Valiant Page 7
“Cherish and Valerie have been in foster care since they were young kids. Now teenagers, it’s hard to keep an eye on them, but we’ve always shared a mutual respect.”
Ms. Pritchett seems to be a respectable woman. A guardian of unwanted and forgotten children. Someone who may have experienced the same kind of life throughout her younger years, only to grow into an advocate. Not another foster parent begging their new children to be a part of their lives and customs. Not another couple forcing lost souls to comply with their every day demands. Ms. Pritchett’s parents had left her on the doorstep of a fire station when she was just a baby. She can relate and connect to the kids she adopted.
“Cherish and Valerie are sweet girls,” she says. “We fight over nothing. They wouldn’t run away. This isn’t like them. Especially since they left their cellphones and shoes behind.”
Ms. Pritchett hands one girl’s cell phone to me and the other to Dax. His thick fingers slide across the screen, only to reveal a prompt for a password. The screen I hold presents the same.
“Zero, one, four, three,” says Ms. Pritchett. “Like I said, we are close.”
Dax scrolls through Valerie’s content. Pictures of friends, selfies, nothing out of the ordinary. No recent plans found in her calendar. Nothing to explain why both of them would suddenly vanish into thin air.
The phone in my hands belongs to Cherish. Like her sister’s calendar, hers is free of any scheduled plans. What catches my attention, and what sends my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach, is a text conversation with messages from a young man named Austin.
True, there are hundreds of thousands of boys with the same name. It’s not until I browse through the photos when my suspicions are confirmed. On the screen, smiling and staring back at me, is Cherish with her arm wrapped around my daughter’s boyfriend and kissing his cheek. I can’t help but wonder where Haylee was when this photo was taken. I’m holding a snapshot moment of this little bastard’s life in my hand, and all I want to know is what Haylee was doing at that exact time. What lies she believed. What concern she had since the love of her life wasn’t around.
Turning off the phone, I shake my head and hand it back to Ms. Pritchett.
“Nothing,” I say.
Back in my squad car, looking through database information on my computer, the two girls are listed in the system a dozen times from someone trying to find them. The dates on their reports are from years ago, but no inquiries to suggest the twins had been causing any trouble.
Ms. Pritchett describes both twins as identical petite blonde girls. Blue eyes. Straight hair passing both sets of their shoulders. Most of the time they dress the same. It’s rare the two would ever be found apart. After all, they’re the only blood each one has ever known. The only difference, the only way to tell them apart, is by the tattoo of a dolphin behind Valerie’s left ear, about the size of your thumb.
Ms. Pritchett states she had been working late last night at her office downtown. Most nights she would come home to find Cherish and Valerie in their rooms, watching television or playing on their phones, already dressed for bed. No intention of leaving. But the night prior to this one, Ms. Pritchett came in late. She had assumed the twins were in bed asleep.
This morning, she didn’t see either of them, which was not unusual. The girls were both sixteen, old enough to ready themselves for school. It wasn’t until this afternoon as the sky darkened and the sun lowered to the horizon, that Ms. Pritchett became concerned. After hours had passed, she checked the girls’ room and found both backpacks lying on the floor next to their beds. Both cellphones still charging from the plugs in the wall. Both sets of their shoes sitting next to the closet. Their bedroom window closed but unlocked.
What you hope for is the best. When it comes to missing parents or guardians, it’s a concept we as police officers try to reinforce. Trust that it will all work out in the end.
The facts, however, could not be farther from he truth.
10. BURN THE BULL (PART 3)
KANSAS CITY, KANSAS - 2013
Susanne Schaeffer sat rocking back and forth in her cell on the edge of her bed. Her arms hugged her body and she mumbled her daughters name repeatedly while staring at the dust-covered concrete beneath her bare feet.
Expect the worst and hope for the best, and you’ll never be disappointed.
That’s a phrase Susanne lived her life by, but was usually recalled when opening the utility bill or hoping for a job promotion. Still, it was no shock to her when the two prison guards returned without her daughter.
Benjamin sat on the floor, curled against the corner of his cell. He watched as the guards approached the bars, one of them recording everything on his video camera. Mateo fumbled with the keys and once the lock clinked, the mumbling from the boy’s mother became a raging scream.
Mateo threw open the door, leaned down, and lifted the teenage boy over his shoulder.
Susanne ran toward the bars, slamming herself against them as though somehow she would be able to break through and stop the guards from taking her son. Cuts along her forehead and arms began to drizzle blood. Even if Benjamin stood a chance against the two large men, he was too weak to fight back. Mateo carried him like a fireman carrying a limp body. The last thing Benjamin would hear from his mother was her desperate plea to exchange her own life for his.
Lieutenant Schaeffer sat in his home, sipping a glass of whiskey and gazing at the floor. The commotion from the news on the television and the crew of police and detectives working in his living room was nothing but background noise. He knew who was responsible. He knew El Toro’s power. He knew the search for his family was nothing but a waste of time.
Benjamin had been saved for another breed of criminals. He was taken to a different room, a kitchen, on a floor above where his sister lay dead.
Waiting to greet him was the Captain, standing beside a rattling door with his hands folded behind his back. On the other side of the door were incarcerated men who could never be classified as human. They ran on animal instinct alone.
The Captain’s jaw moved to the chewing of his gum. Benjamin was stripped naked and slammed facedown over a metal table in the center of the room. His chest and stomach pressed against the cold steel as his feet and hands were spread apart and shackled.
Sometimes terror can send the mind into alternate states, preventing such horrified trauma from being experienced. In his own head, Benjamin was far away, playing video games. When the Captain opened the door, the boy’s attention came back into focus like the lens on the video camera being pointed at him by the guard.
Prisoners rushed into the room, like rats coming in from the rain. Some of them were already naked and hard. They clawed their long dirty fingernails into the boy’s skin, tearing away tiny bits of flesh. The pushed their way around him, like a small army of ants on a crumb of bread. They shouted, and licked his skin, trying to push one another out of the way so they could penetrate every orifice.
One thin, frail, and greasy man shoved himself into Benjamin’s groaning mouth. The boy clamped down, biting hard. The man shouted and punched the kid’s head repeatedly, unfortunately, not hard enough to knock him unconscious.
The man hurried to a kitchen drawer and removed a wooden rolling pin. He gripped a fist full of Benjamin’s sweaty hair, yanking his head back, and smashed his mouth over and over. Chunks of blood and broken teeth poured from his mouth. His painful cries turned to gargling as the man inserted himself once more.
Immeasurable pain tore throughout Benjamin’s body. His wrists and ankles bled from pulling against the cuffs. The one prison guard made his way around the crowd, making sure to capture every bit of horror on his camera.
In the corner, the Captain stood beside Mateo, watching and smacking his gum with a slight grin. He walked over to a deep fryer next to the stove and turned the knob to the highest setting. By the time the prisoners had finished and were satisfied, the grease had reached its boiling point, flicking drople
ts of hot oil against the Captain’s skin.
“Let him go,” he said, nodding to Mateo.
The guard unlocked the shackles from Benjamin’s feet. Blood and semen oozed down the boy’s thighs as he fought to stand on weak feet. The Captain snatched the rolling pin from the floor and tossed it to Mateo. The teen boy’s elbows and knees cracked with each blow. His screams faded to a high-pitched wheeze from his wide-open mouth as his body crumbled to the floor.
With the camera in his face, Benjamin was given an opportunity to say anything he wanted, but he could not form words.
Mateo lifted the boy to his feet. The Captain drew back his arm and delivered a devastating punch to the kid’s gut, knocking the wind from his lungs. Not that having any breath to hold would benefit in any way.
“Game over,” said the Captain.
His hand smacked against the back of the boy’s neck, shoving his head into the boiling grease. His forearm pressed hard against the back of twitching broken body. With shattered bones, Benjamin’s fight to push away was impossible. The scent of burning flesh penetrated the nose of the guards, yet not one of them flinched or turned away. The bull tattoo on the right shoulder of the Captain glistened to the terrified prisoners standing behind him.
Blood rose to the surface of the grease and turned black as it cooked. Underneath, Benjamin inhaled liquid fire. It sheared his lungs. His thoughts of ‘how much longer will it take for me to die’ were soon answered. Once his body fell limp, the Captain let go, and the body of his former Lieutenant’s son fell to the floor. Blood, grease, and melted chunks of skin puddled beside his feet.
The Captain’s gritty face panned the room of onlookers, most of them trembling.
One of the prisoners, a shaky Hispanic man dripping sweat, locked eyes with him.
“Miedo tiene nombre,” he said. “El Toro.”
The Bull’s clinched teeth began chewing his gum again as he grinned.
11. THE DOLPHIN
To those who have seen been there, the place where the abducted children are kept, it’s known as ‘The Hallway.’
In the basement of an old building is a stretch of rooms, six on each side, used to house The Bull’s victims. This place smells of mildew. There are no windows, only thick concrete walls. The carpet is dirty, worn and thin, and shredded in most places. This place has been forgotten, and left vacant underground for years.
The children line the walls, their chins hanging to their chests. Their faces masked with fear.
A thick black man with face that hasn’t been shaved for days stands at one end of The Hallway. He’s known for his heavy-set body and round belly, and for his use of narcotics. More specifically, his drug of choice—heroin.
With glazed dreary eyes, it keeps him in a state of nirvana, which is why they call him ‘Buddha.’
“Clothes off,” he says.
At the far end of the hall, Cherish and Valerie, two identical girls, stand shaking. Both are petite, both have blue eyes and shoulder length smooth blonde hair. Knowing their lack of choice to do so, they slide their pajama pants off, and toss them to the floor. Both of them pull white t-shirts over their heads and they land in a pile with all the others.
A young boy shakes from across the way. You can hear the trembling in his breath. His hands guarding his stomach as he hides his face against the wall.
Buddha steps to him, inches from his ear and whispers, “Clothes off.”
Frozen with terror and embarrassment, the boy doesn’t move. Buddha covers the lad’s mouth with his palm, smothering his whimpers. He presses hard against the bridge of his nose, pushing his head against the wall. The boy shrieks and tears trickle down over Buddha’s fingers. Sharp pain penetrates the boy’s head, lasting as long as he allows it.
He cries, okay! He submits.
Buddha releases his face, and the boy unbuttons his shirt and slides his pants from his feet.
“Everyone down on their knees,” says Buddha.
Every young body fresh with hormones. Girls only clothed in their bras and underwear. Boys dressed in only their briefs or boxer shorts. They all comply, slowly kneeling on their hands and knees. All of their skin, glistening with sweat. Every set of knees is weak and shaky.
A creaking sound from an opening door comes from above a staircase at the end of the long corridor. Wooden steps crack and thud, one by one, from the weight of heavy boots. A faint light creates a silhouette of a tall monstrous man. His features cloaked with shadows.
Valerie and her sister look to each other.
“Is that him?” asks Cherish.
His black pants with stuffed pockets at each knee, tucked into his tight-laced black boots. A dark gray tank top secured in his waistline secured by a black leather belt. His skin is tight over his swollen muscles.
“Welcome,” he says, pacing slowly with each step.
Making sure each face can see his boots up-close. Not one prisoner lifts their head to him. They stay crouched low, watching with terror as each foot strolls by.
“Of course,” he adds, “warm invitations are given to people which, as of this moment, you are no more.”
The Bull stands in the middle of the room, his hands folded behind his back.
“From here on out, I would suggest you clear your thoughts. Make peace with your fate.”
Scanning his eyes along the walls, he says, “We won’t be in this place for long. You no longer have homes. You no longer have families. You are no longer someone’s friend, boyfriend, or girlfriend. You no longer have names. You are no longer you. You are now products and will be treated as such.”
The young boy recovering from the pain in his nose, stares straight ahead at anything except The Bull, who stands in front of him. As The Bull’s fingers brush through the kid’s dark brown hair, the boy whimpers, but refuses to look up.
“Products are nothing to anyone, anymore,” says The Bull, walking on, “but worthless, they are not. They each have a price. They have value. What they were before, no longer exists. Their families will spend the rest of their lives searching, but what they search for will never be found. They will spend endless nights awake, but the prayers they beseech will never be answered.”
The Bull comes to a stop in front of a young girl with long stringy light brown hair, falling over her back passing her black bra clasp. She seems to be too young. The Bull raises his eyes to Buddha, who flips through a stack of papers on a clipboard.
“She’s seventeen,” says Buddha. “She’s from Lawrence.”
The Bull nods, moving along the rest of the line.
“Unfortunately,” he says, “products can also be stupid. They can malfunction, so to speak. So there’s a necessity to lay out some ground rules.”
Stopping, The Bull towers over a young athletic boy. Young toned muscles and an expression of confidence. The Bull makes a fist and pushes the boys forehead with his knuckles. When their eyes meet, the young man’s face changes as though he’s seeing the Devil for the first time.
“Products stay here and that doesn’t change until I say so,” says The Bull, walking along. “If a product finds its way out and runs, it shouldn’t raise its hopes. It will be stopped and it will pay. I don’t care if the product regrets it. I don’t care how sorry it is. I don’t care how much it begs for forgiveness. I will stare it down and watch the last bit of life escape its body, and then leave it hidden in the ground to rot.”
Passing by a young black girl with her head hanging low, The Bull pauses and kneels down beside her. His head tilted, inspecting the smooth skin of her shoulders and arms. He takes her hand and caressed it against his face. Examining her trimmed and pink-painted fingernails, The Bull inserts the girls finger in his mouth and wraps his lips around it. Satisfied with the taste of her skin, he stands.
“Now is not the time to be selfish,” he says. “Only people can be selfish. If a product is removed, it can be replaced. Think about that someone out there who could be next in line to be plucked.”
“Products will not fight. If they are considering an attack on myself or the other men, hear me now when I say, they shouldn’t be thinking at all. Other products are the ones that will be punished. And for the malfunctioning product, something much worse. If a product is hungry, it will be fed. If it’s dirty, it may bathe. If it is tired, it may rest.”
As though he had done this a thousand times before, The Bull steps closer to two more children. A young Hispanic boy and his sister. Both of them holding each other’s hands, interlocking their arms, pulling each other close. Bull pushes their shoulders apart, forcing them to separate and kneel alone.
“All products are innocent and pure. That’s how they stay. If one does anything to damage its body, it will be replaced. Damaged products are useless. Unless otherwise justified, a product need not worry about my men breaking it, or that man will be broken.”
Buddha stands watching alongside three other henchmen. The Bull looks to each of them, making sure his words were heard by those hired to help him.
“This is not a what-if scenario,” says Bull. “It has happened before and there is always the possibility of it happening again. This is the one time I give my warning.”
One of the men smirks, adjusting the hidden erection in his pants at the sight of one of the girls.
Bull squints at him, “No one fucks with the products,” and the man’s face goes straight.
The next two steps of The Bull lead him to Cherish and Valerie. The nerves of both girls make them sick to their stomachs. Nauseous, but not to the point of vomiting. As if they each had swallowed a heavy stone.
“Whatever assumptions are made that things will be okay,” says Bull, “that a product may have a chance of getting its life back, I’d suggest it clears that shit from its head right here and now because…”