Trash Course

by Penny Drake

  My head threw me an image of Zack lying dead on the grass and I bit the inside of my mouth to keep the fear and anxiety from pouring out in a long scream. More constructively, I grabbed the cell from my belt and punched in 911.

  “I’m in the Arboretum,” I told the dispatcher. “There’s a man with a gun. He shot my companion. We need an ambulance and police.”

  My instincts were screaming at me to run out and help Zack. I told them to shut up—calling for help was the intelligent thing to do. Jesus, why had I left my gun in the Jeep?

  “Where are you in the Arboretum?” the dispatcher asked, infuriatingly calm. “I need to tell rescue where to find you.”

  That stopped me cold. Where the hell was I?

  “I don’t know,” I gasped, and forced myself to think, retrace my steps while Zack lay dead or bleeding a few feet away. “Shit. Uh…I came in at the hospital entrance, and from there came down into the valley.”

  “Ambulance and police are on the way, ma’am. Stay where you are, and stay on the line.”

  The hell with that. I clicked off, set the phone to vibrate, and crawled toward the tree line. In the growing darkness I made out Zack’s frighteningly still form. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

  “Heyyyyy, girlie!”

  The voice was cold and dead, and it echoed faintly across the valley. Ice slid up my spine and made the hair on my neck rise.

  “I shoot your boyfriend, girlie,” the voice called out. “Come out now. He still might live.”

  His accent sounded like…Slava’s? My mind flicked back to what Ms. Hawk had said about the dead man in Uncle Lawrence’s house. I couldn’t remember his name, but he had come from Georgia, once part of Russia. I remembered the dog cages we had found in the warehouse, and a dreadful suspicion stole over me.

  “Girrrrrlieee!” the man sang. “You come out! We find you soon!”

  We? Was he bluffing or was there more than one of him out there? Tension twined my guts into a cold knot. Zack might be dying, but I couldn’t help him without getting a bullet through the head.

  Another flash from the muzzle of a pistol, and a bullet sliced through the leaves not far from me. He obviously didn’t have a night scope. Otherwise he would have shot right at me. A small plus.

  I knew what I had to do. No time to wait for the police. Zack could be dying, and every second counted.

  Okay, calm. Breathe like Kyosa Parkinson taught you. This was nothing but a problem to be solved, a lock to be opened. But quickly. Zack might be bleeding to—no! Concentrate on the enemy. He had given away his position several times with the muzzle flash, the shots, and the shouting. He was a fool.

  A fool with a weapon, I reminded myself.

  The spot where the shots had come from was about thirty yards away, across the clearing. I was pretty sure the shooter was hiding beneath the drooping fronds of a willow tree. The main woods arced around to my right. I mentally traced a path, then oozed out of the bushes and dropped to my stomach. It was dark now, and a tiny sliver of moon gave weak silver light. Grass tickled my throat. Zack was a few steps away to my left. I shot him a glance. Was he breathing? I couldn’t tell. My nerves screamed at me to help him, but the gunman would be expecting that, watching for it, and I would be dead in an instant.

  Gritting my teeth, I got to my hands and knees, praying the darkness would be enough cover. Crashing through the bushes might keep me hidden, but the sound would give away my position. Grimly I crawled forward like a spider. My skin itched, waiting for the bullet to come.

  “You help your boyfriend,” the man called from his hiding place beneath the willow. “He dies soon if you do nothing.”

  My teeth ground together, but I kept crawling. Sweat broke out and trickled down my collar. Ten yards. Twenty. Rocks and roots dug into my hands, knees, and thighs. Something slashed my palm, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. Thirty yards. I flicked a glance over my shoulder. Zack’s form was just another shadow among many. Did he think I was abandoning him? Maybe he was already dead.

  shut up shut up shut up shut up

  I judged I was far enough away from the willow tree to make a run. With a quick breath and an equally quick prayer, I rose into a crouch and skittered across the clearing. The moon cast a wan shadow that kept pace with me. I tripped over something, rolled with the fall, regained my feet, kept running. Don’t stop, don’t think, just run. The opposite tree line was just ahead of me.

  “You come out, girlie! I have nice bullet just for you. You cannot hide always.”

  Hatred of that voice boiled inside me, and I forced myself to keep calm. I reached the tree line, dropped to my stomach, and waited a dozen fast heartbeats. No response. I got back on my hands and knees and followed the tree line back toward the willow. The ground was smoother on this side, for which I was grateful.

  “Maybe boyfriend still alive. Must be hard to keep hiding like coward.”

  Boy, was this guy dumb. Whoever hired him must have really been desperate.

  Like you? a traitorous voice whispered in my head. Who’s the fool, the one hiding with the gun or the one sneaking around without any weapon whatsoever?

  Maybe I should have just fled the Arboretum entirely. But that would have left Zack behind, and the thought was absolutely unthinkable. The willow tree slumped just ahead of me, a sleeping giantess with long hair that gleamed silver in the moonlight. I went down to my stomach again and inched forward a maddening millimeter at a time. Ten years later, my outstretched hands touched the trailing fronds as they brushed the ground. I stopped breathing and snaked forward. My arms and legs were on fire at the unaccustomed exercise. I was used to running, jumping, and fighting, not crawling like a worm.

  I parted the fronds a finger’s width and peered into the space beyond. A shadowy male silhouette stood at the curtain of fronds only a few feet from me. He was peering out across the clearing like a nosy neighbor, except this neighbor carried a high-powered rifle. If he turned his head, he would probably see me. I would have only one chance, and I would have to move fast. Anticipation rose and tingled in my hands and feet. Digging myself in like a racer on starting blocks, I gathered myself and lunged.

  Time slowed for me like it always does. The man turned as I burst through the fronds and did a shoulder-smash straight into him. His rifle spun away in a metallic arc. The man’s body was solid, but my momentum and his surprise bowled him over.

  He went down with me on top. I rolled away, but he caught the back of my shirt and yanked me backward. I brought up my elbow and connected with something meaty. He oofed and let go. I scrambled to my feet and spun to face him, shifting my weight for a fast kick. But he braced himself and did that neat little maneuver that lets you shoot to your feet in one smooth motion. Shit. I’d been practicing that move for months and still hadn’t mastered it, and this bozo flips upright like a gymnast.

  We didn’t speak. He swung a fist. I blocked with one arm and snapped a punch to his gut with the other. He grunted but managed to grab my wrist before I could yank it back. He twisted, yanked, and spun me around so I was facing away from him, my arm trapped behind me. His harsh grip left bruises around my wrist. I back-punched with my free arm and caught him on the bridge of the nose. His hand loosened and I broke free. I tried a spin kick, but he ducked beneath it, smooth as mercury.

  “Your boyfriend die,” he said. “We fight and he die.”

  That shook me for half a second, and he took swift advantage. His fist clipped my chin. Pain exploded through my head and I staggered back a step. The man landed a sideways kick in my midriff. The breath whuffed out of me and I landed flat on my back, halfway through the curtain of willow leaves. My right hand touched something cold and smooth, and the world rocked dizzily.

  The man stepped through the fronds, stood over me, and drew a pistol. Dimly I wondered why he hadn’t done that earlier. He flicked off the safety and took careful aim. My hand clenched around the rifle barrel I had touched.

  “Now yo
u die, too.”

  I swung. The long rifle caught him on the side of the head. His knees buckled. Anger seized me now. Before he could recover, I rolled to my feet and swung again. The rifle smacked his head with a sickening, satisfying crack. He dropped. Panting, I snatched up his pistol. Even in the dark I could tell it was a Glock. I pointed it at his head. Red anger blazed hot in my blood. This was the asshole who had shot Zack and tried to kill me. A quick death was more than he deserved. I held the pistol steady and squeezed the trigger.

  At the last second, I jerked the gun sideways. The shot cracked through the night air and went wide. I sighed and lowered the pistol. I wasn’t going to kill this guy. I wouldn’t sink to his level.

  I did give him an extra kick in the gut instead, though.

  For a split-second I considered taking the rifle, then dismissed it as too difficult to carry. I flung it into the dark woods instead, holstered the pistol, and all but flew across the clearing to Zack.

  He still lay where I had left him. My heart continued to pound and my aching head throbbed at every beat. Please, please, please be alive.

  My CPR training took over. I knelt beside Zack, put my ear to his face and my fingers to his neck so I could simultaneously check pulse and breathing. His skin was cold. For a sickening moment I felt nothing. Then Zack exhaled warm breath over my cheek and I found a steady pulse. Relief weakened every muscle. I ran my hands quickly over his body, checking for wounds by touch and finding none, but the side of his head was sticky with blood. Where the hell was the rescue squad? I pressed the light on my watch to check the time and discovered not even five minutes had passed since my 911 call.

  Zack didn’t seem to be in danger at the moment, but with head injuries, who knew for sure? I pulled my flashlight from my belt and crashed through the bushes to Uncle Lawrence’s tent, where I snatched up a pair of moldy-smelling blankets, returned to Zack, rolled him onto the first, and covered him with the second. Then I picked up two corners of the bottom blanket and pulled. Zack slid smoothly across the grass, heavy but manageable.

  I was running on automatic pilot now. An exit to Geddes Road was at the top of the hill, and it was the closest way out. I hauled on the blanket, ignoring the protests from my back, amazed at my own strength and how fast I was able to move. Years of working out were paying off in ways I had never imagined. The blanket made a faint hissing noise as I drew it over grassy ground. I was almost at the gate when I heard sirens wailing in the distance, giving me a moment’s relief—until I realized they were heading for the hospital entrance, where I’d come in. I was almost to Geddes Road, a completely different entrance. Shit! I yanked out my cell phone and dialed 911 again.

  “I called earlier about the gunshots in the Arboretum,” I said. “My friend needs medical attention, but we’re not at the hospital entrance. We’re almost to the Geddes Road entrance.”

  “I’ll alert the ambulance and the police,” said the operator, a different one. “Please stay on the—”

  I clicked off and went back to hauling. Zack was a dead weight. I dragged him upward, refusing to stop and rest. At one point, I did pause to glance over my shoulder, thinking that there were people on the hill. Then the impression was gone, and I went back to work.

  I was panting and sweaty, my muscles burning from the fast, continual workout. The sirens continued to wail, but were still far off by the time I got to the Geddes Road gate. The Arboretum is big, and the roads that make up its boundaries are twisty and difficult to navigate at night, which would slow the drivers down.

  I left Zack on the ground and dashed through a gate in a low stone wall onto Geddes Road, a winding, tree-lined affair peppered with enormous houses that never run lower than seven figures. I peered left and right, hoping for a glimpse of whirling lights, then flung myself back into shadow.

  A battered red truck with a camping top was parked across the road. Sitting in front of it was a brand new SUV. Two men dragged the limp figure of a third toward the truck. A dirty red baseball cap fell off the third man’s head—Uncle Lawrence. He was either unconscious or dead.

  A fourth man pointed a keychain at the SUV and chirped it open. He was blocky and square. His two partners hauled Uncle Lawrence to the back of his own truck, opened the camper cab, and none-too-gently shoved him into the back.

  The sirens grew closer yet, and I saw red lights through the trees. The third man barked something in another language. Russian. My blood went cold, and my earlier suspicion exploded into full-blown certainty. Even before the man turned toward his men and the streetlight illuminated his face, I knew what I would see. A knife scar split the boss’s right eyebrow like a lightning bolt and I recognized the square face of Stanlislaw Yerin, the Pakhan who had overseen the child slavery ring in Russia.

  Oh hell no.

  Yerin jumped into the SUV and his two lackeys climbed into Uncle Lawrence’s truck. Both vehicles started up, and I didn’t hesitate. The sirens were almost on us, but explaining everything to the police would take too long and give Yerin too much of a head start. I sprinted across the street and reached the back of Uncle Lawrence’s truck just as it started to pull away. I lunged for the lip of the tailgate and caught it. My feet dragged the ground for a moment before they gained purchase on the bumper. The door of the cab swung open, then banged shut on my hand, and I almost yelped at the pain. I was going to be a mess in the morning—assuming I ever saw the sun rise again.

  I lifted the door just enough to haul myself underneath it and into the back of the truck. Then I lifted it again to peek out. Police cars and an ambulance were coming to a halt at the Arboretum entrance. They’d certainly find Zack, who I had left only a few feet inside the gate.

  I hoped they’d find him. Jesus, I hoped.

  The back of the truck smelled of exhaust fumes and old paper. All kinds of junk rattled around as we swerved and bumped down the road—newspapers, boxes, cans, bottles, even a dented trash can. I was knee-deep. A filthy window lay between the driver’s cab and the truck bed, and I couldn’t see anything through it. Conversely, this meant the driver and his hulking friend couldn’t see me—a clear benefit.

  My quarry lay beside me and, with an understandable sense of déjà vu, I checked him for breathing, pulse, and injuries. Like Zack, he was unconscious but breathing, with a steady pulse. He smelled of stale body odor and leaf mold. So this was the elusive Uncle Lawrence. I had a thousand questions for him, but he was in no condition to answer. Why is it men always go to sleep just when you want to talk?

  Okay, maybe that was unfair. But still.

  I peered out the back door again, though all I could see was rushing road and dark trees. Adrenaline zinged through every nerve. If I got caught back here, I was dead. No ifs, ands, or buts. I fingered the Glock in my holster. The metal was comforting. I wondered if I should risk breaking it down by touch and counting the number of bullets. Best to leave it alone, I decided. I might drop a bullet in the dark, and I’d never find it again.

  My cell vibrated like a frog squirming in my pocket, and I jumped. Thank God I had shut off the ring function. With a wary glance toward the front of the truck, I pulled it out, turned the volume way down, and answered. It was Ms. Hawk.

  “Where are you?” she said. Her low, rich voice calmed the adrenaline fizzing in my blood. She was with me and everything would be all right.

  “In the back of Uncle Lawrence’s truck,” I said in a voice just above a whisper. “Some guys shot at me and Zack in the Arboretum and—”

  “Shot?” Ms. Hawk interrupted. “What happened?”

  I explained as tersely as I could. The truck went around several turns, then sped up considerably. We were on the highway. “So I jumped into the truck just before they drove away,” I finished. “Do you know if Zack is all right?”

  “I’m nowhere near the Arboretum,” Ms. Hawk said. “So I’m afraid I don’t.”

  The hope that had been rising inside me abruptly dropped into my feet. “There’s more,” I sai
d.

  “Stanislav Yerin is here.”

  Brief pause. “I’d guessed as much. Do you remember the other case I mentioned?”

  The one she’d been working on while I searched the house alone with Zack on the Day of Many Doughnuts. “Yes.”

  “I was actually following another lead on the Peale case, cashing in some favors, and I learned what the Peale family has been smuggling.”

  “I know,” I said. The sentences slid from my mouth like cold worms. “The kennels aren’t for dogs, and that food wasn’t for the Peales. They’re both for the…the…” I couldn’t say it.

  “For the children,” Ms. Hawk finished. “Yes.”

  I closed my eyes, feeling cold and sick. Until Ms. Hawk said the words aloud, I had been able to keep the knowledge at arm’s length, pretend I didn’t really know. It made dreadful, terrible sense. All this time I thought everything had been about the Peale family papers, but the treasure was a tiny footnote in a much larger story. Stanislav Yerin’s branch of the Russian mafia needed American contacts, and the Chicago Peales had been looking to diversify their empire. A match made in hell. Yerin and his men snatched children off the streets and out of state-run orphanages and brought them by tramp steamer, most likely to Canada, which has a coastline much less crowded than anything America has to offer. The children would then be brought by truck to Windsor, right across the river from Detroit, a major point of entry for smuggling human slaves into the States. A quick boat ride across the Detroit River after dark, and voila! Instant slavery.

  Dog cages, of course, would be so much easier than chains for long-term transport. Escaping chains is possible, but escaping a locked dog kennel? Hard for an adult, let alone a kid. Hell, you wouldn’t even need to open the door for meal times. Easy enough to dump some canned stew through the bars and into a dog dish. I felt sick again.

  Once the “cargo” was safe in Detroit, another truck could haul everything—everyone—to Chicago, and from there—who knows? America is a big country, with lots of wealthy people who are happy to pay through the nose for their private kicks. I remembered the girl with the peanut-butter-cup eyes. She had escaped. How many girls like her hadn’t?