by Lisa Ladew
“Hey,” I said, but I didn’t say anything else, because I wanted her to feel better, and I couldn’t think of anything that would make that happen. But then I did. “I can get you out of here,” I said. “I know where the exit is.”
She looked at me then, really stared hard at my face. I didn’t know what she was seeing, or trying to see, but she screwed up her courage, I could practically see her doing it, and said, “Did you see any other little girls? One who looks a little bit like me, maybe? Me and my sister found this tunnel a while ago. I wouldn’t go in it, but she wanted to. She called me a baby, but I still wouldn’t go in. She’s gone now and I can’t find her.”
I shook my head. “You’re the only girl I’ve seen. But I’ll help you get out of here.”
In my head I was already trying to figure out how to get her home, and still make it to see Sandra before midnight. But it wasn’t going to be that easy.
She came closer to me, and her hands kept running over her shoulders and her hair, until she yelped and hit at her shoulder, almost falling over in some sort of fit.
“What?” I yelled.
“It’s a spider, it bit me!” She was hitting at her shoulder and kind of falling around the room, so I grabbed her and turned her, shining my light on the place she was smacking. I grabbed her hand to stop her. “It’s not, it’s just some dirt,” I said.
She started crying then, and I didn’t want to feel bad for her, but I did. I imagine that she was probably a lot like Mackenzie would have been if she had–
Mac frowned, turning the page, then turning it back. The entry had just stopped. There were a few tear marks lined with ink in the lower right corner, like he had torn the pen through the paper in anger or frustration, but there was nothing more to the memory. Mac dropped his head down to the floor, realizing it didn’t matter. He could remember it now. She’d been so fierce and brave, but so scared at the same time. They’d walked out together, and at some point she’d put her hand in his, and he’d been glad the tunnel was dark, because it could have been his little sister with her hand in his, and oh god, he missed Mackenzie so badly, she’d been a complete and total innocent and never should have died, she’d been so sweet, so beautiful, so fun and funny.
Mac pressed his hand to the floor, determined not to do what he had done that day, which was break down and cry. It had been the first time he’d done it over his sis since he’d been a pup. But after he had, he’d felt better. A little. Cleaned out some, the grief that had piled up in the decade since she and his mother had gone washed away a bit.
And here he was, twenty years later, still feeling like crying. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, wondering if the little girl from that night in the tunnels could really be his mate. She would have been the right age. Five, now twenty-five. But, if so, that would mean that he hadn’t only been brought together one time before with his mate, unknown to him, but twice.
He’d taken her to the administrative office of the camp, told his story, and thankfully, BFD had still been on the shitter, so a Sergeant had been called over from the police department. They hadn’t even needed to question Rogue to find out who she was, she’d been reported missing the day before by her aunt and uncle. Mac had been allowed to stay there with her until the two came to get her, mostly because she’d clung to him and only cried when anyone else had tried to talk to her. He’d hated them on sight, especially the way they seemed more concerned with what she’d said to the police than with how she was or what she’d been through.
His memory slid over the long walk out of the dark tunnel, when he’d asked her why she was named Rogue. She hadn’t spoken for a long time, but then in her small, but somehow still-fierce voice, she’d said, “I hate my real name.” He’d made a joke about Rogue, the villain turned X-man and she hadn’t said a word. Oh.
But he knew her full name, didn’t he? Rogue Kendall, and he even remembered her aunt and uncle’s names. Brenda and Kevin.
And he remembered the last thing she’d said to him before her aunt had peeled her out of his arms and carried her to the car.
Mac, I don’t want to go home with them. Can I live with you?
Chapter 26
“Oh, this is very generous,” Father Macleese said, squinting over his wire frames at her, his hand creasing her check. “So generous, Mrs… I’m sorry, I lost your name again.” He frowned. “I’m getting old. You really should be talking to one of my deacons.”
It was the next day. Rogue had made it out of Serenity, and only had this and one more thing to do before she could leave Illinois for good. She was paying her debts, closing her accounts, shutting down this life, and it was almost done.
Rogue dipped her head. She knew Father Macleese couldn’t see well, even with the glasses, but his stare still made her nervous, like he suspected something. When she spoke, she kept her voice soft and high. “It’s perfectly fine, Father. Miss Shedd. I never married.”
“Right, right. Shedd. I should remember that. It’s such an unusual surname.”
She smiled tightly, bowing her head a little to hide behind the scarf that covered her old-lady wig, knowing the thick glasses and makeup were doing their job, hiding her identity. She pulled a contract out of her purse and handed it over. “I’ve had my lawyer draw this up. If your Bishop accepts that check, it can only be used here in this parish. And it can only be used to fund your church if he gives approval for the Beds of Hope shelter you’ve been planning.”
The old priest sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “How did you learn about this?”
Rogue slid the contract onto his desk. “There’s been word on the street, Father. Someone came to me, asked for my help. How could I say no to such a worthy cause?” This was why she had to come herself. To make sure he was going to take it to his Bishop. To make sure he knew this was for him and his project, and not for anything else the Bishop might convince him was more important.
He peered at her again, without his glasses. “Do you attend services at my church?”
She shook her head. “I only live here in the spring, but I did grow up here, as did my sister. This parish will always be important to me. It needs what you have planned for it.”
Her stomach growled loudly and she coughed to cover the noise. Damn. She just had to convince him, then she could grab something to eat, visit her last place to get the only things she couldn’t replace, and then she would be done.
She’d decided on where she was going. Australia. At least for a little while. She’d visited her lawyer that morning, put all her money except a small travel fund into this trust she was turning over to Father Macleese, and then she’d be driving out of the state to catch a plane in Indiana.
Australia was literally on the other side of the world from Chicago.
And that was as far away from Mac as she could get.
This truly was goodbye and she’d decided on the drive from Serenity to Chicago that when she got to Australia, she was turning over a new leaf. Changing. Maybe handing over all her money to a man of God for the simple reason of helping people could erase her past in some way. Then she could just do something simple.
Something normal that had nothing to do with cops, criminals, angels, or wolves.
She could always find a job as a locksmith.
***
“Yeah, thanks.” Not. People in Chicago were so damn closed-mouthed. Mac let the old lady slam the door in his face. He turned to Bruin, who was coming down the steps. “Anything?”
“Nah, they say nobody under the age of fifty lives in this building, certainly no twenty-five year old woman. And they never heard of the name.”
“Yeah, that’s the same answer I got. Shit.” He rubbed a hand over his face. It was like chasing a ghost. Someone who might or might not exist.
He’d run all the Kendall names through both Serenity and Chicago computers and gotten nothing on Rogue since that time she’d been reported as a missing child and Mac had found her in t
he tunnels. Which was shocking, because both her aunt and uncle had been arrested multiple times in the years before and after, mostly for petty crimes like pickpocketing, theft, passing bad checks, and forgery. Some of the notes had mentioned there had been reports of a young girl with them occasionally, sometimes even part of the crime, but she’d always gotten away, and Brenda and Kevin had always insisted there was no girl. Chicago PD had never cross-checked files with Serenity PD, so the fact that Rogue existed had escaped notice, until she was almost a legend. Then Kevin had died and Brenda had disappeared, and no whisper of Rogue had ever been heard again.
Rogue. He’d been saying the name under his breath all morning, loving it more and more each time. He knew it was a nickname, but it was sexy as shit. He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing he’d taken the time to shave. The scruff was making him itch. But no, they hadn’t even eaten. He had to find her quickly, before she disappeared for good.
Knowing her name hadn’t helped him at all. Rogue Kendall had never been arrested, never been in the military, never asked for government assistance, never filed taxes, never been recorded in any way that he had access to. There were 266 Kendalls in the phone book, probably half of them female, and he could have searched through them to find a first name like flora, but simple cop instinct told him that was a stupid move. He wouldn’t find her that way.
The first entry he’d read that made mention of her had been three years after he’d found her in the tunnels, so that would have made her eight. Chicago PD had a rash of pickpocketing cases, literally fifty and sixty people being pickpocketed a day in the same three-mile radius. No matter what they did, they couldn’t catch who was doing it. They would set out undercover cops and cameras where the pattern specialist said would be the next hotspot, also leaving some at the last few hot spots, but the pickpocketer was always one step ahead of them. The victims had never noticed anyone, or been suspicious of anyone in particular, except a few had noticed a pretty young girl, a few had even talked to her. But none had wanted to believe she could have been the one who had taken their stuff.
Just by chance, Kevin Kendall had been pulled over on something completely unrelated, and found with a trash bag full of wallets in the back of his car. He’d eventually confessed to being the South Side picker, even though all of the cops and even the judge were skeptical, because he didn’t seem particularly smart or smooth. But he knew where and when the stuff had been taken, and he had the wallets. He also had enough money to hire a good lawyer, and he was let out of jail in eight months, during which the crimes had stopped completely.
Mac and Bruin had spent the morning reading every file they could find on Kevin and Brenda Kendall, especially the arrest notes. They’d compiled a quick mock up of the addresses the pair had given over the years, especially taking note of any mention of a young girl with the pair. It hadn’t been particularly helpful. Then they’d tried cross-referencing with any crimes during the time period where a young girl was suspected or caught.
Mac had been itchy, unable to do a complete investigation, feeling the pull to get on the road as soon as they had something, anything, to go on. Bruin had driven to Chicago, with Mac in the passenger seat, still reading.
But then the dead end. Kevin had been shot and died, unknown assailant. Brenda had disappeared, never been arrested in Chicago again. Rogue never was mentioned at all. She would have been 14.
Mac had wanted to give up in frustration, but his stubbornness wouldn’t let him. The only alternative was driving around, hoping to catch her scent again, and he knew he wouldn’t be that lucky twice, even if fate did seem to be trying to put them together. Fate helps those who do the shitwork. He knew that.
So he went back to the computer. Tens of thousands of crimes went unsolved in Chicago every year. Obviously, Rogue was still operating out of Chicago and/or Serenity, and it made sense that she was still a criminal. It was what she knew, what she was good at. She’d never gone to school, a quick check of the computer records told him that, at least not with the last name Kendall.
The fingerprints found on the trophy that had been used to murder Denton Smith weren’t on file, which meant she’d never been caught, never been arrested, if they were hers. So they’d started checking unsolved crimes. And finally found something that they could work with.
There’d been a cat burglar operating in Chicago for, as far as they could tell, the last seven years. Never caught. Somehow never even caught on camera, unless it was a shadowy or grainy shot that didn’t tell the investigating officers anything. The assumption, of course, was that the cat burglar was a man, but a few of the detectives had decided that, no, the cat burglar must be a woman, and they’d started calling her the pussycat burglar. Not officially, of course.
Mac had read through all the notes and decided it was bullshit, they had nothing concrete to go on that would say the cat burglar was a woman, except for good old intuition, and the fact that they’d never caught him/her yet. The things the burglar did were unusual, sure, but they didn’t point to a woman over a man, in his opinion.
One: The burglar only broke into homes and offices of criminals. Most criminals didn’t report when their shit got stolen, but sometimes they did. Insured art, that kind of thing.
Two: Six times over the last seven years, the FBI or the Chicago PD had received a neat little package in the mail, a damning package that implicated a criminal in some activity they had tried to hide from the cops. One time, it had been a video taken of a contract hit, with a note of where it had been found and that there were more where that came from. When the police had entered the home on a warrant, the suspect had been surprised as hell that the video was even gone from his safe. It must have been stolen, were his outraged words. Another time, the FBI had received an email from a suspect’s computer that included a complete image of the hard drive, saying, “Hi, I’m a fucking dirty pig, and I need to be arrested.” Mac didn’t even want to think about what they’d found when they’d gotten into the hard drive.
Three: The times the burglar had been sighted on security cameras had all seemed to be deliberate, like the burglar had known right where the camera was and turned in such a way to show only what he or she wanted to be seen. It always looked like a man, normally dressed in work clothes or maintenance clothes, with a cap on his head and gloves on his hands, but there was one picture that had been magnified and Mac had stared at for way too long as the road to Chicago whipped by, Bruin humming folk rock in the driver seat. The image showed the person walking away from the camera. Just his back, but the coveralls he had been wearing had been just a bit too short for him. The picture had been zoomed in on the ankles, where dark purple leggings showed over the top of slim socks.
That was one fact that Mac could agree with the other officers on. Men did not generally wear purple leggings.
But knowing that fact had done nothing to help him find Rogue. Until he found one detective’s notes. If those few facts the guy had compiled helped Mac find Rogue, he didn’t owe that guy a beer, he owed him a car or some shit.
The guy was a computer nerd. Liked to write programs that solved crimes using data and correlations a human eye couldn’t find. The courts didn’t allow much of it yet, so his Lieutenant didn’t encourage the behavior, but the guy still did it, for whatever reason. Maybe for fun. Some people were weird as shit. He’d written a couple of programs that cross-referenced major financial crimes with large monetary deposits all over the world. All U.S. banks and most banks of countries that were U.S. allies reported all deposits over a certain amount, or many smaller deposits by the same person across multiple banks in the same time period.
The code-happy detective had written a smaller program to compare the cat burglar’s reported crimes with all financial deposits that they knew of, around the world. The program had spit out one name, a name of a person who only seemed to exist in the IRS’s files, except she’d once gotten mail in this building. To an apartment that didn’t exist.
Angel Shedd.
Mac crumpled the piece of paper in his pocket that had the name on it with his fist. He’d written it down. Brought the paper with him, even though nothing could make him forget that name.
She was screaming to be found, and she probably didn’t even know it.
Angel. Because she was half angel. Shedd, like the Shedd Aquarium, which placed her firmly in Chicago.
Mac wasn’t a big thinker. Never a philosopher. But the one true mate prophecy was starting to become more interesting to him every day, and not just because he was the one in the thick of it at that very moment. Not just because he’d first met his mate when she was five years old, then connected with her again at twenty-one, then just happened to plan the rut at a place she dropped into that night? That angel had wound who these women really were into their very beings. Or fate had done that. Something more than coincidence had to be at work.
Graeme believed that Rhen and Khain weren’t predicting the future, but rather that they were somehow creating it, spinning it like yarn between two needles, into the blanket of the shiften’s lives.
Mac was starting to believe that also, and he didn’t know if he liked it or not. If they were being steered, how were they being steered, and why? Were they really nothing more than pawns, given enough needs and desires to think they were important, that they had free will and a purpose, then set loose on a board of play, to be turned occasionally by some cosmic hand like a young boy would turn a bug with a toothpick?
Mac raised a hand to his head. His temples were pounding. “Shit,” he said to no one in particular, even though Bruin was right in front of him. “We lost her. We fucking lost her.”
Bruin shook his head. “No way. We just need to reconnoiter. Food will clear our heads.”