“But if we remove the kid she’ll notice he or she is gone, throw a fit, and alert the house that we’re out here. They’ll figure out that they’re being watched.”
“Exactly.”
She could tell from his grimace that Dirk’s brain was spinning as fast as hers, trying to form a plan.
Reaching a conclusion at the exact same moment, they said in unison, “Call Jake.”
Dirk reached for his phone, punched in a number, and waited for his fellow detective, Jake McMurtry, to answer.
Since she was only a few feet away and Dirk always had the volume up on his phone, Savannah could hear Jake’s drowsy tone when he said, “Yeah, Coulter. What’s happenin’?”
Her husband wasn’t the only one who nodded off on stakeouts. It was an occupational hazard. One that could cost a cop their job . . . or worse.
“You still sittin’ on that house in the projects?” Dirk asked him.
“Yeah. Nothing’s going on here. I think I’ll pack it in.”
“I’m at the house on Lester with Savannah. Turns out we may have to bust them now. Get over here as quick as you can.”
“Call for backup.”
“I will. Move!”
As soon as Dirk had placed the second call for reinforcements, Savannah said, “We have to get that young’un out of that van now. I’ll bring the kid back here to the car and babysit till y’all are done doing what you gotta do.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Both bailed out of the Buick and hurried up the sidewalk to the van, trying to stay behind the vehicles as much as possible in case someone in the house was looking out the window at that moment.
“Where did you see ’em?” Dirk asked. “Front or back?”
“Looking out the rear window. I’ll try the back door, and you open the driver’s side. I didn’t see the mother lock it.”
“Watch yourself,” he said. “There might be someone else, another adult, in the back with the kid.”
“I already thought of that. But thank you.”
“Maybe I should take the rear.”
As she had many times, Savannah reminded herself that Dirk hadn’t done the protective male thing years ago, when they had been partners on the force. Back in “the day” he had treated her as an equal.
He still did. For the most part. But she had been shot and nearly died in his arms.
Near tragedies like that changed everything.
It had certainly changed him . . . her . . . them.
Eventually, skin, muscle, and bone healed. But the scars left by fear on the human psyche—those were forever.
“I got it, darlin’,” she told him, her southern drawl soft but confident. “If there’s a problem, you’ll come scrambling between those bucket seats, into the back, and save me.”
“Well, okay. But don’t open the door till I give the word.”
“All right. But not your usual one. It needs to be G rated for the kiddo.”
He chuckled, a bit nervously. “Yeah. Gotcha.”
They ducked as they scurried to the back of the van, keeping wary eyes on both the vehicle and the house.
Once Savannah was crouched at the rear door with her head beneath the window, her fingers around the handle, Dirk rushed to the driver’s side.
A few seconds later, she heard his authoritative but, thankfully, suitable for all ages command, “Go!”
She twisted the handle, yanked hard, and the door came open with some difficulty and a loud, creaking sound, like an ancient, partially buried, dirt-encrusted casket opening in an old horror movie.
Peering inside the dark, cluttered interior, she saw nothing at first. But her eyes quickly adjusted, and she could see a small, frightened child with heartbreaking, large, frightened eyes staring at her.
“It’s okay, sugar,” she said, holding up both of her hands in a surrender pose. “Everything’s all right.”
The little head whipped around to watch Dirk as he climbed into the driver’s seat and turned to face them.
“She’s right. You’re okay. We’re just here to help you,” Dirk said, using his “soft, sweet” voice. It was the one he usually reserved for his three favorite creatures on earth—Cleo, the gentler of their two cats at home, Vanna Rose, their red-haired, toddler niece, and of course, Savannah . . . when they weren’t quarreling.
As Savannah climbed into the rear of the van, she could see the child better and realized it was a boy, about six years old.
Even in the dim light she could tell that he was underfed and barely clothed in only a pair of dirty shorts and flip-flops. He was in dire need of a good bath, a shampoo, and a haircut.
“My name is Savannah,” she told him, holding out her hand to him. “What’s yours?”
The boy hesitated and glanced down at her outstretched hand. Then without accepting the handshake, he looked her square in the eyes and said in a strong, confrontational tone and a southern accent even stronger than her own, “I’m Mr. Brody Greyson. But I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, especially ones that’s just broke into my momma’s van.”
Something about the boy’s squared, bony shoulders touched Savannah’s heart, not to mention his Southern twang. His thin arms were crossed over his chest and his chin lifted defiantly. But she could see he was trembling.
She glanced out the side window of the van toward the house. The path was clear. No sign of Mom. At least, not yet.
“That’s good advice your momma gave you about not talking to strangers, but in this case—”
“It weren’t my momma that said it. My teacher tells us that.”
“Then good for your teacher,” she told him, “but in this case, it’s okay, because that fella there is my husband, Detective Sergeant Coulter, and he’s a policeman.”
Dirk pulled his badge from his pocket and held it up for the child’s inspection.
But instead of being impressed and comforted, Brody Greyson whirled on Dirk with a vengeance and shouted, “A cop? You’re a stinkin’ cop? Then you’d better get your smelly butt outta here right now, before my mom comes back! If she catches you in her van, she’ll whup you up one side and down the other! She’s mean as mean can be, and she hates cops! She says you’re nothin’ but a rotten, stinkin’, lousy bunch of—”
“Now, now, Mr. Brody Greyson,” Savannah said. “If you make a habit of speaking to police officers in that disrespectful manner, your life’s bound to get complicated real fast. You could find yourself in a whirlwind of trouble, even at your age!”
“I don’t give a hoot! You clear outta here, before I knock you into next week myself! My momma left me in charge of her van, and if she finds out I let you in here, she’ll thrash me with her belt. I’d a heap rather you get a whuppin’ from me than I get one from her!”
“How about if nobody gets any whuppin’ at all?” Savannah said, placing her hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. “There’s no call for anybody to get hurt. We’re just going to talk and sort out some problems, all nice and peaceful. Would you like that? Would that be okay with you?”
She glanced over at Dirk and saw the sadness she was feeling in his eyes.
Something told her that a woman who had raised her son to be this aggressive and opposed to peace officers wasn’t likely to be taken into custody gracefully.
“If you try to talk to my momma ’bout anything, it ain’t gonna be nice or peaceful, I guarantee you,” the child stated with deep conviction, echoing Savannah’s thoughts. “She ain’t known for ‘peaceful,’ and she’s not all that nice either, even to people she likes, and she hates cops more than anything in the world. ’Cept maybe preachers.”
“But if Detective Coulter treats her with respect—”
“Won’t make a bit of difference. She says she’d be happy to skin every cop in the world alive and roast ’em all for dinner.”
Savannah winced, then faked a laugh. “There’s a lot of police officers in the world. If she tried to roast them all, she’d find herself busier
than a one-eyed cat watching nine mouse holes.”
“She’s got a lot of energy, my momma,” Brody said, nodding solemnly. “She’d get ’er done.”
Savannah looked at Dirk and noticed he was watching the front door of the drug house intently. She wasn’t surprised. The woman had been inside for several minutes now. Certainly long enough to do a quick drug deal. Most likely, she’d be coming out at any moment.
Behind Dirk, through the windshield, Savannah saw two police cruisers coming down the street toward them, their lights off. They pulled to the curb and parked, half a block away.
“Backup’s ten-twenty-three,” she told him.
“What’ve we got?”
“Two units.”
His cell phone dinged. He glanced at the text message. “Jake too,” he told her.
He didn’t have to tell her that the time for conversation with young, but old for his age, Mr. Brody Greyson was coming to an end.
“Listen, son,” Dirk told him, “I’m going to have to ask you to go with this lady and do everything she tells you to do. We’ve got some important business to tend to here at this house, and it would be best for everybody if you go with her until it’s all over with.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere!” the boy said, shoving Savannah’s hand off his shoulder and scrambling to the other side of the van, away from her and Dirk. “I know what you’re fixin’ to do. You’re gonna bust my momma and her friends and lock ’em up.”
Savannah’s brain tried to process what she was hearing. How could a child possess such street smarts at this “tender” age? She decided to be honest with him. There was no point in trying to sweeten this bitter cup of coffee.
“How this goes down,” she began, “pretty much depends on your mother, what she’s done, and what she decides to do in the future. If she cooperates with—”
“She doesn’t cooperate with nobody,” he said. “Ever. ’Bout nothin’.”
For a moment, Savannah could see the sadness, the vulnerability in the boy’s eyes. Briefly, she saw the fragile child behind the hard exterior.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she told him.
“It’s gonna be bad,” he whispered.
“Then come with me. I’ll take you to a safe, quiet place. At least, then it won’t have to be bad for you. Something tells me you’ve had enough of the bad stuff already. Right?”
She saw the nod, faint as it was. Quickly, she moved toward the boy, took his hand, and coaxed him toward the rear of the van.
She jumped out herself, then lifted him down and closed the door.
“I could’ve done that myself,” he said. “I get out all the time without any help. Been doin’ that since I was a baby.”
She looked back at Dirk, who had also exited the vehicle and closed the driver’s door. He gave her a slight, sad smile and a thumbs-up. Then he glanced over at the house. The door had opened, and Brody’s mother was coming out.
“Come along, young sir,” Savannah said, grasping Brody’s hand tightly and rushing him down the sidewalk toward the Buick.
“I think I should stay here and help my mom,” he said, his voice quivering as he resisted and tried to pull his hand free.
“You can’t, darlin’,” Savannah told him, her own tone shaky as her throat tightened. “Adults have to take care of themselves, make their own decisions, sink or swim.”
“She’s bound to sink. I know her. She always sinks . . . ’specially when it comes to cops.”
He tried to stop, to pull his wrist from her tight hand, but she held him fast and rushed him along.
“If she does, then it’s on her, sugar,” she told him. “Not you.”
They had arrived at the Buick. When she reached for the rear door handle, he tried even harder to wriggle away. “This ain’t no cop car!” he yelled. “Are you sure he’s a cop? Are y’all just tryin’ to kidnap me?”
She glanced behind her and saw that Dirk was standing on the sidewalk next to the van, talking to the boy’s mother. All seemed to be going okay.
Two houses away and out of sight of the surveilled house, Jake and four uniforms watched from behind a neighbor’s thick shrubs, waiting to see if they might be needed.
Everyone would try to remain low-key for as long as possible, rather than alert the house there was a problem outside.
Okay, so far, so good, Savannah thought. There was no need to grab the kid up and toss him into the car, further exacerbating his fears, if she could just talk him into going peacefully.
Sinking to one knee, to be at his eye level, she said, “No, Brody. We’re not going to kidnap you or hurt you in any way. Detective Coulter is a real cop, a good cop. I swear. I used to be a police officer, too. All we want is for you to be safe. If we’re lucky, maybe we can get your momma some help, too. Then you could be both safe and happy. Now, wouldn’t that be a fine thing?”
Outside the dark van, Brody’s small face was clearly visible, and Savannah could see with heartbreaking clarity the child was a mess.
His hair was long and badly matted, and his gaunt cheeks were smudged with far more grime than a child would normally accumulate during a single afternoon of roughhouse play.
Savannah didn’t want to think about how long it would take to get a pair of shorts that filthy.
Even through the dirt, she could see copious bruises in various stages of healing on his legs and arms, not to mention a dismaying array of untended cuts, scrapes, and scratches.
But it was his eyes that held her and her heart captive.
Throughout her career with the San Carmelita Police Department, she had seen a lot of sad, neglected, abused children, but she never got over the pain of it. She was sure she never would.
Years ago, she had been a sad, neglected, abused child. Back in the tiny rural town of McGill, Georgia, another policeman—brave and strong, with a heart that hurt when he saw sad children—had rescued her and her siblings from a situation much like this child’s.
She knew exactly how Brody Greyson felt. She could see the same pain in his big eyes . . . eyes filled with innocence, hope, and grim, worldly knowledge far beyond what any child should have to carry.
“Hop inside the car, Brody,” she said softly. “Take a chance. Brave guys like you get rewards for their courage.”
“What kinda rewards?” he wanted to know.
“They get better lives.”
For a couple of seconds, he smiled at her, and Savannah was struck by the otherworldly beauty of the boy’s face. Beneath the pain, the dirt, the poverty, the anger, and the fear, he had a cherubic quality that belied the harsh statements he had spoken and the quarrelsome attitude he had displayed earlier.
In that moment, Savannah believed—based on Granny Reid’s religious instruction—that she was seeing what Brody Greyson’s Creator had lovingly designed . . . before the child had been reshaped by his troubled environment.
“Come with me, sugar,” she said. “You’ll be so glad you did.”
“Okay,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”
“Atta boy.” Savannah pulled the door open and motioned for him to get inside.
“Just hop in there and get buckled up, so we can—”
At that moment, they heard a scream, like that of a screech owl with its tailfeathers caught in a fox’s mouth. The sound was so loud it literally caused Savannah’s ears to ache. But it had a far more devastating effect on Brody.
“Momma!” he screamed as he broke away from Savannah and raced toward the van. His mother and Dirk had somehow gone from what appeared to have been a civil conversation to an all-out, no-holds-barred, wrestling match on the sidewalk next to the vehicle.
Savannah ran after Brody, but he was a spry little fellow and managed to arrive at the scene of the vigorous action before she, Jake, or the uniforms could intercept him.
Dirk had gotten the upper hand and was kneeling astride the wayward mom, who was displaying an impressive amount of strength for so tiny a woman as she flailed
and kicked, screamed and cursed with an impressive vocabulary—even if it was mostly four-letter words.
On the sidewalk was a ragged backpack, its flap open and contents strewn across the concrete—sandwich bags filled with pills of every color, packets of white powder and crystals.
Even with Savannah’s prior experience, which included a stint in Narcotics, she was impressed by the magnitude of the haul. It was obviously far too much for a personal stash. Momma Greyson had to be dealing, as well as using, and during her brief visit inside the house she had scored, big time!
For all the good it was going to do her.
At that moment, it appeared Dirk might be able to accomplish the task of flipping her over and onto her stomach, maybe even cuffing her. But the situation took a dark turn when the enraged boy jumped onto his back, wrapped his skinny left arm tight around Dirk’s neck, and began to pummel his face with his right fist.
Though shocked and horrified, Savannah couldn’t help being impressed with the kid’s ferocious fighting skills. Apparently, Mr. Brody Greyson wasn’t a lad to be trifled with, and it appeared “trifling” included attempting to arrest his mother.
“Let go of my momma!” he yelled at Dirk. “Get off her, you lousy, pig-nose, skunk butt!”
“Tear his face clean off, Brody!” Momma screeched. “Tear it off and shove it so far up his—”
“That’s enough!” Savannah shouted as she grabbed the boy by his shoulders and, with considerable effort, peeled him off Dirk’s back. She lifted him off his feet and pulled him close, his back against her chest in a tight bear hug. With his arms pinned to his sides, all he could do was struggle—and, unfortunately, administer some well-aimed kicks to her legs.
“Stop, Brody,” she whispered in his ear. “Just stop. Take a deep breath and calm yourself, darlin’. Make the good choice. Swim. Don’t sink.”
After what seemed like forever to her and her shins, he ceased to struggle. She lowered him, so he could stand on his own feet, then turned him to face her, so that he wouldn’t see what was happening behind him with his mother.
Jake and the uniformed cops had joined Dirk in the effort to place the woman under arrest. Even with enforcements, the scrimmage had become a battle that law enforcement appeared, at least for the moment, to be losing.
And the Killer Is . . . Page 2
