Tragic Desires Read online

  Copyright © 2014 A. M. Hargrove

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations

  Photo by Scott Hoover Photography

  Cover Model Emmanuel Delcour

  Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  FOR WEEKS THE drowning rains had kept me from doing what I love best, but today, the sun is bright, the sky as blue as a summer’s day. Unusually warm for November, this means today is all about the mountain bike, the trails, and me.

  Boulder, Colorado, offers plenty of places to choose from, but I decide on a combination of linked loop trails. They’re all technically difficult, but I’m an expert—the tougher, the better. My roommate and boyfriend, Nick, gives me hell as I get dressed.

  “Gemini, you know I hate it when you go off by yourself like this. It’s not safe.”

  “We’ve been over this a dozen times. I’ll be fine. No one will hurt me out there.”

  “I’m not worried about that and you know it, damn it. What if you fall?”

  I laugh at him. “Nick, I always fall. It comes with the sport.”

  He sighs. “Yeah, and even the best riders get injured.” Then he shakes his head and stomps off. He’s pissed at me, but I have to do this. I’ve been penned up for weeks and I need the feel of the open space and the wind on my cheeks.

  I follow him to our bedroom and lay my hand on his arm. “Hey, I’ll be back before you know it.” I kiss his cheek and leave.

  A part of me knows he’s right … a big part. But I shove that thought away and feel the energy build as I think about what the day holds for me.

  WHEN I REACH the parking lot, I can barely contain my excitement. I unload my bike, gear up, clip into my pedals, and I’m off. It’s crazy how giddy I feel, but it’s such an adrenaline rush for me to ride. Nothing deters me from this sport … not the sweat, grime, mud, nothing. I’m not afraid of the steep descents or the sharp inclines. My body handles the jarring jumps as I move over fallen trees, rocks, and roots. Most of the time, my face is fixed into a permanent smile during these excursions. I was born to do this. My bike and I become one as we move over the rough terrain.

  The trail I’m on is a single track, and brush and vines snag my clothing, but I couldn’t care less. I’m in heaven. As I round the curve, to my left is the wall of a cliff and to my right, a fifty-foot drop. In the center of the path is a huge root, so I veer right and ride over a large rock embedded into the soil. There’s plenty of clearance so I’m not concerned … except that large, stable rock isn’t so stable after all. Weeks and weeks of rain must’ve washed away the earth beneath it.

  Everything happens so fast, I don’t have time to think, to unclip and bail off my bike, or to do anything but go down as my bike descends. In a flash, I’m free-falling down the side of a cliff. A thicket of trees and shrubs rips me off my bike, tearing my clothes, slicing into my flesh, but it doesn’t stop me. I continue to fall until my body slams into solid ground. Bones crunch and agony slashes through me as the wind gushes out of my lungs. The final jolt is when my head strikes the earth. The resounding boom echoes in my ears, and the horrific pain drowns out everything else.

  My arms automatically reach for my head, but only one will move. There’s no thought as to why the other one can’t; I only want the pain in my skull to cease. When my hand hits my helmet, I find it’s broken into three pieces, the strap still attached beneath my chin. Then the dizziness rolls over me and I become confused. When I try to sit up, a wave of intense nausea passes over me and the pain intensifies. It’s impossible to inhale so I lie still for a second, hoping it will pass.

  The next thing I know, I’m looking at thousands of stars twinkling at me. Twinkle, twinkle, little star. It takes a couple minutes for me to figure out that I’m lying in mud. What the hell is going on? Where am I? My head. Oh dear God! What did I do to my head? It’s piercing, pounding, and throbbing all at once. My hands reach up to hold it and a searing pain runs through my left arm. I scream. But only for a second because it makes the torture in my ribs that much more excruciating.

  What happened to me? My entire body suffers unbearably. I can’t remember anything!

  Where the hell am I? It’s so cold out here, I know I need to move. Rolling to my side, I force myself to my feet. Dizziness threatens to bring me down, but I know if I stay here, I’ll die. I’m shivering. I need to get out before severe hypothermia sets in.

  Pushing through the thick forest brush proves nearly impossible. At times I’m barely aware of what I’m doing but I force one foot in front of the other. Night turns to day and then night again. I press on but am close to giving up at daybreak. In the distance, a tent glows, reflective of the sunrise, but I’m sure I’m hallucinating. As I get closer, the tent looks so real, but I know it’s my imagination playing a cruel trick. This is the end of the line. My feet carry me to right outside the tent and my legs crumple.

  VOICES SURROUND ME. My body is jostled around and it’s terribly painful. When I try to lift my head, I can’t because it’s strapped down.

  “What’s happening? Who are you?”

  A strange voice answers, “Search and rescue. We’re getting you out of here.”

  Where the hell is here? What happened? I’m so confused. I grit my teeth because all this motion hurts like hell and makes me so dizzy. We’ve come to a stop and they push me into the back of a vehicle. More bouncing around. A man sits next to me and explains we’re on a forest road and it won’t take long until we hit the main road where an ambulance is waiting.

  “Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say. I can’t remember a damn thing and I’m totally freaked.

  The ambulance is there as promised, and they move me to a gurney. When they do, I scream.

  One of them says, “Get a line started STAT.”

  Someone tries to lift my arm and I squeal again. Everything hurts.

  “Try her other arm.”

  They move to my other arm and I guess it’s fine because I’m in and out of what’s happening here. Then one of them asks, “Miss, are you allergic to anything?”

  “No,” I mumble.

  “We’re going to give you something for pain.”

  Thank heavens for that. As soon as I feel the effects, I drift.

  SOMEONE IS TALKING to me. “Miss, we’re at the hospital in Boulder.”

  When I try to lift my head, I notice they have it strapped again. They wheel me inside and the lights are so bright, I can barely stand them. Everything is a blur because of the pain medication. I wake up again and I’m in a bed in a room. Nick is sitting in the chair.

  “Nick? What’s going on?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  He proceeds to explain.

  “I’m sorry. I should’ve listened to you,” I say.

  “Forget about that. I’m just glad you’re going to be fine.”

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “Severe dehydration, broken arm, several broken ribs, broken collarbone, lacerations, contusions, and a severe concussion,” Nick explains. �
��You’ll be here for a few more days.”

  I lift the sheet and see the cast on my broken arm. Then I try to remember what happened, but there’s nothing other than leaving the house and riding for a little while.

  “Why can’t I remember anything?”

  “The doctor said it may come back. It has to do with your head injury.”

  “Head injury?” I start to panic, thinking about all those poor people who suffer for years in the aftermath.

  “Well, yeah. Concussions are brain bruises, so they’re head injuries.”

  “Right.”

  Nick looks at me. It’s odd because it’s not like he’s chastising me, but there’s something else … something different.

  “I was going crazy, Gemini. I was so worried about you, I called the police.”

  “Thank you. For caring.”

  He stands and faces the small window. He’s always been a quiet, gentle sort, but now I feel like he wants to yell.

  “Nick, I understand that you’re angry with me.”

  “No! You understand nothing about any of this!”

  “Okay, maybe I don’t. I already apologized. I don’t know what else there is for me to say.”

  He inhales … like he’s been underwater forever. “There’s really nothing else for you to say. Just promise me you won’t do that again.”

  “I promise.”

  He walks over to me, kisses my forehead, and says, “I’ve got to get to work. I’ve missed a few days as is. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Nick.”

  THINGS BETWEEN US aren’t the same. Nick and I can’t seem to get back on track. I can’t put my finger on it, but since I’ve been released from the hospital, he’s edgy and nervous. And I’m walking on eggshells, afraid I’ll piss him off. He’s always been so sweet and kind, but this new Nick is different.

  Two weeks pass, and one night I wake up in severe pain. I’m experiencing the worst headache of my life and I can’t even remember going to bed. Nick rushes me back to the hospital and they do another CT scan, MRI, and an MRA to rule out a blood clot. All the tests are normal and I’m diagnosed with post-concussion syndrome. The headaches hit arbitrarily and indiscriminately. They come with no warning and bulldoze me like a damn tank.

  Post-concussion syndrome. I’d heard news reports about professional athletes who dealt with it, but I never gave it much thought before this. It sends my life straight to fucking hell. I begin waking every morning feeling like someone is taking an axe and splitting my skull into two. The neurologists prescribe all sorts of medicine, but nothing helps. The migraines are relentless, crippling me for days. Noise and light are unbearable. I’m moody, depressed, not at all the same girl I was before the accident.

  When Nick eventually leaves for good, I can’t blame him. I don’t even like myself anymore.

  Every specialist I visit tells me the same thing. This syndrome can last, in rare instances, for years. They tell me I need to find my headache triggers. I’m meticulous about keeping a diary, but nothing adds up. For months, I record everything I eat and drink, the weather, my mood, and try to piece together the mystery. But there is no rhyme or reason. The migraines are random things, hell-bent on destroying me.

  That’s when I turn to drinking … a lot. Riding my bike is out of the question. My prior fearlessness is gone. Now I’m frightened of everything. What if I’m riding and one of these headaches hit? What will I do? What if I’m out shopping and one starts up? Or, God forbid, what if I’m driving? I can’t function when they attack. I have to curl up in a ball and lie as still as possible until they pass. Sometimes it takes hours, and sometimes days before they go away.

  My drinking gives way to other things. At first it’s only weed, which seems to help. But then I want to escape from everything, so I start Xanax. And then I move to Lortab and Oxy. I mix all of the above, trying to forget the pain. Every day I look at the calendar and wonder how much more I can endure. Gone are my dreams of becoming a marketing specialist for mountain bike manufacturers. Gone is the girl who’d won so many mountain bike races. Gone is the strong, fearless girl I once was. In her place stands a scared, lonely drug seeker. If it weren’t for the money I’d inherited when my mom died, I’m not sure where I’d be … most likely living on the streets.

  And that’s why I decide to leave Colorado and move back to Texas. I know I need to be closer to my roots. I grew up in San Angelo. I know I can’t go back there, but Austin seems to be calling me. I find myself packing my things and loading the trailer that will take me home. Secondary to the migraines, it’s a long ride. They force me to stop often and I don’t dare drive with one. But I finally make it and settle in to living back in Texas.

  Austin is a hip town, filled with restaurants, clubs, and eclectic shops. It’s on the edge of the Texas hill country where the landscape changes from rolling terrain to rugged hills. It’s quite beautiful and very different from San Angelo, where the land stretches far and wide, with barely a rise in the road. Austin has a couple of lakes if boating is your thing, and it’s the live music capital of the world boasting festivals and concerts galore. It’s a great place to hang because it offers something for everyone.

  Unfortunately, I’m not able to partake in any of that fun. Living in Austin hasn’t exactly brought any of that excitement into my life, though I’m not sure I would call this life. More like existing.

  THE BLARING RING of my phone wakes me. I’m pissed. I rarely sleep this deep and the one night I do …

  “This had better be damn important, Huff, to wake my ass up in the middle of the night.”

  “I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You’ve had three messages from a Colton Knight. Says he’s with the FBI and needs to talk with you. Says it’s urgent. And the dude sounded like it was more than urgent. I didn’t bother you with the first two, but when the last one came in, he sounded right upset.”

  I groan. Colt’s a close friend from my former military days. “Yeah, I know him all right. He’s a good guy. I’ll take care of it. Thanks, Huff.”

  “Sorry I bothered you, boss.”

  “No worries, man. Talk later.”

  Troy Huffington was a great employee. He wasn’t one of those pains in the ass who asked me for permission on every tiny detail. But I wish he’d called me sooner on Colt. This must be important. Then again, how would Huff have known that?

  I quickly press Colt’s number and he answers on the first ring.

  “Agent Knight.”

  “Colt? Drexel Wolfe. I hear you’ve been trying to reach me.”

  “Damn. Took you long enough.”

  “Sorry, dude. I was sleeping. Like any self-respecting citizen would be doing at 3 a.m.”

  “Shit. Since when have you been self-respecting?”

  “Ever since I got away from your ass, that’s when.” I chuckle.

  “Yeah, right. Listen, I need you. We have a situation. In Austin, Texas. Are you familiar with Austin at all?”

  “A little. Why?”

  “Ever hear of Dirty Sixth?”

  I laugh. “You gotta be kidding me.” Dirty Sixth is a section of East Sixth Street that is similar to Bourbon Street in New Orleans, but on a much smaller scale. It’s open only to pedestrians on weekends and other special events and is the location for many clubs and bars where partygoers hang out.

  “Not at all,” Colt says.

  It’s not hard to miss the seriousness in his voice. “Okay, you got my attention. What’s up?”

  “We’ve had a string of young women who’ve gone missing from the bars on Dirty Sixth. Random disappearances. We think it may be human trafficking.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. No trace of them. We’re up to thirteen now. And we’re afraid if we don’t put someone in there, it’s gonna get worse. I’ve got two sets of feet in now, but I need another. My problem is that I’m shorthanded. I need bodies on the outside watching the
area so I want to know if you’ll go in wired and start checking things out.”

  “Yeah, I can do that. How much time do you need?”

  “At least a week, maybe two.”

  After a quick calendar check on my phone, I say, “Yeah, I can clear off a few things. When do you need me?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Got it. Tell me when and where.”

  Colt provides the necessary details.

  “Not to worry, man. I’ll be in position tomorrow night.”

  After we end the call, I text my pilot. Then I try to go back to sleep.

  MY PLANE LANDS at two thirty and a car meets me on the tarmac. The 103˚ heat of Austin slams into me like a freight train, after coming from Denver, where the weather was in the low eighties. I throw my gear in the back of the SUV and punch the hotel address into the GPS. Soon, I’m on the expressway, on my way to meet Colton and his men. He’s waiting for me in the lobby when I arrive.

  “Hot enough for you? This is like Vegas,” I complain.

  “Tell me about it. I’ve got men stationed on rooftops wearing Kevlar at night. It’s like the Iraqi desert in full battle gear. You luck out. You’ll be inside with the AC.”

  “Good to know,” I say, feeling sorry for those poor guys who get the rooftop duty.

  “Come on. Get checked in and then we’ll go up and I’ll brief you.”

  When we walk into the suite, six heads turn my way. I know two of the guys—Hugh Phillips and Dylan McElroy. Colt introduces me to four more, tosses me a bottled water and we start in on what’s been happening.

  Dylan hands me a packet and I pull out photos of the young women who’ve disappeared. All young and beautiful, their lives ahead of them. Gone without a trace. As I glance over each page, I’m as baffled as these guys are. There isn’t anything we can sink our teeth into. Every one of these victims vanished into thin air.

  “No witnesses?” I ask.

  Colt shakes his head. “Not a single one.”