The Survivor
Authors: DiAnn Mills
SURVIVOR
A Novel
DiAnn Mills
Bestselling Author of
Breach of Trust
To my Story Sisters: Debbie Macomber,
Karen Young, and Rachel Hauck
HOUSTON, TEXAS
JANUARY 16
10:00 A.M. WEDNESDAY
Miss Walker,
Twenty-three years ago, I survived a killer’s brutal attempt on my life. My story must be told. Can you help me?
Amy Garrett, PhD
Freedom’s Way Counseling
(832) 555-0189
F
inding suspense story ideas could be grueling, but the concept that just landed in Kariss’s in-box could be her next bestseller. She’d been approached by enough eccentrics to recognize someone looking for big bucks and a sensational slice of life. She felt sorry for most of them but always wanted to help, no matter how ludicrous their stories. Still, none of those people had ever had PhD after their name or a business phone number listed with their signature.
The email lured Kariss to the place where words and emotion blended in a feverish dance. Kariss herself had survived an attempt on her life the previous summer and knew the courage it took to tell anyone about the horror. She reread the
message. Why would this woman seek her out? Why would she choose to tell her true story in a novel? Only one way to find out.
Kariss pressed the number into her phone.
“Freedom’s Way Counseling. How may I direct your call?”
Hurdle number one—this was a legitimate business. And Dr. Garrett’s name did seem vaguely familiar. Then again, as a former Channel 5 news anchor, Kariss knew quite a few names and faces.
“I’d like to speak to Dr. Amy Garrett. This is Kariss Walker.” She waited while the call was being transferred.
“Dr. Garrett here. Kariss Walker?”
“Yes. I just received your email. Curiosity got the best of me.”
“Thanks for responding so quickly. Are you currently online?”
“I am.”
“Would you like to go to the website hyperlinked in my email? That will tell you a little about me.”
Kariss clicked as instructed. Amy Garrett, founder of Freedom’s Way, specialized in counseling women who’d been victims of violent crimes. She held doctorates in psychology and social science.
“Click on ‘About Freedom’s Way.’ That says it best,” Amy said.
The powerful words of the biography drew Kariss into Amy’s world.
At the age of nine, I survived a brutal attempt on my life. I understand your pain and confusion, and I have felt the despair. Through caring counselors, I found healing. Now I want to offer you the same pathway to life.
Freedom’s Way cares about you. We are committed to helping every woman who has ever been traumatized by a
vicious crime. Your first step to healing is only a phone call away.
Don’t let finances stop you from overcoming emotional pain, a sliding fee scale is available.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
—Matthew 11:28
Freedom’s Way was a Christian counseling service.
“Why fiction?” Kariss said.
“Can we meet to discuss this? I’m booked until three thirty this afternoon, but I have an hour window then. Are you available at three thirty?”
Kariss’s mind spun in a flurry as she considered whether she wanted to get involved. The woman seemed overly aggressive, but intrigue won out. “I’d be happy to talk to you—to gather more information. I see your office isn’t far from my home.”
“I’d rather meet outside of my practice. How about the Starbucks across from Crystal Point Mall?”
“Perfect.”
“Miss Walker, it’s important we keep our discussion confidential.”
“I plan to come alone.”
“Good. But please don’t tell anyone about this. I’ll explain later.”
Strange request, but maybe Dr. Garrett had approached other writers as well as Kariss. “Okay. See you then.”
Kariss stared at the phone before placing it on her desk, and then she reread the doctor’s email. Why had the woman contacted her? The answer would have to wait until three thirty. If Kariss could keep her inquisitive impulses at a manageable level until then.
She continued reading her other emails.
A writers’ group wanted her to give a workshop on character and plot. They had no budget to pay a speaker, but she could bring books to sell. Kariss sighed and agreed.
Her nephew had sent his latest poem. At age ten, he was in love with a redheaded little girl who ignored him. Kariss took a peek at the poem and laughed.
Mom confirmed Sunday dinner after church.
Two spam messages. No one could use that much Viagra. She moved them to her Junk folder.
Kariss studied Dr. Garrett’s words again. When she googled the woman’s name, several sites popped up. Many churches and community organizations had hosted her as a keynote speaker. Kariss returned to Freedom’s Way’s website and continued reading.
There were testimonies from women who’d been given the tools to live again after being shaken by violence. Survivors. Warriors in their own right. By the third testimonial, Kariss had to reach for a tissue.
She moved on to Facebook. Amy Garrett’s posts were faith based and compassionate. She recommended books and websites to help women achieve good emotional health. An upcoming Gulf Coast Christian Women’s Conference, to be held at a large church in downtown Houston, featured Amy as the keynote speaker.
Dr. Amy Garrett was not only a survivor but a haven for abused women as well.
Unbidden memories about what had happened to Kariss while researching her previous novel surfaced in her mind. She’d made a few stupid decisions and nearly botched an FBI investigation. If not for her loving family, a good counselor, and her renewed faith, she’d probably be in need of Freedom’s Way herself to work through her own nightmare of being a crime victim.
She’d meet with Dr. Garrett … hear her story and ask questions.
11:00 A.M. WEDNESDAY
FBI Special Agent Santiago Harris, known as Tigo, realized he smelled like the thirteen-hour stakeout he was on. The pizza he’d eaten before dawn still lay sizzling in his stomach. But he was determined to help bring in the new self-proclaimed leader of the Houston gang called the Skulls, which had ties to a Mexican cartel.
Pablo Martinez had entered an apartment on the southeast side of town shortly after ten o’clock the night before with his girlfriend and another gang member. An informant had said that Martinez had stashed stolen assault rifles, handguns, and explosives at the apartment and would be using them on a rival gang. Although Martinez had slipped by the authorities in the past by way of the legal system, that was about to end. So Tigo and his team waited. All the FBI needed to make the arrest was for Martinez to set foot outside the apartment with the stolen arms. Of course, if they’d known how long this would take, they could have obtained a search warrant.
“Something about this bothers me.” Tigo lifted his binoculars to the curtain-covered windows. “Are we the ones being set up?”
Ryan Steadman, his partner, yawned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they’d already left.”
Tigo handed him the binoculars. “You have tomato sauce on your pasty-white cheek.”
Ryan frowned and brushed his face.
“Makes me wonder what they’re doing in there,” Tigo said. “Building a compound? I’m going in.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“What are you going to do, deliver a pizza?”
Tigo reached for the empty box that lay on the truck floor by Ryan’s feet. “Who can refuse pepperoni and extra cheese?”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve got things to do, and nailing Martinez is in my way.” Tigo picked up his radio.
“A shower is at the top of my list,” Ryan said.
“Mine too. Along with arresting anyone I can find who’s involved with gangs. You know my personal war.” Tigo smoothed out the dent in the empty pizza box caused by Ryan’s size 11 foot. “This gang business has me in a bad mood.”
“Or maybe it’s because Kariss hasn’t returned your phone calls.”
Tigo scowled. “She has her life, and I have mine. We’re over. And that’s not what I’m talking about. I have an arrest to make.”
“Then explain why you can’t say her name.”
“Cover me. Martinez is mine.”
“I’ll be sure to write that on your epitaph.” Ryan gestured toward the second-story apartment. “Nothing is stirring. Maybe they got high and are sleeping it off.”
Tigo chuckled. “That would make our job easier.” He opened the door to his pickup and radioed backup of his intent.
“Hold on.” Ryan pointed to three small children who were playing at the other end of the walkway near Martinez’s apartment. “Let’s get those kids out of there.” He spoke into his own radio, and seconds later, the kids disappeared.
Stealing up the exterior metal steps to the apartment gave Tigo a few moments to scan the area. Martinez could have men posted inside another apartment. His fingers rested on his Glock, which was positioned under the pizza box. Uneasiness dripped into his brain. Thirteen hours in a one-bedroom apartment didn’t make sense. No one in or out. No gunfire. No visitors. Only quiet.
Ryan covered Tigo from the bottom of the steps, and two other agents stood on opposite ends of the building.
Tigo knocked on the door. “Pizza delivery.” He counted to ten and repeated the knock and announcement. He dropped the pizza box on the landing.
Ryan joined him, and they nodded the go-ahead to each other.
“FBI! Open up!” Tigo turned the doorknob. Unlocked. A chill swept up his arms. Glock raised, he swung open the door. Three mutilated bodies lay across a sofa and chair. Their throats slit.
