Kathy Reichs - Bones of the Lost - A Temperance Brennan Novel

“Why Ara? Why not Khandan or Mahtab or Laila or Taahira? Or were they in the crosshairs, too, you miserable sonofabitch?”

“Girls have shit going for them over there.” Cold now. Controlled. I again tightened my grip.

“And you were going to make the world their dance floor.”

Gross brought one knee up and planted his foot. Swayed. Steadied himself.

I raised the pipe. “One move and I bash in your skull.”

Our eyes locked. Gone was any trace of the falsely accused war hero. Before me was a calculating predator.

Several beats, then Gross made his move. Too slow, too obvious. I read it and sidestepped his kick. Thrown off balance, Gross stumbled, then spun to face me.

I raised the pipe, ready to swing harder than I’ve ever swung in my life. But my action was also signaled. Gross lifted his forearms to parry the blow.

I checked my motion, dropped the pipe low, and brought it up in his crotch with all the power I could muster.

Gross doubled over.

Giving me time.

I hammered his shins. His kneecaps.

Gross dropped and curled fetal.

I stepped close and raised the pipe over his head.

My heart pounded. My breath wheezed in jagged gulps.

A thin wail penetrated the pandemonium in my ears and chest.

I stood, weapon poised, muscles flexed.

The wailing separated into sirens.

Reason overrode primal fury.

Or maybe I knew help was at hand.

I did not bring the pipe down.

Shortly, cruisers screamed up to the fence. Doors slammed. Lights pulsed red and blue on the house of horror at my back.

EPILOGUE

October is schizophrenic in Charlotte. One day you’re in shirtsleeves. The next you’re pulling on jacket and gloves.

The cold arrived on Sunday. It was a bitch bringing plants inside one-handed.

Monday I decided to build a fire. After much clumsy choreography, flames danced behind the antique brass screen shielding the hearth. The parlor smelled faintly of smoke and pine.

I’d done my duty in the wee hours of Friday morning. Seated in the back of a cruiser, I’d answered a barrage of questions from Slidell, a few from reporters who’d caught word via police-band receivers. I’d even given Allison Stallings a heads-up.

I’d seen Gross and his victims placed aboard ambulances. Heard Slidell contact headquarters to ensure that the girls were met by interpreters and SANE nurses. Watched Majerick and Rockett loaded into an ME van. Then, at Slidell’s insistence, I’d accepted a ride to the emergency department at CMC.

Thanks to Skinny’s phone bluster, I was treated immediately. X-rays revealed a broken scaphoid and a linear fracture of the distal radial border in my right wrist. The ED doc was astounded at my tale of hefting a pipe. I went home in a thumb spica splint the size of a mallet.

Perhaps he knew the strength of the painkillers I’d been issued. Perhaps he was busy grilling Story and Gross. Slidell gave me the weekend before coming to visit. Bearing a floral arrangement the size of an offshore rig.

In the intervening days Slidell had learned the following.

The bullet Larabee dug from Rockett’s brain was fired from Majerick’s gun. So were the two dug from his gut, and one dug from the brick behind him.

The bullet in Majerick needed no explanation. I would not be charged. The shoot had been ruled self-defense, and extremely lucky.

Luck was with me twice, actually. Once when I pulled the trigger. Once when Gross did. He’d scooped up Majerick’s gun while chasing me from the warehouse. The magazine wasn’t full when Majerick arrived. He’d emptied it while shooting Rockett.

Raids on the other SayDo massage parlors had turned up eleven more girls, all Afghan. Those from the NoDa operation were found in the basement of a closed beauty parlor, in conditions similar to those at the South End warehouse.

None of the girls spoke English. None had a legitimate visa or passport. Their ages appeared to range from thirteen to seventeen. All were now in the custody of ICE.

The girl Majerick was beating when I surprised him was named Huma. Little Bird. She came from a village not far from Sheyn Bagh. Huma had contusions, abrasions, and a broken nose, but was doing well.

Archer Story had been arrested and charged with conspiracy to commit murder as to both Ara and Rosalie D’Ostillo, with maintaining establishments for prostitution, and with promoting the prostitution of minors. He was also charged with multiple counts of human trafficking.

John-Henry Gross was charged with all of those offenses, plus attempted murder as to me.

The madams of all four establishments were charged with participating in the prostitution of minors and with human trafficking.

North Carolina statutes state that an individual commits the offense of human trafficking by knowingly recruiting, enticing, harboring, transporting, providing, or obtaining by any means a person to be held in involuntary or sexual servitude.

If the person is a minor, that constitutes a class C felony. At forty years per offense times at least sixteen victims, the defendants were looking at 640 years just on the trafficking counts. No wonder they were all scrambling to make deals. Story and the madams were singing like canaries on crack.

Story was claiming ignorance of any knowledge of trafficking or prostitution. His lawyers were proposing full cooperation in return for a sentence not to exceed fifteen years. Mrs. Tarzec and the other madams were offering guilty pleas in exchange for maximum sentences of eight years.

Gross’s attorney had approached the DA about a plea to reduced charges. The DA wasn’t biting.

“Will any of the girls testify?” I asked.

Slidell snorted. “They’re so freaked they won’t even raise their eyeballs when I’m talking to them.”

“But Majerick is dead and Gross is behind bars.”

“The pigfucks kept them cowed by threatening harm to their families. Majerick made the rounds with your morgue shot of Ara and Majerick’s pic of D’Ostillo. Said if anyone tried to run or slack off they’d get the same.”

“Majerick was citizenjustice?”

“Ee-yuh. Smarmy little bastard was watching from a truck outside the taquería. He dimed Gross to report that D’Ostillo was talking to us. Gross ordered her taken out in a way that would impress.”

“D’Ostillo saw Majerick with Ara and the other girls.”

Slidell nodded glumly.

“More coffee?”

“You able to pour with that sledgehammer you got for a mitt?”

“Funny. Three sugars, right?”

I went to the kitchen, returned, and handed Slidell his refill.

“Did that bird just tell me to kiss its ass?”

Charlie was raised in a brothel, rescued by Ryan, and gifted to me following the raid. His was not your standard “pretty bird” repertoire. I didn’t feel up to explaining that to Slidell.

“Why kill Ara?” I asked, resuming my seat.

“Majerick was driving her to the joint in NoDa. The version he gave Story was that she jumped from the truck. Archer was shocked when he learned about the accident. After the fact, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Majerick was violent and had a hair-trigger temper. When the kid rebelled, he probably lost it and ran her down.”

I pictured an imp in a group of six, holding mischievous fingers above her friend’s head. Knew it was true. Knew Ara had possessed the spirit to resist.

“And the monster just left her there.”

“Majerick told Story there was too much traffic to collect the body without being seen. And no chance he’d take her to a hospital, anyway.”

I recalled the empty stretch on which Ara had died. Felt tears start to form. Slidell’s question brought me back from the brink.