The Night Stalker

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

I n the hall, I found a black man swimming in a pool of blood with a machine pistol clutched in his hand. He had been shot in the chest, and appeared to be dead. I made Tyra shut her eyes, and hopscotched around him.

Hurrying down the hallway with Buster, I glanced into several open doorways. Each had bloodied bodies lying inside, their hands clutched around high-powered, automatic weapons. Burrell was behind me, and I heard her gasp.

Whitley met us in the landing. He had secured the floor, and was waiting to escort us down. By my count, he’d killed six people, and hadn’t broken a sweat. I wondered if he had ice cubes in his veins.

“Let’s go,” Whitley said.

I followed him downstairs and out of the hotel. Broward Boulevard was quiet, and I crossed the street and walked into an open 7-11. Tyra would be taken to a hospital, and given all sorts of physical and psychological examinations, but right now she was going to get a treat. Treats were good when rescuing kids. It was an easy way to tell them that things were returning to normal.

“Hey, Tyra. Your mother made me promise to buy you ice cream,” I said, searching through a refrigerated bin. “What flavor do you like?”

Tyra pulled her head off my shoulder. “Vanilla.”

“That’s my favorite flavor, too. Do you like Dove bars?”

“Yeah.”

“Want something to drink?”

“Coke.”

I bought four vanilla Dove bars and a Coke, and went outside. Burrell and Whitley stood in the parking lot, facing the hotel. A cigarette passed between them.

“Ice cream,” I called out.

They came over and joined us. I gave them Dove bars, and we ate our ice cream and let Buster lick the sticks. It was starting to feel like a backyard barbecue when an unmarked black van screeched to a stop in front of the hotel entrance. A Broward County Sheriff’s Department SWAT team jumped out, and swarmed inside.

Tyra had seen enough, and I carried her down the sidewalk to my car. I unlocked the car, and climbed into the backseat with her clinging to me like my own child.

Minutes later, Burrell tapped on the glass. I rolled down my window.

“Everything under control?” I asked.

“Whitley’s got it covered. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

Burrell got behind the wheel, and I passed her the keys. As she started to pull away, Tyra lifted her head.

“Where are we going?” the little girl asked.

“To the hospital,” I said. “We want the doctors to examine you.”

“Will my mommy be there?”

Burrell pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling her right now.”

“Will my daddy be there?” Tyra asked. “I don’t want to see Daddy.”

She was looking at me now, her eyes wide and fearful.

“Why don’t you want to see your daddy?” I asked.

“Daddy was mean to me. He gave me to those men as part of a deal. My daddy said he’d come back to get me, but he never did. He’s mean.”

I saw Burrell’s eyes in the mirror. She had lowered her cell phone, and was hanging on Tyra’s every word.

“Tell me something, Tyra,” I said. “What happened to Sampson?”

“Oscar took him away,” the little girl said. “Sampson tried to escape from the room a bunch of times. One time, he even called someone on the phone. Sampson said if he got free, he’d come back and rescue me. I liked Sampson.”

There was a spot of ice cream on her chin, and I licked the tip of my finger and wiped it away. “Did Sampson tell you who brought him there?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Tyra said.

“What did he say?”

“Sampson said he had a secret friend,” Tyra said. “His secret friend came to his bedroom, and took Sampson away. He gave Sampson to the men at the hotel, and they put him in the cage with me.”

“Was Sampson mad at his secret friend?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did Sampson say who his secret friend was?”

“He called him Big Daddy.”

We had reached the Broward General Medical Center. Burrell drove around to the rear of the building, and pulled up to the emergency entrance. I opened my door and started to get out. Tyra squeezed her arms tightly around my chest.

“Are you going to find Sampson?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m going to find him.”

She burrowed her head into my chest. “Good.”

Hospital emergency rooms were hell on kids. People who’ve been shot, stabbed, and beaten up filled them late at night, along with drunks and druggies. If kids weren’t traumatized going into one, they usually were when they left.

I carried Tyra into the emergency room and found a quiet seat in the corner. The place was filled with hard-luck cases, many of whom were bleeding and battered. I made eye contact with every one, and watched them drift to other parts of the room.

Burrell brought a female doctor to where we were sitting. The doctor checked Tyra’s pulse, listened to her heartbeat, and looked into her ears without the little girl letting go of my chest. Burrell took the chair next to mine.

“I contacted HHR,” she said quietly. “They’re sending someone over.”

“Has Tyra been reported missing?” I asked.

Burrell shook her head no. By not reporting her daughter missing, Tyra’s mother had made herself an accessory in her daughter’s kidnapping and would be arrested, while Tyra would be turned over to an agent with Health and Human Resources.

“Where’s my mommy?” Tyra asked.

“She’s on her way,” Burrell said reassuringly.

“You said that before,” the little girl said.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Burrell said.

Tyra started to cry. Burrell went outside to see if the mother had arrived. She returned with a black woman dressed in shorts and flip-flops and wearing the vacant expression of someone strung out on drugs. I rose from my chair holding the child.

“Hey, Tyra, look who’s here,” I said.

The little girl turned her head. “Mommy!”

I passed Tyra into her mother’s arms. The woman let out a sob, and crushed her daughter’s head into her bosom. A uniformed cop was stationed at the door. Burrell told the cop to watch Tyra’s mother, and make sure she didn’t leave with the child.

“Yes, ma’am,” the cop said.

Burrell motioned to me. “Let’s go outside. We need to talk.”

Burrell walked out of the emergency room. I started to follow, and glanced back at Tyra, who was still in her mother’s arms. I hoped that her future didn’t include any more crack dens, or living in dog crates, or parents who used her in drug deals. I wanted her to have a normal life, with school buses and days at the beach and report cards and all the stuff a child growing up was supposed to have. She deserved a better life, and in my prayers I’d ask God to give her one. It seemed the least I could do.