Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 36

I dial 911 as I race toward the wide boulevard, then track north. I rant about a gunshot victim in a back alley. I tell the confused dispatch operator it’s Deke Alarie and he’s already dead and Officer O’Shaughnessy is in the vicinity and please let him know. And P.S., please tell a guy named Charlie that I’m sorry. Then I hang up before the operator can ask me any more questions.

Next I call Lotham’s cell. He answers instantly this time, already on high alert.

“Where are you?”

“They have Angelique and Emmanuel. Deke tried to stop them. He’s dead.” I tell him where I’m going, then warn, “Lights off, sirens quiet. If they know the police are there . . .”

Lotham doesn’t require further explanation. I think of his broad face, his mangled ear. I think he’s a good man, an excellent detective, and if anyone can get this done . . . I think, if I get shot next, he’s the one I would like to hold my hand.

He’s not speaking. I hear his thoughts instead. His quiet desperation for me to go home, be safe. His relentless need to save Angelique, to protect me.

But maybe I am growing on him, because he doesn’t say the words out loud anymore. He doesn’t tell me to do things we both know I won’t do. I hang up the phone. I keep running.

Toward where it all began two summers ago. Where it will end tonight.

The rec center.

And its kindly director, Frédéric Lagudu.

I come upon the van first. It is parked out front, the back doors slung open, the inside empty. I don’t dare use my pocket flashlight to examine it more closely. I sniff instead, catching the unmistakable scent of blood. From Deke, before they dumped him? Or am I already too late?

I refuse to believe that Emmanuel is dead, if only because I can’t bear the thought. All of my other cases, I’ve pursued my target from a distance, never having met the missing person in question. But Emmanuel, I’ve talked to him, comforted him. He’s just a boy. He doesn’t deserve this.

I creep my way around the giant metal building. I don’t see any trace of lights or detect any sounds of activity. But I know how immense the building is. Plenty of internal classrooms and smaller storage spaces that aren’t noticeable from the outside. What was it Mr. Riddenscail said? The operation could be as simple as a single computer and printer. Wouldn’t require much square footage at all.

Did that mean Livia and Angelique had been there every time I’d visited? And Frédéric, holed up in his office bright and early each morning, hadn’t been the diligent savior of at-risk teens I’d thought him to be?

In hindsight, the description of the driver who’d dumped Livia’s body, a tall, thin Black man, fit Frédéric as well as Deke; I’d simply never connected those dots before. Combine that with Deke’s comment that “they” had seen me talking to J.J.—that conversation had taken place outside the rec center. Again, all roads leading back to this one enormous building. Where Livia and Angelique had first met. Where someone in Frédéric’s position would have plenty of opportunity to scope out their talent. He’d probably been recruiting local kids for various enterprises for years. Well over a decade, if Deke knew him from his days before prison. So many things that now made sense, if only I’d paid attention sooner.

Now, I try to remember the name of the shorter, muscular man who’d been in the building the first time I’d visited. Dutch? Something like that. According to Deke, there were multiple other players. Certainly Dutch would make for excellent hired muscle. Though there could be criminal partners I’d never met before. One, two, half a dozen?

I still don’t know what I don’t know.

Which doesn’t stop me from creeping around to the rear entrance, slowly cracking open the heavy glass door.

I pause, listening intently. No alarms sound, no bodies materialize on the other side. I slide myself through, halting again to get my bearings.

I can just make out a light down the long corridor, near Frédéric’s office. Which presents me with my first obstacle. Discovered in that corridor, I’ll be a sitting duck. And these guys have real guns they’re not afraid to use. Unlike me, who is the proud owner of a red rape whistle.

I take a steadying breath and do what I do best. Think like a reprobate. Seventeen-year-old me, desperate for a drink, confronted with the challenge of sneaking down a long, dark hallway unseen in order to score a bottle of booze, what would I do?

And just like that, it comes to me.

I dart sideways, hitting the checkout desk for outdoor equipment. Behind it, I feel around in the dark, making out the locked cabinets holding sporting goods. A touch to my hair, and I have my tactical hair clip in hand. Time to test it out.

It takes me a couple of tries—being in the dark doesn’t help—but then, with a click, the lock gives, the broad doors open up. I stick the hair clip back in my hair. Best four bucks I’ve ever spent.

Then I resume feeling around in the dark, identifying the texture of a basketball, the shape of a soccer ball, then baseball bats, mitts, balls.

I start with a baseball. Standing behind the desk, I wind up, then hurl it for all I’m worth at the glass doors. Nothing shatters, but there is a distinct clang as it ricochets off the metal doorframe, then careens around the space. I wait, poised and alert. When nothing happens, I follow with a basketball, then a soccer ball. More rattles and clangs.

Finally, from the end of the hallway. “Who’s there?”

In response, I bounce a basketball down the corridor.

“What the hell?”

I pound another basketball, followed by a second, third, fourth, fifth. Then, before I can think, before the person can think, I grab a bat and give chase, darting down the hall behind half a dozen bouncing balls and relying on them to mask my footsteps.

It’s Dutch. He has just enough time to look up. To register my form materializing out of the dark. His hand fumbles belatedly at his side.

Then I nail him in the middle with a baseball bat. As he folds over, I swing at the back of his head. I hold nothing back. He collapses and there’s blood. A lot of blood. Maybe I’ve killed him. In my adrenaline-fueled state, I have no idea.

I pause long enough to fumble around the body. I discover a radio clipped to his waist, as well as a handgun tucked in the back of his jeans. I help myself to both. Then I strip his sweatshirt half off his head and tie it up behind him, restricting his arms. Just in case he isn’t dead.

I check the gun long enough to flip the safety off. I’m no good with firearms. Guns are loud and violent. They take me back to places I don’t want to go and memories I don’t want to experience. However, this is no time to be squeamish.

Next, I check the radio. I turn the volume down, then flick it on. As I slowly turn it up, I hear a voice. Frédéric’s.

“Dutch, do you copy? Over.”

I think about it for a second, then start clicking. SOS. Over and over again. Let’s see what Frédéric does with that. I drag Dutch’s incredibly heavy body over to an open classroom, leaving just his feet visible.

Then I find the darkened doorway directly across from it and melt into the shadows.

A full minute passes. I know because I count off the seconds, trying to steady my breathing.

A figure appears. From this distance, I can’t be sure who. But as it draws closer, I can tell it’s not tall enough to be Frédéric. Henchman number two, I decide. I don’t recognize the approximate size and shape as someone I’ve met before, but it hardly matters.

Have baseball bat, will travel.

“Dutch?” the voice whispers. I resume my mental counting. Not yet, not yet . . .

“Dutch! What the hell?”

Feet spotted. Henchman number two racing toward his fallen comrade.

Not yet . . .

Now. I spring out the instant the man passes my doorway. A low swing of the bat, directly at the back of the knees and henchman number two is down.

He rolls over surprisingly quick. I have an image of a gun lifting. Hear the crack of it firing. Singe of heat, stinging pain. I swing the bat again and the gun goes flying. I smack the man over and over. Targeting arms, shoulders, chest. I’m breathing hard, a blur of fear and rage.

At the last moment, I halt myself, registering that the evil henchman is no longer moving but groaning low and bubbly. I’ve broken his ribs, I’m sure of it. I have an instant of guilt. Then I remember Livia’s dumped body, Deke’s dying form, and I’m over it.

I search around in the dark again. Find the fallen gun and toss it across the hall into the second classroom. Another radio is clipped around the man’s waist. I take it out. Then, I am once more on the hunt.

The dark hallway is quiet as I creep down it. I’m shaking head to toe. More bad guys? Dozens of them? I have no way of knowing. I’m trying to think of what I learned from Deke. A counterfeiting operation for student visas. Requiring one mastermind, followed by enough men to kidnap two teenage girls and force them into servitude. That shouldn’t require too many bodies. I think. I hope.

All criminal enterprises have the incentive to run lean. Fewer people for splitting the profits. Again, I think. I hope.

Assuming Deke was one of the minions, plus Dutch, and broken ribs guy, the operation is now down three. Can’t be that many more to go.

I think. I hope.

Up ahead. I see a light. I hear a voice. It’s not a man’s voice, though, but a girl’s.

“Quick,” she says urgently. “Wake up. Please, Emmanuel. Please!”

And just like that, I’m staring at Angelique Badeau inside a lit room. Her hair is pulled back tight—the image from her Tamara Levesque license. She wears jeans and sweatshirt, but she is covered in smears of red. Blood. From the van, I think. From the kidnapping of her brother.

Which brings me to Emmanuel, whose bound form lies prostrate on the ground. He doesn’t seem to be moving.

I’m too late.

“Please,” Angelique hisses again. She kneels at her brother’s side, shaking him hard. She is trembling, gaze darting around the classroom. I note several computers and what appears to be a pretty impressive printer. The heart of the operations, I think. But I don’t have to time to consider the matter.

Angelique is clearly on high alert. Because of the commotion I’ve made, or because she knows she and her brother still aren’t safe?

I want to say her name. I want to march in the room and declare, “My name is Frankie Elkin and I hereby rescue you.”

Except I’m terribly aware that a key individual is missing. Frédéric Lagudu, the center’s executive director and the voice I heard on the radio. So where the hell is he?

Angelique darts behind her brother, plucking at the knots on his wrists. And several things happen at once.

She looks up, spots me.

I hold a finger to my lips, gesturing for her to be silent as I heft up my bat.

She shakes her head frantically.

And I’m tackled from behind, the baseball bat flying from my grasp.

“You stupid bitch!”

I barely get my arms out in time to break my fall, then Frédéric is upon me, pressing down against my back, pinning me into place. His hand tangles into my hair, jerking my head back.

I buck helplessly, but I can’t get him off. He’s too heavy, and with my arms trapped beneath me, I can’t reach the gun at my waist, nor the bat rolling across the floor. He slams my face against the floor.

I hear a crack, my nose bursting into a bloody mess, my forehead ringing in stunning pain. Then he yanks up my head again, preparing for the second blow as my eyes water and my mouth fills with blood. He’s going to kill me. I am dying.

Not a bullet after all. How interesting.

“No, no, no!”

I hear Angelique’s voice. Then sense her running approach. Save yourself, I want to yell at her, but I can’t manage the words.

She barrels into my attacker, the weight lifting from my back as Frédéric topples to the side.

I roll away, staggering to my feet, trying desperately to get my bearings. The bat—where is it? Or the gun? It must’ve fallen from my waist because now I can’t find it.

“I hate you!” Angelique is scrabbling with Frédéric. He’s bigger, stronger. But she’s incensed, smacking at his head and face. An older sister, desperate to save her brother. A girlfriend, mourning her partner’s murder.

It’s not enough. With a twist of his arm, Frédéric throws her off.

“Goddammit.”

“Angelique!” I cry.

She barely gets her hands up before Frédéric socks her in the face, followed by a quick jab to her kidneys. She doubles over in pain, while I continue frantically searching the floor. Bat. Gun. Bat. Gun. My head is ringing, my vision blurred.

A fresh sound. Emmanuel, now awake. Emmanuel, still bound hand and foot, desperately trying to inchworm his way to his sister’s side.

“Angelique!” he screams.

Frédéric wallops her again and again.

“No,” I say helplessly, still staggering about.

Frédéric materializes before me. And now he’s the one with the gun. Sighting me, then Angelique’s weeping form, then Emmanuel’s bound figure.

It’s over. I can see it on his face. Simply a matter of whom to shoot first.

“Me,” I hear myself say. “Shoot me. The kids are no threat to you.”

“You bitch. You shouldn’t have come back here.”

“The police are on their way. Run now, while you have the chance. I’ll lie. Leave Angelique and Emmanuel alone, and I’ll send the police in the opposite direction. I promise.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. Deke told us everything, about the website, the fake student visas, Livia’s murder. It’s over now. Take your profits and get out.”

“I still have my prize.” Frédéric grabs Angelique by the arm, forcing her to stand. She gasps in pain. Her face is bloody, but in her eyes I see a fierce light of determination, or maybe it’s simply hatred for this man. It doesn’t matter, I’ll take either, as I finally spy the bat. Two feet behind her to the left. Too far for me to reach, but maybe not for her. If I can just distract Frédéric, buy Angelique a moment of time.

My gaze, darting to the bat, back to her, the bat. Her eyes widen slightly. I think she understands. I remember what Emmanuel said: His sister doesn’t dream, she plans. And I think that I’m very sorry I’ll never get to meet this amazing young woman, because there’s only one way I can think to grab Frédéric’s attention, and it doesn’t end so well for me.

Emmanuel, whimpering from the floor. Angelique, tensing in anticipation.

Frédéric, raising his gun.

And me . . .

I’m back in a liquor store, ten years ago. A young kid, sweating in desperation and shaking with withdrawal, waving a pistol all about. “Give me your money! All of it, now!”

Except I don’t have any money. I just spent the last of it on a bottle of vodka, right before I broke and called Paul and begged him, all these months later, to come save me from myself. Now the store clerk is wide-eyed and anxious.

Only Paul is calm, as he steps forward, raises his arms in a placating motion. “Easy now. No need for anyone to get hurt.”

Did the kid mean to pull the trigger? Or did it just happen? All these years later, I still don’t know. I just remember the sound of the gunshot. The look of horror on the kid’s face. And the look of surprise on Paul’s as he sank down, down, down.

The kid fled out the door.

And Paul . . .

Paul.

Now, I keep my eyes open. I want to see it coming. I want to watch death finally find me.

As I look Frédéric right in the eye, and charge forward. A split second where I register the shock in his face. He isn’t expecting it. He jerks the trigger wildly, releasing Angelique as he braces for contact.

She rolls to the side. Please grab the bat, I think—as I register pain, so much fucking pain. I drop, rolling across the floor, keep rolling.

Bang, bang, bang.

Screaming. Angelique’s, my own, Emmanuel’s.

Followed by a new booming voice. “Stop! Police! Lower your weapon!”

Lotham explodes into the classroom, leading with his pistol.

Frédéric pivots wildly, caught off guard by this fresh threat. Angelique appears behind him, bat raised high.

“LiLi,” Emmanuel cries.

“Police!” Lotham shouts again.

Paul is down. Paul is bleeding.

No, it’s me now. I am down, I am bleeding.

Angelique swings the bat. She connects with the side of his head, but not quite hard enough. Frédéric turns, gun still in hand . . .

And Lotham takes him out. Bang, bang, bang.

Angelique drops the bat. “Emmanuel! Please help my brother.”

“LiLi! Are you okay? LiLi!”

More pounding footsteps. Cops pouring into the room, flooding down the hall. I should say something, I should move. But I can’t seem to get to my feet. I can’t seem to find my voice. An unbelievable pressure is building in my chest.

Then Lotham is kneeling over me.

“Hold on there, Frankie. Just hold on. I got you.”

“Angelique,” I whisper. “Emmanuel.”

“You did it, Frankie. You found her. You rescued both of them. They’re safe.”

“Paul,” I say.

“He’d be very proud of you.”

I start to cry then. Blood and tears. Past and present. Old wounds and fresh scars.

“I got you, Frankie. I got you,” Lotham reassures me.

And I believe him.