I just looked at him. He must not have cared for the expression on my face, because he became angry.
“We know there’s something wrong in Robbins County,” he said. “Believe it or not, we might even be working on it, but since you are an ex-lieutenant, emphasis on the ‘ex’ part, I’m not inclined to share, okay? Same thing goes for ex-special agent Carrie Santangelo. Emphasis once again on the ‘ex.’ Chances are, you stay out of Robbins County and you’ll both be a whole lot better off. Go the fuck home. Trust me, I’ll be telling her the same damn thing in the morning.”
Gelber, who’d been listening, had a nasty smile on his face and was exuding agreement from the car. King gave me a curt nod and went over to get into the car. I tried to think of some really clever retort, but by the time I did, they were down the road and gone. As usual.
I walked back to the cabin. It was a pleasant night, although there was a hazy ring around the moon presaging rain later. The shrubbery around the creek smelled of late summer, and the pea gravel along the walk crunched respectfully under my feet. A zillion insects were communicating in the woods in the rising humidity. The shepherds were waiting by the front screen door, so I let them go water the grounds for a few minutes. I sat down on the front steps while they ran around and thought about what King had said.
Go the fuck home. Basically, this is our game and we’ll play it out the way we want to. Retirees, agents who resign, and other undesirables, especially ones who blunder into one fix after another and who believe in rural legends, need not apply. He’d been pretty convincing. M. C. Mingo and the Creighs hadn’t gone into business yesterday, and it would probably take years of careful and methodical police work, as usual, to roll them up in a way that would stand up in our wonderfully liberal court system.
Much as I hated to admit it, Special Agent King might just be right.
Then the shepherds returned. They were escorting one bedraggled-looking Carrie Harper Santangelo. I sighed. From the grimly determined look in her eyes, I knew there was no way in hell that I was going to get home any time soon.
“Breakout?” I asked her as she shuffled up to the cabin.
She nodded and then staggered just a little. I realized she was probably still under the effects of sedation. Her balance was off, and she was having trouble forming words. I helped her into the cabin. It being a bridal suite, there was only one real bedroom and one enormous bed, and that’s where I took her, the shepherds following with lots of concerned interest. She’d apparently found her dirty clothes and put them on over her hospital gown.
I sat her down on the edge of the bed and examined the top of her head. She rested her forehead on my chest patiently. Her scalp was a mess, albeit a professionally sutured and disinfected mess. She looked up at me, and then one eye wandered just a bit. Whatever pain meds they’d given her were definitely still onboard. I wanted to get her a bath, but right then and there she was bound for the arms of Morpheus.
I stretched her out on the bed and, as gently as I could, relieved her of her shoes, jeans, and shirt. The hospital gown did little to protect her modesty, but there was nothing sexy about undressing a woman who’d had the top of her head sliced open by a rifle. She made a halfhearted attempt to cover herself and then gave up when I rolled her into clean sheets and pulled up a light coverlet. Her body was slim, trim, and athletic, lovely and round where it should be, yet surprisingly light. Some genuine joy there for the right guy, I thought.
I went into the bathroom and returned with a warm washcloth. I washed her face as gently as I could and then her hands. She made little mumbling sounds. I brought her some water and she drank an entire glass. She said something about scotch and I smiled. Not tonight, dear heart. I fluffed up her pillows, made sure her arms weren’t contorted, and turned out the lights. I think she was asleep before I got out of the room.
I thought about one final scotch and then decided to pass. I was turning out lights and appraising the couch when there was a quiet knock on the door. It turned out to be the other Big brother, Luke.
“She okay?” he asked. He was twisting his deputy’s hat in his hands, and I could tell he was somewhat embarrassed to be there.
“Lemme guess: You failed door duty.”
He nodded. “Big time,” he said. “She pops out into the hallway, bottom in the breezes, says she has to get out of there. I tried talkin’ her back in, but she wasn’t havin’ any. Said she’d seen Mingo. Said she’d go out the window, she had to. Said people die in hospitals, she was leavin’, and she had a gun.” He grinned, despite himself.
“She get herself dressed, did she?” I asked.
He blushed harder. “Um, no, sir, I had to help her with that, too. Couldn’t see lettin’ her go half-nekkid down the damn hall. Said she had to get up with you. Said I had to spring her, that they was people comin’ to get her, same people as what cracked her head.”
I had to wonder where the hospital staff had been for this little drama, but I was glad he’d gone along. “You did the right thing,” I told him. “I think.”
“She gonna be okay?” he asked. “I can take her on back, you say so. Them nurses is gonna be havin’ themselves a hissy by now.”
“They know you aided and abetted?”
“No, sir, don’t believe so. They was busy bein’ distracted, sorta.”
I didn’t want to know any more. I told him it was okay and that he should go back to the hospital and tell them she’d checked herself out. “If she seems off in the morning, I’ll bring her back, but she’s probably safer here than in the hospital. There still a county vehicle out in the parking lot?”
“One comin’,” he said. “John was here, but he got called out. You got you a gun?”
I told him I had Nathan’s ten-gauge, and then remembered that I hadn’t baked out the shells. He grinned.
“John said you kicked his evil ass.” Then his face sobered. “He’s gonna do somethin’ about that, you know. They’re gonna do somethin’, best believe it.”
“So I’ve been told. Make sure the deputy in the parking lot knows about that possibility. In the meantime, it’s been a long damn day and night. I’m going to bed. She’s safe here with the shepherds. We’ll reevaluate tomorrow morning, okay? If there’s any shit, they can come see me. I’ll keep you out of it.”
He nodded, looking relieved, and left.
I secured the cabin, put the ten-gauge and the least soggy shells near the bedroom door, and then went in to check on Carrie. She was sleeping, or so I thought. I adjusted her covers, and then one small hand came out of nowhere and grabbed mine.
“Hold me,” she said.
I considered it and then said okay. I got undressed and slid into the bed with her. She rolled onto her left side and I put my arm around her. She took my right hand and pressed it to her left breast and then began to snore quietly as her body relaxed into mine and she dropped off into real sleep, probably for the first time in forty-eight hours.
I hadn’t been in bed with a woman since losing Annie Bellamy to the cat dancers mob. Carrie’s hair smelled of Eau de Betadine and hospital soap. Still, it was a nice feeling. The wind came up outside, and a rain squall pattered on the windows. The shepherds abandoned their porch and snuck into the bedroom. I pretended not to notice.
11
The county hospital people were less than pleased about Carrie’s checking herself out, but were pacified by some exculpatory paperwork from her via one of Sheriff Hayes’s deputies. I’d awakened before she had. I took the dogs out for a morning walk in the lodge precincts, making sure to stay within visual range of my cabin while she was in there by herself. When I got back she was in the shower, which I thought was a good sign. I made coffee, and when she came out she looked a lot better. Over coffee, she told me about hearing a loud crack, seeing stars, then falling. The shock of icy water revived her, and she remembered crawling into the rocky shallows only to be grabbed up by Lucas a few minutes later and hauled into the woods. He’d used duct
tape to blindfold and gag her, and some kind of clasp chain to pin her arms and hands.
“My head was on fire, I was soaking wet and bleeding like a stuck pig-you know, head wounds-and I couldn’t see or shout. So he pulled and I stumbled along behind him. He put me into some kind of van, put a towel around my head, and told me to shut up or he’d cut me.”
“I wanted to come back for you,” I said.
“No sweat,” she said. “I was only semi-conscious when I went into the water, but I still heard the gunfire. There was no way you could have done anything.”
“Still,” I said. “Your good buddy Gelber thinks I’m some kind of cowardly rat.”
“Gelber?” she said, surprised. “When did you run into him?”
I told her about the SBI sending in a posse, my final little seance with King, and his pungent parting advice.
“Gelber hates everybody,” she said. “Mostly himself, I think. He was involved in a bad ambush deal several years ago. He was the only survivor. Three other agents died. Screwed him up. They should have retired him, but he is one tenacious SOB. They call him Fang.”
“An interesting boss?’”
“To say the least,” she said. “He has no life, though, and when we normal humans wanted time off, he was eternally disappointed in our lack of dedication. So: Your turn-what happened to you after I went in?”
I told her. She nodded when I told her what Lucas had said about the Creighs wanting her brought in, dead or alive. She wasn’t surprised at King’s reaction to her theories about a child-trafficking ring in Robbins County. She did pick up on the fact that the FBI might have something on it. Then I told her the story Big John had told me about the foreign doctor, and what I’d witnessed at Grinny’s cabin.
“Son of a bitch,” she said, sitting upright and then wincing when the sudden movement pulled her stitches. She patted her scalp gingerly. “That’s a direct tie. Children at the Creigh compound? Foreign doctor? Airport security? That old hag is probably having them sterilized before she sells them. Did you tell Sam King this?”
“I told Hayes,” I said. “King actually didn’t want to hear it. According to him, your theories are tainted by a personal angle, and he’s sick to death of Robbins County legends. Like I told you, he invited both of us to go away. I think he regrets losing you at the SBI, but he as much as said that everyone up here would be glad to see the back of us.”
“Screw that,” she said promptly. “I need to talk to Big John and hear that story for myself, and then I want to find out what it was the Bureau was going to reveal to Sam King.”
“And how the hell are you going to do that?” I asked her. “They won’t talk to either one of us, and after what happened to Rue Creigh, we wouldn’t last a day if we step back into Robbins County. Mingo didn’t report Rue’s demise, which means the Creighs are taking that on as a personal vendetta.”
“Where’s Sheriff Hayes in all this?” she asked.
I described our conversation. “But you know what? I still think he’s not well,” I said. “I’d bet on a heart condition. I think he believes me, but he’s just not up to taking real action, especially if the SBI’s not willing to get out in front.”
“That pisses me off, too. Do you think Laurie May gave us up to Nathan and the rest of them?”
“If she did, it was under duress. Can’t prove that, but that’s what I think.”
“Yeah, me, too. How about Baby Greenberg? Can he help us?”
“Not officially. I can give him a call, see what’s shaking. Maybe he could find out what the Bureau has on Grinny Creigh.”
She beamed. “Now you’re talking. You have any real food here?”
“Um, I can get some. But look: Sam King hinted that SBI, and perhaps other alphabets, may have something working on this problem, and that the last thing they needed right now was interference from outsiders.”
“Horseshit,” she said. “I would have been told about anything SBI had going in Robbins County.”
“But you’re basically internal affairs, right? Why would you or your office have been in the loop for an undercover operation?”
She didn’t answer that. I asked her about her oblique comments to Greenberg that there was an operation going down.
“I may have been posturing,” she admitted. “He’s a fed. But Sam King is a senior manager. He’s got a full plate, just like everyone else, and he doesn’t want another helping of trouble.” She paused to take a breath. “You said yourself you think there are other kids up there. You heard her say she might have to ‘move’ the whole passel of them. I can’t abide the thought of that.”
“Because of what you think happened to your sister?”
“Partly, yes, of course. But more importantly, if there is some op underway in Robbins County, even if I wasn’t privy to it, it won’t happen any time soon. Most of headquarters knows when something like that’s about to bear fruit.”
“What if we lit a fire over at social services in Robbins County? Using the abused kids angle?”
“Against the Creighs? What was it that woman told you?”
I sighed. She was right. Now the question became whether or not I wanted to join this fight. Then I realized that, having taken Rue Creigh’s head off, I didn’t have a whole lot of choice. It was just that years of police experience had taught me how badly Lone Rangers could screw up a perfectly good police operation. King had said exactly the right thing to give me pause. Carrie saw my hesitation.
“You want to bail, I can live with that,” she said.
“No,” I said. “I did that to you once already. No, I’m just trying to think of a way to go at this. Let’s get some chow and then I’ll call Baby.”
After a day of rest for Carrie and resupply for me, we met Baby Greenberg up at the main lodge dining room at six thirty. He listened to our tales of mutual adventure and said repeatedly that we were both insane. Carrie had put a headscarf over the wound on the top of her head, and of course Baby had to have a look.
“Damn, girl,” he said as she was repositioning the scarf. “Another inch lower and you could be in DEA management.”
We had dinner and he told us what he’d found out with a few calls to the FBI field office down in Charlotte.
“I had to tell a few lies about why I was asking,” he said.
“I’m shocked,” I said. “Shocked.”
“DEA and the FBI lie to each other all the time,” he replied. “It’s our way of showing bureaucratic affection.”
“They wouldn’t talk to Sam King over the phone,” I said. “They told him he had to go down there.”
“That’s just feds jerking state guys around, what can I tell you,” he said. “I called in on a federal secure pipe and we got right to it.”
“Which is?” Carrie asked. She’d had a glass of wine and seemed to be coming back to life.
“Apparently there’s a medium-sized federal task force in Washington working on the exploitation of children. It’s running under the so-called PROTECT Act.”
“Whassat?” I asked. The feds used to drive me crazy with all their acronyms.
“Prosecutorial Remedies and Other Tools to End the Exploitation of Children Today Act of April 2003,” he recited. “Or PROTECT.”
“This PROTECT bunch have an intel branch?” I asked.
“They do,” he said. The waiter brought our dinners, and we waited until he’d left. I attacked a bloody rare steak. Carrie looked over at my plate and asked if I didn’t want that thing killed before I ate it. Once the waiter finished with his is-everything-okay recital, Baby continued. “And subject intel branch has identified western Appalachia as one source for children being sold into international sex-slave markets.”
“Suspicions confirmed,” Carrie said, with a hint of triumph in her voice. “But western Appalachia is a big place. Any specifics?”
“No, and there’s a wrinkle,” he said. There was enough background noise in the dining room to cover our conversation. “They c
an’t tie any reported instance where children have been rescued from one of these human sewers to a source in this area. I asked. But: They did have one CI who told them that there is a ‘florist’ up here somewhere, and that what she, and he did say ‘she,’ produces is extremely valuable in subject markets.”
“Any details?” I asked.
“That’s when they went NFI on me.”
NFI was intel-speak for no further information. It was the code word intelligence wienies used when they didn’t understand what some snippet of information meant. But that reference to a “she” also supported Carrie’s theory.
“He used that term?” Carrie asked. “A florist?”
“Yeah, and I asked about that, too. A florist produces ‘flowers,’ which is the street word for the product, as in little flowers, plucked for the disgusting pleasure of some seriously bent motherfuckers.”
“And why Appalachia?”
“Because the children have little value to a certain stratum of the population. As in, she was a’lookin’ pretty damn good for thirteen, but then she done got her a damn kid hung on her. And if it was her daddy who did the hangingon, then the child become disposable.”
“Did you ask them that question I had about a doctor’s involvement?”
“I did. They said that if the flowers are sterile, they’re more valuable, for obvious if repugnant reasons.”
“And this is a Washington, D.C., game?” I asked. “That seems like a dangerous place for this kind of enterprise, especially these days.”
“The key is a transport channel with diplomatic immunity,” Greenberg replied. “Most of the diplomatic courier channels in the country terminate in Washington and New York. They are not subject to search. Think about it: A Saudi woman shows up at Dulles, all burka-ed up in her best twelfth-century haute couture. She arrives with a sleepy child in tow, similarly covered, made up to look Saudi and probably doped to the gills ‘because she gets airsick.’ They’re boarding a Royal Saudi Air Force plane, and her husband’s a prince, of course. That’s a government airline, and nobody messes with them. They pass the metal detector test and the bomb dogs, and off they go.”
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