No One Heard Her Scream

To John—You are the cornerstone for every hero I will ever write.

South Padre Island, Texas
Mid-June, after midnight

Somewhere in her heart, Danielle Montgomery knew this was wrong, and her guilt had a face.
Momma's face.
Memories of her mother flashed in her head with a steady and persistent rhythm.

"I swear, it's the Catholic guilt," she said to herself. She took a deep breath and fiddled with the senior class ring on her finger. "What's the use of regular confession if a girl has nothing new to say?"

She held a wrist up to the dim glow of a streetlamp and looked at her watch. Twenty minutes late. Had she misunderstood his instructions? In the back of her mind, a bigger question plagued her. Why had she promised to meet him like this?

He was a stranger who'd hit on her at the beach. The attention of a college boy, especially in front of her classmates, made her feel special. She'd been a sucker for his gorgeous blue eyes, but she had a notion Momma wouldn't have been so impressed. Maybe that was the whole point. Now Danielle paced by the side entrance to the club, flicking ashes from a cigarette, another rebellious rite of passage Momma wouldn't approve.

Then the feeling came again—the feeling of being watched. Stronger this time.

Her eyes strafed the alley behind her, narrow and murky with shadows. Nothing. She looked up to a handful of darkened windows. Someone might be checking her out, some pervert in the dark.
Now you're being paranoid, Dani.

She drew a frazzled breath and took another drag off her cigarette, blowing smoke rings in the air. With the music thumping behind the metal door, she stared up into the night sky, thick with stars. A clear night. And the flickering points of light beat to the rhythm of the music. The bar rocked, just as he promised. But being underage, she had no hope of getting inside without his help. As she watched the smoke rings drift apart, another thought occurred to her.

"Can't believe this. No way the jerk ditched me."

Frustration wedged a lump in her throat. She tossed her cigarette butt and kicked a broken beer bottle with the toe of her shoe, hearing it clink across the asphalt. She'd left her girlfriends back at the hotel, promising a full report if they covered for her with the chaperones. At this rate, unless she embellished the truth, there'd be nothing to say. So much for becoming the new legend at St. Joseph's High, back in San Antonio.

Unwilling to give up on her plans, she fanned herself with a hand. "Damn it. I bet my mascara is runny. Probably have friggin' raccoon eyes."

Muggy hot air clung to her skin and fused with perspiration to make her perfume smell stale. And worse, a tinge of sunburn radiated off her skin, intensifying the heat. Strands of her blond hair felt heavy and damp, clinging to her bare shoulders and back. Even without a mirror, she knew her hair had gone flat. The humidity and salty air off the ocean had done their usual damage. She'd spent two hours getting ready. Now, none of it mattered.

"Damn it, Brandon. Where are you?"

She thought about catching a cab back to the hotel, but in the pale light, she glanced down at her new clothes. She wanted him to see her in this outfit. Tight jeans would get his attention and the blue halter top accentuated the color of her eyes.

All of a sudden, a sound came from the entrance to the alley, the drone of an engine and the crunch of tires. She looked up. Headlights blinded her. She squinted and raised a hand to block the glare. A dark van.

"Brandon?" she called. Her voice cracked. "Is that you?"

No answer. The driver got out and slammed the van door behind him. With the streetlight behind him, his face remained in shadow. Something was very wrong.

"He couldn't make it, sweet thing." Low and sinister, the man's voice skittered across her skin like spiders. "Will I do?"

Her breath caught in her throat. Danielle dropped her purse and turned to run. Maybe he'd settle for money. No such luck. From behind, she heard heavy footsteps, gaining on her. But as her scream pierced the night air, another man emerged from the darkness ahead, lunging at her. She tried to run by him, but he grabbed her arm, almost wrenched it out of its socket.

"Nooo!" she shrieked.

The man spun her around. Now, with no other choice, Danielle balled her fists, ready to fight. She kicked—hard—but nothing fazed him. He backhanded her across the face. The shock jolted her skull, and stars burst deep inside her brain, blinding her. She dropped to the asphalt. Her exposed skin scraped the ground. The heels of her hands and her elbows scuffed bloody and raw.

Can't give up!
She fought to stay conscious.
You give up now, you die!

Two shadows preyed on her, eclipsing the light at the end of the alley. Danielle rolled onto her back, flailing arms and kicking legs at whatever moved. Strong hands gripped her, hard. One clasped her mouth. The weight of a knee to her chest cut off her air. Through her nose, she drew a gasp into burning lungs.

Suddenly, Danielle felt the stab of a needle in her neck. With the sharp pain, fear prickled her scalp, and goose bumps raced across her skin. Her neck burned like acid. A deathlike stillness came when her body fell slack, her arms limp by her sides.

Oh, God. Please.
She screamed inside her head, but no sound came from her mouth.

A man's hand suffocated her. As the drug washed through her, once more she caught a glimpse of the night sky. Her eyes fixed upon the stars dotting the heavens, shimmering light. And like an old movie, images of her mother's face flickered in and out of her mind. Momma's lips moved, out of sync, as she spoke. The sound of her voice muffled in the haze until darkness swallowed everything.

Oh, Momma. I'm so sorry.
Bittersweet memories played cruel tricks with her mind. But as a tear drained from Danielle's eye, her thoughts drifted apart like smoke rings in the night sky. All she felt was the distant wetness of the drop. With great concentration, she focused on the sensation, picturing the tear as it rolled down her cheek. Buoyancy lifted her body, setting it adrift in a pitch-black void. Soon, the world would cease to exist. Time would come to a dead stop.

And in the darkness, even the memory of Momma's voice wouldn't reach her.

Central Police Station Gymnasium
Downtown San Antonio,
five months later

Rebecca Montgomery battered the seventy-pound punching bag in blinding succession, ignoring the price her body would pay. Pain and physical exhaustion dulled the rage and guilt, but nothing would free her from it.
Nothing.

Her life balanced on a single point in time—poised at a dead stop—resistant to moving forward and incapable of going back. The night her little sister went missing rocked her world, but in the agonizing time that followed, her life changed forever. Becca could never make it right. Not now.

Danielle's body was never found.

She grimaced at the thought and intensified her workout. Not knowing what had happened tore at her, day by day, driven by her own inability to uncover the truth. Horrific thoughts emerged, dark and disturbing. Being a homicide detective prepared her for the worst-case scenario, but in doing so, it robbed her of hope. And for that, Becca hated herself.

Stay focused. Keep moving. Use the pain.

The initial shock of Dani's disappearance morphed into a flood of emotions, from mind-numbing depression to blinding rage when she thought about the injustice. Nothing made the pain go away. She found herself desperate to regain control of her life. Wanting her body to
feel something
and her mind to release the demons.

Becca tightened her jaw until it hurt.
Push through it. You gotta stay strong.

She welcomed her method of self-inflicted punishment, giving in to its rhythm. Even through elastic wrap and workout gloves, her fists ached with every jab. The bag swayed with each driving blow. The muscles in her legs burned from the early-morning workout.

Circling, Becca picked up the pace and shifted weight to focus her whole body behind each impact. Her lungs heaved like a machine. Bobbing and weaving, she switched the speed and the combination of her punches—left jab, straight right, left hook. With shoulder-length dark hair pulled back, she ignored the loose strands stuck to her cheeks. Sweat trailed off her body and drenched her cotton T-shirt and shorts. Becca had hit the zone.

Within Central Station on South Frio Street, she exercised most mornings in a large facility located in the basement of police headquarters. But her usual workout had taken on more significance. Like the sputtering vapor whistling from a kettle on the boil, Becca needed to vent. And this was a good place to blow off steam.

She'd grown accustomed to the musk of body odor mixed with the persistent smell off the dank walls of the SAPD gymnasium. The steady clacking of weights and the drone of showers had become nothing more than white noise. Male voices echoed behind her, but one finally stood out.

"Hey, Montgomery! You've been shadowin' my case again, and I don't like it."

Silence spread across the gym. All conversation died, and the clank of weights stopped. She didn't have to turn around to know all eyes were on her.

Becca lowered her arms, gasping from the exertion of her penance. Sweat stung her eyes. After yanking off her gloves, she took her time, running scenarios through her mind.
Let it go, Beck.
She reached for a nearby towel and wiped it across her face, draping it over her neck.
Don't let the jerk get to you.
Becca knew what a reasonable person might do, but by the time she turned around, the word "reasonable" vanished from her vocabulary.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Murphy." Her dark eyes took aim like a laser scope on a sniper rifle. "So why don't you mind your own business."

Becca turned her shoulder, but he pulled her around to face him.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you. You're acting like a damned vigilante, and I'm supposed to mind my own business? Other lives are at risk here."

"I was wondering if you'd noticed that," she said. Moving closer, she picked lint off his T-shirt and lowered her voice, so not many would hear. "You see, I think you picture this case to be a fast track for your career. You probably figure if you play your cards right, this liaison gig to the FBI might impress the feds. But you know what? Time is swirling down the drain, and you got nothin' on my sister's killer or the other abductions. Good luck impressing
anyone
with that."

"Ooohhh," the men within earshot resounded in unison. Nervous laughter died.

Paul Murphy served as a catalyst to her mounting frustration. All she needed was an excuse to lash out, and he had given it to her. The man didn't know when to quit—a dedicated cop, real determined. Good qualities, except when directed at her. Almost six-foot, the bastard wasn't much taller than she, but he looked like a wall of muscle, broad shoulders and thick neck. A regular fireplug.

"You're a pretty big talker. Maybe you think special treatment is in order, with what happened to your sister and all. But I can't have you stickin' your nose in my business, so knock it off." Murphy stepped closer, close enough for her to see every acne scar. His shoulders and arms glistened with sweat.

Like a chess player, she assessed her next moves. His nose had already been broken once. A second time wouldn't hurt his looks any. She contemplated rearranging his face with a well-placed uppercut, but several of the men drew into a tight circle around him. Although Becca wasn't sure whose side they were on, it didn't matter. Since her sister's case started, she'd made enemies. She'd pushed and pushed until walls were erected, keeping her out of the loop in the investigation that leapt jurisdictional boundaries. So Becca knew—she'd be on her own.

But that didn't stop her from tossing gasoline onto a smoldering fire. She heard the words coming from her mouth, the voice of a stranger.

"I don't expect anything special. I only want you to do your damned job."

"Well, you're gonna have to trust me to do that, Montgomery. Let me do my fuckin' job."

Fists at her sides, she stood her ground, leaving little room to maneuver. The last thing she wanted was to fight one of her own, but she couldn't back down either. Whoever threw the first punch would be the real loser. She knew it, so did Murphy. She could tell by his hesitation. Becca faced a real standoff—two hundred pounds' worth.