Bringing All the Bad Read online

  Bringing All The Bad

  Two Dark Novels

  Dark Collections – Volume III

  by Ann Christy

  Copyright © 2020 by Ann Christy

  All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or otherwise, nor may it be stored in a database or private retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, with the exception of brief quotations included in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses as permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, and events appearing or described in this work are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental and the product of a fevered imagination.

  www.annchristy.com

  Works by Ann Christy

  The Silo 49 Series

  Silo 49: Going Dark

  Silo 49: Deep Dark

  Silo 49: Dark Till Dawn

  Silo 49: Flying Season for the Mis-Recorded

  The Between Life and Death Series

  The In-Betweener

  Forever Between

  Between No More

  The Book of Sam

  Savannah Slays

  Christmas Between Life and Death

  Dead Woman’s Journal (Prequel)

  Strikers Series

  Strikers

  Strikers: Eastlands

  Strikers: Outlands

  First Strike (VIP List Exclusive Prequel)

  Into The Galaxy Duology

  Portals

  Portals: Saving Earth

  Portals: The Hub of Life (VIP List Exclusive)

  Dark Collections

  The Ways We End

  And Then Begin Again

  Bringing All The Bad

  True Vampire

  Girard, The Guardian

  Perfect Partners, Incorporated Series

  Robot Evolution

  Hope/Less

  Anthologies with Stories by Ann Christy

  Wool Gathering: A Charity Anthology

  Synchronic: 13 Tales of Time Travel

  The Robot Chronicles

  The Powers That Be: A Superhero Charity Anthology

  The Z Chronicles

  Alt.History 101

  Dark Beyond the Stars

  The Future Chronicles – Special Edition

  The Time Travel Chronicles

  The Doomsday Chronicles

  Dark Beyond the Stars 2: A Planet Too Far

  Dark Beyond the Stars: New Worlds, New Suns

  Chronicle Worlds: Tails of Dystopia

  Bridge Across The Stars

  Best of Beyond the Stars

  Warning

  The following novel deals with child victims and may be too intense for some readers.

  Magic Baby in Room 108

  A child’s whispering voice on a phone led Detective Melody Baker to the doorstep of a massive child trafficking ring. They saved many victims, but there are more to be found…and many perpetrators who need to be brought to justice.

  Which of the rescued girls now crowding a hospital room is the caller, and how much more does she know? Melody’s team has to find the answers and if there are more girls to be found, time is of the essence. As Melody searches for the truth, one strange girl spins a fantastical tale. Buried in that tale are the seeds of trauma-induced madness…or an astonishing truth. As the detective is soon to discover, there’s more than one way to find justice and sometimes, a monster can be a detective’s best friend.

  The Bust

  Detective Sergeant Melody Baker didn’t feel the sense of accomplishment she thought she would. Where was the feeling of relief? The easing of a burden too long carried? The desire to high-five her partner or clap someone on the back?

  Not here. That was the answer to all those questions. Not here and not with her.

  Paul Ramsay, also a Detective, though still newly minted enough that he used the title whenever possible, looked as if he felt the same. His dark eyes were shadowed by even darker circles, the hollows beneath his cheeks stark. It made him look like death was coming for him, an impatient death shaking his scythe to get Paul to hurry up and stop breathing already.

  His footfalls quiet, he stepped out of the hallway where the rooms meant for interviewing their particular type of victim lay. In deference to the late hour, the lights were dimmed, though they were never completely in the dark. Darkness was often a fearful thing for the children who passed down this hallway to wait in those rooms scattered with soft cushions and toys. Rooms painted in cheerful colors for children who did not have cheerful things to say.

  There were no children in those rooms now. Not yet. Paul had needed the room instead. It was a place to let what he saw wash over and through him. He needed to let it out, then regain some composure before they continued their duties.

  Melody understood. It had been a long night and it would be a very long day. She’d been content to wait, work through her own feelings, and gaze out the window. Without her ad-blockers, the world through the window was a dazzling spectacle of color. On every wall, and most windows, an ever-changing, flashing parade of computerized ads lured the unwary to spend, spend, spend.

  She slipped her ad-blockers back onto her face and the world through the glasses was once again gray and dark. All the color washed away. It was time to work again.

  As he closed the door, Paul let out an exhausted breath and met her eyes. Here in the Special Victims section of the building, they could be a little more real with each other. Beyond this section, they had to be as hard as everyone else. In this one place, they could be human.

  “You okay?” Melody asked him, wanting a real answer.

  With a rueful semi-smile that took ten years off his features, he said, “You’d have to define the word a little more precisely before I can answer that.”

  She understood. Absolutely. Their job was like that. But she’d also been at this a lot longer than Paul, so she knew what to say to him. She’d said almost the same things to the many partners who had come and gone before him.

  Placing a hand on his shoulder, she leaned in and said, “They’re free of the bad thing. That’s the part you have to focus on. We did a good thing, a good job. This part is hard for us, seeing the faces in real time instead of a grainy photo or the words of a basic description. Focus on the good. They’re free. Now, they can heal.”

  His eyes once again shadowed, he said, “Not all of them have families to go back to. I think some were given away.” He paused, swallowed hard. “I think some of those kids were sold.”

  This was not surprising news and it happened far more often than most people knew, or could grasp if they did know. This was a facet of life people had to reject in order to carry on. For most people out there living their daily grind, waiting in line for a shot of caffeine in the mornings, working and eating and having relationships, the knowledge that someone else…perhaps someone behind them in that coffee line…sold children for sex, wasn’t something they could carry around in their heads. It had to be rejected and forgotten, which meant it kept happening. No one could stop what they wouldn’t even admit was happening.

  There was nothing Melody could say that would make him feel better about the situation, so she said nothing, settling for a quick squeeze on his shoulder before letting go. They carried this burden of knowledge, but they didn’t have to carry it alone. Her touch told him that.

  Opening space between them, he shook off the gloom and eyed the empty desks arrayed around their unit. “Where is everyone? Who’s doing
what?”

  Melody stepped over to the desk, examining the many yellow sticky notes all over the surface. She had always been a big fan of the sticky note. At home, her refrigerator was almost covered in them.

  “Manning and Whitehurst are still processing the scene, or overseeing it anyway. Can’t afford a single mistake and they’re the best at scene work. They’ll also keep everyone at the scene quiet. I don’t want news drones showing up because of someone’s call home on a sponsored phone line.”

  Paul nodded absently, in complete agreement. Both of those detectives had been borrowed from another unit during a previous operation and were as meticulous as was humanly possible. Teasing them about OCD tendencies had quickly become habit.

  “What about Charter and Goodfellow?” he asked, tapping a stiff finger on the desk next to him. It was Goodfellow’s desk, which meant it was covered in piles of papers so deep it was a fire hazard.

  “Still with the other uniforms at the hospital. They’re trying to figure out who is who. Social services is helping, but I’m not sure anyone but them would call it helping. Social workers want to make contact with family as quickly as possible.”

  “Not listening…again. I probably shouldn’t ask, but they have been informed that some of those girls’ families probably know exactly what’s been happening to their children, haven’t they?”

  Melody smiled sadly. “Repeatedly. And no, they aren’t listening. That’s what happens when your job is ruled by checklists.”

  They fell silent, letting the hiss and rattle of old ventilation fill the void. They both knew the score, and in truth, so did social services. Most of these girls weren’t kidnapped in the traditional sense. There were no camera-ready families to collect them, no carefully filed snippets of videos begging for a daughter’s return. Or there wouldn’t likely be.

  These sorts of trafficking rings were more carefully crafted than that. They took the children who were already half lost. Or entirely lost.

  After the silence stretched too long, Paul asked, “Is the Captain explaining to them?”

  “He’s there and he’s trying.”

  Melody eyed her partner. Was he okay? Better? Could he function?

  He saw her doing it. After three years together, he understood her better than he understood his wife. After all, he spent more time with Melody, and the time was more intense. In such situations, the real person came out. They got to understand the deep parts of each other.

  “I’m okay, Mel. I just had to get it out.”

  With a quick nod of acceptance, she shifted back to business. “Right then. Let’s get to the hospital. There’s a lot of work to be done before either of us can sleep.”

  Whipping his suit jacket off the chair where he’d flung it, he slid it on without any of the delaying tactics he used when he needed more time to think. Melody smiled a little, but only a little. Her partner was going to be alright. This time, anyway.

  The Hospital

  Social services finally got it. After running the names they’d managed to wrangle from some of the girls, then showing the results to the lead case manager overseeing the operation, they’d finally backed down. The girls were from everywhere or nowhere, and none of them had been particularly missed.

  Of the six who’d given names that sounded remotely like real ones, only two had been reported missing. One of those had been reported by social services rather than a family member. The other had been reported by a mother who was imprisoned, but only after she’d been unable to make contact with her daughter for several months.

  Four had never been reported at all. Not by anyone.

  The two case workers trailing behind the case manager had looked lost after that bit of news sunk in. What do you do with more than a dozen girls between the ages of eight and fifteen who had been through what they’d been through? What do you do with them when they had absolutely no one reliable to lean on?

  “We can’t just plop them down into any foster home,” the case manager said. “They need special care.”

  “Then figure it out,” replied Captain Mann, his expression deadpan. “The hospital will hold them here for a while, but eventually, they’ll need to go somewhere.” He paused, then added. “Somewhere safe. I don’t want them in with the bad ones.”

  The case manager threw up her hands, gathered her minions, and set off to work the phones. No doubt, she was going to call in favors, hoping to wedge another child into each of the few homes that specialized in children like these.

  What was saddest of all was that they needed homes that specialized in such children.

  Once the woman was out of earshot, the Captain turned to Melody and Paul. His face was almost as drawn as Paul’s had been when they stopped at the station so he could let out some of the rage and grief.

  “Mel, Paul, glad you finally decided to show up. Here’s the thing. I’ve already got us some help doing background, but it’s going to take time. With more than twice the number of girls we anticipated in that sweep, we’re in over our heads. The FBI is coming, but we had no idea what we were getting into, so they’ve been taken by surprise too.”

  None of this was news, or even surprising. This case had dropped into their laps like a bad gift they didn’t know was coming. The phone call came early yesterday morning. A child’s soft voice had whispered all they needed to know, with plenty of information to verify her claims. Even the private, code only, website was provided during that phone call. Whoever called knew everything about the operation. Within hours, a hastily assembled team raided the seedy campground with its collection of RVs.

  A rolling brothel of children for rent.

  Between the sixteen men caught buying, the seven men and two women selling, and the many girls being rented, the police department was more than swamped. They were in over their heads and overwhelmed. They needed help.

  Melody thought about that call again. The girl had asked for her by name. “Any idea which one of them was the caller?”

  Captain Mann shook his head. “No one is confessing to that. Do you think you would recognize the voice?”

  With an uncertain expression, she said, “Maybe. She was whispering most of the time and it’s hard to get a read on a voice when they whisper.”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, the change in one rattling a little. It was a nervous habit, familiar to both Paul and Melody. Sometimes, Melody thought the Captain kept a handful of useless dollar coins just so he could jiggle them like that. She breathed the antiseptic hospital air and waited. He was thinking. The sharp rattle as he squeezed all the coins, then let them go was her cue to pay attention again.

  “I want you two doing the interviews until the feds get here. We can’t leave them in limbo like this. They need to know we didn’t snatch them only to leave them hanging. See if you can’t figure out which one made the call. Whoever she is, she knew an awful lot about their system. We need her to tell us everything.”

  Paul broke in and asked, “What about the ones who won’t give names?”

  Mann aged ten years in the second between the end of the question and his answer. “Some of them don’t know their real names, or maybe they simply don’t remember. They were taken that young.”

  The murderous glint in Paul’s eyes made Melody reach out and touch his arm, a gentle reminder that they were in the here and now, that they weren’t supposed to murder bad guys, even when they really deserved it. He drew in a long breath through his nose. It whistled a little. With spring right around the corner and the grasses starting to green, he was a little stopped up. Melody handed him a eucalyptus lozenge and the glint in his eye faded. She kept a supply in her jacket pocket, because he never remembered to bring any.

  Also, she would make sure Paul didn’t conduct any of the perp interviews. Nor would she for that matter. Murder could happen.

  Mann’s phone rang and he looked relieved after glancing at the screen. “It’s the FBI, finally. Go on and start with the girls. I’ll brief
you later.”

  With that, he turned away, his voice lowering as he spoke to his contact in the FBI. A nurse at the station a few feet away was looking their way, in her eyes a question. Deciding it was time to get to work, Melody answered the nurse’s unspoken query.

  Holding up her badge, she said, “We’re here to interview the girls.”

  The Introduction

  They were piled in like puppies. All fourteen of the girls were in one room with four beds. They had other rooms, but they were gathered here. The way the girls were grouped inside that room told a story. Mel knew in an instant who relied on who for comfort, could see that there were two cliques within the group, and finally, understood which girls were the ones the younger children went to for mothering.

  She also knew there was one who didn’t belong to any of those groups. A gangly kid of maybe eleven or twelve, she stood near the window, her posture relaxed but watchful. There was no one looking at her, hugging her on a bed, or stroking her hair while she slept across another’s lap. She was alone, but more remarkably, she seemed fine with it.

  Her hair was pixie short, which was also unusual. The kind of men who sought out company in little chicken farms often fit stereotypes with unnerving accuracy. They wanted their little chickens to fit a stereotype too. Long hair with little girl curls and pigtails. That was their usual preference. That, or bows in their hair.

  This girl didn’t meet those stereotypes. Her eyes were large and luminous, pale grey like a winter sky just before a traffic-stopping snow began to fall. A full and impersonal gray, potentially dangerous. That was the color. Her rose-pink lips curled up a little as Mel cataloged her features.

  This girl was the one to watch. The one who called had seemed calm, matter of fact, and most of all, capable of making such a call. The girls clinging to each other on the beds weren’t any of those things. This one might be all of those things.