Desperate Creed

by Alex Kava

  “Do you mind if I ask him a few questions?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  Creed expected the sheriff to push for more of an explanation. Instead, he said, “Come on.”

  The name Roscoe was embroidered on the man’s sweat-stained blue shirt. Gray dust clung to his trousers and ball cap. The scratches on his arms looked like he’d wrestled his way out of a tiger’s cage. When he greeted Creed and the sheriff, Roscoe still had that glazed look in his eyes that Creed had seen in others who had escaped death and knew it.

  He was packing up into plastic containers shelves of packaged food that had been untouched by the storm. Bags of chips and candy bars had stayed on an end-cap, not a single wrapper torn. The shelf stood surrounded by bricks, ceiling tiles and pieces of drywall. Everywhere Creed stepped he heard glass crunch beneath his feet, and he was glad he’d put Grace inside his Jeep.

  It didn’t take much to get Roscoe talking.

  “Out here there’s no sirens,” he told them. “My building faces the east. We never saw the damned thing coming. The wind picks up. Thunder. Lightning. Downpour. A little bit of hail. It’s crazy. People pulling in off the interstate. They’re putting gas in. Still running inside to buy crap.”

  He tugged his ballcap off and swiped his forearm across his sweaty forehead. Plopped the cap back on and started again. “Then it calms. Y’all know how it is. That freaky, eerie quiet. And then it’s right there. Wind blasting. Debris flying. It’s throwing around stuff it picked up a mile away. The doors blew open. Glass shattered.” He shook his head and gestured to what must have been the front of the building. “I yelled for people to move inside. Told them to get to the back. Pile into the restrooms. Those are made of cinder block.”

  He looked back at the area, a portion of it still standing. A door hung from its hinges in a doorframe that was no longer connected to anything.

  Suddenly, Creed’s Jeep started up, the engine roaring to life just ten feet away from them. The sheriff looked at the vehicle then back at Creed.

  “Your dog knows how to drive?”

  “Heat alarm system. It’s backed up with it’s own auxiliary battery,” Creed explained. “Turns the ignition and the A/C on when it reaches a certain temperature inside the vehicle.” He wanted to get back on track. To Roscoe, he said, “I know it was crazy during that time, but do you remember a woman...”

  Then he stopped himself. He realized he didn’t know what she looked like. A name wouldn’t matter. They didn’t even know if the vehicle had been a car or an SUV. Some of the paint had been peeled away. He did remember seeing the Ford emblem. And the only remaining tire was small.

  “She may have been in a white Ford sedan,” he finally told the man. “Virginia license plates. She was with a man and baby.”

  “You the one that found that baby?” he asked Creed.

  “Yes sir. My dog did.”

  “Now you’re looking for its momma, huh?”

  “We’re hoping.”

  “Let me think.” Roscoe squinted, creasing his brow. “The place was going nuts. Pumps were full up. Cars pulling in just to get under the awnings.” Then he blinked a few times and pointed like he was trying to get his finger on an image. “Wait a minute. There was a woman in line to pay. She was anxious to get back out. I think she may have said something about a baby.”

  “Did she go back out?” the sheriff asked.

  Roscoe was quiet. Still thinking. He pulled his cap off, again, and did the swipe through his sweat-plastered hair. Tugged the cap back on and seesawed the brim like it helped him concentrate.

  “Y’all know, I can’t say for sure.” Then he looked at the sheriff. “First paramedics took about five people just from around here. Maybe she was one of them?”

  The sheriff looked from Roscoe to Creed. He turned around and Creed knew he was assessing how far away the vehicle was.

  He looked back at Creed and said, “What makes you think they were here?”

  “Gut instinct. And the gas cap was off. I know tornadoes do weird stuff but can they screw a gas cap off?”

  The sheriff didn’t reply. Instead, he fished his cell phone out of his breast pocket. By the time he walked the short distance to his patrol car he was barking out instructions.

  29

  FLORIDA PANHANDLE

  The lightning spider webbed across Brodie’s bedroom wall. A rumble of thunder followed. Rain started tapping against the roof, a soft pitter-patter. It was a comforting sound, almost a lullaby helping her fall asleep.

  Brodie pulled the blanket up around her neck even though the breeze coming in through the curtains was warm and damp. The blanket was so soft. So were the socks. Pink and fluffy, they made her feet forget about the cold and damp concrete and all the cuts and scrapes she had learned to endure. Ryder had bought her a whole drawer full of socks, waiting for her when she arrived.

  The drawer of socks was just one of the luxuries of living in this house surrounded by a beautiful forest. She wasn’t cold or dirty or hungry. No rats. No foul smells. Instead, fresh air brought the scent of blooming flowers and wet pine. She could feel and hear the comforting purr of Kitten curled up in the nook of Brodie’s knees.

  She already missed Ryder. She felt safe just knowing he was close by. She liked Hannah. She trusted her. Brodie liked Jason, too, and Dr. Avelyn. They’d all made her feel welcome. But Ryder made her feel safe. He had been there when she woke up in that Omaha hospital room back in October. He had promised that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

  In the shadows she could see the basket Hannah had left on the table in front of the window. Her eyelids were heavy, but helped her sleep to think about the good things that surrounded her. Today the basket was filled with two bananas, an apple and an orange.

  Shortly after Brodie arrived, she started finding a basket of food inside her room whenever Hannah left fresh towels or linens for her. The basket usually contained fruit: a banana, a couple of apples, and an orange. Sometimes there was also a freshly baked muffin or a few cookies, each individually wrapped and tied with a ribbon. They reminded Brodie like little gift packages given for a special occasion. But there were no special occasions, and yet the gifts continued.

  Brodie mentioned the baskets to Ryder once when she still worried that perhaps all that food wasn’t meant for only her.

  He told her, “Hannah believes food can feed the soul as much as the body. It’s probably her way of telling you that you’ll never go hungry in this house.”

  Brodie didn’t really understand the part about the soul, but she certainly knew what it was like to go hungry. Iris Malone had withheld food as punishment dozens of times. And when she did feed Brodie, too often there were drugs hidden inside.

  The drugs played games with Brodie’s mind. They blurred her vision and sometimes incapacitated her so much she felt paralyzed. Almost always they made her sick to her stomach. Sicker than going without food. And now, she still broke apart her food, unconsciously looking for the capsules, the pills, or the powder that didn’t belong. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Hannah. It was like her fingers doing it on their own.

  She thought she’d gotten better, but over the several days she found her mind playing tricks on her. The memories, the nightmares seemed to trigger something inside her. And then it took concentrated effort to tamp down the unwanted thoughts that came without warning. There were voices, too.

  For a long time after she’d been rescued she still heard Iris’ voice, so close, so real. And it sounded exactly as it had so many times before: Iris lecturing her from the top of the basement stairs or outside the locked door. But lately, it wasn’t Iris that Brodie heard. Instead, it was some version of Brodie’s own voice, whispering to her, reminding her things, raising suspicions, questioning her judgment.

  But tonight Brodie listened to the storm outside. Her eyelids closed against the flicker of lightning that danced across the ceiling. The thunder remain
ed in the distance, a low, gentle hum that couldn’t possibly hurt anyone. The rain increased its tempo, the tapping now accompanied by running water flowing through the gutters and downspouts.

  She had no idea how long she’d been asleep when something startled her. Brodie jerked awake. She glanced around sensing someone’s presence. A flash of lightning illuminated the bedroom, and she bolted upright when she saw the child standing in the open doorway.

  “Issac? Thomas?”

  A second flicker of light revealed that it was neither boy. The little girl had long, stringy hair. The front of her dress was stained. Her shoes muddy. She gestured for Brodie to come follow her.

  “Charlotte?” The question came in a whisper that Brodie barely recognized as her own. “What do you want?”

  A crack of thunder woke her up for real this time. Brodie sat up. She was drenched in sweat. Her jolt had startled Kitten. Her eyes darted to the doorway and strained to see. The door was closed. She scrambled out of bed hurried to check the doorknob. It turned easily in her hand and relief washed over so overwhelming, so completely that she felt a deep chill.

  She pulled the door open and peeked around the jamb. There was no one in the hallway. Her pulse raced. She found herself tiptoeing to the top of the stairs, clinging to the railing as she walked. She was breathing hard. No, not breathing...panting, almost ready to hyperventilate. And yet, she wished she could hold her breath as she passed each door, straining to listen. In the back of her mind she could remember walking down another hallway, dark and quiet. Each door she passed eased open just enough for eyes to peek out at her. The door opened a sliver a more and she saw the little girl watching her.

  “Who are you?” Brodie remembered asking the girl.

  “My name is Charlotte. Who are you?”

  Then another door opened. Another little girl. Down the hall, a third door and another pair of eyes.

  Brodie shook her head, wanting images gone. Her knees wobbled as she crept passed the closed doors. Her pajamas were soaked with sweat and she was shaking from the wet dampness. She made it to the top of the stairs and her legs collapsed under her. At the bottom of the stairs a shadow emerged, and her heart skipped a beat. Her hand flew to the railing, gripping it and hoping she had the strength to pull her body away. She needed to move. She needed to hide. But already she heard a door opening behind her, down the hall.

  “Brodie?” The voice called from down below. “Are you okay, Sweet Pea?”

  It was Hannah! Not Iris. Iris Malone was in a prison a thousand miles away.

  Relief unclenched her fingers from the railing. She let her body slide back to a sitting position on the top step. Something brushed against her side and startled her until felt the soft fur against her arm. Kitten climbed up into her lap.

  There were footsteps behind her and before she turned, Isaac sat down on the step beside her.

  “Sweet Pea, there are no locked doors that you can’t unlock,” Hannah called up to her.

  It wasn’t about the doors. It was what was on the other side. The eyes peering out at her. Little girls that looked exactly like her. All of them named Charlotte. Just like her.

  But then she remembered what Hannah was talking about. Something similar had happened one of her first nights here in this house. She woke up and didn’t recognize where she was. She’d raced out of her room and down the stairs, straight for the front door, frantically searching and pulling and twisting at locks.

  The next day, Ryder had taken her around the entire house. He showed her every single door and explained how she could undo every single deadbolt and every simple push-button doorknob lock.

  “Are you okay?” Hannah asked, again, but she didn’t attempt to climb the stairs. She’d give her space. In the beginning, Brodie had flinched from their from touch, not used to being hugged.

  She nodded that she was okay. She tried to relax and breathe. Tried to calm the pounding of her heart. Then she realized Hannah might not be able to see her nod in the shadow of the stairwell. She felt Isaac lean against her, and suddenly something brushed her on the other side. It was Thomas squeezing in between her and the railing. He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  Now, Brodie hoped Hannah wouldn’t be upset that she had awakened the boys.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  Before she tried to explain, Isaac asked, “Can’t sleep?”

  He said it like one kid to another.

  Brodie looked down him and nodded.

  “Monsters?” Thomas asked from the other side.

  She startled at his question. What did he know about monsters?

  “When we’re afraid of monsters in the closet or under the bed mom says we should sing.”

  “Sing?” Brodie was sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. His voice was as groggy as his eyes.

  “Something cheerful,” Isaac told her as he reached over and began petting Kitten.

  “Yeah,” Thomas said. “Monsters hate when boys and girls are happy. They want us to be afraid.”

  “You know what else helps?” Isaac looked up at her, genuinely serious about helping her.

  “What?” Brodie asked.

  “Milk and cookies.”

  “That’s right,” Thomas agreed. “Mom, Brodie needs some milk and cookies.

  She realized she wasn’t shaking anymore. Kitten purred beneath her fingers. As silly as it seemed, she suddenly felt safe flanked by these two boys and a cat. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and the continuous flicker from the outside. Down below she could finally see Hannah’s face. Despite the furrowed brow, Brodie could see she was smiling.

  DAY 2

  Saturday

  30

  SOUTH OF MONTGOMERY, Alabama

  Creed was surprised to find less than a dozen guests in the hotel’s breakfast area. He’d told the sheriff last night that he didn’t want to take two rooms away from people who may have been affected by the tornado. The sheriff assured him, most of the other first responders and volunteers were close to home or staying with family. From the half empty parking lot, he realized there were very few travelers. Yet, as soon as he and Grace walked into the dining area a manager rushed up to him.

  “Sir, we don’t allow dogs in the public areas.”

  “She’s a working scent dog.”

  The man looked down at Grace, and she wagged at him as if showing off her vest.

  “Sorry, rules are rules.”

  He was about a decade older than Creed and a head shorter, but he stared up at him with unflinching authority. He didn’t seem to mind that he the attention of all his guests. The place had gone so quiet that a clink of a fork against a plate sounded like thunder. Before Creed could answer, Jason came around the corner with Scout at his side. The man’s head spun so quickly Creed almost laughed.

  “Mornin’,” Jason said to both of them. Then he noticed the whole room watching and stopped.

  “No dogs are allowed . . .” the man paused when his eyes caught a glimpse of the black mechanical hand at the end of Jason’s shirtsleeve.

  Creed was curious to see if it would change the man’s mind.

  “These dogs aren’t allowed in the public areas.”

  Nope, it hadn’t changed anything.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” one of the women called from a nearby table. “Are you the men who found that baby yesterday?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Creed said. He gestured to Grace. “She found him.”

  “You’re all over the news,” she said, pointing up to one of the three televisions. “Someone caught a part of it on their phone.”

  That surprised Creed.

  “What seems to be the problem,” another guest, an older gentleman sitting with three others. He was addressing the manager.

  “We don’t allow dogs in the public areas,” the man told him, but his voice had lowered.

  “I don’t think any of us mind,” the woman said, looking around. “Any of you mind if these men and their dogs have breakfast wi
th us?”

  Creed watched the manager from the corner of his eye as the room erupted in agreement with the woman. The man’s neck had started to redden against his white collar.

  “Well . . . just this once,” he ended up saying before marching out the door.

  “Thanks everyone,” Creed said, waving a hand to the group.

  “Someone has to stand up for heroes,” the woman said.

  He was grateful when they all went back to their breakfasts and conversations. He didn’t want to talk about Baby Garner. He was anxious to get something to eat and head back out.

  Jason found a table by the window far enough away from the others. Creed sat down and told Jason to go ahead. He’d settle the dogs. He could see the kid eying the buffet line even when the manager was still trying to throw them out. To his surprise, Jason brought him a mug of coffee and set it on the table in front of him then bee-lined for the food. Sometimes Creed was still amazed at how much the young vet had changed.

  The first time they met, Jason had a chip on his shoulder the size of Montana. An IED had blown off half his arm and sent him home. It had also left him belligerent and morose. He’d even admitted to Creed that he had fantasies of suicide and was proud of the fact that he had hoarded enough pharmaceuticals to do the job right.

  As different as the two men were, Creed could relate. He’d been sent home from Afghanistan by an IED, too. Alone and missing his K9 partner—the only good thing in his life at the time—he had been angry and depressed. The first time he met Hannah he was drunk and had gotten into a brawl with three men in the bar she was tending. She saved him. Lectured him then listened to him. Helped him figure out a way to give his life purpose.

  When Creed recognized a glimpse of himself in Jason, he took a chance that Jason needed the same thing. He gave him a puppy. Told him if he wasn’t going to stick around he’d need to give the dog back. It wasn’t fair to the puppy to get attached then have his master off himself. Creed had been blunt, made it sound like he didn’t care what Jason did to himself. That was his decision. But he wouldn’t let Jason desert a puppy he’d committed to taking care of and training.