I hustled back the way I came, phoning Rosa from the alley, but getting her voicemail.
As I hung up, my phone buzzed, and I looked down. It was Cassie, texting me.
What’s up, partner? Did you head to LA?
Frank said you never called with your flight info.
I ignored the text and put my phone away.
I had nowhere else to go, except to find my way to Rosa’s, two blocks away, so I hustled toward where the Uber had dropped me. It was a Thursday night, but the neighborhood was far from the busy nightlife of South Beach.
As I approached Rosa’s house, I heard the sound of someone scraping a trash can in from the curb.
I called Rosa again.
Again, voicemail.
I kept to the left side of the alley, my body hidden under the palm trees that lined the cracked asphalt. Behind the twelve-hundred-square-foot home, I saw the space where Rosa’s 2012 Chevy Equinox normally parked. It was empty, but a light was on inside her house.
I flipped the safety off my Glock and edged toward the back door. Tried the knob and felt it turn.
I swung open the door against the stucco wall and entered quietly. Switched on the light and cleared the kitchen. “Camila?”
I turned the corner, my Glock held out in a shooting stance.
“Daddy?” A voice rang out.
My seven-year-old stood there, a woman in her forties behind her.
“Are you two alone?” I asked.
The woman who stood behind Camila nodded, and I secured my weapon. Rosa’s friend Beatriz wore bright orange lipstick. Her reddish hair was black at the roots.
“Rosa didn’t tell you to stay put?” I asked.
Beatriz looked down sheepishly. “She said we could come back if we wanted. Just to be careful. Camila needed her giraffe.”
Through the kitchen window, something white flashed across the alley. The shape moved again, heading toward the back door.
I put a finger to my lips and motioned them into the bedroom. What if this was Mad Dog? And they had come back for a stuffed animal?
I pushed my back against the kitchen wall and slid along it until I found a position beside the door. I saw the white of a man’s shirt. Turned the knob slowly. Then bullied the door open with all my weight, smacking the man who was behind it and knocking him to the ground.
In five seconds, I had him on his stomach, his chin pinned to the concrete and his arm bent behind him.
“Let’s start with your name,” I said. I pushed my gun into his space below his rib cage.
“I was just looking for Beatriz,” he mumbled, and I smelled rum on his breath. “We had a fight, and I knew she was watching the kid.”
I stepped off the man, my gun still trained on him. Called to Beatriz.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Reynaldo, are you okay?”
My heart rate was slowing, and I thought of what Saul would say if he saw this. His expressions were colorful and voluminous, and this scenario would have been labeled “a fucking goat rodeo.” It was a term he used in situations where others often say the word “clusterfuck.”
“I could have shot you,” I said to the man.
I turned to Camila, who was standing by the door. “Get packed,” I said. “Four outfits for you. Four for your Nana. I don’t care if they match. Two minutes.”
“Daddy, are we—”
“No questions,” I said, my voice urgent.
Beatriz glared at me, and I turned to the drunken man. “Get lost.”
I walked inside. Helped Camila fill a large purple duffel bag with four of everything: underwear, shoes, sweaters, and hats. As we packed, I requested an Uber.
A few minutes later, we locked up and walked outside. Beatriz’s friend Reynaldo was nursing a cut on his face and mumbling something about police brutality. I saw the car pull up and didn’t even turn to them. I needed to be heading west by 7 a.m. to meet the team in LA.
I had done some prep work from the air about where I could hide Camila and Rosa. And while I didn’t have family in the area, I was not without help.
As I’d traveled to the private terminal in Dallas three hours ago, I’d called Mitchell Hannick. Back in 2012, I’d saved his son from a horrible man, hell-bent on abusing and killing the boy, just like he had done to three others in the family’s neighborhood.
There is a permanent bond you make with someone whose life you save. That bond is even stronger when you save the life of their child. For years, Hannick’s family had invited me to bring Camila up to their ostrich farm, which was located west of Lorida. I’d never taken them up on the invite, but had shown Camila pictures of the place on her iPad.
Inside the Uber, I placed the duffel across our laps.
“Miami International?” the driver confirmed.
Camila’s eyes went wide. She leaned into me, the fluff of her Hello Kitty sweater soft against my neck. “Are we going on a plane?”
“Yes,” I said to the driver.
Twenty minutes later, he left us at Concourse D, and we walked into the airport. We took the elevator to level 3 and boarded the people mover over to the rental car center.
“We’re not going on a plane?” Camila asked as we walked out to a car I’d reserved.
“Why don’t you take a rest, honey?” I said. “No more questions tonight.”
“Are we safe?” Camila asked.
I propped her up on a booster in the back seat. “We are,” I said. “Because we were smart. But we have to continue to be smart. Your dad is chasing a bad man. Until I catch him, I want you to be somewhere where he can’t find you. Where no one can.”
“I have school tomorrow,” she said.
Camila had entered preschool a year early and was now in third grade. “This will be a vacation from school,” I said. I got in the front and started the car.
“Are we going to a beach?”
“You live near a beach.” I headed out of the lot. “That wouldn’t be a vacation.”
“Is it a farm?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes got big. “The farm on the internet? With the ponies and ostriches and emus?”
I glanced through the rearview mirror at Camila. “Do you know where your grandma is staying tonight?”
“She had me take a picture,” Camila said. “To give to Miss Beatriz.”
Camila handed me her iPad, and I saw a photo of a Hotels.com reservation. Rosa was staying at a Motel 8 south of Lake Apopka, in a suburb called Winter Garden.
I explained to my daughter that I was not going to be there when she woke up on the farm tomorrow. That her grandmother would arrive by late afternoon. Until then, she had to listen to Mr. Hannick, who was a friend of her dad’s.
“Okay,” she said, her voice quiet.
I got on 95, and Camila started to fade. Before she fell asleep, she began to speak more slowly, the fatigue coming.
“Daddy,” she said. “We were going to read the book about magic. But now you’re gonna be gone.”
“I realize that,” I said, eyeing her through the rearview mirror. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded in acceptance, and something inside me stirred. The fact that Camila gave in so easily. What that implied about me as a father.
“Did you bring the magic book with you?” I asked, thinking about my own youth. The absence of a father in my life.
“Uh-huh,” she nodded.
I slowed the car and pulled over, off the state highway and onto a side road.
“Let me have it,” I said, and she grabbed the book from her bag.
“There was once a magical girl,” I said, opening the inside page. “But not any ordinary magician. This girl was special. She had a gift that no one else had.”
Camila’s eyes fluttered. She yawned and stretched her socked feet.
“It wasn’t a gift you could see with your eyes, like magical vision. She wasn’t born with the knowledge of certain spells.”
After another two minutes, I glanced up and saw that Camila was asleep. I placed the book back in her duffel and glanced at my phone, studying the directions to Hannick’s farm—and from there to Rosa’s hotel. After committing every detail to memory, I removed the SIM card from my phone and turned Camila’s iPad off.
Was I being paranoid? Overly cautious? I was a professional, tasked with profiling crimes that others could not solve. Yes, it was unlikely this killer had the eyes and manpower to cross the country. But I couldn’t take any chances with my daughter.
As I drove, I thought of a different road trip and another time.
When my mom relocated west, Anna and I agreed to drive the remains of her stuff out from South Carolina. Mom flew east to meet us, and the four of us, including an eighteen-month-old Camila, hit the road.
Along the way, Anna insisted on buying a onesie at every stop, and my mom took pictures with Camila in each one. In Atlanta, the onesie read “I drool red and black,” along with a Georgia Bulldogs logo; in Jackson, Mississippi, it was, “Jackson is calling and I must go.”
When we arrived in Texas, Anna found the last one, a pink number that read “Sorry about the spit-up. Thought I saw an Aggies fan.”
There were good times between me and Anna, right up until everything went south, and some of the best parts were watching her and my mother together. They were from different worlds, but they somehow connected, the same way Anna and I had. When the fraud occurred, my mother was in disbelief.
Time had slid by while I was reminiscing. I looked up and saw the exit for Hannick’s farm. I pulled off, moving along a dirt road until I got to the gate, where he buzzed me in.
The ranch was open to the public on weekends, and the four large animal pens had colorful painted signs with instructions explaining the behavior of the Italian emu and the American quarter horse. Two other signs were for wayfinding and directed patrons to an area with brush-tongued parrots and restrooms.
At the main house, Hannick stood out front, a series of security lights on the porch turning the night to dusk. Hannick was white, in his late forties and fit, with small gray eyes and a goatee.
“Agent Camden,” he said as I got out of the car. Still addressing me as he did during his case.
“Mr. Hannick.” I put out my hand. “I appreciate you taking Camila on such short notice.”
Hannick waved me off. He wore blue wind pants and a green John Deere T-shirt. “I told you on the phone. You have unlimited credit with us.”
I grabbed a sleeping Camila from the back seat of the car and lifted her petite frame over my shoulder. Her body was warm as I followed Hannick inside and laid her down on a bed in his spare room.
“You’re sure this is okay?” he asked. His accent rang of central Oklahoma, where he’d grown up. “Her waking up, I mean, and you being gone?”
“No,” I said. “I’m not sure.”
Hannick stared at me, waiting for more.
It was an open question when Anna first got pregnant—whether I was capable of an emotional relationship with a child. But as Camila began to speak, I noticed something odd. She inherited many of my personality traits. But she was a better person by those traits being weakened and mixed with those of my wife’s family. She was funny like Anna. Thoughtful like Saul and Rosa. Clever like my mother.
“I’ve evaluated other options,” I said, “and being here is the best one. Her grandmother will arrive by afternoon.”
I kissed my daughter on the head and turned to Hannick. “Camila’s favorite stuffed animal is a giraffe called Manny. It’s in her bag. She’ll eat Cheerios all morning, and she’s going to ask a lot of questions. About the farm. The animals. Rosa will know the rest when she gets here.”
“All right,” he said.
“Keep her from calling anyone. Same with Rosa.”
Hannick nodded, but I needed to be clear with him.
“The whole idea of her being here is to keep her safe.” I looked around. “You guys, too. If Camila and Rosa don’t call anyone, no one will know they’re here. I’ll be back in a couple days.”
Hannick nodded. He understood the kind of monsters I hunted. I thanked him and turned without thinking for another moment. Got on the road.
Rosa’s hotel was ninety-two miles south of Ocala, where Anna was housed. After the prison visit, Rosa would have to stay at the ranch, too. I drove back toward the highway, but before I got on, I knew I needed to check in with PAR.
I headed ten miles east of the ranch to a nearby police station. Pulled into the parking lot and put the SIM card back in my phone. On the chance anyone was tracking my signal, this would offer no connection to Hannick’s ranch.
I called up Cassie.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey yourself. Where are you?”
I glanced around the parking lot. “Florida.”
“You went home?” she asked. “What for?”
A patrol car pulled into the lot, and the officer eyed me. I hesitated before answering.
“I need to trust someone, Cassie,” I said.
“I know,” she replied. She paused before going on. “I can tell you’re trying. And that’s what matters.”
“I’m with Camila,” I said. “I didn’t want anyone to know where we were. Just in case…”
Cassie was silent for a moment. But she knew me well enough to follow my logic. “Gardner,” she said finally. “Who in PAR would put Camila in jeopardy? Me? Frank? Jo? C’mon. I mean, Richie’s new. We don’t know him. But the rest of us are fam.”
“I see that logic,” I said. “But—my mind doesn’t work that way. And I screwed up, years ago.”
“Well, is Camila safe? You stash her somewhere?”
“I did.”
“So when are you coming back?”
“The morning,” I said. “I’ll be on the first flight to LA.”
“Okay,” she replied. “Then I’ll say something to the group. But I won’t say Florida. I’ll make something up.”
“Thank you.”
I put the rental in reverse. I had to get back on the road.
“Gardner,” Cassie said. “We all care about you. You know that, right?”
“I’m aware of this.”
“I care about you,” she said.
“I know you do.”
“Be safe.”
I didn’t answer. And after a moment, I heard a dial tone.
I removed the SIM card again and got on the highway, headed to Rosa’s hotel.
At the Motel 8’s front desk, I badged the night manager and received Rosa’s room number. I knocked firmly until she came to the door in a satin robe with purple flowers on the side. The same one I’d seen her wear at her home.
“Gardner,” she said, surprised. Rosa had pronounced cheekbones and wavy hair that flowed past her shoulders. She’d lost twenty-five pounds in the last two years. The effect enhanced the curves of her hips, which were evident in the thin robe.
“Camila is fine,” I said.
“I know. Beatriz called me after you left. She told me you punched out her friend.”
I held out a paper with written directions from the Motel 8 to the prison. And from the prison to Mitchell Hannick’s ranch.
“Camila is already at this … farm?” Rosa asked, not taking the paper from me.
“She is,” I said. “And I need your cell phone. To make sure no one can track you.”
Rosa’s face was uncertain. “I always treat you like family, Gardner, because my Saul is looking down on me. He would want that, especially for Camila.”
“I know you do,” I said. “I wouldn’t ask you this if I didn’t think your safety and Camila’s was in question.”
Rosa’s gaze moved past me, toward the highway. In the dim light outside the hotel room, her cheeks were shiny from some skin product.
But the shift was purposeful. She couldn’t look me in the eye.
“Do you remember a case Saul and I worked?” I asked. “A man who was killing women in south Florida? This particular man was using women’s body parts to fish with.”
Her dark brown eyes returned to mine. “Yes.”
“Saul and I thought the guy burned alive. But we were wrong. He was killed four days ago by a man who is hunting serial killers. The same man threatened my family. Which means he threatened you and Camila.”
Rosa’s squint turned to a scowl, and now she made full eye contact. “My Saul worked in the Bureau for twenty-five years,” she said. “You know this, right, Mr. Big Brain?”
This was my nickname when Rosa was not happy.
“Yes.”
“Do you know how many times he had a conversation like this with me? About my own safety? About him putting the family in jeopardy?”
I shook my head.
“Never.” She tapped her index finger on my chest. “Never, Gardner.”
I went quiet.
“Say something.” She poked me again. “Feel something.”
I swallowed. Looked up. “Saul was my friend, too. I only want—”
“No,” Rosa interrupted. “Not about him. Don’t talk about him.”
I looked down. What could I say?
“You make it so hard for me to forgive you,” she said. “But I keep praying.” She reached into the pocket of her robe. Handed me her phone and ripped the paper with the directions from my hand.
“Thank you,” I said.
She turned and slammed the door.