Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  The cases set before me broke my heart, but the work was also a blessing. I honored each survivor by giving them my very best.

  Ritual abuse does not go away. Will never go away. It has been around since Eden. The evil often lies hidden, like the snake in the garden, but if an advocate is willing to look close enough, and if that advocate reads between the lines, she will recognize the truth when she sees it.

  This time the RA factor was found “between the lines” of the police report. The charge was domestic violence, but I didn’t have to search for the truth. The photographs in the file showed the victim’s husband with devil horns tattooed on his forehead, pentagrams on his arms, and the number 666 inked across his back. Additional pictures taken at the scene showed the usual black-on-black home decor, stacks of demonic movies, Gothic art on the walls, and sadomasochistic devices in the bedroom.

  What am I supposed to do with this?

  I chewed thoughtfully on the tip of my pen, keeping time with the restless tap of my foot. I was pretty sure that Victim Witness would not pay for an exorcism.

  This particular case had come on the heels of one out of Alaska that rocked the nation. Miranda Barbour had admitted to being an active participant in a satanic cult and to ritually murdering twenty-two people. The term “Satanist” would soon be swept aside, until the next grisly discovery. No one counted the little RA cases that peppered the news between the classic killers, Richard Ramirez and Charles Manson. Few people knew or cared that RA was a component in the investigations of more recent headliners like Jonbenét Ramsey and Scott Peterson.

  Who? I imagine people asking, to which I would reply, “My point!”

  Because the case had followed the one making national headlines, Jack decided to send me out to provide more training—this time throwing me to the wolves in San Diego. There is no city in the United States where the topic of ritual abuse is less welcome.

  Thanks, Jack.

  The conference wasn’t for a couple of weeks, so I tried to stay focused on the case at hand.

  “Good morning, is this Elsie?”

  “This is Electra.”

  Of course, it is.

  “My name is Sunny McLane. I am the advocate with the district attorney office looking to speak with Elsie Rozelle.”

  “Is Romulus still in jail?”

  Romulus aka Ronald Shelton was Devil-boy down at the jail. After I had verified that Elsie was aka Electra, I said “yes,” and provided her with legal information regarding bail and arraignment for Romulus.

  We talked about her safety, and Electra raged. “What do you know? There is no safe place! It will never end.” She went on to tell me uncomfortable truths in more detail than I wanted to hear, but I knew my job.

  An advocate’s job is to listen and believe.

  Ritual abuse survivors suffer similar issues as POWs. My father told me about the brainwashing and the physical torture that he’d endured as a prisoner during the Vietnam War. Survivors of ritual abuse have been held captive and controlled by cults who employ similar tactics of torture and brainwashing.

  Electra’s voice came on strong and then collapsed under the strain. “They are always watching me. They can tell me what I ate for breakfast, who I talk to on the phone, what color of underwear I put on for Christ’s sake. One time I went to LA to visit my family . . . unbelieveable shit.” She broke down with a gasp and a sniffle and then lowered her voice as if they would hear us. “They told me everyone that I had talked to while I was down there, even a stranger on a bus.”

  I offer hope. “I have a list of therapists that specialize in helping survivors of ritual abuse, or I can help relocate you through Victim Witness.”

  Like my father, whose hand was cut off when he was tortured, Elsie’s physical damage had been extensive and ritually inflicted over an extended period of time. She had recently been treated at the ER, but she would need long-term holistic treatment.

  I validate their pain: “I can see by this report that you’ve been a victim of . . .” Today I referred her to Rape Crisis and counselors with the domestic violence program. Elsie had not only suffered physical trauma, but she also had severe mental, emotional, and spiritual needs. As Elsie and I grow in trust, I will offer her additional resources. She will need qualified counselors who specialize in long-term abuse. I figure if a therapist is not qualified to treat a prisoner of war, then they probably aren’t qualified to deal with a survivor of ritual abuse.

  “I’m a bad person. They made me . . . Romulus beat me and sodomized me. I have scars . . .”

  I reassure. “I believe you are a good person. I’m sorry that happened to you. You didn’t deserve that. Are you feeling suicidal?”

  I stay informed. “Was this part of a blood ritual for St. Walpurgis Day?”

  “Yes, yes.” Elsie was astounded at first and then became suspicious. “How did you . . . ? are you one of them?”

  I establish trust. “No, Electra. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s good that you're cautious. My job is to help you, and I can’t do that if I am not familiar with ritual abuse.”

  I support. “You have been a victim. I want to help you to become a survivor.”

  I hung up the phone and sat quietly for a moment, wondering if I was going crazy. These cases unnerve me. Elsie’s fear was contagious, and I wondered if I was paranoid. Maybe she was a setup; maybe my phone was tapped. After all, I have a history of being followed.

  CHAPTER 45

  Travis was back in town regarding the numerous reports that had been generated by the various agencies involved in the drug bust. I couldn’t look him in the eye at first. I was afraid of what he would think.

  “Travis.” I stared at my desk, looking guilty because I was guilty. I knew that Travis would not be pleased that I had delayed in providing him with this information. “Chance called me,” I said.

  I glanced at Travis who sat in the chair across from me. He stiffened and leaned in, studying me like a watchmaker looking for a few loose screws.

  “Quit it. I’m not crazy. Chance really did call me, a few hours before the raid. He told me that he had figured out the why someone would want Quincy, but he wouldn’t give me any details. He said he would explain everything when I got home.”

  Travis’s features tightened as he stood and leaned over the desk. Sure enough, he was not happy.

  “What else did he say?” asked Travis.

  “That’s all. I guess. I forget.”

  Travis circled my desk. Taking my chin in his hand, he drew my face up until our gazes met. “There has to be more. Think, Sunny. It’s important.”

  Irritated, I slapped his hand away. “I don’t know. I guess everything got—blurry—what with the blood and bullets and . . .” I dropped my gaze and shook my head. “He said . . . he had something to show me when I got home.”

  “What? What did he have to show you?” Travis was so close that I could smell his essence—heated, alive.

  “I don’t know, he wouldn’t say. Mark was calling him on the cell phone, and he said he had to go. He told me he would explain everything later. He thought that I could somehow confirm his suspicions.”

  “What else did he say?”

  My eyes kindled and then blazed. “None of your damned business.” My husband’s last words belonged to me. Except, they really didn’t. Chance’s last breath had been a memorial to another woman.

  “There’s more. You’re holding something back from me.”

  “You don’t need to know everything.”

  Travis narrowed his gaze, looking for all the world like a sleek cat wound up inside, crouched and fixated on its prey. “I know you,” he said.

  Travis moved closer, his face once again in front of mine. “Babe, I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important. Trust me. Please. Chance would never waste his last breath on anything meaningless. What did he say?”

  Frustration and hurt threatened from the corners of my eyes. I guess if I had to share Chance’s last w
ords with someone, Travis would be the least judgmental and the most understanding. I knew how Chance’s words sounded to me, and I wondered how they would come across to Travis.

  “Paige.” He said, “I . . . You . . . Paige . . .” And then he died. “He was trying to say, ‘I love you, Paige.’ I’m sure of it.” Tears welled, and my chin trembled, but in a way, it felt good to finally say what I had been thinking, however hurtful.

  Travis’s countenance softened. He sat on the desk just inches away and lowered his voice and stared at his hands, almost as if talking to himself. “If I ever doubted for one moment that Chance loved you . . . well . . . things might have turned out differently for all of us.”

  “What does that mean?” I looked into Travis’s haggard face, lost for a moment in the depth and intensity of his gaze, then we tensed at the sound of a door closing and Amanda and Bonita discussing something about a release of evidence as they passed by my door.

  Travis slipped a hand behind my head and tipped it forward as he leaned in and kissed me on the top of my head. He pressed his cheek and head against mine for a long moment and then drew back. “It means it’s time to go,” he said.

  I gave Travis a few seconds, but no more. He wasn’t the only one with questions, and I never knew when I would see him.

  “Travis? Don’t go yet. I have questions too. Will you answer a question for me? Honestly?”

  Dark eyebrows rose above green eyes that were deep enough to drown in, like vernal pools in a marsh teeming with life.

  Focus.

  I did a quick intake of air before releasing the question that still loomed. “Why do you think Paige killed herself? Why would the cartel want Quincy?” I raced ahead as if to cross the finish line first with answers to my own questions. “They couldn’t be using her as leverage against Paige because they took her after Paige was . . . had . . . died.”

  Small muscles rippled beneath the perpetual shadow along Travis’s jaw. His eyes boldly invaded mine, searching for something—before retreating to his Zen spot, the place where he was at one with himself. Not that Travis found all his answers in his peaceful place. It’s just that, unlike me, he didn’t put himself through a shredder trying to sort them out.

  “Let’s put our heads together,” said Travis, pulling me close and placing his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin. We held each other close for a few moments, and when we drew apart, we both were smiling. I don’t know how he does that—makes me feel better in the heart of my grief. Travis hasn’t always been a shining light, but sometimes he reminds me of a Christmas tree or a candle on a birthday cake—glowing brightest when things are darkest.

  “Let’s sort this out together.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “You said that Chance called you just before the raid. He had figured out why Quincy had been kidnapped, but he needed you to verify that what he had discovered was valid: he needed you to confirm a person, place, or a thing.”

  “I suppose so. That’s what he said.”

  “That means, that you know the answer.”

  I puzzled as Travis continued.

  “Let’s move on. First, Paige. There’s no denying that she was deeply scarred from her abduction and sexual abuse. Paige liked risky behavior, and she wasn’t afraid of death. Always acting tough”—his features continued to soften—“but deep down, she was just a frightened little girl—not the ditzy bimbo she pretended to be.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I think Paige liked to ask stupid questions just to bring out stupid answers in men.” He gave a harsh little chuckle. “It was probably her way of getting even with them.”

  “Was she suicidal?”

  “Frequently. But I’m not sure that Paige took her own life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, maybe it was more of a sacrifice than a suicide.”

  Lines deepened on Travis’s forehead, and for the first time, I noticed a touch of gray intertwined with the sandy-brown hair at his temples. His eyes shifted thoughtfully down and right as he tapped into the creative part of his mind, and then returned to meet mine.

  “Try this: the gunman enters the cabin and points a gun at Paige. She is lying on the couch and holding the gun you gave her, but she is not aiming it at him.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  Travis chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Because one of them would have pulled the trigger, and there is nothing to indicate that one person fired at another.” Travis’s brows continued to knit a thoughtful pattern. “I have to agree with your friend Dano and her notion of self-determination. Let’s say that Paige is holding the gun to her head while the armed man is facing her and she makes the decision to pull the trigger.” My gaze dropped and Travis shifted to maintain eye contact. “I think . . . I’ll bet . . . that she knew him. There has to have been a relationship between her and Mr. Miasma Ortiz. I just don’t know what it was.”

  “But Travis, if Paige thought he was after her child, wouldn’t she have shot him instead of herself?”

  A soft smile crept across Travis’s face. “She must have believed her baby was safe with you. And, as it turned out,” he said, lowering his voice and lifting his brows in salute, “she was right.”

  Visions of the maimed infant formed in my mind, and I quickly dismissed the notion.

  “But the front door was locked when Joyce arrived, so he never went inside.”

  Travis tipped his head and pursed his lips. “Maybe. Or maybe he locked the door behind him to prevent your escape. He didn’t know you’d already left by another door.”

  “That’s it? That’s all we have to go on?” I wondered if my own frown lines were any deeper than the furrows plowing their way across Travis’s forehead. The enigma was adding years to our lives.

  “No. Let’s work on your other question—why the cartel would want a newborn baby.”

  I sat with folded hands and shuddered, reluctant to voice my thoughts. “Sex trafficking,” I said. “Paige told me they never have enough . . . children. Kids grow up and need to be replaced.” My fists white-knuckled. “The demand for new children—it never ends.”

  “That’s true.” Travis nodded in agreement. “But not newborn babies. Diapers, bottles, teething, toilet training—you hear what I’m saying? Not when newborn white babies pull top dollar on the market for illegal adoption. The worst-case scenario is she is somewhere safe. I feel it in my heart.”

  Good to know that a human heart beats inside The Man of Steel. Travis reached out and placed his hand on mine. We comforted one another for a couple of seconds.

  “There has to be more to it,” I said. “They—whoever they are—didn’t go through all that—hunting me like an animal through the mountains—just to get a baby. Not when they could’ve grabbed one at any hospital. It’s like Chance said—they wanted Quincy, and they wanted her for a reason.”

  The meeting was a good idea, and since it was mine, I tried not to be late. I felt a strategic meeting was in order. Amanda, Dano, and I were scheduled to discuss legal proceedings in Amanda’s office after court. Shifting from Travis to Taylor wasn’t easy. Going to the meeting required mentally shifting gears from a full stop—halfway up a steep hill while hauling a heavy load.

  Taylor had been arrested along with nine other cult members. If you counted Miasma, Deirdre, and dirtbag Logan, the total attendees at the ritual came to the ominous number thirteen—the number required to make a coven.

  I stopped breathing when I read in the initial report where Taylor admitted to carrying her “little sister” in a box to the meeting. She later stated that the baby “belonged” to her cult family. When asked what was her purpose for bringing the child, she said, “To be baptized. I was told to bring her. I didn’t want to. I like her.” The investigator noted Taylor’s behavioral change during the interrogation, stating that “Ms. Jarreau was initially cooperative and very childlike.” Then he wrote that Taylor suddenly became “hostile and aggressive, insist
ing that her name was Pat.” Pat went on to make a lengthy, detailed statement covering years of being victimized and abused at the hands of the satanic cult.

  Legal issues were popping up like tips of icebergs in the path of a cruise ship.

  Dano arrived, hung her raincoat on the back of her chair, and pulled it up to one side of Amanda’s desk. There were two remaining seats. The door opened and Bonita bounced in looking like a water spaniel fresh from the hunt. I scooted my chair next to Dano with a sick feeling that I was about to be lectured as opposed to being informed.

  Amanda dropped in her chair and began emergency repairs. She looked like an exotic bird after a monsoonal rain, or maybe a cat that just had a bath.

  She did not extend offers of refreshments. “Grab some chairs, ladies, and make yourselves comfortable. I apologize for being blunt. It’s been a long day, so if you don’t mind, let’s get to it.”

  Everyone nodded.

  Amanda slipped on a pair of round reading glasses and began with a brief summary. “Regarding Ms. Taylor Jarreau, who was arrested, deferred to Mental Health and subsequently released from a seventy-two-hour §5150 hold, we are here today concerning her allegations of child abuse and sexual assault. Ms. Jarreau is currently”—Amanda flipped the report to the cover page—“thirty-seven years old.”

  She turned to Dano. “It is important that you understand that when I go to trial, the case must be proved beyond a reasonable doubt. The minute I say the word cult, I lose my jury.” Amanda shook her head as she tapped her pen. “On top of that, Taylor’s allegations go back twenty years—that’s a problem right there.”

  “There is current evidence of abuse,” I said. “Taylor has scars.”

  Amanda pursed her lips. “We don’t know how those injuries happened. We only know what the medical records say, and I’m sure they don’t include the words ritual abuse.”