Page 109 of Rage

“Two of them.” I lean against the backrest. “Tomasetti, I think there were a lot of people involved. I think what we’ve uncovered is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“We’ll get it figured out.” He motions toward the club with his eyes. “Sheriff’s office is locking down the club now. Task force guys will be interviewing people all night. They’ll likely get a search warrant, too.”

“The women,” I say. “Lucy and Angelica and the girl in the dressing room. They risked everything, including their own safety, to help me. They gave me the cell phone. Helped me get out that window.”

“Skid and Mona went in to get them. They’ll be interviewed, too. We’ll provide food and housing for however long it takes for them to get back on their feet. We’ve got a trafficking counselor on the way. She’s good.”

The torrent of exhaustion that follows presses down on me like a lead weight, makes my knees go weak and suddenly I feel every bruise and cut on my body. “I want to talk to them.”

“You’ll get your chance. Going to have to wait until morning.” Arching a brow, Tomasetti looks at me a little closer. “In case you didn’t notice, you took one hell of a hit.”

“I noticed.” I turn to him, set my hand against his face, let it slide across his cheek, and I brush my thumb over his mouth. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have excellent timing?”

“All the time,” he says. “What do you say we forgo the ambulance and I’ll take you to the ER myself?”

“I think I can live with that,” I tell him.

And he closes the door.

CHAPTER 27

There is a kind of psychological zen that descends after surviving a life-threatening situation. A physical and emotional repose that comes with the ebb of adrenaline and the knowledge that you get to live another day. That you’ll get to see your loved ones again.

After the turn of events at The Cheetah Lounge, Tomasetti drove me directly to the Pomerene Hospital ER, where I was checked out by the on-call physician. Despite rumors to the contrary, Dr. McGill and I are not on a first-name basis, though I have been a patient of hers enough times to know that she got married six months ago, that she’s taking cooking lessons in Millersburg, her mom passed away last spring, and she and her husband are expecting their first child in March. I like to think it’s a small-town kind of thing. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

I’m concussion free—thanks to my thick skull, according to Tomasetti. I have no broken bones or penetrating wounds. I did, however, sustain numerous bruises and abrasions, all of which required nothing more than a quick cleaning, a dab of ointment, and a bandage. My most serious injury is the Grade 2 sprain of my right wrist, which likely occurred when I clocked Lance Wingate with my makeshift brass knuckles. The doc supplied me with a splint, instructions to ice for the next twenty-four hours, Tylenol for pain, and a lighthearted suggestion that I consider a career change at some point in the next few years.

It’s well past midnight now. I’m sitting at my desk in my office, said Tylenol and caffeine streaming through my system, a cup of coffee cooling in front of me. Tomasetti is in one of two visitor chairs across from me. He hasn’t let me out of his sight since he pulled into the service station and found Carter Brooks an inch away from putting a bullet in me. Not for the first time this evening, I’m thankful to be alive. On a deeper level, I’m thankful to have him in my life; God only knows what I did to deserve him. I think I’ll keep him around awhile.

Sheriff Rasmussen is sprawled in the chair next to Tomasetti, talking to his chief deputy on his cell. With the exception of Mona, who’s on patrol this evening, my officers—most of whom haven’t slept since the start of this case—were sent home.

Rasmussen ends his call and clears his throat. “Carter Brooks and Lance Wingate have been booked into the Holmes County jail. Our prosecutor is working on charges now. He’ll be filing first thing in the morning.”

“What about the bouncers?” Tomasetti asks.

“Deputies took both men into custody. They’re being interviewed by detectives now. Formal charges pending.” The sheriff pages through the notebook in front of him. “Needless to say, they won’t be going home tonight.”

“Any other arrests?” I ask.

“Probably not tonight,” he says. “In the coming days? If this trafficking ring is as far-reaching as we suspect, I have no doubt there will be multiple arrests in the coming days and weeks.”

It’s the three former Amish women who dominate my thoughts this evening. All of the girls and women who were sucked into the trafficking nightmare and subjected to such utter inhumanity.

“What about the women?” I ask.

Tomasetti looks at me, holds my gaze. “Trafficking counselor interviewed them at the sheriff’s office in Millersburg. Afterward, transported them to a nearby hotel for the night. We took their contact information. We made sure they were given meals. They’ll likely be interviewed again first thing in the morning.”

He turns his attention to the sheriff. “Just so all of us are on the same page,” he says. “I talked to the attorney general earlier. Wingate and Brooks will likely be implicated in and charged with sex trafficking.”

“Nasty business,” Rasmussen says.

“And a growing problem.” Tomasetti turns his attention back to me. “Interestingly, the AG had just instituted a human trafficking initiative. This is exactly the kind of situation we’ve been training for. Thanks to you, and those women who spoke up and did the right thing, we got some bad guys off the street.”

I nod, but this success carries with it a hollow resonance. There were too many young lives lost. Samuel Yutzy. Aaron Shetler. Wilma Borntrager. I think about the shattered families left behind. I think about the three women lying awake in their hotel room beds tonight, wondering what will happen next, and it hits me all over again that for some, the pain will linger for a very long time.

As if reading my thoughts, Rasmussen grimaces. “I read your statement,” he says. “It seems to me that Samuel Yutzy was just too damn young and inexperienced and shortsighted to fully understand the repercussions of what he was doing and how it affected the women he brought in.”

“When you’re twenty-one and drunk on life, you don’t think about the long-term stuff,” Tomasetti says.