Twisted and Tied (Marshals 4)

“I will,” I replied implacably.

She was startled and uncrossed her arms before sitting up in her chair. “No shit?”

“No shit.”

“And you?” she grilled Macin.

“I believe you too,” she assured her.

Kendra looked back and forth between us. “Where’ve you all been?”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “We were late. It won’t happen again.”

She nodded. “This is a mindfuck, man.”

“I suspect it is.”

She grunted. “Okay, so I’ve been living with my girlfriend Robyn and her family, and they said I could stay for as long as I like.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah. They really like me. I’m a good influence on her.”

Macin had questions, but I cut her off. “What if you guys break up?”

“Nah, man. This is the real deal. Some people still find their soul mates in high school, no matter what you see on TV. Don’t be so jaded.”

“Really?”

A second grunt from her.

“Listen, I’m not arguing with you, what do I know?” I said, getting up. “Let’s go talk to your soul mate’s mother.”

“Was that sarcasm?”

“Surely not.”

And her smile, from nothing to brilliant, was a joy to see.

“Okay, Miro Jones, let’s go.”

MACIN DIDN’T like it. I explained to her I didn’t care. Kendra liked it, and after losing her folks and being let down by the marshals’ office, I was ready to go on faith.

Redeker caught up with Macin and me an hour later at the home of Melinda Shelby, who had a very big house and who was very, very excited to have Kendra come live permanently with she and her husband, their daughter Robyn, and her other two sons. She was crying as she held on to my arm.

“You don’t understand. Last year before Robyn came out to us, she was so scared, and there were drugs, and she almost flunked out of school, and we were fighting all the time, and we—we thought we were going to lose her. I thought, this is how my family ends, you know? But then over the summer, it’s suddenly all about Kendra and how she’s a lesbian too, and can we still love her, and—I mean, of course we love her, why in the world would her sexual orientation matter?”

“Good job, Mom,” I said, patting her on the shoulder.

“And this is crazy,” she continued, smiling, “but Kendra and my husband—two peas in a pod. They both like to fish and play Call of Duty and make crepes and garden…. I mean, those horrible people she was living with, they have no idea what a sweet girl they have there.”

I nodded.

“So yes, please, whatever I need to do to sign up to be her foster mother, let’s make that happen as soon as possible.”

Macin was pleased after that.

The next three were close: one in Des Plaines, one in Parkridge, and then one in Harwood Heights. Two of the kids were doing well and, while happy to meet me, were in good homes, while the third, Jason Knowles, was not where he was supposed to be.

After Kendra, our routine was to go directly to the school and pull the kids out of class. It was better than waiting to see them at home, and we got honest answers. When Jason was not in school, we went to his house.

When I knocked, a woman came to the door but only opened it a crack. I didn’t get the delicious aroma of wafting food like at Ernesto’s home; instead I got vomit and sweat. Her right eye looked fearful, and she was clearly trembling. I shifted the folder to my left hand and lifted my badge for her to see. The credentials wouldn’t get the door open, but the star would.

“Ma’am, I’m Deputy US Marshal Miro Jones, and this is my partner, Deputy US Marshal Josiah Redeker. May we come in, please?”

She took a heaving breath and then lifted her finger to her lips, asking for silence.

I nodded quickly.

So carefully, so quietly, she closed the door just enough to remove the chain and then slowly opened it back up.

The living room was right there, and it was strewn with clothes, smashed dishes, food, empty beer bottles, and vomit. It wasn’t the room that made my stomach turn, though, but the woman herself. Standing there in only a tank top and panties, she was battered and bruised, her lip and nose bleeding, her left eye swollen on the way to closing. Finger-shaped bruises dotted her throat and, as I looked down her body, her thighs. Redeker turned to the coats hanging next to the door, grabbed a long sweater, and passed it to me. I held it up, and she turned around and let me help her put it on. It was difficult—I could tell her left arm was broken.

“Where is he?” I whispered.

“In the bedroom,” she whispered back.

“Is he armed?”

She nodded.

“Is Jason home?”

A tremor ran through her, and she took a shuddering breath. “No. I made him take my little girl to school on the bus this morning because I needed to get them out of the house.”