SWNOVELS Good Behavior: Chapter 6
“We’d love to help you with a search-and-rescue mission, Charlie,” Levy says in a high, mocking tone. “You’ll see. We can be valuable to the mission.”
We’re standing in hip waders, enduring unseasonably warm weather and air so thick with humidity I feel like I’m about to choke. Also, I’m pretty sure I just saw an alligator slither past.
Honestly, I’m glad for the distraction. Aside from the Ignacio—Nacho—thing, which I can’t bring myself to consider, Katrina will be gone by the time we get back, and I’m feeling a little sadder than I anticipated.
I mean, Katrina is going to school in Indianapolis and staying with a family who comes from Cameroon, just like her. These are good things. Very good things that also made me shed tears when Katrina gave me an enormous hug before we left. She even promised to FaceTime Biyu with the translator app.
Pull yourself together, Abraham.
“We volunteered for this,” I remind my brother. “If Charlie or Erik catches us complaining, you can kiss any hope of more-involved missions goodbye.”
“I know. It’s just I’ve got swamp water in my boots and sweat in my ass crack,” Levy moans as we reach the edge of our grid. Having followed the grid in a north-to-south direction, we start back, now moving east to west. We landed about eight hours ago, and local law enforcement assigned Charlie as the leader of a group of volunteers.
Erik and Moose, his droopy bloodhound with the sunny disposition, coordinated with a few other bloodhound handlers, so we each had a search grid with a dog.
Imani Brown’s mother and father joined the meeting this morning. They couldn’t stand the idea of just waiting around, but when Charlie delicately explained what to do if she is found dead versus alive, Mrs. Brown ran from the room, wailing. Levy and I acted quickly to soothe her and her husband. We convinced them to go home, and one of the community members asked if she could help with any chores they had. She left with them to go put up some new drapes while they wait for news.
Unfortunately, after hours and hours of grid searches, there’s still no sign of Imani.
Just as I’m beginning to lose my hold on a positive attitude, there’s barking from one of the other search grids, and our private comms crackle to life.
“Guys, we found her,” Erik says, giving Moose the order to stand down.
“Dead or alive?” I ask.
“Alive. Badly hurt and traumatized, but alive.”
He drops a pin on his location, just a few yards from where we are. We start clumping through the thick mud, passing a curtain of kudzu—the fast-growing, green vines common in this area—into a small clearing. It takes us a moment to understand what we’re seeing.
“Fuck,” Levy curses under his breath. “There’s a house under all that mess.”
It’s more like an old wooden shack camouflaged by years of lichen and vine overgrowth. A few other searchers enter the area, but the law enforcement on the ground holds them back while waving us through.
The one-room space has a bathroom and an out-of-date kitchen and is as dark and dank on the inside as one would imagine. It smells of earth and blood, and Erik moves quickly, grabbing a bolt cutter from his pack, going after the handcuffs binding Imani to a wire-frame bed with a thin mattress.
Given the state of her, there’s no question about what she’s been through.
The EMT team is led by an efficient, practical battle-ax of a woman, and she comes in on the walkie-talkie. “It’s a thirty-minute hike to your location, which is about all we have of the sun. Not a good spot to be in after dark, so if the patient is mobile or can be transported out without us, it would be in your best interest to do so.”
“I can walk,” the teenage girl says, using her freed hand to pull the gag out of her mouth. “Just get me the fuck out of here.”
Erik snips away the last of her restraints, and she immediately sits up. We step closer as she lists to the side before holding up a hand.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
“You’re the boss,” Levy says, stepping back.
Taking a deep breath, she swings her legs over so her feet land on the floor. Everyone’s face is riveted with concern and constraint—wanting her to take it slow but unwilling to keep her in that horrible bed for a second longer.
After another wavering moment, she stands, her torn clothes practically hanging from her as she grips the metal bed frame.
Charlie and Erik wear matching grim expressions, and given what they’ve seen, that says a lot.
Charlie looks over at me and gestures with his chin. “I think this is you.”
I nod and take a beat to compose myself.
Even surrounded as she is by people, Imani looks entirely alone. Her missing person photograph showed a young Black woman with a mischievous grin, pretty high cheekbones, cute clothes, and a glossy mane of perfect coils cascading down her shoulders.
She runs her hands over her dry, matted hair and scowls. One of the detectives, also a Black woman, hands her a hair tie. Imani smooths her hair into a bulky ponytail, then looks to the detective for confirmation. She reaches out—with a silent look for consent—tucks in a few rogue strands, and then sends her a thumbs-up.
“I know someone who can restore your hair once you’re ready,” she says quietly, and Imani simply nods in return.
Another officer is trying to find her clean clothes, but we’re all as quiet as the dust motes filtering through the one beam of light in the dark space.
Keeping a respectful distance, I break the silence and introduce myself.
“Hi, Imani. I’m Dr. Abraham Barlowe, but you can call me Bram. My job is to help people who have been through terrible things.”
With the dull cast of her skin and her sunken cheekbones, it’s clear she hasn’t had a decent meal in the two weeks she’s been missing. In contrast, her expressive brown eyes look especially large. The sarcasm in the lift of her brow cannot be understated.
“People who have been through terrible things,” she mutters, annoyed by my skirting around the obvious.
She’s fifteen, and honestly? I’m grateful to see the attitude. It reminds me a little of Ignacio.
“You don’t have to talk about a damn thing—unless you want to—and I’m not about to ask you a bunch of questions. I’m just here to let you know there will be people here to show you that you can, and will, have a life beyond this.”
“But will he?” she asks, anger rising. “Will he have a life beyond this?”
“Not much of one if we have anything to say about it,” I say, lowering my voice as the conversations start to pick up around us.
Something about that amuses her, and she smirks, opening her mouth to retort. Only, instead of a retort, she freezes, fear blooming in her eyes.
Fuck. That’s…that’s not a good look.
“Is the man who did this to you here now?” I whisper. Levy, Charlie, and Erik pick up my question over the comms and move with Moose into a semi-circle around us.
“He kept me blindfolded the whole time. I only saw glimpses of him. But there was another guy, someone who would bring supplies. I recognize his voice.”
“And you know what he looks like?”
She nods.
“What’s the color of the shirt he’s wearing?”
“Green.”
Not wanting to give anything away, I don’t move a muscle.
Erik whispers through the line, “The only person in green right now is the park ranger.”
Park ranger? I mouth.
She nods, stepping closer to me. “He came to our school last year and did a presentation about the ecosystems or some shit. I remember his voice. I think the guy who did all this is his dad.”
I clench my fists, and she catches the movement.
“Stay here with her. We’ve got him,” Charlie says.
Erik orders Moose to stay with Imani while he and Charlie move in lockstep toward their target.
The park ranger clocks the shift and turns, heading out the door. Levy follows, and Imani and I watch out the window as he starts to run. He fakes to the left, slipping past Charlie and Erik, but he doesn’t see Levy coming up from behind.
Bastard always could run quietly.
Levy tackles him, taking him down hard—probably a little harder than entirely necessary—sending sounds of concern through the gathering volunteers. Levy pins his arms behind his back and keeps his knee on his spine until the police officers present can cuff him and clear the volunteers.
“Well, that was satisfying,” Imani says, reverting to snark again.
“Very,” I agree. Turning to her, I continue, “Look, we need to get you to the hospital, but getting out of here is going to be…complicated. Normally, we’d put you on a stretcher and wheel you to an emergency vehicle, but we can’t do that out here, and we’re losing daylight. Can you walk? Or would you prefer to be carried?”
“Don’t you fucking put your hands on me,” she repeats. “I can walk. But, um…can I walk with your dog?”
“Sure. His name is Moose. You can hold his leash if you’d like,” I say, pretty sure Erik won’t object.
“And…can I get a washcloth or something?”
I thin my lips, hating my response. “We’d rather you leave all the evidence intact. If you can.”
“I know,” she says, with the wisdom and irritation of an eighty-year-old. “I listen to true-crime podcasts. I just want to wash off my face if that’s okay with you.”
“Okay.”
I find a tiny linen closet in the bathroom and grab a washcloth. I’m surprised the decrepit cabin has hot water, so I get it nice and steamy before running the washcloth through it. Squeezing it out, I return to the main room and hand it to her.
She wipes down her teeth, face, throat, hands, and armpits while one of the officers brings in an oversize T-shirt and a pair of drawstring pants about two sizes too big on her. We give her the privacy to change, and when she returns to the main room, she looks a little numb, like some of that initial fight has burned off. She watches the officers bag her clothing along with other evidence for a few moments before we head out.
Speaking to the officer holding the handcuffs Erik cut off her, she says, “Save those for me.”
I think she was going for snarky, but her voice comes out papery and haunted.
We start off through the wetlands, avoiding mud where we can, giving her plenty of space as she grips Moose’s leash tight. Right as the sun goes down, we reach the waiting EMTs.
“Would you like me to go to the hospital with you?” I ask as I hand off Moose to Erik.
She shakes her head, and her eyes drift toward the detective who gave her the hair tie, whose name I discovered is Regina Jones, but everyone calls her Reg.
Reg smiles. “I’m happy to ride with you.”
Imani then turns to me. “But can you be there when I talk to the cops?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. I don’t trust them.”
Reg and I exchange a look. Something tells me she knows exactly what Imani is talking about.
“Imani, we can keep it to just me and Dr. Barlowe if you’d like,” Reg assures her.
Charlie’s voice comes in through the comms. “I’m going to look into the police officers’ union and see if there’s anything problematic.”
“And my mom is going to be hysterical,” Imani says, running her hands over her borrowed clothes, rolling her eyes as though that’s the worst part of all this.
“I’ll be there for your mom too,” I promise. “If you’d like, I can intercept your parents before they talk to you to see if we can create a calm reunion.”
“Good luck with that,” she says, shaking her head. “They went into my computer last month and found my DMs to my girlfriend. Pretty sure they are just over it at this point.”
“All I saw were parents who desperately miss their daughter and love her very much. I promise they are just happy you’re alive.”
For the first time since we found her, she sheds a tear. “Okay. That’s good.”
I hold out my hand, and she examines it before slipping her small hand into mine for a brief moment.
“You’re okay,” she says.
“You’re okay too, kid. Once you’ve recovered for a while, we’ll invite you to come out and hang with our horses. I think you’ll like them.”
“Every girl loves her ponies,” she cracks, then lies back and closes her eyes as the EMTs push her stretcher into the ambulance.
She’s got a long road ahead of her, but I have faith.