by Karen Rose
Grant tapped the app’s icon, and a second later, a password screen popped up. He put in Laurel’s birthday, just like he had for the other safes. And it opened to a journaling app. Heart heavy, he tapped it.
The first entry read: Nita Rubio. There was a phone number with an area code that Grant didn’t recognize. He swiped to the next page, finding it blank. As was the next and the next. The name and phone number were the only entries.
Hands trembling, he searched the area code and found it served Seattle. It was still early there, just after nine. So, using his own phone, he dialed the number.
‘Hello,’ a soft female voice answered. It wasn’t a question, like one would normally answer the phone. It was a statement. Almost as if his call had been expected.
‘My name is Grant Masterson.’
‘I know. I’ve been waiting for you to call. Is . . . is Wesley all right?’
The sob he’d been holding back barreled out. ‘No. He’s dead.’
The woman sighed. ‘I was afraid of that. My name is Nita Rubio. Or it was. Your brother helped me get a new identity, a new life.’
Through his tears, Grant managed to speak. ‘You knew my sister?’
A long, long moment of silence. ‘I was with Laurel when she died. We were taken at different times, but sold to the same man, Clinton Stern. I was able to steal one of his burner phones one day and made the call to Wesley. Laurel said he’d help us. But we didn’t know where we were. Wesley tried to find us, but he couldn’t. A few weeks passed and Laurel saw an opportunity to take a letter addressed to Stern, but he caught her and . . .’ Her swallow was audible. ‘Beat her. Badly.’
‘No,’ Grant whispered.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said mournfully. ‘Stern was so angry that he nearly killed me, too. He had to leave the house, and he was so upset that, for the first time, he didn’t lock the door. I got Laurel out. Half carried, half dragged her to one of his cars and drove her to a clinic. I didn’t give our names. I didn’t want Stern to find us. I did call Wesley, and he came right away. But he was too late for Laurel.’
Grant swiped at his eyes, trying to see through his tears. ‘But not for you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, this time very timidly, like she feared his anger.
‘I’m not sorry that he saved you,’ Grant said quickly. ‘You’re okay now?’
‘Yes. I have a good job and a good life. But Stern had powerful friends, so I’m no longer Nita Rubio.’
‘And you’re not going to tell me your new name. I get it.’ Grant truly did. He’d do the same in her position. ‘Stern is dead.’
‘I know. Wesley told me that he’d killed him.’
‘So is the man who took Laurel, Anatoly Markov.’ He spat the name.
‘I know. And so is the man who took me. Wesley told me that, too.’
Grant sucked in a breath, remembering the third bullet. ‘Bert Stuart, the detective?’
‘Yes. He didn’t go by that name, though. He had a street persona, kinda like Blake Emerson was for Wesley. I think I was the only one he took and sold. He said he needed the money. It always comes down to money.’
‘It does. How did Wes find out about Richard Fischer and his riverboat?’
‘The Lady of the River?’ she asked bitterly. ‘I told him. Laurel was never taken aboard the riverboat, but I was. I remembered everything I could, but it wasn’t enough.’
Ultimately, it had been enough, because Fischer’s operation had been stopped. But not in time for Nita or Laurel or any of Richard Fischer’s other victims. ‘This phone number. Is it yours?’
‘Not after this call. I’m throwing the phone away.’ She sighed quietly. ‘Go back to your wife and kids, Grant. Have a good life. That’s what Wesley wanted for you.’
The call ended and Grant stared at the phone for a long, long time. Then he put it on the nightstand and fell into bed, still wearing his clothes.
He went to sleep with the light on.
Twenty-six
Cincinnati, Ohio
Tuesday, 19 March, 3.05 A.M.
Diesel came awake with a jerk, his eyes flying open. He’d heard a noise. A mewling sound.
No, a sobbing sound. Someone was crying. He glanced at the woman in his arms, relieved to find she was still asleep. She needed her rest. All the literature he’d read said that rest and nutrition would keep her healthy. Would help her keep her levels undetectable, which was Diesel’s highest priority.
Keep her healthy. Keep her happy. Keep her screaming his name when he made her come. Like he’d done twice tonight. And yes, he was damn proud of himself, thank you.
He slipped out from under her body, covering her with the blanket when she curled up into the warm spot he’d left behind. He pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, then crept from the bedroom, closing the door as quietly as he could.
And stopped short, because Agent Troy was standing on the other side of his door, his fist raised to knock.
‘Sorry,’ Troy said softly. ‘It’s Michael. He’s crying.’
Diesel wasn’t surprised. The kid had put on a brave face – a hardened face – most of yesterday. ‘I heard. I’ll take care of it. Thanks, man.’
‘I’ll make sure you guys aren’t disturbed. You should have privacy.’ Troy looked over his shoulder, his eyes sad. ‘The kid’s breaking my heart, Diesel.’
‘I know. Mine, too.’
Troy returned to the chair he’d placed by the front door and Diesel went in search of Michael. He wasn’t in his room, so Diesel went to Joshua’s room. Where, of course, Michael lay on the floor, face buried in a pillow.
Diesel stepped hard onto the floor, to warn the boy that he was coming. Michael stilled, then seemed to sag, but he wouldn’t show his face.
Diesel crouched and put his hand on Michael’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, then a light tap. Michael shook his head, so Diesel repeated the squeeze-tap. Michael turned enough that one eye was revealed. One very red and swollen eye.
‘You’re going to wake Joshua,’ Diesel signed without voicing. ‘If he sees you crying, he’s going to worry. Come on. I’ll make us some tea. We can sit in the kitchen.’
Michael rolled to his feet, expression sullen. ‘I don’t want to talk,’ he signed.
‘That’s okay. You don’t have to talk. You don’t even have to drink the tea.’ Diesel left the room, aware that Michael was following. He pointed to a chair in the kitchen, and Michael flopped into it. Hawkeye crawled under the table and flopped to his belly in a similar motion.
Diesel busied himself making the tea, then placed two cups on the table and poured. ‘This is Dani’s tea. It’s chocolate mint. I like it.’
They sipped in silence for a few minutes, then Michael glanced at the kitchen doorway. ‘Troy’s still here?’
‘At the front door,’ Diesel signed, still not voicing.
Michael raised miserable eyes to Diesel. ‘He knows about me. What happened to me. Everyone’s going to know. Everyone’s going to know that I couldn’t fight him off.’ Two tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘That I’m weak. Brewer always said that to me. That I’m weak. Skinny.’ He swallowed hard. ‘That I’ll never be a real man.’
Diesel flattened his hands on the table, unable to breathe through the tightness in his chest. Once again he wished that he could snap Brewer’s neck himself. Killing the bastard might have been the only good thing Cade Kaiser had done.
And then he made a decision. Because Brewer’s words took him back. Made him hear almost the same words, but in an older voice. A smoother voice.
A rapist’s voice.
He needed to get this off his chest for Michael’s sake. Because there’s no fucking way on God’s green earth that I’ll let Michael believe he’s weak.
He forced his hands to relax and he began to sign. ‘Troy doesn’t know w
hat happened to you. Not what Brewer did, anyway. Kate and Decker don’t know either. They only know that you witnessed Brewer’s murder. Only Officer Cullen, Deacon, and Adam know, because they were with you on Saturday.’
He paused when he heard a soft footstep on the other side of the open doorway. And smelled chocolate shampoo.
Dani was there, making sure that Michael was okay. That I’m okay. Well, Michael’s not okay. And neither am I.
Diesel steeled his spine, hoping that Dani had put her processor back on. He didn’t want to have to say any of this again. Ever. ‘But,’ he said to Michael, this time voicing quietly, ‘Agent Decker knows about me. What happened to me.’
He watched Michael’s eyes pop wide. And he heard Dani’s indrawn breath. Good. She can hear me.
‘You told Agent Decker?’ Michael asked, stunned, and Diesel nodded.
‘Not the details,’ he added. ‘Nobody knows the details.’
‘You never told?’ Michael asked.
‘No,’ Diesel signed, still voicing quietly. ‘But I’m going to tell you.’ And Dani. Please, God, let me get through this. Just once.
‘Why?’ Michael asked.
Diesel met the boy’s gaze. ‘Am I weak?’
‘No,’ Michael replied quickly. ‘Never. You’re strong. Nobody can hurt you.’
Oh, no. You’re wrong there. ‘Am I a man?’
Michael frowned. ‘Yes.’
‘But I wasn’t always a man. I was a little boy, just like Joshua. Then I was a teenager, just like you. I didn’t hit a growth spurt until I was sixteen. Before then, I was skinny. Bony. Not strong.’
‘You were a kid.’
‘So are you.’
Michael’s mouth opened. Then closed. He folded his hands on the table and sat silently for several seconds. Then he nodded. ‘Okay. I’m a kid.’
Diesel drew a deep breath, pursed his lips. ‘I’m thirty-five years old, and thinking about the man who hurt me when I was six still makes me throw up.’
Michael grew so sad that Diesel didn’t think he could stand it. ‘I’m sorry.’
Diesel’s eyes stung. His nose burned. Finally he blinked and swiped at the tears that fell. Then he pointed to his wet face. ‘Am I weak now?’
Michael shook his head. ‘No.’ He didn’t use his hands, just mouthed the word.
‘My dad took off before I was born. I never knew him. My mother was only seventeen when she had me. And her very Catholic family threw her out, so she raised me alone.’
‘Was . . .’ Michael hesitated. ‘Was she good?’
‘Yes.’ And that was true. ‘She was a good person, kind and gentle. And she tried really hard to be a good mother. For a long time it was just the two of us. She got a scholarship to college – she loved computers – but she had to give it up because she had me. She worked at night and went to community college during the day. She took me with her to her job sometimes. She cleaned office buildings, and when I was really little, I’d help. I don’t think I was actually much help, but my mom always made me feel like I was indispensable.’
‘She sounds nice.’
‘She was.’
Michael bit at his lip. ‘Is she dead?’
Diesel nodded sadly. ‘Yes. She died when I was fourteen. Car accident.’
‘Did you go to foster care?’
‘For a few months. Then her father took me in. We . . . didn’t get along.’
‘He threw her out when she was pregnant,’ Michael said. ‘I hate him and I don’t even know him.’
That made Diesel smile a little, but he couldn’t hold on to it and his shoulders drooped. ‘My mother hated him, too. So much so that she converted to another religion because her father had used his as an excuse to shame her. She wanted no part of the Catholic Church. Anyway, she got her associates degree in office management when I was six years old and went to work as a receptionist in a doctor’s office. She was making pretty decent money and we moved to a nicer apartment. I got a bicycle and a few toys. I went to a better school than the one I would have gone to before we moved. My mother was so grateful to the doctor for giving her a job.’
Michael had grown still, his dread a palpable thing. ‘It was the doctor.’
Diesel nodded. ‘It was the doctor,’ he echoed, still signing and voicing so that Dani could hear. ‘He let my mom bring me to work when I didn’t have school. There was a playroom in the back of the office. It had toys, a worktable. And a door that locked.’
Michael’s throat worked as he tried to swallow. ‘You were Joshua’s age.’
‘A year older, yeah. The first time.’
‘It hurt,’ Michael signed, his hand movements so small that Diesel would have missed them had Michael not chosen to also speak the words.
Diesel wasn’t going to lie to the boy. ‘I was six. I was small. So yeah. It hurt a lot and I cried and begged him to stop. So he spanked me. Hard. Then he told me not to tell my mother. That it would be our secret. That she wouldn’t like knowing that I’d been bad and he’d had to spank me.’
Diesel could hear Dani’s gasp and her shuddered exhale. It sounded wet. Like she was crying. He’d expected as much. Which was why this was an easier way to tell her. He didn’t think he could stand to see the sorrow in her eyes.
Michael’s sorrow was different. It was more . . . understanding. Not pity or even sympathy.
‘He was wrong,’ Michael said aloud, his voice breaking.
‘Yes, he was. But I didn’t know that then. I was six.’ Diesel drew in a breath. ‘And then seven and then eight. I started to act out in school when I was nine. Got a reputation as a bad kid. Figured I’d earn the rep and I beat up a lot of the other students. I was skinny, but I wasn’t gonna be weak. Even if that meant beating up on kids smaller than me.’
‘You were angry,’ Michael signed, and Diesel knew he was talking about himself as well.
‘You’re right. I was very angry,’ he said for Dani’s benefit. Her sniffling was audible now. She had to know that he knew she was there.
She had to know this was the only way he was going to be able to tell her.
‘I got older. The abuse went on. My mother didn’t know what to do with me.’
‘Did she keep working for the doctor?’
‘Yes.’ Diesel needed a second so he poured himself some more tea. ‘She married him when I was ten.’ It had been the single worst day of his life. He’d had to be dragged into the church by one of his mother’s friends, who scolded him for being so selfish. He’d left the reception to throw up. Much as he’d done when he’d seen the photos in Richard Fischer’s super-secret database.
‘Oh God,’ Michael signed, his face growing pale.
‘Oh God,’ Dani whispered on the other side of the doorway. He could hear the slide of her body against the wall as she sank to the floor.
‘She admired him,’ Diesel went on. ‘All her friends said how lucky she was to marry a doctor. We moved to a nicer house. His house. And he didn’t need a playroom any longer.’
‘He came to your room,’ Michael signed numbly.
‘Yes, he came to my room. Not every night, and that almost made it worse. I was never sure if he was coming or not. I never slept. I still have trouble sleeping.’
Michael looked at his hands, then back up, ashamed. ‘I sleep with the light on.’
‘I did, too, until I was in the army.’ Diesel’s lips quirked up. ‘They wouldn’t let me.’
‘Dani got me a lamp with a night light.’
‘She’s good that way. She helps other people. Sometimes she forgets to help herself, so we’re going to have to remind her, okay?’
Michael nodded. ‘When did he stop?’
‘He stopped the day he ran a red light and hit a car that had the green light. He and my mom were killed instantly. He’d been drinking. The family
of the people in the other car sued his estate for damages, so there was nothing left for me.’
‘Then your grandfather took you in?’
‘Yeah. My grandfather was strict. He’d heard about the trouble I got into at school, all the fights. The poor grades. He was going to fix me or die trying.’
‘Did he? Die trying?’
Diesel chuckled ruefully. ‘No, but he gave it his best effort. He sent me to an all-boy Catholic school. But it wasn’t what you think,’ he added when Michael blanched. ‘There may have been bad priests at the school, but I never knew any. After the doctor, the priests were like a vacation. I got decent grades, As and Bs without cracking a book. They’d tell me that I could be successful if I’d just apply myself.’
‘I get that, too,’ Michael said glumly.
‘Well, they were right about me, even though I hate to admit it. I didn’t get serious about school until I’d almost graduated. I was a high school senior.’
‘What changed?’
Diesel smiled. ‘My chemistry teacher changed everything. His name was Father Walter Dyson. At the beginning of the school year, he thought I was a thug. I’d hit my growth spurt the year before and was huge. My grandfather would complain about me going through shoes like sticks of gum, which was fair.’
‘Just because you were big didn’t mean you were a thug,’ Michael protested.
‘It was because I acted up in his class. I wasn’t nice. I didn’t even know why. I was a thug, outside of school. When I got some size, I stomped on some of the kids who’d bullied me when I first moved to my grandfather’s. I’m still not sorry for that. They deserved to be stomped. But I got carried away and made some unfortunate friends. I have no doubt that I would have ended up in jail, because every single one of those guys did – a few of them for murder. Father Dyson saved my life.’
Michael was leaning forward, into the story now. ‘What did he do?’
‘He sat me down one day and asked me why I hated him so much. I didn’t know what to say. He said he’d talked to my other teachers and they said that I didn’t make trouble in their classes. And then he asked for my forgiveness. He didn’t know what he’d done, but he was sorry for it. No one had ever asked for my forgiveness before. He said that he didn’t want my future to be messed up because I got a bad grade in his class or I got expelled for “thuggery”.’ Diesel finger-spelled the word. ‘I never heard the word before or since.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘I didn’t know how to react, but I was . . . hyper inside. I was always hyper inside when I was in his class. Nobody else’s. But Father Dyson was pretty smart. He could read chemical formulas and people. He stood up and took off his white lab coat, balled it up, and put it in a drawer, out of sight. Immediately I calmed down.’