Little Girls Lost (Carson Ryder, Book 6)

by J. A. Kerley

  Truman’s voice lifted in hope. “You’re going to take her back, make things right?”

  “I want to see where those guys go. I bet they’re from one of the ships. Pull behind that building.”

  “Haven’t you done enough damage tonight?”

  “They’re sickos, Tru. You got to keep an eye on people like that.”

  It was ten when the brothers returned to Truman’s studio. He tucked the van into the dark beside the metal dumpster serving the small strip center. Rose jumped out and walked to the driver’s side. He yanked the door open.

  “Get out of the van, Truman; I’m leaving.”

  “You’re going home?”

  “I’m going where it’s quiet and I can think. All you do is make noise.”

  “You’re going to the farm, aren’t you? Every time you don’t want to face something, you run to the farm.”

  “Get out, Truman.”

  “That ratty farm’s not going to save you. Those days are gone, Rose.”

  “Out.”

  Truman reluctantly slipped to the pavement. “You saw where they were from—Pier B-2. It’s not too late. If we take her back now—”

  “I said I’m not doing that, Truman. Don’t you ever listen?”

  Chapter 46

  Eden’s Garden grew in a foundered Dollar General store. The space overflowed with merchandise in racks and shelves. Cartons cluttered the floor. There were bins of nuts, barrels of beans, coolers packed with produce and juices. A sound system played whale calls punctuated by banjo.

  Ryder leapt a crate of organic papayas and strode to the counter, where a dour purple-haired woman watched over the top of a paperback on chemical-free living. Her scowl said she judged the pair less than a hundred per cent pure and organic.

  “We close at nine,” she snipped. “That’s in two minutes.”

  Ryder held up his badge and laid the pieces of wrapper on the counter. “You ever see anything like this?”

  “It appears to be a badge.”

  “No, these—” Ryder tapped the wrapper shards.

  “That’s quite evidently torn paper.”

  “Silvered outside, uncoated inside, blue lettering. You know anything might come wrapped in it? Any products?”

  “Like I said, we’re getting ready to—”

  “Close up. You mentioned it. Concentrate on the wrapper, please.”

  The woman tweezed up a piece of wrapper with her fingernails, as though Ryder’s touch had made it leprous. “Granola bar, maybe. Or a nutrition bar. We have dozens, something for everyone.” The wrapper fluttered to the counter.

  “Where are they?”

  “I keep telling you, we close in—”

  Ryder spun away, jogged the aisles until he located the nutrition products. Sandhill started checking at the far end of the shelves. They scanned the products, dug at boxes behind boxes.

  “Here’s a maybe,” Ryder called, plucking a silver-wrapped bar from a rack proclaiming Nature Made Right. Sandhill ran over and compared the wrappers.

  “Not the right shade. Not as metallicized either.”

  The woman appeared beside them, glaring, arms crossed, foot tapping beneath the hem of her tie-dyed skirt.

  “We just closed. I insist that you leave this very—”

  Ryder handed her a folded sheet of paper. She snapped it open and narrowed an eye at the curled amorphous shape in the copied photograph.

  “What is this nonsense?”

  “It was a young girl,” Ryder said. “We’re looking for her killer.”

  The woman turned still as stone. She quietly refolded the page and handed it to Ryder.

  “What can I do?”

  They searched for ten minutes, finding several silvered packets, none fitting the size or color of the pieces Sandhill had spirited from Desmond’s studio.

  “Damn,” Ryder said. “It just felt right.”

  The woman frowned at a memory. “Hang on a sec.” She disappeared into the rear of the store.

  “Back here,” she called after several seconds. The detectives ran to a storeroom, stocks of inventory on wooden shelves. The woman was tearing open a brown carton, a dozen more piled beside it.

  “A delivery came this afternoon.”

  Sandhill and Ryder fell to their knees and began ripping at cartons.

  “Shampoo,” Sandhill said, peering into a box.

  “I got bottles of vitamins here.” Ryder grabbed another carton.

  “Aloe creams,” the woman said, throwing her opened box aside and reaching for another.

  Ryder tore the top from a package. “Bags of kelp.”

  Sandhill paused in mid-rip. “Kelp? What in the hell do you—”

  “How about these?” the woman said, holding aloft a silver-packaged bar, its wrapper showing an overdeveloped bicep above the words:

  CARBOSNACKER

  Power to Burn

  Ryder compared the bar to the largest scrap. “Listen to this: ‘Carbosnackers are a potent combination of vitamins, minerals and carbohydrates created specifically for fast, high-energy needs. Perfect for runners, cyclists, climbers and weightlifters.’”

  Sandhill studied the small print over the back of the package. “Magnesium, calcium, chromium, phosphorus, zinc, dicalcium phosphate, folic acid, lecithin, protease …” He raised his eyebrows. “Jesus, Ryder.”

  Ryder nodded. “Yeah. It’s the same stuff found in the burned girl’s stomach. Which makes it likely Desmond has an athletic buddy. Maybe big enough to look like a bulldog. Which makes little Truman …”

  Sandhill stared at Ryder with amazement and admiration.

  “Our chihuahua.”

  Truman paced the floor of his apartment and sucked from a can of Mountain Dew. The buyer had no idea who they were, right? They were nothing more than a website. The main man—Matune? Wasn’t that what the bald fucker called him?—didn’t even know they lived in Mobile, just the general area. The brothers were safe, if poorer: Rose’s idiocy had tossed a quarter-million dollars down the crapper—and from a solid, repeat customer—but it could be made up. And he’d damn sure hold Rose to repaying.

  Truman heard the phone ring downstairs in the studio. A wrong number, he figured, no one ever called much after business hours. It rang eight times.

  He was opening the refrigerator to get another can of pop when the phone in his apartment rang. He closed the fridge and crossed the floor, thinking, Rose, let it be Rose, let the bastard have changed his mind, it’s not too late …

  “Rose?”

  Truman heard an active emptiness, sensed the person at the end of the silent connection.

  “Rose?” he repeated. “Is that you?”

  Several seconds of silence were followed by a voice, a veneer of calm over a core of ice.

  “Where is Lorelei?”

  Truman’s breath turned to stone in his throat. “Who?” he choked.

  “Lorelei. Where is she?”

  Truman lowered his voice a register and tried to sound black. “I’m sorry, I think you got the wrong number.”

  “Oh, I have your number all right, Mr Desmond. I’ve had it since our first exchanges last year. Did you know a knowledgeable computer type, given a little time and a lot of money, can—”

  Truman slammed the phone down.

  Four seconds later it rang again.

  “Stay down on the floor, Jacy,” Rose said. “Or you’ll have to go in the back.”

  They were at a stoplight, the interior of the van red with the glow of the light. Jacy was crouched on the floor next to Rose. She looked up at him, her eyes expectant.

  “Am I going home now?”

  “First we’re going to visit a farm. Do you like farms?”

  “Are there cows and horses?”

  “No.”

  “How can it be a farm?”

  “It’s more like a farm you live on. I used to live there.”

  “You lived there when you were a baby?”

  “And when I was
your age. And even older.”

  “Did you grow into a Minute Hour because your mama fed you farm food, like for bulls or horses?”

  Rose laughed. “You’re funny, Jacy. That’s cute.”

  “Who lived with you?”

  “My brother and my mama.” Rose paused. “Then things changed.”

  “Is your mama there now?” Jacy asked.

  The interior of the van turned green. Rose spun the wheel and turned into a lane thick with overhanging trees.

  “She left a long time ago. But sometimes it feels like she’s everywhere.”

  Truman piled clothes into his opened suitcase. He’d follow Rose to the weed-strangled, decaying acreage where they’d lived with Mama. Truman had tried to sell the land—half of it under water every spring—but Rose clung to the place like a drowning sailor clings to a bobbing spar, paying the paltry taxes, whining about how it was where we lived with Mama, Tru.

  Mama the schizo nutcase, Truman thought, though he’d never tell Rose that. Truman would go to the farm and Rose be damned; they could lay low until the ship left Mobile, then figure out how to salvage some money from the situation. He could log on to the site and explain things to the man. Matune? Was that what the bald head-case called the client? Matune?

  Matune. Truman froze with the suitcase in his hand. He knew the man’s name. That he had arrived in Mobile on a ship. Rose had discovered the ship’s name and berth.

  Truman released a relieved breath. Secret knowledge was serious power. He’d tell the man to either accept a new girl or they’d dissolve the relationship. Maybe he’d make the guy a deal, ten grand off for his troubles. If Matune stayed pissy, all Truman had to do was play the name card.

  “I’ve detailed our dealings, Mr Matune, all letters sent and received, everything. If anything happens to me, Mr Matune …”

  Matune knew who Truman was, Truman knew who Matune was: A standoff. Truman slipped the curtain aside and peered out over the parking lot. Empty. Rose had the van, but Tru’s little wagon was parked around back. He crept to the door hoping he’d remembered everything: Clothes, laptop, cologne, slippers …

  Was that a sound outside? Truman slid his ear to the door. That was the problem with being next to the highway, the constant noise. He listened for a full minute, nothing. Truman was flicking off the light when the door exploded open and iron fingers encircled his throat.

  “Hello, skinny man,” Tenzel Atwan’s voice whispered in his ear. “Where little girl? Where muscle man?”

  “G-gone,” Truman choked, the grip on his throat letting words out without letting air in.

  “Gone to where?”

  “Farm. Not … far.”

  “That a truth?

  Truman’s head nodded. “Tru-true,” he choked.

  “We find out fast, don’t we?” the voice said with delight. The fingers tightened and the room began to spiral.

  Just before he spun into darkness, Truman smelled something pungent. Oily.

  Chapter 47

  “It’s the police, Desmond. Open up.”

  Ryder hard-knuckled the door of Truman Desmond’s apartment. It was an inch ajar and lights blazed inside. Sandhill stood behind, listening for a response. The only sound was traffic on the highway. Ryder pushed open the door and leaned across the threshold.

  “I smell smoke.”

  “Meat burning?” Sandhill whispered. “Check the stove. Go slow.”

  “Desmond,” Ryder called again, his weapon scanning the living room—cookie-cutter furniture, cheap television facing a recliner. On the TV table beside the chair were several books: Marketing Principles, The Small Business Guide to the Future, Essentials of Entrepreneurship.

  Ryder followed his gun to the kitchen. The counter held a half-dozen boxes of sweetened cereal and a rolled-closed bag of Cheezos. An opened can of Mountain Dew sat beside a toaster. Ryder touched the can, still cold.

  Sandhill stepped in, looked around, stopped dead. “Hear that?”

  Ryder cocked his head. Shook it, no. Sandhill nodded to a shallow hallway behind the kitchen. “There it is again.” His gun in his fist, he slipped beside a closed door and knocked hard.

  “Desmond, it’s the police.”

  “I hear it,” Ryder whispered. “Coming from inside.”

  “High low,” Sandhill said. “My break.” Ryder nodded at the signal and lowered to a crouch. Sandhill whispered off the count.

  “One … two … three …”

  The door exploded under the impact of Sandhill’s boot. Ryder swept in low, his weapon held two-handed and scanning. Sandhill stood by the doorframe, covering from above. The room stunk of seared flesh. Ryder’s eyes were first to register the spectacle.

  “Oh lord.”

  Desmond lay naked on the bed, his skin white as lard except for a patchwork of char black and angry red from his navel to his knees. A gray rectangle of tape covered his lips. His wrists were roped to the bedposts, ankles lashed to the frame. Ryder ran to the spread-eagled figure as Desmond’s bowels voided.

  “Mother of God. He’s been burned, tortured. I think he’s dying.”

  Ryder dialed for help as Sandhill severed Desmond’s bindings, Ryder’s eyes momentarily noting the precise, almost ornate knots holding Desmond to the bed. Sandhill knelt by the shivering figure and peeled tape from its mouth.

  “Desmond, listen to me. You took Jacy, right? Or you know who did.”

  The figure sucked air, moaned as it exhaled. Its head lifted an inch, seemed to bob yes, fell back.

  “Where is she?”

  “Moo-on river … to be …”

  “What? Come on, buddy, you can say it. Where’s Jacy?”

  “Moo-tune … to be … the river …”

  Sandhill shook Truman’s shoulders. “Why did you take the girls, Desmond?”

  “Sell … girls. Rose fuh-fucked … up. B-buyer came back.”

  “Where’s Jacy?”

  “Moo-tune. To be …” Truman mumbled, froth spilling from his lips.

  “I can’t understand you, partner. Louder.”

  Truman’s eyes fluttered closed. Sandhill felt for a pulse at his neck. “He’s in shock. I can’t find anything. His pulse is gone.”

  A wet breath rattled from Truman’s throat. “Desmond, come back,” Ryder yelled, slapping the photographer’s face.

  Truman’s mouth opened and closed as if nursing, his fingers clawing Sandhill’s forearm.

  “D-d-damn … Rose.”

  Sandhill shook him like a rag doll. Truman Desmond’s eyes widened as if seeing some hideous creature emerging from his chest. His scream drowned in his throat and his fingers slipped from Sandhill’s arm. Truman’s eyes rolled back in his head and a wet gasp fluttered through his lips.

  “He’s dying, Ryder.”

  Ryder grimaced, cleared Desmond’s airway, then knelt beside the bed and attempted to revive him with rescue breathing. After three minutes with no effect, Ryder gave up.

  “He’s gone. Get out of here, Sandhill. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving you to take the heat when I caused—”

  “You’ve got to stay outside and keep working. I can do more from inside, be there if more information turns up.”

  “Squill will nail your ass to the wall, Ryder.”

  “Squill needs me to fill in blanks. Get out. Find Jacy.”

  Sandhill moved to the door and paused. The sirens were closing fast. “Ryder, I’m damn sorry about getting you into all this.”

  Ryder’s grin flashed beneath weary eyes. “Don’t get maudlin, Sandhill. I opened the door to the china shop. All you did was wander in.”

  Tenzel Atwan jogged up the gangplank with the form over his shoulder. The guard on deck looked away, like the moment didn’t exist. Atwan carried Jacy to an equipment room deep in the bowels of the ship and set her on the floor, her eyes bright with tears.

  “You, little girl, you wait here. Not talk. Touch nothing. You don’t listen and I shoot you like I shoot muscle man.�
�

  Atwan closed the door. Jacy centered herself in the cone of light from a solitary yellow bulb, like it was the last light in the world.

  Sandhill’s tires squealed across the concrete. Things were clearing: photographer Desmond had access to elementary schoolchildren, had photos, home information. Desmond also had a helper who was athletic, perhaps appallingly powerful.

  Sandhill’s phone rang. He checked the incoming number: Ryder.

  “What’s up, Ryder? You still on the force?”

  “Big news—fuel oil and kerosene were the flammables used on Truman, a strange combination. But the huge news is that Desmond has a brother, Roosevelt—”

  “Rose,” Sandhill whispered.

  “You got it. This Roosevelt lives in a scruffy, isolated bungalow about three miles from Truman’s studio. I’m at Rose Desmond’s now.”

  “He’s there?”

  Ryder’s voice dropped with disappointment. “Gone. But there’s a shitload of weightlifting equipment. The guy’s got pictures of himself in the bedroom; paint Roosevelt Desmond green and you got the Incredible Hulk. Listen to this: There’s carpet missing in the living room, bent tacks in a corner.”

  “The carpet LaShelle was wrapped in when her body was burned.”

  “Whoops, hang on,” Ryder said. Sandhill heard a muffle of excited voices, one of them Ryder. A minute later he was back.

  “New info just in: coaxial cable running from a camera and TV in the living room to a hurricane shelter out back. Cots, heater, fridge, girls’ clothing. That’s all so far. Uh, Sandhill …”

  “What?”

  “I think I’m about to be unemployed. Squill’s accusing us of running our own investigation. Duckworth’s been keeping Squill on high boil, repeating how you’d humiliated Squill in the past, all that crap. Squill’s so hot he says he’s taking you down personally. I get the feeling he’s dedicated to that proposition, so stay low and move fast.”

  Chapter 48

  Ryder stood in the middle of Rose Desmond’s living room and clicked off the call to Sandhill. He saw Squill coming through the door and pushed his phone into his pocket. Techs and cops bustled through the small house. Drawers were on the floor, closets torn apart, furniture dismantled. Nothing indicated where Desmond might have fled. Squill strode to Ryder, almost standing on his toes. Duckworth and Bidwell followed.