Inevitable Detour (26 page)

Holding the thick folder aloft with a slightly trembling hand, I pause. I know I should put this packet of documents away and forget I ever came across it. But how can I do that? I want answers and having them here in my hand is just too tempting.

The edge of a black-and-white 8 x 10 photo protrudes from the folder, mashed in among all the pages. Quickly, before I have time to reconsider, I pull the picture all the way out. It’s a glossy photo of Mr. Barnes. The first thing I notice is that Farren’s employer is tall with a lean frame. In the photo, he’s standing next to a large desk, one hand resting on the edge of an ornately trimmed piece of furniture. He’s wearing a black three-piece suit. His hair appears dark, streaked with gray. There’s no denying, though, that Mr. Barnes is a nice-looking older man, classically handsome.

Okay, so far, so good. The file probably just contains general information
.
Like public knowledge stuff.

I place the photo off to the side and continue going through the file. I find a sheet of data that informs me that Quinton Barnes was born on January 5. He’s currently fifty-eight years old. He appeared on the business scene, seemingly out of nowhere, nineteen years ago. However, he had a nose for business and made a name for himself rather quickly, with several lucrative real-estate investments. Shortly after he turned forty, he married a woman from an old-money-type family. She was fifteen years his junior. To say her parents were less than pleased would have been an understatement. But over time they grew to accept Mr. Barnes.

“Guess he was pretty charming,” I mumble to myself.

The couple remained together up until about a year ago. That’s when they separated. As of a couple of months ago, they are officially divorced.

I come across a picture that gives me a probable cause for the disintegration of a two-decade-long marriage. It’s a photo of the only child they ever had—their daughter, Annemarie. I know from what Farren has told me that this is the girl who was abducted and murdered. Annemarie is the reason Mr. Barnes is seeking vengeance.

At first, I can barely look at the photo, knowing what the girl went through. This would have been Haven, had she not been rescued.

Finally I gather the courage to stare down at the photo of a girl whose life was snuffed out way too early. The footnote in the margin indicates Annemarie is sixteen in the picture. There’s also a notation that the photo was taken the day before her abduction.

I can’t take my eyes off the girl. She appears so vibrant, so full of life. How could she really be dead? The picture is a close-up. Her face is angled to the left. To me, the picture looks like a selfie. Probably the last one she ever took.

Wow, she sure was beautiful
, I think as I take in her flawless skin, her soft features, and her wide grin. Was she happy? It sure appears so. I also get the impression Annemarie was quirky and fun—much like Haven. Her long, dark hair is streaked with vivid blue, and her eyes are sparkling. Although I can’t tell if they are green or blue, since she’s wearing a lot of heavy, dark eye makeup.

The next few pages I pull from the folder are extremely difficult to view.

Pages and pages filled with specifics of what happened to Annemarie, all in gory detail. Farren has already told me the overview—Annemarie was abducted from her home, sold into sexual slavery, abused, tortured, and eventually murdered—but these pages tell the story in much more graphic detail.

I scan through the pages quickly…

Police reports—abducted at 2:00 a.m., no alarms were tripped. Conclusion: It was a job conducted by professionals.

Medical reports—bruises, burn marks, ligature marks on her neck, and evidence of repeated sexual assault.

God, I’m disgusted. My stomach is churning. Feeling more and more ill, I move through the pages so quickly they become a blur of images and words.

Just as well. I can’t read the more explicit passages. That shit is way too disturbing. When I come across the autopsy photos—images of Annemarie’s battered, broken body—I can’t take it any longer. I stuff the papers back into the file and jam the entire folder deep into the bag.

I’m about to be sick, for real. I make it to the en suite bathroom just in time. As the contents of my stomach empty into the commode, I think of how close Haven came to sharing the same fate as Annemarie. But the creepiest part is that the more I think on it, the more I realize how much the two girls look alike. Maybe there’s a certain in-demand look for the girls this insidious organization goes after. Maybe young, beautiful girls with dark hair and light eyes are a hot commodity.

I throw up again, and when there is nothing left in my stomach, I make a vow to ignore any more stumbled-upon files.

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

T
hat evening Haven and I are upstairs in her bedroom talking. I don’t mention the file I found. I prefer to forget what I saw, as well as the things I read. Besides, Haven is happy today. She’s talking about acting. And, frankly, I’m thrilled she still has the desire to pursue her dream, despite everything that’s happened to her.

“If I do decide to return to Oakwood,” she says out of the blue, “I plan to avoid Professor Walsh.”

“Oh, him…” I roll my eyes. “Yes, please do.”

I’m worried Haven might still like the jackass professor, until she says, “Hey, I’m done with him, Essa. No joke.”

“Please, Haven,” I say in a pleading tone. “Promise me you are.”

“I promise,” she assures me, and then she quietly adds, “I’m into someone else now, anyway.”

I raise a brow. “Rick?”

Smiling surreptitiously, she says, “What do you think?”

“Ooh,” I squeal, “I knew it.” And then I add, “I’m happy for you, Hav.”

Just then, coincidentally, Rick hollers up the stairs. He says he wants us to meet him in the den as soon as possible. He’s been in and out a lot today, doing Lord knows what. The one time I did run into him, shortly before dinner—which he skipped—he appeared to be greatly concerned about something.

Crap, I hope he didn’t figure out that I stumbled upon the Quinton Barnes file
. That’s my concern as Haven and I leave her room and start down the stairs.

“If he hadn’t skipped dinner,” Haven snips on our way, “he could have told us then whatever it is that’s so urgent now.”

I glance over at her. She may be crushing on Rick, yes, but she is royally ticked that he missed the dinner she made earlier.

“I wonder what he wants to talk about,” I muse.

She shrugs. “I have no idea.”

When we reach the den, the door is closed. I raise my hand to knock, but Haven pushes the door open and walks right in. “Guess we’re about to find out,” she tosses flippantly over her shoulder.

Damn, she’s really pissed at him. I can’t help but smile. I’m glad to see she’s showing some fire.

My smile quickly fades, though, when Rick peers up from where he’s pecking away at a keyboard behind the desk. He appears to be far from amused at our barging in. “Girls,” he says in greeting, nodding his head once.

“Rick,” Haven replies curtly.

He ignores Haven’s attitude and gestures to two chairs in front of the desk. “Have a seat,” he says.

“What’s going on?” Haven asks as she’s sitting down. Her flippant attitude suddenly turns to concern when she sees Rick’s grim expression.

As I sit down in the chair next to her, I add worriedly, “Is everything all right?”

Rick sighs and says, “Maybe.”

“Wait”—my heart races—“Farren is okay, right?”

Haven pales but remains silent. I don’t think she can even fathom a world without her brother.

But, thankfully, Rick assures us, “Yes, ladies, Farren is fine.”

Haven and I breathe out simultaneous sighs of relief. When we glance at each other, our expressions say, “Thank God.”

“Actually,” Rick continues, “Farren is not only fine. He’s on his way back to the safe house.”

“Did he, uh…” I stammer, not quite knowing how to phrase the question on my mind. “Is Eric, um…?”

Rick raises an eyebrow. “Dead, Essa?”

I nod, and he replies, “No, Farren was unable to locate him. And there’s no more time to search. Farren needs to return to the safe house as soon as possible.”

Haven chimes in. “Why? What’s going on?”

I see the panic in her face. She doesn’t want to end up back in the hands of Eric or his minions. Rick, noticing her discomfort, gently says to her, “Haven, I’ll make sure you’re safe, no matter what happens, okay?”

Nodding, she whispers, “Okay. Thank you.”

She’s really come to rely on Rick, and that’s good and all. But we still don’t know what’s happening. Whatever it is, it’s something big enough to compel Farren to return without accomplishing his task of killing Eric.

Instead of giving us any answers, however, Rick rolls his chair back and slides open the top desk drawer. He takes out two .38s. Pushing one across the desk to me, he says, “Farren told me you can handle one of these. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then, take it. Keep it with you at all times.”

I tentatively pick up the gun. “Even in the house?”

“Yes,” he replies, “even in the house. Outside, as well. Keep it with you everywhere you go.”

He slides the other .38 in Haven’s direction. “I don’t know how to shoot this thing,” she says, eyeing the firearm like it’s a snake about to spring at her.

“That’s okay. I’m going to give you a quick lesson tomorrow morning,” Rick informs her.

“Where?” she asks, frowning.

He motions to a window to his left. There’s a clear view of the back of the house. “Out there,” he says.

The backyard is not unlike the area where Farren taught me to shoot—all desert for as far as the eye can see. Nothing was ever built behind the houses in this section of the subdivision.

Haven is still frowning, and Rick swiftly provides her with more details of his plan. I guess he’s hoping to give her confidence that she can do this. “I’ll set up some targets away from the house. The .38 is easy to use.” He smiles at Haven. “You’ll do fine. We’ll make it fun.”

I give Haven a reassuring glance, hoping to bolster her confidence. I remind her, “It’s not like you have to worry about accidentally shooting any neighbors. We don’t have any, since all the houses around us are vacant.”

Haven chuckles a little and says, “That’s certainly true.”

Rick nudges the gun toward her once more, and this time she takes it. Holding it gingerly, she says sadly, “Wish I would’ve had one of these the night I was abducted.”

“I think we all wish that,” Rick replies.

Amen
, I think.

T
he next morning, Rick is setting up targets in the backyard. Not close to the house, I notice when I glance out my upstairs-bedroom window. He and Haven are several hundred yards away.

When the shooting lesson gets underway, I step into the bathroom so I can take a long shower. Afterward, I slip a navy V-neck tee over my head and then tug a pair of bright white cotton shorts up my very tan legs. I twist my hair into a bun and pin it to the top of my head. I haven’t worn my hair up in a while, but the weather warrants it today. It’s exceptionally hot. Even the air-conditioned house is not nearly as cool as usual.

A few minutes later finds me down in the kitchen. I’m throwing together a quick breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs. With a piece of toast hanging out of my mouth, a plate of eggs in one hand, and a juice glass in the other, I kick out a chair and plop down at the table. I eat my breakfast listening to the echo of shots being fired in the distance. All the while, my .38 rests next to my juice glass.

Rick never divulged why Farren was coming back early, and I now wonder what could be the problem. Farren seemed pretty set on finding Eric so he could make him pay for the things he did to Haven. What would pull Farren away from a job unfinished? And what kind of problem could have arisen so quickly?

Without more info I can’t come up with any answers. But by the time I’m finished eating, I’m quite distracted anyway, by, of all things, the heat. It’s stifling hot in the house. Beads of sweat are beginning to roll down my back.

“Jeez,” I mumble, “why is the air conditioning not coming on?”

The air hasn’t come on since it last cycled over an hour ago. On such a scorching-hot day, the air should be running almost continuously. Fully aware that a fuse could have blown, I get up from the table and search for a flashlight. In a drawer by the sink I locate one. It’s not in the best condition, but it will do. I head to where the fuse box is located…in the basement. Actually, I reluctantly walk in the direction of the narrow door in the corner of the kitchen.

Ugh, I hate basements
.

Most homes in the Southwest don’t have basements, but since this one does, when I finally reach the door, I send up a prayer that this particular basement won’t be dark and creepy like the ones in the eastern half of the country usually are.

Unfortunately, when I swing the door open as wide as it goes, I can’t determine much on the state of affairs. “Shit,” I mumble, “it’s awfully dark down there.”

I flip the switch on the wall, but, just like in a horror movie, nothing happens.

Great
.

I turn on my flashlight and aim it down the steps. The batteries are almost dead, so the anemic beam doesn’t illuminate much.

After some deep breathing to calm my frazzled nerves, I close the door and start down the stairs. With every step I take, I can’t help but recall the movie Farren and I went to see in Oklahoma City. Shuddering, I hope and pray no dark, shadowy figures grab me from under the steps like they did to the lead character.

Taking the final few steps gingerly, I breathe a sigh of relief. “You’ve made it down the stairs without incident,” I say, congratulating myself.

Turning, I direct the flashlight beam to the heart of the basement.

And when I see what—or rather,
who
—is in the center of the room, I gasp and reach for my gun.

But, shit, I don’t have it on me. I left it up in the kitchen on the table.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
.