by Roger Hayden
Hayes threw his phone on the floor in anger. “Damn it!”
“Who?” Shelton asked as the cruiser rocketed down the road at over 100 mph, rattling along the way.
“If I knew, I would say it,” Miriam said with a tone of defensiveness. “There’s too many people piling in on this.”
“I’ve said that from day one,” Hayes said. “This was supposed to be ours.”
“I don’t know anyone who would work against us,” Shelton said. “Not in our department.”
Hayes cleared his throat and ran his hands through his graying hair, scratching. “No, our guys are solid. Loyal. Vasquez can be a pain sometimes, but that’s about it.”
“Maybe he should see a therapist,” Shelton said with a laugh.
Miriam’s search for an insider halted suddenly at Shelton’s comment. There was one man who was privy to the investigation, a man whose name had come into play after the raid on Walter Browning’s house: Dr. Nicholas Trudeau. It was a ridiculous thought, but she couldn’t help but linger on it.
Bennett maintained his speed as the road curved left and wrapped around a canyon where they could see the two SUVs parked in the distance on a narrow slope. Miriam grabbed her binoculars and held them up.
“I can see them,” she said. “They’re just waiting at this point. I think we’re going to be okay.”
“Dawson is an antsy one,” Hayes said. “Better hurry.”
“I’m trying, Detective,” Bennett said, pushing the gas as the road straightened out.
Miriam looked behind them at the two Land Cruisers following, engulfed in a wake of dust. Bennett slowed while guiding them off road and to the side of the arching canyon. Miriam could get a better look at the situation. The red van in question was parked close to where the directions specified, under a tree and poorly concealed by dead branches.
Two SUVs were angled at both sides of the van — six detectives in all, circling the van and peering in the windows, which were heavily tinted.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Hayes said as they rocked along the bumpy terrain, nearing the seemingly abandoned van.
Miriam observed the team already on the ground. Three men were holding shotguns. All six were wearing flak vests.
“What are they up to?” she asked.
Sergeant Bennett leaned closer, squinting. “They’re just taking precautions. It’s standard protocol.”
“Let’s stop here,” Miriam said.
Sergeant Bennett looked at her, confused. “Why?”
“Just do it,” Shelton said from the back. “Lieutenant Sandoval has been right about most everything so far. No reason to doubt her now.”
The sergeant slowed his cruiser to a halt at the peak of the hill with the van and the other detectives a good fifty feet ahead of them. The Land Cruisers pulled up on both sides, boxing them in. Hayes and Shelton swung their doors open and jumped out before Bennett could even turn the ignition off.
Miriam stepped outside, prepared to tell everyone to step away from the van, but Shelton and Hayes were already rushing toward the team at the van and demanding answers.
“Wait here,” Miriam told Sergeant Bennett as he stood up and leaned against the car. The other detectives had just stepped out of their vehicles and didn’t seem too clear on what was transpiring.
“Everything is okay, gentlemen,” Miriam told them. “Stand down and give me a minute.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” a boyish-looking plain-clothed deputy said.
Miriam turned and approached the scene with caution. A blond-haired man with dark eyes and light stubble on his cheek held a shotgun across his shoulder in a cocky stance. The other men seemed just as sure of themselves.
“Well, we waited,” the blond-haired man said. “Now let’s crack this Easter egg open.”
Hayes rushed forward, kicking dirt up, and stopped inches from the team, seething. “Who the hell told you about this location?”
Shelton approached Hayes and put a hand on his shoulder, urging calm. “We’re on the same team here, buddy. It’s okay.”
Hayes shook his head, glaring at Dawson. “These jokers don’t know the meaning of the word teamwork. This is our case, so back off.”
Dawson remained relaxed and defiant. “We’re aware of that. However, we’re looking for Tara McKenzie. She’s ours.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Miriam said, stepping forward. “This entire van discovery could be a trap. I don’t think the girls are here. I think we’ve been played.”
The team looked at Miriam with curious skepticism as Detective Shelton introduced her. “This is Lieutenant Sandoval. She’s here to—”
“We know who she is,” Dawson cut in. He then looked at Miriam. “Ma’am, with all due respect, we have a job to do out here as well.”
“Tell me who gave you this location,” Hayes said, getting into Dawson’s face.
“Word got out,” Dawson said as though it was nothing. “Went through the chain. Maybe you don’t understand, but we’re here to help.”
“Ah, bullshit,” Hayes said. “Step aside, and let us continue our investigation.”
Dawson raised a hand up and moved out of the way of the van. “By all means, Detective. The van is yours.”
Hayes moved forward and touched the side of the dusty van, moving a dead branch out of the way.
“Wait!” Miriam said.
Hayes stopped and turned around, looking at her.
“The K-9 unit, please,” she said.
Dawson narrowed his eyes, intrigued. “What are you suggesting, Lieutenant?”
“We need to do this right,” Miriam said. “I don’t care how long it takes.”
“That could take hours,” Dawson said. He then turned to a bulky, bearded man at his side. “Do you have any signal out here?”
“Nah,” the man said as he pulled the passenger side door of the van open.
“Don’t do it,” Miriam said, backing away.
“Everyone step away from the van,” Hayes said.
The Midland team reluctantly complied and retreated from the van, maintaining a safe distance.
“I saw something,” one of the men said. “Hard to see through those windows as it is, but it looked like there were people in there.”
“I’ve got a signal,” Shelton said, excitedly. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“They’ll need our exact location,” Hayes said.
Shelton looked at Miriam, noticing the satchel over her shoulder. “I’m going to GPS our coordinates. Can you take them down?”
Miriam nodded and reached into her satchel for her pen and notepad, but her notepad was nowhere to be found. Instead, she felt Trudeau’s paperback, Inside the Mind of a Man Child, and pulled it out, prepared to write.
Shelton searched for the coordinates on his phone as everyone else waited patiently. Miriam opened the end of the book and studied the author sleeve where Trudeau flashed his professional smile in a black and white photo. She scanned the lines of his bio: Born and raised in Hartford, Connecticut. Dr. Trudeau earned his PhD at the University of California and has resided in Chicago, New York City, Boston, and Texas, where he enjoys summers at his ranch house.
She flipped to the table of contents of the book and glanced at his chapters. Strangely enough, one of them had been circled: Chapter Seven: The Man-Child is a Ticking Time Bomb. No immediate connection gripped her mind, though her doubts about Dr. Trudeau began to grow, unfounded or not.
Shelton held his phone closer with excitement. “Okay, are you ready?”
“Shoot,” Miriam said.
“Thirty-one, point eighty-five degrees north…”
Miriam scribbled the numbers across the table of contents page when she noticed one of Dawson’s men lurking closer to the van and looking through the front windows.
“Dawson, I’m telling you, there’re people in here,” he said, gaining his team’s attention.
Temporarily distracted, Miriam went back to jotting down coordinates as Shelton
continued. “One hundred two degrees west…”
“Got it,” she said.
“Come with me to the car so I can request K-9 support,” he said. Miriam turned to leave and then glanced back at the van and saw that Dawson’s team were back standing next to it.
“Gentlemen!” she called out. “You need to wait.”
Dawson turned to her, urgency stricken across his face. “We see something. I think it’s the girls.”
A man at the rear pulled the latches of the back door and flung the door open. Another man pulled the side rolling door open and shined his flashlight inside where a large blanket lay in the back with what appeared to be two girls underneath, long blondish hair exposed from the dirty carpeted floor of the van.
The bearded man with the shotgun jumped inside, eager to investigate. Both Hayes and Shelton stormed forward, shouting at Dawson’s men to stay away from the van.
“You had your chance!” Dawson shouted back. “We’ve got two girls here. Call a paramedic!”
Miriam felt unnerved and helpless as the situation quickly spiraled out of control. Everyone was shouting, but no one was listening to anyone. She looked down at the coordinates in her book and then flipped the page forward where a message awaited. Until that moment, she hadn’t read the message Trudeau had written. And now, his words were more suspicious than ever.
Miriam, I hope this book finds you well. Hope you have a BLAST! – Dr. Nick.
She flew to the ground, covering her head, but nothing happened. She lay still for a moment, opening her eyes, and when she looked up, Hayes and Shelton were standing nearby still shouting at the men to stand down. There was no explosion, large or small, much to Miriam’s relief. Something still wasn’t right, evidenced by the men’s quiet disappointment.
“Get back,” Dawson said, shining his flashlight inside. “What is that?”
“They’re here,” his bearded partner said, pointing to the blanket.
As Miriam rose to her feet a distance from the van, she felt stricken to intervene. They weren’t listening to her. Mass confusion was in the air.
“Move the blanket,” Dawson commanded.
His partner did as told and yanked the blanket away. The golden hair underneath flew to the side, detached and exposed as nothing more than store bought wigs. The bearded man froze in place, squatting with the blanket in hand.
“Oh my God…”
Miriam rushed ahead to get a look but stopped once she noticed the stunned faces surrounding the van.
Their flashlights revealed a lower compartment in the floor of the van where a dozen shiny pressure cookers had been placed inside and hidden by the blanket the bearded detective held in his trembling hands. The cookers were connected to one another with a faint beeping sound from an unseen timer, and a letter rested on the floor.
Dawson took several steps back, motioning his men to retreat. “Okay, team. Um… let’s pull back a little.”
The bearded detective took the letter and held it up. “I’m sorry, but this is a trap,” he read aloud. “In about five seconds, you will be dead…”
The letter was chilling in its briefness. With the sight of the silver pressure cookers and sound of rapid beeping, there was only one thought left.
“Run!” Dawson shouted.
Miriam pulled Shelton’s arm and vaulted as fast as she could from the van just as Dawson and his men scrambled. Her heart pounded as heavy breath swept thought her lungs. Hayes appeared out of the corner of her eye, charging forward in a panic.
Dawson’s team sprang into action and tried to catch up just as a deafening explosion shook the ground and threw Miriam into the air in a blaze of fiery heat.
Engulfed by intoxicating smoke, Miriam hit the ground and rolled as pieces of metal flew all around her. She could barely take another breath before her head knocked into a protruding rock in the ground, causing everything to go black.
Common Ground
Miriam opened her eyes to a blurry glow beyond the haze of thick smoke. Rocks jabbed her side where she lay. Her head pounded and her muscles ached. She had little recollection of what had just happened but knew that something had gone terribly wrong. She could hear the shouts of men all around her. Some were running over in a panic.
She looked around in the darkness but couldn’t find either detective or the other men. Grunting, she pushed herself up and glanced in the direction of the heat against her back. She turned around and could see a fire blazing like an inferno no farther than fifty feet away.
Smelling burnt hair, Miriam felt her arms and legs in a frightened panic. Her jeans were still intact, and she didn’t see or feel any burns. Her throat was drier than the desert air and her body trembled with a cold chill despite the waft of heat surrounding her.
“Hayes…” she called out, barely able to make a sound. “Shelton…”
She heard coughing followed by the beam of a flashlight near her. “Miriam, is that you?” Shelton shouted. It was the first time anyone there had called her by her first name.
“Over here,” she said, waving her arms.
Shelton appeared from the smoke with an arm around Hayes, leading him along. There was soot on their faces. Miriam stood on wobbly legs, feeling disoriented as though she were in a dream. Shouts came from ahead and she saw the other detectives on her team rushing toward them, flashlights waving.
“Over here!” Shelton shouted.
Two men rushed to Miriam’s sides and helped her. “Come on, Ma’am. We have to get out of here.” She recognized the voice as Sergeant Bennett.
Shelton approached with grimness on his face and a grave look of concern. He waved his hand in front of Miriam. “Can you hear me okay? How are your senses?”
Miriam nodded, finding it hard to focus. “I’m… fine. What happened?”
“Explosion,” Hayes said as he regained balance. He crouched against his knees and lowered his head, coughing as smoke flowed around them.
Shelton looked at Miriam and then placed a hand on her shoulder. “Just like you said.”
Miriam shook her head. “No. We should have never…” Dizziness rushed through her again and she found herself falling, only to feel the tight grip of the two men at her sides.
“Come on,” Shelton said, looking between Miriam and Hayes. “Let’s get you two away from here first. Then we look for survivors.”
Survivors? Miriam thought. Was he serious?
They moved quickly as a group away from the blast zone and found refuge at their vehicles. Bennett gently placed her against his cruiser as she sat against the hood and watched the distant blazing fire of the torched van.
Hayes fell next to her and punched the hood in a furious outburst. “Son of a bitch!”
“Calm down,” Shelton said. “We need to look for Dawson’s team.”
Sergeant Bennett observed the scene with an utter look of confusion, evident on the face of every detective in the team. “We were just standing here, about to move in,” he began. He then snapped his fingers. “Then just like that, damn van goes up in flames.”
The boyish-looking deputy handed Miriam a bottle of water. She thanked him, twisted the cap off, and nearly downed the bottle in one gulp.
Hayes seemed to be in a state of shock, though everyone was. “I don’t know. I just don’t get it. This is an act of terrorism here. Who in the hell are we dealing with?”
“Come on,” Shelton said, slapping Sergeant Bennett on the shoulder. “We need to check on Dawson’s team.”
Miriam took a deep breath and wiped the water from her mouth. “I’m coming with you.”
Shelton turned and pointed at her, emphatic. “You need to stay here and wait for the ambulance. Backup should be here in twenty. They won’t be able to miss this spot.”
“Who did you call?” Miriam asked.
Shelton looked at her as though the answer were obvious. “Who do you think? Nearest police station. Odessa.”
She launched herself off the hood of Bennett’s
car and then walked back toward the blast site with a noticeable limp.
“Ma’am? Miriam!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to investigate!” she shouted back. She moved quickly toward the flaming van, heat intensifying with each step. There were pieces of metal, wire, and shattered glass lying all over the ground. She could hear Shelton running after her with the other detectives but kept moving until a horrifying sight entered her field of vision. One of Dawson’s men, or Dawson himself, lay in the sand on his back, split in half, blood gushing from his torso.
Miriam covered her mouth with both hands as tears streamed from her eyes. She had never felt so sick before, and she was certain he wasn’t the only casualty. She held her flashlight up and shined its beam forward into a gust of smoke. Shelton caught up to her and halted at the sight of the first corpse — torn in half like a rag doll.
“We got one here!” he shouted as the other detectives rushed past.
Miriam continued through the wreckage in a daze as the others surrounded the first body. The charred van frame burned brightly with a thick cloud of black smoke billowing into the night sky. Miriam walked past a passenger seat, burnt to a crisp. A severed arm lay in the dirt among pieces of metal, a severed leg not far from it.
The pressure cookers had been packed with a potent explosive. The carnage that followed was not the work of an amateur bomb maker. Miriam had suspected a setup, but nothing like this. She moved closer to the van, squinting against the bright dancing flames.
She heard Shelton and the others call out for Dawson and his team, and in a moment of distraction, she tripped over something large and stumbled forward with a gasp. Her hands landed in the dirt as her face hung a foot from the ground. Tears she didn’t even know she was crying formed a puddle below.
She heard a groan behind her and turned her head to see Detective Dawson lying on his back with half of his face badly burned and his voluminous blond hair a mess of sporadic, burnt patches. She pushed herself up as an item caught her eye, inches from where she fell. Among broken bits of glass lay a book charred black. Curious, she grabbed a nearby stick and poked at the book, flipping it open. Most of the cover was still intact, and it was a cover she’d seen before. A cover she had grown familiar with: Inside the Mind of a Man Child, from best-selling author Doctor Nicholas Trudeau.
