Page 18

CHAPTER 18

“I’m glad Grant is available to meet us at the youth shelter,” Kristopher said as they drove towards South Knoxville. “He’s probably got more on his plate than he can grace over, it being the holidays.”

“Me too,” Suzanne agreed. “And I’m especially interested in hearing Sofia Langley’s impressions of Mercy’s last visit. She’s the shelter’s day supervisor and I know her from volunteering at a local food bank. She’s waiting on us.”

“Can she be trusted?” Kristopher gazed in the rearview mirror at the two-lane highway. Grant Miller’s black sedan was several cars behind them. The man preferred non-descript vehicles and often said, “Who remembers a plain black car?”

“Absolutely,” Suzanne said. “Her adult son has a learning disorder, and I placed him in a training program for disabled adults at Daisy’, a local café years ago. And Sofia is as honest as the day is long. She knows Grant too.”

“But won’t there be kids at the shelter? Kristopher asked. “I remember from my days on the KPD force, that holidays can be a bad time for families and their kids. Lots of alcohol and drug use, lots of arguments and hurt feelings. It can be a bad time for families, and kids often have to be removed from their homes and placed in emergency shelters.”

“That’s what Mercy often told me,” Suzanne said. “Case managers hate removing kids from their homes during the holidays unless there’s no other option. But unless some kids were admitted yesterday, Mercy said there were no kids there and Sofia said she told Grant the same thing, which is weird considering the holiday.”

“The whole case is weird,” Kristopher said. “Do you think other case managers took out their kids after the Clark sisters were gone? Kids in foster care talk about stuff. Maybe they asked to be moved because the Campbell sisters told them what they saw.”

Suzanne massaged her hands. She’d forgotten her gloves, and even though the car’s interior was warm, her hands were still cold. “I don’t know,” she said. “Kids in foster care can be sneaky. When you grow up in the system, you learn a lot of valuable skills like that.”

“You were going to tell me about that.” Kristopher checked his mirror again. Grant was now two cars behind them.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll give you the edited version. My parents were alcoholics. My grandparents on both sides tried to take care of me but they all had serious health problems, so I first went into foster care when I was eight years old. My parents would get sober for a while and petition for me, and I’d go back to them. But they always start drinking again and make me stay home from school to take care of them or clean the house ‘cause that’s what I was supposed to do. So back to foster care I went. The state finally terminated their parental rights when I was twelve.”

Her tone was matter of fact, as if like Kristopher, she’d long ago accepted her family situation, no matter how badly it sucked. But foster care at eight? Becoming a ward of the state at twelve because your parents couldn’t get their shit together to raise you? Recalling her question to him from this morning, he asked, “Should I say I’m sorry?”

“Not at all. I had a great case manager who found a therapeutic foster home for me just as I entered high school. There was only one other girl there and I could stay until I graduated unless I screwed up and there was no way I was going to do that. Your turn is coming up on the right.”

“Sorry.” Kristopher quickly turned onto the street and followed his phone’s GPS to their destination. It led to a lone house with a long driveway with a small parking lot in front. The last houses they passed were a good half a mile back and he noted a covered bus stop at the foot of one driveway with benches. This one-story building was simple in design and looked well maintained. “This is a shelter?” he asked, pulling into one of the spaces. “It almost looks like a church.”

“It was a Quaker meeting house for years,” she said as he turned off the engine and pocketed his phone. The congregation outgrew the house, and they gave it, gave it, mind you, not sold–to All Families.”

“The agency absorbed by Tennessee Cares,” Kristopher recalled as Grant pulled in beside them. They exited their cars, and he followed them to the back of the house. The backyard was fenced and had swings, a slide and an old-fashioned jungle gym. Flower beds empty except for the remaining green of Lenten Roses graced the area. It was neat and welcoming as if someone cared about the children whose lives brought them here and wanted to give them a nice place to play.

At the end of the sidewalk, Suzanne rapped on the door. It was opened immediately by a tall, well-built woman with a mass of silver hair. “Suzanne,” she greeted, opening the door wider. “Grant Miller. And you must be Suzanne’s friend, Kristopher. Please come in. I have fresh coffee.”

“Kristopher, this is my friend, Sofia Langley,” Suzanne introduced as they stepped inside. “Sofia, this is Sgt. Kristopher Brower, recently retired from the US Army and whose helping me out with a situation.”

Sofia’s wide smile dimmed as she closed and locked the door. “You’re talking about Mercy Phillips, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Suzanne said sadly. “Can you tell us anything?”

Sofia gestured and they followed her to the kitchen table. After she’d served them, she said, “I’ll bet you want to jump to the chase. Mercy is really dead?”

“I’m afraid so, Sofia,” Miller told her. “I know you’ve already talked to one of my men about the Campbell girls, but can you tell us anything about the Taylors’ last days here?”

“Only that the Campbells seemed on edge,” Sofia said, her gray eyes narrowing. “Especially after the Clark sisters left so abruptly. Their case manager never did return my calls, but Perry Thompson, the shelter director told me he’d take care of things, including letting the CEO know, but he never got back to me.”

“What about Christmas Eve when Mercy came by?” Suzanne asked.

“There was something going on, that’s for sure,” Sofia declared. “I was getting off just as Mercy got here with presents for the Campbell girls, and they were, as my grandma used to say as ‘nervous as a pair of long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs.’ When I left, it was just them and the Taylors, God rest their souls. If they have them.”

Suzanne exchanged glances with the men. “You know they’re dead?” she asked.

“Saw it on the news,” Sofia said. “I don’t want to be hateful, but they could be awfully mean to the kids. Always criticizing them if they put their elbows on the table or slurped their milk. Dumb stuff.”

“Kids in a shelter don’t need to be scolded,” Miller agreed. “They’re scared enough as it is.”

“Exactly!” Sofia declared. “The Taylors came in when Tennessee Cares absorbed it from All Families at the first of the year. Big phony smiles and ‘we’re gonna really make this place special for kids’ kind of crap. As if it wasn’t special already. Before they came, kids almost never ran from here. Since the first of the year, we’ve had four kids take off, and that’s not counting the Clark sisters, poor kids.”

“When the Clark sisters were ‘taken out’, was there paperwork?” Suzanne asked.

“The Taylors filled out the shelter’s discharge paperwork and kept a copy of Henry Tate, the Clarks’ state case manager’s report,” Sofia said, “but I still think something was going on. Something bad.”

“And you think the Taylors were behind it.” Miller clipped off his words. “That they were up to something.”

“I do,” Sofia said. “The Taylors came on duty in the late afternoon and would stay overnight five nights a week and sit up in a small apartment so they could keep an eye on things. Perfect chance for mischief, you know?”

Kristopher raised his eyes from studying the contents of his cup. “What did the Clark sisters’ case manager supposedly tell the Taylors about moving them?”

Sophia scowled. “Henry Tate? That skunk. He acted like he cared, but you could see he didn’t. This was just a job. He told the Taylors their druggie parents had learned where they were and were coming after them, so he had to take them out fast. But I don’t believe it for a minute. For one thing, he didn’t put in the discharge papers where he took the Clarks. It should state it there.”

“What do you believe, Ms. Langley?” Kristopher leaned forward and rested his arms on the table.

Anger sparkled in the woman’s eyes, but her voice was firm. “That someone took both sets of girls, and the Taylors were behind it. Now they’re dead and so is Mercy. It’s nothing short of a miracle that the Campbell girls were the only ones here the night they vanished. All the other case managers managed to find temporary foster homes for the rest of the kids because of the holidays. Who knows what might have happened to them if they’d been here?”

“Sofia, I don’t want to scare you, but you need stay away from here,” Miller warned and there was no mistaking the urgency in his voice. “Tell whoever you need to, whatever you have to, but I would lock the doors and leave.”

“Good heavens.” Sofia’s voice rose. “You think I’m in danger?”

“I wouldn’t hang around long enough to find out,” Miller warned. “And warn your son as well. We don’t want either him or you to be targeted by whoever is behind this.”

“Sofia’s son Alex works at Daisy’s ,” Suzanne explained to Kristopher. “He’s on my caseload for adults who need help finding employment.

Sofia nodded. “I’ve made copies of Henry Tate’s report and the ones the Taylors filled out when the Campbell girls vanished. I don’t give a damn about confidentiality at this point. I just want both sets of girls found safe and alive. Maybe it was intuition, but Mercy never provided us with their mother’s contact information.”

“Maybe because the Campbells were in state custody,” Suzanne suggested. “And that made the state responsible for them.”

Nodding, Sofia rose, left the room and returned almost instantly with two manila folders. Handing one to Suzanne and the other one to Miller, she said, “I’ve included the reports on all the kids who’ve run this year. Maybe I watch too many police shows, but I think everything is connected.”

“Can you fax copies of those to my boss?” Suzanne recited Elaine Prescott’s number. “She’s eager to help. We don’t want any of the families we take care of to wind up dealing with Tennessee Cares until we know what’s going on.”

“Consider it done,” Sofia declared. “Will you let me know when and where there’s a memorial service for Mercy?”

“Absolutely,” Suzanne said, and they all stood. “Thanks, Sofia. You’ve been a tremendous help. And listen to Grant. You and Alex might need to find some place safe to stay until this is over.”

“We can stay with my sister,” Sofia said. “And Daisy’s is closed for a few days, so we should be okay.”

She led them to the back door, and they shook hands. In the parking lot, Miller unlocked his car, and said, “I’m going back to the station. There was another situation brewing and I need to talk to the men involved. Text me if you need me.”

They watched him drive away before they got into the black and white. “Are we good to go?” Kristopher asked. “And was this worth the trip?”

“I think Sofia confirmed Mercy’s suspicions and mine,” Suzanne said, stuffing the manila envelope into her oversized bag. “We’re good to go.”

“Then I’m glad we came,” he said simply. “And that we invited Miller.”

Suzanne’s gaze swept over him. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a feeling,” he said. “Probably because I’m getting hungry again.”

He turned onto the road, and drove slowly, processing everything Sofia Langley had shared with them. Beside him, Suzanne checked her phone for messages. “Elaine says there have been three PSAs on TV about David today,” she told him. “Surely someone’s going to have seen something.”

“Let’s hope,” he said, ignoring the old, familiar pricking at the base of his spine. The one that always started before something happened. Something bad.

A blue Mustang of indeterminate age pulled out from a side road and into the road behind them, going too fast for Kristopher’s liking. He noted the absence of oncoming traffic and silently released a sigh of relief. The idiot could pass them any time he liked and–

Glass from the back windows exploded behind them, showering them both as smoke filled the car. Suzanne cried out and doubled over, her arms covering her head. Coughing, Kristopher jerked the wheel and steered them onto the road’s shoulder just below one of the houses. The smoke grew thicker, burning his eyes and making breathing nearly impossible. Gasping, he grabbed up his phone and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. Then he opened his door, unbuckled both their seat belts to wrap his arms around Suzanne and scoot them across the bench seat to tumble from the car where he half carried, half dragged her to the covered bus stop he’d noticed earlier. He gently sat her on one of the benches and then, phone still in hand, he dialed 911 as he slowly walked back to his beloved car to grab Suzanne’s handbag. Smoke poured from the back and the smell of burning leather seats polluted the air. Cars slowed and pointed, and one fool looked like they were filming the whole damn scene. After dialing Grant Miller’s number to ask for help, he returned to the bus stop and found Suzanne huddled in a corner of the front bench, her back to the glass side, her arms wrapped around her legs, head down.

Sweet Savior, let her be alright. “Tell me you’re okay, Suze,” he whispered, unexpectedly using David Phillips’ nickname for her. “Tell me you’re not hurt. I got your purse.”

She raised her smoke smudged face and opened her eyes. She squinted at him, but her expression was proudly defiant. “Good to go, Sergeant Brower,” she rasped. “Good to go.”