“Are you gay?” The question spilled out before he could stop it, and Owen squeezed his eyes closed, shaking his head back and forth. “Shit. Never mind. I don’t care one way or another. That’s not why I called you, at all.”
“Happily queer, yes. And no, I didn’t expect this was a booty call.” Fingers plucked the empty mug from his hand, and Owen stepped backwards, lowering his chin to watch as Marchant made himself at home, pouring the mug full of coffee. “I was afraid something was wrong with one of the kids, but you said no medkit needed when I texted back, so that was a fear laid to rest at least.”
“Dammit, I’m off on the wrong foot. I’ve…” Huffing in frustration, he studied Marchant, noting how the man kept his gaze studiously on the steaming mug. Ten feet separated them, and Owen ran a hand through his hair, ruffling and separating the strands as he tried to settle his unexpected case of nerves. Nothing ventured, he reminded himself, and pointed at the stools next to the breakfast bar. “Let’s sit. Since the couch is occupied by my resident movie-lovers, this’ll do.”
Wordlessly Marchant followed instructions, quickly relocating to a stool that put his back to the kids. Owen wondered if he’d made the decision intentionally, allowing Owen to have the entire room under his gaze, but shook off the idea.
“Did you have a chance to treat the other kids from that place I never went to or saw?” Owen lifted his mug to hide what he was sure was a strained expression. “And by other kids, I mean those ones who don’t have anything to do with mine.”
“I know what you mean, and yes, I did. Some of them will be years recovering from what that man did. Every time I see what I think is the worst of humanity, some asshole has to go the extra mile to prove me wrong.” Mouth pulled to the side, Marchant allowed his disgust to show on his features. “Half of those kids had been reported dead in foster care, the other half flagged as runaways. They came from all over America, man. How can there be so many corrupt people within one single system?”
“Money talks, always has. If you’re an asshole, have something you don’t value much, like someone else’s child you’re being paid to feed and clothe, and someone comes along and offers enough money—it’s not rocket science what happens next.” Owen glanced at the kids. My kids. “Pair of young children like mine, with a dead mother and father, those parents part of a demographic also viewed as the dregs of society, it’s not hard to disappear them. Authorities are jaded, where they aren’t outright crooked, so when they’re told the worst, they more readily believe it.”
“And the kids pay and pay.” Marchant blew a stream of air across his coffee and directed his gaze to Owen’s face. “Why’d you ask me here?”
Pulling in a long breath, uncaring if it marked what he had to say next as momentous, Owen rested his palms flat on the countertop, steadying himself in that way, too.
“I’m ex-military. My daughter was kidnapped and killed by child traffickers while I was embedded overseas. I came home to a cold granite stone, and damn little in the way of information. Brass shipped me out again right away, well before I was ready. I was…unhinged would probably be the right way to describe my state of mind.” He swallowed, fighting against the taste of dust and ash, the scent of smoke thick in his nostrils. He flexed his hands, pressing his fingertips against the cold surface, anchoring himself in the now as best he could. Now, not then. It took a few breaths, but gradually, the smell of death faded away. “My mission was to take out a Central American political figure. I was in place, in play, target acquired—and saw a child only two windows down from where my man stood in plain sight. There was a male individual with that child, one I knew was a close confidant of my target. They were amigos, you get me?” Marchant nodded slowly. “So I did what I had to do.”
“You killed them?” It was Marchant’s turn to swallow hard. “Shot them both?”
“Fuck no. That’d be too fast.” Owen straightened his shoulders, echoes of his courts martial proceedings rolling through his head. I’d do it again, and again, if it meant saving a single child. “I razed the compound to the ground, walking out of there with all the innocent noncombatants I could. Took me three weeks to return those kids to their parents, scattered around the mountains as they were. Incommunicado the whole time, my bosses were sure I’d lost my hold on reality, and pretty much anyone would agree with them. For sure.” He shook his head. “When I finally called for an evac, I spent the entire dust-off with my hands on my head, expecting to catch a bullet the whole time. They tried me, found me wanting, and—since I was back on US soil by then—couldn’t do much more than boot me. I’d done what they’d ordered, killed my target. I simply did it by creating a political shitstorm they hadn’t expected or wanted. Like I gave a fat fuck about that.”
Sipping at his coffee, Marchant betrayed himself, his hand trembling as he held the mug to his lips. “Then what happened?”
“I started hunting for a living. Men like Warrant, mostly. I’ve got a partner who does the bulk of the investigative work, helps source any assistance or supplies needed, but it’s pretty much me on the ground these days.” Owen shrugged, cut his glance to where the kids were engrossed in the movie. “I do what you’ve been doing, but to the extreme.”
“I saw the inside of the cabin. I’d say it was pretty extreme.”
Owen bristled, back snapping straight. Keeping his voice low, with teeth clenched he hissed, “I walked in there and he had Shiloh tied to his bed—”
Marchant waved a hand, cutting him off. “I didn’t mean you. I meant that pedophile piece of shit. I’ve seen a lot of physical abuse, but breaking those kids down mentally like he did—in a huge group no less. Well, that’s nothing I’ve seen before.”
“There’re more of them out there. He had a video streaming when I got there.” Owen glared at Marchant. “I dismantled it so the authorities wouldn’t know. In no way were my actions to keep them safe from the cops or feds.”
Marchant opened his mouth, then closed it and took several slow, even breaths before saying, “So you can find and deal with them. You think there are others out there doing what he did to those kids?” Marchant’s face paled, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Jesus, Marcus. What can I do?”
Bingo. Here was the reaction he’d been counting on. Now to tease the end game he most wanted.
“Kelly and Shiloh living with me means my actions are going to be limited for a while. They don’t know anyone but me, and I wouldn’t trust just anyone with them.”
“You want me to stay with them while you go out—what was it you called it? Hunting?” Marchant’s shoulders straightened, pushing back. “Name the date. I’ll make it happen.”
“What if the need was for bigger help than merely that? More specifically, what do you have holding you to Jersey?” Having gotten the initial response he’d hoped for, Owen was ready to press his advantage and go for broke. “Family here?” He already knew the answer. Marchant didn’t have anyone in the region, he’d stayed in the area for the ease of travel, waiting for his credentials to be restored so he could return to Thailand. Owen knew better than the man did that there was a slim chance his visa would be reinstated, not after how difficult he’d made it for the government there. Marchant was holding out hope, though, and Owen understood how it felt. “Boyfriend?”
“Nothing and no one.” Draining his mug, Marchant thumped it on the countertop. “Spit it out, Marcus. I can tell you’ve got something in mind, and if it helps save even one child, count me in.”
“My partner is in Colorado.” He let the statement dangle between them for a long breath. “I’ve got a line on a house not far from where they live.”
“I can be packed in a day.”
Even though it was the reaction he’d hoped for, Owen felt odd trusting the words. Luck wasn’t something he believed in these days. “You sure, man? You might want to hear more details first.”
“Kids need help, you help them. Kids need help, I help them. I think we’re working bo
th sides of the same street on this one, Marcus. From where I sit, there’s no excuse for saying no. Your kids”—damn, it was good to hear his claim so plainly stated—“know and trust me. Between the two of us, we’ll provide a continuity of care that’ll go a long way to helping them recover and heal. It’s a yes from me.”
“Well, all righty then. So, here’s what I was thinking.” Owen leaned forwards and began speaking, Marchant hanging on every word as he spoke for the duration of the movie, during dinner, and well into the night.
***
Owen
Comfortably angled against the doorframe, Owen tipped his head to the side as he stared into the bedroom the kids shared, watching as Kelly eagerly dumped a tangle of the last of his scant articles of clothing into a box. From the moment the decision had become official, things had moved quickly, with Alace helping source a house near—but not too close to—where she lived with Eric. She hadn’t immediately taken to the idea of a third on their team—Owen scoffed far back in his throat because that was putting things mildly—but between her own investigation into Marchant and Owen’s vouching for the man, he’d finally been able to convince her.
She’d even uncovered parts of the man’s past Owen hadn’t been privy to, his own digging focused on what had happened in recent years, while hers had been more of a birth-to-grave process. Marchant had been a doctor in Texas and Oklahoma right out of school, working on his residency in emergency medicine. The man had gotten involved in an investigation surrounding a suspected torture serial killer, one who’d preyed on young adult women. The experience had paved the way for his continued focus on trauma, turning his attention to the youngest victims.
Information Alace found indicated the serial killer had never been officially identified and stopped, but word of mouth put his ending at the hands of an organized motorcycle gang. Their motivation had never been clarified, but based on how quickly Marchant had changed locations after the killer dropped off the grid, Alace had shared her suspicions he’d had something to do with whatever had happened.
There’d been a couple of conference calls with the three of them, during which Alace had disguised her voice. The first had her sounding like a gender-neutral, laid-back California beach bum, and the second had given her a male voice with a broad Boston accent. Marchant hadn’t been fazed by either, shaking his head in clear amusement once the calls ended. He’d known enough to not say anything denigrating Alace’s focus on security, which was good because Owen had seen the nearest tablet wake immediately after the calls terminated. Alace had dropped in to listen to the man’s debrief and had admitted to being impressed when she and Owen touched base later. Marchant had been dialed in on the mission, in this case shifting locations to Colorado where they could work out of a better, more consolidated base. The fact he wasn’t digging for info on her was a solid indicator of where the man’s head was at.
“Last box, buddy?” Kelly looked up and gave him a lifted chin in response, wrestling with the roll of tape to retrieve a long enough piece to secure the top of the box. “Want some help?”
“No.” Kelly panted slightly, arms held wide as he pulled the strip of tape free. “I got it.”
“Where’s Shiloh?” If Kelly hadn’t been available to question, Owen would have looked in only a couple of places, expecting to find the girl in one of the two. She preferred her surroundings to be close and dark and often migrated underneath the bed on the end nearest the wall, or inside the closet, sometimes with the laundry basket turned upside down over her. Marchant said it couldn’t even be considered acting out, because she wasn’t malicious about it. There was no trying to hide or trying to scare Owen; she simply preferred the closeness of those two places. It could be a result of her time in Warrant’s compound or a holdover from the foster family situations she and Kelly had been in.
“In the closet.” Kelly got one end of the tape tacked down and smoothed the rest in place, sealing the box closed. “Everything’s all packed. When are we leaving?”
“Soon as Doc gets here.” Owen had settled on the half-title as a moniker for Marchant. It was a nod to his expertise and less intimate than saying his first name. He ignored why it bothered him, since he called Alace Sweets Ward by her first name all the time. Darren Marchant. See, brain? It ain’t that hard. “We’ll load up these last few things, our suitcases, then you and Shiloh, and we’ll be ready to go.”
Marchant had wanted to keep his vehicle, so they were using it for the drive to Colorado. Owen had made quick work of dealing with the anchors holding him here. He’d sold his junker and booked a moving cube last week, filling it with the household boxes and the furniture he and Doc wanted to take, waving it off on a semi early yesterday. The furniture left in this house would remain, increasing the ability of the landlord to lease the house or give him something to complain about as he tossed it. Owen didn’t care either way. The house Alace had found was fully furnished and ready to move in, and what hadn’t been now was—up to and including a fully stocked pantry. She hadn’t fucked around with anything either, paying cash for the house as well as the empty lots on either side. Owen had been ready to transfer funds to her to cover the cost, but she’d demurred, for now waving him off in a way that made him think she wouldn’t be open to having a conversation with him about it at all.
He smiled and watched Kelly wrestle the box to the door. Reaching for the box, he told the boy, “I’ll get this, you see if you can coax your sister out.” Kelly’s lips pursed as he nodded, hefting the box the last couple of inches up into Owen’s grasp. “Doc’ll be here any minute.” He heard the garage door going up and looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen. “That’s him now. It’s not going to take but a minute to get these few things loaded. I’ve got your and Shiloh’s travel bags packed already. Come on to the garage when you’re ready, and we’ll get going.”
Without waiting to hear Kelly’s response, he’d only made it halfway up the hallway before three sharp raps sounded on the connecting door to the garage. It opened, and Marchant strode through, key fob twirling around one finger.
“Is this all of it?”
Owen nodded as he set the box on top of the short stack next to the door. “This, these, and the kids.” He pointed towards the three bags on the floor nearby. “I’ve got snacks and tablets in the kids’ bags. Toiletries and a change of clothes just in case we decide to stop at a hotel tonight. We’re good to go.”
“I’ll get the boxes and bags.” Marchant lifted two boxes and walked back through the door. “You bring the kiddos.”
Owen turned and saw Kelly standing in the hallway, a look of uncertainty on his face. “Does she not wanna come out?” The boy shook his head. “No worries. Help Doc with the bags. I’ll go talk to her.”
Back in the kids’ bedroom, Owen lowered himself until he was sitting on the floor, back against the wall farthest from the door. He rocked his head back and closed his eyes. There was no sound at all from the closet yet. On to the next maneuver. Clearing his throat, he began to quietly hum “Three Blind Mice.” The musical round had become his go-to when soothing Shiloh back to sleep after nightmares woke her, and he hoped it would draw her out of her hiding spot without him having to go into the closet. He was on the third rendition of the tune when he heard movement and opened his eyes a slit to see an overturned laundry basket creeping towards him. Shiloh could be seen only in broken images underneath. One eye, a swath of hair, then the tips of her fingers against the floor. With a smile, he closed his eyes again and continued.
Slowly, slowly she neared him, eventually resting half on his legs, her cheek pressed just above his knee. In a broken whisper, she sang along, using the Portuguese lyrics he’d taught her. “Tres ratos cegos, ver como eles correm.”
He slipped a hand underneath the basket and rested it on her head, fingers stroking across the silken strands of her hair. Everything about her was a far cry from how he’d found her only a few weeks ago. Everything except her fear. “Sweethear
t, it’s time to go on our trip.” Her head rocked against his leg, but uncertain if it was a nod or a shake, he pressed, “We’re all packed up except for our Shiloh. Have you seen her?”
Her singing had fallen away, sticking on a soft hum as she kept the music going. Her giggles finally interrupted it entirely, and he smiled at the sound.
“Was that my Shiloh I heard? Is it you under there?” She shifted, and he moved his hand, giving her the freedom to spring to her knees, basket going flying as she held her arms out in a silent “ta-da” of surprise. “It is my Shiloh! I’m so happy to see you. Are you ready to go?”
She sank down, hunching into herself, arms turned from excited streamers into bands of confinement as they wrapped around her body. “Mm’hm.” All the enthusiasm had fled her face, leaving only fear and anxiety behind.
“I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” She angled her head to look into his face, her lips pressed in a bloodless line. “I promise you, Shiloh.”
They remained in those positions for a breath. Then she gave a deep sigh, releasing a great breath of air, and crawled into his lap. “Mm’kay.” She hummed and he smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Tres ratos cegos, tres ratos cegos, ver como eles correm.” She broke off and twisted to look up at him. “Sing wit me.” Her demand was quiet but firm, and he gritted his teeth to keep from grinning. My girl’s got an attitude on her. He loved every sign of strength and courage she showed.
Doc and Kelly looked up as Owen walked into the garage carrying Shiloh, still singing that damn song.
Six hours later, both kids were asleep in the back seat, and Owen glanced over at Doc, taking in the man’s loosely confident movements as he steered the car. They’d been through all the surface small talk, asking about final details, dropping off keys, running through a drive-thru to pick up a hot snack for the kids versus stopping for a meal—but had carefully edged around the more critical topics so far.
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