Have You Seen Sarah Baker?, page 1
Have You Seen Sarah Baker?
T.A. Cruz
Content warning: This story contains scenes depicting alcoholism, miscarriage, domestic abuse, graphic violence, murder, kidnapping, predatory relationships, and imprisonment.
Have You Seen Sarah Baker?
Copyright© 2023 T.A. Cruz
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Publication by Tule Publishing 2023
Cover design by Croco Designs
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-958686-94-2
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Dedication
For Debbie…
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART I: The Badge
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
PART II: The Teacher
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
PART III: The Hunt
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
PART IV: The Dance
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
PART V: The Child
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
PART I
The Badge
CHAPTER ONE
Sarah
One month missing
Creak.
The floorboards strained in the room above the cellar, forcing her heavy and swollen eyes open. It was him, and he was coming for her. Again.
Each step screamed as his boots adjusted to the rickety wooden staircase. The nails twisted. The foundation shuddered. He whistled; always the same tune when descending the flight. He scraped his hand along the banister like forty-grit sandpaper. The light bulb dangling from the ceiling swayed, highlighting things better left unseen, strewn across the wall. Screwdrivers for stabbing. Metal files to shave down bones. A hacksaw for the larger chunks of her—her entire torso maybe—which would then fit in a black trash bag tossed to the highway embankment. Every time he arrived …
Fresh vomit invaded her throat.
A numbness in her hands tingled up from the metal shackles over her wrists. They were tighter than yesterday, her penance for fighting harder than she should have. The chains were thick and wove through an iron loop cast inches, if not feet, into the cement wall at her back. She struggled her bare legs over the icy concrete, and gooseflesh trickled up her thigh. Closing her eyes wouldn’t help. Plugging her ears wouldn’t drown out the off-pitch notes. No, she’d still see the large shape of her captor in her head and hear the tune thumping rhythmically with her heart.
“Why?” she muttered, rattling the chains while sitting up. “Why are you doing this?” Her voice was hoarse, the same roughness you could expect after screaming for hours on end. Today she had given a round, if not three, and judging by his seemingly on-the-dot visits, it was only lunchtime.
The man stopped whistling when he neared. He crouched, set the brown tray in his hands to the floor, and slid it toward her. They stared at each other for a moment; through her terror she tried to maintain the same glare she’d given this man for the past thirty, maybe thirty-five days. It could’ve been longer, after all. She lost count between her hysterics and veering in and out of consciousness. Little sunlight breached the window obscured with curtains and junk thrown haphazardly in front of it. The subtle differences between daylight and dusk were as indistinct as his face.
The man before her, however, watched her vacantly. No empathy. No remorse. Only an empty, emotionless gaze. Despite it all, she silently begged for some sort of human interaction, even just to know that what she was dealing with was, in fact, human. He stood upright, turned to the stairs, and started whistling again.
“What do you want with me?” she screamed, yanking her arms until the restraints threatened to fracture her wrists. Tangled auburn hair folded over her face and covered her eyes. Fresh tears flowed freely. “Let me out of here!”
The door atop the staircase slammed shut, dead bolted, and the shrill whistle faded into the house above. His footsteps shuddered about. Dust rained to the cellar floor. It would stop within minutes if her memory served correctly. He hadn’t stirred for longer than that before settling in what she assumed was a room of some sort. She lowered her head between her knees, and a sharp whine emptied her throat. Cries for help to this point were closer to messages left unchecked on an answering machine.
She lifted her head and peered at the food in front of her. The tray itself wasn’t much different than the ones used in the high school cafeteria. It was almost identical. For the smallest of moments, she wasn’t shackled to some stranger’s wall but enjoying the lunch period before the final two classes of the day. It was a dream. An incredibly vivid dream she couldn’t stay in for long. Sarah choked back another cry and swallowed the stone-sized lump in her throat.
The chains clattered as she extended a hand to the tray and ripped it back with hesitation. She did this three times in total. Stomach acid pillaged up her throat, but she managed to force it down. He hadn’t poisoned her food so far, at least to her knowledge. Maybe he was waiting for the right opportunity. A few pellets of rat killer in her bologna sandwich to finish off Sarah Baker once and for all.
No, he was keeping her alive for something. She assumed death by Oscar Mayer wasn’t it.
She pulled the sandwich and crumbs dusted her legs. The first bite required a second and even larger bite. The bread softened over her tongue, and the salty meat ignited each taste bud in sequence. A satisfied sigh, another bite, and Sarah sighed again. She paused for a drink of water, then, she attacked the sandwich once more.
After the main course was reduced to specks, she snatched the small applesauce cup and tore open the tinfoil lid. She rejected the formalities of a spoon and reared back the paste like a shot of alcohol. Some of the goopy mess slid down her mouth and under her chin.
It didn’t matter. None of it did. No captive ever emerged in better shape than when they disappeared. Sarah had watched enough crime shows to know better. They were all feral. Savage. Animalistic beyond repair. How far gone was she? Would everyone back home—John, the high school faculty, the town—still look at her as they did Sarah Baker? Or would they see a shackled woman? A prisoner? Damaged goods? She hadn’t the slightest clue.
She tossed the cup to the tray and focused on two oval-shaped pills in the smallest divider. Both were snowy white with indistinct words etched into the center. She knew what they were, had even meant to buy them herself until the man upstairs had other plans for her. How he knew she needed them was another matter that raised concern. Something she thoughtfully questioned whenever it came time for her daily dose.
He was keeping her alive for something, that much was certain, and Sarah Baker knew she wasn’t sticking around to find out why.
CHAPTER TWO
Mills
Three days before Sarah went missing
Sheriff Jeffrey Mills drove through the Fulton backroads, a winding stretch just wide enough to squeeze through the narrow trees on each side. He remained remarkably still despite the terrain, focused on nothing more than the dirt trail in front of him.
The rocky and uneven surface wore on his tires, but the ’94 Bronco had taken worse beatings. Not many high-speed chases in such a town, even though he was often forced to push the old girl up rugged, mountainous paths. He bit down on a toothpick and enjoyed the familiar wooden flavor of sour mash. Had he stopped at the station on his way, Mills might’ve brought the bottle in his office drawer along for the ride. No whiskey this morning, however. It would have to wait.
He arrived at the Landing, an open section in the woods where high school students gathered for unsupervised activities. Football game after-parties had been a tradition for as long as Mills could remember. Cursing the good Lord in the backseat of a car remained a constant even during the hottest summer nights.
But there were no remains of a party on this cold October morning, nor was there an inexperienced round of foreplay to interrupt. It was quiet. Far too quiet for a team on the heels of a homecoming victory. After the call he received, something in him doubted the Landing’s celebrations would be the same for some time.
His deputy’s squad car was perched on a lopsided hill, the rectangular headlights like eyes wincing at his sudden and untimely arrival. Code 187, she had told him when he couldn’t sleep through the xylophone ringtone any longer.
He parked and wiped the dust from his broad-brimmed hat resting in the passenger seat. The gold pin on the front, though a bit crooked, reflected the sunlight somehow peeking through the vast tree line. Code 187 was something Mills never thought would happen under his watch, but just as the seasons would change, so would this sheriff’s luck. He took a moment and inhaled what could have been his last clean breath.
Code 187—homicide.
Deputy Holloway leaned on the trunk of her squad car and stood a bit straighter when Mills exited the Bronco. The cigarette she lifted to her mouth ignited, and the chalky-white paper scorched until ashes were left in its place. Long black hair rested in a loosely fitted ponytail emerging from her tan, sheriff’s office ball cap. Her already pale skin seemed to have lost a shade, though her nose and cheeks remained red.
“What do we have?” Sheriff Mills asked. He lowered the hat to his brow and grated his bottom lip with his teeth. “You get an ID?”
“Too soon to be certain.”
A long-winded sigh. “Well, shit. You get a chance to look around? Notice anything out of place?” He removed his sunglasses and tucked them in his collar.
“I blocked off the scene and waited for you, sir.” Her voice reduced to a whisper. She might’ve expected disappointment. For him to yell at her, scream maybe.
Mills tightened his rigid features. Good girl, he said to himself and nodded. Truth be told, he was as skeptical as any when Jennifer Holloway stepped into his office and requested a position with the Fulton County Sheriff’s Department, tucked up here in the Pacific Northwest. Dispatch was his first thought. No way she’d be useful elsewhere.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. Top marksman. Penal codes memorized front to back. A hunger in her eyes. Good was never enough. No, Holloway had to beat the stuffing out of any challenge Mills tossed her way. Though he never said it outright, he no doubt looked at her the way he imagined a proud father would beam at his daughter. “First person here. Next time, block off the scene and get to work. I can’t trust you if you don’t trust yourself. Clear?”
She lowered her sights to the ground. “Yes, sir.”
Beyond the rash of stiff gravel and tree limbs, the body was sprawled, contorted almost. The flies seemed to gather in hordes, swarming every inch the maggots hadn’t infested yet. An odor, foul and thick, wafted down the incline. It was death all right. Not the stuffy, ammonia stink you’d get from an open casket where the corpse was embalmed and appeared less human than before. No. This was a fresh, pungent death invading his nostrils. And as he moved farther, the reek only proved more horrid.
“Who left the tip?” Mills asked.
“Simmons took the call. Thought it was a prank. I mean, how often do we get reports of bodies?”
“Not often,” he bellowed in a raspy tone. Not at all, he thought immediately. Instinctively, he hovered his hand over the hip holster on his belt; nestled inside was a Colt revolver with a fine oak handle, clasped into position by a single fastened button.
“Exactly. It should be him out here, but he begged me to come instead,” she said through a thinned mouth. “Prick had a hangover and probably a new rash from one of those girls at Field and Streams Tavern.”
Mills fought to swallow the acid sloshing to his neck. “I’m glad you did. Blake would’ve puked all over my crime scene.”
“I never promised I wouldn’t.”
He crouched near the body’s feet. The face was caved in at what he thought was the nose, but it was impossible to be sure. What may have been the victim’s jaw at one point was now severed and protruding outward like the bloody tusk of an elephant. Teeth were missing, maybe the most important ones for chewing. And rot. The body had it, as did the blue hoodie and faded jeans slick with dew. Even the skin had begun to prune, shriveling into raisin-like flesh. He’d seen a lot during his tenure, but never something so horrifying. So … barbaric.
Mills poked a stick at the soil. “Jenn, when’s the last time we had rain?”
“I think it’s been a couple weeks.”
Mills cocked his head to the side curiously and inspected the victim’s clothes with the same prodding stick. “Means this one has been out here since then. You see the blood in the dirt? Rain would’ve washed that downhill. Have you called Luther yet? Is he on his way?”
“Not yet, sir. He usually spends his Sunday mornings listening to Pastor Ryan’s sermons. Figured it best to assess the scene before pulling him away from the pew.”
He turned his head to breathe, though it didn’t help in the slightest. “All right, well, go give him a shout. Tell him Jesus can wait. We’re gonna need a time of death.”
“Why would someone do this?”
Without looking back at her, Mills pointed to the fist-sized rock lodged in the ground a few feet from the head. “Because someone wanted her dead, and fast.”
*
The outline of a van came into view, winding the jagged path, and careful to avoid potholes and stiff terrain. Sunlight peered through darkened clouds and tree limbs to the stale white paint, a shade or two pastier than the cigarette Sheriff Mills clenched between his wrinkled lips. Though the pest control company’s decal had been removed from the side panel, the markings remained visible. Pete’s Pest and Rodents. Went out of business years back, but the words and comically drawn roach were blatantly visible.
Luther Barnes eased in and parked behind Mills’s Bronco, worn brakes screeching like a train whistle. The sheriff, leaning against his driver’s side door, dropped the cigarette to the padded dirt and crushed it beneath the heel of his pointed leather boots.
“Let’s go, Holloway,” he said and waved her over. “Give Luther the tour.”
“Sheriff?” Her eyes widened under the brim of her ball cap. “I’ve never handled a crime scene before, sir.”
“Well, sink or swim. Your choice.”
Her face drew strikingly serious. She straightened her shoulders and marched to the van, posture as firm as the crease in her dark brown uniform slacks. The door creaked open, and Luther’s foot hit the remnants of a puddle when he stepped out. A small splash coated his black boots and spit water to his weathered jeans.
“Mornin’,” he greeted Deputy Holloway, and nodded to Mills. “What’s so important you had to interrupt the Lord’s day?”
“Homicide,” Holloway blurted out, an edge of nervousness in her voice. “We need an autopsy.”
Mills tilted his hat to hide a grin, then crossed his arms.
“Shoot,” Luther scoffed and scratched the back of his head. “Where?”
“Just beyond that clearing. Hope you brought your surgical mask, Doc. It’s pretty gnarly.”
“Don’t be shy, Jenn,” Mills interrupted. “Go show him.”
Holloway’s face flushed and a heavy gulp rattled her neck. She thumbed between the trees and sighed. “This way.”
Jenn and Luther returned a few minutes later, each carrying the same greenish shade on their faces.
“What are you thinkin’, Doc?” she asked, and lifted a hand to cover her mouth and nose. “Been out here a while?”
