Dark River Rising, page 15
Wysocki planted his hands on his hips. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Look, Wysocki. I know you’re not a bad person. I’m merely helping you to cooperate. That way I won’t have to arrest you.”
He cocked his head, a tinge of worry entering his eyes. “Arrest me for what?”
“Simple possession of child pornography is punishable by up to ten years in federal prison.”
“There’s nothing pornographic about those photos. Would I hang them on my wall if I thought so?”
“A judge might see things differently. Especially when he learns someone murdered this child.”
“That’s ridiculous. I had nothing to do with her murder.”
“I don’t think you did. I know you love children. And I believe you’re the kind of man who would want to help the police bring a child murderer to justice. You were so helpful to me in the Emily Michaelson missing child case.”
Wysocki said nothing, but stomped back into the living room and returned with the three framed photos. He carefully removed one photo from its frame, then sat at his computer and typed in some letters and numbers stamped on the back, then flipped the photo right-side up.
“You mean the pornographer actually stamps his website on the back of his photos?” Radhauser did his best to ignore the knot of discomfort, tight and hard in his gut.
Wysocki clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “He’s a pageant photographer, not a pornographer. And we all use code so cops and other assholes won’t harass us.” He paused and gave Radhauser a meaningful look. “Those of us in the business know what needs to be added to find the site. I suspect the hardcore pornographers use a similar method. That’s how they avoid detection. But the chances this site still exists after three years are almost nil.”
Just as Wysocki predicted, the website was no longer in existence.
Radhauser wanted to punch someone. He looked back and forth between the error message on Wysocki’s computer and the innocent and slightly terrified look in little Ava Cartwright’s eyes. That was when he felt it again. It was hard to explain the feeling, like something ugly inside him needed to get out.
The sex trafficking world was a dark river that never stopped flowing. With perseverance and hard work, he might make some arrests and dam it up for a little while—maybe even harness some of its power. Like a river, it would merely change course and cut through another area—flooding, ripping children away from their families, selling them for profit, and sometimes murdering them. Maybe, with extraordinary luck, it could weaken temporarily, but could it ever be stopped?
Did he really want to spend the rest of his working life trying to do the impossible?
AVA
Still lying on the cedar branch, trying to decide how to proceed, I stare up at the blue sky studded with stars. Without changes in the color, I have no concept of time passing. Is it morning or night? Does it matter?
For a moment, I think about my grandmother, and within seconds Grandma Ava stands in front of me.
Did you summon me, child?
I climb out of my branch cradle and hover beside her. I need your help. I want to visit my daughter. I want to make sure she is okay.
My grandmother’s face darkens. I no longer think that is a good idea, my child.
I have mixed feelings about being called a child. To my grandmother I am, but I am also a mother. Why not? I already visited my parents and my brother. It was easy. And you were right. I could see them, but they couldn’t see me. I got the sense my mother and brother were aware of my presence, but not my father.
The shadow disappears from her face. Some people are more receptive than others. Have you tried to reach the baby?
There is a hint of fear in her words as they enter my mind. Why are you afraid?
She hesitates for a moment before answering. I fear you will be hurt and unable to find peace.
How can I find peace if I don’t know she is okay?
What if you visit her and she isn’t well?
I’d want to know that, too. I keep trying to visit so I will know, but it’s hard to visualize her face when I only saw her for a few moments ten months ago. I can’t imagine her room or what she looks like now. Babies change so fast.
Perhaps it is a foolish idea, child. Sometimes hope is far better than knowledge. My grandmother’s words are heavy as they land inside my head. Her eyes, the same color as mine, seem to deepen.
I am irritated. She said she would help me. How can it be foolish to want to see my baby? Of course I want her to be okay. To be in a home where people love and care for her. But what if she isn’t? How can it be better for me not to know what is happening to my own daughter?
Oh, Ava. There is so much for you to learn. We are all fools when it comes to the people we love.
Again, I feel the sadness in my grandmother’s words. She is afraid for me. But why? She doesn’t want me to suffer any more hurt. Doesn’t she understand how hard it is not to know what’s happening to my child? You said you would help me. You said you visited my mother many times during her life. You must have visited her as a baby.
The next message I receive stops me. It can be a terrible thing to know.
Other spirit people are milling about now, floating among the trees like fireflies. It is a beautiful sight, all the souls waiting to be reborn. I try to hold my grandmother’s gaze so it’s just the two of us. I move in closer so Grandma will believe me when I communicate. Finding my daughter means everything to me.
You’re new here, Ava. Focus on what is good and wonderful about now, not on the past and what is still going on in that other world. Beautiful things will come when you stand in the light of infinite love. The light of that love is different here. It allows you to see the divine in everything.
Yes, I am new in this land of the dead, but I have been a mother for ten months. I need to know my daughter is okay. How can I care about the divine nature of everything when I don’t know my daughter is okay? I must convince Grandma Ava to help me. Please remember how it felt for you when you had to leave my mother. And it was probably easier for you because you knew she was in good hands—that her father would love her. I know nothing about what is happening to my baby. Please, Grandma Ava, please, you have to help me find her.
Grandma Ava drifts away for a few moments, then drifts back. She stares at me, then looks away, indecision on her face. Finally, she communicates with me. I saw your daughter, my great granddaughter, today. Your baby girl is beautiful and looks like you. But her circumstances are not good. It will not help you to see her. It will break your heart.
What if they kill her like they did me?
Then she’ll be with you here.
That thought stops me, too. I contemplate it for a moment. Is it selfish for me to want my daughter to die so she can be with me? Is that what I want? I remember my life with my family and friends. Everything I was learning in school. Books I read and loved. All the things I wanted for my life, the things my parents wanted for me. I’ll never know now if Ava Cartwright could have been a brain surgeon.
Doesn’t my baby deserve a chance to live a life, to learn who she is and what matters? Isn’t there a purpose she was born for?
The confidence Grandma Ava exudes doesn’t come from how beautiful she is, but rather something else—something wise and deep inside her. There is something you can do to help her. Ask the Infinite Spirit to assign her to your care. She has already been assigned to a spirit who will try to guide her, a spirit appointed before you joined us, but you are the one who cares the most.
Where is this Infinite Spirit? I ask. I want to communicate with it.
Grandma Ava smiles sadly. You must seek the Infinite Spirit through prayer and meditation. But you are assigned to me and I’m trying to protect you, child. I failed while you were in the other world. I will not fail you now.
I am annoyed by her overprotectiveness. Immediately, I think of my mother, the way she didn’t want me to ride that bicycle alone. My mother was right. But is Grandma Ava? I have the same protective instinct my mother had. I want to keep my baby safe.
I’m no longer a child and I don’t want your protection. I want your help. There has to be something I can do. You know how to get to her. Take me with you.
My grandmother’s mind grows silent.
Under the weight of this new grief, my soul is shattering, and I fear there will soon be nothing left of me. I’m ethereal—a floating particle in this land of the dead, attached to nothing and no one except my baby daughter. Grandma Ava changed her mind because my baby is in danger. I have to find her before it is too late.
Will you take me to her or not?
Again, I receive nothing.
Why won’t you answer me?
Nothing.
Intense heat fills me. If you refuse to help, then just go away. Leave me alone.
To my disappointment, she does.
Chapter Sixteen
Georgia sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. When she heard the garage door open, she straightened her back, undid her ponytail and fluffed her hair with her fingertips.
Sam burst through the door from the garage.
“Hi, honey,” she said. “Are you hungry? I made some chocolate chip cookies. They’re warm and soft in the middle. The way you like them.”
Sam paused, stared at her for a moment, then turned his face away. He said nothing, hurried through the kitchen, dropped his backpack and lunch box at the bottom of the steps, and thundered up the stairs to his bedroom. The door slammed.
Taylor came into the kitchen and sat across from Georgia.
“How did the appointment go?” she asked.
“When I picked him up at school, I told Sam we wanted him to see someone because of Ava’s death—that maybe he could be more honest about his feelings with a professional. I said that we might come to counseling, too.”
“Okay,” she said. “That sounds good. But how did Sam react with Dr. Meade?”
“I’m uncertain. When Dr. Meade asked Sam if he wanted me in the room when they talked, he said no. I wanted to respect his right to privacy, so I sat in the waiting room. I spoke with Dr. Meade alone for ten minutes after Sam finished.”
“Did he have any idea why Sam is doing this to himself?”
He gave her a look then—the accusing one she’d seen so often during the last three years. “The good news is this behavior is not usually suicidal. Dr. Meade claimed he sees this a lot, that some kids use cutting as a coping mechanism for negative emotional states. He said the child often feels worthless and self-loathing. Cutting gives them a release—a rush or high—almost like a drug would do.”
Georgia lowered her gaze, guilt making her chest tighten. Had her lack of attention and emotional support made their son feel worthless?
Taylor continued. “I asked Dr. Meade how we should handle it and he said we shouldn’t overreact. That we should ask Sam about it in a calm and non-judgmental manner. No punishing. Just let Sam know we’re here to help and he can talk to us. He said we could tell him that as parents we don’t know how to manage this and that’s why we sought professional help.”
Tears flowed down Georgia’s face.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Taylor’s own face softened. “He said for us not to blame ourselves, not to tell Sam we feel guilty. To keep the emotional emphasis on what Sam feels.”
She stood, got a paper towel from the counter and wiped the tears away. “Let’s go talk to him now.”
Taylor pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “I talked to him on the way home. I told him what you’d observed in a calm manner.”
A searing anger washed through her that took her breath away. She glared at him. “So now Sam thinks I ratted him out. Great. That’s just what I needed. For God’s sake, Taylor, I’m his mother. Couldn’t you have waited for us to do it together?”
Taylor met her gaze, the accusatory look back on his face. “We’ve not been very successful at co-parenting recently, now have we? And besides, it was the perfect time. Trapped in the car, he couldn’t race up to his bedroom and slam the door. What matters is getting help for Sam, not your hurt feelings.”
Though she felt discounted and worthless, believed he may have further damaged her relationship with Sam, Georgia realized Taylor had a point. Sam had been spending a lot of time locked up in his room the last few years, and she’d made no effort to lure him out or do something he loved together. “How did he respond?”
“He said cutting makes him feel better when he is sad. But the good news is, he claims he won’t do it anymore because of what Ava told him last night.” This time Taylor’s eyes teared up.
Had he believed their son’s story and not her own? She wanted to confront him, but decided it would only widen the chasm between them.
“He told me Ava said he was a good brother, and she didn’t want him to hurt himself anymore.” A tear escaped and trickled down his cheek.
Georgia moved closer to him, wrapped her arms around him. “I want things to change, Taylor. I haven’t had a drink all day. I swear to you. I want to be a better wife and mother.”
Taylor said nothing, his arms limp at his sides.
* * *
An hour later, Georgia and Taylor Cartwright waited in the posh, burgundy-carpeted lobby of the Harrison Mortuary just off Main Street in Ashland. Georgia had a shopping bag beside her on the rose-colored velvet loveseat. It held Ava’s burial clothes—a sapphire blue dress, a matching slip, and underwear she’d purchased from one of the boutiques on the Plaza. She’d had to guess at Ava’s size. How terrible, she thought, not knowing what size her teenaged daughter wore.
Morgan Harrison introduced himself. He was wearing a three-piece navy suit with gray pinstripes, a starched pale blue dress shirt and a conservative, blue-striped tie. He was a movie-star handsome man, with salt and pepper hair so perfect he must have lacquered it into place. He stood in front of Georgia, looked her in the eyes, then bent at the waist and took both her hands in his, holding them just a little too long for her comfort. The funeral home smelled like flowers—mostly carnations and roses. Old-fashioned hymns played softly in the background. The combination of smell and sound, along with the fact that she had consumed no alcohol, made her nauseous.
Taylor held out his hand.
Harrison shook it.
“We are the Cartwrights—Taylor and Georgia. We want to make funeral arrangements for our daughter, Ava,” Taylor said.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Harrison’s dark eyes went soft with sympathy.
The word loss struck Georgia as ridiculous. Ava was not lost. She wasn’t a pair of sunglasses or a cell phone left in some random place. She was their beloved daughter. A child they’d loved and nurtured for ten years. Her murder was not a loss, it was a life-altering event—a horrible tragedy, an earthquake that had swallowed them—buried them in the bowels of hell. You’d think a funeral director, who made his living from the dead, could come up with a more appropriate word.
She tried to hide her contempt. No one knew what to say at times like this one, even though a funeral director should make it his business to know. “Thank you,” she whispered.
After leading them into his office, Harrison sat behind a mahogany desk that was spotless except for a manila folder with Ava’s name on it. He nodded toward two armchairs in front of the desk.
Georgia and Taylor sat.
Harrison cleared his throat and began his spiel. “I assure you the staff here at Harrison’s understand your grief and will take care of every detail to make this a beautiful tribute to your daughter, and as painless an experience as possible for you, Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright.”
“We appreciate your concern,” Taylor said. “We’d like to arrange a cremation of our daughter’s remains.”
Georgia’s whole body went rigid. She couldn’t face Taylor, who now seemed like a complete stranger to her, but she couldn’t let him do this to their daughter either. “No cremation.” She addressed her comments at Harrison. “We’d like to purchase a plot in Scenic Hills Cemetery. And we’re hoping you can arrange that for us, too.” She lifted the shopping bag she’d set on the floor beside her chair and put it on his desk. “I’ve bought these new clothes for her to wear. I hope they fit. The dress is the same color as her eyes.”
Taylor scowled. “You’re not thinking straight, Georgia. Given the condition of… of… her face and body, I think it’s more appropriate to do a cremation. We have to think about Sam now. And what’s best for him. Besides, Ava wouldn’t want her friends to see her this way.”
“I won’t burn her body, Taylor. Someone put out lit cigarettes on her arms and legs. Can you imagine how that hurt? Don’t you think our daughter has been through enough?”
Harrison cringed, then cleared his throat. “Perhaps I could suggest a compromise. You could have the casket closed and a beautiful photo of Ava set amongst a sea of flowers on top. I would suggest white roses.”
Taylor said nothing.
Georgia took a chance and looked at him. His face was red and splotchy. Neither of them had slept much since they’d received the news. Even though Ava had been missing for three years, the fact of her death, and everything she’d gone through before it, was impossible for them to believe. An enormous hole had been dug in their lives—so much of their future stolen.
“Give us a price for cremation,” Taylor said.
Georgia turned to face him then. “When did you get so hard?”
“Our lives the last three years have left me with a lot of scars. And scar tissue has no feeling.”
Georgia didn’t know what to say.
“The average cremation, depending upon the urn you choose for the ashes, runs a little under one thousand dollars.”
“And the traditional funeral?” Georgia asked.
