Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“Marshal Morse and I are, yes,” I responded.

“Better call him, then, because we have to go.”

“Ian!” I called, and when he turned to find me, I gestured for him.

He joined me at the ambulance in seconds.

“She wasn’t raped.”

His relief, the slight tremble, the droop of his shoulders, and the way he visibly relaxed, calmed me as well.

“They filmed her, though, so collect cell phones and find everything—any laptops, I mean, you know the drill. I hope nothing got e-mailed or… make sure they take this place down to the studs because we need to be sure there’s no video of her anywhere.”

“I’ll question the witnesses myself. I’ll find out.”

“Okay, I—”

“Do we know if these kids are illegal?” the other EMT—Treschi, his name patch read—asked Bryson. She shrugged.

“Why does it matter?” Ian flared angrily. “Either way, she has to go to the hospital. What the hell?”

“Don’t get all defensive, marshal, I’m one of the good guys,” Treschi told my partner. “There are just hospitals that care, and some that only want the bill paid and will make long-term arrangements. If the kids are illegal, we’ll pick one of those that cares.”

Ian grunted, conceding nothing. “I see. Okay.”

“You gotta know all the ins and outs.”

“Yes, you do,” he agreed but still didn’t apologize. It was not his way.

“Sorry,” I offered, “we’re both new here to Phoenix.”

Treschi moved behind me to put a butterfly bandage on the cut on Oscar’s head that he had cleaned earlier, ruffling Oscar’s hair when he was done. “No, you go right ahead. After the night you guys put in, you have every right.”

All at once new lights, new sirens, and a stream of big black SUVs invaded each end of the alley.

Ian’s glower was dark. “What the hell is the FBI doing here?”

You could always recognize Feds. While marshals tended to swagger a bit, the FBI always walked into any situation like God himself had arrived, so now things could be handled correctly. And while normally the pompous act grated on me, with the local cops there and the federal representatives outnumbered, I felt myself warming to their presence.

The suits were endless, and after only moments in the cluster of police along with Segundo and Hewitt—who had clearly done his job and called for backup—they were directed to Ian and me and so headed over.

Ian stepped in front of me, protectively, as he always did.

“Marshals,” the first man said as he closed in on us, pulling a badge that clearly identified him as being with the State Department. “Do we have Sofia and Oscar Guzman?”

“We do,” Ian informed him, moving sideways, no longer barring the path between him and me and the kids.

The State Department guy turned and signaled to one of the cars, and all four doors opened. A man and a woman, an older boy, and three other people climbed out and came running. All were dressed immaculately. The woman was in what I knew was Chanel from all the times I’d bought suits with one of my girlfriends; the man I guessed was Sofia’s father appeared polished and crisp in Dolce & Gabbana; and the teenager was in slacks and a dress shirt with a sport coat on over that. I knew I was making assumptions about who they were, but once Oscar looked up and screamed, “Mama!”, there was no question.

She was not a big person, Oscar’s mother, but everyone got out of her way as she tore over to the ambulance. I would have moved, but Sofia still had a death grip on me. Oscar leaped at his mother and she grabbed him so tight, so hard, it looked painful.

“Sofia!” the older man yelled, and when she heard his call, she lifted her head off my chest and looked around for him.

There was no missing the bruises or the bloodied lip, or the haunted look in her eyes as tears welled up in them. But the relief on her little face when he was finally right there in front of her, at the rear of the ambulance, was the most heartbreaking of all.

“Papa,” she whispered as she climbed into her father’s arms.

When he grabbed her, the shirt rode up a bit, and I leaned over and patted Mr. Guzman’s arm to direct his attention to the fact.

Instantly he turned to the other boy, who had to be her older brother, and I watched as he pulled off his sport coat, wrapped it around his sister’s waist, and tied the sleeves together tight, making sure it couldn’t come loose.

Sofia was telling her father everything; I heard the rush of words and my name—and Ian’s, which she had asked for—and then more words that cut off when she started to cry.

After a few moments, Mr. Guzman handed Sofia off to her mother, who wrapped her daughter up in her arms and rocked her and hugged her and kissed her over and over. Mr. Guzman then scooped up Oscar and crushed him to his chest, whispering to his son, crooning his name as he kissed him.