All That I Dread

by Linda J White

  We got back to the base and checked in at the desk. I was glad the kids had been found, but irritated it was Kevin who’d found them. Still, I was too tired to think of much besides getting home and going back to sleep.

  A few minutes later, I stood at the rear of my car with the liftgate up, giving Luke a drink before I crated him. Nate stood to my right, talking with me. His Tahoe was parked to the left of the Jeep. He was saying something about the dogs when I saw movement between the two vehicles and heard a noise. Then my heart jumped, and my eyes widened. Max, the Malinois, had seen Luke’s rear end and was charging him.

  All I could do was jerk Luke out of the way, get between him and Max, and brace myself. Nate must have heard the dog because the next thing I knew, he was yelling. I looked and saw him grab the Malinois by the ruff, hands on either side of his neck.

  Max twisted his head, and I saw blood fly. Nate wrestled him down to the ground and held him there, the dog’s body writhing, his jaws latched on to Nate’s arm. Meanwhile, I clung to Luke’s leash. He was lunging, barking, ready to get in the brawl.

  “Kevin!” I screamed. “Kevin, your dog!”

  Finally he came running. “What happened? What’d you do to him?” he yelled at Nate. I swear his snarl was worse than his dog’s. He reached down and grabbed his dog’s collar, and Nate let go and moved away. I saw Kevin twist the collar as he lifted the Malinois to his feet, choking him. He glared at Nate. “You do that to my dog again and I’ll—”

  Nate’s chest heaved with exertion. “You’re done, Kevin. I’m writin’ this up. No more.” His fists clenched and unclenched.

  Kevin cursed him up one side and down the other. I turned away, shaken by the conflict. Heart pounding, I motioned to Luke to kennel up. I wanted him secure. As I latched his crate, I heard Kevin say, “What happened to that grace you were talking about, huh, Tanner?”

  I heard Nate say something about blood. I turned and saw red dripping off his arm.

  “Nate!” Alarmed, I yelled for a medic. “Enough of this!” I took Nate’s arm. “Come on, Nate. Come sit down before you pass out.”

  Kevin left, dragging his dog with him. I was never so happy to see anyone walk away. I guided Nate back to my car. I needed to stop the bleeding, quickly. I searched for a clean towel in the back of the Jeep. Luke moved in his crate, still agitated. While I was looking for a towel, Nate pulled his shirt off. What I saw took my breath away. Scars—thick, ropey scars—covered the entire left side of his body from his chest to his waist and maybe beyond. They were an echo and an amplification of the scars I’d seen on his arm.

  Shock twisted my stomach. Tears sprang to my eyes. He looked away. I grabbed his shirt and pressed it against the worst of his wounds, biting my lip.

  Seconds later, an EMT showed up. I was glad to step back and let him take over. There was too much to process, too much for me. I wanted to cry.

  “Jess.”

  Nate’s voice brought me up short.

  “Let Luke out. Keep him on leash but let him walk around. Help him relax.”

  Always thinking of the dog. That was Nate.

  Fifteen minutes later, the medic had cleaned Nate’s wounds and stopped the bleeding. They wanted to transport him to the hospital, but he refused. I promised the EMT I’d make sure he got a prescription for antibiotics as soon as the urgent-care places opened up in a couple of hours.

  Later I asked Nate, “Why did Max do that?”

  “Sometimes the devil gets into ‘em,” he replied.

  I doubted that.

  20

  Scott Cooper looked again at the entry in the NCIS database.

  Sandy Smith, 19, 5’2”, 110 lbs., Caucasian, blonde hair, blue eyes

  Last seen leaving Green City Walmart at 10:05 p.m., Monday,

  driving a dark-red 1999 Toyota Camry.

  What the entry didn’t say was that Sandy was a single mom, living with her parents, trying to make a go of it after messing up in high school. Her little boy, age three, was missing his mommy.

  Scott’s friend Tom McElroy, an investigator with the Virginia State Police, had filled him in on those details. Now Scott was trying to figure out how he could justify getting involved. Agents were supposed to initiate investigations—that was part of the job. But they had to account for their hours, too, logging everything on an infamous time-management system. No one wanted to get gigged for having too many dead-end investigations or unproductive hours. Plus, most missing persons cases were handled by local law enforcement, at least initially.

  That’s when Scott thought of human trafficking, an FBI priority. The Interstate 81 corridor, a major thoroughfare for trucks, was known for trafficking. The north-south route ran through the Shenandoah Valley, not far from Sandy Smith’s home. Truck stops dotted the corridor.

  Had anyone checked security and highway cameras for pictures of Sandy? Could Sandy Smith have been lured away by someone who could trap her into prostitution? Doubtful but feasible. Just feasible enough to justify action.

  Energized, Scott left the office and headed west. He called Tom on the way; once he got to the mountains, cell phone coverage could be iffy. An hour and twenty minutes later, Tom met him at the Warren County Sheriff’s Office near Front Royal.

  “She was reported missing about 6:00 a.m. by her parents,” Sheriff Brett Walters told him. “That’s when they realized she hadn’t come in from the night before.”

  “Was it typical for her to stay out after work?” Scott asked.

  “Not often, and she always texted them. They babysat her kid, a three-year-old boy. Her usual routine on nights she worked was to get off at ten o’clock and then drive home. Took about forty minutes.”

  “So she should have been home by eleven.”

  “Right.”

  “Who’s been interviewed?”

  “Coworkers. Boyfriend. Old boyfriend. The boy’s father. Her parents. Neighbors. Daycare workers. People at the college.”

  “And you have nothing.”

  Tom spoke. “No one’s seen her. No one knew of any plans she’d made. Old boyfriend has a valid alibi.”

  “Drug use?”

  “Not that we can find.” The sheriff checked his notes. “We have her on a security camera at Walmart leaving the parking lot at 10:15. We’ve got nothing after that.”

  Walters threw the paper he was holding back down on his desk. He looked at Scott. “Why’s the FBI interested?”

  Scott shifted his weight. He paused. “Trafficking in the I-81 corridor.”

  “Drug trafficking?”

  “Human.”

  Walters shook his head. “These young people go missing all the time. Get tired of being responsible. Want a new start. Don’t know how to leave home, so they just disappear.”

  “She had a little boy.”

  “Even more reason to leave if you’re tired of responsibility.”

  Scott weighed his next move. He pointed to a map. “You have truck stops here, here, and here.” He looked at Tom. “Have they been checked?”

  Tom shifted his jaw. “We looked at the one.” He gestured toward the stop closest to them. “Talked to the people there. They didn’t see her.”

  Scott turned his attention back to the sheriff. “I’d like to reinterview some of these local people. Would you mind?” It was a courtesy question. He was going to do it anyway.

  Walters hesitated before responding. “No.” He stood. “I have a meeting, but I’ll have someone make copies of the contact information.”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  Ten minutes later he was on his way. Scott thought out his approach to the interviews the way he always did. Who had the most to gain, and who had the most to lose if Sandy disappeared?

  He decided to start with her parents.

  Horace “Hap” Smith and his wife Alice lived off a barely paved road in a one-story house that looked like it was sinking into the ground. Green mold grew on the dirty white siding. Several little riding toys lay scattered in
the yard.

  Scott knocked on the door, and dogs began barking. After a while, a woman he figured to be about fifty years old opened the inner door just a crack. He showed his creds, and she unhooked the screen. Three yappy little dogs rushed out.

  Alice showed him in to the dark living room where a small, towheaded boy sat on the floor playing with Matchbox cars. Behind every crime catalogued in the databases lay a bunch of broken hearts. Scott knew that well.

  Sandy’s mother motioned for him to sit on the couch. Did she expect him to interview her in front of the boy? Scott glanced around quickly for an alternative. “How about the kitchen table?” At least there he could keep his voice down and have a chance the kid wouldn’t hear.

  “All right.” Her voice dripped with fatigue.

  They sat down and Scott went over the facts—the last time she saw Sandy, Sandy’s relationship with the boy, with his father, with the old boyfriend … and with her father.

  With that question, Alice hesitated. “I told him she was too old for him to whip her. I did that. But would the tomfool man listen?”

  Scott forced himself to show no reaction. “When was the last time he disciplined her like that?”

  Alice looked at the ceiling. “Had to be she was fifteen, I reckon. ‘Cause a year later, that ‘un was born.” She gestured toward the boy.

  “And where does your husband work?”

  “Down‘t ga-rage in town.”

  “You have other kids?”

  “Nope. She’s it. Pretty little thing too. Too pretty for her own good if you ask me.” She said that with kind of a huff, as if she was as jealous as she was concerned about her daughter.

  Out of the blue, anger swept over Scott. His parents had loved his sister. So had he. They’d cried buckets over her death. He couldn’t fathom his father “whippin’” his sister at age fifteen. He couldn’t imagine his mother being jealous of her.

  Why was life so unfair?

  Just then the little boy came walking into the kitchen and handed his grandmother a car. The wheels had come off. She fumbled with trying to fix it.

  “Can I try?” Scott said, holding out his hand. Alice Smith muttered something and gave him the car. He looked at it and saw the problem—something was blocking the slot where the axle went. He removed it, pressed the axle on, and handed it back to the boy. “There you go.” The boy took the car and ran back to the living room.

  “If that girl thinks we’re gonna take care of her kid full time, she’s got mush for a brain,” Alice Smith said, watching him go.

  Scott masked his reaction. “So, if you had to guess, where do you think your daughter is, Mrs. Smith?”

  Alice Smith eyed him like a wary cat. “I think she run off with some guy.”

  “Her boyfriend?”

  “No, not him. Any fool can see it weren’t that boy. Some man.”

  Walking out of the Smiths’ house ten minutes later, Scott felt like one of those yappy dogs. Annoyed.

  He drove down “into town,” to the “ga-rage” on Oak Street where Hap Smith worked. Two men looked up, staring, as he parked. In this town of pickups and old cars, they could tell by his Bucar exactly what he was—“govmint.”

  Hap Smith had his head in the engine of a Ford pickup. He barely acknowledged Scott when he identified himself.

  “Is there someplace we could talk?” Scott asked.

  “Right here’s fine. I got a job to do.”

  Me too. He asked Hap a few questions, got a feel for his personality, and then asked, “Where do you think she is, Mr. Smith?”

  Hap Smith’s head came up. He turned toward Scott, his eyes flashing. “If I knew, I wouldn’t have called you folks now, would I?” He threw a rag he was holding down on the engine block.

  “Your wife thinks she ran off with a man.” Scott watched for a reaction.

  “There ain’t no way.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “One word—Timmy. She loved that little boy with everything in her. He’s what got her up in the morning and kept her going all day.”

  His passion surprised Scott.

  “There ain’t no man gonna keep Sandy from her boy.” Hap pointed his finger at Scott. “You find my girl and don’t quit ‘til you do.”

  Scott returned to his car, started his engine, and set out for Rocky Ridge Community College.

  Three hours later, Scott made his way back down from the mountains.

  He’d talked to folks at the college where Sandy Smith was enrolled, at the Walmart, and at a coffee shop. Then he’d gone to see the old boyfriend. Ex-boyfriends are always a possibility when a girl disappears. But within five minutes, he’d become convinced the kid had nothing to do with it.

  Then the kid gave him a tip. Sandy might have stopped for gas on the way home at a small convenience store where she’d worked as a high-school student.

  So Scott made one more stop. The small convenience store, simply called Bobby’s, sat at the intersection of two country roads. When he walked in, his senses recoiled at the smell of stale smoke and spilled beer.

  One customer stood at the counter, which was being manned by an unshaven guy about fifty. A stream of smoke rose from the stub of a cigar clenched between two of his fingers.

  Scott browsed around the shelves, picking up a small bag of chips and pulling a bottle of water out of the refrigerated case. The customer left, and Scott went to pay.

  Normally, he would have identified himself and asked the clerk about Sandy, gathering as much information from his words and nonverbals as he could. But something made him hold back. Instead, he made some small talk about the weather and commented about needing a break from driving.

  He left, but instead of going to his car, he casually walked in the parking lot, drinking his water, pretending to look at the scenery. All the while, he was making mental notes.

  There were no security cameras. Because of the junk piled high in the windows of the tiny store, the clerk could not see much of the parking lot—just the pumps, really. The area behind the store and off to the right provided plenty of opportunity for suspicious behavior.

  So, had someone waited for Sandy in this place? Happened upon her? Had she been followed?

  Scott walked behind the building and looked down into the woods. No houses or other businesses were nearby. No one to observe a kidnapping or even a suspicious car. He looked down at the ground. In a couple of places, he saw tire tracks, but anybody could have driven a wheel off the gravel.

  Satisfied he’d learned everything he could for now, Scott got in his car and threaded his way down out of the mountains. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the rich farms of the foothills ahead of him. The corn, almost six feet high, looked thick and green, the soybean fields lush. He liked the east—the hardwood forests and rolling farmland, the fruitful agricultural land. Just not the skiing.

  He didn’t have much to show for his afternoon. Why did he torture himself? He didn’t have to pursue his gut feeling. This missing woman wasn’t his case. He could walk away, and no one would say a word. In fact, his boss would be thrilled.

  Fact is, he hated what some men did to women. Fact is, he couldn’t shake what happened to his sister, what could happen to his daughter. It felt like ground glass in his soul, cutting and shaping him in ways he barely recognized.

  An hour later, Scott drove on the road that led to his neighborhood. But when he came to his street and mentally pictured himself pulling into his driveway and walking into an empty house, he couldn’t do it. He drove straight past it.

  When Nate walked into Beef ‘n Brew, he spotted a familiar figure at the bar. He walked over and slid onto the bar stool next to Scott Cooper. “How’s it goin’?” Scott turned toward him. From the look in his eyes, Nate figured he was about three beers into it.

  “It’s going,” Scott responded, taking a deep breath.

  The bartender spotted Nate. “The usual?”

  Nate nodded. A minute later, the bartender pu
t a tall glass full of a dark soda with cherries and lime.

  Scott eyed it. “Rum and Coke?”

  “Dr. Pepper,” said Nate, taking a drink, “with cherries and lime. No rum.”

  Scott grinned. “What are you? Fourteen?”

  “You should try it,” Nate said. “Clears the mind.”

  “Already I can’t sleep. Why would I want my mind clear?” Scott took a long drink. “What happened to you?” He gestured toward the thick white bandage on Nate’s arm.

  “This was from an RPG attack in Afghanistan,” Nate said, pointing to the burn scar on his arm, “and this was from a dog bite. This here,” he said, shoving his sleeve up to reveal his anchor tattoo, “this was from finding hope. Which one do you want to know about?”

  Scott blew out a breath and shook his head.

  “What’s got you going?” Nate paused. “That situation up yonder?”

  “Spent the afternoon up there.”

  Nate could feel the weight of that statement. “Have you eaten?”

  Scott shook his head.

  “Why don’t we get some dinner?”

  So they moved over to a table in the dining room and ordered steaks. “And black coffee for both of us,” Nate added, ignoring the surprise on Scott’s face.

  After the server left, Nate looked at Scott. “So, what’s going on?”

  Scott recounted his day, the trip to the mountains, the interviews, the convenience store, the people he met. Their steaks came and they ate and talked, batting around ideas. The dining room was nearly empty, and they could talk freely as long as they kept their voices down. Nate asked him a few pointed questions about the girl and her family.

  “Seemed weird to me that he would physically discipline her at age fifteen,” Scott said. “I can’t imagine spanking my daughter. But then …”

  “But then they’re ignorant hill folks, right?” Nate finished Scott’s thought. “Oh, I don’t mind.” He grinned. “I will say this, we’re rougher up in the mountains.”

  “Her mother thinks she ran off with some man.”