Child With No Name

by Franklin Horton

  She closed the camper door to keep the cold air inside and walked around the metal building that hid her trailer, watching the ground for snakes. She didn’t know what kind of snakes they had here but the thick weeds and scattered junk piles looked like an excellent place for them.

  When she got to the dirt lot where the RV had left her, she headed off down the two-track dirt road the rest of her traveling companions had taken earlier. This was where Shelby said the kitchen was. He also told her that her meals would be brought to her and she wasn’t to wander around, but she never had been a good listener. They pointed that out to her in school up until the time she quit going.

  Around her, hidden by borders of dense trees, she could hear the sounds of machines running. It sounded like tractors but she couldn’t see them from where she was. She didn’t know how far she walked, but it seemed to take forever in the heat. Lugging her belly around made it worse, affecting everything from her balance to her breathing.

  Eventually, she passed another thick boundary of trees and came upon what looked like some kind of community thrown together in a clearing. There were campers and mobile homes in orderly rows. Crude shanties and dormitories were thrown together with the cheapest cuts of lumber, all painted long ago in a mint green paint that had peeled in the humidity.

  Between the structures hung sagging clotheslines laden with hand-washed laundry. The clothes hanging in the still, damp air were thin, old, and patched. Tonya’s belongings were currently scattered to the four winds, stored at the homes of friends where she frequently crashed. She had nothing to her name at the moment, yet she wasn’t sure she’d wear any of what she saw hanging out in this encampment. She might be destitute but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a sense of style.

  She heard the sound of clanging pots coming from a windowless building made of corrugated metal panels. A wide rolling door stood open, perhaps trying to catch some of the non-existent breeze. Tonya headed that way, her nose picking up the scent of cooking food as she got closer. She stepped through the opening onto a dirty concrete floor. Yellowed strip lighting ran down the center of the room, illuminating rows of painted plywood tables and crude wooden benches.

  At the far end of the dining hall was the kitchen. There were pass-through serving windows cut into the wall. Through those openings, Tonya could see women wearing aprons cooking in institutional-sized pots on several electric stoves. Steam and smoke floated in the air. A ventilation fan ineffectively tried to suck the smoke outside, but only succeeded in creating a drone that forced everyone to shout to be heard.

  Moving closer to the serving window, Tonya could see that four women were working in there. Some of them looked Hispanic but not all. The chatter she heard was a mixture of accents and languages. She went to the kitchen door and stood there until someone noticed her. The first to catch sight of her stopped what she was doing, her eyes moving from Tonya’s face down to her protruding belly. The others soon noticed too and did the same, taking Tonya in from head to foot.

  Tonya didn’t like their stares but didn’t exactly feel like she was being judged. She was judged nearly every day of her life and was familiar with the feeling. This didn’t feel the same. Maybe it was sympathy or concern. Certainly, some of them must have related to her condition because they were old enough to have had children.

  “I..I was just wondering about the time,” Tonya stammered. “What time is it?”

  The woman who’d first noticed her looked off toward the wall and Tonya now saw a clock hanging there. She read it just as the woman spoke.

  “A little after six.”

  Tonya nodded, understanding that she had nearly an hour to wait on dinner.

  The woman who’d given her the time continued to look her over. She might have been in her twenties and a blue bandana was tied kerchief-style around her head, holding back her hair and collecting the sweat that soaked her face. “I’m Lena. Ain’t seen you around here.”

  “Lena!” another woman snapped.

  Both Tonya and Lena looked at the woman. She had a stern look on her face, her mouth set hard. She gave a subtle shake of her head and everyone, even Tonya, knew what that meant. This wasn’t a place where you got friendly and introduced yourself. You didn't ask questions. The less you knew, the better. These people had obviously got a lecture from Shelby before too.

  “I was afraid I missed dinner,” Tonya offered. “I fell asleep.”

  “You ain’t missed it, honey,” the stern-looking older woman replied. “Ain’t serving yet.”

  “Where you staying at?” Lena asked.

  “Lena! I done told you once!” the older woman snapped.

  Lena faced the older woman and began arguing with her in Spanish. Tonya, who’d never been around anyone of a different race or nationality, stepped back with her eyes narrowed. In a moment, the older woman stomped off to the stove and angrily stirred a pot. Lena turned to Tonya, a smirk of satisfaction on her face.

  “Where did you say you was staying?”

  “There’s a camper behind a barn, right around where they dropped me off.”

  “Oh,” Lena said, eyes growing wide. “You better get on back there. You ain’t supposed to be here. We’re supposed to deliver your meals.”

  “That’s what the man told me but I was afraid I slept through it.”

  “You go on now. Dinner is almost ready. I’ll run something up to you in just a little bit.” Lena put a hand on Tonya’s shoulder and steered her out of the kitchen. “You better go now. You don’t want Shelby to catch you breaking the rules.”

  Tonya headed out of the sweltering kitchen, down the aisle of multicolored wood tables, and out into the direct heat of the day. She started walking back the way she’d come and was drenched in sweat by the time she reached her camper.

  She went inside to use the bathroom and wished she hadn’t. It was filthy and smelled like death in the closet-sized room. Vomit rose in her throat for the second time that day. She staggered outside and squatted in the grass. She decided for the duration of her stay she’d prefer to use the bathroom outside and bathe at the kitchen sink rather than go back in that tiny room.

  She sat in the open camper door while her stomach settled. That position was the best compromise between the fresh air of the outside and the cool air of the camper. She lit up a cigarette and was nearly done with it when Lena came around the corner of the barn, a cardboard box in her hand.

  “It ain’t nothing great,” Lena said, setting the box down in a sun-bleached lawn chair. “People that owns this place don’t spend any more than they have to on keeping folks fed.”

  “What is it?”

  “Beans, rice, boiled greens, and a couple of tortillas. There’s a couple of bottles of water in here too. I’d stick to the bottled stuff if I was you. What’s hooked up to this trailer probably ain’t fit to drink.”

  Tonya was used to scrounging food. She knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if this food wasn’t what she was used to, she’d eat it because she was hungry. “Thank you.”

  Lena nodded. “I best get back. Guess you could tell my momma is a hard-ass.”

  “Hey, before you go, is there anybody out here that parties?”

  Lena looked confused. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “Weed or booze? If I’m going to sit on my ass all day I need something to keep me entertained.” Lena wasn’t going to mention the pills she had. She’d learned a long time ago that people would steal them from you if given the opportunity. She might share booze and weed but she’d never share a pill. That was her lifeblood. That was all that stood between her and an ugly withdrawal.

  “There’s a little weed floating around here. People sometimes get liquor too, if they come up with some money.”

  Tonya frowned. “Hell, they’re working. Don’t they get paid?”

  Lena laughed. “You don’t have a damn clue do you, hillbilly? People on this farm don’t get paid. They got brought in illegall
y and that shit ain’t free. They have to work off their contract. It can take years. They’ll work here until the work is done, then they move them somewhere else. They’ll work all over the country before they get turned loose.”

  “I’ve heard of illegal aliens,” Tonya said. “I didn’t know how it all worked.”

  “Well, I ain’t one of them,” Lena said defensively. “My momma and I don’t live here on the farm. We live up the road. She’s been working here for years and I help out. She’s always fussing to me about talking to people. Says I’m going to get in trouble because Shelby don’t put up with any bullshit.”

  “Yeah, I figured that out,” Tonya admitted. “That’s part of why I can’t be out there looking for a buzz.”

  Lena sighed. “Okay, when I get home I’ll ask around and see what I can come up with. I can’t get none without money. You got money?”

  Tonya’s natural distrust ebbed to the surface. “Can I trust you?” Even as she asked the question she felt stupid about saying it. A thief was just as likely to be a liar. They weren’t exactly going to admit that they planned on stealing from you.

  “You’ll just have to trust me,” Lena said. “And you can’t say nothing to nobody about it. We’ll both get our asses beat. Or worse.”

  Tonya extracted a fifty from her bra, handing it over. Lena deftly slipped it into the pocket of her denim shorts.

  “I got to get back before they start serving the workers. I’ll be here tonight if I come up with something. If not, it will be tomorrow.”

  “Tonight would be better,” Tonya said.

  Lena shrugged. “No promises. I don’t want to be out here at night. There’s sketchy shit goes on. Then there’s Shelby and he's the sketchiest of all.”

  “Well, do what you can do. Just don’t steal my money. If you do, we gonna have a problem.”

  Lena raised an eyebrow at her. “Girl, if you’re here you’ve already got bigger problems than me.”

  31

  Abingdon, Virginia

  Ty was dragging by the time he got home. The drive from North Carolina back to Virginia was exhausting without the adrenaline of the chase fueling him. He stopped a couple of times for energy drinks and junk food. Twice he stopped at rest areas to jog around and burn off nervous energy. When he finally rolled into the parking lot of his townhouse it was dark and Ty was jittery.

  A quick glance around told him the parking lot was empty, but he didn’t take chances. He extracted his Glock from the center console and carried it in his hand, the high-visibility safety vest draped over top of it in case a neighbor was watching from a window. He had his key ready when he got to the front door, but checked his six before opening it. Still, no one moving around in the parking lot. No one sneaking up on him.

  He opened the door and let it swing fully open. He stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him without turning on any of the interior lights. He stood there in the dark for a moment just listening. He could flip on the light switch and head into the living room like a normal person or he could clear the house room-by-room. Which was it going to be? He raised the Glock, switched on the weapon light, and began clearing rooms.

  Only when he was done did he turn on the lights and place the Glock on the coffee table. He took a quick shower to wash off the miles and changed into some comfortable clothing. In the kitchen he prepared a late dinner of wheat-on-wheat, a beer, and pouring half a box of his favorite cereal into a bowl. The milk was past the expiration date but passed the smell test.

  He dropped onto the couch with a little trepidation. This was often where the demons found him. He wondered for a moment if it was the couch itself, somehow cursed and serving as a portal to the darkness that so often swallowed him. Maybe he should get rid of it. If he did that, he’d find someplace he could take it and burn it, closing that path forever.

  He placed his sweating bottle of beer on the coffee table and opened his laptop. He logged onto his favorite social media site and navigated his way to the Wasteland For Warriors group. Prior to meeting Cliff and joining DKI, the Wasteland was the only normalizing force in Ty’s life. It was a social media group composed mostly of veterans, many of them experiencing the same issues he was. Besides supporting each other through the tough times, they blew off steam each day with irreverent humor, inappropriate pictures, and serious stories about their struggles. To an outsider, it would have been like juvenile chaos, but it was something much different, much more important, to those who understood.

  Ty answered messages from friends he’d made in the group and commented on posts. He offered support to his brothers and sisters who needed it, then talked shit to a few others. He lost track of time and was startled when his phone rang. Looking at the display he saw that it was Cliff calling, but noticed that it was nearly 2 AM.

  He smiled as he picked up the phone. “Checking in to see if I’m home, Dad?”

  Cliff gave a weary laugh. “Not exactly, but are you?”

  “Yes, I am. Sitting in my living room logged into the Wasteland. You can check for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you. That’s seriously not why I called. I spent the last few hours on a conference call with the FBI and US Marshal Service.”

  Ty slid his laptop off to the side and sat on the edge of the couch. “They interested in the farm in North Carolina?”

  Cliff laughed. “Reel it back in, Ty. These things happen in baby steps. Tomorrow the FBI is going to formalize a task force to investigate the clinic in Virginia. Baxter and Lieutenant Whitt will be on the task force and should have emails waiting on them when they get to work in the morning.”

  “But what about the farm where I tracked that pregnant lady?”

  “It’s a matter of interest but we don’t have enough to go on yet. There are all kinds of legitimate reasons that could explain the things you saw.”

  “You need someone in there undercover,” Ty said. “You should have let me go in there tonight.”

  “This isn’t Afghanistan, Ty. Evidence is useless if it’s tainted. The method of collection matters. Every step we take could be scrutinized in court.”

  Ty took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. I get it. Where does this go from here?”

  “We’re going to start with an undercover operation at the clinic. I’m not going to be back for a few days but I want you to touch base with Whitt and Baxter tomorrow. We’re going to let Raylene Kidd go undercover and express an interest in putting her kids up for adoption. We’ll see where that leads us.”

  “That’s good,” Ty said. This was what he needed to hear. They’d made some progress and that positivity gave him a charge. It was something.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow, Ty. I’ve got to get some sleep and I suggest you do the same.”

  “Yeah, good idea. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  Ty shut down his laptop. Leaving the light on in the living room, he went to the bedroom and slid beneath the covers, hoping for a night with no nightmares.

  32

  Abingdon, Virginia

  Ty slept late the next morning, not rising until nearly 8 AM. Before doing anything else he stepped into his running shorts and pulled on his two phone cases, then headed out for a run. He chided himself for the energy drinks and junk food he’d consumed the day before.

  “You’re a little bitch, Ty Stone,” he huffed. “You have to suck down caffeine and carbs to finish a mission these days because you’re going soft. What happened to the bastard who could hump a ruck up a goat trail all day? What happened to the guy who could lug a sixty-pound pack in the rain for three days with no sleep? When’s your first pedicure, Ty? When you getting your hair highlighted?”

  His self-goading pushed him harder and he sprinted through town at a punishing pace. When he began to feel winded he let self-pity creep into his thoughts and that was a mistake. He stopped at a bench and kicked off his running shoes.

  “Oh, you want to stop because it’s hurting,” he
whispered to himself. “Try this on for size.”

  Ty selected a couple of tiny pebbles from the brick sidewalk and dropped them into his shoes before putting them back on. He stood and tested the waters. The rocks were small but without socks, they were definitely uncomfortable. He started running again.

  “Toughen up, buttercup,” he chanted in rhythm with his pace.

  The pain was a beautiful thing. It brought clarity and reminded him he was alive. Reminded him that he needed to stay tough. Not just for his job but to survive the times he wasn’t on the job, the moments when his demons showed their faces and tried to seduce him into joining them.

  He did six miles and they were hard miles. When he got home, he pulled his shoes off and found the bottoms of both feet were chewed up. A reeking soup of sweat and blood coated both of them. One of the smaller stones had embedded itself in a softer region of his foot and he had to pluck it out with the tip of a steak knife.

  He grabbed a quick shower, sucking down a Gatorade as he rinsed off. Blood and grit swirled around his feet. When he was done, he dabbed some disinfectant on the worst of the foot wounds and covered them with Band-Aids. He got dressed, thinking about his day. Aside from Cliff’s instruction to get up with Baxter and Whitt, he had nothing else to do. He planned on hitting the gym that night. Maybe he could go to the range and get in some long-range shooting?

  His phone rang and he hurried to the living room to check it. It was Deena.

  “Wassup, Sis?”

  “Why are you talking like a teenager?”

  Ty frowned. “I wasn’t aware I was. What’s wrong?”

  “They sent the kids home from school almost immediately this morning. Some plumbing problem. I have a meeting at work so I can’t stay home. I was wondering if you could watch Aiden today?”

  “Pet-sit the monster? I’d love to.” It was actually a relief, the request settling Ty’s indecision. Hanging with Aiden would be engaging and there’d be no time for his mind to wander the dark mazes of his interior.