Лиза Гарднер - Before She Disappeared

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.