Punishment, no matter how calmly Iris administered it, often came not in body blows or beatings, but rather the absence of one more thing that made Charlotte feel human. Iris would withhold food or water until Charlotte was reduced to a panting, starving animal ready to pounce on a morsel of dry dog food or a half filled bottle of warm water. Punishment came with Iris removing a threadbare blanket during the coldest nights. Or it might simply be Iris unscrewing and taking the only light bulb in the tiny room and not returning it for what felt like too many nights to hang onto an ounce of sanity.
So no more chances? What more could the woman possibly do to her?
Charlotte almost welcomed the prospect of Iris tossing her body along a ditch somewhere. Or perhaps burying her alive in a hole in the ground. Though even that sounded too refreshing. Because just for the briefest of moments she might feel the sun on her skin. She might be able to fill her lungs with fresh air. Even for a few minutes before dirt started raining down on her.
Had she finally gone stark-raving mad that being buried alive actually sounded like a preferred alternative to the life she’d been living? To the hell she’d been living.
It wasn’t always all bad. There was a time when she was Iris’ favorite. That garnered her car rides in the country. Sometimes trips into town if she agreed to wear the silly ruffled dresses Iris loved. And if she was good, which meant quiet and smiling.
“Remember a nod is as good an answer if anyone asks you a question.” That was Iris, forever instructing, giving commands but making them sound like suggestions.
For a long time after, in the days and weeks and years when she infuriated Iris more than she pleased her, Charlotte would remember those car rides in the country. They became her go-to place in her mind when she needed to escape inside herself. She’d conjure up the blue sky, how big it stretched all the way down to an endless horizon. The rolling meadows of tall grasses that looked like waves of an ocean, only these waves were reddish gold. The horses and cattle and even the birds fascinated her. Once she saw a bald-headed eagle and tried to imagine herself with outstretched wings flying high above the fields. In her dreams, she’d float on the warm breeze, and for a short time she was happy.
She didn’t dream anymore. And she hadn’t been outside this dungeon for so long, she no longer believed that the outside world even existed. Right now she was too tired to care. She had used all the energy she had conserved for her one last botched attempt to see if there were still meadows and sky and hope.
All she wanted was to close her eyes and sleep, but her mind refused to shut down. Not yet, it seemed to insist. Not just yet, and she could hear Iris talking at the top of the steps. Iris giving instructions.
“Take her out of here,” the woman was telling someone else what to do.
“. . . can’t come for her. It might be a week.”
Fragments drifted down the staircase. Another voice, soft and muffled from somewhere behind Iris. It sounded like Aaron—sweet, simple Aaron. They used to play together when they were kids. He was the closest thing Charlotte ever had to a friend. Until Iris made him choose sides. Made him pledge allegiance to her. Poor, sweet, simple Aaron.
“I don’t care,” Iris said. “I want her gone from here. You know what to do with her.”
It was getting more and more difficult for Charlotte to stay awake and listen. She wanted to fold inside herself before the pain started to streak through her body. She wanted to go away and find refuge in sleep.
“…the Christmas house.”
It was the last thing Charlotte heard.
Christmas?
Surely, she must have heard that wrong, but it actually made her smile. Had she lost her final grasp on reality? Maybe she’d finally slipped completely off some mental ledge.
Chapter 16
Florida Panhandle
Creed only now realized how much his head hurt. He fingered the butterfly bandage where Dr. Avelyn had debrided the wound on his forehead. There was a deeper cut on his arm where she removed several small pieces of glass. Creed thought he’d picked all the glass out when he cleaned it the day before. He’d managed to steer Bolo away from a pile of rubble, only to lose his balance and fall into it.
His arm and forehead took the brunt of the fall. He’d cleaned it in haste, trying to get on the road and get Bolo home. He’d plucked pieces out of Bolo’s paws and swabbed them with care, but his own wounds, he had simply poured alcohol over then wrapped some gauze and taped them closed.
That was the problem with disaster sites. Usually Creed’s first concern was his dog. He’d been so focused on keeping Bolo safe that he’d neglected his own scrapes.
Butterfly bandages wouldn’t work for the gash in the arm. Dr. Avelyn ended up suturing the wound. After pinching his skin, she told him he was a bit dehydrated, which probably explained why he’d been so thirsty the last twenty-four hours. She also thought he had a slight temperature, but all she had was a rectal thermometer. Creed said he was willing to take her word. Then she handed him a container of antibiotics to take while mentioning, once again, that he really should have a medical doctor take a look at his arm. Creed trusted her. She’d saved him time after time, but he realized he wasn’t being fair to the veterinarian. He had no idea whether or not she could get in trouble for treating him.
Now back in his loft apartment he began unpacking his gear from his last trip. He’d need to do laundry and pack again. He jiggled the pills in the container, and Grace came prancing over. It sounded like the treat container.
“These aren’t for you, girl.”
Creed checked the time, popped one of the pills and downed half a bottle of water. Grace was still staring at him. He reached his hand out for her to lick. But then she continued to sniff at his arm. He let Grace wave her nose over the wound that Dr. Avelyn had left unwrapped, “just for the night.” Grace didn’t attempt to lick or touch it, but her nose twitched as she investigated. When she was finished she sat down and stared up at him again.
“I’m okay,” Creed said as he scratched behind her ears.
At the same time, he glanced over at Bolo stretched out and asleep on a dog bed at the foot of Creed’s bed. Normally, he would have moved the Ridgeback from the clinic back to the kennel, but Creed wanted to keep a close eye on him. Dr. Avelyn had cleared Bolo after she finished suturing up Creed. He was fine, though like Creed, a bit dehydrated. She’d instructed Creed to administer another Sub-Q in the morning as a precaution.
On the living room rug, Rufus was curled up and snoring softly. The Labrador’s hearing wasn’t as keen as it used to be, even with his left ear folded back. From where Creed stood, he could see the N103 branded on the dog’s underflap. That was how the military used to label their K9 dogs, like they were just another piece of equipment.
Creed and Rufus had worked together as a team in Afghanistan. They had developed a special bond that when they were separated by an explosion—an explosion that sent Creed home but sent Rufus back on duty with another handler—Creed hadn’t been able to rest until he brought the big dog home to join him.
All of Creed and Hannah’s dogs were special. They’d come to them in different ways. But Grace was definitely the most sensitive to and protective of Creed ever since he’d found her abandoned at the end of his long driveway. She tolerated being away from him, like the past week while he and Bolo were gone. She tolerated it only because she and Rufus could stay with Hannah and Lady—and now Hunter, too—in the big house with Hannah and her two boys.
Grace watched now from her perch on the back of the sofa, keeping a close eye on what Creed packed.
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “You’re going with me this time.”
Her ears went back and her tail swiped back and forth, but her eyes darted to the duffle bag.
Creed stepped over to the built-in bookcases that made up one wall of his living room. He search
ed the shelves until he found the copy of “War of the Worlds” by H.G. Wells. He pulled it out, holding it in his hands with reverence. It was one of his first hardcovers, and it looked almost brand new. His grandmother had given it to him. For a long time, he could open the pages and get a whiff of her lavender perfume. But he hadn’t opened the book for years.
He carefully flipped open the cover. Inside his grandmother had written in blue pen: To Ryder. Love, Gram. And then she dated it as she always did. 10-10-01.
He held the spine in the palm of his hand and let the book fall open to where he’d left the bookmark, almost two-thirds of the way through. Fact was, he’d never finished reading it though it had fascinated him so much he hadn’t been able to put it down the whole time he was at his grandmother’s. He continued reading it during their road trip back home. The road trip when Brodie disappeared. And Creed never opened the book, again. It seemed ridiculous to imagine aliens from Mars invading the world when Brodie’s world and Creed’s own world had been turned upside down.
Creed plucked the bookmark out. Both he and Brodie had used similar bookmarks for their trip back. He looked at his own, surprised that it hadn’t changed much. The Polaroid showed him and his sister posing on his grandmother’s sofa.
He could still see and hear Gram’s voice. She was fragile and wobbly, but she insisted his mother take the photos—three of them, back-to-back.
“Let me see you smile like you mean it,” she’d said in a silly, happy way that made them laugh.
It was the last time he heard his grandmother laugh.
Creed tucked the Polaroid back inside the book and slipped the book carefully into his duffle bag.
Chapter 17
Omaha, Nebraska
Maggie dropped her cell phone into her back pocket and tried to tamp down her frustration. She wasn’t used to working in places where cell phone reception disappeared with only a few steps. Truth was, she was exhausted and her patience was wearing thin.
An hour earlier, she’d returned to her hotel room, showered, pulled on jeans and an old sweatshirt. Her room service tray had barely arrived when Pakula called.
Now here they were, again, back at Eli Dunn’s farm. Maggie had rushed out without a jacket. The air was chilly and she hugged her arms across her chest. She and Pakula stood outside a weathered, grey barn. The double doors swung out and were left open as a CSU team worked inside. Maggie knew the three inside. She’d met them once before, ironically at another farm outside of Sioux City where a serial killer had chosen to make a graveyard for his victims.
Another tech would be bringing portable lights and a generator. The Douglas County Crime Lab’s mobile unit covered smaller counties within the state and had been working the site since the predawn hours. In another hour they’d lose any natural light. The sun was already sinking behind the ridge of trees, creating long shadows.
With all the focus on the farmhouse and the treasure trove of evidence found in the backyard, no one thought to look inside this barn. Actually, it couldn't be seen from the house. The sagging building sat about a quarter mile from Eli’s farmhouse and was hidden by cornfields and trees. Grass grew in the middle of the two-lane dirt path that showed very little use. It might have taken days for someone to search for this building or even realize it held any importance. None of them expected to see the RV parked in between the empty horse stalls.
“It’s registered to Eleanor Dunn,” Pakula told Maggie. “Different address than Eli’s. Turns out it’s a long-term care facility in central Nebraska. That’s why it didn’t come up on our search.”
“His mother?”
“Most likely.”
“I sure hope we don’t find her in the attic or a root cellar,” Maggie said without any intention of humor.
Pakula looked at her and with just a glance she could see a smile at the corner of his mouth. “My wife keeps telling me I have a wickedly suspicious mind, but I think you might have me beat, O’Dell.”
“Problem is, my suspicions usually prove true.”
She wanted to be inside that RV with the techs, but Pakula had convinced her to let them do their jobs.
“I have to admit, it’s definitely clever,” she said. Clever enough that it made her sick to her stomach. RVs inspired images of families on vacation or retired couples cruising across the country. Who would guess a human trafficker would be using it to transport his victims?
“This is a nice one,” Pakula said. “I’m guessing it’s twenty-six or twenty-eight foot long. Two sliders. Lots of storage.”
He pointed to small door panels in several places along the bottom area of the RV. Maggie winced at the size of two of them—large enough for a child to crawl through. She realized the CSU techs would need to process those areas, too.
“Looks too clean,” Pakula continued. “He probably disinfected it just like the house.”
Earlier, the two of them had walked around the outside of the vehicle. Maggie didn’t know enough about RVs but she guessed Pakula was correct. This one wasn’t new—maybe a decade old—but very well cared for. Despite being surrounded by hay bales and even with dust motes filtering down from the ceiling, the vehicle looked recently washed. The tires were inflated. The windshield, headlights and taillights had no trace of bug spatters. Chances were they’d find nothing inside, but she knew that even the most careful criminals got sloppy. Or better yet, they became too cocky. She could see Eli Dunn being both sloppy and cocky.
“They didn’t find anything in the house?” she asked.
Pakula shook his head. “Just the backyard.”
“But there were definitely others staying at the house?”
“Konnor told me there were others. He didn’t see them leave, but heard them.” Pakula shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Even if we find DNA or fingerprints, they won’t mean much. Most of these kids being trafficked aren’t on file anywhere.”
She knew he was right. The techs could find blood and they still had no way to verify who it belonged to. And certainly no way to find out where Dunn had taken them.
“Did the boy tell you how many others?” She tried to restrain her irritation that Pakula had interviewed Konnor without her.
“The director told me he’s still coming off the drugs, so he might not remember much for a while. We’re still not sure what Dunn was giving him. Konnor said it made his vision bleary and helped him forget.”
She watched Pakula out of the corner of her eyes. His visit with the boy had rattled Pakula though he was doing a good job of pretending otherwise. In Maggie’s mind, the boy’s faulty memory only provided yet another reason for them to offer a deal of some kind to Dunn. And they needed to do it soon before Dunn changed his mind or before those who had been in his house were carted so far away they might never be found.
Maggie pulled her phone out and checked for messages.
Nothing.
When she hadn’t heard back from the local officials she called her boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze. Elijah Dunn was being charged with human trafficking. By morning, a murder charge might be added after the remains in his backyard were examined. But technically, the federal offense of human trafficking would give the FBI some leverage. She was counting on it, but it felt like a clock was ticking away.
“They scatter like leaves,” Pakula said.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
She noticed his eyes were still focused on the barn. A breeze had picked up. The tall grass waved, and red and gold leaves fluttered from the trees.
“I’ve been doing this job for less than a year,” Pakula told her, “but I can tell you this. Whoever else Dunn was holding in his house, they’re long gone. That’s something one of the veterans on the task force taught me. That’s why it’s so difficult to stop these guys. You catch one, and there’s someone else to pick up and move the victims. In no time, they’re
in another state, maybe halfway across the country by now. They scatter like leaves in the wind.”
What about the dead left behind? Maggie wanted to ask, but didn’t. And already she realized that she believed Creed’s sister wasn’t one of those that Eli had sold, but rather one of those he had buried.
One of the crime scene techs, a tall brunette named Haney, came out of the barn carrying what looked like a plain cardboard box.
“I think we might have found something,” she told them.
She put the box down on one of the blue tarps that had been laid out for collecting evidence. Then she handed Maggie and Pakula each a pair of latex gloves.
“RVs have all sorts of storage compartments,” she said as she began photographing the box before she opened it. “We noticed a trace of fresh sawdust in the corner of the closet. Ryan pulled up a corner of the linoleum and found a cutout in the floor. There was a hidden compartment. He obviously didn’t want us to find this.”
Maggie and Pakula crouched on each side as Haney carefully eased open the flaps of the cardboard box. In the dim light of the setting sun, it was a challenge to see inside. It looked like a hodgepodge of items. At first glance, it might be easy to mistake them for someone’s garage sale leftovers: several books, a few pieces of costume jewelry, a small teddy bear, an old Gameboy and a Hello Kitty purse.
Maggie felt a slight chill. She stood at the same time Haney did. Pakula stayed crouched beside the box shaking his head.
Without saying a word, they all knew they had found Eli Dunn’s collection of souvenirs. The trophies he’d kept from each of his victims.
Chapter 18
When Charlotte opened her eyes again, it was dark. Her vision was blurred and her head hurt, but all of it was familiar. She knew that somewhere on her body she’d find another needle mark where Iris had injected her, yet again. She could barely raise her head, the muscles in her neck screamed with even the slightest movement. She didn’t attempt to try her arms or legs. Instead, she used only her eyes to search for any light at the top of the stairs.