by Nancy Brophy
“Several women came to visit your father today. They practically stood in line wanting to warn you about me.”
His change of subject surprised her, but she went along with it. Although she wanted another shower to wash away the tingling that tortured her. “All bringing food?” she managed to ask as she wrestled to rein her body into line.
“Yeah.”
“Those women,” she scoffed as though the word was an insult, “don’t care about me.”
“Nope. Nicholae’s playing a dangerous game. Having three women on the string is difficult for anyone, but three women who know each other screams someone’s going to die young and leave a good-looking corpse.”
“He’s not sleeping with them.”
At that comment, he raised his head. She hated that amused look. Right now, she really hated it, because her nipples pebbled even harder as though finding his charming face oh-so-delightful.
A rueful smile kicked up one corner of his mouth. “How do you know? Does he discuss his sex life with you?”
Cezi busied herself tidying papers. “Of course, not. But he’s got at least one girlfriend here in town. You know the rule. Some women are for fun and games and some are for marriage and babies.”
“Your father wants more children?”
She glanced over her shoulder to gage his reaction. His arched eyebrow made her wonder what he was thinking, but his comment didn’t give her any clues.
“No. That’s why he’s not sleeping with any of the compound women. Luca’s the same way.”
“Luca’s married.”
She really didn’t want to have this conversation with him. Luca and her father’s sex lives were none of his business. John’s affection in the tub had meant nothing. The one thing she knew for sure. Married or single, men cheat.
“And has six sons.” She referred to Luca to emphasize her point.
“How come you’re not married?” He rose to check the printer. Cezi eyed his actions over her shoulder as he replaced the plain paper with photo quality paper from the shelf above the machine.
No way were they going there. She mumbled her answer, not wanting to get into details. “Because what I want isn’t available.”
Mumbled or not, he heard her and asked, “Which is?”
She shrugged. “It’s complicated.” Change the subject before this goes further. “What are you printing?”
The printer clicked and shimmied as it cranked out page after page of photos. Her inquisitiveness nagged until she’d inched her way closer, allowing her to peer over his shoulder. “The missing girls?”
He nodded, handing her the photos already printed.
Carefully she spread each sheet containing four photos on the tables. Page after page of pretty wide-eyed blonde women rolled out. Here and there an occasional brunette or redhead, but the majority were blondes. When her table was full she double stacked, then triple stacked.
Forty-five minutes later, John came to stand behind her as she examined each girl’s face. “What do you see?”
“He like blondes.”
“No, he doesn’t. He hates young and innocent. Look at his group. Talk about homogenized. No blacks, Italians, Asians, Indians, Mexicans. Each face is the same. None of these women have the self-confidence to say no. They aren’t self-starters. You’ll never see one of these women owning a business.”
“Too young.” But she could see the distinction he made.
“Now, but unless life hardens them, these are shy, nice girls who blossom late in life, marry accountants and have three kids and a dog.”
Cezi scrutinized each photo again, trying to conceive of a life that matched the face. How many girls had she known in high school like this?
As she touched each photo, tracing a finger around the faces, John stood behind her, his breath on her cheek and the smell of coffee he’d drunk earlier gave a presence to the missing girls.
So many troubled souls. Their faint cries for help mingled until a symphony of tears and pleading roared through her mind.
She threw up her hands. “Stop.” When the screams increased, she clasped her hands to her ears to silence them.
The noise thundered down upon her drenching her with their pleas. Hundreds of young hands reached toward her, begging. “Save me. Help. Save me. Please help.” Their individual voices blended into a deafening wail.
Too many demanded her attention. The tidal waters of their need swamped her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t save them. She couldn’t even save herself.
For the first time she was drowning in air and her asthma wasn’t the problem. The girls were doomed and taking her with them.
Warm light from above, filtered down, winding a path through the chaos that surrounded her. The glow softly descended over her and through her while sheltering her and pushing back the need and the noise. Grasping hands faded into the shadows. Over the frightful pleas came a soothing hum that vanquished the screams and the pain.
For several long minutes she basked in the safety of the radiance, the protection of the heat and the comforting drone, wrestling her demons to catch her breath and return to sanity. The humming purr separated into syllables, forming words, then thoughts.
“You’re okay,” the gentle voice whispered. “You’re safe. Come back to me.”
Cezi cracked open an eye. She huddled on the hard floor, encased in John’s arms as he knelt next to her, crooning calming words and caressing her back with his tender fingers. Photographs scattered around them showed only smiling faces.
It was one thing to be rescued from an asthma attack, but a psychotic breakdown was something else entirely. Her mother’s prophesy had clearly not mentioned lunacy.
“I’m okay.” She pressed against him to free herself. “This is so embarrassing.”
He eased away, but placed his hands at her waist to help her to her feet. Then rose himself.
“Why? Because the victims got to you? It happens.” He clasped her chin, tilting it upward until she looked him in the eyes. “Justice is the only thing that will bring peace.”
“Do you hear their calls for help?”
“No, but the faces haunt me. Knowing that even if everyone of these girls were rescued and brought home tomorrow, each would struggle for years to be whole again and a lot won’t make it. The best I can hope for is to keep it from happening to even one more woman.”
“They’ve taken so many.”
“But with your help, we’ve got a true lead that we haven’t had before.”
Her help? What had she really done? But with John peering at her she gave her best shot at a positive response. “We know the type he chooses.”
“We know more than his type.” He returned to the printer. She glanced at her reflection in the glass wall. His type. It wasn’t the dark eyes that stared back at her. So what had Cain seen in her?
“Not exactly his poster child, are you?” John spoke the question on her mind. “Most went with him willing. As far as I know only you fought him. More importantly you won.”
She perked a little, but reminded him, “The beast had already chosen Ellie. She fit the profile.”
Through the reflective glass she saw his eyes narrow as he came to stand behind her.
“Even blonde and blue-eyed, you wouldn’t have been his type. Your sharp little chin shows a determination none of those other women had. You do have an air of innocence, but your eyes convey a shrewd, assessing look that would hard to interpret as anything other than a person with a quick, agile mind.”
Really? She peered again at the image in the glass. As far as she knew only her father and uncle believed she was smart. To her aunts she was an embarrassment and to her cousins she was a kid sister without enough sense to come in out the rain. Even to those who loved her, the asthma crippled her. But John hadn’t found her disabled. No, he thought she was a determined woman with a sharp, quick mind.
All those missing girls, all those worried families. And for what? What did Cain get ou
t of it?
“I have a job for you,” John said as he pulled up the program Ciggy had sent him. “See if you can determine a pattern in the way Cain chooses locations.” She leaned over his shoulder and looked at the monitor while he explained the data. “Just see if you can make heads or tails of their selection process.”
She understood human trafficking. If the girls had been killed at least some of the bodies would have been found. Much as she hated to admit it, Cezi worried she’d been the chief cause of Ellie’s death. If she hadn’t interfered the men might have taken her and left. Although maybe not, Cain had said the girl was worthless to them.
Where did he take them? Driving a limo. Nobody could cover the area they did in as short a time period as they operated and the guys on bikes had only been ten minutes away.
Flying was the fastest transportation. But if they had an airplane would it be big enough for the limo? Military had that type of aircraft. Was it available to civilians? Where would a plane like that land?
What was she thinking? Private airstrips were everywhere. Farmers needed them for crop dusters. Executives needed locations near their offices. Even a wide deserted road would work. Television reported news stories all the time about pilots who avoided accidents by landing on public roads.
They would need detailed maps and permission to fly by FAA. Bingo. They could trace a plane based upon the flight records. But even if that proved impossible, where did they land near Armadillo Creek?
Chapter Fourteen
Mexico
Cain’s attention flickered from the computer monitor where he entered personal data he’d obtained from rifling through Brianna’s purse, to the wall monitor where in her drugged stupor she unknowingly entertained various members of the all-male staff.
“You aren’t indulging?” Adam sprawled in the leather chair, his socked feet propped on the ottoman.
“She didn’t do it for me.”
His boss’s dark eyebrow arched in question. “When has that ever mattered?”
Cain shook his head unable to loose his ennui. Maybe he needed some time off. Armadillo Creek had undermined him. Eli’s trial run had been a disaster. Not only had they discarded the blonde, but the brunette had been taken from them.
The one thing he couldn’t afford was to be identified even in a small town. His face on a law enforcement website would ruin him and the entire operation. Daily he scanned the Internet looking for news stories about the Armadillo Creek incident. He hadn’t slept well since Friday night.
Adam hooted. “Look at that.” Cain glanced up from the computer screen. Adam pointed to the wall monitor. “Turn up the volume.”
Cain did. The earthy sounds of rutting filled the room. Adam absently stroked the front of his slacks. “She was a sweet little piece. Maybe I’ll visit her again on my way upstairs. You do have a gift for picking them.”
Cain turned his attention back to Adam. “How long are you keeping her?”
“Tuesday morning. We’ve got a new connection in Columbia who’s taking all of the girls we have.”
“You’re moving six at the same time? How come?”
“Special assignment. Right up your alley.”
Inwardly, Cain groaned, knowing what was coming next. He didn’t mind the work, but he didn’t want to get caught. Spending his twilight years in prison held no appeal.
Adam smirked. “A young boy.”
Cain worked to keep the irritation out of his voice. He hated jailbait and Adam knew it. “How young?”
“Nine. Ten.” Adam’s attention drifted back to the wall monitor.
“Dammit. Every time we do children, every Federal alphabet agency gets involved. It increases our exposure too much.” Cain kept his voice low and calm, raising Adam’s ire was not worth the argument. He was a spiteful son-of-a-bitch.
When Adam retired, Herod had the chops to fill his position. It took men with a certain moral ambiguity to be able to do the job. Herod had that in spades. For several years, Cain believed he had it, too. Now, the three million sitting in his bank account in the Caymans called his name. Absently, he rubbed the tattoo behind his ear.
Get out now while you can. But he’d sworn he wouldn’t quit until he had five million. At this rate, he only had to work another two or three years.
Get out while you’re young enough to enjoy it. The siren sang to him.
Cain cleared his throat. “Back to the kid. Is he worth the risk?”
Adam grinned, over his shoulder. “I can think of five hundred thousand reasons why it’s worth the risk.”
Half-a-million dollars. Unable to help himself, Cain rubbed his hands together. He’d have to be extra careful. “Have you picked the boy yet?”
“I think so. Our buyer wants a blue-eyed male, athletic, under twelve. I found a kid on My Space in Chicago with a single working mother. According to his blog, he skates every afternoon at a public skating park. Pretty good, too. You won’t have any trouble finding him.”
“When?”
“Wednesday. Our guy’s hot for fresh flesh.”
Cain grimaced. This was too soon. They never worked this quickly. What was the rush? Then another idea occurred to him. “I have unfinished business in Armadillo Creek. We could stop on our way.”
Adam turned his head from the screen, his piercing gray eyes assessing. Sweat beads prickled Cain’s forehead, but he made no move to acknowledge his discomfort.
“Forget it. Going back’s too risky.”
Cain restrained himself from arguing, but Adam picked up on his unhappiness.
“I mean it. Let this girl go. We’re not going back.” He stood. “No more fuck ups. You and Eli need to concentrate. We can’t afford another shoddy run.”
The door slammed behind him as he left the room. For several minutes Cain remained unable to bring himself back to the job at hand.
“Little thief, I haven’t forgotten my promise. You will belong to me.”
# # #
Armadillo Creek
“So everything’s false? Fake driver’s license. Fake credit cards. Fake license plates. Is there nothing that can tie us to this guy?” John reclined his head against the tall headrest and stared at the opaque skylight. How was it they had so much on Cain McIntosh, yet nothing led them to him?
“We need a court order for the cell phone company to give us a billing address,” Ciggy said.
“Call Judge Tompkins. What else? Got the fingerprints?” John searched the collection Cezi had acquired. The beer bottles had been compromised by the fluming chamber and would be unusable in court. Any defense attorney worth the money would argue her lab wasn’t a licensed facility.
“We’re waiting on the lab results, but they’re grumbling about the quality of the prints.”
“Let ‘em piss and moan, but have them run anyway. I’ll bring the originals with me.”
“When?”
“Soon.” John glanced at the couch and Cezi sound asleep covered with a light blanket. Remaining appealed to him. Too much. But he’d be staying for reasons other than the case.
“You coming alone? I hear our girl’s quite the hot tomato.”
Hot tomato? Yeah, she was that for sure. He knew he should invite her, but something held him back.
“Don’t know, yet.” How many days could they work together before the strain became unbearable between them? He couldn’t continue to handle her, and yet, his hands touched her at every opportunity. “See you then.”
The door opened from the downstairs. Footsteps approached. Nicholae or Luca? He guessed the former. Luca’s limp would have given him away.
Nicholae tossed a pair of jeans and loafers on the table. “Put these on and let’s go to lunch. Lose the tie.”
“Should we wake Czigany?” he lowered his voice, shrugging his shoulder in the direction of the couch. Standing behind the computer he shed the sweatpants and slippers.
“No, we’ll bring her back a sandwich.” The girl’s father adjusted the blanket high
er on her shoulders, brushed hair back from her face and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Cezi mumbled, but didn’t open her eyes.
# # #
John waited until they were seated at the café before he asked, “How much do I owe you for the clothes?”
Nicholae waved his hand expansively. “A gift from a grateful father for keeping his daughter safe during the tornado.”
John considered arguing, but figured it would be a waste of breath. Gossip made the rounds in an enclosed community. Had the story gotten better? Were they completely naked? No way he wanted to go there.
“Thanks. I’m getting lunch.” He had a dozen questions, none of which concerned the abductions. For a man who’d had refused to ask the team, protecting his ass day in and day out any personal questions, he was amazed at his need to quiz Nicholae about everything regarding his life and Cezi’s. The sunlight shifted. A shadow fell across their table.
John reached for the last quarter of his sandwich, but Nicholae reached out to stop him. “Don’t eat that.”
John eyed the table, trying to sense the problem. Finally he looked at the older man. “Why?”
The man laughed, his face crinkled in humor. Beneath which John sensed a shade of embarrassment. “Silly superstition. Go ahead I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch.”
Silly superstition or not, John did not touch anything else on the table. He scooted his chair back and signaled for the check, “I’m done.” He purposely turned his head to avoid seeing if Nicholae’s expression was as relieved as he suspected.
