The Chase (16 page)

T
igo escorted Kariss inside her condo and drove home convinced she hadn’t listened to any of his warnings or advice. He’d gone there with the purpose of convincing her to lay low until the Arroyos were brought in. Unfortunately, she held the trophy for stubbornness.

While she readied herself for dinner, he’d accessed her laptop. He walked an ethical line there, but she’d given him permission.

The folder labeled “Cherished Doe Manuscript” had a first chapter, but he wasn’t interested in reading it then. The file “Characters” would be a later pursuit, but the one titled “Notes” had sparked his attention.

She’d duplicated everything in the FBI file about Cherished Doe and made comments in the left-hand column for events that must have importance to her story. He valued her orderly accounting of the press conference and represented media. No fiction there, only details in a well-journaled fashion. Still scrolling, he’d reached the portion surrounding Gilberto’s and Xavier’s visit to the FBI. Tigo had stopped to analyze a highlighted portion about Xavier.

I don’t understand why neither HPD nor the FBI will investigate the possibility of Xavier’s child. He’s lost one little girl, and my heart goes out to him for a possible second.

Finding nothing else to link her to dangerous activity, he’d moved on to check what websites she’d accessed, hoping to find more information about the newly purchased gun. Typical sites popped up, writing and marketing blogs, thesaurus, a ten-thousand-year calendar — Tigo wondered if she was thinking about writing sci-fi — a reverse dictionary, and fbi.gov. He’d scanned other sites until he felt reasonably certain her purchase of a handgun was precautionary. Again he’d wondered if her CHL would be an asset given the circumstances. He’d have to find out where she planned to take the classes and offer to take her to the shooting range. If she was determined to learn how to protect herself, then Tigo wanted to make sure she developed good habits.

Kariss’s tenacity might have gotten her far in the book publishing world, but in the world of crime solving, trudging ahead without a plan was deadly. If the Arroyos were not taken into custody soon, she’d be dead before the book was written. Her persistence reminded him of a few reporters — had to have the story no matter where the scoop led. Well, he’d done all he could to warn her.

Tigo wanted her inside the FBI office every day, seven days a week. He’d gladly bring in a cot. But he couldn’t force her to do anything. Nothing in his past equipped him to deal with Kariss Walker — not his stint in the marines, the work in Saudi Arabia, or his FBI training. To make matters worse, she filled too much of his thoughts. He wished she had a wart on her nose or bad breath.

Once home, he spent a few minutes at his mother’s bedside. She’d had a restful day, and for that he was grateful. His thoughts eased back to dinner and how stunning Kariss had looked. Did she have any idea what her eyes did to him, or how he’d like to run his fingers through her thick curls?

“Kariss Walker, you’re nothing but trouble.” He looked at his sleeping mother and addressed his next comment to her. “And you’d like her spunk.”

Having his and Ryan’s disguises finished would go a long way to eliminate some of his stressors. The paperwork containing new ID and the past ten years of illegal arms trading in Ecuador were in place for both of them.

Later on tonight, he’d return a call to Hershey. The man supposedly had contact information for those wanting to purchase arms. Tigo trusted Jo-Jack more than Hershey. Hershey had an agenda of his own between gun sales and building out the units for transport. How long Tigo could use his daughter as leverage remained to be seen.

If only he could find Jo-Jack. Where was he hiding? A thought occurred to Tigo. He picked up his phone and pressed speed dial for Ryan.

“I have an idea where Jo-Jack’s hiding out.”

“Where?”

“Conroe. His hospital records list a brother living there. Last name of Elston. Must be a half-brother. Want to look him up first thing in the morning? I can pick you up around seven-thirty. Drop you by your car later.”

“Deal. How’d it go with Kariss?”

“Don’t even ask. Can’t believe I’ve let her get under my skin.”

Ryan chuckled. “Did she admit working with Xavier?”

“Yes. On a phone basis only. But I know Xavier is motivated, and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him no.”

“Have you met your match?”

Tigo hoped not. But he had considered picking her up each morning and delivering her back home each evening just so he knew where she was.

Tuesday morning, Tigo and Ryan drove to an address northeast of Houston down a graveled, dead-end road. Surrounded by spindly pines and thick brush, the battered trailer house looked older than Tigo. Weeds had nearly taken over, and a rusted-out Chevy looked like a nesting ground for snakes. If not for two mangy dogs sniffing at his truck, he’d have assumed it was deserted.

Jo-Jack and his brother had fallen on hard times.

Tigo and Ryan exited the truck and drew their firearms. Tigo detected the smell of burning charcoal. Odd, since most breakfasts weren’t barbecue.

“Do you smell that?” Ryan said.

“Sausage possibly.”

“I was thinking more like someone whipping up a batch of meth.” Ryan gazed into the trees as they walked to the trailer’s door. “Depends on what’s on the menu for breakfast.”

“Anything’s possible.” The dogs followed them and wagged their tales. Tigo pounded on the door. “Mr. Elston, this is the FBI. We have a few questions for you about your brother.”

Not even a whisper of a sound.

He pounded the door again. “If anyone is inside, please show your face.” He turned the knob. Locked. “Ryan, be my guest.”

Ryan kicked in the door. Tigo stepped in, his Glock positioned to fire. In the shadowy area, he smelled rotten food and human waste. His black coffee threatened to reappear. Beer cans, broken furniture, and trash littered the area, while weeds grew up through the floor.

“Mr. Elston, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The two searched the small area, finding nothing but more of the same filth.

“Tigo, I bet Jo-Jack’s been here,” Ryan said from the kitchen area. “I’ve found gauze, bandages, peroxide. Here’s some tape too. Ah, a couple of Snickers wrappers.”

Jo-Jack’s candy of choice.

Tigo and Ryan resumed their search outside where charcoal lay gray-hot in a grill.

“Whoever was here must have seen us pull up.” Tigo scrutinized their surroundings. “As hot as it is, living inside would be impossible.” He pointed to a dirty cooler and lifted the lid. Bacon, sausage, and hamburger lay piled beside a half dozen eggs. Beside the grill lay a skillet blackened by the coals and paper plates with two forks and a fishing knife.

The dogs attempted to bury their noses in the cooler, but Tigo snapped the lid back into place. The two men scrutinized the thick pines that reached up to a blue sky.

“Jo-Jack, if we can find you, so can the Arroyos. They haven’t given up. We can keep you safe but not here. You were badly hurt the last time we spoke, and I bet you need a doctor now.” He stared deep into the brush and saw a narrow path. “We’re going and won’t be back. You know how to reach us. Cooperation with the FBI is the only way to keep you alive.”

The only sound greeting them was a mockingbird. A crow flew overhead. Tigo glanced at Ryan. “Let’s go. We have work to do.”

The two walked toward the truck.

“Wait,” a voice called from the thick pines to their right where Tigo had noted the path. “My brother needs help.” A bone-thin man stepped from the woods, grasping Jo-Jack around the waist.

A growing stain of fresh blood on Jo-Jack’s dirty T-shirt caught Tigo’s attention, and he hurried to help. “Call 9-1-1,” he said to Ryan.

Tigo met the two men and together they lowered Jo-Jack to the soft ground. “How long’s he been bleeding like this?”

“Gets worse every time we move to the woods,” the weathered brother said.

“How often do you make the trip?”

The ashen color of Jo-Jack’s face indicated the end was near.

“An old lady lives at the intersection of this road. She calls whenever someone turns this way. Kids mostly. Head back here to smoke pot.” He swiped at his nose.

“She’ll be calling. An ambulance is on its way.”

Jo-Jack’s eyes fluttered. “No. They’ll find me.”

“Not this time. We’ll make sure the hospital uses a different name. Then we’ll get you to a safe house like we promised before.”

“Leave me here.” Jo-Jack sucked in a breath. “I’ll be okay.”

Tigo lifted the T-shirt. Infection oozed from an abdomen hot with fever. The Arroyos might not need to finish Jo-Jack off. Tigo turned to Ryan. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in the truck. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll get it.” Ryan sprinted to the truck.

“A clean bandage would be nice,” the brother said. “I have peroxide in the trailer.”

“He needs more than what we have, like antibiotics and treatment for infection.” IVs and possible surgery ranked high on Tigo’s list as well, but he’d not frighten the two men.

“I’ve been worse,” Jo-Jack whispered, his words an effort.

“If you don’t get help, you’re not going to make it. We need you alive.”

“This ain’t livin’.”

He had a point, but not if Tigo had a say in the matter. He stared at Elston. “Did you help him leave the hospital?”

The man nodded. “He was scared of the Arroyos. I’ve been takin’ good care of him.”

The infection proved the quality of his care. “Don’t do it again, or you’ll kill him for sure. Jo-Jack, I need names. Places.”

A cell phone rang and the brother answered. “Yeah. We’re doing all right. Call me when the ambulance turns this way.”

Jo-Jack’s eyes closed, and his body lay limp.

C
reative people often slid into depression. Kariss recognized the symptoms and had acquired tools to beat off the monster when she sensed it camping on her doorstep. Tuesday morning, the self-talk accomplished nothing. She told herself how lucky she was to share the same disorder as the great masters: Dickinson, Poe, Emerson, Dickens, Faulkner, Hemingway, Melville, Tolstoy, O’Keefe, Gaugin, Michelangelo, Van Gogh, Rachmaninoff, Schumann, and Tchaikovsky. Ah, she had the list memorized.

Analyzing her mood this morning didn’t chase the blues away. She should have taken a three-mile run. Eaten a better breakfast than an oatmeal-raisin cookie from Starbucks. Brought her iPod to the office so she could listen to soothing music.

Paralyzing truth seized her. Her stomach curdled. An unbidden memory of Nikki surfaced, and the fire became as vivid as it had been the afternoon it ended a little girl’s life….

The fire engine’s siren pierced the air and grew louder while smoke billowed from the windows of Little People’s Academy Day Care. Children covered their ears. Some cried. Caretakers counted the children in their charge.

Kariss searched through the two-year-olds in her class. “Where’s Nikki?”

“With Erin,” the lead teacher said.

Kariss spotted Erin beside her sister, who worked with four-year-olds. Nikki was nowhere in sight. She hurried to Erin. “Where’s Nikki?”

The young woman’s eyes widened. “I don’t know. I thought she was with you.”

Kariss gasped. “She was asleep and assigned to you while we were outside. Did you leave her alone?”

Erin paled, and reality shook Kariss. She raced to the side door of the day care that led into the two-year-old room.

“Don’t go back there,” the lead teacher said. “Kariss, stop!”

She ignored the many shouts and flung open the door. Smoke filled the room, clouding her vision and making it difficult to breathe. A child coughed, then screams rose from a cot in the corner.

“Nikki, I’m coming.” She grabbed the little girl just as the wall collapsed. Flames crackled and sputtered, raining debris onto Kariss’s lower back, burning her shirt and scorching her flesh. She fell with the weight, holding Nikki close to her chest. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I have you.”

Suffocating heat stole her breath. Nikki coughed harder. “Lord, save this baby.” Kariss still couldn’t remember if her plea was uttered or if it was a silent banner meant to reach heaven’s gates. All she could think about was protecting Nikki from the flames. The ceiling creaked and gave way. Something struck her head, and Kariss passed out.

When Kariss had awoken in the hospital, her parents surrounded her bed. Her back felt like someone had lit a match to it, and her throat burned.

“You’re going to be okay,” her mother said. “Don’t try to talk.”

“How’s Nikki?” She didn’t care about herself.

Her mother stroked her cheek, like she did when she was a child. Kariss’s heart thumped.
No, please, not little Nikki.

“Honey, she didn’t make it.” Tears flooded Mom’s eyes. Dad took her hand on the opposite side of the bed.

Nikki, my little angel.
Pale-blue eyes mirrored the sky and a mass of thick, blonde hair hung to the middle of her back.
That’s when I hit the Mute button on God.

Kariss attempted to shove aside the haunting scene. How many times had she told herself it wasn’t her fault? She’d done her best. No one blamed her.

She stiffened her resolve and touched her back where the scar served as a reminder. She placed her trembling fingers on the laptop. Would the overwhelming guilt ever end? Wasn’t there a way to redeem herself?

Chase it away, Kariss. You can do this thing. It won’t bring Nikki back, or Benita, but it can bring awareness.

She raised her chin, closed her eyes, and returned to her story. She could do this.

While waiting for Tigo and Ryan, Kariss finished the first chapter of her novel, knowing she’d return to it several times before the book was finished. She’d massaged the facts of the case and begun a fictionalized version of Cherished Doe.

The title didn’t grab her.

The hook was lame. But she had four hundred pages to travel alongside her characters before correctly penning that crucial first sentence.

She could not, would not, give up on writing this story.

Tigo and Ryan arrived late morning. Tigo wore a frown, and Ryan’s forehead crinkled like a man ten years older. They’d missed an interview in which Kariss was supposed to tag along, unless they’d conducted it before they arrived.

Tigo stood before her desk. Something akin to deep concern emitted from his eyes.

“What’s wrong? Is this about the missed interview?”

“We can handle that tomorrow. This is about Jo-Jack.”

She didn’t like where this was going. “You found him.”

“We did. Living out in the middle of nowhere. Infection had set into his abdominal wound, and he died before the ambulance arrived.”

How many had to die before this ended? “I’m sorry.” The memory of the two shooters in the surgical waiting room made her shiver. They’d ultimately been successful in eliminating Jo-Jack, and now they were trying to find her. “Were you able to talk to him before he died?”

“No. He was afraid. In intense pain. Had no will to live.”

She understood giving up. This morning, she’d wanted to pack up and head to the West Coast. She’d write a book that pleased her publisher and her readers.

But a man had just died. If she slithered into the past, then she had no more gumption than Jo-Jack.

She met Tigo’s eyes. A man who faced danger like she shopped for lipstick. He was wired so differently from anyone she’d ever met, and he lived in a world foreign to hers.

“I’ve done enough reading about the gun-smuggling problem to understand how important this case is to you. I know Houston is Mexico’s largest gun supplier, and I can only imagine the lives that have been destroyed because of it.”

“Cartels in Mexico recruit gangs to help them purchase and transport guns and ammo across the border. They also prey on the innocent.”

“You mean they threaten people if they don’t help them?”

He nodded. “Kids, desperate fathers who need to provide for their families, and single women are used as mules to drive the weapons into Mexico. The gangs can’t do it. They need people who don’t have a police record.”

“But how do huge shipments of weapons and ammunition get across the border if they’re driven in regular vehicles?”

“Several cars and trucks are used, often equipped with hidden compartments, and this method is safer for the gangs. Smaller shipments reduce the likelihood of getting caught. About three months ago, we stopped a car filled with semiautomatics stored in the floorboard. That vehicle was driven by a pregnant woman.”

“Aren’t weapons available in Mexico? I mean, the cartels are carrying on war there.”

“Not the kind or the amount the cartels want. An assault rifle that sells for a grand here sells for two to three thousand dollars there, depending on who has to be paid off en route.”

She saw the determination in his eyes. No wonder he wanted to get past finding Delores Olvera. The gangs and gun smugglers had become his passion just like she wanted to help Xavier locate his child.

“I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to bring in whoever is responsible.” She moistened her lips. “That sounded like a computer-generated answer. I mean you have the skills to stop them. You and Ryan risk your lives so the rest of us are safe.”

Tigo offered a slight smile. “You must be in the writing mode. Ryan and I aren’t the only ones chipping away at this case. We’ll get there.” He left her work area, then retraced his steps.

“Your CHL workshop is Saturday, right?”

She nodded.

“I might go too.”

“The gun shop owner told me various law-enforcement types often speak to the group about their experiences.”

Tigo crossed his arms over his chest. “Not so sure my stories would be entertaining.”

Kariss knew different.

He walked back to his cubicle. No doubt losing Jo-Jack to the Arroyos’ vicious methods of keeping themselves clear of the law had to weigh on his shoulders. Tigo must have determination in his DNA — that and compassion. The latter was a trait he didn’t reveal often, but she’d seen it and felt it.

After lunch, she planned to visit Catholic Charities. Her call to Child Protective Services had nearly defeated her, but she hoped today’s meeting would offer more hope.

The problem was the five-year span during which Delores could have given up her baby at any time. The likelihood of an infant being immediately adopted in comparison with a toddler loomed over her. She called Gilberto and asked to speak to Xavier.

“Miss Walker, it’s a pleasure to hear from you.”

If only she had something to encourage him. “I’m driving to Catholic Charities this afternoon, and I have a few questions.”

“Anything, Miss Walker.”

“Please call me Kariss.”

“Thanks. I’d ask to join you, but I have a few people to see. I appreciate all you’re doing to help me.”

“I’ve done nothing yet but give you bad news.” She formed her words for what she needed to ask. “Did you and Delores discuss any names for the new baby?”

“For a boy — Gilberto after my brother. That’s what I wanted. But considering what she did to Benita and my family, I doubt if she’d have used his name. We didn’t talk about a girl. Why?”

“Sometimes when parents abandon their children, they pin a note onto the child’s clothing indicating a name. Not much to go on, but I wanted to ask before I had my meeting this afternoon.”

“I’m trying to remember if she ever mentioned a girl’s name. Benita is her grandmother.”

“What was her mother’s name?”

“Delores hated her mother.”

“Your mother’s name?”

“Delores, like my wife. I’m sorry. If I remember a name, I’ll call you.”

The search tipped into the hopeless arena, but she refused to sink there again. The logical side of her said to give up, but something urged her on, as though she hadn’t looked in the right place. The thought kept her awake at night, and she couldn’t imagine how Xavier felt. Optimism had to rule. Catholic Charities might provide wonderful information.

“How are you holding up?” she said.

“Okay. I’ve been going to every apartment in the complex to see if they remember Delores. Most of them have never seen her. It’s been too long. People are friendly and sympathetic, but that doesn’t give me any answers.”

“What will it take for you to give up?”

“Someone in this city knows about my child. I don’t want to think about going back to Mexico until I find the truth. And my time is running out. I don’t know how long your government will let me stay here. But I hope it will be long enough for them to find Delores.”

“I hope I learn something today. I’ll call after I return from my appointment. Xavier, if Catholic Charities doesn’t provide answers, we still have one more option through newspaper archives. If nothing turns up there, I’m fresh out of ideas.”

“You do what you think is right. But I can’t give up. I told Agent Harris that I’d talk to the man who claimed to see Delores at Walmart. See if he’d talk to the FBI.”

“Maybe he has more information.”

“He’s afraid because he’s illegal. If he’ll tell me about Delores, then I can give the information to Agent Harris.”

Xavier’s tenacity wove a fresh path of resolve in Kariss. Although the question of what was the best outcome for him often stalked Kariss’s most noble intentions. If Delores had deliberately allowed Benita to die, then what kind of abuse could she inflict upon another child?

Taking a deep breath, she realized that someday she needed to explore the Bible again. Who was God really, and did He care what happened on this chaotic planet?