by Ronie Kendig
On her feet now, the woman held a few remnants of dirty, torn clothes and what looked like it might be a half-rotten orange. She glared at Téya and Nuala, who gasped.
“She looks like she’s barely eighteen,” Nuala whispered. “Tell me those aren’t her kids!”
Disapproval and defiance shone in the woman—no, the girl’s eyes. The woman spouted something, but when they didn’t respond, she huffed. “What do you want?” she snipped at Téya. Her broken English was filled with hatred and defensiveness.
As good a place to start as any. Téya took a step forward. “I am looking for a family—”
“Think money can buy you one?”
Téya blinked at the acidic words. “Their name is Loring. The husband is named Carl.”
After tucking the goods she’d harvested from the trash heap, the girl grabbed the children’s hands. “I don’t care what his name was—no way would I help the likes of you.” With that, she stomped off, down what Téya had thought to be more trash. It turned out to be a path.
“That went well,” Téya muttered. She sure hoped this wasn’t going to become a pattern here, but she had a feeling these people wanted to protect their privacy and lives as much as she did outside the slums.
“I’d feel so much more comfortable watching from a rooftop.”
“What? Not appreciating the unique scent of the slums?” Téya sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face.
Across the way, down through a narrow alley blocked from this side, a cluster of people stood around talking. Around what might have been a gas station at one time, stretched torn, grungy canopies over makeshift tables and propped-up crates. A man, his drab gray jacket missing a large section in the back, offered a man on the other side something as he lifted a—fruit! A market. What better place to eavesdrop and ask about a family.
“C’mon,” Téya said to Nuala and started walking, away from the trash heap.
Nuala was with her, eyeing the surroundings. The sheets of metal, clearly torn from other buildings, were propped together and tied with rags to form a new structure. Téya couldn’t bring herself to call it a home. Didn’t want to believe people lived in squalor.
“Sure gives a new perspective,” Nuala muttered as they navigated the tangle of streets and alleys until they wandered into what was a clearly marked-off area. The market offered partially spoiled fruit and vegetables. Clothes washed and hanging from cord, but with frayed hems and a hole here and there. Used goods. Their own flea market. Only here, she was sure there would be fleas and other forms of pestilence. She chided herself for wanting to dig out a bottle of hand sanitizer from the bag she wasn’t carrying. These people deserved respect and kindness as much as any human did. She did not feel pity for them, but rather anger—anger that anyone had to live in filth.
“Act like you’re shopping,” Téya said, moving to one table where a vinyl purse lay. She lifted it. “If you have to buy something to get someone to talk, then do it.”
Already wandering past her, Nuala motioned to a black belt hanging from the ripped canopy. “May I see that?” she asked the seller, who gladly lifted it, rattling off in a quick tongue the benefits of the fine belt.
“What do you want here?”
Téya started at the hissed words and glanced to the side. The teen mom stood beside her, hands balled into fists that she pressed against her hips. “I told you,” Téya said, acting calm. “We are looking for a family. The Lorings—Carl and Sharlene, and their twins.”
“Nobody will tell you anything, and once night comes, they will kill you,” the girl said, her lip curling. “Unless they decide to keep you.” The girl put her hand to her swollen belly, her meaning quite clear.
“We will leave before then,” Téya reassured her.
“You should leave now,” she practically growled. “Already, they talk of the two pretty, rich girls. You do not think we notice, just because we are poor?”
“I think you’re afraid to talk because you think it will bring trouble,” Téya said.
“That is what I said!”
“No, they won’t bring trouble to me,” Téya corrected. “You’re afraid it will be trouble for you.”
The girl’s dull eyes went wide. She took a step back.
Téya pushed her attention to the woman behind the crate pallet that served as a table and lifted the purse. “How much?”
The teen girl slapped it out of her hand. “Leave! Now!”
“Ten euro,” the woman said.
Téya hesitated, glancing at the woman then the purse. “That’s a lot.”
“Do not say you were not warned,” the teen girl said. “It is on your own head if you are hurt!” And with that, she spun and scurried away.
Folding her arms over an ample bosom, the woman narrowed her eyes at Téya. “It is fair!”
Lifting the money from her wallet, Téya hesitated. “I am looking for a family—the Lorings. They are friends of my family, and I got word they were living here.”
“I know of no one with that name, and it would not cost you ten euro if I did,” the woman said.
Relinquishing the money, Téya smiled her thanks. A gnawing in her stomach telling her this search could take months, not the two days they had to solve this riddle. The Lorings were key to more information, something Zulu needed desperately to put the torment of Misrata behind them. For Annie to return to her Navy SEAL hunk, and Téya to the quiet life with David Augsburger.
What would he think of this, her digging through the notorious slums of Greece for a refugee family? “If they wanted to be found, they would be found. Leave them.” That’s what David would say.
But leaving them to their own efforts was not an option. Sprigs of weeds and tufts of grass thrust upward between the sidewalk cracks as she made her way past a building with only two walls. Chunks of brick and mortar littered the path, making the trek both dangerous and frustrating. Crumbling sentries standing guard over broken people.
Ahead, Nuala laughed as she twirled with a multicolored scarf tied around her waist. Three dark-skinned women, adorned with bangles, necklaces, and scarves, danced to a song plucked out by an aged man.
Téya’s heart climbed into her throat—gypsies!
Quickening her steps to match her heartbeat, Téya rushed their way. “Sister,” she said, breathing relief and exasperation into her voice. “Where have you been? We must go!”
A man emerged from between two thick, old rugs. “She stay with us.”
Téya met the man’s gaze, working out whether she should be stern or laugh. “She is a favorite with her pretty pale eyes and her dark hair, but our father is marrying her to a rich prince. If she didn’t come home, they would raze this whole area.”
With a speculative gaze, the man considered her words, a hint of fear in his hesitation. Finally, he waved a hand.
Téya caught Nuala’s elbow. “Walk. Fast.” They wove in and out of alleys, Téya aware of the danger.
“They knew something,” Nuala finally managed. “One of the girls—she went inside their wagon—”
“What wagon?”
“There was a wagon behind the soiled tapestries.” Nuala shook a hand. “Anyway, she said she saw twins, new to the area.”
“That’s all?”
Nuala shot her a look. “It’s more than we had before, and it’s hope that we aren’t putting up with this foul odor for nothing.”
They walked the dirty streets that were piled with bags of trash. As they stepped off what remained of a curb, Téya felt something brush against her leg. When she first glanced down, she thought a kitten moved next to her.
Nuala screamed.
That’s when Téya saw the pink, segmented tail twitching. A jolt of disgust ripped Téya straight. “Ugh!”
Nuala clapped a hand over her mouth, fighting a giggle as they both rushed away from the large rat.
“Food! Do you have food for me?” a little boy with dark eyes and dark hair ran up to them and grabbed
onto them, clinging as if his life depended on it. “Please, I am hungry. You are rich. Give me money!”
“No,” Téya said firmly, prying him off. “I don’t. I’m sorry.” She nudged him in the other direction, but he simply rolled against her push and flung himself at Nuala this time.
“Tenacious, aren’t you?” Nuala said, her voice trembling.
A shout went up at the other end of the street. And when Téya glanced in that direction, she saw it wasn’t a street but an alley. A chill scampered down her neck.
“Not reassuring.”
Téya turned to her friend, ready to yank the boy off her. But he was gone. “Where’d he go?”
“Away, which is probably where we should go if that scared him.”
“Probably,” Téya said. The sky had not darkened yet, but it wasn’t far off. The words of the pregnant teen echoed in her mind. “I guess it’s—”
“Téya.” Nuala’s voice was filled with quiet dread and warning, pulling Téya around. Her face had gone white as she stared down the alley.
“What?” Téya shrugged, glancing between Nuala and the alley. “I don’t see—” But then she did. And panic ripped through as what she’d taken for shadows and darkness coalesced into a thick band of scraggly men.
Téya started backing up. “Nice and slow,” she said, catching Nuala’s hand.
But the crowd rushed them.
In seconds, they were surrounded. Men pushed at them. Taunted them. Touched them.
Hand tightening around Téya’s, Nuala punched one of the men. Fifteen against two. Not fair. Boone—where was Boone?
Though terrifying, Téya’s mind registered that the men weren’t hurting them. Who cared! They were jostling them. Forcing them to move away from their intended course. A frenzy of excitement, shouts, and trilled yells suffocated her ability to think.
Someone grabbed her hand. Téya jerked it back and tried to nail the perpetrator with a glare, but there were too many. She wasn’t sure who touched her. Who grunted in her ear. Who pushed between her shoulder blades.
White-hot fire seared the top of her right hand.
A man caught a fist-hold of her hair.
Téya yelped as he yanked hard. She clamped a hand over his then jabbed her elbow into his gut. Kneed his groin. She couldn’t even see Nuala for all the chaos. Her feet tangled and she went to a knee, hand protecting her skull against the wild insanity.
Shouts went up.
A hushed gasp fell over the crowd.
In a split second, the men were gone. Sprinting down the narrow alley.
“Let’s go,” Téya said, catching Nuala’s hand again and running in the general direction of the way they’d entered.
“Think Boone scared them off?”
“How? He isn’t here.” Her scalp and hand still burned. Téya shook out her hand against the burning that mirrored the one in her scalp.
Nuala sucked in a hard breath and stopped short. She took hold of Téya’s wrist. “What is that?”
“Two, Six!” Boone’s voice boomed through Roma slums.
“Thank You, God,” Téya muttered, searching for their protector, but Nuala wagged Téya’s wrist she was holding.
“Téya, look!”
“Hey!” Boone grunted as he jogged up to them. “What are you waiting for? Move!”
Scowling, she tugged free, her irritation from the day’s events getting the better of her. She flicked her hand, the stinging as fresh as the moment—and she saw it. Saw the burn on her hand. Not just any burn. The contents of her stomach threatened to free themselves from her stomach. The star-crescent.
Sam
Manson, Washington
31 May – 1330 Hours
He hadn’t been in the cottage in over a month. The night they’d shared a plate of nachos and watched a marathon of the science fiction flick Firefly. She sat on the sofa, legs crossed and a pillow in her lap, insisting he was out of his mind to watch a show about space cowboys and demented cannibals. But she stayed, laughed, and cheered the characters on. That was the thing about Ashland—she’d give anything a chance.
Even me.
“Can you grab the glasses?” his sister, Carolyn, asked as she carried a box of linens to the back bedroom. “I want to give them to Goodwill and get a new set for the tenants.”
Lifting a glass from the cabinet, Sam frowned and looked toward the hall. “Tenants?”
His sister reappeared, her sandy-blond hair pulled into a ponytail. She winced and hunched. “Yeah…meant to tell you. I agreed to a six-month lease for a writer who wants to come up and get his next novel written.”
“You rented the place?”
“Look, I know for you, Ashland is coming back.”
“We don’t know otherwise.”
“Sam, I know you liked her. And I know you’re trying to find her, but Paul and I must have someone paying the bills on this place. Things are too tight for us.” She touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry. We are within our legal rights to do this.”
“What if I pay?”
Carolyn sniffed, then she must’ve noticed his expression. “You’re serious.”
The thought of anyone else living here…
“Sammy, that’s…” She tucked some hair behind her ear. “What if you can’t find her? It could be months or longer. I can’t let you do that. I know you mean well, and I know you want to find her.”
“Why would she leave me?” Had those words come from his mouth? Sam pivoted and reached for another glass in the upper cabinet, knocking the one in his hand to the ground. Glass shattered across the floor.
Carolyn jumped backward.
“Crap.” Frustrated with himself and the situation over the cottage, Sam held out a hand to his sister. “Leave it. I’ll get it cleaned up.”
“I’m really sorry, Sammy.”
He nodded and retrieved the dustpan and broom from the small closet in the narrow hall. Sweeping the chunks into the dustpan, he tried to shed his sense of helplessness in with the dirt. It did about as much good. And hadn’t he learned in BUD/S that every minute was a choice? His choice.
He set the pan down and palmed the counter.
Leave the whole situation alone?
Or hunt her down like the SEAL he was?
His gaze hit one of the chunks of glass. A smudge caught his eye. Sam craned his neck to the side, allowing the light to hit the piece from a different angle. Not a dirty smudge. A fingerprint.
His heart backfired as the questions again plagued him—pursue or abandon?
Holding the piece as if it were directly connected to Ashland herself only heightened his sense of duty. The insane conviction that he was to protect her. He’d wanted that since she took his order at the Green Dot that first day he’d arrived.
Sam moved out onto the deck and tugged his phone out of his pocket. Dialed. Put the phone to his ear as his gaze bounced over the sparkling waters of the lake.
“ ’alo.”
“Otto, Sam.”
“You ask me to do complicated things, yet you feel the need every time you call to tell me who you are. You don’t think I know this already?”
“Otto,” Sam said, more terse this time. “Can you run fingerprints?”
Hesitation clogged the line. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know why you’re asking that, but yes—I can. And I can even read caller ID.”
“I’ll be over in ten.” Sam pocketed the phone and stepped back into the cottage. “Hey, I’ll be back in an hour.”
Explaining why he was leaving would give her the opportunity to condemn his efforts, chastise him again. He didn’t need that. When he pulled into Otto’s driveway, Sam stared at the Jeep already parked. Jeff. What was Jeff doing here?
Sam headed to the front door, which swung open as he strode up the path. Jeff gave him a nod. “What’s going on?” Sam asked.
“That’s what I’d like to know.” Jeff closed the door and, with it, shut off most of the natural light.
A
thrum of electricity emanated from Otto’s living room, where artificial light cast from a ton of monitors glared back at him.
“Look, man,” Otto said, as he pushed up his black glasses and shifted in the oversized leather executive chair. “You just had that sound, ya know? The one like you’re on a mission, and when you’re like that…well, it scares me. I don’t want to go to jail—”
“Jail?” Sam scowled at the two of them. “What do you think I’m asking? I just want fingerprints.” He held up the glass. “Otto said she didn’t exist, so let’s find out who does. Running fingerprints isn’t illegal.” When neither man moved, Sam felt as if someone had tapped a det cord and he’d blow at any second. “What?”
The Green Dot owner stretched his jaw. “You know the deputies found no fingerprints of hers at the cottage.”
Sam shrugged. He didn’t know but also wasn’t surprised.
“It’s probably not hers,” Jeff said.
“Nobody else has been in that cottage since that night.”
“Except you.”
True. Sam had been inside, but he hadn’t touched anything. “The print is too small to be mine.” Sam roughed a hand over his face. Turned to Otto and held out the piece. “Just run it. Please. I won’t ask anything else of you.”
Otto glanced at Jeff.
“Since when is the sub shop guy mayor of Manson?” Sam’s anger rose and crested on a tide of roiling frustration.
“I’m not,” Jeff said. “I just don’t want you to vanish, too.”
Sam swallowed. Understood the implied threat. Ashland had vanished. “You think if I run this, I could end up just like her.” And though the itch at the back of his brain told him she was still alive somewhere, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities that she had died. He could end up in the grave, too, if they ran this. He lifted his chin. “I’m willing to take the risk.” A nod to Otto. “Run it.”
“All right then,” Otto said. “It’ll take a couple of days.”
Sam backed toward the door. “I’ll wait on your call.” And before Jeff could pepper him with more questions or doubts, Sam left. They’d long been friends, and more times than not, Jeff was right. A wise man in his own right, Jeff had counseled Sam through many dark days. But not this one. Jeff wanted to play it safe. Sam wanted to play it straight—and hit whoever took Ashland head-on.