“No.” She said it quickly, her pigtails bouncing wildly with the forceful head shake she gave him. “I’m tired of inside.”
He smiled down at her. “Me too. Want to give it a try?” he said, cocking his head at the swing.
“Yes, please.” She smiled back, looking at him like he’d just offered her something priceless. The smiled faded a bit and her fingers started to worry again. “What am I supposed to do?”
He took her by the hand and led her onto the grass. When he’d first found the tree a few months ago, he’d hardly been able to believe it. An oak tree growing on an island off the coast of Columbia. He’d been so curious that he’d asked one of the other guards about it.
“When Mrs. Reyes was pregnant, Hefe had it shipped all the way here, fully grown from America and had it planted so that his son would have a good, sturdy tree to climb,” the guard had told him. “Hefe is still waiting for his son.”
He hadn’t said it but the implication was clear. Christina was a disappointment to her father. The tire swing had been an impulsive reaction to what the guard had told him. A fuck you to Reyes for discarding his only daughter like a broken toy. For treating her like a thing instead of a child.
They stood in front of it now and he gave it a push so she could watch it swing gently back and forth. “You put your legs through the hole and sit on the edge,” he said to her, brushing the black smudges touching it left on his fingertips off on his dark pants.
“I’m going to get dirty.”
“Probably,” he answered, ready to take her back into the house.
Christina watched the tire sway for a few moments, doubt slowly being replaced by determination. She lifted her arms, looking up at him, this time with expectation and it took him a second to realize what she was asking. Lifting her, he held her up so she could thread her legs through the hole in the tire. “Hold on here,” he said gruffly, suddenly attacked by the memory of doing almost the exact same thing for Frankie when she was little. He moved her hands to the base of the rope. “Don’t let go,” he said just before giving her a gentle push, sending the tire away from him.
She came back and he pushed her again, a little bit harder this time and she spun around on the return trip, her eyes wide with worry but also something more. Excitement—the kind of terrified joy that makes you believe that you can do anything. That you are not a disappointment. That you are perfect, even if your hair is loose and your dress is smudged with grease and road dust.
He pushed again and this time she squealed, “Higher!”
He pushed her until he could barely lift his arms and her dress was ringed in black. Neither of them noticed. “Did you have a tire swing when you were my age?” she said to him, taking hold of his hand on the walk back from to the house. He didn’t pull away.
“No… I didn’t live in a place that had trees.” How could he explain to her that when he’d been her age he’d live in a shitty rent-by-the-week with his heroin-addicted mother? That he didn’t even remember seeing a tree until he’d been taken to Sophia and Sean for fostering after she died. “But I did when I was older.”
He still remembered sitting in the front seat of his social worker’s ancient VW Beetle staring out the window at the place that would eventually become his home. The tire swing looked like it was just there, waiting for him, and he wanted to swing on it so bad he could taste it. He hadn’t been there a week before he found a hacksaw in Sean’s tool chest and cut the rope from the branch, the tire hitting the ground with a dull thud.
“Did you love it?” Her eyes were wide, cheeks still flushed by wind and exhilaration.
“I did love it,” he said. When he’d woken up the next morning, after cutting it down, it’d been strung back up, as if he’d never touched it. It became a sort of game between him and his father. He’d cut it down and then Sean would string it back up. Him, telling his father to give up—that he was hopeless and would never allow himself to be loved. Sean, telling him that no matter what he said or did, he would never give up. He would never stop trying. “My sister loved it too.”
“You have a sister?” Christina stopped, her hand jerking in his. “What does she look like?”
He looked at her. She had the same, curly, dark hair and smooth olive skin as Frankie, who looked so much like Sophia. On impulse, Michael pulled the photo of a twelve-year-old Frankie from the pocket where he always carried it and held it out to her.
Christina’s gaze latched on to the photo along with her fingers. “She has curly hair too.” She traced the crazy tangle that surrounded Frankie’s face with the tip of her finger. “Does she like the beach?” she said, searching for something that would connect her to the wild-looking girl in the picture.
“She does but she's older now. In high school but that’s how I remember her.” That’s how she looked the last time I saw her.
She handed the photo back and resumed walking. “Thank you,” she said as they stepped into the looming shadows of the house.
“You’re welcome,” he said, giving her hand a small squeeze before he pulled away. “Sorry about your dress.”
“It’s okay,” she said giving him a smile, wildness playing at the corners of her mouth and for the first time, she looked like what she was. A child. “I never liked it anyway.”
17
They landed at Moffett Federal Airfield a few hours later and climbed into the standard issue black Hummer that waited for them inside the hangar. Michael took the backseat without protest. Preferred it actually—that way he was not only able to keep Lark in sight, he could laugh at him every time he took an uneasy look over his shoulder.
He barely paid attention until they drove by Mt. Davidson park, toward the quiet neighborhoods tucked around it. One of those neighborhoods belonged to Sabrina. Michael sat up in his seat and looked at the rearview mirror, trying to catch Ben's eye, but the kid wouldn't look at him.
“What the hell are we doing way over here? The FSS field office is about twenty miles that way,” Lark said, jabbing a thumb out the window.
“I have other plans,” Ben said before taking a quick glance in the rearview mirror, straight at him. He didn't like what he saw.
They rolled past Sabrina's street and hooked a right to head up the hill. When they stopped in front of the stately Victorian painted a creamy white with French blue gingerbread detail, he stared out the window and felt like throwing up. Almost a year had done nothing to change it. The same rosebushes with their heavy-headed blooms. The same porch swing with its deep red cushions. He hadn’t been back. Hadn’t called. Not like he used to.
Just then, Miss Ettie, the elderly woman who owned and ran the place, stepped out onto the porch. He could see her wide smile and snappy brown eyes from where he was. She waved them in but it wasn't them she was waving in. It was Ben.
Michael watched him lean across the seat, into Lark's space, to wave back before he put the Rover into park. “What are we doing here?” he said.
The kid cut him a look, an unreadable expression on his boyish face. “Checking in,” he said before climbing out of the SUV and making his way toward the house.
Michael retrieved his duffle and case from the cargo area of the Rover as slowly as he could. He watched Ben stride up the front walk, Lark lagging behind, and wondered again what the kid was up to. This was San Francisco—you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting a hotel. Not to mention that it was mandatory for all FSS employees to report immediately to the field office upon arrival. He learned a long time ago that the rules rarely applied to Ben but they were on a case. This wasn't a social call. Why were they here?
Ben took a step forward and captured the old woman’s hand in his before he leaned in and dropped a kiss on her cheek. Watching them, he felt his gut clenched. Ben knew her.
He thought of all the times the kid had taken off on his own after a job. It suddenly became clear where Ben had been spending his downtime and why he’d stopped asking him to tag along.
He couldn't help b
ut think of Sabrina. She lived one street over, directly behind the B&B. It's what made staying here all those years ago so convenient.
Michael watched from the cover of the Land Rover's trunk as Miss Ettie reached out her hand and allowed Lark to shake it. It was a sight, seeing that massive hand swallow her tiny fingers in a handshake that was meant to be dainty but ended up looking awkward. Seeing Lark standing so close to the old woman reminded him of Sabrina's grandmother. Reminded him that Lark was responsible for her death. He’d killed Lucy Walker, as sure as he'd point a gun at her and pulled the trigger.
He slammed the trunk hatch and stepped onto the curb, feeling exposed and out of place when the small cluster of people in front of him turned and looked his way. Miss Ettie moved away from the men in front of her and her face broke into a grin that grew wider and wider with each step she took toward him.
She stopped in front of him. “I've been worried about you,” she said, shaming him whether she meant to or not.
He dropped his duffle and case on the front walk, stunned when she wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her head into his rapidly tightening chest.
“I'm sorry.” He didn't know what else to say.
“You better be. You left quite the mess behind—you sure as hell better be sorry about that too,” she said to him before she turned and walked toward the house, expecting the men behind her to follow in her wake.
18
San Francisco, California
Sabrina sat in the chair next to the hospital bed and watched the boy sleep. According to Mandy, his name was Alex Kotko. He'd been kidnapped from St. Petersburg, where he'd lived on the streets—abandoned by his father after his mother died. He had no idea how long he'd been in captivity. Could tell them nothing that might help lead them to the man who’d held him.
There was a soft rap on the door before it was opened. “Hey.” She looked up to see Mandy standing just inside the doorway.
Sabrina gave her a smile that waned quickly. “Hey,” she said, sitting up a bit. Strickland wasn't the only one who called Mandy Black Coroner Barbie. With her bright blonde ponytail, pert, freckled nose and dark green eyes, she looked more like a cheerleader late for math class than an assistant chief medical examiner. It was an apt nickname but Sabrina never used it. She knew how much Mandy hated it.
“How's he doing?” Mandy said, shutting the door behind her.
“As well as can be expected, I suppose.” She glanced at the boy. He was still asleep.
Mandy read her perfectly. “It had to be done.”
Sabrina nodded. “I know. I just...”
It'd taken well over an hour for Mandy to coax the boy out of the corner and another thirty minutes before she was able to drape the blanket Strickland had brought in from his trunk around his shoulders. She wasn't sure what Mandy had said to him but whatever it was, it was enough for him to allow her to lead him through the house and out into the yard.
People had gathered. Neighbors crowding around the tape barrier. Uniforms pushing them back. They all went quiet when they saw the boy. He pressed his face into Mandy's side, her hand used to shield his eyes from the sun and his face from the people who stared at him. Mandy pushed the boy into the back of Strickland's unmarked, following him in. Sabrina had gotten in the back as well, hemming him into the middle of the bench seat—the coroner on one side, her on the other. She said nothing, just listened to Mandy talked to the boy in a low comforting tone, trying not to think about what she knew had probably happened to him in that basement.
The hospital. The boy was a victim who needed medical treatment but he was also evidence that needed to be processed. She knew from experience that the medical exam after rape was just as traumatic as the assault itself. If there was any way she could avoid putting him through it, she would—but there wasn't.
The second he saw the doctors, he went wild again. Shoved Mandy into the wall and ran, but he didn't get far. It'd taken three orderlies to restrain him while the nurse gave him an IM full of something that turned his bones to jelly. They wheeled him down the hall, leaving her feeling like shit but Mandy was right. It had to be done. She looked at the paper bag the nurse had brought her an hour ago. Fingernail scrapings and various swabs... hopefully everything she needed to find the man responsible and nail him to the wall.
“What are you still doing here?” she said, changing the subject. Nothing good would come from re-opening old wounds.
Mandy looked at the sleeping boy. “I thought I'd hang around, wait until social services showed up. They're having a hard time scrounging up an interpreter. I'd hate for him to wake up and have no way to communicate. Besides...” Mandy cut her a wicked look. “I don't think he likes you very much.”
“Yeah? What was your first clue? Was it when he tried to bite my hand off or when he called me a government whore in Russian?” She'd insisted that Mandy translate everything he said, in addition to catching it on her voice recorder app on her cell.
Mandy winced. “The Russian people hate and fear their government. Criminals and murderers are held in higher esteem.”
“I wish I spoke a foreign language. All I can do is swear in Spanish, and that's just because Val cusses me out on a regular basis.” She laughed. This time it felt a bit easier. “Where'd you learn to speak Russian?” Sabrina said, more out of curiosity than anything else, but when Mandy's face went still, she was sorry she asked. “Look, I'm sorry. It's not any of my business, I just—”
Mandy shook her head. “No. It's okay... my parents were fluent. They taught me.” She looked at the boy again. “Some things you just don't forget.”
There was another knock. A uniformed officer pushed the door open. “I'm here for... this.” He picked up the bag and signed the piece of paper attached to it to maintain chain of custody. “You need a lift, Doc?”
Mandy shook her head. “No—but thanks. I'm waiting for the Inspector.”
The uniform headed out, bag in hand. They were quiet for a while, both of them absorbing the events of the day that led them to the hospital bedside of a boy neither one of them knew. Finally, she spoke. “Strickland asked you to stay, didn't he?” she said, and took Mandy's silence for confirmation. She sighed. “He's like Mother Hen on steroids.”
“He's your partner. Give the guy a break,” Mandy said, easing into the chair next to her.
“Oh, I'd like to sometimes, believe me.” She took a breath and blew out a sigh. “I don't need a babysitter.”
“I'm not your babysitter. I'm your friend.”
That's what she liked best about Mandy. There was no bullshit to sift through when you talked to her. She said what she meant. Still... “He should've given you a ride back to the scene when he left to organize the canvass. Don't you need to get back to—”
“Relax. I called Randell in to transport the body back to the morgue. It should be there now.”
She shook her head. “I don't want Randell to perform the autopsy. I want you.” Mandy was the best. She cared about the people that hit her table. Not just their bodies but who they were before they died. That was important to her.
“Don't worry, the case is still mine—I scheduled a room for tomorrow morning,” Mandy said. “Between you, me and Mother Hen, that sick son of a bitch is as good as caught.”
Before she could answer, her phone buzzed in her pocket. “Speak of the hen…” she said as she pulled it out and glanced at the screen. “Hey, how’s it going?” she said into the phone.
“Less than great—Mathews just left. He’s playing your song,” Strickland said before barking out a few orders to the gaggle of uniforms he was undoubtedly trying to organize.
“The Where-the-fuck-is-Vaughn song?” She sighed. “I haven’t heard it in so long, I actually miss it.”
“Further evidence that you need your head examined,” Strickland said. “Anyway, he wants us both back at the station ASAP.”
She looked at the sleeping boy. He was pale, frail-looking. Like he’d be
en dragged through hell again and again until he was so spent, so worn that he’d begun to fade away.
You remember what that’s like, don’t you, darlin’? The good ol’ days...
Sabrina stood, somehow managing to push Wade from her mind, at least for the time being. “I’ve got to drop Mandy off at the morgue. I’ll see you in an hour.”
19
She bought curtains.
It was all Michael could think, standing at the window of his room, looking out across the yard toward the back of Sabrina's house. She'd hated curtains. They blocked out the light. He glanced at the little writing desk tucked into the corner. Saw the chair he used to sit in while he watched her—
The knock on his door pushed him away from the window, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Ben poked his head in. “Housekeeping,” he said before pushing his way in. He tossed a dry-cleaning bag across the back of the leather armchair just inside the door. “Better suit up.”
Michael glanced at the bag but didn't move. “What are we doing here, Ben?”
The kid gave a long-suffering sigh. “I told you—she found a body that matches the description of the Maddox boy along with a live witness that might be able to lead us to the who, how and why.”
“No. What are we doing here? In this house.” The words came through gritted teeth. “And, please bear in mind that I have absolutely zero patience for your bullshit right now.”
Ben gave up with a lazy shrug. “Alright. I just figured you'd want to see her. Tryin' to do you a solid.”
He wanted to see Sabrina more than he'd wanted anything in his whole life. “You thought wrong. We don't have time for this crap. We've got a kid to find, so—”
He glanced at the window. “A few days ago, you were ready to chew off your arm to get to her. Quit flip-flopping—you're making me dizzy.”
“Why in the hell are you so interested in my feelings?” he said quietly.
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2 Page 7
