Hard Trauma

by Franklin Horton

  Esposito sat back in his chair. “Well, what we have makes absolutely no sense at all. You’re all here, though, because I’ve asked that you be part of a task force assigned to this case. You know we’ve missed the critical window. The first forty-eight hours have come and gone. This is going to be a tough one. Besides the victim being a child, we don’t have a motive. As we’ve said a hundred times now, nothing about this case makes sense.”

  Cliff Mathis was nodding in agreement.

  “What about the Mexican connection?” Detective Smith asked. “If the dad was in Mexico shopping for a house, could he have hired Mendoza or the cartel to kidnap his child? If they delivered her to Mexico, he wouldn’t have to deal with a court battle for custody. He could hide her.”

  “It’s possible,” Esposito said.

  “We still haven’t spoken with the father,” Lieutenant Whitt commented. “The FBI is working with Mexican authorities, but we’ve not located him yet.”

  As Esposito continued to talk, Ty was suddenly hit with a wave of anxiety. He experienced a dissociative state, sinking further and further inside himself. Deeper and deeper into a hole.

  Why was he here? He’d done all this for nothing. His routine back in Virginia was all that held him together and he’d broken that. It was inevitable he was going to fall apart. How had he been so stupid to think he could help that little girl? He’d never been able to help anyone. He couldn’t even help himself.

  His mind went to the face of that dead Pakistani child in the van in Afghanistan, the operation that ended his career. Gretchen was going to end up dead too. He’d failed to protect her at the truck stop and he’d failed to find her here. It was his fault. Two dead children. How could he live with that? He was a failure.

  “Please excuse me,” Ty said, shoving his chair back suddenly and standing up.

  “Are you okay?” Agent Esposito asked.

  Ty nodded, sweat beading on his forehead. “I just need some fresh air.”

  He sensed the eyes on him as he hurried from the room. Outside the conference room he found a pool of desks. A young lady seated at one met his eye.

  “The restroom?” Ty asked.

  She smiled and pointed down a hallway.

  Ty rushed in that direction, feeling the world closing in on him. Every sound, from ringing phones to dinging elevators, sounded unnaturally loud. The angles of the walls around him leaned in toward him, converging, attempting to close around him. He was hyperventilating. He spotted the restroom and ducked inside like it was the final refuge.

  It was empty and he went directly to the sink. He ran cold water, cupped it in his hands, and splashed it on his face. His heart was pounding and his chest was tight when he tried to suck in air. He had to be having some kind of panic attack. Where the fuck had it come from?

  He grabbed a stack of paper towels and dried his face, went into a stall, and locked the door behind him. He sagged against the wall, resting his head on his forearm, trying to get control of himself. After several minutes, the feelings subsided and he began to calm down. He could breathe again.

  He rinsed his face and went back into the hall. Everything was almost normal now though his heart rate was up. He grew self-conscious, as if everyone had seen him rushing off. They probably thought he was crazy, and they might have been right. As he neared the pool of desks, he ducked into an alcove to get a long drink from a water fountain. He could hear the lady who directed him toward the restroom talking on the phone.

  “Agent Esposito, I’m sorry to interrupt you but I wasn’t sure if you’d see a text or not. Could you let the lieutenant from Virginia know that her extradition paperwork just came through? After the conference, have one of the city detectives make the arrest. Mr. Stone can then be transferred to the lieutenant’s custody for return to Virginia. The paperwork is on my desk when you’re ready.”

  Ty stood there bent over the fountain, mouth agape. He released the button and stood up. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He headed for the stairs.

  He could trust no one.

  35

  Ty bounded down the stairs two at a time. Catching a glimpse of a security camera on a landing, he forced himself to slow down. While he might be on the run from the cops, he certainly didn’t need to look like it. He reached the ground floor of the low building in no time. He ran a sleeve across his forehead, wiping away the sweat, and stepped out into the lobby. He was just a casual guy walking casually to the exit. He figured he had a couple of minutes before someone from the conference room went looking for him but they wouldn’t have any reason to think he would run. It had been sheer, dumb luck that he’d even found out about their plan to arrest him.

  Once he was out of the building, he breathed a little easier. The Tucson field office was off Interstate 10 in a jumble of residential, industrial, and commercial properties. He needed to get to his hotel and his vehicle, but he wasn’t sure where it was in relation to his current location. Once they figured out he was missing, he assumed that was where they would start looking for him. He needed to get there first.

  He opened his phone and used the map to orient himself, pleased to find that his hotel was relatively close to the field office. This was probably something they had to do on a regular basis, putting a witness up for the night. It only made sense they would use a place nearby. Ignoring the streets and sidewalks on his map, he tried to plot a direct course to his hotel. The route, which had taken them fifteen minutes to drive, could be reached on foot by a much more direct path.

  Looking around the parking lot, he realized he was getting ahead of himself. He was fenced in and needed to find a way out of here first. The entire property was surrounded by a low brick wall and topped with steel fencing. Doing his best to appear casual, he walked toward the rear of the property, away from the manned entry and exit gates. The back parking lot adjoined a residential neighborhood. Ty held his phone to his ear as he walked, trying to look like a man deep in conversation. He worked his way to a section of fence concealed by low trees, did a quick check and saw that no one was around, and scaled the fence. He landed in the parking lot of a hair salon and hurried off.

  Following the map on his phone, Ty made his way to West Alameda Street and then onto a running and biking trail called the Diamond Street Loop where, despite his street clothes, a running man might draw less attention. He was somewhat screened from the road by trees and the terrain, so he picked up the pace. He ran south toward his hotel, pushing hard on the paved trail. He ran through a little park called the Garden of Gethsemane, crossed the bridge on West Congress Street where his map showed a river but he saw nothing but a dusty, dry ravine, and once across the bridge, his hotel was on the right.

  He swung into the parking lot of the Carl Junior’s that was adjacent to his hotel, sliding his phone into his shirt pocket as he dug for his truck key. He scanned the parking lot. He had no idea how much his arrest meant to them. Would they even bother coming after him? Certainly Lieutenant Whitt would if it was left to her, but was he the real goal there? No, it was Gretchen. Surely they would focus on her. There was no guarantee of that, though.

  As he neared his truck, he began to imagine a squad of vehicles screeching to a halt around him. Would there be snipers? Air assets? He decided to spend a precious two minutes checking the parking lot before approaching his truck. He made a hurried circuit of the lot, making sure there were no suspicious men sitting in cars. When he finally confirmed he was the only suspicious guy in the parking lot, he jogged to his truck.

  He unlocked the door and hopped inside, started the engine, and wasted no time getting out of there. He drove carefully, not wanting to draw any attention or, even worse, get pulled over by the cops. His mind raced. Where was he going to go? What was he going to do? How was he going to find this little girl in this big city?

  There was no retreat at this point. There was no running away. The only thing waiting on him at home was the same battle he’d been fighting before he left.
He would try to put on a happy face for Aiden and Deena but he would continue to fail miserably. He would try to find another crappy job and it would only make his depression worse. He would spend his nights in the Wasteland For Warriors, trying to help folks who were having a harder go of it than he was.

  He could imagine how it would end. He’d seen it over and over again. Eventually the same demons that had shaken him in that conference room would wear him down. They would make his symptoms so ever-present that he would alienate everyone in his life. Once they had him isolated from the herd, they would pick him off.

  Ty pulled into the parking lot of an immense shopping center. There was a Target, a pet store, an electronics store, and an office supply store. He parked in a congested area where his vehicle would be less noticeable. The conclusion he’d reached on his drive was that he had absolutely nothing to lose. The worst the kidnappers could do would be to kill him and, at this point, that simply saved him the anguish of doing it himself. He reached into the cooler in the back and removed a lukewarm bottle of water.

  He took a long drink while he thought about what he’d heard in that conference room. He had a name for the woman in the picture now. Fidelia Mendoza. She’d been well-known in a neighborhood named Barrio Libre where she’d once been a player. She’d lived there until last night when she bolted for an unknown reason, likely related to Ty’s appearance at Barger’s RV. She was a follower of a religion called Santa Muerte. And she had a son who was possibly cartel-affiliated.

  Had he been back home, this might have been enough information to provide a lead. Here, he didn’t know anything about the people and the neighborhoods. He didn’t know the customs and he didn’t know how you went about obtaining information. He had the sudden insight that this was exactly the same battle they’d fought to obtain information in Iraq and Afghanistan. They were strangers trying to question locals who often had no good reason to comply with their requests. It could be like throwing a hook with no bait into the ocean and expecting to catch a fish. It was often a frustrating and futile effort.

  Ty had a secret weapon, though. He had no fear. He wasn’t scared of dying, he wasn’t scared of the cartel, and he wasn’t scared of being tortured because he was tortured now. His only focus was getting Gretchen back. Every man had to make a stand and this was where he would make his. He was bringing Gretchen Wells home or he would die trying.

  He used his phone to search for the location of the Barrio Libre neighborhood. He was pleased to discover it was not very far at all from where he’d stayed the previous night. When he was done, he turned his phone off and retrieved a Ziploc bag from his food box. It had Pop Tarts in it, which he dumped into the seat beside him. He sealed the phone into the bag and drove to a less-trafficked area of the parking lot. Positioning his truck to block him from public view, he buried his phone in one of the landscaped islands of mulch and hedges.

  He didn’t wanted to carry it with him on the off-chance the FBI thought he was important enough to track. He’d even considered throwing it into the trash but there was something too final about that gesture. It was like opening a bottle of liquor and throwing the cap in the garbage. You were making a commitment. For Ty, throwing his phone in the garbage or out the window would have implied that he would not be coming back from this. While he fully accepted that possibility, he did not want to give the impression of surrender. That would only embolden the demons and he didn’t need that distraction. He had to fight. If not for himself, for Gretchen.

  36

  The detective from the gang unit was laying out Fidelia Mendoza’s complex criminal history when Lieutenant Whitt interrupted.

  “Excuse me, but should we check on Mr. Stone? He’s been gone a long time.”

  “He’s a big boy,” Agent Cornell said. “He’ll be fine.”

  Addressing the entire task force, Agent Esposito explained, “The lieutenant has an arrest warrant from Virginia. We were supposed to arrest Mr. Stone after the meeting and transfer custody to her.”

  Cornell looked shocked. “For what?”

  Lieutenant Whitt sighed. She hadn’t wanted to get into this. “Apparently Mr. Stone has severe PTSD. He was in a movie theater and a stranger put his hands on him. He kind of flipped out and took the guy to the floor.”

  “How badly was he injured?” Cliff Mathis asked.

  “He wasn’t injured,” the lieutenant replied. “Mr. Stone stopped himself before he hurt the guy. The man still pressed charges.”

  “That’s a bunch of bullshit,” Mathis spat. “Stone gave you your biggest lead. He came all the way across the country on his own dime to try and find this girl while he’s dealing with his own personal issues. How dare you ambush him like that?” He leaned back in his chair and glared at Lieutenant Whitt with disgust.

  “We’ve all got a job to do,” said Whitt.

  Cliff Mathis shoved his chair back from the table. “I’m done here. I don’t want any part of this. You’ve got a little girl out there in danger. We shouldn’t even be wasting time on this conversation.”

  Cornell was reclined back in his chair, arms folded across his stomach. “I agree with Mathis. This is bullshit.”

  “Can we take a five minute break?” Agent Esposito suggested, trying to defuse the situation. “We’ll check on Mr. Stone and go from there.”

  “This is bullshit!” Cornell called to their backs as Esposito and Whitt left the room.

  “Real supportive group you have there,” Whitt remarked.

  “They’re right, you know,” Esposito replied. “This is vindictive and petty.”

  They hurried down the hall to the restroom. Esposito went inside and found it empty. “He’s not in there.”

  “Damn,” Whitt mumbled.

  Esposito walked back to the pool of desks outside the conference room. “Did you see what happened to the guy who came out during our meeting?”

  “He asked about the restrooms,” the young lady replied. “Didn’t see him again after that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’ve got cameras all over the place,” Whitt said, pointing them out along the walls. “Can we run the footage?”

  Esposito raised an eyebrow. “You really want to go to all that trouble now? These guys are right. That’s not where we should be putting our resources.”

  Whitt hooked her thumbs onto her belt and stewed.

  “Are you sure this isn’t a little retaliation?” Esposito asked. “You’re pissed because Stone was right and you guys were chasing your tails?”

  “It wasn’t just me!” Whitt snapped. “The FBI was in agreement with our conclusions.”

  Esposito held up a conciliatory hand. “I’m just saying that I think we should leave this alone. Sure, we could track his phone and the navigation system in his vehicle. We could send out a bulletin to be on the lookout for him. Where’s the real crime here, though? It’s not with him. It’s with Gretchen Wells. Let’s find her.”

  Esposito put a hand on Whitt’s shoulder, ushering her back toward the conference room. Whitt relented. She understood she had no support here.

  “Stone will turn up,” Esposito said as they walked. “He’s not the kind of guy who’s going to run from this. He’s probably out there right now trying to pick up the trail. He’s on a mission.”

  37

  After burying his phone, Ty went into a discount store and used cash to buy a burner phone. He activated it in the parking lot while listening to Motorhead. He and his fellow soldiers had done this while deployed to psych themselves up for missions. There was nothing like loud metal to make you think you were invincible.

  When he had the burner phone working, he got back on the road and drove to Barrio Libre, a short drive from his current location. Cruising the quiet streets, it didn’t take him long to figure out which house had belonged to Fidelia Mendoza. It was wrapped with crime scene tape, an evidence van was parked in the driveway, and a half-dozen police cars were parked along the street. Ty wondered if the
re was a similar scene at Barger’s house and at the spot in the desert where Barger had been killed.

  He kept his head down, his sun visor blocking his face, and rolled on by. He had no intention of trying to get into that house but he wanted to see the neighborhood. That crime scene was the epicenter of this whole thing. It was the only connection he had right now to the woman who’d taken Gretchen.

  Around the corner, he pulled to the curb in front of a corner store made of yellow cinderblocks. The heat was sweltering and the window air conditioner was the loudest sound around. Ty went inside and glanced around the place. It was a tiny square building with few offerings. Basically just cigarettes, snacks, drinks, and beer. He grabbed an energy drink from the cooler and walked to the counter. The cashier, too cool to be pulled from his phone, made Ty wait for a while before he stood. Ty tolerated it because he wanted information.

  “What’s going on with all the cops?” Ty asked as the guy strolled the three steps to the counter and rang up his drink on the cash register.

  The cashier studied Ty, didn’t recognize him, and shrugged. “Who knows?”

  Not the talkative sort. Ty tried again. “Can you tell me where I might find the closest botanica?”

  The cashier raised an eyebrow at him. This didn’t look right. “What do you want a botanica for, amigo?”

  Ty passed his money across the counter, struggling to appear casual when he was anything but. He was working to give a touristy vibe, but with his physical stature and cop haircut he probably came off more like a detective than a tourist. Either way, not the kind of guy who would be asking about a botanica. “My grandmother has been getting involved in something called Santa Muerte. I wanted to find out more about it. She’s been getting a little weird over it.”