by Nolon King
Colleen was sitting at a desk, eyes glued to the local 24-hour news station, which had quickly become Jessi Price Central, updating viewers with every tiny detail, and talking to anyone, no matter how trivial the person or their thoughts. Eyes and nose red, clenching a fistful of tissue, she looked at Mal. “I should’ve never let her go back to school.”
When Mal hugged her, Colleen squeezed as if she were the only thing anchoring her to a world where Jessi still lived and keeping her from drifting off to that other place where a grieving parent found no solace. A place she would probably never return from.
“It’s not your fault,” Mal said when Colleen eventually let her go.
“No, it is. I should’ve kept her home, or hell, moved to Kentucky with my sister. Got the hell away from all these terrible memories.”
She sat back in her chair, eyes on the TV as if someone might break with news that Jessi was safe.
Mal sat opposite her on one of the two beds. “The sheriff’s office and the FBI are doing everything they can to find Jessi. She will be okay.”
“I’d feel better if you were on the case.”
“I’m on leave right now, but I’ll do everything I can. I’m sure you’ve already told the detectives everything, but is there anything you remember that might help find her? Any people or vehicles you saw around.”
“No one stuck out. I figured with the detail you had on us, everything was fine. You know? It’s so awful what happened to that officer. Did … did he have a family?”
“He wasn’t married. No kids. And yes, it’s tragic.”
“If they can kill a sheriff deputy that easily, what hope does Jessi have? Do you think …” Colleen swallowed. “Do you think Paul Dodd has anything to do with this?”
“We’re looking into every possibility.”
Even though she wasn’t part of the we in this instance, it was a habit to say the thing that most kept hope alive. But Mal wasn’t lying. The sheriff’s office and the FBI would be doing everything possible to find her. This was quickly elevated to a high priority case because of the deputy’s murder as well as the target — someone who had already been kidnapped and subjected to Dodd’s horror show.
Colleen stared at the TV. “You know, it’s funny. After Jessi came home, I was paranoid about every person we ran into. Everyone was a potential predator, from people we passed on the street to the old man four doors down. It took me forever to lower my guard, to let her back in school. To let her take the bus so she wouldn’t feel like a freak. And just when I learned to relax a little, someone does this.”
She closed her eyes, fresh tears streaming down her cheeks. “Did you ever go and talk to … him?”
“I hadn’t intended to,” Mal said. “But when he started using you to get to me, I didn’t have any choice.”
“And? What did he want?”
“For me to keep visiting. He promised to give me more videos of Ashley’s last days. Acted like he was doing me a favor. Like I wanted to see my daughter’s final terrified moments.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him no.” Mal shook her head, not bothering to explain how she also threatened the man to stay away from Jessi, lest he suffer. She wished she’d kept her temper under better control and hated to think her threat may have led to what happened this morning.
“Did he seem okay with that? Like he was going to stop bothering you?”
“I think so,” Mal said.
“Has anyone spoken to him about this yet?”
“I’m sure.”
“But you don’t know. And you haven’t spoken to him?”
“Well, there’s a complication. He’s in the medical ward. Someone attacked him, hurt him badly enough that he was unconscious. I’m sure my partner will be talking to him as soon as he can.”
Colleen’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t do this again. The not knowing if she’s okay. The waiting. It’s … too much. I feel like there’s something I should be doing! My daughter is out there while I’m just sitting in here, watching TV. That’s not what a parent’s supposed to do.”
“I know the feeling.”
Mal wanted to add that it was even harder for her, because detectives are supposed to solve cases. Yet she couldn’t even find her own daughter before it was too late.
But this wasn’t a competition in who felt more useless. Nor would it inspire confidence in Colleen.
So Mal put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
Chapter 11 - Jasper Parish
Jasper stared at the television, frozen on an image of the bus, the masked man grabbing Jessi and dragging her off at gunpoint, while frightened children looked on helplessly. A kid had filmed it, but didn’t know anything when questioned, other than how to record.
Jordyn sat beside him on the couch. “How many times are you going to watch this?”
“There’s something there. Don’t you see it? Can’t you feel something?”
She got off the couch and sat closer to the TV. “Okay, play it again.”
He did, and they stared at the screen, waiting for the inscrutable to start making sense.
“What’s that?”
He paused and rewound the video. “What?” He saw nothing new in the jiggly camerawork of a scared child with a cell phone.
“Slow it down when you see the redhead kid stand.”
The redhead with the blue shirt stood. Jasper slowed the video, and the screen lurched forward at a few frames per second. It was harder to make sense of anything when the video moved so slowly. Everything seemed fuzzier, objects lost clarity, and there were several instances of the screen going dark as the kid recording the video moved to either hide or get a better angle.
“Rewind again. Hit pause when it goes dark, then advance one frame at a time until it goes light.”
Jasper followed her orders, his aging eyes narrowing in on the TV and straining to see whatever his teenage daughter might have picked up on.
“There!”
He paused the frame, and titled his head, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
“It’s out the window. Near the van. That guy.”
Jasper got off the couch, moved next to his daughter, and crouched down.
The image was fuzzy, and the man was wearing a mask, but his frame seemed very familiar. A giant of a man whose silhouette was instantly recognizable, even standing in a blurry background. Something insisting in his brain, that same thing that had screamed and been right so many times before.
“No, it can’t be him. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Who is it?” Jordyn asked.
“His name is Cadillac Taylor, an enforcer for a crime family in South Florida. Built like a shit brick house. Dude was chasing down people that owed his boss, Lil’ Tony, money. He was scaring away the competition, not kidnapping children.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Cadillac vanished when Lil’ Tony got gunned down at some nightclub in South Beach. Local cops didn’t know if he got out of Dodge because Tony’s boss, Curtis Johnson, blamed him, or if someone popped him, too.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“No, but I know someone who might.”
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Jasper said, looking at his old friend, Lenny Barnes.
“Sure looks like him. I mean, as much as someone can with a mask on. But that’s his shape. Damned shame what happened to him, such wasted talent.”
“What do you mean?” Jordyn asked.
“In addition to coaching me as a kid, Lenny used to coach Cadillac in a basketball youth league,” Jasper answered.
Lenny stared at the TV. “He could’a been something. The next ’Zo or Shaq.”
“Do you know where I might find him now? Or any of his friends?”
“If anyone knows where he is, it’d be George Butler. Runs a pool hall in South Florida. George and Cadillac were tight. He dated Cadillac’s mom for a bit, so George was sort of a f
ather figure to him for a while before things went south. I wouldn’t count on him giving up Cadillac’s location. Plus, he’ll make you as a cop in seconds, assuming he doesn’t remember you, in which case, he might be wondering why you ain’t dead.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Jasper said.
Thursday, August 29
Chapter 12 - Paul Dodd
Paul sat in the back of the transport van, alone, hands cuffed in front of him, on the way to another jail three counties away, thanks to his new attorney, Lawrence Kampf.
Though Paul was still in pain, his luck might be changing. The lawyer had somehow worked magic to get him out of Creek County.
“They never should’ve had you here,” he’d said, arguing that there was no way Paul would be treated fairly once accused of killing a Creek County Deputy’s child. Kampf promised to sue the hell out of the county and prove that they conspired to allow his rape.
When this is all said and done, not only will you be free, but you’ll have a nice settlement and they will pay.
Paul smiled, thinking about the county being accountable for what they’d done.
It was funny. Even though Paul had committed these crimes — raped and murdered Ashley and tormented her mother — and maybe even deserved whatever hell might be coming his way, Kampf made him realize he was also a victim. He had done some terrible things, yes, but that didn’t abdicate the jail’s obligation to keep him safe.
Nobody deserves what happened to you. Nobody.
Paul nearly broke down in tears, finally having someone on his side who wouldn’t condemn him for his sickness. Someone who understood he couldn’t help himself. Sure, the lawyer was being paid for his concern, but the only thing that mattered in the end was that he finally had a fighting chance.
Did he dare to imagine life outside of prison? Could he ever have a normal life again?
Even if he did get off, Paul would always be a suspect in the public’s eyes. He was still dead to his wife and daughter. And the law would always be watching, waiting for him to slip up again.
Even if he was free, his life would never be the same. And he could never take another girl.
But that was fine.
He was ready to start over, to start fresh.
And he could probably find a way to satiate his needs without kidnapping and killing. Maybe he could move someplace where pimps trafficked children. He would have enough money to purchase a girl, take her from a life of slavery, offer her a room, hot meals, and showers. She might even be grateful enough to love him — something none of the other bitches had been capable of, spoiled as they were by western culture.
If Kampf managed to spring him and protect his assets, then Paul could do quite well in another country — a place where girls appreciated him.
A place where he wasn’t seen as a monster because his tastes happened to run counter to “normal” people. A place where he could disappear. In a more permissive society, one where the law wasn’t trying to crush him for his predilections, perhaps he wouldn’t feel the need to kill. Paul might find a girl he could come to love as she blossomed into a woman, free from the poison of feminism and western ideals.
He closed his eyes, imagining the girl. He wasn’t particularly partial to Asians or dark-skinned girls in general, so maybe he could find a nice European, maybe from one of the former Russian countries. He imagined a beautiful blonde blue-eyed girl who’d been sold into slavery. Forced to endure the horrible men that came through, fucking and hurting her.
But Paul would be gentle and show her love.
The van made a series of odd choking sounds, then slowed before coming to a full stop.
The guards in the front were grumbling.
The door opened.
Footsteps, then the sound of a hood being raised, followed by a faint POP, POP, POP!
Then silence.
His nerves danced as he shifted in his seat.
Tires screeched to a stop behind the van.
More footsteps, moving fast.
What the hell is happening?
The rear doors opened, and bright light burned his eyes. Then it gave way to shapes, and Paul realized the men weren’t guards. There were three, all armed and in masks, outfitted head to toe in black paramilitary gear.
The one in the middle was skinny, about Paul’s height. But the other two were hulking steroid cases — like the Nazi who raped him.
No. No. No.
Are they part of his crew?
His heart froze, the taste of metal coating his tongue.
They’ve come to finish what they started!
Paul was helpless, cuffed to the van, unable to do anything but cry out for help.
Before he could get his mouth and brain to cooperate, the man in the middle said, “Make another sound and we kill you.”
Paul obeyed the men as they boarded the van.
Chapter 13 - Jasper Parish
Jasper sat in his rental car outside Corner Pocket, a dive bar-cum-pool hall located in the shittiest strip mall in the worst part of town. A rundown embarrassment of cinderblocks and concrete that hadn’t seen a decent anchor chain since Zayre left in the eighties.
“This place looks sad,” Jordyn said from the passenger seat, lifting the brim on her hat and training her phone’s camera on a pigeon strutting around the cracked parking lot pavement.
“Used to be a nice plaza. Whole neighborhood used to be nice.”
“What happened?”
“A sour economy, shady politicians and land developers, drugs, unemployment. People fled to the suburbs. Like dominos falling. The neighborhood never recovered.”
In the twenty minutes they watched the place, only a few people had gone in. The windows were all painted black, so he couldn’t see inside, but Jasper figured there were probably less than ten customers inside. The fewer people the better. Everyone knew everyone’s business in places like these, and it would be hard to get George to flip on Cadillac with regulars paying attention.
“Wait here. They might card you.”
Jasper got out of his car, lowered his black Yankees cap over his eyes, and entered the Corner Pocket. The pool hall was large, but its better days were long behind it. Maybe it was some small mercy that the place was dark and poorly lit enough to hide its many flaws — stained threadbare carpet, chipped paint on the walls, tables starving for felt, sticks with broken tips. The only modern thing in the place was the hip-hop blasting from the jukebox.
Jasper was right. There were less than ten customers in the place — all but one, an old black man sitting at the end of the bar, were playing pool.
He scanned the place, but didn’t see George, or any employee, so Jasper took a seat at the opposite end of the bar from the old man and waited.
After a few minutes, George came out of the back hefting a plastic tote full of ice. He deposited it into a cooler under the bar. He was one of those old guys who looked sixty at forty, then stayed that age for decades.
He looked up at Jasper and nodded. “What can I get for you, young man?”
“I’ll have a Bud Light.”
“Tap or bottle?”
“Bottle.”
Jasper nursed his drink, occasionally glancing at the mirrored wall behind the bar, watching to see if anyone there might be affiliated with a gang or family. He wasn’t getting even a whiff of organized crime, mostly just young people with nothing to do and older folks who’d given up on life, passing time by shooting pool. The old man at the end of the bar was either blitzed or out of his mind, maybe both, mumbling to himself every now and then before finally laying his head on the bar.
Jasper could imagine a version of his life where he’d gone from troubled youth to aimless fool, wasting his days in places like this or running drugs, had Lenny not entered his life with the gifts of basketball and self-discipline.
George drifted over to him, wiping the bar with a rag. “Another Bud or will you be on your way?”
Jasper looked up and me
t the man’s knowing eyes.
“I’m looking for Cadillac Taylor.”
A flicker of recognition, then the old man turned his attention back to the rag. “Don’t know him.”
“I’m not police. Or an enemy.”
“Yeah? Who are you then? Ain’t ever seen you in these parts.”
Jasper pulled out his phone, flashed a picture of Jessi Price. “You know her?”
“Nope.” George gave a dismissive shrug, still pretending to wipe down the bar.
“A missing girl whose parents want her back. Cadillac can help me find her.”
“How’s that?”
“He helped kidnap the girl.”
George’s brow furrowed. He stopped wiping. “Man, get the hell out of here with your bullshit.”
Jasper kept his voice low. “Listen, I’m not looking to jam him up. I’m guessing Cadillac got mixed up with some bad folks, but I don’t care. I just want the girl back. They’re willing to pay. So am I, if you help.”
George paused, then went back to wiping the bar. “Get out of here. I ain’t askin’ twice.”
Jasper grabbed the man’s hand, hard, and locked gazes with him. “Here’s the deal, George. I make one call, and Curtis Johnson will send his boys over here to find out what you know. And they’re definitely not offering you money.”
He let go of the old man’s hand and studied his face. Jasper had personalized the threat. Sometimes you had to add extra incentives, trying to win a person over with reason and promises that they were doing the right thing. But with someone like George, that would be seen as weakness. Far better to say less and let the threat hover above them, giving them enough time to appreciate the severity.
Jasper waited him out.
“I don’t want your money,” George finally said, practically spitting. The man was seconds from giving up Cadillac. “Stupid ass boy got himself a good job, but then found trouble, got fired, and I’m not sure what he’s doing now. God only knows what he’s into.”
“Who was he working for?”