No Going Back (Sawyer Brooks)

by T. R. Ragan

  Sawyer took a breath. “So, any suggestions on how to handle working with Lexi Holmes?”

  “Yes. Be prepared to work three times as hard, or she’ll make mincemeat out of you.”

  “Is mincemeat really a thing?”

  “It most definitely is. And trust me. You don’t want to be chopped and diced and served for dinner in a boozy concoction of overcooked meat and apples seasoned with cinnamon.”

  “Great.” She looked around the room, twiddling her fingers, trying not to let it all get to her. It was one big learning experience. One of these days, she would be confident enough to stick to her guns. “Nice place you got here,” she finally said.

  “All decorating credit goes to Debbie.”

  “Is she your caretaker?”

  “She’s my wife.”

  No way. He was teasing. “You told me you were divorced.”

  “I was.”

  “It was only a few weeks ago when you told me you were divorced.”

  “Correct.”

  “Two days after you told me you were divorced, you were stabbed by a lunatic.”

  “You have the memory of an elephant.”

  She shook her head at him.

  “After the incident,” he said, making it sound more like a slip and fall and less like attempted murder, “I realized life was short, and while I was doped up on Percocet and feeling no pain, I asked the lucky lady to marry me.”

  “And she said yes?”

  His smile made his eyes sparkle.

  “She’s not wearing a wedding ring.”

  “We’ll go shopping as soon as I’m up and about.”

  “No church wedding, I guess.”

  “Only the best for my girl,” he said. “A good friend of mine came over, pinned a bow tie to my undershirt, and officiated the thing right here in the living room.”

  Silence.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “Truthfully,” Sawyer said, “you just never struck me as the type to do something so spontaneous. I mean, the doped-up thing makes sense, but there’s a part of this whole love story that makes zero sense.”

  “Which part?”

  “The beautiful and kind Debbie part.”

  “What? You don’t think I’m good enough for her?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “What if I told you that she’s not as nice as you think?”

  Sawyer laughed and then pushed herself to her feet. “I better go and let you get your rest.” She walked to his side and gave him a long look.

  “Quit looking at me as if I’m a goner. I’ll be back in the office sooner than you think.”

  “You better be,” she said before heading for the exit.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was five minutes after ten when Sawyer walked into the conference room at work. Lexi Holmes was already seated at the rectangular table, surrounded by papers and a three-ring binder. “You’re late.”

  Ignoring her, Sawyer took a seat, reached into her bag for her own file and notebook, and set it on the table in front of her.

  Lexi leaned forward and handed Sawyer a piece of paper. “I think it would be a good idea if we talk to the victims of the Black Wigs. We need to make it clear to the community that what these vigilantes are doing is wrong.”

  “We don’t know if that’s true,” Sawyer said.

  Lexi’s hand went to the base of her throat. “Cutting off Brad Vicente’s appendage was the right thing to do?”

  “Well,” Sawyer said, “the man is in prison for doing unspeakable things to women whose names we still don’t know.”

  “I’m not sure I understand exactly what you’re trying to say.”

  “I’m saying it’s possible, if not probable, that the Black Wigs were victims at one time. It’s a well-known fact that only five out of every thousand rapists go to—” Sawyer stopped herself. No need to give her opinion. Opinions were like assholes . . . everyone had one. “Although we must remain unbiased, I would like to write about this from the vigilantes’ point of view.”

  Lexi’s gaze was fixated on the pen she kept tapping against the table.

  When Lexi failed to say anything, Sawyer added, “Clearly, the vigilantes are going about it all wrong, but what I want to know, as I’m sure many readers would too, is why the Black Wigs are doing this. These men are being chosen for a reason. And so far, their attacks were carefully planned.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Lexi asked.

  “Because otherwise the Black Wigs would be in jail already. Take Brad Vicente as an example. It would require organization and preparation to kidnap a man, keep him tied up in his own home, then cut off his dick and escape unseen.”

  “Are you open to giving our readers the whole picture?” Lexi asked.

  “Do you mean let our readers see what’s going on through the lens of both the vigilante and the victim? Of course.”

  “Good.” Lexi handed Sawyer a piece of paper. “I’ll handle the story from the perspective of the Black Wigs’ victims.” She gestured toward the paper in front of Sawyer.

  Sawyer studied the names: Brad Vicente, Otto Radley, Myles Davenport, and Nick Calderon. Beneath every name was the date and place of birth, social security number, schooling, and employment information, if any, and names of friends and relatives, including phone numbers and addresses.

  “I want to handle the Nick Calderon case.”

  “But he’s a victim of the Black Wigs,” Lexi said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Lexi straightened in her chair. “I talked to Detective Perez over the phone. The person seen on the security camera was wearing a black wig. Can you explain that?”

  “I think it’s a copycat.”

  Lexi looked as if she wanted to say something but was holding back. She finally angled her head and said, “You’re a real go-getter, aren’t you?”

  Sawyer said nothing.

  “Just because you’re not afraid to get out there and talk to people, doesn’t always mean that you should.”

  “Why not?” Sawyer asked.

  “Because you tend to step on people’s feet. People who matter. People like Detective Perez. He doesn’t appreciate you getting in the way. Up until now, you’ve been lucky. It’s as simple as that.”

  Sawyer knew Lexi was talking about her involvement in a recent case concerning a string of missing girls. “I don’t believe hard work and long hours has anything to do with luck.”

  Lexi went back to tapping the end of the pen against the table. Her brow furrowed as she met Sawyer’s gaze. “So we’ll split this Black Wigs story right down the middle. I’ll tell it from the victims’ side . . . except for Nick Calderon . . . and you tell it from the vigilantes’ side.” There was a pause before she added, “It’s your career on the line, not mine.”

  “You don’t think it’s reasonable to assume that the women who make up the Black Wigs might have been abused by the men they have chosen to go after?”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to ever assume.”

  “Aren’t you curious to know why these women are doing what they’re doing? Don’t you want to know how society got to the point where young girls are imitating the Black Wigs on social media?”

  Lexi sighed.

  “What?”

  “When it comes to telling the story, I’ll remain unbiased. But do you want my honest opinion about all this?”

  “I do.”

  “The Black Wigs are nothing more than thugs. Nobody should take the law into their own hands. It’s not up to them to punish these men, no matter the circumstances.”

  “It’s happening, though, and I think it’s pretty clear that people are mimicking the Black Wigs out of frustration. Rapists are ruining lives and getting away with it.”

  Lexi didn’t look impressed.

  “Every day,” Sawyer went on, “somewhere in the world, a doctor sedates and then assaults a patient. A coach takes advantage of a student and is never arrested. Just
last week, a young high school girl in Sacramento was raped. She reported the assault immediately. Nothing was done to the boy who attacked her.”

  Sawyer took a calming breath. “You focus on the victims, and I’ll concentrate on the Black Wigs, The Slayers, and every woman out there who has been victimized. But nothing you write gets published until I give approval. We’re doing this story my way. If you want out, now would be the time to say so.”

  Lexi sat back in her chair. “I’m in.”

  “Good. I’m going to start by interviewing the women who filed complaints and/or brought the men on your list to court years ago. Then I’ll move on to anyone who knows the abusers—friends, coworkers, neighbors, and family.”

  “That’s a lot of people to talk to.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “It could be. The Black Wigs story is huge right now. Everyone is talking about them. We need to get something out there. Pronto.”

  Sawyer shook her head. “If we rush it, it’ll look like every other hack story out there. It might take some time, but we’re going to do this right.”

  “Fine,” Lexi said. “There’s one more thing we need to discuss.”

  “Okay.”

  “We have an appointment at the California State Prison, Sacramento, at noon.”

  Sawyer wondered how she was able to arrange an interview in such a short amount of time, but she didn’t say anything since she wanted to avoid the whole I’m-a-pro speech.

  Lexi glanced at her watch with its gleaming yellow-gold band. “Meet me in the lobby in forty-five minutes. We’ll drive together. My car.”

  Sawyer nodded. She could insist they take her car, but it was dirty and she needed gas.

  “We’ll only have thirty minutes to interview him,” Lexi said. “I have a list of questions ready to go.”

  Of course she did.

  “We won’t be allowed cameras or recording devices, so be prepared to take notes.”

  They both stood at the same time.

  Sawyer realized the collaboration would never work unless she let Lexi do what Lexi did best—collect, verify, and analyze the information—while Sawyer concentrated on the Black Wigs, women she empathized with. There was no doubt in her mind that they had been wronged, their lives most likely left in tatters while the perpetrators walked free.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Valerie Purcell slipped on her leopard leggings and black tank top with the crisscross straps and then went and stood before the full-length mirror. She turned to her right and then her left. Not bad for a seventy-four-year-old broad with silver hair and hardly any muscle tone. At least, not yet.

  Two weeks ago, she’d decided to make Henry’s old office into a workout room. Her daughter had helped her go through his things, but the built-in bookshelf was still lined with books and knickknacks and silly awards that had made him feel as if he were someone when, in fact, he’d been no one.

  Two months had passed since her husband suffered a major heart attack and died on the spot. Henry’s death replayed in her head a couple of times a week. When would that stop? Hopefully sooner rather than later, she thought as she picked up the five-pound dumbbells.

  Henry had been seventy-five when he died. A year older than Valerie was now. He’d been a personal injury lawyer, also known as an ambulance chaser, which was something he actually did all the time.

  Before she knew of his betrayal, she had tried to get him to retire. Mostly because she’d wanted to travel before they got too old, but Henry wouldn’t think of it. He’d said he would rather die than sit home all day with nothing to do. And that’s exactly what had happened. They’d been in the kitchen when it happened. As he worked on cutting the foil below the lower lip of a bottle of Cabernet from Napa Valley, a serious expression had crossed his face before he told her he had something very important he needed to discuss with her.

  Her heart had begun to race. Was he finally going to retire? Where would they travel to first? Italy? France? New Zealand? So many options. It would be difficult to choose when the time came to book their flights. She’d been badgering him about taking her somewhere for so long she’d started to think it might never happen.

  He began to rotate the corkscrew. A sheen of sweat had made his forehead shiny, as if the task at hand was too much for him. And then he’d said, “I want—”

  “What do you want, dear?” she’d asked him, waiting for him to finish his sentence.

  He grabbed a tissue from the counter and dabbed it over his face. “It’s hot in here.”

  “It’s fine,” she told him. “What do you want?”

  He picked up the corkscrew and made a half turn and then another. “I want a divorce.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’ve fallen in love with someone else.” He usually gave the corkscrew six half turns, but he’d managed only four before his hands dropped to his sides and he fell backward, his head bouncing off the marble countertop on his way down.

  She ran to his side and felt for a pulse. He was hanging on but barely, his clawlike hand clutching at his chest. She thought about calling for help, but she couldn’t shake loose his declaration of love for another woman. Who was it? she wanted to ask, but didn’t.

  “Help,” he squeaked. Tiny bubbles of spit formed at both sides of his mouth.

  “You just professed your love for another, and you want me to help you?”

  No answer. His face was extremely pale now, his lips a grayish blue.

  She took a couple of breaths to calm down and hopefully put to rest the urge to give him a good kick or two.

  She would call for help. Eventually. But first she finished opening the bottle of wine, poured herself a glass, and took a sip. Nice. Henry was missing out. She then walked to the family room, picked up the remote, and flipped through the channels. By the time she returned to the kitchen, he had passed on.

  The sound of a timer going off downstairs brought her back to the present. Dumbbells in hand, she stood still for another second or two, listening. The sound was familiar. It was the timer on her oven. But she hadn’t put anything in the oven. In fact, she rarely cooked anymore. She left the workout room and went to the hallway, where the beeping grew louder.

  A crash followed.

  At the top of the stairs, she leaned over the banister. “Who’s there?”

  Silence followed.

  Hurrying down the steps, wondering whether the neighbor’s cat had somehow gotten inside the house, she tripped suddenly and flew headfirst down the stairs. She hit the landing hard, and tasted blood.

  Seconds passed before she attempted and failed to move her arms and legs. Her neck was crooked in such a way that she could see her left leg. There was blood everywhere. A broken, twisted bone protruded from her calf. “Help,” she said when she heard movement and then quiet footfalls.

  She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, someone was standing over her and leaning low. Black hair and red lipstick. Cleopatra? It wasn’t Halloween, was it? “Who are you?”

  “You might remember me as Cockroach.”

  Cockroach? “From the Children’s Home in Sacramento?”

  “That’s right.”

  She struggled to swallow. “What are you doing in my house?”

  “I’m making the rounds. Paying all my old friends a visit. I’ve already seen Nick Calderon.”

  “But he’s dead.”

  “Yes, he is. I’m pretty sure he went to hell, where he belongs.”

  Valerie’s chest tightened as images of her husband lying on the kitchen floor took hold in her mind’s eye. He’d looked so pale, so old. It had all been for the best. But she was young and vibrant. She was going on a Caribbean cruise next month. She couldn’t die. Not now. Not yet. “When those bullies picked on you,” she said to Cockroach, her voice trembling, “I tried to stop them. I always wanted the best for you.”

  “Is that why you made me mop the floor whenever I cried? Then kicked me in the ribs, over and over, if I mi
ssed a spot?”

  Her heart was racing now. She tried to move her leg, hoping she might be able to crawl out the door and scream for help, but just that tiny movement sent a searing-hot pain through her middle. She let out a whimpering cry. “Imagine trying to take care of dozens of troubled children,” she tried again. “Kids need discipline. I had to do whatever was necessary to keep order.”

  Cockroach stepped over her and walked up the stairs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just removing the rope I tied from one railing to the other in the hope that you would trip over it when you heard someone in your kitchen. It worked perfectly.”

  Cockroach was back beside her, holding a syringe, examining it closely before reaching for her foot. She could feel the needle pinching the skin under her toenail. The pain was excruciating. “Let me go. Please stop.”

  “I remember saying those exact words to you all those years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is that what you want to hear?”

  “A little too late for apologies, I’m afraid. Sleep tight. You’ll be with your husband soon.”

  Valerie groaned. Henry was the last person in the world she wanted to see again. She licked her dry lips. Her breathing grew shallow. She felt nauseated.

  So this was what it felt like to die. She’d always wondered what thoughts or life events might flash before her in those last moments.

  But there was nothing.

  No bright light in the distance calling to her. Only blackness.

  No thoughts or consciousness. No kind faces smiling upon her as she took her last breath.

  Just a big gaping hole of nothingness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The drive to the prison was spent listening to Lexi talk on the phone about other stories she was working on, including one about a domestic murder and the confession made by the wife on social media. If she had not been on the phone, Sawyer might have told her that she’d called Brad Vicente’s sister after their meeting this morning. The woman had nothing good to say about her brother—a few choice words before hanging up—but it was something she might be able to use to get Brad Vicente talking.