by Rita Herron
But the girls must be terrified.
Another nudge from the man’s hand. “Ma’am, I need a statement about what happened. Did any of the men call each other by name?”
She searched her memory. Had one of them spoken a name?
“You’re the only one who can help,” the man said again. “Please talk to me. You do want to help find those girls before something bad happens to them, don’t you?”
Anger shot through her, and she opened her eyes. Darkness. Not even a sliver of light.
“So you are awake?” he said with a hint of sarcasm to his tone. “Now, what—”
“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice echoed from across the room, and Charlotte realized the door had opened. The nurse. Finally.
“Sir, you aren’t supposed to be in here,” Haley said.
“If Ms. Reacher can identify the men who kidnapped her students, she needs to speak up.”
Rustling of clothes and footsteps sounded as Haley approached. “Ms. Reacher has cooperated with the sheriff and FBI already. She’s just undergone surgery and needs her rest.”
The man’s hand brushed hers. “Come on, Charlotte,” he said impatiently, “give me something.”
She blinked rapidly, her head throbbing with confusion, and the memory of the gunshots and girls’ cries.
A machine beeped. Her heart monitor? Blood pressure?
This time a softer hand. Haley. “It’s all right, Charlotte, it’s all right.”
“What’s wrong with her?” the man snapped. “She’s going to make it, isn’t she?”
“Yes, but you need to leave.”
“But she hasn’t told me anything,” he protested.
“And she’s not going to,” Haley said. “Now, either leave or I’ll call security.”
The man protested again.
“Now,” Haley ordered.
Emotion bubbled to the surface, threatening to spill over. Charlotte hated being in the dark, and at the mercy of others.
Footsteps again, then the door closed. Her chest heaved as she breathed out.
Then Haley was back. “I’m sorry about that.”
“He said he was a cop,” Charlotte said.
“He was no cop,” Haley said with a grunt of disgust. “That man is a reporter, and not a nice one. He’ll do anything for a story.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, grateful she hadn’t said anything to him. She’d instantly felt uneasy with him.
Not like she had with Lucas. He’d made her feel safe.
The reporter’s name replayed in her head. She vaguely recalled seeing him on the news. Haley was right.
He was ruthless. Had been known to run with a story without verifying the facts or his source. Had interviewed victims of crimes before and implied they were at fault for being victimized.
What kind of garbage would he air about her?
* * *
LUCAS SCANNED THE area as he and Harrison approached the abandoned warehouses. They were only a few miles from the cave at Dead Man’s Bluff where they’d found his sister’s body.
The gruesome image of her bones lying beside two other young girls’ skeletons would haunt him forever. The fact that she’d lain there dead for almost two decades made matters worse. All that time they’d searched for her, and struggled to hold on to hope that somehow she was alive.
But her disappearance turned out to be a tragic accident. A mentally challenged boy named Elden had wanted to make friends with Chrissy, but he hadn’t realized his strength, and he’d smothered her to death. His mother had protected him. Unfortunately, Chrissy wasn’t his only victim.
Harrison’s police SUV bounced over the rugged terrain, gravel and dirt spewing.
A row of three warehouses popped into view as Harrison steered the vehicle over a small hill. A rusted-out black cargo van sat by the building.
Except this van had been burned and only the charred shell remained.
Lucas’s pulse jumped. If the trafficking ring had brought the girls here to house them until they moved them to buyers, they might have left the girls inside.
The area looked desolate, the warehouses weathered, the steel siding dingy. The Texas sun faded to night, casting shadows across the rugged land.
“It looks deserted,” Harrison said.
“We need to check inside the spaces,” Lucas said. “You’d be shocked at some places traffickers hold women and children. Boats, storage containers, old barns, the back of cargo vans and trucks. Damn inhumane.”
Harrison’s mouth tightened as he closed the distance to the warehouses. “Hard to imagine people buying and selling children and women like they’re cattle.”
Except they might treat cattle with more care. Although if selling the girls at auction to the highest bidder was their game, they would try to preserve the girls’ physical appearance.
No visible bruising or injuries.
They’d probably use drugs to keep them under control.
Gears ground, brakes squeaking as Harrison slowed the SUV and swung to a stop. Lucas eased his car door open and slid from the seat, senses honed as he scanned the area between the warehouses.
He and Harrison both pulled their guns, and he braced for trouble as they walked past the charred van then toward the warehouses. Harrison shined a pocket flashlight across the ground.
Lucas did the same, then motioned to Harrison that he spotted tire tracks. He veered right to check the warehouse on the end, while Harrison went left. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he approached, and he paused to listen at the doorway. He expected it to be locked, but the bolt that had held it closed had been cut and sat in a pile of weeds to the side.
He leaned against the door edge and listened, hoping to hear the sound of girls’ voices, something to indicate they were inside.
But he heard nothing.
Frustration knotted his stomach as he eased the door open and aimed the light inside. The space was empty.
Dammit.
Still, he inched inside to search in case there was a room, a box, or a cage hidden in the darkened space.
* * *
CHARLOTTE FADED INTO a restless sleep and dreamed that a reporter was in the room snapping photographs of her. She woke, her pulse hammering.
Inhaling to calm her raging heart, she listened for signs the man had returned.
As a child, she’d been self-conscious of her port-wine birthmark. That image of her remained locked in her head, and reminded her that she had once been debilitated by it. No one had wanted her as their child. People had stared and made cruel remarks. Other children had been afraid that if they touched her, that stain would rub off on them.
Tears pricked at her eyes. She blinked furiously to stem them, searching for some semblance of light in the room, but blackness prevailed. Still, she ran her fingers over her cheek, remembering the pain of looking different and wondering if her face or eyes were scarred or appeared unusual.
If the morning paper or news would show her lying in bed, weak and vulnerable, the details of her sordid childhood exposed for the world to see.
Guilt and shame quickly overrode her concern—how could she possibly worry about her looks or people reading about her past when her students needed her? No telling what they were going through.
Her breathing turned erratic again, and she suddenly felt like her chest was going to explode. Pain shot through her, stifling and frightening. One of the monitors went off, the beeping more rapid with the tune of her breathing.
The door screeched open, then footsteps. “Ms. Reacher, I’m here.” Haley’s voice, soothing and calm. Her hand gently brushed Charlotte’s. “Did something happen?”
Charlotte shook her head. “A nightmare.”
“That’s understandable. You’ve been through hell,” the nurse said.
Cha
rlotte gasped for a breath again, that tight sensation returning.
“Just try to relax, take slow even breaths.”
“What’s happening?” Charlotte asked, her voice cracking as she clawed for air.
“You’re having a panic attack,” Haley said softly. “It’s not uncommon, especially after suffering a trauma. Try to imagine yourself in a happy place.”
Charlotte nodded miserably and forced herself to do as Haley instructed. Slow breaths. Think of a happy place.
Her studio. The paints. The vibrant colors. Reds and blues and purples, shades of violet. Yellow, like the sunflowers she adored. Then pastels. The pale yellow of the moon on a cool night when she gazed at the stars. The light blue of the sky on a sunny day, of the ocean at sunset.
Except the attack had tainted the image of the studio. Her happy place was no longer tranquil or peaceful, but shrouded in the horror of what had happened.
No, she couldn’t let those men destroy her place, or the good that had happened in the studio.
The girls were painting, laughing, talking, listening to music. Their hearts were opening as they poured emotions onto the canvases, their spirits lifting as they began to trust her and each other.
“It’s going to be all right,” Haley said.
How could it be when she might never see her students again?
* * *
LUCAS SCANNED THE interior of the warehouse space, but it appeared to be empty. Knowing that appearances could be deceiving, he crept inside, senses alert in case the girls had been locked inside a cage or an underground space.
It had happened before. A woman buried in a box beneath the ground. They hadn’t found her in time.
He prayed it was different for these young girls.
The flashlight painted a thin stream across the cement flooring, and he inched through the space, crossing to the back. Several barrels were pushed against the wall.
His heart raced as he rapped his knuckles on the exterior. A hollow sound echoed back. Still, he pried open the tops and searched each one.
Empty.
He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Satisfied the space was clean, he crept through the back door and outside, then searched the bushes and grounds until he reached the middle warehouse.
Just as made it to the door, a screeching sound came from the interior.
Pulse jumping, he braced his gun and slipped through the opening. It was pitch-dark inside. The noise...there it was again.
A high-pitched wail.
Holding his breath, he aimed his flashlight along the wall, searching for the source. A wooden crate was pushed to the back.
Dear God. Was someone inside?
Chapter Five
The wailing sounded again.
Lucas rushed to the crate, anxious to see if someone was trapped inside. He examined the wood, noting spaces between the slits. It was about a twelve-by-twelve space.
He needed to open the damn thing. He used his hands to pry at the rotting boards. They easily gave way and he yanked off three of them to look inside.
Nothing.
Damn. Where had that sound come from?
He turned and shined his flashlight across the back wall. A pile of rubbish, old cans, wood, storage containers and trash. Determined to find the source of the wailing, he tossed aside all the junk.
Something moved behind the rubbish. Too small to be a person. An animal?
Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stooped down and dug away more debris. A small orange ball caught his eye. Then a low whine, like a baby crying.
A kitten.
Breath whooshing out in relief, he gently reached inside the space and scooped up the tiny feline.
Growing up on the ranch, he and his brothers had taken in stray dogs, but Chrissy had been the cat lover. Pain squeezed at his chest. She would have loved this little bundle of fur.
He nuzzled it next to his cheek. “Come on, little one, we’ll find you a home.”
Satisfied this warehouse hadn’t been used for the kidnapped girls, he carried the kitten outside. Harrison was standing by the last warehouse looking grim.
Lucas’s heart lurched. “What?”
“It’s empty, but it has been used.” Harrison narrowed his eyes at the kitten, but didn’t comment, then motioned for Lucas to follow him inside the other space.
The interior was dark, but Harrison illuminated a path with his flashlight, and Lucas followed. In the far right corner, he spotted three old mattresses, discarded paper products from take-out restaurants and several empty water bottles.
But it was the hooks on the wall that made his blood run cold. Metal hooks connected to chains.
A used hypodermic lay discarded on the floor, a sign the kidnappers had drugged their victims.
“There’s blood on the chains,” Harrison said as he pointed to a dark stain.
Nausea climbed Lucas’s throat, anger churning at the images that flashed across his mind.
“Let’s collect some of this stuff and send it to the lab. Maybe we can confirm who was here and the kidnappers’ drug of choice.”
Harrison nodded, yanked on gloves and picked up one of the used fast-food bags. “Food looks crusted and moldy inside.”
“They didn’t bring Charlotte’s students here,” Lucas said.
“But there were others,” Harrison said.
Lucas gritted his teeth. “Which means this trafficking ring may have been scoping out Tumbleweed a lot longer than we think.”
Harrison scowled. “Do you think it’s possible that someone in town is part of the operation?”
Good question.
Although none of them wanted to believe that their home town was hiding a ring of child traffickers, they couldn’t discount the possibility.
* * *
CHARLOTTE WAS DREAMING about the girls again—they were screaming. Then one of the men grabbed her and dragged her toward the door with them.
She jerked awake, her breath choking out. She was still in the hospital. Dear God, she wished they’d taken her, too. At least she could have watched over the girls.
“Charlotte?”
Her fingers dug into the bedding as the sound of the hospital door closing echoed in the cold room. Then footsteps. Soft this time.
The voice had been a woman. Not the nurse, though.
A gentle hand covered hers. “Charlotte, it’s me, Honey.”
Relief surged through her, and she reached for Honey’s hand. She’d met Honey when she was searching for a house, and they’d instantly connected and become friends. She liked Honey’s knack for taking crumbling properties and houses and turning them into welcoming, beautiful, loving homes. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Honey pulled her hand into hers. “I’m so sorry about what happened, Charlotte. How do you feel?”
Honey’s concern touched her deeply. Charlotte had been in and out of so many foster homes that she’d never gotten close to anyone.
One family had a scruffy rescue dog that she’d loved. Leaving it had ripped out her heart. Since then, she hadn’t allowed herself a pet, either.
“Charlotte, sweetie, talk to me,” Honey said softly.
Emotion clogged her throat. Honey was the closest thing Charlotte had ever had to a sister. “I’m terrified for those girls. They should be laughing and shopping for outfits for school dances, not being terrorized by monsters who want to turn them into sex slaves.”
Honey pressed a kiss to Charlotte’s hand. “I know, it’s horrible.”
“I keep dreaming about the girls screaming for help. I can hear them crying, but I can’t do anything.” Her voice cracked. “I hate being helpless.”
“Harrison and Lucas are doing everything possible to find them.” Honey stroked Charlotte’s hand t
o calm her. “They won’t stop until they bring them back and put those horrid men in prison.”
“But they could be on a boat or plane out of the country,” Charlotte said. “You hear about cases where young women are kidnapped and never seen again.” Evie’s face haunted her, followed by Adrian’s and Agnes’s and Mae Lynn’s. “The girls in my group have already been through hell. But this—this could be more than they can bear.” Especially fragile Mae Lynn. She’d been a cutter before she’d joined the group.
Honey’s quiet breathing whispered in the air. “Listen to me, Charlotte. I know those girls have had it rough, but they’re like you and me, they’re tough. Survivors. Harrison and Lucas will find them, then they’re going to need you.” She paused. “So the best thing you can do for them is to focus on your own recovery.”
Charlotte blinked back tears. “But all I can think about is Evie and Mae Lynn—”
“Shh,” Honey whispered. “You don’t know the Hawk brothers like I do. They’re the most trustworthy, brave, courageous, strong men I know. When they say they’re going to do something, they’ll do it.”
Charlotte wanted to believe her. But she’d never trusted a man in her life.
Honey released her hand and disappeared for a moment. When she returned she dragged a chair up beside the bed, and dabbed at Charlotte’s tearstained face with a tissue.
“Does your head hurt?”
Charlotte licked her dry lips. “Yes, but it doesn’t matter—”
“It does matter,” Honey said with conviction. “You matter to me, Charlotte.” Honey’s voice cracked. “I know it must be scary to open your eyes and not be able to see.”
“I always hated the dark,” Charlotte admitted.
“Me, too,” Honey said softly.
Charlotte squeezed Honey’s hand and blinked back tears. Maybe her friend was right. She had to be strong. Dig deep. Heal herself.
She wouldn’t be any good to the girls if she fell apart.
* * *
LUCAS CALLED A crime-scene investigative team to search the warehouses and surrounding area, and to process the interior of the building, where they’d found the chains and blood. He and Harrison had done all they could do, but didn’t want to miss anything. Even a partial print or button from one of the kidnappers could help.