“What are you talking about?”
“We found something in Peterson’s apartment, something that made me think about a possible connection between you two. So we asked the FBI to pull some records,” I explained. I put both hands on her shoulders and looked into her frightened green eyes. She was so young. A tough kid, but at sixteen, how much was she capable of bearing? “Cassidy, what we learned, well, it fits into what’s going on. I need to know if you want to hear it now or later, after this is all over.”
“What’s it about?” she asked.
“Like I said, it’s about you,” I repeated. “And it’s about Justin Peterson.”
The kid looked at me, scared. Apprehensive, she nodded.
“Okay, Lieutenant,” she said. “Talk.”
“Cassidy, I know this is tough, but you’re going to have to just listen for a minute,” I said. “First let me tell you about Peterson.”
The records were easy to find. It turned out that Peterson’s biological father was a housepainter and a drunk named Roy. When Justin was born they lived in a small house in Evergreen Park, outside Chicago. The local cops had an extensive file on the goings on at the house, where Peterson’s mom called nine-one-one on a regular basis. The patrols arrived and found the wife with a bloody nose or bruises, once a broken arm. The local uniforms hauled Roy in on domestic violence charges, but each time they had to drop them when the wife refused to testify. The couple had a second child, a little girl, when Justin was five. Not long after, the mother disappeared with both children. The woman was never heard from again. If Roy looked for them, it wasn’t for long. Even though there was never a divorce, he remarried. More battering reports came in from
the new wife, she eventually left him, and then, four years ago, drunk, he drove his old work van into a tree and died.”
“So that Peterson creep had a tough time. Too bad,” Cassidy said, with a smirk. “So did I. Do you want me to feel sorry for him?”
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“I just want him out of my life,” she said.
“There’s more,” I explained.
“What?” she asked.
I sighed. Sometimes when cases come together quickly, decisions are made on the fly, and it’s tough to know what to do. I hoped we’d made the right one, telling Cassidy everything. “Okay,” I said, taking the photo from Peterson’s apartment out of an envelope. “Now I want you to look at something.”
The kid stared at the photo doe-eyed, as if not sure what she looked at or, perhaps more important, what it meant. Finally, she put out her hands and took the framed photograph from me.
“Do you know anyone in that photo?” I asked.
The kid nodded. “Why do you have a picture of my mom?” she asked. “And who’s the guy and the kids?”
“That’s your father,” I explained. “And the boy, he’s your brother.”
“I don’t have a brother,” she said. “I don’t have any family. No one.”
“Cassidy, the FBI discovered that Justin Peterson was adopted. His biological father’s name was Roy Eckert, and Peterson’s mother’s name was Claire Eckert, just like your mother, and the baby girl Claire disappeared with was named Angie,” I said. “I’m pretty sure the people in the photo are Roy and Claire Eckert and their two kids, Justin and Angie.”
The kid stared at me, processing it all. “You think that Argus weirdo is my brother?”
“Yes,” I said. Cassidy’s eyes locked on mine. “I do.”
“No,” she said. “That’s crap. He’s not.”
“The FBI has confirmed that Justin was abandoned at an orphanage in Chicago just before your mother showed up in California. A year later, he was adopted by a couple whose last name was Peterson,” I said.
“Oh, my God,” she said, with a look of utter disbelief. “No. This is all crap.”
At that moment, the kid who’d held all of us at emotional bay turned away from me. Moments passed, but soon her shoulders heaved and she broke down, sobbing. I came up behind her and put my arms around her, and she turned and wrapped herself around me, holding tight, tears streaming. “He’s my brother. My brother. My mother abandoned my brother. How could she do that? How could she?” she whispered. “Does he know who I am? Does he know I’m his sister?”
“I don’t know. I can’t be sure,” I said. “Maybe not. Maybe your mom left him with that photo at the orphanage, and he doesn’t realize the connection, that you’re the baby.”
“How could my mom have done that, walked away and left him?” she repeated.
“I can’t answer that,” I said. “But maybe she couldn’t take care of both of you? Maybe she thought he’d handle it better than you would. You were just a baby.”
Cassidy thought about that, and then shook her head. “Justin doesn’t know I’m his sister,” she said. “If he did, he wouldn’t . . . If he knew, he wouldn’t be threatening me. He couldn’t.”
That was an assumption I wasn’t ready to make. “Cassie, whatever drew Justin to you, he’s become obsessed,” I said. “We don’t know how he’ll react when he’s confronted with the truth. We have to assume that he’s still a very, very dangerous man.”
“No, you’re wrong,” she said, her mood changing before my eyes. She no longer appeared frightened, but something else. To my
surprise, she began to look excited. “Lieutenant, he’s my brother. He wouldn’t hurt me. He just doesn’t know.”
“Cassidy, please listen to me,” I cautioned. “Don’t assume Justin Peterson’s not dangerous. That could be a very bad mistake.”
“Oh, my God. Think about it.
My brother.
I have a brother.”
“Cassidy, please, slow down here,” I said. “Relax and give this a little while to sink in, to think through it. We don’t really know what his motives are. We don’t know how he’ll react.”
“But he’s
my brother.
My family. You can’t hurt him. Promise me you won’t,” she insisted, holding onto me tightly. Tears still streamed down her face. “We’ll explain. Once we tell him, this is over.”
Y
ou sure this is necessary?” I asked Germaine Dunn, while she sprayed purple and yellow stripes in my hair. “I’ve been meaning to get a cut and maybe some highlights, but this is a little out there for me. I usually shoot for a more traditional look. You know, something that doesn’t clash with my Wranglers and holster.”
Dunn stepped back, sized me up, and chuckled, then tried to camouflage her enjoyment behind a studious frown. Her own riotously colored locks hung loosely in curls around her face, and she had enough eye makeup on to play Madame Dracula onstage. “If you’re going to look like one of us, yes, it’s necessary,” she said, diving right back in and pulling at my hair on both sides of my face to make sure she’d cut it evenly. She’d chopped it up in layers, to show off the color, which she’d repeatedly assured me would wash out. I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered what David would think, then reminded myself yet again that what he thought wasn’t a concern.
At that moment, Cassie sauntered out of the trailer bedroom dressed in black leggings and a gold-sequined minidress. Since this
wasn’t her full stage show, there’d be no cocoon or flying about on wings. But she had on her thick stage makeup, and the kid looked five years older than an hour earlier in the horse shed.
“Wow, Lieutenant, hot look,” she said, with a chuckle. “Wait until Maggie and your mom see you decked out like a Hollywood chick.”
“Yeah. I can’t wait. Somehow I think I’m in store for more ribbing than usual,” I said. Looking at her, I considered all the teenager had and was still going through. Tough breaks. Some things didn’t seem as important as they once did. “You know, we’ve spent a good bit of time together. I won’t mind if you call me Sarah.”
The girl looked surprised, but then smiled. “Okay,” she said.
“Okay who?” I asked.
“Okay, Sarah,” she said, looking pleased and perhaps even grateful.
The kid’s mood had been lifting ever since she’d gotten the news on Peterson. All she talked about was finding him and explaining who she was. That and that alone, she insisted, would end the nightmare.
Still unsure, I’d avoided any promises that I wouldn’t hurt him. The truth was that the day’s revelations had made the entire situation even more complicated. All I was certain of was that Justin Peterson had to be stopped before he had time to carry out his threats. Maybe, if we were lucky, Cassidy was right, and once we had him under control, all we’d have to do was talk him through it, explain, and it would all go away. That theory, for some reason, wasn’t jiving with my intuition, my subconscious voice that murmured quiet warnings. Over the years, I’d learned to pay attention when my instincts radioed all wasn’t well.
“How long until the limo’s here?” she said, turning to Germaine. “I’m jazzed. Ready to go.”
Dunn glanced at the clock next to the mirror and said, “Forty minutes and counting.”
We were in Cassie’s trailer parked within a secured area, near the freight doors on the north side of Reliant Stadium, Houston’s state-of-the-art football arena, part of a complex covering acres of land just inside the South 610 Loop. In the vast parking lot, cars and pickups sprawled as far as the eye could see, while a rambling, brightly lit carnival sold Moon Pies, chicken-on-a-stick, funnel cakes, turkey legs, popcorn shrimp, and cotton candy. I’ve always enjoyed carnivals. When Maggie was a little kid, we stood in line for twirls on the spinning teacups, but the Ferris wheel was my favorite. I loved soaring stories high, peering down at folks throwing rings onto bottles to win stuffed animals and catching glimpses of the banners that advertised Frog Boy and the Bearded Lady.
While we got ready in Cassidy’s bus, the rodeo unfolded inside the stadium. Tons of soft brown dirt had been bulldozed over the football field, turning it into a fitting stage for muscular cowboys who wrestled steers, yanking them down by the horns or tying their legs together in a quest for speed. Bull riders cinched their hands with leather reins to hold on tight, and the crowd cheered as barrel-racing cowgirls maneuvered powerfully built horses at breakneck speeds between brightly colored barrels. A win represented fame, money, and saucer-sized, silver-belt-buckle trophies.
Just after eight, as Germaine put the finishing touches on my new look, the captain called from his position in the audience to say our forces were prepared, everyone in place. The rodeo events were over, the cowboys backstage nursing their injuries, and workers had taken over, towing a circular, white stage surrounded by a canopy of spotlights onto the floor, readying it for the evening’s main event.
Opening day, the grounds pulsed with excitement, and the marquee bordering the freeway read: tonight: cassidy collins! with
the notation: sold out! There was no doubt that the teenager was the year’s most-sought-after ticket. Reliant held more than seventy thousand, and tonight it overflowed with a record-setting, standing-room-only audience. Every available ticket had been snapped up within fifteen minutes of sale time, a record. Scalpers sold the close-in seats for more than a grand, and the nosebleed accommodations emptied pockets by an average of two hundred bucks.
On this particular night, the crowd was young. As in Dallas, young girls filled the audience, some only eight or nine, many wearing Cassidy Collins pink T-shirts with sequined butterflies and hearts. Their faces mirrored their delight at being among the select. They were the envy of their friends, the kids the others would swarm the following morning at school, pumping for reports about all they’d seen, especially the teenage recording star, what she’d worn, what she sang, how she looked.
As the audience grew impatient, the stage was anchored into place and the crew erected three black tents behind it. That done, vans drove across the dirt-covered floor to stock the tents with equipment, props, and Cassidy’s wardrobe changes. Meanwhile, digging through the dirt to find electrical outlets, the crew plugged in the stage, powering its canopy ringed with spotlights. Less than half an hour after the rodeo competition ended, the chants in the stadium built as the crowds cheered for Cassidy.
Someone pounded on the trailer door, followed by a gruff voice. “We’re ready for Miss Collins, Lieutenant.”
I opened the door and found Buckshot dressed in blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and his silver belly cowboy hat. “You’re our driver?” I asked.
“That’s my assignment,” Buckshot growled. “The captain said I should drop you ladies off at the stage and pick you up at the end of the show, or sooner if that Peterson kid makes a move and we need to evacuate the girl quick.”
“Great,” I said, thinking the captain had made a good choice. Having Buckshot behind the wheel made me relax a bit, but just a bit. The drama Cassidy’s life had been barreling toward would take place, good or bad, in the next two hours. We’d done all we could to stack the deck: two hundred cops dressed in plainclothes and carrying copies of Justin Peterson’s Texas driver’s license photo. Their orders: shadow anyone who looked the least bit like the kid. If they thought they had a positive ID, call for backup before confronting the suspect and moving in to make the collar.
“Cassidy, let’s go,” I said. The kid bustled forward, sequins chattering, with Germaine on her tail, and we headed for the black limo parked directly outside the trailer. As we scurried inside, Buckshot scanned the horizon along with a ring of cops disguised as cowboys packing their gear. Moments later, Buckshot was behind the wheel. He drove through the stadium entrance, past the pens where the bulls, horses, steers, and calves queued up for each round of competition, while inside the limo, there was silence and a fidgety, uncertain, chest-tightening anxiety that signaled the time had come.
We stopped smack dab in the middle of the stadium, and David opened the door and helped us out. He took my hand, gave me a quizzical look, and said, “Nice hair.”
“Be careful,” I said. “I know where you live.”
He laughed. “Hey, all kidding aside,” he said, suddenly serious. “Keep safe.”
“You, too,” I said, meaning it.
He nodded, and Cassidy turned back to yell at us before she ran onto the stage. “Sarah, remember, he’s my brother. Don’t hurt him. Okay?”