Desperate Creed Page 5

  “Sure. What are you reading now?”

  “Robinson Crusoe. Jason said it’s one of his favorites.”

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  “I just started. It’s one that Gram gave you. Do you remember it?”

  “Actually, I do. He’s shipwrecked during a storm.”

  “I like seeing her handwriting,” Brodie said as she left the room with her cat trailing close behind.

  The fact that she still enjoyed reading gave him a sense of comfort. She had already gone through an entire shelf from the bookcases in his loft. He still remembered the day he showed her his apartment above the kennel. The open floor plan allowed her to see the floor-to-ceiling built-ins as soon as she walked in the door. She must have stood in front of the wall of books for an hour, her head tilted and reading the titles. Even though he told her she could take them out and check out the descriptions, she didn’t dare touch them for that first hour.

  As kids, both Creed and Brodie had loved to read, encouraged by their grandmother. Gram had bought them brand new books for birthdays and holidays and sometimes just because. She selected specific ones for each of them, carefully writing inside the cover the date and their name along with: “love, Gram.” And now those make-believe worlds of adventure and mystery were helping Brodie cope not only with what she had survived but her re-entry into a normal world.

  All those years, a decade and a half, that she was gone Creed didn’t know whether she was dead or alive. His mind had conjured up imaginable scenarios of what had happened to her. Torture, mutilation, sexual assault and her body buried or discarded deep in a woods for nature and wildlife to savage even further.

  As horrible and incredible her story was, she had been spared many of the horrors she had imagined. Truthfully, he never expected to bring her home in one piece, let alone alive. It was the reason he started K9 CrimeScents. With every search of a girl or young woman he hoped to bring back the remains of his sister and finally lay her to rest.

  Then five months ago Maggie O’Dell found an old Polaroid. The photo was one of dozens pinned up on a killer’s pegboard. A man suspected of human trafficking. In the photo were a teenaged boy and a young girl. Written along the white edges of the Polaroid was a date along with the names: Ryder and Brodie. The names alone told Maggie it couldn’t be a coincidence. The fact that Creed had a Polaroid that was almost an exact copy—taken seconds apart—revealed the painful truth. This madman named Eli Dunn had something to do with Brodie’s disappearance.

  It had taken a scavenger hunt across the farmlands of Nebraska to find the truth. Still, Creed had expected to find Brodie’s grave. Dunn had promised as much.

  Now, Brodie liked to say that Creed had rescued her. She gave him too much credit. Fact was, if it wasn’t for an Omaha detective named Tommy Pakula they might never have found her. Pakula was the one who put the puzzle pieces together that led them to an abandoned farmhouse. All those years, Brodie had been held captive by Dunn’s sister, Iris Malone and her son, Aaron. With her brother’s help, Iris had hoped to replace her deceased daughter, Charlotte. And she had been doing it for years, over and over again. She discarded the rejects, handing them back to Eli Dunn, allowing him to do whatever he wanted with them.

  In a sick way, Creed knew Brodie had been one of the lucky Charlottes. They now knew that Dunn sexually assaulted, trafficked and sometimes murdered many young women. Some of them were Iris’ rejects. But Iris had grown tired of Brodie’s attempts to escape and had casted her out. Maggie and local law enforcement had arrested Eli Dunn the week before. Creed didn’t like to think about how close he had come to losing her for good.

  11

  FLORIDA PANHANDLE

  My name is Brodie Creed.

  She started each entry the same way. Her therapist, Dr. Rockwood, had suggested Brodie write it at the top of her daily entry.

  “I know that sounds strange,” the woman had said, “but you spent the last sixteen years being called Charlotte. It may take some getting used to hearing Brodie.”

  It wasn’t strange at all. There were still times someone called for Brodie and it took a second call before it registered. The more difficult part was trying to embrace that name. In her mind Brodie was the little girl who disobeyed her parents and climbed into that RV at the rest area.

  Iris Malone had told Brodie how naughty she was. So naughty her parents didn’t want her back. She said they told Iris to keep her, to never bring her back. Brodie was the scared, little girl that cried herself to sleep. Brodie missed her family and wanted to go home. Brodie was weak, a big baby.

  But Charlotte...Charlotte was the brave one.

  Now, everyone was expecting her to be Brodie, again, but she wasn’t sure how to do that. She hadn’t told any of this to anyone, not even the kind and all-knowing therapist. She didn’t dare, but even she knew it wasn’t right that secretly she felt like a piece of her was still Charlotte. How was that possible? She’d never met the real Charlotte. The little girl had died long before Brodie was taken to replace her.

  But none of this matter right now. The storm had triggered a memory and she wanted to write it down before it left her. The memories were coming more often just in the last several days. Dr. Rockwood had warned her that it might happen.

  “Don’t be surprised if the memories come flooding back. Don’t be afraid of them. They can’t hurt you. Write them down. It’ll help you feel like you have control over them.”

  “But why,” Brodie asked, “am I remembering all the bad stuff now when I’m safe? When I’m finally free?”

  “You’ve gone through such trauma,” the woman had told Brodie. “You were drugged, dehydrated and malnourished. Your mind and body were in survival mode. There was no energy for anything else. Post traumatic stress syndrome works that way sometimes. When things calm down, when you’re feeling safe is when your mind feels safe again, to remember things that may have been too painful when you vulnerable.”

  “It’s not a setback?” Brodie wanted to know.

  “Not at all. It’s a good thing.”

  “But it doesn’t feel like a good thing,” she admitted to the therapist.

  “Write it down. Control it. Own it. Then set it aside and move on with living.”

  Brodie had been faithful about keeping the journal ever since she’d left Omaha. But only recently had the memories come flooding back—more like nightmares than memories. The morning storm had triggered another.

  She hadn’t lied to Ryder. She wasn’t scared of thunderstorms. But as they made their way from the kennel to the house under the dark sky, Brodie had started to hear voices carried by the fierce wind. In the back of her mind she could still hear Iris at the top of the basement stairs. She was calling for Aaron. There was urgency in her voice. Urgency on the verge of panic.

  Brodie remembered feeling the rumble of thunder. The beams that held up the house seemed to tremble. Iris must have felt it, too, because suddenly, she was yelling for Aaron to hurry.

  “What’s happening?” Brodie had asked when Iris came clomping down the basement steps, the flashlight stream leading her way in the dark. She shot the beam directly into Brodie’s eyes. Even now Brodie blinked, remembering the sharp pain of the sudden brightness. She had no idea how many days before Iris had taken away the lone light bulb, nor did Brodie remember what she had done to deserve the punishment of total darkness. It hadn’t been the first time

  But that day with the storm descending upon them, Iris Malone stomped around the concrete floor like a madwoman, searching through bare cupboards and cursing Brodie—actually, Charlotte—as if she was the reason there were no emergency supplies. Not even a single light bulb.

  Brodie recalled a brief and fleeting impulse to race up those stairs to the now unlocked door. Of escaping into the storm. Iris wouldn’t dare follow, her fear of lightning would hold her back. But the idea had quickly been tamped down. Not out of fear of the storm but because she was too weak and sick to even move. Stom
ach cramps had kept her curled up on her mattress clutching the threadbare blanket. Iris made sure that Brodie had very little food, keeping her weak. What rations she was given often came with drugs hidden inside, further ensuring that she couldn’t escape.

  “It’s your own fault,” Iris had told her once. “I told you if you behaved I wouldn’t need to punish you.”

  But it wasn’t just escaping that warranted punishment. There was always something. An illicit piece of fruit she’d managed to steal. The furnace manual she kept hidden for something to read. Even a pink ribbon she’d found to tie back her long, greasy hair.

  But that night, Brodie didn’t attempt—couldn’t attempt—escape. So she simply closed her eyes against the flashlight’s laser beams. She remembered biting back the bile and curling tighter against the stomach spasms. But she also remembered the wicked pleasure in listening to Iris’ gasps and Aaron’s quick breaths each and every time the thunder crashed. The wind made the house above them groan and sent the walls creaking. It seemed to last for a long time and it sounded like the structure would give way and collapse on top of them.

  But for once, Brodie’s captors were more frightened than she was.

  12

  FLORIDA PANHANDLE

  Creed was sitting alone with a cup of coffee when Hannah came back. Without a word, she marched to the counter, poured herself a cup and sat down at the table across from him.

  “You remember my friend, Francine Russo?”

  He nodded and waited. The woman had visited a couple of times, but it had been at least two or three years ago. Of course he remembered her. She was attractive: olive skin, hazel eyes, long dark hair. A bit high-strung though. She and Hannah would stay up late into the night talking, laughing, catching up, but by the third day, Frankie seemed restless. Hannah always ribbed her about being a city girl, that she missed her Starbucks not being within walking distance. Frankie usually admitted it was too quiet in the middle of nowhere. But Creed knew the two women still called and kept in touch every week. Something in their childhood had bonded them together. He’d never asked. He’d never pry. He figured if Hannah wanted him to know, she would tell him.

  He listened now without interrupting.

  “Frankie and I have known each other since we were girls. I’ve never heard her so frightened.

  “They hacked into a corporation’s computer system?”

  She shook her head even as she said, “Yes, that’s what her co-worker, Tyler told her.”

  “And she knows for sure that this Tyler, that his friend has been shot dead. What about Tyler?”

  “It only just happened early this morning. I think she’s hoping he’ll show up in an ER somewhere. If the men who attacked him took his wallet, the hospital might not be able to identify him.”

  “How does she know it’s the same men waiting for her at her office?” Creed asked.

  “She said she recognized the man’s scar. Look, I know it all sounds crazy, but I know Frankie. She’s not one to jump to conclusions. She’s also not easily spooked.” She paused with her elbows on the table, her coffee cup wrapped in her hands. “She sounded so scared, Rye.”

  “Is she driving down or flying?”

  Hannah stared at him then her face broke into a smile of relief. She reached across the table, grabbed his arm and gave it a squeeze. “You and me are two peas in a pod. She’s headed to the airport.”

  She laced her fingers back around her coffee mug. There was something else. Creed saw her bracing to tell him as if this next part was more contentious than any of the rest. “Frankie asked if there was any way I could ask my FBI friend to check on this.”

  “Maggie?” He tried not to react, but he swallowed too hard.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think this is an FBI matter?”

  “Probably not,” Hannah admitted. “Actually, I hope it’s not. But Maggie would have resources available to her. She could find out what the Chicago police might know. If these young men did hack into a corporation’s computer system, that is a federal offense.”

  “You should call her.”

  “You won’t mind?”

  “Me? Why would I mind? Besides, it shouldn’t matter what I think? You and Maggie are friends.”

  “It’s just that...well, ever since last fall you’ve been like a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.”

  “Really?” He laughed. “Is that a real thing?”

  “My granny used to say that all the time.” Her expression got serious again. “Don’t change the subject. Something happened in Nebraska between you two. It wasn’t just about finding Brodie.”

  He got up from the table, took his coffee cup to the sink and started rinsing it out. The task gave him an excuse to give her his back without being too rude.

  “I know it’s not of my business,” Hannah continued. “I haven’t said anything, we all have been busy and concerned about Brodie. But now that I have your attention, I will say this. I hope you’re not going to throw away a friendship.”

  “Me and Maggie are friends,” he told her, turning back around to face her.

  “It’s just that every time I mention her name you get all funky.”

  “Funky? You mean like a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs?”

  She waved her hand at him and smiled.

  “Don’t worry about Maggie and me,” he told her. Even as he said it, his fingers twisted at the leather strap of his watch. His new GPS watch. A gift from Maggie. “I hope she’s able to help Frankie.”

  Hannah was still examining him, waiting for more. Expecting more. He didn’t want to talk about it. How could he? He wasn’t sure what his own feelings were, let alone pretend to know Maggie O’Dell’s.

  “Speaking of friends,” he said, wanting to move on, “Did you know that Jason and Brodie were spending a lot of time together?”

  “He’s been including her in his training session with Scout. Just started doing it a couple weeks ago. Thought he could help her not be so afraid of dogs. Looks like it’s working.”

  Creed wondered how he had missed it. He hadn’t taken an assignment since Brodie arrived, making sure he was around if she needed him. They received K9 requests from across the country. Sometimes he’d be gone for days, maybe weeks. Brodie’s therapist had told Creed that for now, he seemed to be Brodie’s anchor. She had made it sound like it was important for him to be close by. But she seemed to be doing well, and of course, there were always errands, picking up supplies, picking up new dogs. He’d driven to Maryland to personally bring Knight to their facility. Now he wondered if he’d been gone more than he should have been.

  “It’s good for her to connect to others,” Hannah said. When he didn’t respond, she added, “You can’t protect her 24/7.”

  Sunlight streamed in through the kitchen window, but raindrops still tapped the glass. He knew she was right. He’d spent so many years wondering, imagining what had happened to Brodie. All those emotions—anxiety, fear, sadness, helplessness, dread. They had wound so tightly and firmly into his psyche. He shouldn’t be surprised that they hadn’t dissipated after finding her. Not just finding her, but able to bring her home alive. But that was part of the problem. He hadn’t been able to bring her home right away.

  They had found her in Nebraska, imprisoned in a deserted old farmhouse. Her initial medical care started in Omaha. So Creed had spent weeks traveling back and forth. Brodie hadn’t suffered only from PTSD but also from malnutrition and dehydration. Her captors, Iris Malone and her son, Aaron, not only kept Brodie locked up, but at times, had also starved and drugged her.

  Iris was now in prison. Aaron was dead. Brodie had killed him. His death had been ruled self-defense, but there was that trauma to add to Brodie’s mental injuries. He didn’t know how to help her. It frustrated him. All those years he thought he’d lost her, now here she was and he didn’t have a clue how to get to know her.

  In her wisdom, Hannah had told him to be patient. She
reminded him that even Brodie didn’t know who she was.

  In all the years he’d searched for her, dreamed about her, he always imagined her as that eleven-year-old girl. The little sister he could still see as she skipped through the rain and puddles to go to the bathroom at the interstate rest stop; the rest stop where she disappeared.

  “Rye?”

  Hannah was standing beside him, her hand on his arm and a look of concern that she usually reserved for others.

  “Maybe it’s time for you to get back out in the field,” she said.

  Less than a half hour later when he received the phone call from the Butler County Sheriff in Alabama, Hannah told Creed it was a sign validating her instinct. She’d been right so many other times, he didn’t dare argue with her.

  13

  CHICAGO O’HARE INTERNATIONAL Airport

  Frankie bought the last seat on the next flight to Atlanta. The ticket agent raised an eyebrow when Frankie handed over cash instead of a credit card.

  “My grandma’s treat,” Frankie lied and rolled her eyes. “She’d be so mad if I used my credit card.”

  She held her breath as the woman took the bills. She had no idea whether the ticket agent believed her. It was bad enough that she was buying her ticket three hours before the flight, but using cash was drawing more attention than she ever expected. The woman had to go three ticket agents down to get Frankie’s change. When she returned, she handed the bills with the ticket and offered Frankie the slightest of smiles as she said, “Enjoy your flight.”

  Her mind was already running over what Hannah had told her, so much so that she almost collided with woman waiting in the ticket line behind her. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied, she may have noticed that the woman left her next-in-line status to follow Frankie.

  She had been relieved when Hannah offered her a safe haven, even though, Frankie worried that she might be putting her friend, along with her children in danger. Hannah promised she’d arrange a meeting for Frankie with her FBI friend.