Furious (20 page)

“Shit.”

“Wrong answer.” Beast cocked the gun.

“OK, OK! A guy named Patrick pays me when I bring him new girls, but that’s all I know!”

Beast pointed at his thigh and fired a shot.

Screaming, the man grabbed his leg and rolled to his side.

Up ahead, the car door opened and the girl started to climb out of the Nissan.

“Get back in the car!” Beast told her. “Last chance,” Beast said, redirecting the gun at the man’s head again.

“Del Paso Road . . . Bill’s Liquor Store. That’s where you’ll find him.” He grimaced as he held his leg.

Beast unloaded the cartridge from the firearm, used his shirt to wipe off any prints from the piece, then tossed it on the ground and left.

T
HIRTY
-F
IVE

Mom had taken Dad to his therapy appointment and Faith was fixing a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Mom hadn’t said anything about expecting a visitor, and Rage wouldn’t be coming for another few hours.

She ran to the sliding glass door and looked through the curtain to the backyard. It was raining so hard that it was difficult to see beyond the workshop. She turned around and ran upstairs to grab the pistol Beast had loaned her. By the time she hit the last step, somebody was knocking.

She walked slowly to the door.

Her hands were shaking.

She stood off to the side. “Who is it?”

“It’s Corrie Perelman. I need to speak with Faith McMann.”

Faith peered through the peephole. It was indeed Corrie Perelman. Slippered feet stuck out of a long raincoat. Water dripped from an umbrella at her side. Faith opened the door, surprised by the women’s perseverance.

“I’m so glad I found you. I’ve been desperate to talk to you.”

“Why don’t you come inside,” Faith said with a sigh, “and I’ll fix you a cup of coffee. Do you drink coffee?”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

Corrie shook the water from her umbrella and left it on the welcome mat; then she stepped in and pulled the wet hood away from her face. As she followed Faith across the hallway and into the kitchen, she let out a ponderous breath and said, “My husband didn’t want me to come, but I had to see you.”

Faith gestured for her to have a seat on a stool at the kitchen counter. She set a mug of coffee along with cream and sugar in front of Corrie. Feeling a bit of guilt after the way she’d talked to her the last time on the phone, Faith reached over and placed a hand on hers. She’d done a little research about Corrie, and it wasn’t all good. Ever since her daughter had disappeared, people referred to her as Crazy Corrie. It wasn’t nice, and it wasn’t fair.

“I saw my daughter in my dreams again last night,” Corrie blurted. “I often see her when I dream, of course, but this felt different somehow. Have you ever had a dream like that? One that felt so real that you woke up and had a hard time convincing yourself it didn’t really happen?”

Faith’s heart tightened, and she found herself nodding. “I’ve been dreaming a lot myself.”

Corrie’s face brightened. “The thing is . . . the reason I came, is because last night I saw Lara, too.”

Faith wasn’t sure what to say. Corrie’s husband was right. She shouldn’t have come, but she was here and clearly she was in pain. “Oh, Corrie,” was all Faith managed.

“I’m sure you must think I’m crazy for paying you a visit like this, unannounced and all, just to tell you about a silly dream.”

“It’s OK,” Faith said. “I don’t think you’re crazy at all. I think you’re just trying to find a way to keep going.”

The woman lost it then.

A few kind words appeared to be the key to unlocking the wall Corrie Perelman had obviously been building for a very long time. In that moment, Corrie stopped trying so hard to be strong and simply wilted instead. Her shoulders and head slumped forward, and her body quivered.

Faith went to her, wrapped both arms around Corrie, a woman with whom Faith shared nothing and yet everything at the same time, and offered a comforting embrace, the only thing she had left to give.

Faith and Rage spent the morning visiting tattoo shops. Nobody they had talked to so far had ever heard of anyone who went by the name Fin. Afterward they drove to Stockton Boulevard, parked across the street from Gracie’s Salon, and kept surveillance on the place to see if there might be any truth to what Angel had told them last night.

“So you think that woman who visited you this morning is truly crazy?”

Faith realized she never should have told Rage about Corrie Perelman’s visit. She shook her head. “No. I don’t think she’s crazy at all. I think she’s still trying to find a way to live with what happened and is having a difficult time moving on.”

“It scared you, though, didn’t it?”

“What?”

“That if you don’t find your kids, that could be you?”

“Yeah,” Faith said. “It scared me.”

“Look,” Rage said, pointing at the man entering the salon.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon and so far two older men, two teenage girls, and one woman in her midforties had entered the shop. Faith sighed. “That’s two men in the past thirty minutes having a pedicure?”

“I’ve never been to one of these places,” Rage said. “I wouldn’t know.”

When Faith looked at Rage’s haunted eyes and pale coloring, her motherly instincts kicked in, filling her with the urge to wrap her arms around her and let her know she wasn’t alone—that she could talk, about anything, and she would listen. But instead, recalling what Rage had told her about never talking about her illness again, Faith kept her hands to herself, looked across the street, and said, “Lara could be in there.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“I don’t want to endanger her or anyone else. We can’t let them know why we’re here.”

“So, what do you want to do?”

“We need to go inside, act natural . . . just two friends in need of a manicure. If they can fit us in, we take a seat and stay calm, but we’ll be taking notes, paying close attention to who’s coming and going. If I see anything suspicious, I’ll take a picture or maybe use the video on my phone.”

“You have my number,” Rage said. “Text me if you see something.”

“Good idea.” Faith lifted an eyebrow. “Ready?”

“Always.”

A bell chimed when they entered the salon.

“You have appointment?” one of the ladies asked in broken English.

“No,” Faith said. “We were driving by and thought we’d stop in and see if you had time for us.”

“OK. Not busy yet.” She wagged her finger at the display case. “Pick a color. Pedi? Mani?”

“Pedicure,” Faith said.

“Manicure for me,” Rage said.

Faith chose the first red polish she saw while Rage grabbed black. Rage used her elbow to nudge Faith in the ribs and then gestured toward a humongous cockroach skittering across the linoleum floor.

“Nice.”

The woman who’d greeted them led Faith to a worn leather chair in the back, while another woman seated Rage at a table closer to the door. The first thing Faith noticed was that the two men and the teenagers she’d watched enter the salon were nowhere to be seen. The middle-aged woman was seated in a leather chair across from Faith. Her feet were soaking in a tub of water, and she was reading a magazine. Two other salon ladies sat at their stations, checking their phones and talking to each other in Vietnamese. At the very back of the salon was a sink area and two doors. The strong smell of chemicals and the fact that there was no ventilation made it difficult to breathe. She glanced at Rage, who appeared to be preoccupied with something straight ahead in her line of vision.

Time held still as Faith watched, waited, listened. Between the constant chattering and the jerky movements of the woman working on her toes, overall the salon ladies seemed nervous, skittish. The woman working on Rage’s nails had a sunken-in face, malnourished and lined with fatigue. Her clothes were wrinkled, and she had a stain on one of her sleeves. The floors were unwashed. The place gave her the creeps. Faith wasn’t sure how much longer she could sit still.

She looked at the backpack clutched in her lap and slowly went over the steps needed to work the Taser her mom had given her. She’d registered the stun gun and activated the code. It was fully charged and ready to go. All she needed to do was put the cartridge in place, slide a lever, and then pull the trigger. If she could stay calm and not let her nerves get the best of her, it would be child’s play.

The salon worker scrubbed the bottom of her feet using a stone. She rubbed hard. Faith winced. When she was finished with that she began to massage Faith’s calves. “No massage,” Faith said, feeling antsy. “Just polish.”

The woman frowned but did as she asked.

One of the doors at the back of the salon opened. A man in blue jeans and a collared shirt exited the back room, smoothing his hair as he walked through the salon and out the main door to the sidewalk lining the street.

Rage looked over at her, concern in her eyes.

Faith reached inside her backpack for her phone. She’d never been great at texting, but it was time to give it a shot. She found Rage’s name and number under her contacts, hit the message button, and typed:

Need distraction when I go to the bathroom.

Before she could blink, there was a beep and a reply:

Got it.

As soon as the cotton was pulled out from between Faith’s toes, Faith told the woman she needed to use the restroom. When she stood, she made eye contact with Rage and then headed for the bathroom. Being barefoot was the least of her problems. The woman who had painted her toes stayed at her side, leading her to the door to make sure Faith didn’t stray . . . a red flag that something was up. Faith swallowed the lump in her throat as her fingers settled around the doorknob to the bathroom, hoping Rage would create a scene before she went inside.

A loud crash and a high-pitched screech answered her prayer.

The woman left her side and ran to the front of the salon. Without hesitating, Faith rushed through the door the man had exited moments ago and clicked it shut behind her. She found herself looking down a narrow hallway. It was much colder back there than inside the main area. The walls were painted black, but the dim lighting couldn’t hide the water stains and mold on the ceiling. There were two doors on the left and two on the right.

Her heart raced, and her hands trembled. Knowing she had to work fast, she stepped up her pace and opened the first door on her left. No one was inside. No windows or closets, only a thin dirty mattress and a flimsy blanket. A nightstand was pushed against the wall.

She rushed to the next room on the right. The two teenage girls she’d seen enter the salon earlier were inside, sitting on the edge of a mattress clicking away at their phones. They looked up at the same time, eyes wide. One of them jumped to her feet. Faith put a finger over her mouth and said, “Shhh.”

Somebody in a room farther back cried out.

“Stay where you are,” Faith whispered to the girls before making her way back into the hallway and shutting the door behind her. The whimpering was coming from the next room to the right. Images of her kids bound and gagged on the couch flooded her mind. Her blood curdled. She pulled the Taser from her bag, clipped on the cartridge, set the timer, and then released the safety latch. Quietly she continued down the hallway, slowly turned the knob, and opened the door.

It was difficult to register what she was seeing.

A scrawny naked man, bony and pale with dull-brown hair circling a bald spot at the crown of his head, wriggled like a newly caught fish on top of a young girl in her teens. He’d used thick twine to tie her wrists to a nightstand on each side of the bed. Wooden legs scraped against the floor as he bucked and writhed with no care for the girl lying beneath him. The girl’s mouth was bound with cloth that had come loose, and her eyes were filled with a wild look of fear as she pulled on the ropes and struggled to get free. The moment she saw Faith, her eyes grew round and she struggled harder.

The man on top of her looked over his shoulder, saw Faith, and tried to scramble away from the girl. Faith Tasered him in the
buttocks. His body shook. She held the trigger until it stopped automatically. Little yelps was all he managed before he fell to his side and rolled off the mattress. Tempted to place the Taser over his heart and pull the trigger, she positioned the prongs on his stomach instead and sent electricity directly into every muscle fiber, making them contract uncontrollably. She’d done her research, and she knew that she was taking control of his central nervous system. By the time she hit him with a third jolt, she heard the sound of a door opening and closing. In the distance, she heard frantic shouting.

Faith put away the Taser, grabbed her phone, and dialed 911. She gave the operator the name and address of the salon and told them young girls were being held captive and raped. They were still asking questions when she shut the phone and shoved it into her bag. She rushed to the other side of the bed and removed the binding from the girl’s mouth, then worked on removing the twine from around her wrists. The knots were tight. Her skin was raw. She was crying uncontrollably.

Rage arrived first. She knelt down by the man on the floor and felt for a pulse. “He’s alive.”

Grimacing, Faith struggled with the knots, determined to set the girl free, adrenaline coursing through her veins. “He deserves to die,” she said. This girl could have been her daughter. Who were these men who paid to have sex with young girls? They knew exactly what they were doing. “Fucking assholes,” Faith said. “Raping young girls. What kind of asshole does this sort of thing?”

“Here, let me help.” Rage pulled out a pocketknife, flipped it open, and easily cut through the twine. The girl fell into Faith’s arms. She held her close as she stared at the man on the ground and wished she had killed him.