“…taking you to a scene in rural Prospectus. We don’t have all the information, but we do know that two women were being held captive inside this trailer.”
Xander’s attention snapped to the TV and the wide shot of the trailer with its demolished back end, the debris of what used to be his truck, and the destroyed cornfield. Local law enforcement officers and BCI guys roamed the property, some examining evidence, others taking photos. He stopped sharp as if he’d hit a pane of glass.
His heart shifted into a higher gear. How had they survived? No matter how many times he replayed it in his mind, he didn’t have an answer.
“It appears the women had been held for quite some time. Police officials say they are still piecing together what happened.”
Nothing fascinated the masses more than stories of cruelty and violence. A media frenzy was about to erupt, and Isleen was going to be in the middle of it.
“This is Dwight Swineforth, the farmer who owns the fields around the trailer. Mr. Swineforth, did you see anything that would indicate what was happening inside?”
The camera panned to a grizzled farmer dressed in cutoff coveralls, work boots, and a baseball hat. The guy had to be pushing eighty, yet looked like a nerdy kid whose mamma still dressed him. “Nothing. I mean, I never saw no one. When I’d be plowin’, harvestin’, or drivin’ by checkin’ the crops, I never saw a thing. Only reason I know’d someone still lived there was because sometimes there’d be a car in the driveway.”
The white at the edges of Xander’s vision spread, engulfing more of his sight. He jogged through the doors to the outside.
Even though it was only late morning, humidity soaked the air, instantly dampening his clothing and moistening his skin. It was a relief from the noise. Oh, he could still hear it all, but now he was a layer removed. His vision returned to normal.
What a goddamned mess. The deputy who’d brought them to the emergency room had questioned him, but not as thoroughly as a detective would, or as Kent would when he got here. Xander’s story had been far-fetched but plausible. He’d been lost, stopped to get directions, saw something wasn’t right, and found Isleen and her grandmother. Any pig with half a brain would see through that shit shine.
Speaking of pork, Kent’s oh-no-I’m-not-compensating-for-anything huge truck pulled into the lot. Xander sat on a bench in the shade of the entrance area and waited for Kent to take his sweet-ass time to park and stroll over.
Xander sucked in a slow breath. Held it. Waited for the slam of pain.
“You ready to give the real story? I’ve been out there. And I don’t buy what you’re trying to sell.”
Bam. Xander flinched and then clamped his eyes closed for a few seconds too long to be normal before popping them back open. “Not my problem.” He stared straight ahead. The goddamned pounding in his head had decided to pair up with his heartbeat to make a rhythm and a counter rhythm. The cadence might’ve been catchy if it wasn’t rocking out inside his body.
“Gonna be your problem if you get arrested for murder. Right now, all that’s left of that woman are pieces. The largest one I saw was a nipple—nipple ring still attached.”
“Fucking Christ, man. Keep that shit to yourself. You didn’t see her. You don’t know how that image just burned a hole through my frontal lobe.” Xander rubbed his thumping temple. “Media’s already gone live with the story. You’ll need to get someone here to protect Isleen’s privacy.”
“And you’re gonna need a lawyer if you don’t talk to me. No truck randomly explodes like that. There’s a crater four feet deep in the yard. Your little tale about being lost? Sell it to someone else. Your truck had a navigation system and so does your phone.”
An ambulance, lights flashing, but no siren blaring drove past where they sat to the ER entrance.
Kent gestured toward it. “They’re bringing in the old lady. She was still alive.”
Xander’s jaw slowly sank open, and he struggled to assimilate that little knowledge bomb. “Whoa… She was in that back room. It was obliterated. I didn’t think she’d survived, or I would’ve looked for her.” He stood and headed toward the ambulance, pulled by curiosity and maybe a little guilt that he hadn’t focused more on finding Isleen’s grandmother.
The EMT guy pulled the gurney from the back of the truck. A woman just as skeletal as Isleen lay in an awkward fetal position. Isleen’s grandmother looked familiar. More familiar than Isleen.
The tuning-in slammed into the side of Xander’s head.
“You family?” The EMT glanced at him and did a double take at the scars. Whoa, buddy. What happened to your face?
“Struck by lightning. It’s called a Lichtenberg figure,” Xander answered without thinking. And then it was like someone had hit his rewind button and he was a little boy again, looking up at the face of the woman who’d raised him. Until she walked out on him. On his father. “Son of a bitch. This is Gale.”