Chapter 29
Shepherdsville
"We're takin' my car . . . I'm drivin'," Raylan said sliding behind the wheel, first words he'd spoken since Tim began to follow him out to the parking lot. "And I don't want to hear any shit about the FBI bein' in charge of this, or how pissed off Karen Goodall is gonna be. Got it?"
He started the car and was backing out of the parking place before Tim even shut the door.
"Yessah, boss," Tim deferred, buckling his seatbelt. He rolled down the window and stuck his arm up on the edge. "Where're we going?"
Raylan turned right out of the parking lot and followed the signs for I-65.
"You heard Art. Anna's phone pinged off a tower near Shepherdsville. We might as well start there."
"And what exactly are we looking for?" Tim asked. "It's not like they're going to hang up a sign: Here Be NeoNazi Assholes."
"No shit," Raylan said. His hands tightened on the wheel, and he shrugged a shoulder. "I don't really know. But I ain't about to sit around there waitin' for someone to do somethin'."
"Little different for you, isn't it?"
Raylan glanced at the younger marshal. "Whaddaya mean?"
"Usually, you're the one in deep shit, and we're all wondering if you're gonna come out of it or not," Tim explained." And by we . . . I mean Winona, too."
"Shit. I forgot to let her know I won't be home tonight." Raylan put on the flashers and pulled over to the side of the road. Taking out his phone he typed a quick text. "Heading out to search. Call when I can. Take care of Adam. Love you and Willa." He hit send and eased back into traffic.
As Raylan sped up, Tim stared at him, mouth open.
"What?" he asked, finally.
"Uh," Tim said, swinging a thumb over his shoulder. "What just happened back there?"
Raylan's foot grew heavier on the accelerator, and the speedometer went past eighty. "What're ya' talkin' about?" He snapped, losing patience.
"Did you just take someone else's feelings into consideration while at the same time keeping your mind on the task at hand?"
Ordinarily Tim's teasing would've worked a grin out of him, but this was no ordinary case. Anna was out there, somewhere, dammit. She could be hurt, and he knew she was scared. No amount of training could prepare you for being in this kind of situation. Hanging upside down with Dickie Bennett pummeling him with a baseball bat had been nothing compared to facing down Nicky Augustine's goons in the nursery. His stomach did a flip even now, imagining how easily it could've gone the other way.
He picked up a file from the seat and held it out to Tim. "Find out the info on Arndt's place in Leitchfield. If we don't find anything in Shepardsville, that's where we're goin' next."
Tim sighed as he flipped the folder open. "I knew I shoulda grabbed a sandwich when I had the chance."
-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-
Anna could only sit in the corner and watch as Bandana Man violated her privacy by going through her phone with a fine tooth comb.
"You have a lot of texts," he mumbled and arrowed down through a long, long list. "Hmmm. A lot of them from an Adam Ralston. Must be your nigger lover boyfriend. And, oh. What's this? Texts from that nothin' but trouble marshal, Raylan Givens.?
Although she never let it register on her face, Anna was relieved to hear it confirmed she was missed, that there were people who cared about her who were surely trying to find her by now.
Her captor continued pushing buttons until he eventually opened her email.
"You got paid, today," he muttered, reading a notification from the GAO. "Shit. That's it?" he laughed. "That's all they pay you?" He didn't really want an answer. "It figures. That's all you niggers do, drag the pay down for everyone else."
Her phone 'beeped' as he continued pushing buttons. "Looks like your black momma doesn't know you're missing."
"Thank God," she thought to herself. There was no reason to worry her mother.
While she was angry he was looking through her private business, she was also relieved he was busy, distracted, and not slapping her around.
"DNA Diagnostic Center," Bandana read. "Why would anyone want your DNA? They'd have to fumigate the laboratory. That is unless you're breeding." He looked up at her with sheer hatred in her eyes. "Are you pregnant with a damn high yellow kid?"
Anna knew what this group was capable of doing to pregnant women of color. They killed them, claiming 'double points' for killing a 'two for one.' "I am not pregnant!" she declared. "If you don't believe me . . . then, test me."
"Don't think I won't," he snarled, returning his attention back to the screen. He clicked open the email with the subject: Relationship Testing: Anna Rulé/Raylan Givens. Again, Bandana looked up from the screen. "You and the marshal? Are you pregnant by that white marshal?"
"No!" she sharply answered, again immediately fearful for her life. "We're being tested because there is a possibility we may be half siblings."
"Same mama or daddy?" he asked.
"Mother."
"Well, then, your black daddy would have had to rape his white mama," he snorted. "I mean, what other way could it've happened?"
The email wouldn't open. It asked for a code.
"Alright. What's the code to open this?"
Anna shook her head. What the hell? "NOLA 82305."
"Don't you know you're not supposed to use the same passwords? That's how people hack into your shit," he huffed. "Stupid bitch."
He entered the code, and he was in. There were pages and pages of this report, comparing numerous genetic alleles with one another. Bandana didn't know how to read the data or interpret statistics, or the scientific language used in the discussion of the PCR technique and conclusion sections of the report. It was apparent the man who called Anna all kinds of stupid, derogatory names most likely never finished high school himself.
DNA Marker
Subject A
Subject B
D21S11
28, 31
28, 31
D7S820
9, 10
10, 11
TH01
14, 15
14, 15
D13S317
7, 8
7, 9
D19S433
14, 15
14, 15
The partial results indicated that the two sample subjects' DNA matched among these five markers. The complete test results showed this correlation on 16 markers.
Each marker was assigned with a Siblingship Index (SI), which is a statistical measure of how powerful a match is at a particular marker and indicates siblingship. The SI of each marker is multiplied with each other to generate the Combined Siblingship Index (CSI), which indicated the overall probability of an individual being the biological sibling or half sibling of the tested relative to any random match from the entire population of the same race, or then of mixed race. The CSI is then converted into a Probability of Siblingship (PS) showing the degree of relatedness between the two test subjects.
The report showed the genetic profiles of each tested subject. If there were markers shared among the tested individuals, the probability of biological Siblingship was calculated to determine how likely the tested individuals share the same markers due to a blood relationship.
Bandana's eyes glazed over. "What the hell does this say?" he asked, passing Anna her phone. "And if you press any buttons you shouldn't be pressing? I'll knock your fool head off with one punch."
Anna took the phone and tried to focus on the letters and number on the screen. Her vision was blurred. She hit a 'Control +' to enlarge the font. Due to her education, she did know how to read statistics, but she wasn't about to let this nut job know that vital piece of information about herself
The test results were shown in the yellow box in fine print, at the bottom of the report. There was very obviously a sibling match as there was a 99.8% probability of a match (PS), using 50 percent of the alleles. The CSI (Combined Siblingship Index) was over 500, signifying a very strong conclusive result, exceeding chance of error. No questions asked, Anna and Raylan were most definitely half-siblings.
"We're not related," she lied, speaking with no emotion whatsoever in her voice. To further mislead him, Anna scrolled up the report and showed him the page where Raylan's alleles were compared to those of mixed races, where there was the most variability among the alleles.
Bandana took the phone and stared at the screen. He saw strands of seemingly unrelated numbers in the raw data, but that's all he saw. And none of it made any sense to him.
"I already hate the marshal. But if you two were related? It would've just made me hate him that much more."
Eventually satisfied that there was not much information he could use from her phone, Bandana powered it down and put it in his pocket. He then turned out the light and locked Anna in the room for the night.
-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-
Driving in circles around Shepardsville in the dark, Raylan's gas indicator chimed and the light came on indicating: LOW FUEL. In his zeal to find Anna, he failed to fill up after leaving the hospital.
"Saved by the bell," Tim proclaimed, his stomach audibly growling. "I figured you'd have to stop for gas or a pee break, eventually."
Raylan rolled his eyes. "There was a 7 – Eleven a ways back, on the main road." He turned the Lincoln around and headed back toward the highway. When they arrived, Raylan remained outside to pump the gas while Tim headed towards the store.
"I'll pay for the gas with my work MasterCard while I'm inside," Tim said. "You want some road food?"
"Sure. Whatever," Raylan mumbled and pulled the lever on the pump. He locked the bottom of the handle so that he didn't have to stand there and hold it while he pulled out his phone. There was a return text from Winona that said, "Love you, too."
No calls. He then checked his email and found the same email from the genetics lab that Anna had received. He was also asked for a code that he set up when he filled out his paperwork for the lab. Carefully, he entered 'NoShitSherlock123.'
At first, he was taken aback by the pages of data. But when he finally got to the end of the report, the results section told him everything he needed to know. The results were conclusive . . . Anna was his half-sister. He stood there, staring at the screen. His eyes stung, and a lump formed in his throat.
Tim returned to the car a few minutes later to find Raylan standing near his car, gas hose still in the tank, numbers on the pump not moving, and Raylan staring off into space.
"Are you done?" Tim asked, sounding irritated. "I can't pay until you're done pumping."
"Oh, right. Sorry." Raylan gave the handle a last squeeze and then, replaced it on the side of the pump.
Tim went back inside to pay and came back out a few minutes later carrying a bag of goodies and a hot plate stacked high with nachos, only to find Raylan in the car sitting in the passenger seat.
"I thought you insisted on driving?" Tim asked, opening the door to find Raylan still staring off into space. Tim went ahead and climbed into the driver's seat. He balanced his nachos on the dash for a second, while he pulled two cold sodas from the bag and placed them into the cup holders. The paper sack that was full of chips, gum, nuts, candy, cupcakes, and beef jerky went behind his seat. He looked over at Raylan and asked, "You alright over there?"
"I don't have any business bein' lead on this case," Raylan answered.
"Well. That's good. Because you're not," Tim smirked.
"No. I mean between you and me," Raylan said, still looking out the window. "Art was right to send you after me. I'm not . . . objective."
"No shit," Tim quipped, popping a hot, cheesy nacho into his mouth and chasing it down with slug of the soda.
Raylan sighed and looked over at Tim. "I got the lab results we've been waitin' for. Anna is my sister."
"Again . . . No shit," Tim said, stuffing his mouth with another one. "We all knew that."
"No, Tim," Raylan corrected him. "No one knew that. Because I just found out myself. Officially."
Tim shot a look of disbelief over at his fellow marshal. "It's just now dawning on you? Really?"
Raylan didn't say anything.
After another bite or two, Tim finally said, "You didn't want to get your hopes up, did you?"
Again, Raylan just looked at him.
Tim felt bad for Raylan. He unscrewed the lid off of Raylan's pop and handed it to him. Raylan took it and brought the bottle up to his lips.
"Don't worry," Tim said, suddenly not kidding. "We'll find her."
-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-
Bandana Man led Anna to a toilet down the hall to relieve herself with the door wide open. He waited for her inside the doorframe, watching her. In that moment of vulnerability, sitting on the toilet in a room where there was no way out, she was thankful her captor hated her because of the color of her skin. To him, she was dirty, unclean, and he had no sexual interest in her. For that, she was grateful.
The bathroom was as filthy as the room where she was being held, so she tried not to touch anything, including the toilet seat. When she finished, he allowed her to wash her hands and splash some water on her face at the sink. She took in the clean smell from the bar of soap, the first pleasant thing she had smelled since she had been abducted. "Irish Spring," she guessed. He then led her back to the room and locked her in, leaving her alone hopefully for the night, but not before he backhanded her in the face one last time just for the hell of it. Her left cheek still stung from the blow.
Her head never stopped pounding, but the pain went down a notch when Bandana turned off the light in the room. Eventually, her eyes adjusted to the darkness, aided by a street lamp outside the window that illuminated the dark, dank room though a cheap, dirty pull shade . . . at least enough for her to make out some forms. The room she was in was a pig sty. There was trash on the floor, mostly candy wrappers, probably from the kid. She pushed the sudden, disgusting thought of rodents and other vermin out of her mind.
Unable to sleep, her mind raced. As she had been trained, she began mentally cataloging items of trash she saw on the floor that might be useful. On the mattress she gathered the following items: The outside wrapper from a Hershey Bar that was white on the inside of the wrapper. A Styrofoam cup. A rusted nail. And then, she found it . . . the Holy Grail: a broken pencil that was chewed with teeth marks.
She eased herself over, closer to the wall, and placed the candy bar wrapper perpendicular, against the wall's flat surface. And she carefully sketched out a series of letters and numbers on the white side of the wrapper. She carefully traced over each letter and number again and again, making them darker, as the dull pencil wrote very faintly. Once she was satisfied that her writing was legible, she then carefully folded the wrapper with the writing inside, into one of the little paper 'footballs' she used to make with her brothers as a kid. Then, she 'kicked' the football,' by flicking it with the nail of her middle finger against her thumb. The 'football' sailed across the room and landed somewhere in the darkness.
-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-
Adam was sleeping on the couch. Three glasses of wine and as many bowls of Margery's chicken soup had made him drowsy and, despite his protests, Gayle had made up a bed for him. Winona walked quietly through the living room so as not to disturb him.
"You don't need to tiptoe," he said. "I'm awake."
"I'm sorry," Winona said.
"What time is it?"
"A little after eleven."
"No word from Raylan?" He scooted up, moving his feet, and Winona sat on the end of the couch.
"No, I would've woken you," she assured him.
He swiped his hands over his face. "I can't stop thinking about her," he choked. "Out there alone. Afraid." Or worse, he kept the thought to himself.
"Is this your first time?" she asked.
Adam looked puzzled.
"First time you've been worried about Anna's safety," she elaborated.
Adam thought for a minute. "She's been in dangerous situations before. But I never knew about them until after she came home."
"Sometimes, ignorance is bliss," she said, drawing her feet up underneath her.
Adam reached down and grabbed the end of the blanket that covered him, and he tossed it to Winona. She pulled it taught and covered her feet and legs with the corner.
"She's well trained," he added. "I know that."
Winona made a conscious decision to let him hold onto that thought. "That's right. She is."
-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-
The door banged open, and Anna startled, shoving the mattress back against the wall and pushing to her feet. Bandana Man stood there, another taller man behind him. This man had a beard and a John Deere cap pulled down low over his eyes. He wore a flannel shirt, filthy jeans, and his boots were caked with mud.
"You gotta get her outta here. I'm tellin' ya, Frank saw that marshal guy up the road at the 7-Eleven store . . . The one you told me 'bout who always wears the cowboy hat?"
"Shut up," Bandana Man snapped at his companion. But it was too late. Anna's heart soared. Raylan was out there. Looking for her. Maybe close.
"Come on," her captor said, grabbing her arm and jerking her forward. "Gimmee that."
He snatched another bandana from the other man's pocket and tied it around her eyes in a blindfold. Securing her wrists with the handcuffs, in front of her this time, he tugged her, stumbling outside. A car door opened and other hands grabbed her roughly, lifting her and tossing her into the trunk. The lid slammed and she tore at the bandana with her fingers. Her eyes blinked in perfect darkness as the vehicle started and bumped down a rutted gravel road before swinging out onto smooth pavement.
(To be continued . . .)