The Night Stalker (20 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

T
he stairwell was poorly lit. With each step, I heard the sickening sound of glass crack pipes crunching beneath my shoes. Reaching the landing, I peered down a hallway strewn with empty pizza boxes.

“What a hellhole,” Burrell whispered.

Buster was the brave one, and led us to the hallway’s end. I stuck my ear to the door of number forty, and heard a TV playing Telemundo inside. Grabbing a pizza box off the floor, I held it against my chest so my Colt was hidden. With my shoe, I knocked.

“Pizza for number forty,” I announced.

Burrell and Whitley pressed their bodies against the wall. The door opened, and a skinny Hispanic missing his two front teeth stuck his head out. He was about thirty, and wore striped boxer shorts and nothing else. It was Pepe.

“What you want?” he asked, smothering a yawn.

“You order a pizza?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Damn. It’s going cold. You want it? I’ll sell it to you for five bucks. It’s got extra cheese.”

“I’ll give you four.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

Pepe pulled out a roll of bills, and peeled off four dollars. He took the box out of my hands, and I showed him my Colt.

“Shit,” he said.

Whitley swept into the room, throwing Pepe against the wall. I followed and did a visual sweep. The room had a single bed with a night table, and a closed door leading to a bathroom. Lying on the bed were boxes of children’s cereal and candy.

“Where’s the kid?” I asked.

“In the closet,” Pepe replied.

My heart was pounding as I opened the closet door. Filling the space was a dog crate holding a terrified African-American girl with cornrows in her hair and wearing a yellow dress. She looked about five, and held up her hands to block the light.

Buster pressed his nose against the bars, his tail wagging furiously. She lowered her hands, and touched my dog through the bars. I knelt down.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Tyra,” she said fearfully.

“Do you know a little boy named Sampson?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is he?”

“Oscar took him away.”

Something hard dropped in the pit of my stomach. I untied the piece of twine on the crate door while looking over my shoulder at Pepe standing with his hands pressed against the wall. “Why is she here?” I asked.

“Collateral for a drug deal,” Pepe said.

“Why did your partner take Sampson away?”

“Kid kept trying to escape. We couldn’t handle him.”

“Who hired you?”

“Dunno.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oscar dealt with the guy.”

Before I could ask him where Oscar was, a toilet flushed, and Oscar emerged from the bathroom. Also shirtless, his most distinguishing feature was the automatic pistol tucked down the front of his pants. Seeing us, he drew his weapon.

Whitley was in Oscar’s line of fire. Without hesitation, the FBI agent pumped three bullets into Oscar’s chest. The bullets went clean through Oscar’s body, killing him instantly, while also penetrating the plaster wall behind him. In the room next door, someone let out a blood-curdling scream.

“Get on the floor!” Whitley shouted.

I continued to untie the crate door.

“Do it!” Whitley said.

A bullet came through the wall and whistled past my head. It was quickly followed by another. Then I understood. Next door was shooting back.

I hit the floor while Whitley returned the fire. Tyra was huddled in the corner of the crate, crying her eyes out. I hugged the bars, and prayed that no bullets hit her.

Gunfire does something to your nervous system that’s hard to explain. I saw my life flash by several times, and found myself regretting all the things I’d yet to do.

The shooting stopped, and the room fell deathly still.

The fog of gunpowder made it difficult to breathe. Whitley put a fresh clip into his gun, and hurried into the hallway. Pepe had taken a slug in the chest, and was sitting with his back to the wall, his eyes blinking rapidly. Burrell checked his pulse, then shook her head.

“We need to get Tyra out of here.” I opened the crate door, and held my arms out. “Come on, honey.”

The little girl rose to her feet. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she bolted out of the crate, and ran right past me to the room’s single bed, and scurried beneath it.

“For the love of Christ,” Burrell said.

Going to the bed, I knelt down, and stared at Tyra huddled in the darkness.

“Go away!”
the little girl screamed.

I said her name, and told her I was going to take her home.

“Leave me alone!”

I knew what was happening. Tyra no longer trusted strangers, and was going to stay hidden until she encountered someone she knew. From out in the hallway came another round of gunshots. Whitley ran into the room.

“Every person in this hotel has a weapon,” Whitley said. “We need to move.”

“The kid’s hiding under the bed,” Burrell told him.

“So move the bed,” Whitley said.

Whitley ran back into the hall. Burrell and I tried to move the bed away from the wall, and found that it was bolted in place.

“What are we going to do?” Burrell asked.

“Call her parents,” I said.

“Are you serious?”

“They’re the only ones she’ll listen to.”

Burrell knelt down next to Pepe. “Tell me who the little girl’s parents are.”

Pepe’s eyes darted to the TV. Burrell picked up a notepad lying on the set, and read from it. “Her name is Tyra Lawson, and she lives on Magnolia Lane.”

“Let’s hope the number’s listed,” I said.

Burrell called information, and got the Lawsons’ phone number. She dialed the number, and handed me her cell phone.

“Hello?” a woman answered.

“Is this the mother of Tyra Lawson?” I asked.

The woman made a fearful sound. “Yes.”

“My name is Jack Carpenter, and I’m with the police. Your daughter is hiding under a bed in a crack house. I’m going to slide the phone to her. I want you to tell her to come with me. Do you understand?”

“Is my baby all right?” the woman asked.

“So far. Ready?”

“Yes—yes!”

I stuck my head beneath the bed. “Tyra. Your mother wants to talk to you. I’m going to slide you a phone. Okay?”

Tyra didn’t answer me. I slid the phone beneath the bed, and heard the little girl pick it up.

“Mommy?”

I heard her mother’s anguished answer.

“Tyra? Oh darling, I miss you!”

“Mommy, I’m scared!”

“You listen, and you listen good. I want you to crawl out from underneath that bed, and do whatever this man tells you to do. Do you understand?”

“
But people are shooting at me!”

The mother’s voice started to crack. “That man is going to save you. I want you to go to him. Please, honey.”

“But they’re scaring me!”

“Go with him. Please, Tyra, darling. For me.”

There was a short silence. On the other side of the room, Pepe let out a dying gasp, and slumped over. Tyra crawled out from beneath the bed, and climbed into my arms. I kissed the top of her dirty little head while running out the door.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

I
n the hall, I found a black man swimming in a pool of blood with a machine pistol clutched in his hand. He had been shot in the chest, and appeared to be dead. I made Tyra shut her eyes, and hopscotched around him.

Hurrying down the hallway with Buster, I glanced into several open doorways. Each had bloodied bodies lying inside, their hands clutched around high-powered, automatic weapons. Burrell was behind me, and I heard her gasp.

Whitley met us in the landing. He had secured the floor, and was waiting to escort us down. By my count, he’d killed six people, and hadn’t broken a sweat. I wondered if he had ice cubes in his veins.

“Let’s go,” Whitley said.

I followed him downstairs and out of the hotel. Broward Boulevard was quiet, and I crossed the street and walked into an open 7-11. Tyra would be taken to a hospital, and given all sorts of physical and psychological examinations, but right now she was going to get a treat. Treats were good when rescuing kids. It was an easy way to tell them that things were returning to normal.

“Hey, Tyra. Your mother made me promise to buy you ice cream,” I said, searching through a refrigerated bin. “What flavor do you like?”

Tyra pulled her head off my shoulder. “Vanilla.”

“That’s my favorite flavor, too. Do you like Dove bars?”

“Yeah.”

“Want something to drink?”

“Coke.”

I bought four vanilla Dove bars and a Coke, and went outside. Burrell and Whitley stood in the parking lot, facing the hotel. A cigarette passed between them.

“Ice cream,” I called out.

They came over and joined us. I gave them Dove bars, and we ate our ice cream and let Buster lick the sticks. It was starting to feel like a backyard barbecue when an unmarked black van screeched to a stop in front of the hotel entrance. A Broward County Sheriff’s Department SWAT team jumped out, and swarmed inside.

Tyra had seen enough, and I carried her down the sidewalk to my car. I unlocked the car, and climbed into the backseat with her clinging to me like my own child.

Minutes later, Burrell tapped on the glass. I rolled down my window.

“Everything under control?” I asked.

“Whitley’s got it covered. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

Burrell got behind the wheel, and I passed her the keys. As she started to pull away, Tyra lifted her head.

“Where are we going?” the little girl asked.

“To the hospital,” I said. “We want the doctors to examine you.”

“Will my mommy be there?”

Burrell pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling her right now.”

“Will my daddy be there?” Tyra asked. “I don’t want to see Daddy.”

She was looking at me now, her eyes wide and fearful.

“Why don’t you want to see your daddy?” I asked.

“Daddy was mean to me. He gave me to those men as part of a deal. My daddy said he’d come back to get me, but he never did. He’s mean.”

I saw Burrell’s eyes in the mirror. She had lowered her cell phone, and was hanging on Tyra’s every word.

“Tell me something, Tyra,” I said. “What happened to Sampson?”

“Oscar took him away,” the little girl said. “Sampson tried to escape from the room a bunch of times. One time, he even called someone on the phone. Sampson said if he got free, he’d come back and rescue me. I liked Sampson.”

There was a spot of ice cream on her chin, and I licked the tip of my finger and wiped it away. “Did Sampson tell you who brought him there?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Tyra said.

“What did he say?”

“Sampson said he had a secret friend,” Tyra said. “His secret friend came to his bedroom, and took Sampson away. He gave Sampson to the men at the hotel, and they put him in the cage with me.”

“Was Sampson mad at his secret friend?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Did Sampson say who his secret friend was?”

“He called him Big Daddy.”

We had reached the Broward General Medical Center. Burrell drove around to the rear of the building, and pulled up to the emergency entrance. I opened my door and started to get out. Tyra squeezed her arms tightly around my chest.

“Are you going to find Sampson?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m going to find him.”

She burrowed her head into my chest. “Good.”

Hospital emergency rooms were hell on kids. People who’ve been shot, stabbed, and beaten up filled them late at night, along with drunks and druggies. If kids weren’t traumatized going into one, they usually were when they left.

I carried Tyra into the emergency room and found a quiet seat in the corner. The place was filled with hard-luck cases, many of whom were bleeding and battered. I made eye contact with every one, and watched them drift to other parts of the room.

Burrell brought a female doctor to where we were sitting. The doctor checked Tyra’s pulse, listened to her heartbeat, and looked into her ears without the little girl letting go of my chest. Burrell took the chair next to mine.

“I contacted HHR,” she said quietly. “They’re sending someone over.”

“Has Tyra been reported missing?” I asked.

Burrell shook her head no. By not reporting her daughter missing, Tyra’s mother had made herself an accessory in her daughter’s kidnapping and would be arrested, while Tyra would be turned over to an agent with Health and Human Resources.

“Where’s my mommy?” Tyra asked.

“She’s on her way,” Burrell said reassuringly.

“You said that before,” the little girl said.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Burrell said.

Tyra started to cry. Burrell went outside to see if the mother had arrived. She returned with a black woman dressed in shorts and flip-flops and wearing the vacant expression of someone strung out on drugs. I rose from my chair holding the child.

“Hey, Tyra, look who’s here,” I said.

The little girl turned her head.
“Mommy!”

I passed Tyra into her mother’s arms. The woman let out a sob, and crushed her daughter’s head into her bosom. A uniformed cop was stationed at the door. Burrell told the cop to watch Tyra’s mother, and make sure she didn’t leave with the child.

“Yes, ma’am,” the cop said.

Burrell motioned to me. “Let’s go outside. We need to talk.”

Burrell walked out of the emergency room. I started to follow, and glanced back at Tyra, who was still in her mother’s arms. I hoped that her future didn’t include any more crack dens, or living in dog crates, or parents who used her in drug deals. I wanted her to have a normal life, with school buses and days at the beach and report cards and all the stuff a child growing up was supposed to have. She deserved a better life, and in my prayers I’d ask God to give her one. It seemed the least I could do.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

I
stood with Burrell beneath a green canopy by the emergency entrance. A punishing rain had started to fall, and thunder rolled ominously in the distance.

“I want to ask you a question, and I want an honest answer,” Burrell said.

The tone of her voice told me I was in trouble again. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my cargo pants, and waited.

“Based upon what Tyra told us in the car, do you think Jed Grimes is responsible for these crimes?” Burrell asked.

“No,” I said.

“So Jed isn’t Big Daddy.”

I shook my head.

“But he’s the child’s father. Wouldn’t it make sense for him to call himself that?”

“It could be a family friend or someone who works in the neighborhood.”

“If I told you that we’d interviewed every single person who was around that child, including LeAnn Grimes’s neighbors, and Jed’s neighbors, and employees of every store, and they were clean, would you change your mind?”

“No,” I said.

“But
everyone
was clean.”

“You missed someone.”

Her frown grew. “No, we didn’t. We looked at everyone, and they all checked out. The only person who didn’t check out was Jed. That makes him our primary suspect.”

“So you’re buying Whitley’s savage spawn theory?”

“It’s the only one that works.”

Lightning crackled and flashed above our heads. Dozens of people died during thunderstorms in Florida every year, yet neither of us moved from our spots. Burrell had made up her mind, and she wasn’t backing down. I didn’t want to lose her as a friend, but I wasn’t going to retreat, either.

“Let me see if I’ve got this figured out,” I said. “You and Whitley are going to combine your investigations, since you’re convinced you’re looking for the same person. You were hoping that I would help you, and now you’re pissed.”

“I’m pissed because you’re going down one road, while everyone else is going down another,” Burrell said.

“Do you want me off the investigation?”

Burrell crossed her arms and stared at the ground.

“Is that a yes, or a no?” I asked.

I heard the unmistakable sound of a transformer being hit by a bolt of lightning. The lights in the parking lot flickered, then went off.

“I want you to reconsider,” she said quietly.

“There’s nothing to reconsider,” I said.

“Please, Jack.”

“You missed someone. Go back and interview everyone again.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

I couldn’t help myself, and held her shoulders, looking deep in her eyes.

“You’re making a
terrible
mistake.”

Burrell shoved me away. She started to say something, then bit her tongue. The door slid shut as she went inside.

I had stepped over the line. I should have felt bad, but instead I told myself she’d get over it. The rain was starting to ease up, and I ran to my car, having no idea how prophetic my words to her would become, or the nightmare I was about to enter.