Sheltering Dunes (13 page)

“We got a lead off the cousin’s cell log,” Carmen said.

“Tell me you know where she is.” Hector squeezed the girl’s hand around his cock and dragged her fist up and down, showing her how he liked it.

“Not yet, but we got a good idea of where she was headed.”

“Where?” Hector pushed up in bed, slapped the girl’s hand off his softening cock, and shoved his junk into his jeans. Some girls you just couldn’t teach. They acted like they’d never seen a stiff cock before. He made a mental note to hand this bitch off to one of his lieutenants. She was a lousy fuck.

“Somewhere in Massachusetts.”

“What the fuck is she doing there? You sure?”

“She called her cousin a few times right after she took off. First time was New York City—maybe she took a bus or something. Then a couple more times, once in Connecticut and another time in Massachusetts. The last time pretty close to Cape Cod.”

“What the fuck is out there?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been anywhere except to Jersey City on a run.”

“You got a town name or something?”

“Not yet—our guy at the phone company can tell general area, you know like area codes or some shit like that—but with cell phones, not cities necessarily.”

“How does that help us?”

Carmen grunted. “We know where to look, we reached out to a few friends up there. She can’t hide forever. She’s got no money, no friends, no family. We ask around, we’ll find her.”

“We need to get to her before she does something stupid and the cops pick her up. Besides, rules are rules.” The MS-13 had one fundamental rule, and everyone knew it—once in, you never left. Not unless you were dead. If you tried, you would be dead.

“Yo, boss, I hear you.”

“Good. We don’t want the members to think anybody can walk away from us, no matter who they are.” He didn’t want to do it, but the stupid bitch wasn’t leaving him any choice. Mia had been gone too long for him to keep it from the higher-ups, and he couldn’t have his troops thinking he couldn’t control his own woman. She needed to come back, one way or the other. And soon. “Find her. I don’t care who you have to hurt.”

*

Provincetown

“You care if I put on the ballgame?” Dave asked.

Flynn looked over from where she sat on the threadbare mustard-colored sofa in the squad ready room, reading a history of gravestone carvings in New England cemeteries. Old churches fascinated her. Her father and his father and his before him, as far back as the family tree could be traced, had been clergymen. She and her twin had grown up immersed in symbolism and lore. She’d spent hours in the myriad small cemeteries tucked away in wooded groves on country roads, behind abandoned gas stations, or nestled in the bends of meandering creeks—reading names, tracing family lineages, imagining the lives that had passed over the same ground she had just walked. Continuity, the connections between things past, present, and to come, gave her a sense of purpose and rendered some meaning to the enormity of existence. She tossed the book aside. She hadn’t really been concentrating well enough to read it anyhow. “Who’s playing?”

“The Sox and—”

“That’s enough for me. Sure.” Flynn welcomed the diversion. Usually she could lose herself in a book, and when history failed, the Scriptures usually provided enough questions to keep her mind focused. But not this afternoon. She kept thinking back to breakfast, and Mica. Mysteries intrigued her as much as history, and Mica was nothing if not a mystery. If Flynn judged by their conversations alone, she’d have to conclude Mica didn’t want anything to do with her. Mica sent out clear stay-away vibes, at least verbally, and Flynn wasn’t one to push where she wasn’t wanted. She had the feeling Mica had been pushed plenty in her life. No one ran away from a happy existence.

But people gave off other signals besides verbal, silent messages Flynn often paid more attention to than what was said. Too often, people said what they
thought
they should say, or hid their feelings behind anger or gallows humor or sexual innuendo. But people were often unaware of their body language, which made their feelings harder to hide.

Mica wasn’t an easy read. She was good at hiding what she felt, physically and in conversation, but Flynn was very good at discerning the little signs that others might miss. Her ability to hear the unspoken had been honed in a family where preserving the peace had been more important than dealing with hard truths, and those skills had been refined in the seminary. Other than administering the sacraments, a priest didn’t have a much more important function than to recognize the truth. If one couldn’t, how could one possibly preach? So she’d watched Mica while she was eating breakfast, when Mica wasn’t watching her. Mica had been constantly busy, serving tables that had filled rapidly after eight when tourists and townspeople alike began to venture out. Flynn took her time over her meal. She enjoyed watching Mica thread her way between tables, talking and occasionally laughing with customers. She moved quickly, confidently, sensuously. And every now and then when Mica had finished taking an order or while she was clearing a table, she’d glance in Flynn’s direction. Mica’d been aware of her, and that meant something.

When Flynn had gone to the register to pay her bill, Mica had passed by carrying a tray laden with dishes and glasses to be washed.

“I’ll see you later,” Flynn said.

Mica shot her a glance, as if she hadn’t expected her to be there, but she’d smiled, and the smile had been warm with a whisper of pleasure along the edges.

Yes, Mica had noticed her. And from a woman like Mica, that counted a lot.

“You okay?” Dave asked.

“Sure. Just got a lot on my mind.”

“Okay. You want to drive tonight?”

Flynn smiled at the ultimate gesture of friendship. “No, you go ahead. I’m good riding shotgun.”

Dave smiled, looking relieved. “Okay, then.”

“Go ahead and turn on the—”

The siren blared and a second later Flynn’s radio sounded a callout. She and Dave jogged to the garage and clambered into their unit. Flynn strapped in and logged on to the mobile computer terminal to read out the details from dispatch. “Female assaulted at Commercial and Dyer. Police on scene.” Flynn’s chest seized. That was half a block from Mica’s apartment. “Let’s go.”

Dave took them out with a screech of tires as Flynn flipped on the siren and started her incident report. Lots of other houses in that area. Lots of street traffic. The victim could be anyone. Besides, Mica was working.

Flynn glanced at her watch. Two in the afternoon. She counted backward in her head. Yesterday Mica had said she started at six thirty. She was probably off now, and if she’d walked home, she’d be right about at the location of the presumed assault. Flynn hissed in a breath, a hard lump forming into the pit of her stomach. She keyed the dispatcher on the dashboard microphone. “Name or description?”

“Don’t have anything yet, hon. All I know is it’s a woman and she’s apparently pretty banged up.”

“Okay, thanks.” Flynn vibrated with the warning bells clanging in her head. She didn’t believe in coincidence. She had never believed in an elaborate grand plan where humans were only fixtures, destined to play out some unknown pageant decided upon by a higher power. But she did believe in fate. She believed some events were destined, but humans had free will. Sometimes life-changing circumstances arose that challenged and tested, and the decisions people made altered the shape of their destiny. Just as she had faith in the amazing capacity of humans to change, to grow, and to impact their destinies through their own actions, she also knew there were mysteries in the universe that defied explanation—mysteries and wonders that spoke of more than the finite universe of humanity.

Her instinct was to reach out to those who crossed her path, those whose lives touched hers. To fulfill her mission, she’d learned to keep herself apart, and when she’d failed, she’d abandoned her calling for a new life. But she couldn’t change who she was. Mica touched her, and she could no more deny that than she could deny her faith. She feared another test was coming, and Mica was part of it.

Flynn pointed to a side street blocked by a police cruiser. “There.”

“I see it,” Dave said. “I’m gonna have to get up on the sidewalk to get the unit in there.”

“Let me out here.” Flynn popped the seat belt and pushed her door open.

“Hold on! Let me stop before you fall out and I have to put you on a gurney.”

Flynn jumped down, keyed the equipment compartment on the side of the unit, and pulled out her FAT box. “I’ll meet you there.”

Running ahead, she shouldered through the crowd of onlookers and made her way down a narrow alley between a bed-and-breakfast and an art gallery. Allie knelt on the uneven stones next to someone with long dark hair. A dark wet stain spread out from beneath the victim’s head. Flynn’s stomach clenched. A second later her training took over, and her mind cleared. She squatted next to Allie and opened the trauma kit.

Allie gave her a quick glance. “Late twenties, unconscious when we arrived. We’re not sure when the incident occurred.”

The woman’s face was swollen with purplish bruises and scattered lacerations. Dried blood caked her mouth and her left eye. Rust-colored specks scattered her white shirt—more blood, almost certainly hers. Her stomach was exposed where her blouse had been pulled from her jeans, but her pants were still buttoned and zipped. Flynn’s breathing slowed. This wasn’t Mica.

“My name is Flynn,” she said, beginning the introduction she always used whether the victim appeared to be unconscious or not. The human mind registered all kinds of stimuli even when an individual appeared to be comatose. While she talked, she checked that the woman’s airway was clear and inserted a short plastic airway to keep her tongue from sliding back and blocking her trachea; she listened for breath sounds on both sides, checked vital signs, and did a quick cursory exam.

Dave arrived, took in the scene, and set about starting an IV.

“I’ll call Tory,” Flynn said, “but I think we’ll need to transport right to Hyannis. She’s going to need a CAT scan and observation.”

“I’ll call her,” Allie said, her face tight with suppressed anger. “I’m going with you. We’re going to need her statement as soon as possible. Latimer is already canvassing the neighbors.”

“Thanks,” Flynn said.

Allie walked away and Dave said, “I’ll get the gurney.”

Flynn secured the victim’s neck with a cervical collar, and she and Dave rolled her onto a backboard and transported her to the gurney. They pushed the gurney up the steep uneven path to the road and toward the unit. The crowd had grown in the few minutes she’d been there, and she spied a familiar face.

Mica stood on the sidewalk, her face pale. Flynn climbed into the unit, secured the gurney, and leaned out to close the rear doors while Dave headed for the cab. She motioned Mica over, and after a second’s hesitation Mica slipped between the onlookers and appeared beside the open doors.

“Are you okay?” Flynn asked.

“Yeah,” Mica said quietly, without her usual comeback. “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know yet.” Flynn grabbed the handles on the doors. “I have to go now. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Okay. Sure.” Mica stepped back as Flynn pulled the doors closed.

“Be careful, okay?” Flynn said.

As the unit pulled away and Mica disappeared from view, her voice carried to Flynn. “You too.”

Flynn settled next to the patient for the ride up-Cape. She wished she didn’t have to leave right now. Mica had looked scared, and she wanted to know why. Even more, she wanted to be sure no one hurt her.

Hyannis, MA

Allie paced outside the closed curtain of the emergency room cubicle, waiting for the green light from the emergency room doctors to interview the victim. Flynn had stopped for a second to brief her when they’d all arrived. The girl had regained consciousness in the medic unit during transport and was talking a little bit, but not very much and not very coherently.

Allie’s anger simmered just beneath the surface, a scalding tide that burned through her, a fury she couldn’t walk off and she needed to. She had a job to do; she couldn’t let her outrage distract her. She hated seeing anyone get hurt under any circumstances, but when women were assaulted, she could barely keep her fury under control. Someone had done that to Bri once, and every time she saw a woman lying battered and bruised and bloody, she imagined what it must have been like for Bri, only a teenager at the time. Imagining how Bri must have suffered, how terrified Caroline must have been, made Allie half-crazy. As much as she missed being partnered with Bri, she was glad Bri hadn’t been riding with her today. Even though she knew Bri could handle it, probably better than she could, Bri couldn’t possibly be unaffected by what had been done to that girl.

Allie ached to find the animal who had done this. She wanted him on the ground on his belly, with her knee in his back and her cuffs clamped down around his wrists. She wanted him to feel helpless, the way this girl must have felt helpless, and she wanted justice. Not for some ideological principle of right and wrong, but for something very, very practical. She wanted the girl bleeding behind that curtain to have the satisfaction of seeing whoever did this to her pay. Her job was to find him and to deliver him for judgment.