Miles (The Mavericks Book 7)

by Dale Mayer

  “But there were sheets and a blanket,” she muttered. “So …”

  “Even though the sheets and the blanket are gone, the mattress will still be tested thoroughly,” he said. “That’s not for you to worry about.”

  She gave a broken laugh. “I have nothing to do but worry now. That asshole got away.”

  “Maybe,” Miles said. “But remember. You did too. That’s what you need to focus on. You need to heal. We need you to get strong and to stay safe.”

  She gripped his fingers only now realizing she’d been holding his hand the entire time, so tight that she put half-moon crescents on the back of his hand. She stared at him and winced. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, don’t be. This is nothing. I’m just grateful you were enterprising enough to get yourself out of that situation.”

  “And then I got hit by a car,” she said brokenly. “Dear God, how could I be so unlucky?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he added, “but, by doing that, you brought a crowd of onlookers, an ambulance and police to the scene. If you had just raced off, for all you know, somebody else was tracking your movements, and they would have found you again.”

  She shifted ever-so-slightly so she could stare up at him. “That’s guaranteed to stop me from sleeping ever again.”

  He nodded. “I get that, but I’m more concerned about keeping you safe.”

  “And capturing that asshole.”

  “Do you remember anything he said to you?”

  “He didn’t say much at all. I wasn’t allowed to say anything until the gag was off.”

  “So start from the beginning, and tell me what you do remember.”

  “I remember walking out of my apartment building, going up to the street corner to cross it—to walk a few blocks to my photo shoot,” she said. “And maybe somebody pushed me or I might have felt a pinprick. I don’t even know anymore. And that’s all I remember, until suddenly I wake up …” As she laid here in the bed, with Miles holding her hand and making her feel more or less safe and secure, she thought about the asshole and that tone of voice. “There was something about the way he said everything,” she said slowly. “As if he’d said it thousands of times over. Maybe not thousands but dozens and dozens of times.”

  “As in with previous prisoners?”

  “Yes,” she said, casting her mind back. “I think he said as much. But he was completely detached as he told me to lie there quietly, to not fight, to get up and swing my legs off the edge of the bed. I don’t know if I can explain it, but he expected to be obeyed. He said I was one of the smart ones.”

  “I rather imagine he didn’t expect you to escape.”

  “No,” she said, puzzled. “As if I fell into one of two categories of women. Those who fought early on and those who didn’t fight at all.”

  “Instead though, you gathered your wits about you, and, when you saw an opportunity, you took it.”

  “Driven by the fact that somebody was coming to inspect me,” she said with emphasis. “To make sure I was ‘good enough.’ And I got the impression I would be stripped nude and potentially checked in more invasive ways as well.” Her words were bitter. “How can somebody do that to another person?”

  “Did you get the impression that it was a sexual thing or more of you being bought and sold like cattle?”

  She slowly rolled her head to the side and stared up at him. “With him, definitely like cattle,” she whispered, the horror still impacting her. “But I was much more worried about the sexual element from the buyer.” She clenched her fingers even harder. “Dear God, if he ever gets ahold of me again …”

  “Which he won’t,” Miles said firmly. “Any chance you can work with a sketch artist to see if we can get his face on paper?”

  “I can try. I certainly saw him. At least I think I did. He wore a black hat, black sunglasses and had a beard when I saw him inside my room—but not when he was out on the street,” she realized. “He pointed at me then and told me how he was coming after me.”

  “But how did you know it was him?”

  She frowned, nodded, thinking for a bit. “He was wearing the same plaid shirt, rolled up past his forearms. He had a tattoo too,” she said suddenly. “I don’t know if I can remember it though, but it was almost like the wheel of a ship.”

  Miles sat back with an odd look on his face.

  “What’s that mean to you?”

  “Nothing for the moment, but it’s a popular maritime tattoo,” he said. “Now, I want you to rest, and I’ll get a sketch artist in here.”

  As he stood, she cried out and gripped his hand. “You can’t leave me alone. He’s coming for me.”

  “I know,” Miles said. “He said he was coming for you, and we’ll make sure that, if he does come, somebody else is here waiting for him.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not good enough.” He hesitated, and she stared up at him, struggling with the rising panic and with the knowledge that she needed him with her. “I want you here with me at all times,” she snapped, some of her temper rising. “Otherwise I won’t talk to a sketch artist.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “So you want another woman caught because your demands aren’t met?”

  Immediately she backed down because, of course, the next woman in line could potentially be her own sister. “I don’t mean it that way,” she said, a note of desperation in her voice. “You have to understand. I’m just terrified he’ll capture me again.”

  “I will stay as long as I can and as often as I can,” he said in a firm but gentle voice. “And I promise, if I’m not here, I’ll make sure somebody who’s equally concerned with keeping you safe and alive is by your side.”

  She had to be happy with that because, of course, for all she knew, he had a wife in labor and couldn’t stay. “Fine,” she said, giving in. “But please, dear God, don’t leave me alone for him to find.”

  “I’m only going to the door,” he said. “I’ll speak to somebody who’s standing guard outside.”

  As soon as she realized another guard was out there too, she relaxed even more. “And maybe if you’re talking to people,” she said, “is there any chance for a cup of coffee?”

  He flashed a grin at her. “A woman after my own heart,” he said briskly. “I’ll make sure we get coffee for two.”

  She watched, hating to see him even walk away from the bed as he headed to the door. But, as if knowing that, he opened the door and used his foot to prop it open as he spoke to the guard on the other side. As soon as that was done, he pulled out his phone, and, although he wasn’t close enough for her to hear the conversation, it appeared to be short and to the point. Then he walked back, sat down beside her and said, “There. That wasn’t too painful, was it?”

  She let out a deep, shaky breath and shook her head. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m being foolish, I know.”

  “Not foolish at all,” he said, his beautiful smile so warm and compassionate.

  The panic inside her eased even more.

  “It’s totally normal for you to realize now, that you are safe, what all could have gone wrong with your escape. It’s your body’s way of ridding itself of those fears. Like crying helps with depression and anger. Like a fever fights the germs. It’s a natural process, just one you probably haven’t encountered in your life. But you’ll get through this aftermath just like you got through the kidnapping event itself. It’s just as important to look after your own well-being right now as anything else. We’ll catch this guy. Don’t you worry.”

  “Before he captures someone else?” Her eyes filled with tears. “Something was just so detached and automated about his movements, as if he didn’t give a damn about who I was, where I came from, or my hopes, my dreams, anything,” she cried out.

  He leaned over and gently cupped her cheeks, then whispered, “Because he didn’t. He has no humanity left. That’s what you have to remember. He’s mentally sick, full of evil. But you can’t focus on how he sees th
ings. After all, you’re just a number to him. Potentially a piece of meat to be sold. But that’s not who you are. Not by a long shot. This madman has no emotions attached to what he’s doing, except maybe now anger. Because, if he’s done this before, and yet you’ve escaped, you could be the only one who successfully evaded him. Remember that.”

  “And I think that’s why he left me alone. In his mind, I fit into a certain category of woman, and he’d seen it time and time again, and I could do nothing to surprise him. So he was fine to leave me alone. As soon as he did …” She shook her head. “I did everything I could to get out.”

  “And what you did was amazing,” he said. “It saved your ass.”

  And, with that, she gave a shaky laugh and nodded. “Thank you for that. Although I have to admit, my ass is feeling pretty damn sore right now.”

  “Well, you didn’t have quite-enough padding to stop that vehicle,” he said, “so your body’s taken a heck of a blow. Do you need to shift your position at all?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I was hoping I didn’t have to get out of bed to make it to the bathroom, but I guess I’ll have to, won’t I?”

  “I don’t know if you have a catheter or not,” he said. “Let me find you a nurse.”

  He got up and walked to the door, but she called out, “Miles?” At the doorway, he turned. She whispered, “Can you make sure you stay inside?”

  He gave her a reassuring smile and nodded. “I was just sending the guard to get a nurse for us.”

  She sagged onto the bed and whispered, “Thank you.”

  She’d always had nightmares about being attacked after one of her father’s friends had come into her bedroom when she was only six. That had set her up for a lifetime of nightmares. She’d slept with the lights on for a decade, at least. And now? She knew she’d probably never sleep in the dark again—if she slept at all. But Miles stayed with her, true to his word. And she realized that maybe, just maybe, she would get through this nightmare after all.

  By the time Miles brought a nurse in to assist Vanessa to the bathroom, the coffee had arrived. He helped set it up, so she could get back into the hospital bed with her coffee at her side. He didn’t know if she would need food or not. He sat back down and quickly sent out messages on his phone, giving both Nico and Ryker updates. Then he got a message saying that the sketch artist would be here in twenty.

  As far as he was concerned, it wouldn’t be fast enough. But she might need a little more bolstering than just a cup of coffee. He frowned, wondering if she’d had much food or when. He went back out to the security guard and asked, “Can you round her up some food? We’ve got a sketch artist coming, but she might need a bit of sustenance to get through the process.”

  Understanding crossed the guard’s face, and he said, “I can have somebody bring up something for her.”

  “Good idea,” he said, and he returned to the bed in time to see her coming out of the bathroom.

  When she saw the coffee, her face lit up.

  “I’ve got some food coming for you too,” he said. “Plus the sketch artist will be here in twenty.”

  She nodded slowly and, with the nurse’s help, crawled back under the covers. But she was pale and sweating by that time, and she collapsed again. She wouldn’t be moving anywhere today at all. As soon as the nurse was ready to leave, he stopped her at the doorway and asked, “Any idea how long she’ll stay?”

  The nurse shook her head. “At least tonight. But it could be longer than that. We’re concerned about the soft tissue damage.”

  He nodded and headed back over. “You managed to hobble on your ankle, so that’s good.”

  She gave him the briefest of smiles. “Don’t know about that,” she said. “But at least I got to and from the bathroom, so that part is good, yes.”

  As soon as she was settled, he got up and moved the little table, then swiveled it closer to her so that she could reach her coffee. She picked up the cup and smiled, took her first sip. “This tastes so good,” she whispered. She blew on the top and took a second sip and then took a bigger sip. She waited a few moments, had a fourth sip and then relaxed back. “I’m still struggling to believe it’s over,” she whispered.

  He smiled at her. “It’ll take time. And it could be a lot of time. It could, in theory, be something like a year or two. But you take all the time you need to deal with this.”

  She rolled her head toward him, wincing only a little bit this time, and whispered, “I was attacked when I was six. I never slept with the lights off for at least ten years.”

  He leaned forward. “Can you tell me about that?”

  “Nothing to tell,” she said. “One of my father’s friends decided he wanted a little girl in his bed. He was drunk, and he came to rape me. My little sister woke my father up because I was screaming and being held down, but, because of the noise, she ran to get Daddy. As it was, nobody pressed charges, but the guy was consumed by guilt and ended up drinking himself to the point where he walked in front of a car about six years later and died. But he should have been charged. He should have gone to jail, and nobody gave a shit about that at the time.”

  “Why is that?” he asked in outrage.

  “Partly because my father was in a business that didn’t need the negative publicity and partly because I was so traumatized I wouldn’t talk to anybody about it,” she whispered. She gave Miles a half smile. “So I already know what recovery is like. This more recent event, in a way, was way worse,” she said, “because of the potential for a more horrific outcome there. Back then, yes, I likely would have been raped and possibly killed, but I think the drunk guy was more about getting his own rocks off than anything else at the time. Although I would have been further traumatized, I would have potentially lived and had a future of my own making. This situation today was not about me having my own future at all. This was about me being in prison for the rest of my life and potentially bought and sold many times over. It’s not anything I want to even consider, much less remember.”

  “Yet,” he said, “the best thing we can do is bring it to a conclusion. You’ve got to speak up. There’s some magic involved in that old axiom about confession is good for the soul. Part of the reason you had nightmares back then is because you never got resolution from the earlier attack.”

  “Maybe. But I was pretty young. I ended up seeing a therapist when I hit puberty. And then I grew up and had relationships with men,” she said with a mocking smile. “I found I couldn’t tolerate even the slightest weight of somebody on top of me.”

  He nodded in understanding. “And I think that’s a fairly normal reaction from an adult who’d been traumatized like that when a child. You’re lucky your little sister saved you back then.”

  “And she’s probably going absolutely nuts right now,” Vanessa whispered. “Does she know I’m safe?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Do you want to call her?”

  Her eyes opened up wide, and she nodded. “May I?”

  He held up his phone and asked, “What’s her number?”

  She rattled it off, and he quickly punched it in. When a woman answered in an exhausted and a fearful voice, he said, “I’m a special investigator. My name’s Miles. Somebody here wants to speak to you.” And he handed his cell over to Vanessa.

  She whispered, “Ruby?” And then the two women started to bawl.

  He stepped away, going to the door and pushing it open, so he could look out in the hallway, but he kept a partial ear on Vanessa’s phone call. The security guard looked at him with a raised eyebrow, and Miles nodded toward the inside.

  The guard swiveled enough that he could look in at the woman crying in the bed on the phone, and he nodded. “At least she’s alive to tell about it,” he murmured.

  Miles couldn’t agree more. He was still waiting for her food and for the sketch artist but hoped that she had at least ten minutes to take this time with her sister. “It would be good if we could have the food first and
then the sketch artist.” But he knew that things didn’t always work out in his preferred time frame. A trolley was wheeled toward him. He studied the orderly and stiffened. “I’ve got no reason to suspect him, but …” he said to the guard.

  “I do,” the guard said. “I haven’t seen him before.”

  Miles nodded. “As far as I’m concerned, anybody here right now is suspect. She’s been openly threatened that he’ll come back after her.”

  The orderly stood straight and smiled at them. “Food was requested,” he said. “I’m from the kitchen.” His name tag and face and photo ID all matched, but the guard still took a step off to the side and made a phone call, while Miles lifted the lids on the various platters and checked them further.

  “Good, thanks,” Miles said. “I’ll take it inside.” And he pushed the trolley into the room, still blocking the doorway with his body.

  “Hey, I’m just doing my job,” the orderly said with a big smile.

  Miles smiled and said, “Then you won’t mind if we take your picture, will you?”

  The man stared at him in shock and raised his hands and said, “No, I don’t mind. I guess this is a big deal, huh?”

  Miles quickly snapped a photo of his features and said, “Let’s just say, nobody’ll be assumed to be a good person here.”

  The guy nodded and smiled. “It’s a shitty world when people hurt others,” he said. “I need the trolley back whenever you’re done. Just leave it out here, and I’ll collect it later.”

  “Will do,” Miles said. He turned to the guard and said, “Did you check him out?”

  The guard nodded. “Been here ten years.”

  “Says he works in the kitchen,” Miles said.

  “Yeah, the call confirmed that.”

  “Guess that’s why we haven’t seen him around then, isn’t it?” Miles said, and he walked back into her room, shutting the door again. She was still sniffling, but his cell phone was in her lap. He walked to the bathroom and picked up a spare roll of toilet tissue and brought it to her. “It’s not pretty Kleenex,” he said, “but it might help.”