There’s nothing to fear when you are fear himself.
The Bull has somehow managed to get away with kidnapping for years.
Each time a call comes in about a missing child, the grief hits hard for both the families and the police. There’s not a lot anyone can do. There are no comforting words anyone can offer to ease desperate minds. Unless we are the ones who find ourselves in a devastated parent’s shoes, we can never say we understand what they are going through. All we can do is empathize. Their reality becomes a horror, and all we can do is share the despair.
Sometimes I can see what hides behind a parent’s desperate eyes.
It’s a truth we both know but refuse to speak; once the children go missing, they’re as good as dead.
In this city’s nightmare, the missing are not the only ones who are lost.
When people are connected in one way or another, everyone becomes a victim.
2. GOLDEN
To me, the sunshine always seems to be the brightest in the morning. With eyes that have been awake all night, my mirrored shades do little to keep me from squinting on the drive home.
Like most days, I come home and change into more comfortable clothing.
After eight hours in uniform, letting my body breathe is the one thing I look forward to the most. My vest takes off a few pounds of pressure from my shoulders.
Stenciled on the back are bold white letters—POLICE.
Above the front side pocket is an older Velcro name badge. Some of the stitched threads are loose around the edges of the letters that spell my name—AVERY M.
Cool air soothes my skin as I throw off my uniform shirt. The left shoulder strap of my black bra slides off, over my full Polynesian sleeve tattoo. Slipping off the elastic band from my ponytail releases my soft jet-black hair. With a few shakes of my head, it falls straight and dangles to my lower back. Unfastening my belt releases the pressure from my hips. Untying my black boots cures my aching feet. Before bed, I dress down to my underwear and one of a few old T-shirts collected over the years from ex-boyfriends.
Any other day, I would wind down for half an hour on my gray sectional sofa. I’d catch a rerun of my favorite sitcom. As old as the show is, it’s still the only one that makes me laugh out loud at least once an episode, a bit of comedy relief after a long shift. It’s a show about four women in their golden years living together in a house in Florida. Women with hilarious jokes and insults that make me forget about whatever trouble I’ve confronted throughout the night. Unlike any other day, this morning I’m too exhausted, both physically and emotionally.
The brain and body are not meant to be awake throughout the night. Working nights leaves you feeling hungover all the time, even after you catch up on sleep during the day. Last night’s shift was no different than any other, but when you add the stress of your home life; you lose motivation and become scatterbrained.
This morning, the television doesn’t come on.
No Dorothy. No Rose. No Sophia. No Blanche Devereaux.
Twenty-five milligrams of diphenhydramine. The same ingredient for allergy medicine is found in a sleep aid. Over the counter. Safe. Non-habit forming. For a restful night’s sleep or, if you work the night shift like me, a restful day’s sleep.
Right now, the majority of people are leaving home to start their day. I’ve always been fascinated by the thought of what others are doing, close by or far away, at the same moment I wonder about them. If you could freeze-frame a split-second of their life and compare it to what you are doing now, what would you find? It seems trivial because there’s no way to know for sure. Whether they are people you know, or total strangers you have yet to meet, what matters is not only the time they spend with you, but also where they came from.
What were they doing before your paths cross?
What decisions did they make that set them in motion, leading them in your direction?
People’s lives don’t run parallel. They each move in different directions. Occasionally, a few of them come together and intersect at a specific point. Then something happens. Something each one of them will remember forever. It could be a moment when people from all walks of life join together in celebration, or when they witness the same tragedy. The butterflies flap their wings and set the conditions for a hurricane. When those butterflies get sucked into a storm, it’s important to know how they got there. Sometimes, it’s hard to predict such horrible events. No one can ever train you for these kinds of things. There’s no way to prepare for them. They simply happen, and leave as lessons to be learned.
Thank God for blackout curtains to keep the light out and the darkness in. A box fan blowing from across the room cools my bed sheets, but the empty pillow next to mine is even colder. Lying in the light from the nightstand, I try to resist facing the empty side of the bed. The last thing I want to do is torture myself, but my mind won’t let go.
Turning over with a heavy sigh, my hand slides a gold wedding band from under the pillow. I gaze at it, rolling it between my thumb and finger. Its weight is light, empty, like it no longer has value. No more meaning or purpose. Something I never would have expected it to lose.
I try and remember what my friend Reverend Jonas told me; to get through this you have to keep your faith.
Nonetheless, giving false hope to an unknown future doesn’t seem very promising. A broken heart can weigh heavy with doubt and skepticism. A lot of thinking that you’ll never get your life back. Almost believing things will never be the same again, at least not the way they were when you were happy.
The higher your hopes, the harder they fall.
I kiss the ring and slide it back under the pillow, letting it rest as if it still has some persona left from the person who once wore it. A lingering scent of cologne makes its way to my nose from the empty pillowcase. Sometimes, feeling sad feels good, but never when you miss someone. Never when you can’t tell them how you feel. Never when you’re sorry.
With a click of the lampshade, I lay in the dark with nothing but thoughts.
It’s strange to wonder about someone else’s life. There’s no way for me to know what Jace Marshall is doing at this exact moment or where he is or what interferes with his happiness. What sends him spiraling toward rock bottom?
I would imagine now, he’s miles away, lying in a hotel bed, alone, and trying to ease his restless mind. Trying to bring hours of darkness spent tossing and turning to an end. The sun beams in his blue eyes through the narrow spaces between the curtains. Eyes wet and swollen red. Eyes filled with regret.
Ten milligrams of Ambien. Take once daily as needed for sleep.
Yet, the pills are of no help. Through the annoying chirping of the birds, he lies awake trying to clear his thoughts. His mind is heavy with anxiety. Things that don’t matter. Worries that are far fetched. Sleep requires peace of mind and a clear conscience, but the mind can’t rest when so much pain weighs upon it.
Jace is my age, mid-thirties. His body is thin and toned and his head is full of dark brown wavy hair. He tries to sleep in gym shorts and a T-shirt, but in a last attempt to get comfortable, his shirt flies across the room. It lands between the hotel curtains, letting even more of the sunshine come through. He buries his head under two pillows, almost silencing the knock at the door.
Jace jumps to his feet and freezes, too afraid to make a sound. If someone in the hallway can hear his movements, they’ll know for sure he’s there. To anyone else it wouldn’t matter, but to him, it’s fear driven by paranoia.
After standing like a statue long enough, the muscles in his legs begin to shake. The air leaves goose bumps across his chest and arms. Tiptoeing closer, he peeps through the hole in the door. Standing in the hall outside his room, is no one.
“Checkout isn’t until eleven,” he says.
His deep voice is sure to have been heard.
“I still have this room for a few more days.”
The obscured sight of the hall remains empty without a sound.
“I’m stocked up on clean towels,” he adds. “If I need anything, I’ll call the front desk.”
And still, there’s nothing.
Jace realizes how stupid being afraid of no one can be. He tries to remember the man he was before he lost control of his rational mind.
Hanging over the back of a chair next to a small table are his worn blue jeans, still with a loose belt through the loops. The pockets weigh heavy from spare change. He removes his wallet and opens it to a folded piece of paper. On the front, underneath an order for medication, is a signature from a psychiatrist, Sandra, with a scribble like most doctor’s handwriting.
Two milligrams of Clonazepam. Take one tablet as needed for anxiety.
Behind the paper is a photograph tucked in a clear plastic sleeve. Lowering to his knees, Jace grips tight his blue jeans, pressing a crumpled handfull of denim over his mouth to muffle his whimpering. Tears flood from his glazed eyes and down his cheeks. The muscles is his belly ache from sobbing so hard, like doing a hundred stomach crunch exercises. With his gentle fingertips, he caresses the faces in the photograph. Dragging the same fingers through his hair and pulling hard, he drops the wallet to the floor and curls his chin toward his chest. Weeping so hard makes it difficult to breathe.
There’s a thin space between guilt and misery.
After his crying stops, Jace dresses himself. His shoes, still tied at the strings, slip over each heel. From a pile of clothes, what he was able to grab before leaving home, he pulls a wrinkled shirt and slides it over his head. Fumbling through his bags, he snatches his keys and wipes his face with his hand. He inhales deeply and lets his breath out slowly through pursed lips. Once the lock clicks and the door opens, whomever is waiting for him on the other side will have their opportunity to confront him. He peeks out and scans an empty hallway.
Relief.
Staying alert, Jace locks the door to his room and hustles toward the elevator.
3. RED INK
They say everyone dreams, but it’s hard to believe if you can’t recall them. They say in slumber, you lose all concept of time, but it seems to me like time has flown by. When your vision adjusts to the dark, even the dimmest of lights, like the red digits of my alarm clock, seems to glow bright. The only way to know I have slept for sure is from my dry mouth and the time— 2:59 P.M.
One minute left.
How typical?
My fingers reach for the snooze button, but just before the tips touch the plastic, the numbers change. Even excepting it, the loud buzz startles me and my body jerks. In retaliation, I silence the clock with a hefty smack.
Rubbing my eyes, I sit up and check my cellphone.
One missed text from Mia.
Instead of reading it, I press the delete button.
The cold side of my bed is still empty, not that I should have expected to wake up with it being any different. You can wish for someone all you want; it doesn’t make them appear.
The thought of feeling better after a cup of chai tea is what motivates me to get out of bed, but for the longest time, it feels like I can’t move. Still too tired, maybe. Still waiting for my mind to wake up. I stare across the room, off into nothing. No real thoughts.
The silence is broken with a young woman’s voice from the other room.
“Mom, I’m home.”
Shaking my head and squinting, I come out of a daze, back to reality. I take a change of clothes, some personal items, my police gear, and shove it all into my gym bag. Through my bedroom door, I can hear the legs of wooden kitchen chairs scooting from the table and back toward it again.
My daughter, Haylee, is sixteen years old. Since she was born, every day she becomes more beautiful than the day before. It’s a feature I like to think she inherited from me. That, and the jet-black hair, but she keeps hers shoulder length, and most of the time, held back with a headband.
Her bright blue eyes are what stand out the most from her other features. It’s through those eyes she can see the world is gorgeous as it sees her.
Haylee sits at the table with her studies spread in front of her. She’s small, petite, and wears a thin soft gray sweater and tight dark jeans with holes intentionally ripped across each knee.
To see her as a stranger, one would think she were a misfit, a rule-breaker, a troublesome child. For those who know her, she’s an angel. She treats everyone the same no matter where they come from, what they look like, or despite their social status.
At the beginning of the school year, I received a call from the principal, telling me Haylee had assaulted another student. It was hard to believe until the truth came out. A boy had been bullying a younger student, knocking books from his hands and shoving his head. The kid being harassed wore a cast on his leg. A broken tibia from a car accident. Even without the crutches, the poor boy was easy to pick on.
Haylee found her opportunity to intervene at lunch in the cafeteria. The tough guy was standing over the weaker student’s table, flicking food from his tray and talking shit to his face. My daughter passed behind him and “accidentally” kicked the bully’s feet from beneath him. His chin smashed the edge of the table, and blood poured from his mouth. His broken jaw had to be wired shut, even months after the other kid’s leg cast had been removed. Haylee was suspended, but she and I spent those two days shopping, pampering ourselves with manicures, and shooting guns at the range.
Sitting across the table is her boyfriend. The two have been dating for almost a year. For the past couple of weeks, his car has been in the body shop after some guy backed into it with a truck. Since then, he’s been riding home after school with Haylee until his dad comes to get him.
He brushes off the top sheet of a job application while Haylee opens her World History book. In a box at the top of the sheet, he writes his first name—Austin.
The tip of his pen comes to a stop before writing his last. He sighs and Haylee looks up from her book.
“What’s the matter?”
Austin wiggles the pen between his fingers and tosses it down.
“Red ink.”
They share a smile before her eyes go back to the pages. Austin observes her shiny lips, reflecting the light from her gloss.
“You’re mom’s not awake yet,” he says. “You want to fool around?”
Haylee snickers.
“With my luck, we would get caught and she would strangle me.”
Austin nudges her foot underneath the table.
“I’ll protect you,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to be your hero.”
I fling open my bedroom door and walk into the kitchen.
“See?” asks Haylee.
My day can’t begin without a cup of chai tea. I set a mug on the countertop, and pull a frozen pastry from the freezer and toss it in the toaster as I pour my cup full.
“What are you two up to?”
Haylee pushes a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Reading about how Christopher Columbus did not discover America.”
She’s such a smart kid, learning things I had been told in school that later turned out to be false.
She knows the story of Benjamin Franklin discovering electricity with a key tied to a kite is total crap. The solar system is not orbiting nine planets, and the human body has a lot more than just five senses.
The pastry hasn’t been in long enough for the coils of the toaster to turn red before I pop the lever back up. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t even like frozen pastries.
Austin snags his buzzing cellphone from the table. He types his reply, titling the screen so no one else can see. He puts it back, facing down, not knowing Haylee can tell he’s being secretive. When he looks up, she erases her concerned expression.
Mothers know everything. I don’t need to see them playing footsie under the table, or the smile she gives him before blowing a kiss. It doesn’t bother me. Biologically we become adults when we’re old enough to reproduce, but the law puts a number on it. I think t
hat’s why a lot of teenagers don’t get along with their parents. They become aware they are grown and they know what they want and who they want to become.
I remember still living with my parents. My father was like an older roommate who thought he always knew what was best for me. When it comes to parenting, I consider myself to be pretty liberal, which is why Haylee and I rarely fight about anything.
Sniffing, I can smell a hint of my perfume from across the room.
“Are you wearing my Bulgari Omnia?”
Haylee flips a page.
“What can I say?” she asks. “It smells good.”
She and I share our things as well, the way best friends do. I’m always up to be the parent anytime she gets into trouble, but defiance from her is rare. She’s a good kid.
“Are you still taking me to get a tattoo this weekend?” she asks, skimming through another page.
“Have you talked to your father?”
“I would if he were here,” she replies, turning another page.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wait until you’re a bit older? It’s a choice that leaves a permanent mark.”
She flips another page.
“This is coming from the mother who has the fuckin’ Sistine Chapel on her arm.”
Almost choking on my tea and fighting to keep a serious face, I shout, “Haylee!”
Austin covers his mouth and tries not to laugh, but it’s clear he’s unable to control himself. When I see him chuckling, I laugh as well. Haylee smiles big as she flips another page of her book.
A knock at the front door comes from Austin’s father. He’s another police officer who works in my district, Kenneth Cole, but everyone calls him by his last name. His curly dark hair fades into the five o’clock shadow that covers the lower half of his chubby face. He’s someone I trust enough not to have to wait for an answer before coming in to my home. Cole’s nervous demeanor is nothing new to me. He’s always been a bit fidgety, unsure of himself. Of all the people I know, Cole is the one who came the closest to apprehending the man they call El Toro.
Valiant Page 2