LOST CREED: (Book 4 Ryder Creed series)

by Kava, Alex

  “He doesn’t seem to remember what happened to the girl in the Polaroid.”

  “And you believe him?” How could he not know, was what Creed wanted to shout, but again, he tried to keep calm.

  “It’s possible he might not remember . . . exactly.”

  “Exactly?” To Creed it sounded like a wiggle word that a criminal may have heard from his attorney. “And what exactly will it take for him to remember?” He caught a glimpse of Hannah’s expression and knew his voice was already betraying him.

  “Look, this is confidential,” Maggie said, almost in a whisper. Her pause made Creed wonder if she was someplace where she couldn’t talk openly. Or was it a ploy to keep him from losing it? Was she worried he couldn’t handle the truth?

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “The Polaroid wasn’t the only photograph we found. There were more. A lot more.”

  “Okay.”

  He tried to remember what else she had told him about the raid. Something to do with human trafficking. Creed had worked a case where a drug cartel had also been trafficking children. This wasn’t an unfamiliar topic for him. Maggie knew that, and yet, here she was tiptoeing around the details as if she didn’t think he could handle whatever information she had to tell him.

  When her silence lasted too long, Creed said, “I’ve had sixteen years to imagine what could have happened to Brodie. I’m not sure there’s anything you can say that will shock me. Please, Maggie, just tell me. Is it possible this guy knows what happened to her?” He turned his back so he didn’t have to look at Hannah’s face when he added, “Is there a chance he knows where she’s buried?”

  This time Creed waited out Maggie’s silence. He thought he heard what might be a door shutting.

  “Ryder, I can’t tell you that, because I honestly don’t know. I’m in the process of trying to see if we can make a deal.”

  “A deal?”

  “Yes. Dunn knows he’s in deep trouble. He’s a career criminal. I think he realizes he’s not getting off or getting out this time with a slap on the hand and a few years of probation. I need to convince the proper authorities that what he knows is actually worth a deal. Right now, I don’t even know what that deal might look like.”

  She stopped and Creed heard someone else.

  “Hold on,” she told him.

  There was a muffled conversation and another sound that could be a door closing.

  “You still there?” she asked.

  “What kind of deal, Maggie? You think he’s just a go-between in a bigger operation?”

  “That’s possible, but I also think Eli Dunn is directly responsible for some of these victims. This whole raid was a part of a nationwide federal investigation to help shutdown human trafficking. I think I can convince them it would go a long ways to work with Dunn instead of just locking him up. Especially if there’s a chance we can find a few of his victims.”

  Creed swallowed hard before he asked the one question that had been eating at him since Maggie’s first phone call. “Do you think there’s any chance at all that Brodie is still alive?”

  He expected another long silence, but she surprised him. And this time there was no tiptoeing around his feelings.

  “Honestly? No.” But then she must have realized how harsh that sounded, because her voice softened when she added, “But Ryder, anything’s possible. I just don’t want you investing too much emotion and hope into this.”

  He didn’t tell her that it was too late.

  Chapter 13

  Omaha, Nebraska

  Tommy Pakula checked his watch. He’d showered and shaved down in the locker room, grateful his wife, Clare had insisted he keep a change of clothes at work. He wouldn’t need to stop at home. Instead, he could drive out to West Omaha for his appointment and still make his daughter’s volleyball game. But now in jeans and a polo shirt he felt underdressed even after pulling on his suit jacket.

  Ellen Gabriel’s call had made it sound urgent that Pakula come today. She was afraid the boy might change his mind if they waited until morning. “The boy” was the young victim that Eli Dunn had used as a decoy. Pakula had directed the response team to take him to Project Harmony. Their child services experts were trained in working with children of extreme abuse. Not only would they provide a medical examination, but also one of their forensic interviewers would ask the appropriate questions in an appropriate manner, allowing the boy to tell his story. Pakula knew it was the best place, not only for the boy, but for their investigation, too.

  He realized he probably should have told O’Dell, but she was preoccupied with throwing together a deal with the Douglas County prosecutor. Actually saying she was preoccupied was a bit mild. Obsessed seemed a more appropriate term. Truthfully, after the way she conducted the interview with Dunn, Pakula didn’t really want her along for this one.

  He realized that probably wasn’t fair. He’d invited O’Dell to this twisted party and now he wasn’t sure he trusted how she was handling it. Any time emotions played into a case it was tough to be objective. Discovering that old Polaroid photo seemed to throw a bunch of O’Dell’s objectivity out the window.

  For all Gabriel’s urgency, Pakula found himself waiting in the reception area. He preferred to pace in front of the floor to ceiling windows rather than sit in the designated guest chair the receptionist had pointed out. Once in a while she glanced up at him and smiled, and he continued pacing.

  The lobby was a beautiful open space with a ceiling that soared and skylights that made it feel like the clouds were part of the structure. Natural light streamed in, even as the sun began to set. Pakula suspected that all this, including the ocean-blue painted walls and the colorful abstract paintings, were part of a strategy to invite and soothe the broken spirits that came through the doors.

  He glanced at his watch, again and realized after all his efforts he might still be late for his daughter’s game.

  Although Pakula had worked with the organization before, he had never been to their facility. Project Harmony worked with abuse victims. Pakula was a veteran homicide detective. Usually the victim was dead by the time Pakula was called to the scene. Which was one of the reasons he was surprised when asked to head the local task force on human trafficking and then become a part of the FBI’s Operation Cross Country. Some days he wasn’t sure what he’d gotten himself into. He tried to view his new position as just an extension of the many investigations he was already used to working. But he was quickly discovering that it was much different.

  The deciding factor for Pakula to take the position was actually a homicide six months ago. A drug dealer claimed a prostitute named Ariel—who the drug dealer admittedly pimped—shot herself in the head.

  “The bitch,” he told Pakula, “committed suicide right in front of me.”

  The dealer/pimp liked to be called T-Rock. During his interrogation he refused to answer any of Pakula’s questions unless he was addressed as T-Rock. That seemed to be his only requirement. Otherwise, he didn’t mind sharing his expertise, almost as if he was schooling Pakula. The guy had some real gems like telling Pakula that “drugs you can only sell once. A good bitch you can sell over and over, again.”

  It looked like another sad, screwed up case until Pakula learned that the dead prostitute was only fifteen years old. In that same interrogation, T-Rock had bragged that Ariel’s mother had sold the girl to him a couple of years ago when—according to T-Rock—the mother “let herself get too ugly and skinny to sell herself.” And she still needed to pay for her drug addiction.

  T-Rock had told Pakula all this while he shook his head with such exaggeration that his long dread locks seemed to come alive. T-Rock liked to emphasize that he couldn’t be held responsible for how screwed up this woman was. But the dealer had gone one step too far when he told Pakula that he’d probably done the poor girl a favor by saving her from her cr
azy mother.

  In his thirty years with the Omaha Police Department, Pakula had seen and heard enough crazy stuff that this case didn’t surprise him. He was well aware of human trafficking. Interstate 80 cut across Nebraska in almost a straight line from one end of the state to the other. About 450 miles total. That’s a whole lot of traffic. A whole lot of goods, both legal and illegal moving through the state on a daily basis.

  Yet, this case felt like a gut punch. This girl, Ariel reminded Pakula too much of his daughter, Samantha. The oldest of four, Sam was the only one with freckles and thick red hair like her grandmother. Just like Ariel—that long beautiful red hair matted and stained with blood and brain matter—an image Pakula couldn’t shake. It didn’t help matters that Sam was also fifteen.

  “Detective Pakula,” a woman called to him.

  He turned away from the windows.

  “Ms. Gabriel?”

  The woman was small, but her voice robust and confident. Her suit looked tailored to fit her, a dark gray that matched her hair. She wore pearls and a gold watch, otherwise there was nothing extravagant, and still, she had an elegance about her.

  “Call me Ellen.” She gestured for him to walk with her. “We usually video record our forensic interviews,” she told him as she guided him along. “We do that for a couple of reasons. The information can help to corroborate or refute any suspicions or perhaps any existing allegations. The second reason is so that these children don’t have to tell their story over and over again.”

  “So I’m guessing this boy said something that was—”

  “Konnor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The boy’s name is Konnor. He hasn’t trusted us with a last name, yet. He’s going through a withdrawal from whatever drugs he was given. We’re not sure what those were, but I’m told they might affect his memory. He may appear a bit slow as a result. And actually, he hasn’t said much at all. But he has asked to talk to you.”

  “To me? I didn’t think he even knew my name.”

  “He didn’t. He asked for the baldheaded cop.” Gabriel blushed just slightly as though she may have insulted him. “Sorry, that’s exactly how he asked about you.”

  Pakula smiled. He’d been shaving his head long before it became cool. Besides it was pretty hard to offend him.

  “I’m surprised he knew I was in charge. The scene was a bit chaotic.”

  “I don’t think he did know you were in charge,” she said. “When I asked him why he wanted to talk to you, he told me that you gave him your jacket.”

  “Really? That’s why he wants to talk to me?”

  She smiled and nodded. “He said no one had ever done that for him before.”

  Pakula shook his head. This new position was definitely different than working homicide or dealing with drug dealers.

  Chapter 14

  Pakula hardly recognized the kid.

  Konnor wore baggy khakis and a Nebraska Huskers T-shirt. His face was ruddy and clean, his hair fluffy and combed and most importantly, his eyes were clear and bright blue. Gabriel had told Pakula that Konnor said he was twelve. The kid was as tall as Pakula, almost six foot. That was one tall twelve-year-old. But he was thin, skeletal thin.

  Ellen Gabriel helped them get settled into a room that looked like someone’s living room. There was a sofa with colorful pillows, two chairs, end tables with lamps, paintings on the walls and even a flat-screen television. But as soon as they sat down—Konnor in one of the chairs, Pakula in the other—Gabriel left them.

  On the wall opposite the chairs, Pakula picked out the camera with only a glance. It looked like a round thermostat control. Gabriel had shared Konnor’s concerns about being recorded, and told Pakula not to insist. But she also pointed out the remote control she had left on the end table between the two chairs.

  “Ms. Gabriel tells me you don’t want us to record our conversation. Do you still feel that way?”

  The boy nodded so aggressively his hair fell into his eyes. He swiped it away and stared at Pakula, waiting for the next question.

  “All of us are here to help you, Konnor. Elijah Dunn is in prison. I promise, he can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “What about the others?”

  “There were others that came to the farm?”

  Another nod, but this time Konnor looked down at his hands in his lap. Pakula noticed the kid’s fingernails were all chewed to the quick.

  “Sometimes he took us to them.”

  Pakula fought back the acid that churned in his stomach. He blamed too much coffee, but lately, he recognized these cases that involved kids literally made him sick to his stomach.

  “Do you remember any of the others?” he asked. “Or where he took you?”

  This time Konnor shook his head and said, “He made us take pills. They made me sleepy and my eyes got all bleary. But they helped me forget about stuff.”

  And Pakula realized Konnor meant that as a good thing. The kid wanted to forget about stuff. Pakula tried to wait out the silence that followed, giving the boy a chance to tell without being prodded. But instead, Konnor continued to stare down at his hands.

  “Ms. Gabriel told me you asked to talk to me, Konnor. Whatever you want to tell me, I’m listening.”

  This time the boy looked up and met Pakula’s eyes as if checking to see if there were a catch. It almost looked like he expected Pakula to try tricking him.

  “I don’t trust cops,” he finally said. “They’re almost never what they say they are. But you gave me your jacket. I figured you’re different.”

  Pakula wasn’t surprised the kid didn’t trust cops. None came to save him. Dunn had probably filled the boy’s head with reasons to not trust police officers. He wasn’t going to argue with Konnor. Nor would he try to convince him that he was, indeed, different from the boy’s perceived notion. Konnor would either trust him or he wouldn’t. At this point, it wouldn’t matter what Pakula said. So, he waited.

  “There were other kids at the farm before you came.”

  Pakula shifted in his chair and stopped himself from leaning forward.

  “Do you know what happened to them?”

  Another shake of the head. His eyes were back on his hands, this time inspecting them as if looking for a fingernail that wasn’t already gnawed down.

  “How many others?”

  This time he shrugged and it reminded Pakula of a little boy trying to get out of telling something he didn’t want to share.

  “Boys and girls?”

  “Mostly girls.” He found a cuticle on his little finger and started chewing at the edge of it.

  “Konnor, I know this isn’t easy to talk about, but I really need you to tell me everything you know.” Pakula wanted to reach out and lift the boy’s chin so he’d look at him, but he dared not touch him. “I want to help those other kids, too. Can you help me do that? Can you give me some idea of where I should start looking?”

  He finally looked up at Pakula. His finger was bleeding where he’d bit off the cuticle. He was sucking on it now, but stopped.

  “He took them someplace.” Konnor shrugged. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. He was always taking one or two of us to a house or a hotel. I was locked in my room. I couldn’t see them leave. I didn’t know he took all of them.” Then in almost a whisper of a small child sharing a secret, he said, “I was just relieved he didn’t take me.”

  His eyes darted to the door and back to Pakula. Just checking, but there was a hint of paranoia. Then Konnor said, “In the pasture. There’s an old barn. Maybe you should check that barn.”

  Chapter 15

  “Charlotte, you made a big mistake, this time,” the woman named Iris called down from the top of the staircase in a singsong that belied her true anger.

  All Charlotte could see was Iris’ large silhouette looming above her, backlit f
rom the only light. Otherwise, darkness surrounded her. Darkness and the damp scent of concrete and mildew. The basement floor, she realized as her cheek lay against the hard surface. But it was cool and soothing compared to the rest of what her body was feeling. The ache only hinted at the level of pain that would spread like wildfire if she so much as moved.

  She tried to look up at Iris, again, but her vision blurred, and the bright light behind the woman stung her eyes like lasers. She closed her eyes and stayed still. She knew the woman wouldn’t bother coming down the stairs to check on her. And despite Charlotte’s earlier bravado, she didn’t have the strength to climb up and get pushed down these stairs a second time. In fact, she wasn’t sure whether or not she was able to get back up. She may have broken a bone. She was certain she’d blacked out for a minute or two. To move now seemed to only encourage more pain.

  “Do you hear me, Charlotte? This was your last chance. Remember what I told you?”

  The question was simply reaffirmation. Iris didn’t need an answer. She never did. There wasn’t a trace of anger in the woman’s voice. Somehow she always managed to keep the same even-tempered cadence that reminded Charlotte of a schoolteacher instructing her students.

  Even punishment came in a measured tone with a rhythm and tempo that seemed to only emphasize how ridiculous the infringement was. So when Iris said, “Oh, what a silly, stupid girl you are,” it sounded like she was singing instead of yelling.

  But this was Charlotte’s last chance. She knew that even before she made the attempt to escape. Others had made the same mistake. Used up their chances. She had no idea what it meant or where they ended up. She only knew that they disappeared.

  Wherever they went, whatever happened to them, how could it be any worse than this? In Charlotte’s mind, they were the lucky ones.

  She had long ago lost track of time. She had no idea how many days or weeks or years had gone by. At some point she had given up trying to distinguish what was real, what was imagined or what was only one of Iris’ wicked stories. It was too difficult to hold on to memories when you were so hungry you could only focus on the sound of a door opening and a dinner tray being slid inside your room.