by Alex Ander
Miranda slithered around the door and took two steps toward her friend, her open hand leading the way. “Take it easy, Chrissy.” She ogled the weapon. How did she find my knife?
“...I won’t go back to him.”
“Just,” Miranda pumped the hand and stole two more paces, “please don’t do this.”
“You don’t understand.” Chrissy sniveled. “He did things to—” she shut her eyes and hung her head. “I’m...I’m not going back there...even if I have to,” she righted her head and zeroed in on the inner portion of her left wrist.
“Chrissy, stop!” Miranda sneaked to within a quick leap of the other teen, to within diving range of the blade. “You can’t let them win. If you do this, they win, and you lose.”
“I don’t care. Don’t you see? I’ve already lost.” Chrissy placed a flat hand over her heart. “I’ve lost me. That monster took me.”
“No.” Miranda thrust out her finger. “You haven’t lost. Not yet, you haven’t.” She went to both knees. “And what he took from you,” she shook her head, “is not what makes you, you.”
A tense moment passed as one adolescent toyed with a lethal weapon while a second youth looked on.
Miranda moved closer. Her knees butted up against the other girl’s toes. “Do you remember what I told you when you first showed up here?”
Chrissy looked at her questioner.
Seeing her friend’s watery eyes for the first time since entering the room, Miranda took that as a good sign. “I was straight with you. I told you this place was going to try to strip you of everything. You remember that?”
Chrissy nodded.
“Do you remember what else I said to you?” The fifteen-year-old negotiator pressed on. “I said you can’t let them take what’s,” she tapped her head, “in here,” before moving fingers to her chest, “and in here.” A beat. “What he stole from you is on the outside, Chrissy.”
Chrissy swiped at the moisture covering her cheeks, her mind recalling the conversation from a week ago. Remember the ones who love you the most and cling to the hope that they’ll one day find you. Tears will only weaken you. Mourn on the inside, but don’t ever let them see you crying.
Her eyes now watering, too, Miranda sniffled, leaned forward on her knees, “Trust me,” and stretched out her left hand. “You are so much more than that...on the inside. Don’t,” she pinched the razor-sharp blade and tugged a bit, “let him...”
Chrissy relaxed her grip.
“...rob you of,” Miranda claimed the knife, “that, too.” She folded the switchblade in half, pivoted, and sat on the disturbed girl’s starboard side.
Neither female said a word for a full minute.
“What am I going to do?” Chrissy’s shoulders trembled, and the tears flowed again. “I can’t,” she drew in a sharp breath, “I can’t...”
Miranda hugged the crying kid.
“...go back th—”
“I know. I know.” She rubbed her left hand up and down Chrissy’s left arm several times while her mind raced to come up with a solution.
Thirty seconds passed.
“And,” Miranda stared at the floor, at nothing in particular, “I think...I just may have an idea.” A beat. “You’re having your period.”
Chrissy lifted her head and frowned. “That’s not for another week or so.”
“Well, guess what?” Miranda faced her friend. “It came early this month.”
Chrissy caught on. “Do you think that’ll work?”
Miranda hiked her brows and lifted a shoulder before picking up her knife and standing. “I’ll go deliver the news to Hendricks, myself. I think I can sell it to him.” She turned to go but stopped when something snatched her hand. She cast a backward glance.
Chrissy let a faint smile come and go. “Thank you.”
After pursing her lips and nodding, “I’ll be back soon,” Miranda strode out of the room.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 7
Bed-and-Breakfast
AUGUST 16th; 6:49 A.M.
CANTON, GEORGIA
Last night, Jacob and Stockwell had lugged their Pelican Storm Cases up to their second-floor bed-and-breakfast rooms before each person then retired to his/her own chamber to get some sleep.
This morning, Jacob had awakened early, showered, and met Stockwell for a hasty breakfast in the main-floor dining hall. Afterward, the plan was for her to shower while he hefted the hard-plastic containers down the stairs to their SUV.
Naked, standing beside her bed, Stockwell unzipped the bag Jacob had packed for her and pulled out purple tops, purple skirts, purple shorts, several pairs of socks and underwear, and purple flats. Pushing aside a pile of bras, a scowl starting to show on her face, she lifted a black knee boot from the bag. What, she gawked at the legwear, in the world was he thinking? She let go of the boot and sorted through the garments a second time.
*******
Jacob deposited the last of the black cases into the silver Chevy Suburban’s rear cargo area and slammed the door. Strolling to the driver’s side, he checked the time on his cell phone for the third time in the last five minutes. He leaned back against the vehicle, pinched his loose-fitting shirt, and fanned himself while looking up at the sky.
The sun was ten minutes from making an appearance, and the temperature, accompanied by a healthy dose of humid air, was already nearing eighty, on its way to the middle nineties.
The front door to the bed-and-breakfast opened.
He turned his attention to the sprawling mid-nineteenth-century plantation house turned cozy B&B and saw Stockwell bounding down the five steps leading to ground level. “There you are.” He noticed something off about her appearance. “I thought we agreed to be out of here five minutes ago?”
“And we would have,” she stopped two feet from him, “had I not had to spend so much time on cobbling together,” she glanced at her attire, “this outfit.”
He glimpsed her clothing. “What do you mean? You look great.”
“Do I, Jake?” Eyeing her blouse and knee-length skirt, she lifted a purple flat. “I’m wearing three different shades of purple.”
His eyebrows came together. “So? Purple’s your favorite color.”
She rolled her eyes. “It is, but you need some neutrals in there, too.”
Dropping a hand onto a hip, Jacob rubbed the back of his neck and studied the clothing choices he had made on her behalf. Maybe that’s what I noticed was off about her. He grinned. “All right. I confess. I might’ve been thinking more about the weaponry we might need and not so much about,” he dipped his forehead toward her shirt and skirt, “color schemes.”
“Okay.” Stockwell folded arms across her chest and nodded. “I can see that happening, but,” she envisioned the legwear in her bag, “what about the black knee boots,” her upper body listed toward him, “in August? In Georgia?”
“Well, now,” he held up a forefinger, “I was,” he stared at her shoes, “I,” before meeting her gaze.
She arched eyebrows. “Yes?”
His hands sliding out to his sides, palms up, he cocked his head and held a shrug. “I got nothing...except,” another smile, “wishful thinking?”
“Yeah. Keep wishing on that.” She gave herself another visual pass. “I mean...come on. I look like a giant, five-eleven grape for crying out loud.”
Jacob covered his mouth to stifle a laugh.
Whipping her head toward the Chevy, Five-eleven, Stockwell gestured toward the vehicle a moment later. “You packed our tac gear, right?”
He nodded.
She faced him. “My pants and shirts from 5.11 Tactical?”
“They’re in there.”
Undoing her blouse’s top button, “You may have just,” Stockwell made her way to the SUV’s passenger side, “redeemed yourself, Mr. St. Christopher. Dig them out for me, will you?” She hopped into the vehicle and stripped off her shirt.
*******
6:57 A.M.
The Chevy sped east on GA-20.
Jacob looked over at Stockwell.
She lifted her butt off the seat and pulled up her khaki-colored 5.11 Tactical TACLITE Pro Pants.
He glimpsed her disappearing deep purple, lace-trimmed boy short panties. I guess I did kind of go whole hog on the purple.
Shoving arms into a white Women’s Tactical Jersey Polo—also from 5.11 Tactical—Stockwell pulled on the shirt and rocked forward to wiggle her feet into A.T.A.C. 2.0 six-inch boots from the same company. She ran the side zipper on each and sat upright to affix her Glock 19M-filled holster to the right side of her belt and a dual magazine pouch to the other side. “What happens when we get to this town? What’s it called again—Mountain Lion? What happens when we get to Mountain Lion?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the investigator. I’m just the door-kicker.”
“Ha!” She combed fingers through her hair, gathered the locks into a choke point, and secured them in a high ponytail. “You’re more than that, Mr. St. Christopher.”
Jacob threw her a sideways glance before twisting his neck to see her head-on, to admire the wavy mane blooming from the lilac band situated higher on the crown of her head. I love her hair that way.
“I’ve seen you operate.” She gave herself a quick once-over and attached her safety belt. “You’re as sharp as any FBI investigator I’ve ever known.”
“Thank you, but,” he forced himself to turn away and watch the road ahead, “you have more experience than me at this, so,” he motioned toward her, “let’s hear your plan. Where should we start?”
“Normally, we’d visit the crime scene and speak with family members; however,” Stockwell looked at the thick stands of trees on both sides of the two-lane highway, and less than ten feet from her door, “this isn’t normal. We’re going to have to canvas the town, show people pictures, and ask them,” she looked at her driver, “have you seen any of these girls?”
He nodded. “Sounds like a solid plan.”
*******
8:00 A.M.
NEW YORK CITY
Setting his briefcase on his desk, Assistant Director Edgar Brolin saw the digital clock to the right of his name plate turn to 8:01.
From the speaker on the desk phone, a female voice: “Good morning, sir. I have FBI Director Jameson on the line for you.”
Brolin scowled. “Did I have a phone meeting scheduled with him?”
“Not that I’m aware of, sir.”
He let out a breath. “Okay. Put him through.”
The phone rang.
Brolin put the handset to his face. “Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Good morning, Edgar. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, so let’s make this short. You have an Agent in your office by the name of Deanna Stockwell.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“I just got off the phone with White House Chief of Staff Peter Whittaker and...”
The AD frowned.
“...he wants us to ease up on her.”
Brolin rubbed his forehead. “I’m not sure I understand, sir. She’s a good employee. I’ve never had reason to come down on her in the first place. May I ask what this is about?”
“I wasn’t told the specifics. But if Whittaker’s involved, then powerful forces are at work. So, I’m ordering you to back off. Stay away from her. Is that clear?”
“I...” the AD wrung the back of his neck, “of-of course, sir.”
“Good. Glad that’s taken care of. Have a nice day, Edgar.”
“You too, sir.” Brolin replaced the handset and lowered himself into his chair. Leaning backward and laying an elbow on an armrest, he cupped his chin and stared at the desk phone. Powerful forces at work. He squinted at the chair Stockwell had occupied last night. No one else knew about our conversation. Why... his thoughts wandered.
Another minute passed.
He picked up the handset and tapped out a number. “Agent Timmons, I need you to find out where Special Agent Deanna Stockwell is right now. Airlines, train stations, car rental agencies...ping her cell phone if you have to, but I want her location. And, when you have it, you come straight to me.” Brolin listened. “Good. And this stays between us. Am I clear?” Another tick. “One last thing...have my jet standing by to take me to whatever patch of earth you track her to.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 8
Paw Prints
9:14 A.M.
MOUNTAIN LION, GEORGIA
Having driven the length of Main Street to get a feel for the small town, Jacob doubled back and angle-parked the Chevrolet in front of a brick building with a wall of glass windows facing the street. A sign above the establishment’s green and white awning read Paw Prints Diner.
Stockwell pivoted in her seat and studied her surroundings.
Retail businesses lined both sides of the street. Half the stores were open while the other half were either boarded up or displaying ‘for sale’ signs. Foot traffic was minimal. Main Street’s two traffic lights cycled through their colors. One or two vehicles passed beneath the signals.
She spun back around. “This place seems dead.”
Jacob checked his watch. “Maybe things don’t get hopping until later in the day.”
She faced him with raised brows, “Hopping?” before glancing at the few patrons inside Paw Prints Diner. “I think the best this town can hope for is to...drag a leg.”
He snorted out a laugh and grabbed the door handle. “Let’s split up. You take,” he motioned, “the right side. I’ll take the left.”
Stockwell grinned. “Not our usual? Left and low...high and right?”
The two agents had developed a system for ‘hot’ entries into buildings and dangerous situations—she covered everything left and below them while Jacob’s responsibilities were threats coming from the right and above.
“I thought we’d shake it up.”
“Ooh. You’re a wild man.”
He flashed a smile and went deadpan. “Okay. We show the pictures of the missing girls and find out if anyone has seen anything.” He pointed straight ahead. “Skip the restaurant. We’ll meet there at say...12:30ish?”
“Sounds good.” She pushed open her door.
“Hey, Stockwell?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s,” he gave the world outside his window another inspection, “let’s keep our badges out of the equation for the time being.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“My experience with places like these is,” he wagged his finger, “once one person knows something, everyone knows that same something not too long afterward. And I’d like to see what we can discover before people realize two feds are investigating a string of kidnappings.”
She nodded. “We can always go nuclear later on, but it’s hard to back down from that.”
“Exactly.” He put his shoulder to his door before righting himself and extending his right hand. “I almost forgot.”
Her brows coming together at first, they reversed course, as she closed her door, took the offering, and bowed her head.
He touched his chin to his chest. “Saint Christopher, you inherited a beautiful name, Christ Bearer; a result of the legend that while carrying people across a raging stream, you also carried the Child Jesus. Pray for us to the Lord our God that we may shelter from evil those who bear our company. Amen.”
“Amen.”
Jacob and Stockwell exited the Suburban, both making sure their shirts covered their firearms. In Jacob’s case, his red patriotic t-shirt hid a small four-inch version of the full-size Coonan 1911-style 357 Magnum he usually wore in a shoulder holster. They gave each other a quick nod and went in separate directions.
*******
THREE HOURS LATER...
12:34 P.M.
PAW PRINTS DINER
Jacob and Stockwell claimed a corner table offering privacy from the
other patrons. The nearest customer, his nose buried in a laptop, sat next to the front door, three tables down. From their vantage point, they could see their vehicle and most of Main Street.
With a corner of the restaurant on his four o’clock, Jacob looked at his partner over the menu in his grasp. “I shook the trees, but nothing fell. You?”
“Same.” She opened her menu then glanced out the windows on her port side. “However, I get the feeling things aren’t right around here. People are skittish...like—”
“Like they’re hiding something.”
She faced him. “Yeah. When I showed people the pictures, I got nothing...until I said they had been kidnapped. Then their faces changed. I saw something in their eyes—like recognition—but...”
Jacob watched a mid-fifties woman in a white apron slide a whole pizza into a warming tray on the counter.
“...but it was different. I can’t put my finger on just what it was.”
“Let’s put a pin in this.” He sat straighter while the pizza woman approached, her skinny legs supporting a robust upper body. Her head seemed to rest directly on her shoulders.
“Welcome to Paw Prints. Can I start either of you off with a beverage?”
“I’d just like a glass of water,” Stockwell spied the woman’s name badge, “Marci. Actually, do you have bottled water?”
“Sure do, hon.”
“I’ll take that.”
Marci extracted a pen from her short and curly, gray-speckled black hair and scribbled on a notepad she had extracted from an apron pocket. “One BW for the young lady.” She spied Jacob. “And for you, dear?”
“I’ll take a,” he hesitated, “I’ll take a BW as well.” He leaned left and lifted a finger toward the counter. “Is that pizza you just brought out fresh?”
“Hot, too.”
He ogled Stockwell.
