“Come to think of it,” Afton said, “that ambulance might be delayed.”
A look of fear crossed Mom Chao Cherry’s lined face. “Downstairs,” she mumbled. “Downstairs.”
“Downstairs here?” Afton pulled open the front door of the van and popped open the glove box. When a flashlight rolled out, she grabbed it and turned to glance into the back of the van. “Dope,” she said to herself. There had to be a couple hundred plastic-wrapped packets. Then a little louder, so Max could hear her, she said, “This vehicle’s packed to the gills with dope.”
Max just nodded.
Then Afton was racing down a long set of steps into the basement of the casket factory.
It was pitch-dark when she hit the bottom step, so she turned on her flashlight and shone it around. Lights? Yeah, here they are.
Afton flipped a switch and a few dim bulbs in wire cages popped on. But there was no Terrell.
So where is she?
Afton did a sort of grid search like she’d seen professional crime-scene investigators conduct. That is, she walked the length of the basement, cut over several feet, and then walked back again. She was searching for something, anything, that would give her a clue as to Terrell’s whereabouts.
Three minutes in, she noticed the wooden door. She walked over and butted it hard with her shoulder, putting as much weight behind it as she could. The door grated open slowly to reveal . . . three caskets.
Dear Lord!
Afton flew across the room, her heart in her throat, and landed hard on her knees next to the nearest casket. She flung open the lid and was shocked at the stench that rose out of it. And then was stunned again when a small voice called out, “Momma?”
“Terrell?” Afton said, reaching in to touch the terrified girl. “Is that you?”
“Help me,” Terrell said in a wooden voice.
Afton snaked an arm under Terrell’s shoulders and helped her sit upright.
“Are you okay?” Afton asked her.
“No,” Terrell said. “After what I just went through, I’ll never be okay.”
Afton helped Terrell climb out and then hurriedly opened the other two caskets. She found Snell on the second try.
He sat up and started blubbering. “Jeez, it took you long enough.”
• • •
THE SWAT team, two ambulances, three cruisers, and Deputy Chief Thacker arrived minutes later in a blaze of red and blue lights and the whoop whoop of sirens.
Thacker looked supremely pissed, but most of that anger drained away when Max gave him a fairly lengthy explanation as to what had just gone down.
For her part, Afton had never been happier to see large, hunky men dressed in riot gear.
Teams of paramedics placed Terrell and Mom Chao Cherry on gurneys and loaded them into the two ambulances. Terrell was handed a cell phone and given the royal treatment. Mom Chao Cherry was stabilized and then handcuffed.
Snell wandered around, hoping to score some attention and TLC for himself. Finally, one of the SWAT guys clapped him on the back and said, “Man, you were pretty damn brave. I don’t know if I could have handled being slammed inside a casket like that.” That seemed to do it for Snell.
Afton looked around at what was basically controlled chaos now. The DEA guys had arrived and practically danced a jig at finding all the dope squirrelled away in the van. Terrell was blubbering into her phone saying, “Mommy? Mommy, I’m here. The cops found me and saved me. But I just want to come home.”
The two Thai men had been trundled into the back of a cruiser and driven away. Hack’s body remained where he’d fallen.
Still, Thacker kept a tight lid on things. Running everything by the book, informing Afton and Max that they would have to submit formal, detailed reports and might even be required to appear before an incident review board. He made sure the Crime Scene team was given ample time to deal with the body and the building, as well as the carnage on the train tracks.
When Thacker caught Afton’s eye, she walked over to him, not sure what he was going to say. All she knew was that he looked as if he wanted to say something.
“So you chased after that guy,” Thacker said. “Again.”
“He came after me,” Afton said. “When I was with my kids.” She took a deep breath. “I thought turnabout was fair play.”
“Except when it comes to by-the-book police work,” Thacker said. “Then it’s known as revenge.” He cocked an accusatory eye at her. “You’ve got a lot to learn. Beside the fact that we’re going to need a wet-dry vac to scrub that guy up off the tracks.”
Afton couldn’t tell if Thacker was fiercely angry at her or exhibiting a macabre brand of cop humor. She knew she was treading on very thin ice and decided she’d better work a lot harder on honing that police-intuition thing.
“Are you going to put me on forced leave?” Afton asked him. She was practically holding her breath. “Or fire me?”
After a long, uncomfortable silence, Thacker grunted, “Not today, Liaison Officer Tangler.” He turned away from her, took a few steps, and then turned back, offering her a thin sliver of smile. “I’ve got other plans for you.”
53
PRASONG was running for his life. He’d squirted out of the door of the casket factory just as the shooting started, then dodged across a narrow street, and ran behind a dingy yellow house. From there he pounded down a back alley past a row of tumbled-down garages and foul-smelling garbage cans. He continued running through backyards and back alleys until he hit a more populated part of town that had shops and restaurants and very tall apartment buildings. Then he jogged across an enormous bridge made of stone arches that took him right into downtown Minneapolis.
Glancing around, Prasong saw a big redbrick building with a red-and-white bull’s-eye on its side. Some kind of important sign, he decided. Maybe a government building. That might not be so good. He turned away and searched the city landscape, wondering what to do, where to hide.
Down the street, a group of people was getting ready to climb aboard a shiny blue train. He ran with all his might in that direction and jumped on the train just as the doors were about to snap shut. He fell into a narrow seat, his heart pounding, eyes glancing furtively about, knowing he might be captured at any moment. Much to his surprise, nobody paid any attention to him. He was just another sixteen-year-old kid on his way to wherever.
Okay, Prasong thought. At least I escaped. I don’t know where I am, but at least I got away. Away from the madness, away from a terrible life of servitude under Mom Chao Cherry.
The train started up and then gathered speed, shuddering and rocking its way through downtown, past many tall office buildings and a giant building with a curved blue glass wall. Then they sped across a bridge that spanned a wide river. Prasong decided it must be the same river that he’d just run across some ten minutes earlier. This big river must snake its way through the city much like the Bang Sue in Bangkok.
The train continued down University Avenue, all the way into the city of Saint Paul.
When Prasong saw a sign printed in his native language, he jumped off the train and looked around. Saw a family with kids—maybe they were Vietnamese?—who seemed to be headed somewhere. He followed them down a block filled with greengrocers and small shops and ended up in an expansive open-air marketplace. Here, a large group of people—both Caucasians and Asians—milled around together, buying food at dozens of different restaurant stalls. The place reminded him of the Rot Fai night market back in Bangkok. He saw Vietnamese fried fish, Thai noodles, Chinese steamed dumplings, and tiny fish grilled on skewers. Music was playing over loudspeakers, and a man with a refrigerated cart was selling both chocolate ice cream and frozen Thai custard.
When Prasong saw a red-and-gold wooden booth with Thai writing above it, he headed that way. Pressing his nose against the glass, he saw that they were selling some very familiar-looking sen yai as well as khao gang, his favorite curried rice.
Prasong crossed his fin
gers, walked over to the harried-looking owner, and asked for a job.
The owner squinted at him. “Cooking?” he asked.
Prasong shook his head.
“Wash dishes?” the owner asked. “Cut fish?” He indicated a large sea bass that was splayed out on a cutting board. “Pla krapong?”
This time Prasong nodded. Sure, why not? It was a place to start. A way to meet people and gain a foothold in this new and very different country. Best of all . . . a chance. Working here would certainly be better than killing people and smuggling dope. Prasong shuddered. Anything was better than that.
54
AFTON arrived at the emergency veterinary office, scared to death that Bonaparte might be dead by now. She stood at the front desk and managed a half smile at the receptionist. “My dog? Bonaparte? The French bulldog?”
A vet tech who was standing behind the receptionist looked up from her clipboard. “He’s out of surgery,” she said.
“But how is he?” Afton asked. She was terrified that Bonaparte had been too far gone. That he’d lost too much blood. Or that he’d be permanently disabled.
“We don’t know,” the receptionist said in a kind voice. “Let me call back there. See what the doc says. She’s the one who gives the final word.”
“Thank you.” Afton sat down on a hard plastic chair with one mantra running through her head: Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay.
She was aware that she was holding her breath and tried to force herself to relax, to breathe naturally, to hold only good thoughts in her heart.
It wasn’t working. The only image in her mind was her dog roaring in to rescue her and then Bonaparte’s high-pitched squeal when he’d been cut.
I should have fought harder. Poppy and Tess will be devastated if I don’t bring that little dog home to them. Then, What am I thinking? I’ll be devastated. Bonaparte’s part of our family.
Afton stared at a poster that hung on the wall. It was a cartoon of a smiling brown dog with a package of heartworm tablets next to it. She looked down at the floor, the dread and worry continuing to build inside of her.
As Afton waited, she was aware of a nearby clock. The seconds ticking away loudly.
She slowly lifted her head. For some reason, the clock sounded more like toenails clicking against the vinyl flooring.
And with that, Bonaparte came limping around the corner of the front desk. He was on a pink leash and being led slowly by one of the veterinarians. His head was bowed, as though he was deep in concentration, and he wore a large bandage around his left shoulder. A white slash of courage against his shiny black coat.
Afton sprang from her chair and went down on her knees. “Bonaparte!” she cried out.
Bonaparte recognized her immediately and wagged his tail. Then he leaned his head against her hip and sighed.
“Oh, dear Lord, you’re okay.” Afton looked up expectantly at the doctor. “Is he okay?”
The doctor nodded. “He’s fine. We debrided and cleaned the wound and then I took fifteen good stitches. He’s got a rubber drain in right now, but that will come out in a week. With plenty of rest and some good antibiotics to stave off infection, I anticipate he’ll make a full recovery.” She smiled. “He’s a tough little guy. A real fighter.”
With tears in her eyes, Afton nodded. “I know.”
Gathering her dog in her arms, Afton kissed him on his forehead and carried him out to her car.
She laid him gently on the front seat, where he settled down immediately.
“Bonaparte,” Afton whispered, as more tears began to flow. Then, in the privacy of her car, she thanked him for saving her life. But, most of all, for saving the lives of Poppy and Tess.
Bonaparte looked up at her with large, intelligent eyes. And Afton knew that the little dog with the big heart understood every single word she’d just spoken to him. And that if Bonaparte ever had to rush to their defense again, he wouldn’t hesitate. That was just the kind of dog he was.
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Shadow Girl Page 29