Winter Flower

by Charles Sheehan-Miles

  Detective Michelson said, “I’m sorry.”

  Mom’s voice was hoarse and broken as she asked, “So what happens next?”

  “We have an APB out searching for a white Mercedes, and we distributed pictures of Brenna and her trafficker in all the surrounding states. We’re going to shut down here, we’re all finished at the hotel obviously. Agent Wilcox will coordinate the response out of the FBI field office. We have a detective at the hospital in the event Laura regains consciousness.”

  Mom replied, “We’re going to the hospital then.”

  Michelson shook her head. “That’s probably not the best idea, Erin. They’re not going to tell you anything or let you see her, only immediate family—”

  Mom’s face twisted in anger. “I spoke with her so-called mother. She says that Laura is going to hell because she’s a whore. She doesn’t have any immediate family, except maybe Brenna. We’re it.” Mom’s eyes watered and her voice rose in pitch. “That girl risked her life for my daughter and got shot because of it. You find somebody to tell the doctors that. Because we are going to the hospital.”

  Detective Michelson nodded slowly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Mom said, “Thank you.”

  I got up and moved over to the couch where Mom and Dad were.

  Detective Michelson said, “I’ll give you all some privacy. The technician will be back shortly to pick up all the gear.”

  “We’ll find her. We’ll keep looking, and we won’t stop until we find her,” Dad said.

  His voice broke on the final words, and Mom sobbed. Dad pulled us both close to him.

  Our tears could have drowned the world.

  Thirty-Eight

  Brenna

  I don’t know how long it was before I stopped screaming. I don’t know how long I was locked in the trunk of the car, or how many hours passed before the driving pattern changed from continuous driving to stop-and-go. But eventually it happened. I felt my body shifting position as Rick braked and accelerated, each time shooting pain across my body.

  We were in a city or town somewhere now.

  Nialla was dead. No—Laura was dead. Never again was I going to think of her with the name that he gave her. Maybe I would never know how it had come about, what sequence of events had led her to have that particular phone. But it was clear that she had sacrificed her life for me. She’d risked everything and lost.

  Even from the beginning, she had tried to warn me away from Rick. She’d told me to run. And then when I was too confused and ignorant to run, she took care of me through the depths of hell.

  Sometime during the hours I was locked in that trunk, I realized that I had to live. I owed it to Laura to fight, to survive as long as I could. To stop Rick from making any more broken lives.

  So I lay in the trunk quietly, trying to assess how badly I was injured. In a way I was lucky—the trunk was full of Rick’s suitcases and the two bags that contained all of Nialla’s and my belongings.

  Laura.

  I had to remember. I had to use her real name. Because her name mattered. Rick giving us street names gave him a sort of power over us. It gave him the power not just to physically intimidate us, or to throw us around or make us do things—it gave him power over our identity. And he didn’t deserve her identity. He couldn’t have it. I wouldn’t let him.

  I arranged myself as securely as I could, praying that we didn’t get in an accident. With my right hand, I explored the swelling and bruising on my face. I had a nasty cut on my right cheek and my eye was swollen shut, not that I could see anything in the darkness anyway. My head was throbbing and I was in a lot of pain, but there was nothing I could do about it. My pills were in my bag, in the backseat. They might as well have been a thousand miles away.

  In some ways this wasn’t that different from the ordeal I’d gone through in the closet two years ago. Then I had only a tiny sliver of light as my sensory input. Now, there was no light, but there was the noise of traffic, the vibration of the tires against the road, the occasional horn honking.

  Traffic.

  Where there was traffic, there were police. I couldn’t trust them to protect me; past experience had taught me that. Cops didn’t care about people like me. They didn’t care about whores.

  But would they care about the fact that he just killed somebody?

  It was worth a try. I struggled to reposition myself so that I was facing the rear of the car, and then carefully I felt along the back wall. Would it be possible to disconnect the taillights? Would that be enough to get us pulled over? There had to be a way to get at the brake or taillights from in here.

  I felt all around and found carpet and metal. No wires, nothing I could find that turned or twisted or disconnected. I kept searching, pulling at the carpet, trying to find a corner or something that bent down or shoved out of the way. Did they replace them from the outside? I’d never seen it done, I didn’t really know.

  Nothing!

  I hit my fist against the back wall in frustration, but it did no good.

  For just a second I considered setting a fire in the trunk. If the car was on fire it would surely attract the attention of the police, and there was no way he’d be able to explain my presence. Even if I died back here, unable to get out, even if I burned to death, at least he might end up in prison.

  But what if he didn’t? Would I be throwing my life away for nothing?

  I sighed. It didn’t really matter. I didn’t have matches or a lighter or anything else with which to set a fire.

  The car came to a stop. I didn’t know if it was at a red light or a parking lot or the edge of a cliff. I had no way of knowing. But just as he stopped the car, Rick turned on the stereo loud. Metallica.

  He was trying to cover the sound if I screamed.

  The car rocked with the slamming of the door. I waited what seemed like an eternity, two or three minutes. Then I started to scream and kick.

  “There’s nobody,” I heard her shout over the music. Kaylee, the little girl. I stopped screaming and listened. “There’s nobody around. We’re in a dark parking lot next to a motel.”

  “Is he gone?” My throat felt raw.

  “He went inside. I think he must be checking in.”

  “You should run,” I said. “You should run while you still can. Get as far away as you can.”

  She didn’t respond at first, but then I heard a noise that I recognized. Crying. “I can’t,” she said. “He tied my wrists to the steering wheel with plastic ties. I want to go home…” Her words devolved into a plaintive moan.

  Fuck.

  I tried to calm my breathing down. There was nothing I could do. I had no way out of the trunk, and she was stuck too. Soon, Rick would come back, and it would all start again. I didn’t even have to see to know the kind of motel this was. Half occupied, with owners who probably didn’t speak English, and the staff willing to not ask questions. It would be dirty, with sheets that hadn’t been washed, showers that were dark with mildew and mold, and draperies that reeked of cigarette smoke. I knew the place, even though I’d never been there, even though I hadn’t even seen it yet. I’d been in a hundred others like it. That was how Rick liked to travel, because nobody asked questions and they took cash.

  Once we arrived in the city, things would change. We’d switch to higher-end hotels, or stay in one of many corporate apartments that were scattered across the country. I didn’t know if they were places that he rented or shared with other people. But like the dismal hotels, I’d seen enough of them to recognize them.

  The mystery would be cleared up soon enough. A moment later I felt, more than heard, one of the doors open, then slam shut. Rick was back. He started the car and drove for less than a minute … undoubtedly moving to the darkest back parking lot. The car shut off, followed by the music, leaving my ears ringing.

  I heard Rick murmur something, quietly at first and then in a sharper tone.

  “My wrists hurt,” Kaylee said.

 
; “You’ll be fine. Let’s go in the room.” His voice rose to a shout. “Strawberry? I’ll be right back for you.”

  Jesus. He wasn’t taking any chances.

  I waited. Probably no more than two or three minutes passed, but it felt like an eternity. Then I heard the click of the trunk unlocking and light flooded in. I shaded my eyes but uncovered them almost immediately.

  It wasn’t actually bright … it was dawn. The sky was clouded, dark thunderheads moving quickly across the sky. After hours in total darkness, the light hurt my eyes.

  “You look like shit,” he said. Asshole. “Get out of the trunk.”

  I struggled up, but my limbs weren’t cooperating; I had no sensation in my legs. As I moved they began to tingle with circulation returning.

  “I said get the fuck out,” he said. He grabbed me by the arm and yanked me out of the trunk. I screamed and fell to the ground, scraping my arm and hands on the concrete.

  “Broken down old whore.” His words dripped with contempt. I struggled to my feet and glared at him.

  “You gonna give me any more trouble? Or do I have to stuff you back in there and send you where I sent Nialla?”

  “I won’t be any more trouble,” I whispered.

  “Then get inside,” he said.

  I tried to gauge the odds of being able to run away from here. But there was no chance. We were in the back parking lot away from everything. The only other cars were flashy, expensive vehicles: Mustangs and Lexuses and Mercedes. People driving those types of cars didn’t stay in this kind of hotel unless they were pimps. I was trapped.

  I limped toward the hotel room.

  Inside the room, I quickly confirmed everything I had already known about the place. The carpet looked ancient, and Kaylee was sitting in a rickety wooden chair looking anxious.

  I walked past her, straight to the filthy bathroom. The faucet had left a rust stain down the back of the porcelain sink. The tiles in the floor, possibly once decently installed, were now a mess. I used the toilet then faced myself in the mirror.

  My face was a ruin. The cut on the right side of my face was much worse than I had thought, and the bruise spreading under my eye was so dark that I wondered if I’d been permanently marked. I had an awful headache.

  When I stepped out of the bathroom, Rick dropped my bag on one of the beds. “Why don’t you smoke a joint, Strawberry? Maybe that’ll make you happy again.”

  I searched through my bag. Maybe that’ll make you happy again. Because getting high will make me not feel hate after you murdered her. Rage was building up in me, rage and fear and an overwhelming need to vomit. My head was splitting, and I needed something a lot stronger than a joint. In the bottom I found two pill bottles. One was Oxy. I took one and dry-swallowed it then lit a cigarette.

  The smoke flooding my lungs brought instant relief, my muscles relaxing even as I felt clearer-headed. I winced, though, at my headache, and wondered if I had a concussion.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Rick stepped out of the bathroom. He had taken off his T-shirt, balled it up and threw it across the room, revealing his muscular torso covered in tattoos. As always, his pistol was in his waistband, the deadly metal drawing all the life out of the room.

  I looked away from him, my eyes falling on Kaylee. She stared at him, terrified. If he had been planning a slow seduction of her like he’d done to Nialla—Laura—then he’d blown that with Laura’s murder last night. She might obey him out of terror, like I had, but never out of love.

  Either way, she had a narrow window of time before her life was going to change irrevocably. If I had to guess, he would rape her within the hour.

  “It looks like you might have to work the track for a few days, Strawberry,” Rick said. “With you looking like that, ain’t no way you’re gonna make any indoor dates.”

  I took a drag off my cigarette and ignored him. He sat down on the other bed, set his pistol on the end table, and patted the bed. “Kaylee, come sit over here.”

  Her eyes widened and she started to shake.

  “You heard me. Come sit over here.”

  She just looked more frightened.

  “Rick, leave her alone. She’s scared,” I said.

  “Did I ask you? Christ, you look like a fucking bag lady. And you used to be so pretty.”

  He turned his attention back to her. “Get over here. I’m not going to ask you again.” The shift in tone caused the skin of my neck to tense. I knew that shift in tone, because it was often followed by a fist or some other cruelty.

  She didn’t know that yet.

  Hell, did it even matter? She came from such a completely fucked up background that running off with some random dangerous guy had actually seemed like a good idea.

  Running to him had seemed like a good idea to me after Chase dumped me. For an idle second, I wondered where Chase was, what he was doing with his life. I knew that Dad had gone to jail for assaulting him. But nothing since. Was he alive? Had he forgotten about me? The truth was, I’d mostly forgotten about him. I couldn’t imagine feeling the sixteen-year-old crush I’d had ever again. Would I ever love anyone? Or be loved?

  It didn’t matter. All I could hope for was an end to this.

  Kaylee moved to the bed and sat down next to Rick. She cringed away from him. In a second, he was going to rape her right here in front of me and I wasn’t going to do anything to stop him. Because that’s the way it worked. That’s the way it had always worked. Laura hadn’t intervened when he raped me the first time, or the fiftieth. Of course not, how could she? He might have killed her then and spared her two more years of pain. Neither of us had done anything when he picked up Rose—and later murdered her when she dared to run away.

  I was so tired.

  Rick said to Kaylee, “Trust me, you’re going to love it.”

  “I’m not ready,” she whispered. “I told you that.”

  “You are.”

  She shook her head violently.

  He reached out and grabbed her shirt and yanked at it. “Get undressed. I want to see those titties.”

  I flinched. She cried out as he suddenly shook her hard, a rag doll, a thirteen-year-old eighth-grade rag doll who deserved something better than this. He pulled at her shirt, finally tearing it off of her. She screamed now, and he muttered, “Shut up, bitch,” then clamped a hand on her mouth as he started to pull on her jeans.

  I sat there on the other bed, trying not to look, tears running down my face because I couldn’t stop him. He had her bra off now, and her pants, and she was struggling and crying. He slapped her—hard—once, twice across the face. She stopped struggling, then he unbuttoned his jeans and began to pull them down.

  He got them down around his knees before I moved.

  With a gasp, I reached over to the end table between the beds and grabbed the pistol and jumped back, away from the bed, standing up now and holding it in both hands.

  Rick snarled and yelled, “Strawberry!” He turned, Kaylee forgotten as he struggled to pull his pants back up.

  She wriggled away from him, her voice a low keening cry.

  “Put it down, Strawberry! If you don’t, I will fucking kill you. Or I’ll sell you to some fucking fishing boat from Japan and let them fuck you to death and throw you overboard. No one will ever even care that you lived. Put it down!”

  “My name is Brenna,” I said, almost a whisper.

  As I said my name, tears poured down my face again.

  “Come on, baby. You want to go by Brenna? I’ll call you that. I’ll call you whatever you want. You know things are going to get better—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Come on, Strawberry—”

  I pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him square in the chest, a dark red spot suddenly appearing over his sternum. Blood spattered Kaylee and the wall behind him. Kaylee shrieked.

  He lurched toward me, and I pulled the trigger again. This time he went down, on his back on the bed, his pants stil
l around his knees, his still-hard dick waving like another limb, and I shot that too, obliterating it in a mess of blood and tissue.

  I walked around the bed, closer to him, still terrified he was going to get up and run at me. I was crying, no, weeping, the tears coming in a flood as I approached the man who had tormented me, who had tortured me, who had murdered Laura and Rose and God only knew how many others, the man who had started to rape an eighth grade girl right before my eyes, and I pulled the trigger again.

  This bullet went through his left eye and blasted the back of his head across the bed.

  I dropped the gun on the floor with a loud thump. The room was full of smoke. Kaylee’s shrieking had subsided to loud sobs.

  I stared at Rick. He looked … like nothing. Like there was nothing left, that whatever evil had animated him was gone out of his body and out of the room and out of the world. Now he was just a bag of flesh and bones spread across the bed in a nasty hooker hotel somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.

  Fuck him.

  I sobbed. I searched the room, now flooded with acrid smoke, and my eyes fell on his phone, sitting on the dresser by the television. As I searched, I could hear cars starting outside, the squeal of tires as the pimps and their prisoners fled the building. They’d heard the gunshots.

  I picked up the phone. I’d seen him unlock it a thousand times, his code was seven-one-nine-four. I unlocked it and from memory I dialed a number that represented love and safety and home.

  I closed my eyes and put the phone to my ear. It rang twice, then a deep voice answered. “Cole Roberts.”

  Out of my control, my voice rose to an uncontrollable shriek. “Daddy?”

  Thirty-Nine

  Erin

  All three of us were exhausted and needed a refresher, so we moved down to the hotel room we had barely used to change clothes and get showers before searching out Laura at the hospital.

  It was difficult to comprehend my emotional state. It felt almost as if I had lost Brenna all over again. We were so close to finding her. All three of us had wept in the conference room, and even though my common sense told me I should have shielded Sam from the additional trauma, in the end I knew it was the right thing to have her there, and for the three of us to grieve together. We hadn’t grieved Brenna’s loss when she originally disappeared two years ago, not together. Instead, we’d gone our separate ways and fallen apart separately. Maybe Sam, more than any of us, needed that.