The Lion's Mouth

by Brian Christopher Shea

  “Mouse?” Parsons asked, raising an eyebrow at the social worker’s comment.

  “Yup. Mouse. That’s what she told me to call her. I like it. And I like her,” Anaya said, softly.

  “Don’t go getting too attached, you hear? You know that as soon as ICE gets involved, they’re going to send her back,” Parsons said. There was an odd combination of sincerity and cynicism in his comment.

  Anaya could not tell from Parsons interjection where he fell on the immigration debate. Nor did she care. Politics were for politicians. Her concern was for people. And right now, the only person who mattered to her was Mouse.

  Mouse slept for the entire drive to the Child Protective Services headquarters building. Anaya watched as she trailed behind her like a child being marched off to bed. Anaya’s office space was quaint. She spent most of her time out of it, doing fieldwork. She’d always felt that she could do more good being out with the people she was trying to help rather than hiding behind her computer, as many of her coworkers did. She’d realized this was why she was an island of isolation. It had always been that way for her both professionally and personally. She hoped the latter eventually changed, but so much of her was invested in the children she worked with that little time was left for anything else. An unbalanced life, her last attempt at a boyfriend had taunted.

  “I know it’s not much, but it’s pretty comfy. Trust me. I know,” Anaya said to Mouse, as she opened the door adjacent to her desk.

  “Thank you,” Mouse said. She entered and plopped onto the cot. It barely creaked under the minimal weight of her tiny frame.

  Mouse rolled away from the open door. Away from Anaya. And curled into a ball, making herself seem even smaller. Anaya lay a soft blanket over her and retreated, pulling the door shut.

  Mouse lay still. Her eyes flickered but sleep would not come. The darkness of the room lifted as her vision adjusted. No furnishings but the bed and a few paintings. It was better accommodations than she’d had in a long time. Too bad I won’t be staying long.

  “She’s sleeping. She is going to need time. I don’t know. Maybe she will never talk about it. Just give me a little bit before you make any calls. It’s not like she’s a fugitive on the run for murder. She’s a kid.” Anaya spoke quietly, but the thin walls did little to mask the words.

  It was obvious to Mouse that the nice woman must be speaking on the phone because no other voice could be heard. Who was she talking to? Probably the cop. And Anaya was wrong about one thing… I am a killer.

  The door to the office closed and Mouse could hear the clack of the kindhearted Anaya Patel’s shoes as she walked away. She knew she would not see her again, and for some reason, the thought made Mouse sad.

  She sat up and gathered the extra clothes Anaya had laid out for her. She put them into the black backpack that had also been gifted to her and slid the straps over her slight shoulders. She crept out into the office, leaving behind the first bed she’d slept on in weeks. The office door was unlocked. Opening it cautiously, she scanned the surrounding cubicles. The few people around did not seem to notice or care. They were busy going about their routine.

  Mouse moved quickly but smiled as she passed the other workers. They must have been accustomed to small children walking around the office area because they smiled back and continued about their business. She heard Anaya’s voice coming from a break room. The smell of burnt coffee filled the air as Mouse shot past the open space and headed directly for the elevator. No halt command came from Anaya. She’d navigated past without detection. It would hopefully be a while before Anaya realized Mouse was gone. She’d heard her tell the person on the phone that she needed rest. That would give Mouse an opportunity to get some distance between her and the police.

  The small girl stood outside the white concrete exterior of the Child Protective Services building and allowed her eyes to adjust to the bright afternoon sunlight. Mouse didn’t want to be found and sent back. Or worse, found and killed.

  She had her mother’s promise to keep.

  Chapter 12

  Nick saw Jones pacing in front, pulling hard from the cigarette in his lips. He parked the Jetta and walked to him.

  “Those things will kill you,” Nick called out, half-joking.

  Jones chuckled. “Gotta die of something. At least I’ll enjoy myself until the end.”

  Nick didn’t really judge the man. He’d smoked overseas. It had been in contradiction to his fitness regime, but in war the rules didn’t apply. It was a way of passing time. He’d grown up listening to his father’s story, told repeatedly, about his youthful days as a chain smoker. His dad would then finish his retelling in dramatic fashion, stating that on one particular day the surgeon general announced that smoking cigarettes could cause cancer. He told Nick that he quit that day. Never took another drag. His father’s strong will had been instilled in him. Nick had heard his father retell that story too many times to count. As a young man he used to roll his eyes, but now that his father was gone, he’d give anything to hear it one more time. Nostalgia gave way to reality and he walked with Jones to the building’s front doors.

  The doors opened and the two were overwhelmed with the familiar scent. Four employees were busy with a mop, the tendrils of which were soaked a dark red. A sloshing sound could be heard as it brushed over the surface.

  “Now, this is where we will break this case wide open,” Jones said, slapping Nick on the shoulder.

  The familiar tingle trickled down to Nick’s fingers.

  Nick smiled wide and said, “I like the way you think. But if I worked every case with you, I’d probably be medically retired.”

  “Let’s do this,” Jones said, moving into the threshold of The Salt Lick and past the round stone-encased grill.

  A pitmaster’s mop slapped against a large rack of ribs, sizzling as the hot embers took on the excess.

  The two sat on a bench in the seat-yourself-style restaurant. Nick got the pulled pork, and Jones ordered enough brisket and burnt ends to feed three people. This case had obviously pushed Jones’s BBQ intake to an all-time high, especially with it turning into a homicide.

  “Where are we at with this thing?” Nick said, bringing the focus back.

  “Like I said on the phone, Homicide is going to work the body. Better for us so we can stay on the move. The detective in charge of that side of it is Roger Williams. He’s good. No ego. He’ll keep us in the loop throughout. No pissing contest and backstabbing with him,” Jones relayed.

  “That’s good news,” Nick said, thankful at the prospect that office politics would not interrupt the flow of their investigation. He added, “All right, so they’ve got the body. Based on what you saw, how much do you think they’re going to be able to get from it?” Nick asked.

  He knew every scene told a tale, but unlike the movies, it was sometimes an elusive one.

  “Not sure. Time will tell, but if I was a betting man then I’d guess there won’t be much in the way of usable evidence,” Jones said. “Especially if we’re dealing with pros.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and some morning jogger or reluctant witness will call in with a description of the doer. I doubt it, but wishful thinking,” Nick replied.

  “Our best bet is going to come from one of the girls. They’re at headquarters now, and CPS has already started the process. I’m going to check in with them after we get something in our stomachs,” Jones said.

  The large detective salivated at the mention of his upcoming meal and rubbed his tummy for added effect.

  “I’ve got one stop to make and then I’ll meet you over there,” Nick said, the frustration of that stop evident in his voice.

  Jones seemed to have registered this but refrained from inquiry, further distracted by the plate of food that slid into his view. Foregoing the fork, Jones grabbed a burnt end and dropped it into his mouth. The two ate in silence, replenishing their bodies for the arduous task ahead.

  Nick had done his research before
making his move back to Texas. Pine Woods retirement community seemed like a perfect balance of comfort and medical assistance. His mother made the move with a dignified grace, as she’d done with all of life’s hurdles. It hurt Nick to have her leave the home where she’d spent the majority of her adult life. The place she’d raised her family. Memories of those times were fading rapidly.

  The hardship his mother endured with his brother’s suicide had been unbearable. No parent should ever have to bury their child, but she did. And she somehow managed to shoulder its weight. The loss of Nick’s dad seemed to tip the scales. He’d always felt that the dementia was her brain’s way of sheltering her mind from the terrible sadness.

  Nick’s overwhelming sense of failure was crushing. The reality was that he couldn’t give her proper care at home anymore as her mental health deteriorated. He uprooted her and hauled her out here, forcing her to leave behind any reminders of her past. Nick couldn’t help but feel wholly responsible for her current decline in behavior. Constantly he questioned himself as to whether they should have stayed in Connecticut. At least I’d have Izzy.

  “Is Doctor Whitmore available?” Nick asked of the receptionist positioned at the arced information desk.

  “Let me check.” She thumbed through a chart on her desk and continued, “Yes. Give me a second and I’ll have him paged for you. Can I have your name so I can let him know who’s waiting?”

  “Nicholas Lawrence. He’s expecting me.”

  “You can wait over there, and he should be with you shortly,” the woman said with a gentle smile.

  “Thank you.”

  He turned and eyed the lobby’s waiting area. It was a typical arrangement of assorted couches and chairs scattered around a small wooden coffee table. Nick drifted past the pile of magazines that covered its surface and proceeded to a Keurig set against the far wall. Even in the heat of the day, Nick never shied away from a cup. He never understood the iced-coffee craze. It was meant to be hot and that’s the only way he drank it.

  “Mr. Lawrence,” Doctor Whitmore said as he entered the lobby from the secured medical door.

  “That was quick. Thanks for seeing me, Doc,” Nick said, turning to greet the doctor.

  Nick extended his hand as the machine behind him hissed out the steaming black liquid.

  “I’m glad you made it. I know your schedule is demanding and unpredictable,” Whitmore said.

  “Today is already starting to be one of those days. I figured I should stop by during a lull because I may not be able to get back here for a few days,” Nick said. His mind drifted to the image of Room 204 and then to the thought of the dead girl.

  “I understand. Well then, let’s not waste time.” Whitmore gestured toward the white double doors that read “medical personnel only.”

  The two walked slowly through the hallway containing the advanced-stage dementia patients. Some were seated in chairs outside their doors, vacant expressions pasted to their aging faces. No signs that they registered the world around them as the duo passed. The doctor stopped outside a room containing one bed. Inside, Nick could make out the shape of a woman. She lay to the side, facing away from the door. She looked so frail. So small. Nick’s heart sank.

  “She’s fine. After her outburst earlier, she has been resting. It took a lot out of her. Not so much from the physical exertion, more as a result of the mental energy expended in her moment of anger,” Whitmore said in a calm and reassuring manner.

  “So, this is where you want to keep her?” Nick asked. A tinge of Nick’s own anger began to build inside him, but it was directed more at himself and not the doctor.

  “I think that it would be best. On her good days we will bring her over to the other side to interact with the other residents,” Whitmore said.

  “And on the bad ones?”

  “She would be isolated from other patients.”

  “This is not how I saw things going. I can’t help but feel responsible for this. For the current status of things.” Nick said this last part more to himself. He wasn’t looking to be consoled by the doctor.

  “It was an eventuality no matter where your mother was placed. Even if she had remained in her home in Connecticut, this day would have come. No point in blaming yourself,” Whitmore said.

  “Thank you.” Nick saw no point in arguing his guilt with the doctor, either. He then turned and asked, “Is she responsive at all right now?”

  “The nurse was in with her a few minutes before your arrival and said she smiled but did not speak. I’ll give you some time with her. Come find me in my office when you’re done. It was the first door we passed when we entered the wing,” Whitmore said as he turned and exited the room.

  Nick was left alone in the quiet. The only sound was the click of the wall clock, notifying him of each passing second. Each step toward his mother seemed like a marathon distance. His heart pounded, and his face flushed with the impending anxiety.

  “Hey, Mom. How’re you feeling?” Nick asked softly, not sure if she was awake.

  His mother’s eyes fluttered, “Patrick? Where have you been?” she asked, with a look of bewilderment.

  Nick deflated. His brother, long-since dead, is still the first face she sees. Nick had no words. He couldn’t play the role today. His body went slack, and he slumped in the seat next to the bed. His hand found hers, colder and bonier than he’d remembered. He caressed the delicate hand of the woman that had raised him as his tears fell freely.

  Chapter 13

  The sky had opened up suddenly. A heavy downpour of rain drenched her as she ran for the shelter provided by the overpass. The cold drops gave temporary relief from the afternoon sun but had stopped almost as soon as they began. The steam that rose up from the hot concrete of the sidewalk filled the air with a humid stickiness. Her wet clothes clung tightly to her.

  Mouse had left the safety of Anaya Patel’s office bed a couple hours ago and had begun the task of navigating Austin’s landscape without any knowledge of where she was going, or more importantly, where she needed to go. She’d grabbed a map from the first gas station she’d passed as she traveled down Riverside Boulevard. The money she had taken from the two men from the box truck was sufficient to get her started but wouldn’t last long. Four hundred and eighty dollars would only go so far.

  She wished she could have stayed with Anaya. They would send her back. She knew it. Many people from her city had made the trip, crossing over to America. And many of them had been sent back. Mouse learned that to survive, she must elude government officials, even kind-hearted ones. She also knew her return to Juarez would mean certain death. The people who had arranged her travel would learn of her escape. Juarez was no longer home. So, she kept moving through the unfamiliar streets of Austin in search of her new beginnings.

  “Do you think it’s connected?” Anaya asked into the cellphone’s receiver.

  Her supervisor called while she was out driving the area looking for Mouse. Running away from a CPS office was not unheard of, but running away from Anaya Patel was.

  “I don’t know. Let me know when you get there and if you’re going to need some extra bodies to assist,” her supervisor said.

  “Okay, but isn’t there someone else that could go? I’ve got to find this girl,” Anaya pleaded.

  “She’ll turn up. I need you to take the lead on this other situation. Those kids are going to need you.” Anaya’s boss spoke with a gentle firmness, knowing that the words would resonate with her subordinate. She’d used the same line on her several times before.

  “I’m on my way,” Anaya said, with a sigh.

  She was torn but vowed to return to her search for Mouse as soon as the opportunity presented. But she was also a realist and knew deep down that, as time passed, the likelihood of finding that tough little girl would diminish. She drove to Austin Police Department’s headquarters.

  “Anything?” Jones asked.

  “Nothing. They’ve been sleeping for most of the time sinc
e they returned from the hospital. We’ve tried Spanish and English. Got nothing more than a couple glances in response,” said Gary Redding, Sergeant in charge of the Special Investigations Unit.

  Jones’s boss gave his people the freedom and support to work a case, but more importantly, he stepped up for his guys. Redding had already battled with Homicide to ensure that the primary case stayed with Jones and Lawrence. He now had to keep Vice from getting involved. Vice typically handled the organized sex rings, but Redding wanted this one to stay with his unit. He got approval after much debate, with the caveat that Vice would become involved when things moved from investigative to operational. Meaning Vice wanted credit for the takedown when the time came.

  “Anything from medical?” Jones asked.

  “They completed rape kits and they’re being submitted to the lab as we speak. That will most likely yield some potential Johns, but only if the DNA is already in CODIS,” Redding responded, knowing that Jones was aware of this probability but saying it anyway out of routine.

  “Who knows, maybe we can find another perv or two to interrogate,” Jones said, wishfully.

  “True. Jones, you’re a true believer.” Redding laughed and then continued. “There was one thing that turned up during the girls’ physical exams that was unique about this group. They were branded. All of them. Same brand markings.”

  “Branded?” Jones asked, knowing that some low-level pimps used tattoos on their girls as a way of claiming their property. It was uncommon in the international rings because they wanted to maintain a low profile. The girls were disposable. Used and thrown away.

  “Yes. It’s on each of their hip lines. Looks like a snake or something. Hard to tell,” Redding explained.

  “So, a tattoo?” Jones asked, seeking clarification.

  “No. Branded.” Redding held up a photo for Jones to see.

  The raised skin was evident of the burn. These girls were truly branded. Like cattle. The one in the photograph must have occurred recently because of the puffiness and pink coloring. A strange mix of anger and optimism filled the seasoned investigator. Jones looked up from the picture, walked directly to his cubicle and started rifling through the files scattered about. Jones had paraphrased Einstein when anyone commented on the disorder of his desk, stating that “a messy desk is a sign of genius.”