Eric shrugged. "Daniel wouldn't say much about how he got there. Just that his mother had brought him, and then she'd left."
"Did you search the woods?"
"Probably should have, but I was more concerned with getting Daniel taken care of. And if there'd been anybody nearby, Magic would have sensed it. I'm fairly sure the boy was alone."
"I bet the mother calls here frantically looking for him. They'll be reunited by tomorrow."
"You really think so?"
Brady shrugged. "Can't hurt to hope, right?"
But it could, Eric thought. He knew too well how much it hurt to hope.
"I gave him my card, told him to call me."
Brady lifted one eyebrow, and Eric shrugged. "Kid needs a friend." He thought again about the strange events of the day. "Thing is, why there? Why the woods behind my house? It makes no sense."
"True." Brady looked beyond Eric, nodded slowly. "There anything back in those woods?"
"Not that I've ever found. Maybe I should investigate further."
"I can't see why not. What are you thinking?"
Eric shrugged. "Maybe a meth lab."
"Possible," Brady said.
"Maybe..." He shouldn't voice this. He knew what Brady would say. But if there were any possibility... "I was thinking... You know, I have that file of sex offenders and possible—"
"Don't start jumping to conclusions."
"But if I'm right, it's worth checking out." Eric was obsessed. His obsession had done no good and probably never would.
"What is it about human trafficking?" Brady paused, studied Eric until he wanted to look away again. He forced his gaze to remain on the chief's face. "You have a particular...obsession with those particular crimes."
"Maybe we should all be obsessed with it," Eric said. "Sex trafficking happens everywhere. The fact that we're not seeing it doesn't mean it's not here. It just means we're missing it."
"You're sure about that?" Brady's eyebrows lifted. "Nutfield's a pretty small town."
"You're right. I know that." He met Brady's eyes again. "But if it is in Nutfield, I'll find it."
"You still haven't told me why you're obsessed."
"Nobody should..." Eric struggled to voice his opinions without letting the truth escape. "It's the worst torture, the most degrading..." He couldn't make his mouth form the words that went with the images in his mind. "How can you not be disgusted by it?"
Brady's eyes narrowed. "That's a heck of an assumption."
He looked at the floor, blew out a breath. "I don't mean it like that."
"You lost somebody, didn't you?"
Eric's gaze snapped up.
"Who was it?" Brady asked.
He swallowed. Hadn't talked about this...ever. "A friend. A good friend."
"Where is she now?"
Eric licked his suddenly dry lips. Swallowed again. "They say she's dead."
"Do you think someone in Nutfield—?"
"No. No. She was... It happened a long time ago. In Miami. I was in college. This isn't about her. It's just that... It's awful. All of them need to be stopped."
"I agree," Brady said. "And if we get any whiff that anything like that is happening in town, we'll stomp it out like a cockroach. But until then, you need to focus on your job and the crimes we know are happening here."
"Yes, sir."
Brady smiled. "There's that southern country boy."
Eric couldn't help but chuckle. "I've told you a million times, I'm not a country boy. Plano is about as country as Manchester. There're more folks in the Dallas-Fort Worth area than there are in the whole state of New Hampshire."
"You sound like a country boy." Brady appraised Eric from head to toe. "You look like a country boy."
"You look like that quarterback, but I've seen you throw a ball."
Brady's laugh filled the room. "So much for the southern gentleman."
Eric stood. "I left Magic in the car. I'd better get us home."
Brady walked with him to the door. "We'll find that kid's mother and figure out what her deal is."
"I hope so. Meantime, I'm going to check in on him, soon as I figure out where he is."
Brady smiled. "I may be able to help you with that. Check with me tomorrow."
CHAPTER SIX
This Journal Belongs To:
Daniel Tyler Anderson
Wednesday
It's okay to wish, right?
When my foster mother, Miss Marisa, gave me this journal, she told me to draw pictures about my day, about how I feel, and about my dreams. I don't like to draw much, but I do like to write. Course, she doesn't think I can write, but I can. I been reading since I was four and writing since before I started school. But I probably shouldn't tell her that. I'm not supposed to tell a lot of stuff.
So I'll just write down my wishes, 'cause she told me to draw pictures about my dreams. Seems like dreams and wishes are a lot alike, and I got a whole bunch of both. It was nice of Miss Marisa to give this book to me, and I don't want her to think I don't appreciate it. But I'm still nervous about it. Maybe that's dumb. Ana's too young to read it. She can read little words, but not the big ones like me. She wouldn't get it even if she could make out the words. She's just a kid. Miss Marisa and Mr. Nate promised never to look at it. But what if they do? What if they change their minds cause they want to find out more about me? They're always asking me questions about where I'm from and do I have extended family, whatever that is. I told 'em my family only extended to Mama. I have to be real careful not to tell them much else. There's too much stuff I'm not supposed to say, and what if one of those things comes out? Then I'll be in a whole bunch of trouble when Mama gets back.
I guess you're not mad I made a mess on your pages, but I am. A pretty journal like this, and I had to black all that stuff out, 'cause now I'm scared one of them is gonna to read it. And now there's that ugly black mark on my brand new journal. It's so stupid, not worth crying over. Just a dumb piece of paper. But it's mine, and now there's an inky splotchy mess all over the pretty white pages. Like a big stain, and now whenever I open it, I'll see that stupid stain. It feels sort of like my life, all blotchy and messy and crossed out.
Maybe I won't write in this stupid thing after all.
THURSDAY
I decided to turn the page so I don't have to look at that messy spot. That's okay, right? Even tho I left a lotta paper that I didn't fill in? I don't like to waste, cause Mama says money don't grow on trees. If only money was like flies, cause we had plenty of those. Only not in the winter. And maybe there aren't any flies in New Hampshire. I don't know. Seems like right now, they'd freeze right out of the air and fall like hail. But the snow sure is pretty. Too bad it's melting. But Miss Marisa says it's supposed to snow again maybe next week, so I shouldn't be sad to see it go.
I didn't want to quit writing in the jurnal. That'd be a worse waste than turning the page. I think it's okay I wasted a page. Least I didn't waste the whole book. And anyways, the policeman just left. Officer Nolan. He said to call him Eric. I said Mr. Eric, and he said no, we're friends, and I should just call him Eric. And when he said we were friends, it sort of made me want to cry. That's when I decided I'd write in this again, so I wouldn't start crying and make Eric not want to be my friend anymore.
What I started to say yesterday before I got all dumb was that what I want is a daddy. Mr. Nate is nice, but just like Miss Marisa can't take Mama's place, Mr. Nate can't take the place of a real daddy. I know I don't have a real daddy, which doesn't make sense at all. I don't know everything about where babies come from, but I know it takes a mom and a dad. Caleb told me how it works, and it sounds really gross. I think maybe he was just making stuff up. He does that sometimes. But everybody else has a dad, which means I must, too. But Mama says not to worry about my dad. Not sure why I'd worry, though. More like wonder, but maybe Mama worries about him. Maybe he's not a nice man.
I wonder if I'm like my daddy. Maybe I'll grow up to be not a n
ice man, too. Mama says I can grow up to be whatever I want. I think she means like a doctor or a policeman or whatever, but maybe I can grow up to be a nice man if I want to. Maybe I don't have to be bad like my real daddy.
Wouldn't it be cool if we could pick our parents? I'd pick Mama for sure. She's the prettiest, nicest lady in the world. Way better than Caleb's mother, even if his mom always took us to fancy restaurants like Chili's. Mama can't afford that, but she took us to Taco Bueno, and I like their tacos way better than the ones at Chili's. And probably Caleb's mama never left him like Mama left me, but she had to. I know she didn't want to, the way she was crying and carrying on. I just wish I knew why.
If I could pick a daddy, I think I'd pick Eric. He's nice and funny and he likes me. He asked me all about what I like, and I told him, because lots of kids like skateboarding, so it's not like he'll be able to figure out who I am if I tell him that. And he promised to buy me one, even though Miss Marisa's eyes got all wide and she started going on about how dangerous it was and how she wasn't supposed to let me get hurt. But Eric just laughed and said he'd buy me a helmet and elbow pads. And he's going to take me somewhere and help me get better, 'cause he said he used to skateboard when he was my age too. Maybe he can teach me something. I can't wait to show him how good I am.
I hope he's the kind of guy who keeps his promises. If he's not, then I wouldn't pick him for a daddy. I think daddies should keep their promises.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kelsey eyes felt dry as chalk when she opened them, squinting at the bright sunshine coming through the back door. Morning again. Wednesday, she thought.
She sat up, swung her feet to the freezing floor, and tested her left ankle. It still ached, but she could put weight on it. A little.
Yesterday, the first morning she'd woken up here, the ankle had been swollen to three times its normal size. Stupid. She should've kept ice on it all night, and boy, had she paid for that mistake. That day, she'd been careful to ice it all day, twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. At some point, she'd found the water valve beneath the kitchen sink and turned the water on. That made living in this abandoned cabin slightly more tolerable. The automatic ice maker had been a godsend for her poor ankle. The storm had ended Monday night, and the sunshine the rest of the week had warmed the place a little. Maybe into the upper fifties. At least she wouldn't freeze.
She'd have to remember to shut the water off before she left. And tidy up, and leave a note of explanation. She wasn't in the habit of breaking into people's homes, lock-pick set notwithstanding.
She hobbled to the foot of the stairs, then used the handrail to hoist herself to the second floor. She'd done nothing but sleep and cry since she got there. Today, she had to leave this place and finish what she'd started. If it worked, if she managed to bring Carlos down, then she could find Daniel and get him back. Then and only then would she be free. And if Carlos found her first? Well, at least it would be over. But she couldn't do any of that until she made the phone call she'd planned to make on Tuesday. Stupid ankle.
She prayed Daniel would be okay. She'd been doing a lot of that—praying. A habit that had been ingrained in her since childhood, one she'd shoved aside years before. But being trapped, alone, in a silent cabin for three days... There was nobody to talk to but God.
She'd given him an earful.
Not that she really believed anyone was listening. God was a lovely little myth, one she'd given up on the day she'd watched her sister die.
She had no time for morbid thoughts. She'd eaten her last protein bar. She'd raided the pantry on Wednesday and forced down a bowl of rice. The only other ingredients in there were flour, sugar, and spices. She'd spent all of that day trying to figure out what she could make with flour and sugar, but without milk and eggs, she couldn't think of a thing. By dinnertime, she'd been hungry enough to try pancakes. What she'd created had been barely edible, but she'd eaten it. Then she'd turned the TV on for company and fallen asleep.
She'd woken up after dark and cursed herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The light flickering through the windows could have alerted somebody she was here. She'd shut off the TV, then barely slept all night, waiting for the sound of a car door, anything that would tell her she'd been discovered. The world had remained blissfully silent. She'd survived that one foolish mistake, survived the first when she'd sprained her ankle. She wouldn't survive a third.
Her stomach growled, and it occurred to her that today couldn't be Wednesday. Had she really been here three days?
The days all bled together. But the nights...yes, there'd been three. The nights each held its own exquisite pain.
She closed her eyes against the onslaught of images. Daniel. Her Daniel. Cowering in the woods. Afraid. She'd watched, far enough away that he was barely a speck between the trees. She'd heard the dog barking. Seen the man.
Her stomach filled with acid, churned the emptiness until she thought she'd be sick.
Nothing worse than throwing up stomach acid. She forced the images away. She'd had no choice. Daniel would never be safe with her, never again. Neither of them would ever be truly safe until Carlos was in prison. Or dead. Preferably dead.
She started the shower, thankful beyond words when steam filled the small room. This was the only time she'd be truly warm all day. She stepped inside.
Thirty minutes later, she'd collected all her things from the upstairs bathroom and hobbled back down. She still hurt, but it didn't matter. She needed to make her phone call. She'd considered emailing the police instead of calling, but she feared somebody might be able to track that, might be able to find her or know who'd sent the email. It was absolutely imperative that she stay anonymous.
She needed a public phone. Her plan had been to take her stolen car back to Manchester and make the call from there. The most important thing on Monday, the most important thing still today, was to make sure she wasn't seen or, even worse, arrested. She could survive just about anything but that.
The very thought of it sent terror through her veins.
No. She'd rest until dark, shut off the water, and lock the door behind her. She'd walk to the little country store on the main road, make her phone call, and then hitchhike to Manchester. From there, she'd begin her quest.
She forced herself to drink a glass of water, settled back on the sofa beneath the blankets, and ignored her rumbling stomach. Seven more hours, and she'd leave.
She allowed the images of Daniel to overtake her again. Her sweet boy. Would she ever see him again?
A car door slamming woke Kelsey from her nap.
Forgetting her ankle, she stood, then cursed when a sharp pain shot up her leg. Four days of healing ruined in one careless moment.
She hobbled to the window, saw the police car in the driveway, another car behind it.
No, no, no!
She dropped to the floor, crawled to the sofa, and pulled the blankets down. She hooked her arm through the backpack straps and backed herself and all the stuff against the wall, out of view of the front windows and the back door.
With her eyes squeezed shut, she prayed to the God who'd only ever let her down that this time, this time he would help her.
She thought of her things hidden in the closet and thanked God at least she hadn't put those in her backpack yet. Maybe, somehow, she could come back for them.
The banging on the front door sent jolts of fear down her spine.
Anything but this. Please.
A moment later, she heard more banging, this time from the back. Not that she could have made a run for it, but the cops had cut off the possibility.
The question was, would they enter? Would they give up and leave? Surely, they didn't have keys to the cabin.
Her gun! She yanked it out of her bag, scooted to the sofa, and shoved it beneath the cushions. As she scooted back to the corner, she cursed her stupidity.
A muffled voice, a shout, and the pounding of footsteps across the front porch steps.
Then, the unmistakable jingle of keys. The sound had her blood running cold.
The lock turning.
The door opened, and it was over.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Eric spent the afternoon talking with business owners about a break-in at McNeal's. Fortunately, not much had been stolen. A couple of bucks and, oddly, a case of jarred black olives. The robbery had taken place in the middle of the night, and, naturally, nobody had seen anything unusual. Eric had asked people to keep an eye out after dark and suggested they upgrade their security systems and consider video surveillance. Most folks just laughed.
"The great olive caper of the century," quipped the owner of a souvenir shop. "Or maybe, the great olive-caper salad of the century." She'd cackled as she'd shown him the door.
Admittedly, crime was rare this time of year. There was always the drug trade to focus on, year round. But during tourist season, there was more to keep them busy. Nutfield's population nearly doubled in the summer, when folks populated the cabins surrounding their beautiful lake and filled the rooms of the many B and Bs and hotels that had cropped up. Autumn brought folks, too. The local apple shop had a steady stream of visitors. People loved to pick apples and pumpkins and enjoy the breathtaking foliage that surrounded the town. Eric had to admit, chilly as Nutfield was, it was a far sight more beautiful than north Texas. He gazed at the little downtown area as he strolled to the police station, just a few blocks away. Even in February, Nutfield was charming. The leafless trees were beautiful in their starkness. The sky was as sapphire as a field of Texas bluebonnets in spring. Icicles dripped from every roof and plinked in a melody that accompanied his footsteps. Last week's snow, piled against the sidewalks, was melting in the heat.
He chuckled at that. Heat? The sun was shining, and the temperature hovered near forty. That'd be considered downright frigid in Texas. Here, folks didn't bother with jackets when the temperature got this high in the winter.
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