Just Keep Sweet (The Compound Series) (15 page)

“Um, hello, my name is Brinley Hammond. I believe you know my husband.”

“Porter? Yeah, of course I do.” I sat back and ran my fingers through my hair. “What can I do for you, Brinley? Is everything okay?”

“No, it’s not. And I can’t get a hold of Jesse. I was hoping you could help me find him.” She paused, sounding nervous.

Shit. If Jesse was needed, then Porter was obviously off the wagon.

“I think he and his wife are on a trip, celebrating their anniversary. Is there any way I can help?”

“Um, I don’t . . . I mean, I don’t think I should.”

“Is he high?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t been home in two days. And when I call his cell, he doesn’t answer.” Her voice choked up and she cleared her throat, trying to sound strong. “But you’re an officer and I don’t want—”

“I’m off duty. And he’s my friend. I’m here to help, and I promise I won’t haul him into the station. I just wanna help the guy.”

Silence.

“Brinley, you can trust me.”

“Okay, I just . . . I thought we were done with all of this. He hasn’t fallen off the wagon in a very long time. We were talking about starting a family. I’m angry, so angry with him, but more than that I’m terrified. I need him to come home to me, Detective. My life makes no sense without him.”

“I think I know where he is.”

“I think I do too.”

“The old apartment, right?” I asked, making sure we were on the same page.

“Yeah, I just can’t bring myself to go there. I’ve never seen him high, and I honestly don’t think I could handle it.”

“I understand.” I sighed, hearing the frustration in her voice. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll head there now and I’ll be in touch. Is this the best number to reach you?”

“Yes. It’s my cell phone. I’ll be here waiting. And if by some miracle he comes through that door, I’ll call you right away.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Thank you, Detective. Thank you so much.”

We hung up the phone and I slammed my hand against the desk, frustrated for Porter, but wondering what the hell was going on with him. For the first time since meeting the kid, I hoped he was high off his ass and passed out at the old apartment where I first busted him. Because the alternative wasn’t pretty—and there was no way in hell I wanted to be the one to tell Brinley Hammond she’d become a widow because he OD’d or pissed off someone with that temper of his and got himself killed.

Don’t go off the deep end, Cooke. Maybe he needed some space.

Nope, not Porter. That girl’s his world—his entire world. He didn’t want space.

Twenty minutes later, I climbed the stairs of the apartment on Wilson Avenue. I could hear the heavy metal blaring from the apartment at the end of the hall. The door was ajar, and I shook my head knowing these naive little shits were leaving themselves vulnerable to a host of crimes. But if my memory was correct, the only thing they valued was their video game console. And their drugs, of course.

Applying a small amount of pressure on the wood of the door, the raging music assaulted my ears and I looked around the corner to peer into the galley kitchen. Aside from piles of pizza boxes and empty beer cans, there was no one to be found. The air was heavy and wreaked like a landfill. The stench bit at my nostrils, and I swallowed hard to resist the dry heaves that threatened to climb out of my throat.

A young woman with piercings in both eyebrows, her nose, and bottom lip, stumbled around the corner and stood like a deer in headlights, staring at me. I let a few seconds pass, but then I couldn’t stand the awkward silence as she ogled me.

“Hello,” I said, tilting my head forward.

“Yeah, hi.” She scratched her chin, then her neck, and quickly her left arm. A red rash lingered on her pale skin as she returned her attention to me. “Who are you?”

“A friend of Porter’s. You seen him?”

She narrowed her eyes and studied me. Maybe she was trying to place me, or maybe she was searching for a sign I was law enforcement. Either way, she was way too loaded to do anything about it. But her hesitation told me all I needed to know. He was there. Somewhere in the shithole of an apartment, I’d find Brinley’s husband.

Walking around the girl, I rounded the corner of the kitchen and entered the living area. Three guys were passed out on the couches, and one was face down on the floor, a pool of vomit below his chin.

For fuck’s sake.

As much as I wanted to ignore them all, my role of police officer took over and I knew I had to check for a pulse. I crossed the room and turned my head to the side to avoid the pungent stench lingering heavy in the air. Pressing two fingers to his carotid, I searched for a pulse.

C’mon, damnit. C’mon.

Knowing a call to 911 was imminent, I felt the familiar beating of his artery raising to meet my fingers.
Lub, lub, lub
. Relief poured from my mouth as I exhaled, patting the kid on the shoulder before rolling him to his side and continuing my search for Porter. I had to get him out of there before making that call.

The first door I opened was the bathroom. A guy was passed out in the bathtub while a girl vomited into the toilet, her red hair falling into the bowl. She pulled her head up with absolute annoyance and yelled, “Occupied!”

I put my hands up in surrender. “Sorry, just looking for Porter Hammond. Is he around here?”

“No clue,” she muttered before retching into the bowl.

Quickly, I closed the door and opened the next one. Next to the bed was a guy curled into a ball. When I rounded the corner, I saw his familiar blond hair and scruffy beard. His clothes were wrinkled and he only had one shoe on, but it was him.

“Porter, you okay?” I asked, walking to him. He raised his head from the carpet; tiny imprints from the fibers left red marks on his skin. His eyes were as red as those marks and deep, heavy circles sat beneath them.

“Aw shit.” He shook his head as he rose to a cross-legged position. “Don’t haul me in, man, I just . . . please don’t haul me in. Brin’ll kill me. She’ll fucking
kill
me.”

“She’s worried about you. That’s why I’m here.”

“Why? I’ve only been gone, what? A few hours?” His voice was panicked and his eyes carried a maniacal twitch. He was high as a fucking kite.

Fucking meth—destroyer of lives.

“She said you’ve been gone for a couple days,” I said, patting his shoulder. “Have you slept?”

“I don’t know. I mean, Charlie gave me some crank . . . just a little, you know? Just to calm me down, but now my head is fucking racing and I can’t focus and I can’t face her, Cooke, I can’t. She’ll leave me. She’ll fucking leave me.”

His hands shook as tears poured from his eyes, bloodshot and raw. I shook my head in response, trying to offer him the calmest demeanor I could. Moods were contagious, especially in times like this.

“She’s not going anywhere, she just wants to know you’re okay.”

“I’m not.” He shook his head, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “I’m not okay.”

“I see that. But we can fix it.”

“No, you can’t . . . nobody can. I’m a fucking mess—ruined. Ruined for life.”

“No, you’re not.”

“It’s true, Cooke. That fucker ruined me for the rest of my goddamned existence.” He sniffed and wiped his nose. “Brin deserves better, she does. She does, she does, she does,” he rambled, rocking back and forth.

That fucker? Who was he talking about?

“What do you mean? Who ruined your life? Your father?” I searched my brain for Porter’s reason for leaving the compound. I was pretty sure his father made the decision for him to leave. Was that who he was talking about?

“No.” He closed his eyes tight, his words were covered in tears but that didn’t stop him from rambling a mile a minute. “I can’t do it, man. I can’t. I know you need one, but I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

Confusion wrapped its grip around my brain. I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Okay, slow down,” I said, patting his knee. “I’m not following.”

“You said you need a victim, on the phone you said that . . . but I can’t. Please don’t make me.”

Oh shit. No. Not Porter.

A boulder formed in my gut and everything became clear. I knew who “that fucker” was. That fucker ruined my friend’s life. That fucker let men rape Porter Hammond while claiming to be the mouthpiece of God and leader of thousands of innocent lives.

“Do I understand what you’re saying? The prophet did this? He abused you? He assaulted you when you were living on the compound?”

He swallowed hard, pressing his eyes tight, unable to make eye contact. But he nodded.

“I can’t tell her, man. I can’t. It’ll ruin her—she’ll never look at me the same way again.”

“Brinley?” I asked, and he opened his eyes, fresh tears streamed down his cheeks. “She loves you.”

“Doesn’t matter. Once she knows, we’re done.” He shook his head again in a crazed rhythm with his rambles. “We’re done, we’re done, we’re done.”

“I disagree,” I said calmly. “She’s in this for the long haul.”

He ignored me, staring off into space.

“Can you tell me what happened? I know it was a long time ago, but—”

“What the fuck do you want me to say?”

“Let’s start with the basics, okay? What time of day was it?”

“It was late . . . I’d been off with some of the guys . . . we met in the woods to get high.”

“Meth?”

“No, just pot . . . just enough to numb out a little bit, ya know?”

“Then what happened?”

“I was walking past the temple, and the prophet was standing near this tree, just standing there like a fucking creeper.”

“And?”

“And he told me he knew what I was doing. That I was walking a fine line or some shit. I don’t remember, man.”

“That’s okay, just give me the basics.”

“He said I needed to talk to him in his office. So I did . . . but once we got inside, someone punched me in the fucking face. When I woke up, I was in this room, and my hands were behind my back . . . fucking taped together and . . .” His voice cracked as he let out a feral cry. “Don’t make me . . . I can’t say anything else.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything else.”

“I should’ve fought them off, I should’ve done something, but I-I couldn’t, man. I couldn’t do anything. They beat the shit out of me, and I could barely move . . .” He threw himself back on the floor, as if the carpet would protect him. He clutched the fibers with his fingers, his knuckles turning white. His eyes closed tight and I imagined he was doing his best to block out the horrid memories.

“Did they . . . ?” I couldn’t finish the question.

Again, he nodded, his lips pulling into a disgusted sneer. One that matched my own. I swallowed hard and kept asking questions. I had to know what happened to him.

“How many times?”

“I lost count,” he whispered, and goosebumps rose on my arms.

“Shit, Porter. That’s more than anyone should have to endure. Ever.” I tried to keep my voice soft and comforting in order to keep him calm, but my stomach was churning and my brain was reeling.

How could I not have seen this sooner? It wasn’t the girls the prophet was after. No, the girls were far too valuable as commodities for the men of the community. No . . . it was the
boys
. He’d use them for his clients’ sick desires, then toss them out of the compound before they could accuse him of anything. No one would miss them as there weren’t enough wives to go around. It was the perfect, infallible plan. One in which the victim was violated not once, but three times. Beaten, raped, and then abandoned.

I’m gonna fucking kill that piece-of-shit prophet.

I swallowed hard. “And then what happened? After the abuse.” I already knew
exactly
what happened, but I had to let him say it. I had to know that my gut feeling was correct.

“Then he fucking kicked me out. Made my mother drop me here with a suitcase and a hundred dollars.”

Yep, the perfect plan. That sick, twisted piece of shit.

Porter punched the floor, raising his voice to a bark. “And I
knew
it was coming—he told me it would, that no one would believe me, that . . . that . . .”

“That what?”

“That God was punishing me for being a bad seed. That this was my penance to Heavenly Father. He repeated it over and over while they . . .” He stopped, unable to verbally acknowledge that he was raped repeatedly by the prophet’s clients. “That I deserved
everything
I got.”

“And you believed him, didn’t you?”

“Still do.”

His words made me shudder. I placed one hand on each of his shoulders, lifting him back to a seated position. “Listen to me. You were a child, an
innocent child
. He took advantage of you and so many other kids. He’s using your innocence to make money—lots of money. You didn’t deserve
anything
that happened to you, do you understand me?”

“What kind of man lets that happen to him?” he demanded, clenching his teeth. “What kind of man am I?”

“You
weren’t
a man, Porter. You were a
kid
.”

He slumped his shoulders, shaking his head. “I just need another hit . . . another hit and it’ll go away; it’ll all go away.”

“Is that why you do this to yourself? To make it go away?”

He ignored my question, scratching his chin and neck. I sat, staring at my friend, finally understanding so much more about him—about who he was, about why he was addicted to such a heinous drug as methamphetamine. It was all an escape. An escape from abuse he never should have endured. An escape from the secret that lingered and the therapy he never received. And an escape from the family who turned their backs on him when he needed them the most.

“I know you need me, man. You need a victim, but I can’t. I just can’t. Please don’t make me do it. I know I should save those kids—I
should
, but I just can’t do it.”

Statute of limitations prevented Porter from pressing charges or testifying in a trial. He was pushing thirty years old, and this happened when he was a teenager. Anything more than seven years prior was inadmissible in the state of Arizona.