by Alex Gates
“I’d come back if I could.” Ben lost his sense of humor somewhere outside of Millville. “Didn’t sign up for this insanity.”
I didn’t like the attitude. “You’re acting like you’re terrified.”
Ben stalked to his desk, but the irritation got the better of him. He turned around to face me.
“You’re goddamned right I’m terrified,” he said. “I saw what Poppy Drive did to Simms. Think I want to end up like him? Fifty years old—alone, fat, and popping Tylenol PM to sleep at night?”
“Please,” Riley snorted. “Narcotics comes to him when they need to borrow oxy for a bust.”
“Just my point. I won’t be the man who thinks stepping in front of a bus is the highlight of his Tuesday morning.”
“Yeah…” I gathered a few files and stood, ignoring everyone’s reminder to take my cane. “I get it. Working a couple long nights is a pretty big sacrifice. Better to let those little girls get raped and exploited on the internet. Wouldn’t want to miss NCIS.”
Ben didn’t back down. “Weird. This whole time, I thought you were fucked up because ten years ago some lunatic tried to eat your skin. But I was wrong. Apparently, you think it’s lonesome up on that cross.”
Too far. Even Riley and Falconi knew better.
“Don’t tell me you feel nothing for those kids,” I said.
“I’m pragmatic, not a monster. This isn’t the way to help them. Taking the case, jumping in after seven years of unsolved grief… it will just tear you down. Forget the girls. Just focus on Eddie. We’ll find him, and we’ll get the information to the officer in charge.”
Like it was that easy.
Like I could just…turn away from the ones in need.
“I don’t need your permission to volunteer for this case.”
Ben shrugged. “But I hope you’ll take my advice. I know what you’re doing, hotshot. It won’t work.”
Riley was no help. Falconi pretended to stir his coffee.
I took the bait. “What exactly am I doing?”
“This case won’t save your career.” Ben leaned in close. “Stories pass around these halls. There’s a reason why Chief Graziani resigned before the shitstorm that was the Grayson House case. I know the brass are pointing the finger at you for costing them a pretty cushy bribe.”
And he’d probably get us killed if he said it aloud.
Falconi swore. “Enough, Ben.”
“London’s pissed off the wrong people. And taking this case won’t impress them. It’ll destroy her.”
I wasn’t afraid of a challenge. I’d lived through worse than a little conspiracy and survived.
I was stronger than everyone believed.
Even the man who had captured me so long ago.
“I have to try,” I said.
“How?” Riley asked. “What do you think you can do that Simms with his team of FBI consultants hasn’t tried?”
A good question. “Eddie set that explosion on purpose. He was covering something up, something big. If he had Kaitlyn Gibson’s doll, I’m willing to bet he had a lot of other items belonging to the girls. For whatever reason—whether he kidnapped them or not—he had access to the kids. If we find Eddie, we break the case wide open.”
Falconi sighed. “You know what you’ll have to watch, right? The videos? The photos?”
“I won’t stop doing my job because it’s hard or unpleasant.”
“What about mind-numbingly horrifying?” Ben asked.
“That’s exactly the reason to take the case. It’s not about the crime or getting justice. It’s about saving the lives of three innocent girls.”
I quieted as Sergeant Bruce Adamski’s office door swung open. He crossed his arms over his gut and called to me.
“McKenna. In my office. Now.”
Better to ask forgiveness. I pushed away from my desk.
“With your cane,” Adamski said. “You’re making light duty a nightmare for me.”
I did as I was bidden, pitching the damn thing aside as soon as I sat opposite his desk. The door closed. Adamski knew better than to give me an opportunity to speak.
“No,” he said.
He wasn’t psychic, just smart. Living behind the desk for the past ten years flattened his ass, but it had kept his mind sharp. Unfortunately, it also kept his paygrade the same. Less money meant less patience, and getting passed over for a sure-fire promotion gave him ample opportunity to sharpen his temper.
A Slimfast can rattled on his desk. Empty. The two in the trash from this morning weren’t the best way to diet, but he had shed some pounds. At least if he was bound to remain sergeant for the foreseeable future, the chocolate shake was better than chugging whiskey after work like Simms.
“No?” I played dumb. He knew I wasn’t.
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
“I won’t—”
He’d recently exchanged a worthless belt for a pair of suspenders. Now he didn’t hike his pants when irritated. Instead, he tugged at the strap that bothered his bad shoulder.
“We’re not discussing this, London.”
“Why?”
“Do you want to get fired?” He tossed the empty Slimfast aside and revealed a full-sugared Pepsi in his top drawer. “Are you waiting for someone to kick your ass to the curb?”
“Is that an offer?”
“You want Poppy Drive.”
“So?”
His swollen fingers were too arthritic to open the Pepsi. I grabbed the bottle and twisted the top, knowing he’d dehydrate before asking for help.
“That’s the most political case we have,” he said. “Everyone—and I mean everyone—is watching it. FBI. The chief. The media. If you take this one, they’ll chew you up just to shit all over you.”
“I can handle it.”
“Can you handle a mental breakdown?”
“It’s been a good ten years since my last one. I’ll take my chances.”
“No, you won’t.”
I lost my temper before he did. “Everyone is treating this case like a death sentence. And they’re right. Three little girls are going to die if we can’t find their kidnapper. That’s the truth of it.”
Adamski wasn’t swayed. “I agree with you. But you are not right person for this mystery. You’ve already experienced enough misery. Why voluntarily break your heart? What about yourself?”
“What about me?”
“What’s James say?”
Did he want a note from my mother too? “Why would it matter what James had to say?”
“If you want the marriage to last—it matters.”
“He supports me.”
“With Poppy Drive?”
I skirted the question. “We both have dangerous and stressful jobs.”
“And I’m not convinced you’re well enough to lead any case, let alone one of this magnitude. Think of your health. Your leg. Your future marriage. Take this opportunity to keep the workload minimum while you plan the wedding. You have a chance to be happy for once.”
Couldn’t I have both—the case and the perfect life everyone seemed to envision for me?
“And what about the girls? Shouldn’t they have a chance to be happy? Don’t they deserve their freedom too?”
Adamski tapped his desk with a gnarled finger. A lot of good the diet did. Just made the rheumatoid bulge more. “You’re already too invested in the case. Stop drawing parallels between it and your own past.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“But you’re thinking it. You do it every time. But this isn’t a family marrying underage kids or a rehab facility forcing girls into prostitution. The man who took the children is the evilest son of a bitch you can imagine.”
“I’ve dealt with evil before.” And even now, my voice hollowed when speaking of it. “It doesn’t scare me.”
“Have you ever watched someone get raped, London?”
The question deflated me like a kick in the
chest. I didn’t answer.
“Have you ever watched a child get raped? Because you will. You’d have to watch the videos. Listen to them. Take notes on every terrible moment. The only evidence we have on Poppy Drive are the dozens upon dozens of pornographic videos he’s produced with the girls. And I don’t think you want to see that. I don’t think you should see that, London.”
It was enough to roil my stomach without even seeing the images, but I couldn’t let it stop me.
“Someone has to save them,” I said.
“And you want to be the one?”
“Yes.”
Adamski rubbed his face. He reached for the phone, preparing to call the lieutenant. His voice darkened. Not anger. Not disbelief.
Only pity.
“London, you have no idea how dangerous this is.”
His warning gnawed at my heart, but I couldn’t surrender now. “I’ll save those girls.”
“I wasn’t talking about the girls.” His voice lowered, already in mourning. “I’m thinking about you. This is the sort of evil that will haunt you forever. Take the case…and it will leave you destroyed.”
6
Everyone thought you were weak and scared.
I’m the one who proved it.
-Him
When hell arrived on earth, I never thought it’d center on one quaint, safe suburban street.
Three little girls—kidnapped.
Three broken families—torn apart.
Seven years—no answers.
It would all change now.
The only way to begin a new investigation into a mystery that stunned everyone—the senior department veterans, the specialists in the FBI, and the vultures in the media—was to start at the beginning.
I had to meet the families.
“This is a shit idea.” Ben refused to knock on the Wicker family’s front door. “Do you have any idea what you’re gonna tell them?”
“Me? Aren’t you gonna talk?”
“You got me into this.” He removed his sunglasses and straightened his sport coat, as formal as he’d ever get. “I’ll do the interviews, check the suspects, do the stakeouts. But don’t expect me to be your grief counselor when this goes tits up. Whatever happens with the girls, the families gotta deal with the fallout. Not us. Got it?”
“How sympathetic.”
“It’s not your job to be sympathetic. We’re here to find the bastard who took these kids. That’s it.” He motioned to the door. “This is your gig.”
Fine by me.
I used the doorbell, letting the polite little chime announce either the beginning or the end for the families inside.
The Wickers—David and Amy—had only one child. Alyssa. The pretty little blonde was Pittsburgh’s seven-year mystery. Alyssa had been nine when she was taken from the steps of her home after a normal day at school. That was strange enough. The twenty-home cul-de-sac in Wexford was a suburban dream. Five thousand square foot homes for large families and larger incomes. The HOA kept the grass trimmed, the neighbors held barbeques, and the school bus once unloaded half of the kids at the stop near the Wicker’s house—not because the children all lived on Poppy Drive, but because, before the kidnappings, that street had been the most fun.
Now, no kids ventured outside without parents. No sleds rested in the yards. No one had decorated snowmen. Cars sped quickly through the neighborhood with their doors locked, hardly noticing the pink ribbons tied to the stop signs.
Life had changed on Poppy Drive. Even so near Christmas, the white strings of LEDs couldn’t pierce the heavy shadow that oppressed the homes. The sunlight, so brilliant over the snowy city, dulled under the solitude of the bare trees. Silence reigned in the neighborhood.
I ignored the spread of goose bumps over my arms. A woman’s clicking heels rapped from the entryway, and the marble door unlocked.
Three locks.
Amy Wicker greeted us with a quiet nod. No smiles. No forced pleasantries. It was a wonder the woman even had the strength to move.
Thin and frail, she’d put her hair in a ponytail seven years ago and never removed it. The ends dragged low over her collar—once a lively blonde that matched her daughter’s curls. Sorrow hurt in many ways, and hers manifested in premature gray. Hair. Skin. Fading lips.
A thick sweat shirt hung over her frame—two sizes too big. The shoulder draped, exposing the sports bra underneath. She wore jeans. It seemed a monumental achievement.
“Please.” The word fell from her lips, a plea that had lost all meaning years ago. “Won’t you come in? The others are waiting.”
The others.
It was a common word to describe such horrific, mournful company.
Misery decked the halls with a resolute solemnity. The brightness of an extravagant entryway with twenty-foot ceilings was marred by the dozens and dozens of Christmas cards lining the shelves from the door to the kitchen. I doubted many had wished the family a happy holiday. Even in the most festive time of the year, every well-wish and tiding prayed for a girl unlikely to return.
The house lacked warmth and excitement.
It lacked a child.
And the worst part was that I knew the same sadness filled two other homes just down the street.
Amy led us to the den. The room hummed with more energy if only for the presence of three boys strumming on their iPhones in the corner of the room. The oldest couldn’t have been more than thirteen, the youngest seven or eight. The files identified them as the Carter children, brothers to Sophia, the most recent victim.
Apparently, on Poppy Drive, only boys were safe.
Amy took a seat on the L-shaped leather couch, a large piece of furniture that somehow cramped three families together. Everyone except her husband, David. He chose to pace near the oversized window, peeking onto the street. His bulk blocked the light—two hundred and fifty pounds of intimidating scowl and frustrated sighs.
He glanced at me. Snorted. And turned away.
It wasn’t the first time someone underestimated me, and I hoped I’d prove him wrong.
The families waited for me to speak. Even the boys looked up from their phones. I hesitated.
What was there to say to the families of missing persons?
They usually had the same questions. What had happened? Were they alive? What could they be going through? I’d never appreciated what a blessing the unknown was until now.
The families from Poppy Drive knew the answers to those question, and it was as terrifying as it was heartbreaking.
It was my job to find the girls. Apparently, that started with me handing out business cards.
“Hi, everyone. I’m Detective London McKenna.” A long pause. No one returned the sentiment. I gestured to Ben. “And this is my partner, Detective Bennett Chase.”
Still felt strange to say, but at least their gazes passed to him for a brief moment. I took the opportunity for a deep breath and handed a card to Amy.
“I wanted to introduce myself and give you all my contact information.”
Amy wasn’t listening. Her eyes focused only on the flickering fireplace against the far wall—if she saw it at all. She didn’t speak. Didn’t look up. The woman who sat on the couch was a shell of her former self. The determined, hardened woman who had organized search parties and awareness fundraisers in her daughter’s name was gone. Hell, the older officers remembered her sleeping in the station lobby, waiting for answers.
Now?
She couldn’t muster the strength to read the card.
“So…o—open communication is going to be invaluable to me…” I shifted to the window, offering David my card instead. “Call me at any time—morning, noon, or night. No matter the thought or concern. If you think of anything that could help the case, I need to know.”
David’s jaw twitched. He took the card, scanned the words, and, without breaking eye contact, ripped it to shreds.
This wasn’t going well.
David steel gaze sharpened as it
scraped from me to Ben. He rubbed a hand over his trimmed beard. It did a good job of hiding his rounded cheeks, the only part of him that seemed soft after seven years of heartache. The red plaid of his shirt was winter-thick. A hunter’s heavy-duty brand. He was a man who fit in the outdoors, strong and quiet, but his file said he was an attorney. I thought he’d have more patience for law enforcement.
Wrong.
“I have one question for you…” David didn’t need to speak loudly for everyone to listen. His words broke through a harsh breath. “Do you have any idea where our children are?”
They knew the answer. I still hesitated.
“No…not at this time.”
David’s lips thinned. The anger returned, but did it direct it at me, the kidnapper…
Or himself?
“Then what good are you?” He slunk away. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”
“You have a plan right?” A petite brunette woman brimming with freckles bit her nails to the quick. Heather Gibson. Kaitlyn’s mother. “That’s why there’s been a change. Something happened? Maybe you heard something? Saw something new? I mean…you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think that maybe, there was some sort of…sign or—”
The man at her side grumbled—a harsh, commanding sound clucked between teeth. “Shut up, Heather.”
She stiffened like he had struck her. A practiced dodge.
With an anxious glance over the living room, she murmured a quick, all-too-familiar apology. Her sleeves were long, her eyes downcast, and every motion she made in accordance with her husband’s approval.
Great. Add in a couple bruises and a six-pack, and I’d know everything I needed to learn about the Gibsons. The holiday season celebrated the meek and mild. I did not.
“I’m only saying…” Heather adjusted her husband’s coffee mug, ensuring it was centered just right on the coaster. She didn’t look him in the eye. “It’s been four years…”
“Why don’t we just listen to the cop?” Tim brushed her away from his mug, but he didn’t seem the type to drink anything that might have sobered him up. “Not like you’ve said anything useful in four goddamned years.”
