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Wilson drove to the address Lillian had given him before she died. It was getting late in the evening. He borrowed Samuel’s truck and headed there as soon as he left the hospital.
The full moon cast a shadow against the small church located on a street of broken down multi-story homes and abandoned furniture factories. He made a mental note to call the city about the blown-out street lights.
Wilson decided to park at the end of the block and walk two of the four miles back up the road. He eased out of the truck the gravel crunching under his steps.
He didn’t know what to do. Lillian was dead—he’d known her all his life. He needed to talk to someone. He pushed back his raw emotions and tried to bury them under the hundreds of other emotions that already resided fragmented in his soul.
Wilson crept through the small patch of trees and brush on the backside of the house. He kept his ear tuned to the eerie stillness of the evening. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.
He placed both his hands on the security fence and listened. All Wilson heard was the occasional laughter from a neighbor’s television turned up way too loud. He stepped back, trying to take a good look at the building.
In the backyard, Wilson saw a white church van with heavily-tinted windows. The hair on his arm stood up. He could’ve sworn he’d heard a whisper in his heart, saying, “Call on Me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you will honor Me.”
Shaking his head, Wilson looked around.
Under the cover of darkness, he checked his surroundings before trying the doorknob.
Wilson gave it a hard yank and eased inside.
He kept close to the wall listening. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
Wilson pulled out his gun, holding it in front of him as he moved through the structure, which contained a small podium and five or six metal chairs all in a circle. It wasn’t like any other church he’d seen before.
He veered off into a tight hallway. The scent of funk, sweat and urine met him at the corner. No doubt someone had been there, and it smelled like a crowd. Something wasn’t right.
Wilson knew that he should call Captain Reagan about this development, but he had to see it all for himself. He paid careful attention to its lack of furnishings, even the moist scent of mold.
He moved to a room on the left. Somebody was in there. Each moment his anger burned on simmer.
Wilson pushed the door open with the foot of his boot and his stomach lurched. He stood in the doorway of a room with hooks and chains bolted to the walls. He saw blood splatters on the walls and the floors.
He moved in closer.
If Natasha had been in this room, she would’ve left behind a clue for him.
Wilson took out his phone and began to snap pictures of handprints, blood spatters, hooks and chains. Then he found what he was looking for.
Lying flat against one of the baseboards was a thin gold bracelet.
Something shifted inside Wilson.
His rage popped up like steam from a tea kettle. He wanted to touch it so bad. But he knew if he did, it would jeopardize the case.
Whoever took my sister won’t live long enough to go to trial.
He snapped a few more pictures.
Wilson followed the hallway to another door. He turned the doorknob and froze.
Guns, teens clothing, beer cans and condoms littered the room.
He glanced up at the paper-covered walls, his eyes focused in on several maps cluttered together. The smaller maps contained multi-colored lines drawn to the state of Texas on the largest map. There were pictures of women, girls, and children in various stages of undress. His stomach lurched.
He bit back the bile that tried to rise in his throat.
Wilson took out his phone and snapped several more pictures. His mind was whirling like helicopter blades. He needed to notify his superiors.
He heard something.
Wilson turned and listened, then tapped the floor with his foot.
The thumping sound became louder.
He took three steps and tapped the floor again.
Wilson reached down and began to pull the half-nailed boards up from the floor. Finally, he popped the small door completely open and stared into the dim, poorly constructed cellar.
Wilson glanced around before he released the small wooden ladder.
He made his way down the shaky piece of wood onto a filthy floor. The knot in his stomach became tightened into a ball.
Women and teens were chained to the wall with their hands above their heads.
Wilson identified himself as a police officer, as he removed the cuffs. When one child shrank against the wall, he pulled out his badge and held it up to the flashlight for her to see. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
The room was soon filled with sobs of terror and gratitude.
Wilson stood to his feet and looked over at a small boy. “Son, was there another girl here earlier?”
“Yes...yes, sir,” the small voice whispered. “But a man came and took her.”
Wilson pulled Natasha’s picture out of his back pocket and showed it to the boy. “Is this the girl?”
The child was tiny, but had big brown eyes filled with tears. When he nodded his head “Yes,” Wilson wanted to pick him up and reassure him that things would be okay. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
~~~
The next ten hours were a blur for Wilson.
No one expected to find a human trafficking stash house in High Point, North Carolina. Human trafficking was a big city problem and High Point was still considered a small town.
From the front seat of Captain Reagan’s patrol car, Wilson watched as law enforcement officers painstakingly did their work.
He tried unsuccessfully to blot out the images he’d seen inside that so-called church. A wave of emotion clouded over Wilson with an intensity he could never explain. He felt the barbed wire that once seared deeply into his heart loosen and fall away. He dropped his head listening to the still quiet voice saying, “I am the Truth, the Way, and the Light.”
“Show me which way to go,” Wilson whispered in response.
After a few moments he stood outside the car watching the crime scene tape fluttering in the wind. He shrugged his shoulders at the uniformed officers carrying bags and bags of evidence out of the building. Darkness shrouded the building like an evil spirit hovering over a graveyard.
Wilson dipped under the tape and found Captain Reagan deep within the recess of the building. “I think I may know who has my sister.”
Looking around, Captain Reagan slid a wooden toothpick between his lips “Who?”
“Juarez Durante.”
Captain Reagan rocked back onto his cowboy boots, “I assume you’ve got a story to tell?” But first answer the question, how did his niece and your sister manage to become good friends?”