by T. K. Leigh
“I guess we should be happy he’s dead, but who killed him?”
“We’re running every background check we can get on this guy to see if we can find out,” Moretti assured him. “I’m assuming that’s who has your little girl.”
Alexander narrowed his gaze. “We don’t know for sure she was even here.”
Moretti hesitated. “Come with me.” Standing from the kitchen table, he headed out the back door, Alexander following.
Blue pop-up tents had been erected in the small back yard, bags upon bags of evidence sitting on long tables, being organized. Moretti led Alexander around the corner to where a pair of storm cellar doors were propped open, permitting a subtle glow to escape. Alexander peered at a wide set of cement stairs before they disappeared into darkness.
His heart thumping in his chest, he glanced at Moretti. Alexander had come over here because he wanted answers. Now that he was on the threshold of possibly having them, he didn’t want to take another step. He didn’t know if his heart could handle being anywhere Melanie had been. Where she had suffered. Where she had her spirit crushed. Where she lost her belief in the goodness of people. Where he prayed she hadn’t drawn her last breath.
A heaviness in his limbs, he placed one foot on the first step, then the next, the basement slowly coming into view, crime scene techs taking photos and dusting for prints. It was cold, wet, dank. Exposed pipes dripped onto the cement, and a chill set in as he tried to absorb everything with a timid curiosity. It seemed like a typical unfinished basement, but Alexander knew that wasn’t all. There was only one small, boarded up window, bars mounted over it. There was no light. The only entry point was from a set of heavy metal doors most eight-year-old girls wouldn’t be able to lift.
“Clear the room, please,” Moretti bellowed. Instantly, all the techs finished what they were doing and retreated up the steps, leaving Alexander to take everything in.
When his gaze landed on a dingy mattress against the wall, he halted. He pulled his jacket closer to his body, needing the warmth. His breathing increased, and he could see the chill in the air every time he exhaled. He could hear the ghost of Melanie crying for help, begging for someone to warm her in the frigid night air.
Alexander took an unsteady breath, fighting for oxygen through the heaviness in his lungs and heart. He imagined Olivia’s reaction if she were in his shoes. No parent should ever have to see what he was currently facing. He didn’t know if he could ever share this with his wife. He wanted to protect her from the stark reality of what was happening.
Without saying a word, Moretti handed him a pair of rubber gloves. Alexander slipped them on. His feet echoed against the barren walls and floor as he walked toward the mattress. It all looked exactly as it had in the photo he received twelve hours ago.
Squatting beside the mattress, a flash of pink caught his eye. He lifted the edge slightly.
“What is it?” Moretti asked, stepping toward him.
“Her sock.” He stared at the pink material, fighting the urge to pick it up and feel his daughter’s warmth through that small article of clothing.
“You’re certain it’s hers?” Moretti pushed, glancing at him.
“Can I say beyond a shadow of a doubt that it’s hers? No. It’s a pink sock. It could belong to any number of young girls, but I know Melanie had socks just like that one. I’ve seen that sock on her foot countless times, and this was the same color sock she was wearing in the proof of life picture the bastard sent us. So, based on everything else we know, I’d say it’s Melanie’s sock.”
Standing, he continued taking inventory of the room. Crime scene markers dotted the area, tagging the location of potential evidence. He followed a line of yellow numbered tags deeper into the basement and into a padlocked room that had been cut open.
“What the…?” he murmured, having trouble comprehending what he was looking at. A chair with leather restraints sat in front of him, dark stains of what had to be dried blood set into the wood. A lone spotlight hung overhead.
Chills ran through him as he struggled to reel in his emotions. He tried to stop himself from thinking the worst, but how could he not while looking at something so sinister and vile?
“I apologize, Mr. Burnham,” Moretti said, approaching him. “I should have warned you.”
“What is this?” he demanded, his voice strong, yet shaky at the same time.
A solemn look on his face, Moretti closed his eyes briefly. “We believe this is where he held his victims. According to your brother-in-law, who’s on his way here as we speak, he beat his victims before killing them, except for Ms. Tate. In her case—”
“He stoned her to death.”
Moretti tore his eyes from Alexander and glanced at a large white bucket in the corner of the room. Alexander didn’t have to look in it to know it most likely contained the large rocks that took Mischa’s life from her.
Alexander stepped toward the chair, pinching his lips together. He ran his hand over his face, unshed tears prickling his eyes as he struggled to hold himself together by a thread. He had tried so hard to remain positive and not think the worst, but as he stared at what appeared to be a chamber of torture and death, he had reached his breaking point.
A loud sob escaped his mouth. He gritted his teeth, fighting against his emotions. He needed to stay strong so he could get through this.
“Hey…” Moretti placed his hand on his shoulder.
Alexander spun around. “How am I going to tell my wife she’s…” He trailed off, looking at the chair once more, thinking the worst.
“You can’t think that way. We know what this guy was after, and based on what Gibson has learned from his journals, it appears he wasn’t working alone in regards to taking your daughter. The only leverage this guy has over you right now is Melanie. If he no longer has that, he has no bargaining chip. She’s still alive. I know it. And I’m not going to stop until I bring her home. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll admit we may have gotten off to a rocky start, and I apologize for my unprofessional behavior, but I want you to know that I take my job very seriously.”
Alexander nodded, not looking at him. As much as he disliked him at first, he kind of reminded Alexander of himself, which was probably why he actually cooperated with Moretti instead of did what he would normally do…conduct his own investigation outside the protective glare of law enforcement. He just prayed, between the two of them, they could find Melanie.
“I’ve always operated within the law,” Moretti said, lowering his voice. “Without law, there is disorder, but this…” He glanced at their surroundings, hatred filling his eyes. “I will get the bastard who took your daughter and exposed her to this.” He stepped closer to Alexander. “If you ask me, he doesn’t deserve the protection of our laws.” He passed Alexander a knowing look before taking a step back.
Alexander held his gaze, understanding washing over him. Moretti didn’t have to spell it out for him to know what he meant.
“Agent Moretti!” a hurried voice shouted from up the stairs. They spun around to see Gibson barreling toward them, somewhat out of breath.
“What is it?”
“It’s one of the computers in his office. I was going through all the journals to see if anything stood out, like you asked. All of a sudden, one of the screens sprang to life with an incoming FaceTime call. I let it ring through and, after a few minutes, the person dropped the call. But then it started again. Same person. No name in his contacts. It just says ‘Number One’.”
Moretti and Alexander shared a look, then sprang into action, bolting up the stairs, around the back yard, and into the house. The evidence team stayed out of their way as they dashed toward the office, slowing to a stop when they reached the computer, seeing the FaceTime call still coming through.
Without hesitation, Alexander approached the chair and sat down. He stared blankly at the screen, wondering who was on the other end. He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach this call was about
to turn the case on its head.
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, glancing down at the screen and inconspicuously hitting the record button, then placed it next to him on the desk. Returning his attention to the computer, he clicked on the answer icon, everyone waiting with bated breath as a video popped up on the screen.
Alexander didn’t know what he expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t this.
“Daddy?” Melanie’s sweet voice filled the room.
“Melanie!” he quivered, reaching for the screen, wanting to feel her, wrap her in his arms, promise her that everything would be okay.
“I want to come home, Daddy!”
Tears prickled his eyes. “I know, peanut. I’m doing everything I can.” He drew in a shaky breath, collecting his thoughts. He didn’t want her to see him upset, weak. He had to stay strong.
“Sweetie, can you tell me if you’re hurt anywhere?” Despite her curly hair being disheveled, she looked relatively unharmed.
She shook her head. “I’m scared, Daddy. I promise, if I can just come home, I’ll never bother you about making pancakes when you have to work.”
He shoved his fist into his mouth, biting back a sob that wanted to escape. “I’m going to find you, Melanie. And when I do, you can have pancakes every day for every meal, if that’s what you want. Do you have any idea where you are?” he asked in a bold move.
“I—”
A figure dressed in black, a ski mask over his face, approached Melanie, covering her mouth with his dark-gloved hand, muting her screams as he pulled her away.
“No! Don’t you dare hurt her!” he fumed, his eyes rabid.
“Oh, Mr. Burnham,” a voice said through a modulator as the camera shifted and a figure came into view.
It was reminiscent of television interviews where the person didn’t want to be identified. A figure sat in the shadows, a dim light illuminating the area just enough so he knew someone was there. It was impossible to make out any distinguishing characteristics, apart from the ambient background noise of cars rushing by. He immediately suspected he knew this person. If he didn’t, why would he feel the need to disguise not just his face, but also his voice? Alexander’s mind began spinning, running through all the connections he had made in Afghanistan.
“It appears you finally figured out what I’m after. I’m rather disappointed. I thought this little game would be more fun, more exciting.”
“Game?” Alexander roared, slamming his fist on the desk, causing journals, pens, and paper coffee cups to bounce slightly. “You think this is a game? You took my daughter. So help me God, if there is one strand of hair out of place on her head when I find you, which I most certainly will, you’ll wish you’d never been born! I learned one very important thing during my time in the navy, and that’s exactly how much pain the human body can endure. It’s quite interesting how long a person can cling to consciousness while suffering excruciating, mind-numbing pain. And I can promise that you will beg for death to end your suffering when I get my hands on you!”
“You think I don’t know how you feel? That I can’t sympathize with what you’re going through? Wrong, Mr. Burnham,” he hissed. “I’ve been there! I’ve been in your shoes! The anger. The frustration. The regret. The second-guessing. The hopelessness. I’ve been there. I didn’t think there was anything I could do, but I was wrong. We’re not so different, you and I.”
Alexander’s fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly, the vein in his neck straining against the skin. He vaguely heard Moretti pleading with him not to engage any further, but he refused to listen.
“I am nothing like you,” he spat. “I would never target an innocent little girl and use her as a pawn in whatever sick game it is you’re playing. Melanie has nothing to do with this. You want me? Stop being the coward you are and come face me.”
The line went silent, apart from the sound of church bells in the background of the video. “You think this is about you?” The voice laughed. Alexander’s face flamed. “This was never about you.”
“I know. I know,” Alexander interrupted. “It’s about the girls. But that is where you fucked up. I have no idea where they are! I didn’t even know they were still alive until I walked into this house a few hours ago! Taking Melanie from me isn’t going to make me suddenly have knowledge I never had in the first place!”
The more he spoke, the more he grew frustrated with the situation. What if he didn’t believe him? What if finding the girls was the only way to get Melanie back? Even if he did know where the missing women were, would he be able to live with the knowledge that he most likely put their lives at risk to save his daughter? Was her life worth more than theirs? Alexander knew it wasn’t, but in his mind, her life was worth more than anyone’s, including his.
“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk,” the voice muttered. “I really did think you were smarter than this. I’m more than aware you are absolutely clueless about the location of the women who were unlawfully taken from their families.”
Alexander shook his head, bewildered. “If you know I’m in the dark here, why did you take Melanie?”
“You may be in the dark,” the sinister voice said, “but your wife certainly is not.”
Part Three
Justice
The arc of the moral universe is long,
but it bends towards justice.
- Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Fourteen Months Ago
FEAR CAN SEEP INTO your bloodstream, into your soul, freezing you like a human ice sculpture. You’re no longer a living, breathing thing, but someone molded to behave and act a certain way through manipulation. You’re held prisoner in your own head. Your thoughts become grim and dark, every noise causing you to jump and overreact. On more than one occasion, you consider ending your suffering the only way you know how. No one will miss you anyway.
Then something happens.
A smile. A kind word. A warm hug. For the first time since you can remember, you feel loved. The fear you were living with slowly drains from you, but not completely. It’s always there, dormant, ready to return at any time.
Laila’s fear returned the night she sat huddled in the bunker of the shelter and heard two voices she prayed she’d never have to listen to again. Her brother, Tariq, and Waleed, a sixty-year-old man with whom she had been forced into marriage at the age of thirteen. After five years of suffering mental, physical, and sexual abuse, she had enough and fled. She thought she would be safe here. Aliyah, the woman from the Ministry of Women’s Affairs who had transferred her to this shelter because of her situation, assured her they would never find her.
She was wrong.
Laila didn’t know how, but they had come for her…and her “husband’s” unborn baby now growing inside her.
“I know she’s here!” Tariq bellowed through the lobby of the shelter that actually functioned as a medical clinic.
No one was supposed to know what was really behind the locked door to the operating room…twelve women with some of the most heartbreaking and uplifting stories of perseverance. There were girls as young as thirteen and women as old as fifty-five, each of them running from a custom the elders in their respective villages held on to with everything they had. Some proudly wore the scars they suffered from the slashing of a blade. Others were quick to cover the marks left on their skin from being beaten with whips and chains. A handful of women limped around, even after receiving the best medical care possible, due to broken bones that had never properly set. Despite no longer being forced to wear a full-body burqa, one woman still donned the traditional Muslim dressing each and every day to cover a face that had been eroded by acid, an injury she had suffered from failing to wear the headdress she now wore like a shield.
Twelve women. Twelve stories of endurance. Twelve survivors of legal domestic violence. Twelve women who would be dead if their family had a say. Twelve lives that had been saved.
But for every twelve, there were tho
usands who wanted to defend this antiquated notion of female subservience.
And they would stop at nothing to do just that.
“Who are you talking about?” the man running the clinic, Landon, responded in Pashto.
“My sister, Laila. I know she’s here!”
“There’s nobody here by that name,” Landon assured him. “Go ahead and take a look.”
The women sat huddled together, hugging each other, jumping at each loud noise as the two men stormed through the clinic, rummaging through each and every exam room, dumping out trays of medical supplies. Laila felt horrible, thinking this was all her fault. Her brother and husband weren’t to be messed with. She was living proof of that. They would stop at nothing to bring honor back to the family after, according to them, her “actions tarnished the family name”. She didn’t know if she would be able to live with the guilt if something happened to any of the staff members protecting her, caring for her, smiling at her.
“It’s okay,” Fatima, one of the other women, comforted her. “He’ll make them leave. He’s a good man and won’t let anything happen to us without a fight.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Laila responded, meeting her eyes, then returned her attention to the locked door, the commotion growing closer and closer.
Just when she thought they would come barreling through the door, the voices retreated. Minutes ticked by. Laila feared her brother or husband had slashed Landon’s throat, just as they had threatened to do to her, just as they did to her own mother when she tried to intervene in the arranged marriage.
After her father had died at the hands of the Taliban, her brother became the patriarch of the family, making all the decisions. It didn’t matter that their mother raised them, fed them, loved them. She was a woman and, according to custom, incapable of making decisions for the family.