An idea sprang to mind. It wasn’t a good one, but at the moment, it was all he had. He fired a quick text to Henry, then, filled with grim resolution, Seth twisted the door handle. It was locked.
He pounded on the door with the side of his fist. No one answered. He pounded again. The door jerked open.
Vincent Carter’s shirt hung open. His hairy belly hung over the line of his belt. His face flushed with anger.
“What is it,” he growled.
“How old is that boy?”
“What boy?”
“Don’t play stupid. We both know what’s going on in there.” Seth was way out on a limb. Already committed, he played the part of a cop and hoped the sick fuck would fall in line.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“The guy your wife hired to find out where the fuck you were going, so unless you want me to send her pictures of exactly what you’re doing and with whom, you’ll get the hell out of here, and never lay another hand on that kid again.”
The mention of his wife took the bluster out of the man, like he’d stabbed a pencil in a balloon. Carter deflated before his eyes.
“My wife? What are you talking about?”
“Amy. You remember her? Pretty. Dark hair. Loves yoga, and for some reason I can’t fathom, you.”
Over Carter’s shoulder, Seth spied Rico. The boy was covered in a sheet, naked from the waist up. Surprise and recognition flashed in his dark eyes.
“You’re bluffing,” Carter said.
“Am I?” Seth shrugged and snapped Carter’s photo. Then he turned and snapped a picture of Rico. “I guess I could send these to Amy and see what she thinks.”
Seth angled for a close-up of Carter’s face, contorted with rage. Carter raised his hand to block the shot. Seth held up his phone so Carter could read the number on the display. He blanched.
“How do I know you won’t tell her anyway?”
“You don’t. I could call the cops instead with an anonymous tip. I heard gunshots. Screaming. Given the neighborhood, I’m sure they’ll be by soon to check it out.”
“Fuck you,” Carter growled. He shot Seth a venomous glare and turned back toward the boy on the bed. “Get out.”
Rico stared uncomprehendingly at the man like he was speaking in tongues.
“I said get out. Get the fuck out.”
The man hastily buttoned his shirt, gabbed his coat and pushed his way past Seth out the door. Seth averted his gaze while Rico dressed.
Vincent Carter beat a hasty retreat from the motel room. Seth watched him go. He should feel better about all of this—he’d accomplished his goal by breaking up the rendezvous, but it was a hollow victory, he knew. While Carter may not contact Rico again, there would be other men. Predators. Like Vincent Carter.
“What are you doing here?” Rico asked. Seth couldn’t tell whether the kid was angry or relieved.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
Seth took a seat in the chair near the window while Rico perched on the side of the bed. The room looked as bad as it smelled, like stale cigarettes and musty carpet. With the original 1970s design and furniture intact, he didn’t want to think about the horrors sweeping a black light across the bed might uncover.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Seth said with a heavy heart.
“Neither should you.”
Rico dropped his gaze. His mouth slack, he looked like a beaten kid.
“Why?” Seth asked, more softly.
Rico ran his hands over his face, pausing at his split lip.
The kid hung his head, looking for all the world like he wanted to disappear. “My uncle.”
“Your uncle? You mean the one who sponsored your visa application?”
Rico flinched at the mention of his immigration status. Fear surfaced in the kid’s eyes, and Seth waved a dismissive hand.
“I don’t care how you got in the country or why you stayed. What I do care about are the marks on your face and why you posted the Craigslist ad that brought you here tonight. Is that why you had the key to Becky’s place? So you could hide from your uncle?”
Rico wiped the blood from his lip. Grabbing his jacket, he lurched off the bed and started for the door. Seth stopped him with a hand to the chest.
“I’m trying to help you. This isn’t the life you want, is it?”
“No.” The word was almost inaudible in the silence. Seth dropped his hand.
Rico slumped into a chair. His hands covered his face, and it was a long time before he spoke.
“My uncle brought me here. He says we all need to contribute to the family business if we want to stay.”
“The family business?”
Rico gestured toward the bed.
“He has business contacts.”
Seth rubbed his eyes, a deep weariness seeping into his bones. How anyone could farm out another human being, especially family, was unfathomable. And without a badge, he was powerless to stop it from happening to Rico or anyone else.
“Are there other members of the family he has . . . helped?” Seth asked, grasping for the right word. Despite his revulsion, he soft pedaled it, not wanting to scare Rico away.
Rico nodded.
“Other boys?”
Rico hesitated, an inner struggle playing out across his face between family loyalty and his plummeting self-worth. “And girls.”
“Why Craigslist?”
Rico dropped his gaze to the stained teal carpet. He stared sullenly at a cigarette burn between his feet. Seth waited.
“My uncle says I’m getting too old. I need to bring money in so he doesn’t send me back. My cousins can have babies.”
“Babies.”
“They’re put up for adoption,” Rico said.
“Sold?”
Rico shrugged. During his time on the force, Seth had seen a lot of awful things. People were capable of doing truly horrible acts to one another, but Christ.
“You don’t have to live like this,” he said.
The haggard expression on Rico’s face, far too old for a boy of his years, cut him to the quick.
Rico nodded.
“Come on. Let’s get you out of here. Are you hungry?”
Chapter 17
Marissa knocked softly on Evan’s open door. He looked up and gestured her inside. From the look on his face, she could tell that this was no friendly chat. She took a seat in the leather chair across from his desk. Sparsely furnished in a minimalist design, Evan’s office lacked the warmth and tradition of his aunt’s.
“What’s this?” Evan asked. He slid a bank statement across the glass surface of his desk. A single line item was circled—a check for $1,500. Marissa’s stomach tightened. She knew exactly what it was.
“Becky’s mother, Vicky Kincaid, had to close her home daycare after her daughter went missing. I thought we could help.”
“By cutting her a check?”
“She needed it, Evan. Isn’t it our mission to give to those in need?”
Evan ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, his lips compressed in a tight line.
“To help, yes. But not like this. You know we have cash flow problems. Do you think I wanted to let Jessica go?”
Marissa’s cheeks flushed as she processed the rebuke. She didn’t respond.
“You need to run these things by me.”
Staring back at Evan, she knew that Elizabeth would have handled the situation differently. It wasn’t like they had guidelines or policies to follow. They were making it up as they went along, and Marissa had done what she thought was right. Evan disagreed, but arguing was pointless.
“Okay,” she said.
“Do you have the research we talked about?”
“You mean the report on how to setup a monthly donation model?”
Evan nodded. “I’m supposed to meet with the financial people tomorrow. I need the information tonight so I can prep.”
Marissa blanched. “But the meeting was scheduled for next week.”
>
“I moved it up.”
She wasn’t a mind reader. She couldn’t partner with him if he didn’t keep her in the loop.
Evan didn’t like it when Henry challenged him. He wasn’t likely to tolerate it from her either. Marissa pushed her burgeoning frustration aside and did her best to maintain a professional façade.
“It’s complicated stuff. I’ll need a few more days to work on it.”
“A few more days? We need to get a new donation model in place now.”
“I don’t have a deep background in financial matters. I’m sorry, but it’s going to take me a while to get up to speed.”
He swung his arms wide and glared at her.
“You’re sorry? Assisting me in running the foundation is your job, not helping your boyfriend track down Rebecca Kincaid. We have two investigators on the payroll, and you’re not one of them.”
“Except when you need me to go talk to a family in crisis.”
The words slipped out before she could stop them. Evan pressed his long fingers to his temples like he had one mother of a headache.
“Just so there’s no further misunderstanding between us,” he said, anger simmering beneath the surface of his words, “I would like you to reschedule the meeting with the financial people from tomorrow to early next week. I want to see a draft of the report as soon as you have one.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“If your relationship with Seth is interfering with your work, then perhaps it is not wise for the two of you to work together.”
“Excuse me?” Marissa said, mortified that the conversation had taken a personal turn.
“It’s a small office. Everyone knows that you and Seth are fighting. I can’t stop interoffice dating, but I do expect the two of you to conduct yourselves in a professional manner. Don’t make it my business.”
The struggle to reign in his temper rippled across Evan’s face.
“Is that all?” Marissa asked.
He gave a terse nod, and she rose from her chair and marched to the door. It took everything she had not to slam it behind her.
If she didn’t need this job, she would tell him exactly where he could shove it. But her whole family’s wellbeing depended on her. As much as she didn’t like it, she was going to have to suck it up.
Grabbing her coat, Marissa left the office.
This time of day, there was hardly anyone at the Chapel—a former mortuary turned bar, located in Seattle’s Capitol Hill neighborhood. House music boomed from the speakers. Afternoon light filtered through the arched windows. Marissa took a seat at the U-shaped bar and waited. Jesse Morgan emerged from the back. He stopped midstride when he saw her.
“I wouldn’t have pegged this for your kind of place,” he said, sliding behind the bar.
“Not much of a lunch crowd,” Marissa said.
She picked up a menu and ordered some nachos and a glass of chardonnay. She’d been craving salt and cheese all day, and after the meeting with Evan, she needed a drink.
“How’s Brooke?” Jesse asked, getting right to the point.
She couldn’t have been more wrong about Jesse. Brooke had fallen for him when she was sixteen. Back then, the two year age difference scared Marissa. She knew what Seth would say—that she was worried about Brooke making the same mistakes she had. Pregnant at sixteen. A high school dropout. She couldn’t deny the truth of it.
But that was years ago, and all doubts she’d once had about Jesse’s character were long gone. A tip he’d passed along to Seth was instrumental in identifying the man who had abducted Brooke. If not for Jesse, her daughter might never have come home. She owed him.
“Truthfully, Brooke’s struggling. She’s anxious. Depressed. I can barely get her out of the house, not even for therapy appointments.”
Jesse poured some wine into a glass and handed it to Marissa. “I’m sorry to hear that. I gave up trying to call.”
“I know. She’s been avoiding her friends.”
His long bangs obscured his blue eyes. He folded his tattooed arms across his chest. A buzzer rang, and he left the bar, returning with a heaping plate of nachos. He set the plate down on the bar, but Marissa’s appetite had fled. She picked at the chips.
“So you’re obviously not here for the food . . .”
Marissa took a sip of wine. Forced a smile.
“I was hoping you could stop by, try to get her out of the house.”
“Ms. Rooney—”
“Marissa,” she corrected him.
“Marissa, I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to help Brooke. I mean, what about her close friends?”
“Tess is dead.”
Jesse grimaced—the bald truth of the statement hit home.
“There has to be someone she trusts.”
“She trusts you.”
Jesse jammed his hands into his pockets and stared down at the tips of his worn Converse sneakers.
“I’ll go see her.”
“Thank you.”
“I can’t promise anything. She’s ducked all my calls. She probably doesn’t even want to see me, but I’ll try. I work the lunch shift tomorrow. I’ll stop by afterward, if that’s all right with you.”
For the first time since she’d seen Brooke cowering on the rooftop in the rain, hope fluttered in Marissa’s chest.
“That would be great.”
Chapter 18
Xander slapped the petri dish and launched it like a rocket into space. It exploded against the wall in a flurry of glass shards and blood. He glared into the microscope. As if the results might change.
He knew better. He knew the experiment had failed. He’d spent countless hours as an undergrad working in a lab waiting for magic to happen—the right combination of ingredients and environment, the right alignment of every single factor until you finally achieved the result you were working for. It could take days, months, or even years to fine-tune an experiment.
He didn’t have years.
Xander raked his trembling fingers through his dark curls. He stared at his clenched fists like they belonged to an alien. During his residency, he’d earned the nickname Iceman because his hands were rock-steady. Now . . .
He drilled his fist into the table, hard enough to jar the microscope. Xander caught it just before it toppled to the floor. The lights flickered as the generator kicked in. It chugged and heaved like the diesel engine of the broken-down tractor.
The tractor.
He remembered the day the engine on his father’s tractor had blown. It wasn’t his fault. The rickety thing was on its last legs. Steaming hot in mid-August, he’d driven the tractor in lazy circles, cutting the hay for bailing. It was mind-numbing work. The only thing that kept him sane was working through complex mathematical problems in his head while he stared out at the golden fields. The sun beat down on his freckled shoulders, and flies buzzed around his ears until he swatted them away.
He hadn’t noticed the smell until it was too late. Smoke billowed from the engine as it overheated. He jammed the tractor in park, killed the engine. Flames shot out while Xander stood with his hands on his hips and looked helplessly on.
“What the hell you doin’ just standing there, boy,” his grandfather bellowed and cuffed him upside the head.
“What do you want me to do? Throw myself on the fire?”
“All that book learning ain’t made you very smart.”
Xander left the old man to deal with the fire. He wasn’t a farmer or a mechanic. He never would be. His grandfather never understood how Xander failed to connect with the black earth beneath his feet. He was an alien beamed down to the most improbable place on the planet, into the wrong family.
He wondered if his mother had felt the same way. He remembered her standing in the living room of their house when he was four. Early-morning sun streamed through the dirty windows, illuminating the dust motes suspended in the air like golden filaments of light. A battered brown suitcase sat at her feet. Even then, a
s young as he was, he knew what the suitcase meant.
He threw himself at her knees, wrapped his arms around her skinny legs, and begged her not to go. A storm of tears flowed down his cheeks. Gently, she pried him off her. He wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of his Batman pajamas.
“Don’t leave,” he’d cried.
A car horn blared. She turned her hungry gaze toward the window then back to Xander. A blast from her cold blue eyes froze him to the spot, and she said, “I wanted to have an abortion but your father . . .” She grimaced. “He wanted you.”
Xander’s knees gave way and he fell to the hard floor. While he didn’t understand what the word abortion meant, the meaning was clear. She didn’t want him. She’d never wanted him.
She shook her head, a trace of pity on her lips. And then she left. Xander watched her climb into her lover’s car and race away, as far and as fast as four wheels could take her. He’d never heard from her again. Never been tempted to reach out. She told him everything he needed to know. He was on his own.
Xander stared off into space. Cool air blasted from the vent overhead, and he surfaced into the present. He settled the microscope back in place at the center of his workstation. He had to pull it together. Start over. But that was harder than it sounded. First he needed to figure out exactly what had gone wrong. If he didn’t isolate the source of the experiment’s failure, he’d run the risk of achieving the same results. Wasn’t that the very definition of insanity?
Xander didn’t have time to fail. As much as he wanted to deny it, the tremors were growing worse.
He needed a cure. Now. No. Yesterday.
“Xander?”
He jumped at the sound of her voice. Shrill in pitch, she sounded like a carrion bird. Tory wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the exploded star of blood on the wall, fading from red to a muddy brown.
Just seeing that look on her face set him off. He grabbed the edge of the bench to keep himself from strangling her. She skirted the shards of glass and approached him slowly. Cautiously. Like she was approaching a rabid dog.
“Bad day?”
He laughed. It sounded manic. Tory’s eyes widened, and Xander smiled.
Dark Harvest (A Holt Foundation Story Book 2) Page 11
