Swerve Page 12

  He’s quiet for a few moments, and then, “There have been accounts of soldiers who were shot multiple times, but weren’t aware of it until the fight was over and the danger had passed. That’s the power the brain has to adapt. You can train the brain to prepare for survival. The military calls it battle-proofing. Using the mind to visualize scenes of survival to produce psychological strength. It’s sort of like meditation, I guess. Developing the ability to see in your mind a scene that you might have to live through. Like a firefight. You think of all the details you imagine you would experience. The sound of the gunfire. The smell of a nearby explosion. The screams of frightened women and children. The idea is that if the brain imagines something in extreme detail, it’s as if you’ve lived through the experience, and if you have something similar happen to you, your brain has already conditioned itself to surviving it. So, during some of our make-or-break exercises, like riding out a night in shark-infested ocean waters, I had already lived through that night in my mind. I would lie in my bunk, imagining a shark brushing past my leg while I barely managed to stay afloat. I felt my heart thudding in my chest, prayed the shark wouldn’t feel the pulse of fear. I made my brain accept that the fact that I would not move any more than I had to, to stay afloat. I wouldn’t try to swim away or shove the shark away from me.”

  Emory studies him, shaking her head a little. “That’s the opposite of what most of us humans do. We wait for the lightning bolt to strike before we understand what our response will be. So we are reliant on our most basic instincts. Fear, the irresistible urge to flee the danger rather than face it.”

  He nods, left hand on the steering wheel, his right thumb digging into the scar on his thigh where a bullet had once been lodged. “And you have to create a trigger.”

  “What kind of trigger?”

  “Your ultimate reason for living. The thing you go to when giving up seems like a good option.”

  “What was yours?”

  “In training, it was my parents. I knew how proud of me they would be if I made it as a SEAL. I would picture the look on my dad’s face if I could tell him that I’d made it. I wanted them to be proud of me like that. And then later, when I actually got on a SEAL team and had to fight for my own life and the lives of my team, my trigger was the determination that we would all return home alive. I would envision each one of us greeting our families at the airport. I made myself see their smiles and happiness instead of flag-draped coffins and grief.”

  She nods once, looking out her window. “I wonder if Mia is envisioning coming home. Living for the moment when I open the door, and there she stands. When she can scoop Pounce up in her arms and hug him tight. What if she gives up? What if she can’t imagine ever coming home?”

  Tears break in her voice, and he looks across at her, wishing for a moment that he hadn’t given her such a comparison to make. “If she’s anything like you,” he says quietly, “she’s mentally tough.”

  Emory wipes a hand across her eyes, staring through the windshield. “I don’t feel very mentally tough right now.”

  “Think about the things you’ve taught her, though, just by being who you are. How many eighteen-year-olds could take over the role of parent to an eight-year-old? She’s absorbed strength with you as a role model.”

  “You’re kind,” she says in a barely audible voice.

  “That’s not something I often get accused of.”

  “What do you get accused of?” she asks, looking at him now.

  “Getting the job done. Being efficient. Knowing what the end goal is. But kindness isn’t usually necessary to get those things done.”

  “You care about how I feel right now. That’s kind.”

  He shifts in his seat, switches hands on the steering wheel. Continuing to declare the label as ill-fitting seems like drawing attention to something he’d rather not draw attention to, so he chooses silence as the best option.

  “What was the hardest training mission? The one you thought you might not endure?”

  “Hell week and staying awake for five days straight. I always took sleep for granted. I could grab three or four hours and be fine if I had an exam in college or stayed out half the night partying and had to get up for class the next morning. But you go that long without any, and reality takes on a new meaning. You’re seeing stoplights in the middle of the ocean. Think you see a whale float by.”

  “Hallucinations?”

  “Yeah. Your buddy next to you is seeing things too, so you resist the urge to feel like you’re going crazy.”

  “How did you stay awake? Caffeine?”

  “No. That stopped working on day two. Moving was the biggest thing. If you stood still, you would fall asleep instantly. Moving was the only thing that kept you awake.”

  “Why did they make you stay awake so long?”

  “To make sure you can do it in a war zone. Seventy-two hours awake on a mission happens. You can’t stop and sleep. You’ve got to be able to complete what you’re there to do.”

  “Working as a detective must seem simple compared to that.”

  “Both jobs require you to deal with war. It’s dressed up a little differently, but some of the things I’ve seen in domestic situations have been a lot harder to process than what I saw over there.”

  “How so?”

  “In a war, you have a declared enemy, and, once identified, your job is to take them out. Here, when you get a call to a house where a husband has just shot and killed his wife and children, and he’s sitting in his living room holding the gun he used, you don’t get to finish the job and take out the enemy who just wiped out an entire family. You have to cuff him with restraint, read him his rights, and escort him to the legal system that might or might not fully hold him accountable.”

  “That’s hard for you,” she says in a voice that tells him she doesn’t need him to agree. “Do you believe in vigilante justice?”

  “The correct answer is no,” he says.

  “You don’t believe there’s ever any justification in a person taking the law into his own hands?”

  “There shouldn’t be.”

  “You think our legal system works perfectly and the guilty are always punished?”

  “No.”

  She considers this for a moment. “I once read about a mother who worked late shifts as a policewoman. She let her daughter sleep over at her best friend’s house when she had to work nights. When her daughter was twelve, she told her mother that the husband had molested her several times when she stayed there. The mother reported this to the police, but didn’t get what she thought was a fast-enough response. She thought other children might be in danger. So she abducted the man and drove him to a wooded area where she made him take off his clothes and tell the truth about what he’d done. After he got cold enough, he confessed, and she drove him back to the police station so that he could confess there also. He was arrested for rape, but the mother was also arrested for kidnapping with intent to commit murder. She was facing five years in prison but ended up getting probation. He went to prison for four years. Do you think she should have gone to prison?”

  “No,” he says instantly.

  “Me either.”

  “So we’re both of the vigilante mindset, I guess,” he says.

  “I don’t know that I want the label, but I do know that the world doesn’t always work as it should. I do know that if I have the opportunity to punish whoever took my sister from me, I won’t take it lightly.”

  He glances at her, sees the set of her jaw and realizes she might be even tougher than he’s given her credit for.

  Their exit comes up off the Capital Beltway, and he lets off the gas, rolling to a stop at the light, then pulling out behind the traffic. “We’re almost there. Not sure it’s a good idea for you to get out.”

  “I’d rather go with you than wait in the Jeep.”

  “Okay, but let me do the talking. I don’t want to set off any unnecessary alarm bells.”

  �
�You’re in charge,” she says. “My lips are sealed.”

  He glances at her, notices the smile, and then comes the unsummoned thought that they are indeed nice lips.

  Emory

  “A man is known by the company he keeps.”

  —Aesop

  THE STORE IS one of those hip retailers that feels more like a club than a clothing establishment.

  I step through the door just behind Detective Helmer, noting several twenty-somethings assessing strategically hung blue jeans with enough rips in the legs to justify someone throwing them away instead of buying them. How many conversations have Mia and I had on the wisdom of paying ridiculous prices for clothing that has been deliberately destroyed?

  “Emory, you’re such a square,” Mia had declared the last time I’d given in to buying her a pair.

  A beautiful, young woman with straight, waist-length, blonde hair greets us from behind the register. The name tag on the left side of her blouse says Madison. “Is there something I can help you with?” she asks with a smile.

  We walk to the register, and I notice the return smile Detective Helmer directs her way. And then I realize it’s deliberate because Madison is already melting before our eyes. By the time he pulls out his phone and shows her a close-up picture of the hat we’re looking to identify, she’s completely committed to answering his question.

  “We do carry the brand,” she says, engaging in direct eye contact with him. “It’s very popular. We can barely keep it in stock.”

  “Do you remember this exact hat?” he asks, leaning his right hip against the counter.

  “Sure,” she says. “We’ve reordered it a few times because it sold out. Haven’t been able to get another shipment though.”

  “Do you remember selling it to anyone?”

  “Yeah,” Madison says. “A few guys.”

  “Do you think you could describe them to me?”

  She leans back a bit, lets her gaze drift to me and then back to him again. “What’s this about?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.

  “We’re investigating a missing girl.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Not at the moment,” he says evenly.

  “What then?”

  He gives her a long look, as if weighing the necessity of being truthful with her. “I’m working for the family of the missing girl.”

  “Is this your assistant?” Madison asks with a small, borderline flirtatious smile.

  “The missing girl is my sister,” I say, taking a bit of satisfaction in watching her sarcasm collapse like a balloon denied helium.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” she says.

  Detective Helmer taps the screen of his phone and hands it to the young woman. “The photo is blurred, but this is surveillance video of a guy following the two girls who are missing.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes,” he says, tipping his head toward me. “Emory’s sister and her best friend.”

  “That’s awful,” she says, as if it’s just occurred to her that horrible things like this really do happen.

  Madison looks at the phone screen, then touches it and presses both fingers outward to enlarge the picture. She doesn’t say anything for a good bit, looking at the photo with a fixed expression. “It’s hard to be sure,” she says finally, “but I don’t think I’ve seen him before.” Madison glances at the camera above the door we came in through. “And anyway, I’m fairly sure I’m not supposed to be talking about customers. Like that’s probably an invasion of privacy or something. I could get fired.”

  My stomach drops at the letdown.

  Helmer folds his arms across his chest, and I notice his jaw clench. I realize in that moment that he’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants, when he wants it. Madison must notice too because she says, “Well, because it involves a missing girl, maybe it’s okay. I think he’s been in here before.”

  “Do you remember his name?” Helmer asks.

  “No.”

  “Can you get us a last name? Look him up by his credit card?”

  “He paid cash.”

  Helmer processes this, then says, “If you think of anything else about him, Madison, anything that might help us locate him, please call me.” He pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to her.

  She reads it. “I thought you said you were a private guy. This says MPD.”

  “I’m on hiatus,” he says. “You can reach me at that number though. Call me from your phone now so I’ll have yours.”

  “Okay,” she says reluctantly, dialing the number on the card from her cell phone.

  Helmer’s phone rings. He answers it, then clicks off and types her name in the contact.

  “I really hope you find her,” Madison says.

  “Thanks for your help,” he says.

  I follow Helmer out of the store, waiting until we’re both in the Jeep before I say, “I don’t know whether to be hopeful or flattened.”

  “It’s a start,” he says, one hand on the steering wheel, a set look on his face.

  “What is it?” I ask, sensing he’s holding something back.

  “Something tells me she wasn’t completely forthcoming.”

  “Why? What makes you think that?”

  He glances back at the storefront. “Sixth sense, I guess.”

  “What would she be leaving out?”

  “I don’t know.” He glances at his watch. “It’s eight-thirty. The store closes at nine. Let’s see what she does when she gets off work.”

  “You mean follow her?”

  “Probably a dead end. Let’s just make sure.”

  ~

  WE SIT IN silence for the next thirty minutes. Helmer has moved the Jeep farther down the street. We’re hidden in the shadows, but we can see the storefront. At nine o’clock on the nose, the store lights shut down, and a last customer straggles out the door and walks down the street, bag in hand.

  Just then, a Range Rover swings into a spot in front of the store. Madison walks out, looking right, then left, and quickly heads for the vehicle, climbing inside.

  “Who do you think is picking her up?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. It could be her boyfriend. But let’s follow anyway.”

  I buckle my seat belt and sit back as he pulls the Jeep onto the street and follows the Range Rover a few car lengths behind. It stays at the speed limit, makes complete stops at intersections. “Whoever it is,” I say, “they seem law-abiding.”

  “Maybe a little too much so,” Helmer agrees.

  We drive a good ten minutes until we reach a neighborhood in Georgetown. The Range Rover pulls into an empty spot. We drive on by, and I resist the urge to look back and see if I can get a look at the driver. There aren’t any spaces available farther down the street, so we have to circle the block. By the time we get back around, the lights are off, and the vehicle is empty.

  “Damn,” Helmer says.

  “Now what?”

  He aims his phone at the back of the Range Rover and takes several photos of the plate. “Let’s see how long her visitor stays and what he or she looks like when they come back out.”

  “Or they could be planning to stay the night.”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to be,” he says, looking directly at me.

  Neither do I.

  ~

  I’M SETTLED DOWN in the seat, expecting that we’ll be waiting a while, if the person even comes out at all. It’s a little shocking then, when a door to one of the buildings opens and a man walks out and heads straight for the Range Rover.

  “He’s wearing the baseball cap,” I say. “It’s him.”

  “Stay cool,” Helmer says, placing a hand on my arm. “We can’t draw attention to ourselves. We’ll follow him.”

  The vehicle starts and begins pulling out of the parking spot, just as Helmer’s phone rings. He glances at the screen. From my seat, I can see it’s Madison’s number.

  “Why would she be calling you?” I ask.

  “I d
on’t know, but here, answer it,” he says, handing me the phone and pulling onto the street. “I’ll follow this guy.”

  I slide the answer button on his screen. “Hello.” There’s no reply. I press the phone to my ear. “Hello.”

  “Help.”

  The word is so low I think I might have imagined it. “Madison?”

  “Please. Help me.”

  “What is it?” Helmer asks, looking at me with a frown.

  “She’s asking for help,” I say. “I think she’s hurt. We have to go back.”

  “If we let him get away, we might not find him again,” Helmer says.

  From the other end of the phone, I hear Madison say, “I’m . . . dying. Please.”

  “We have to go back!”

  Helmer hits the brakes and swings a U in the street. He guns it back to the apartment, pulling off the street without bothering to properly park. We both run for the building. I glance at the mailboxes just inside the front door, spot her last name and the number 208. We take the stairs two at a time.

  “I’m calling 911,” Helmer says. I hear him asking for an ambulance at this address just as we reach Madison’s door. Helmer bangs hard on the knocker, but there’s no answer. He turns the knob. It’s locked. “Stand back,” he says, and then rams the door with his left shoulder. It doesn’t give the first time, so he moves farther back and then rushes the door again. This time, part of the frame breaks, and he reaches inside to turn the lock so that it swings open.

  “Madison!” Helmer charges in, glancing left and right as he heads for the kitchen, calling her name again. I’m right behind him so that when he comes to a complete stop just short of the doorway, I barrel into him. He reaches back to steady me, and I step to the side, gasping at the sight before us.

  Madison is lying on the floor in front of the stove, a gaping wound in her chest, blood staining her white blouse red. Helmer drops to his knees beside her, feeling for a pulse in her neck. Her lids flutter open, and she stares up at us both, her blue eyes welling with tears. “I . . . I should have told you I knew him.”

  “An ambulance is on the way, Madison. Hold on, okay? Who did this to you?”