rationalized neglecting, abusing, or murdering a child. The tough part, though, came after pulling the child from the home and placing them with foster parents. Far too often, the foster parents would abuse the kids. It was a cycle that seemed almost impossible to break inside a system that the government refused to fix.

  I forced out a breath like I was pushing smoke into the air. I could feel my stomach lock into a big knot, knowing the memories of my foster experiences sat on the other side of the floodgates. I had been given up for adoption at birth. At one point a couple of years back, I tried to locate my parents. I thought we’d made some progress, but an investigator who supposedly had some knowledge to share with me had died in a traffic accident. That was when I realized it just wasn’t meant to be. I looked to the future instead and learned to treasure my friendships, including the one that had lit a fire in me: Saul.

  “I’ll be there in a minute!”

  A shout from inside the house. Finally. That had to be Jill. Good that she was home, but I also knew she could be playing the delay game if—I had to remind myself…if—she was as Gerald had described: a strung-out addict who was so desperate that she’d essentially paid off a drug debt with her own child.

  Three deep breaths as I waited outside the front door.

  I thought about the research I’d done last night after Saul had dozed off. I’d slipped out of bed and into the living room, and opened my laptop.

  I read countless opioid-addiction stories, how it was the biggest health crisis in the country. I learned there were many forms of opioids—some natural, some synthetic. Their original purpose was for pain relief. But it was their addictive qualities—physically and psychologically—that had pushed the drugs into a stratosphere that had destroyed thousands of lives and families. Fentanyl, which was created by a scientist at a pharmaceutical company way back in 1960, was fifty times more potent than heroin. Pills that dissolved in the cheeks were the most popular form of the drug, although variations included patches, lollipops, and tongue films.

  I also saw a number of street terms that were used for fentanyl, including China girl, tango and cash, king ivory, and murder eight, among others.

  I could hear the click of a deadbolt unlatching, and then the door opened about a foot.

  “Yes, can I help you?” A woman’s eyes looked clownish. At first, I thought it might have been a joke—had she purposely applied enough makeup to where she’d glow in the dark? But then another thought hit me. She could be covering up her usual gaunt look.

  “Hi, I’m Ivy Nash, and I wanted to see if you had a few minutes to talk.”

  “About what? And who did you say you were with?” Her voice had this singsong timbre to it, as if she were a receptionist at a car dealership. Fake.

  “I worked for CPS for five years.”

  “CPS.” She went monotone as she swung open the door.

  I didn’t think she’d caught my use of the past tense: worked. I wasn’t going to explain it to her. And it also told me that the real CPS had yet to show up. Disappointing, yes. Surprising, no.

  I saw the open door as an invitation to walk in—my old CPS responses were almost instinctive. Once inside, my mouth formed an O. The clownish makeup face was still there, but so was the rest of the woman. What was left of her. She wore a pair of blue sweats that hung off her as if she were seven years old and wearing her mother’s clothes. Her long-sleeve T-shirt was stained in several places. I could see the bones popping out on her shoulders and at the elbows.

  “You want to talk to me?” she asked, her tone suddenly defensive.

  A quick glance around the living area. Toys were everywhere, but so was everything else. It looked like someone had ransacked the place. I picked up a waft of something foul, and my nose twitched.

  “Is something burning?”

  “Oh shit. Lila!” she shouted. She slammed the front door and shuffled toward the kitchen. If she was overly concerned, her speed wasn’t showing it. The bottoms of her sweats dragged on the floor. I spotted a three-inch piece of fabric that had torn at the end and was hanging by just a few threads. I wondered if that was symbolic of her life.

  As she disappeared into the kitchen, I inched my way inside a little farther and stopped, waited.

  “What the fuck, Lila…?” she shouted from the other room.

  My body went tight.

  “The toaster wasn’t working right, so I pushed the button again,” Lila said apologetically.

  “I told you, dammit, you only push it once, that’s it. Fuck! If you can’t do anything right, then just wait for me. Do you hear me?”

  It felt like a metal pole had been fused to my spine. I almost said something, but I held back—for now.

  “Yes, Mom.” The girl sounded dejected. Who wouldn’t be, especially at the age of seven?

  Seven years old.

  I heard what sounded like a metal utensil clanging into a sink.

  “There, eat,” Jill said.

  Jill shuffled around the corner, her pace no different than before. Normally, a guest of the house might look away or have a magazine in hand, pretending to look through it. I did neither. I calmly looked her in the eye. Gerald had asked—no, pleaded—for me to visit with Jill and make my own assessment. In some respects, he was my client, although nothing formal had been signed.

  “Are you having a tough morning, Jill?”

  She crossed her arms under her chest, leaned into her hip—it was like looking at a clothed skeleton. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because of the way you were speaking to your daughter.”

  The muscles in her jaw twitched. She was pissed, upset, maybe both.

  “Can you give me a minute?” She held up a finger and walked down a hallway without allowing me time to respond.

  The description Gerald had given of his wife, up to now, had been spot-on. I waited about twenty seconds. “Jill,” I called.

  No response.

  “Jill, I have four other appointments I need to make before noon, so can you please come out here?”

  I started counting. One, two, three, four… Then, I started down the hallway. She popped out of a room and shut the door behind her.

  “I’m right here. Just had to use the restroom.”

  Her voice already sounded more relaxed. Had she taken one of those
dissolving pills? She followed me into the living room as Lila came around the corner from the kitchen.

  “Can I have some orange juice?” the little girl asked as she entered the living room. Her eyes met mine. She remembered me.

  “Hi there.” I crouched down to meet her at eye level.

  “Hi,” she said. “How’s my daddy doing?”

  I could feel Jill’s eyes on me. Her head went back and forth between her daughter and me. “Do you two…? Wait.” She put a finger to her chin, and then she looked straight into my eyes.

  “Are you the woman who rescued my daughter from my maniac husband?”

  I lifted to my feet, not exactly sure how I wanted to respond to her question. I kept it simple. “Yes.”

  She took me in her arms and hugged my neck. “God bless you,” she said as if she’d lost half her lung capacity. “That man turned into the devil. He abused me. He abused Lila.”

  She began to sniffle, but she didn’t let go of my neck. It started to hurt, so I gently attempted to pull her off. I could see this wasn’t going to be easy.

  19

  Ivy

  A tear slid from Jill’s eye. “When he kidnapped Lila, I had no idea what he was going to do to her.”

  “Daddy’s a good person, Mom. He’s my daddy.” Lila’s green eyes welled with tears.

  “You stay out of this, Lila,” Jill said. “You were a victim in this, just like me. But this is an adult problem.”

  “I want to see Daddy.”

  “You’re not going to be seeing him for a while.” Jill glanced at me for a quick second. “Your daddy needs to learn a lesson for breaking the law.”

  “He said he was just trying to keep me safe from you.”

  Jill tried to laugh, but there was no humor behind it. “Don’t be silly, Lila. Your mother loves you. I’m not perfect. And I tell you ‘sorry’ when I mess up, just like you tell me. We’re a team, right?”

  The girl ran her hand along the back of the sofa. “I just want to see my daddy.” Her voice was more serious now. She looked at me. “Will you help me see my daddy, please?”

  Jill lost it. “Lila, what did I say?”

  I couldn’t take any more. “Hey, Lila, why don’t you show me your room?”

  “Is that really necessary?” Jill moved a foot to her left, which happened to block my direct path down the hallway. She thought I was CPS and she was still pushing the envelope.

  “Yes, it is.” I took Lila by the hand, and the child walked me into her room.

  I’d seen messy rooms, but this one looked like a bomb had been detonated. Toys and clothes were scattered everywhere. The mattress had no sheets or blanket.

  Jill pulled up behind me.

  “I was just about to change her sheets,” she said, wiping her eyes and causing her eyeliner to smudge down her cheek. She didn’t seem to care…or know.

  “Can you give us a couple of minutes?” I asked Jill.

  “You want to be with my daughter in my house, alone?” She was jabbing her finger at the floor.

  “Yes, I do.”

  She didn’t know it, but I was giving her no option. If she’d said no, I was prepared to walk out of the house with the little girl.

  “Okay. I guess that’s okay.”

  She left, and I started playing with Lila. She seemed to be most interested in playing with a K’NEX building set. She put together a helicopter as I sat there and tried to connect a few pieces into what looked like a raft. I was no engineer, but Lila, I could see, appeared enthralled with the process. Maybe it was her great escape from the chaos around her. We all needed something.

  I asked her a few questions, and she gave me brief responses. I could sense she didn’t want her mom to get in trouble, but most kids can’t help but be transparent. It wasn’t until they were older and jaded that they learned the art of lying to achieve a greater goal.

  Once I got the information I needed, she said she wasn’t hungry and she wanted to stay in her room and play.

  I found Jill sitting on the couch, wringing her hands. She stood up as soon as I walked in.

  “So, did I pass the test?”

  “I haven’t searched the home, Jill, but if I did, would I find more fentanyl somewhere?”

  She shook her head in disgust. “You’ve been listening to Gerald’s lies. He thinks just because I’ve lost a couple of pounds and I’m a bit moody that I’m some whacked-out drug addict. He’s nuts. And what he’s doing is covering up his own abuses.”

  “When did he hurt you?”

  “I don’t know. Sometime last week, I guess.”

  “How?”

  “He, uh, pushed me down. I hurt my back.” Her eyes darted around like a bird’s. Then she snapped her fingers. “That’s why I’m taking pain pills.” She began to rub her back. “Yep, doctor says I might need surgery. For now, though, he gave me a pain reliever. Does a pretty good job. Says I have to stay on top of it, though, or the pain will get the best of me.”

  “Can you give me your doctor’s name?”

  “Dr. Mike…no, Mark Patterson.”

  I followed her eyes to a bookshelf. On it, I saw a James Patterson book.

  Addicts think they can outwit anyone. But when they’re desperate, they’re the opposite of smart. I found it both maddening and pathetic.

  “Why were you fired from your job, Jill?”

  “I quit.”

  “The hospital would confirm that?”

  “They’d lie to you just like Gerald has, apparently.” She rubbed both hands against her face—the makeup now looked more like a surreal painting. “Everyone is taking advantage of me, Ivy. But I’m not going to give up. I know when I’m being victimized.”

  I was certain she truly believed she was the poster child for the cause.

  “Jill, where is your other daughter?”

  “Other daughter.” She studied me for a second, then went back to the bookshelf as if it held all the answers.

  “Angel.” I had to remind her?

  “I know who my daughter is. I just miss her like any mother would. That’s normal.”

  That last part sounded like a question, as if she needed me to validate her feelings.

  “Where is Angel, Jill?”

  It was as though her body shriveled up even more. She shuffled back two steps. “She’s at my sister’s place in California.”

  “When’s the last time you spoke to Angel?”

  “I don’t know. Within the last week, I think.”

  “How was she?”

  Her eyes drifted off.

  “Jill?”

  “Sorry.”

  “How was your daughter when you last spoke to her?”

  “Fine. Just doing teenage stuff.”

  “Is she going to school?”

  She nodded. “She’s a real beauty. My sister knows people, says she can help her get modeling gigs, and from there, maybe get her introduced to producers.”

  And how many stories had come out recently about girls being abused by certain Hollywood power brokers? Was this woman paying attention to the world around her? Then again, Gerald didn’t believe Angel was at her sister’s place.

  “Do you talk to your sister often?”

  “Oh yeah, we’re pretty close. She’s my main support system, especially with Gerald going off the rails. He’s such a prick. You have no idea.”

  For a split second, she sounded pretty convincing. If we’d been talking over the phone, if her appearance hadn’t been so jarring, or if I hadn’t witnessed what I had over the last few minutes, I might have believed her. Still, though, I couldn’t automatically think that Gerald was a saint. Maybe he was caught up in this mess as well. The blame game worked both ways, and from my experience, rarely did I see one person tell the complete truth. But right now, it wasn’t about splitting hairs on owning the most mistakes in a relationship. Addiction created fissures that were a mile wide and a mile deep.

  “Do you have a cell phone?” I asked.

&nb
sp; She looked at me as though I’d grown a third eye. “Uh, yeah.” She found it on the coffee table under some empty fast-food wrappers and held it up.

  “Call her.”

  She pondered my blunt direction. A few seconds ticked off, but my gaze stayed right on her.

  “She’s busy. At work now.”

  “Call her, Jill. Your daughter’s well-being is on the line.”

  “What do you mean? Angel’s fine.”

  “Is she?”

  I could see her chin begin to quiver. I wondered if she was crumbling on the inside.

  “Did you give your daughter to a drug dealer to pay off your debt?”

  The quiver became more pronounced. I gave her a couple of seconds, but that was all.

  “Jill, we can get you help. But I’m worried about Angel. Do you know where she is?”

  She took in a breath, but when she exhaled, it came out in bursts of sobs. “Dear God…” Her whole body shook as if she’d been locked in a freezer.

  “Jill, we can’t waste any time if she’s not with your sister. Gerald said a man came by your house, claiming he was owed five thousand dollars. He waved a gun, basically threatened Lila. That’s why Gerald took Lila, isn’t it?”

  A shaky nod as tears streamed down her face, which looked like something out of a horror flick. It was bad when I’d first arrived, but now… my God.

  “Did you give this man your daughter in return for paying off your drug debt?”

  She just sat there now. The tears had stopped. Her eyes looked straight ahead, unblinking. She seemed catatonic. I was witnessing a mental breakdown.

  “Jill, who took your daughter? What’s his name?”

  More silence.

  I moved over and took hold of her shoulders. “Jill, are you listening to me? Angel could be in serious trouble right now. Who knows what this guy has her doing? You’ve got to tell me who took her.”

  She kept looking over my shoulder, but I could feel her shivering through my arms. I was on the verge of losing her. “Jill, please tell me.”

  “Mom?”

  I looked over and saw Lila holding her helicopter.