“The cruelty continued.” She plucked at a thread on the seat. “He blamed me for everything—wasting water in the shower, not emptying the trash. At the time, I absorbed the criticism. After all, I had wasted water and hadn’t empty the trash every day. But when he broke two of my fingers and wouldn’t let me see a doctor, I knew he’d kill me one day. That’s when I gathered my courage and hid a wrench under my pillow for protection.”
She peeked at Jay. Concern flowed from his denim-blue eyes. Enveloped in his caring attitude, she inhaled and allowed the words free reign.
“One night, after he beat me worse than ever before, I went to bed and pretended to sleep. Usually, he’d continue drinking and fall asleep on the couch. But this night he entered the bedroom and stood beside the bed for a while. Then he nudged me and told me to turn over. Said all he’d ever wanted was for me to drink with him.” Blinking away the crushing pain, she clutched her stomach. “He poured whiskey over me.”
Nose crinkled against the remembered pungent odor, she almost gagged.
Jay laid his hand on her shoulder.
Her throat tightened at his tender gesture. Breathe in. Out. She had to complete her story. Now or never. “I opened my eyes and glared at him. An unlit cigarette hung in his mouth. He flicked his lighter, and it fell onto my alcohol-soaked nightgown. Guess I’ll never know if it was deliberate or an accident. Flames engulfed my torso and thighs. Instead of helping me, he snickered.” Gilbert’s leering face filled her vision. Pain overflowed from her soul and punched her in the gut.
“I smothered my nightgown with a pillow—thankfully my clothing was cotton and not synthetic—lunged for the wrench as he reached out to me.” Panting for breath, Lela opened the window and stuck her head out while rubbing her abdomen. Tangy salt-air filled her lungs. Gilbert wasn’t there. No fire. Seconds later, she straightened her shoulders. Chest tight, she spat out the conclusion. “I hit him over the head, yanked a T-shirt from the chair, and ran out of the house. He followed, stumbled down the street and was hit by a semi. Died instantly.” A shiver slithered down her spine. Her scars itched.
Jay's warm hand reminded her she was not alone.
She struggled to get the last words out over her dry lips. “The scars on my torso and thighs are from the fire. They bother me. I have a special lotion. But there’s nothing that will erase the scars he left on my heart.” Spent, she faced the ocean, her chest heaving.
Jay patted her shoulder without saying a word.
34
For the second time in five minutes, a helicopter buzzed low over the house. Chuck swung his legs off the bed. IRO had deciphered his clues. Hope swelled in his chest. Fully expecting a swarm of cops any moment, he waited by the locked door, listening.
Minutes crept by.
No rushing footsteps. No shouts of authority. No splintering wood or shattering glass. In fact, no sounds at all.
Chuck peeked through the blind slats of the side window. All five thugs stood beside the house in the shade of a large tree. He couldn’t distinguish their words, but Walter and Victor gestured wildly while Harry, Javier, and Lewis nodded. They didn’t appear to be concerned about an imminent attack.
Throwing up his hands, Harry pivoted, and stormed off. A door slam rattled the house then cabinet doors banged. Harry must be preparing lunch, in a huff.
Expectation fizzling, Chuck dropped onto the bed. No rescue today.
Seconds later, voices carried from the kitchen to Chuck’s room. His stomach growled, anticipating a sandwich—their usual midday meal.
Sure enough, Walter entered the room, carrying a paper plate and a bottle of water, which he handed to Chuck.
“Thanks.” He sank his teeth into the brown bread. Tuna salad.
Instead of leaving, as the other men did after they’d delivered the meal, Walter leaned against the door. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He drew it out and checked the screen. “Rats. Another message.” He rolled his eyes as air seeped out of his lungs. Drawing in a deep breath, he muttered, “Guess I’d better listen to the first one.”
Sipping the water, Chuck kept an eye on the man.
Walter’s scowl morphed into a sneer, and then he cussed, thrust the phone back in his pocket, and kicked the baseboard.
“Bad news?” Chuck wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Couldn’t expect napkins in this establishment.
Walter closed his eyes for a moment, his expression etched with anger and something else almost akin to sympathy. “For one of us.”
“What?”
“The bad news.” He looked Chuck in the eyes as if sizing him up. A smile crept over his face, and he nodded. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. Hang tight. I’ll be back.” He hurried out and locked the door.
Chuck drained the bottle and set it on the floor next to the empty plate.
What had caused Walter’s uncharacteristic behavior?
35
Images of flames and scars swirled in and out of Jay’s mind. He drove slowly back to Beth’s house, avoiding the crowded thoroughfares. Lela hunched in the passenger seat, head turned toward the side window. He wanted to offer solace for her wounded soul, but the wrong words might send her into a deeper chasm, one from which she couldn’t escape.
While stopped at a red light, he said, “Thank you for sharing your experience, and trusting me with the emotional wounds you’re carrying. I won’t pretend that my words will relieve your spiritual pain, but I do have plenty to say. Hear me out?”
The light changed. He drove through the intersection, waiting for her answer. When she didn’t speak, he asked again, “One chance, please?”
“It’s not as though I can get away, can I?”
That was not the response he wanted. He preferred a more positive attitude or at least a willingness to listen. “No coercion. I promise.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be abrupt.” She shrank into the seat. “Not counting my family, only Sadie and Bowen know about Gilbert, his death, and my scars. I…I haven’t told anyone else. Except Manny.” Pause. “It was hard to share that story with you.”
“I’m sure it was. Tell me, after, um, Gilbert’s death, did you see a counselor?”
“For a while. I also trained in Tae Kwon Do. That helped me develop self-confidence.”
“It worked.” He gave her a thumbs-up sign. “You’re one of the most confident women I know.”
“Now, maybe. It took a long time.”
“I’m glad you sought counseling. Did you do anything else to deal with the trauma?”
Staring out the side window, she nodded. “I used to teach self-defense classes to women.”
“That’s good. I—”
“Hold on, Jay. I thought I was coping fine.” She crossed her legs and prodded her thigh. “That is, until the incident yesterday. Again, I apologize for my actions, but I don’t know what else to do.”
Jay gave her hand a squeeze. “I have a solution. Why not try a different kind of therapy? Are you ready to listen to Dr. Vashon?” He dared offer her a smile. The silence in the vehicle stretched too long. Had he overstepped the bounds?
Then her soft voice reached his ears. “I need…help. Tell me how God can help.”
The words he’d waited for. He cast his gaze heavenward for a second. “First, I want to lay the groundwork. I’ve been a Christian a long time, but I’m not perfect. I’m a work in progress, therefore, please don’t use me as an example. I’m trying to be a follower of Christ. I get it right some days and stumble others. But I know this truth. Jesus is always ready to help me up.” Out of the corner of his eye, he tried to assess her body language. Was she receptive?
She sat up a little straighter. A good sign.
“My words alone won’t be the salve you’re seeking. Just as with your physical scars, if you want relief, you have to apply the lotion. If you want spiritual healing, you have to allow God’s words to take root in your soul, to grow, and to blossom. He will
only offer help when you acknowledge you need Him.” He tugged his earlobe. “OK, that was too preachy. I’ll be more practical. Do you know anything about the Bible?”
“A little. When I was a kid, I attended church with my parents and my grandmother.”
“Good. Do you remember hearing about the time Jesus and his disciples were in a boat on the Sea of Galilee and a storm arose?”
“Sounds familiar.”
“The account is in the book of Mark, chapter four. I’ve heard many sermons based on that passage, but one pastor added a twist I hadn’t considered before. Jesus never promised there wouldn’t be storms, but he did promise to meet us in the storms. Our job, then, is to take hold of his extended hand—”
“Religious people always talk like that. ‘Take hold of his hand.’ As though I can see him standing in front of me.” Sarcasm dripped from Lela’s words.
She’s in pain and searching for immediate relief. Give her a moment.
The interval didn’t last long before she faced him and touched his arm. “I apologize for my snarky comments.”
“I understand. Of course, Jesus won’t physically reach out His hand, but He has many other ways to administer His comfort. Reading the Scriptures is one special way I receive help. Other Christians, too, offer aid. And then there’s prayer.”
Jay braked in Beth’s driveway and switched off the engine.
Both hands clutching her shirt, Lela turned toward him. “Yes, I want to pray like you do.”
Way to go, Holy Spirit. “Hallelujah.” Jay suppressed other words of praise. He didn’t want to overwhelm her. “Do you often talk to your dad?”
“Of course. He’s my go-to guy.”
“When you pray, imagine you’re talking to your dad. No fancy phrases. No special words. Say what’s on your heart. When you were a kid, did you ask your dad for things, for help?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “He didn’t always give me what I wanted.”
“Exactly.” Jay thumped the steering wheel. “If we want God’s help, we have to ask for it. Similar to our loving earthly fathers, God won’t grant us what we want every time. But He will provide what we need.”
Lela’s phone rang. She ignored it for several seconds then removed it from her pocket. “It’s Bowen. I’d better take the call.” She turned and swiped the screen. “Hey, boss.”
By the grim expression on her face, Jay figured she’d received bad news.
36
A cool breeze fanned Jay’s face while he waited in Lela’s truck.
She’d run inside to change shirts with no hint she had recently laid bare her soul or that he’d shared his innermost spiritual convictions. His partner was an emotional chameleon, transforming to suit the situation—vulnerable and open one minute, strong and determined the next.
Spousal abuse was not new to him. Lela had survived—physically, if not emotionally. His cousin, on the other hand, had not. After Vicky left her husband, she turned to alcohol, and last year, committed suicide. Jay's inability to assist her hung heavy on his mind. Never again would he ignore the signs. If he’d paid more attention, maybe he could have saved Vicky.
Movement at the front door drew him back to present-day problems he could help solve.
Lela raced out of the house carrying her laptop and wearing a bright yellow T-shirt and one of her multi-pocketed vests, no doubt concealing her shoulder holster. Now he knew why she always wore tops with high necklines. The color seemed to have infused her with zeal.
Every action advertising confidence, she climbed behind the wheel. “Bowen wants us to question Vanessa Gaines. IRO agrees with our suspicion and suspects that she might head the San Diego branch of an illegal adoption operation, and be an associate of Walter Ferguson. If we gather concrete information, Bowen will alert the authorities to arrest her.”
Heated blood coursed his veins. Elation to rage in five seconds flat. Vanessa could lead them to Chuck. Jay jabbed his index finger into his chest as anger roiled in his gut. “Let me question her. I’ll get the information we need. She’ll talk to me if it’s the last thing she does.” All at once, he recalled the words he’d shared with Lela before the phone call. He risked a glance at her.
The chameleon maintained focus on the traffic.
“Told you. I’m a work in progress. Sorry for the outburst.” He hung his head. “Forgive me, Lord.”
They rode the rest of the way in silence.
Lela parked in the garage of Chuck’s office building. In the elevator, her phone chimed. This time she tapped the speaker icon.
“Vanessa might have packed up and left,” Bowen said. “We located the warehouse Chuck mentioned in his journal. It’s empty.”
When the elevator doors dinged opened on seven, they rushed down the hall and stopped outside Ms. Gaines’s office.
Jay knocked. No response.
Lela turned the knob and the door opened.
A vile mix of stale tobacco fumes and saccharin roses hit his nostrils. He coughed and scrunched up his nose.
No one at the messy reception desk. The inner office door stood ajar.
Jay called, “Hello, anyone here?”
Silence.
They entered the back room and discovered empty file cabinet drawers, a cleaned-out desk, signs of a hasty exit. Vanessa would not be returning.
“What now?” Jay stirred a pile of ripped papers near the trashcan with the toe of his boot.
“Since we’re here, let’s check both offices again. See if they left anything incriminating.”
“I found something.” He bent and picked up a piece of paper which he held for Lela to read.
“The number 330. Same as Chuck gave us on the video.” She knelt and searched through the other pieces of paper. “The rest of the address might be here. Help me check.”
They scrutinized each scrap near the trashcan, then tipped over the small wire container. No address details. After searching the offices, file cabinets, and desk drawers, they found nothing else of importance to their investigation.
Lela dropped into Vanessa’s chair. “They did a good job sanitizing this space. We’re no closer to finding Chuck than we were an hour ago.”
“But,” Jay tapped the small piece of paper. “This confirms Chuck’s information on the video. The number 330 is obviously important.”
37
Voices reverberated off the walls. Car tires screeched around corners. Gasoline fumes hung in the air. Not the perfect environment for reflection, but Lela didn’t mind. A lightness of spirit she hadn’t known for a long time filled her being, overshadowing the frustration of Vanessa’s fight.
Before leaving the garage, Lela called Bowen. “Vanessa’s gone. She’s cleaned out the file cabinets and desk drawers.”
“I expected as much but had to check the place. Did you find anything helpful?”
“Yeah. Jay found a scrap of paper with the numerals 330 written on it.”
“That’s significant. Gives credence to Chuck’s communication on the video. We’ll keep investigating the numbers on our end, but we haven’t found any connection between Lewis and Walter. I’ll forward your info to the cops. Hope it’s enough to arrest Vanessa and Zoe.” Bowen paused a moment. “You’ve been working non-stop for days, and I have no other leads for you to follow. I suggest you guys take a well-deserved break.”
“Thanks.”
Lela ended the call and then inserted the key into the ignition. But instead of starting the engine, she tented her hands and touched them to her lips. She had spilled her guts to the man sitting in the passenger seat, yet Jay treated her as he had before. Like an equal, with respect, not like a pathetic victim. Yeah, maybe her past could be laid to rest. Shoulders back, a smile creasing her face, she punched his arm. “Good find back there.” She related the other information Bowen had shared.
Jay tugged at his earlobe. “Even with all the assets and capabilities IRO has at its disposal, isn’t it time we turned the whole shebang over to
the police?”
“The authorities have been helping us all along. Under the radar to prevent Walter and his minions from discovering their assistance.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before? Don’t I deserve to know that much? It is my family who’s in harm’s way.”
“It wasn’t my call.” Lela understood his exasperation. “I don’t know the extent to which the police are involved. Bowen said they have APBs out on all the people we’ve identified as part of Chuck’s kidnapping and the adoption operation. We should receive positive news any day.”
At least that’s what she wanted to believe. Four days. A long time for a kidnapping victim to be held, with only amateurish videos as proof of life, and after all this time, no ransom demand. Perhaps Walter’s former association with Chuck accounted for his safety thus far. Would the increased police involvement interfere in the situation?
“I don’t understand why it’s taking so long. Isn’t IRO supposed to be the best? And what exactly are the cops doing?” Jay crossed his arms. “I’m branching out on my own. I can do—”
“No, Jay.” She grabbed his wrist. “Don’t leave. We’ve got this.”
“I’m grateful for what you guys are doing, but I have no say in the investigation.”
“You’re not in control of this operation.”
“I want to be.” He’d hit the nail square on the head.
Lela released his wrist. “I welcome your participation and help. Although you’re used to being in charge, you have to admit this case might be out of your league. For that matter, it’s like no other abduction I’ve ever worked.”
Day of Reckoning Page 17