Bringing Chelsea Home: Brotherhood Protectors World (Tennessee Task Force Book 3)

Chapter 1

Knoxville,Tn.

Monday. Late November

“Big Daddy knowsthat you helped Lulu get away from him and he’s really, really pissed,” Bernie announced, settling in the old chair and handing over the mail.

“Who told you he knows?” Senior Social Worker Elaine Prescott stared at her friend seated in front of her desk at the Families United Agency. Outside, charcoal clouds blanketed the East Tennessee sky, blocking what little light the late morning sun offered. The autumn atmosphere was holding its breath, just waiting for Mother Nature’s command to release a torrent of cold November rain.

“Roxie, one of his other girls, told me this morning when she came to the Wellness Clinic,” Bernie replied, her features tight with anger. In her jeans, long-sleeve blouse, high tops and too-thin jacket, no one would ever guess that in addition to being a nurse, Bernie was Sister Bernadette Nolan, a nun from an order that worked with individuals, families, transients and sometimes, prostitutes.

“According to Roxie,” Sister Bernie continued, “Big Daddy said, and I quote, ‘I’m gonna make that blonde bitch with the dye job pay for taking my property.’ Isn’t that just like a pimp, to call a woman his ‘property.’”

“Think I should tell him this is my natural color?” Elaine smoothed her pale blonde, almost white hair, but a chill traveled over her. Pissing off Obadiah Collins, aka Big Daddy, one of East Tennessee’s most notorious pimps and criminals was a dangerous business.

“I wouldn’t get close enough to tell him that,” Bernie warned. “Big Daddy is Satan personified”.

“Undoubtedly,” Elaine agreed. “Did Roxie come to the clinic because Big Daddy beat her again?”

Angry tears brightened Bernie’s dark blue eyes. “She claimed at first that she fell down a flight of stairs. She was limping and bruised all over her arms and chest but none on her face. Big Daddy isn’t about to lose Roxie’s ‘income.’”

“And of course, she refused to let you call the police,” Elaine stated. Victims of domestic violence, men and women alike, seldom admitted to it. Too ashamed and too frightened to risk another beating with too few resources to help them escape.

“Straight up refused,” Bernie declared. “She caught the six o’clock bus with a backpack to the clinic while everyone at the club was still sleeping. But she finally admitted Big Daddy beat her before he left for Chattanooga last night. He’ll be back tomorrow, so I called a safehouse where she can stay until we can move her. They picked her up from the clinic before I came here.”

“She’s afraid he’s going to kill her,” Elaine said softly. “Thank God for Operation Phoenix,” and Bernie nodded.

For the past four years, with the help of Operation Phoenix, they and a small band of volunteers had secretly helped abused and exploited women–not all of them prostitutes–get out of Knoxville and move to safe locations. Once settled, they received housing, counseling, medical care, and employment. They’d moved Lulu just over a week ago.

“I’m glad you got Roxie away so fast,” Elaine praised her friend. Bernie was tireless in her care of the clinic’s under and non-insured patients, caring for them without judgement and always with a smile and lots of love. And especially for the hookers, who too often presented not only with physical but emotional wounds that were part of their everyday lives. “Did Big Daddy beat Roxie because he thinks she knows where Lulu is?”

Even though the door was closed, Bernie still lowered her voice. “That and because she overheard him on a Zoom call talking to some out-of-town group about bringing in a bunch of really young girls to work at those conventions next weekend and laughing about how much money the ‘young ‘uns’ would make for them.”

“They’re bringing underage girls to work at the classic car and electronics conventions?” Anger rippled down Elaine’s spine. “Doing what?”

“Supposedly acting as hostesses, greeting visitors and passing out flyers and goody-bags during the day,” Bernie said. “But at night? They’re hookers and exotic dancers, probably offering whatever the conference attendees want. When Big Daddy realized Roxie heard them, he beat her and threatened to break her jaw if she told anyone. And there might be other groups of women being brought in for the same reason.”

“We need to tell the police about this.” Elaine picked up her phone and texted Sergeant Grant Miller, their police contact, to call her.

“You need to tell him about Big Daddy threatening you too,” Bernie insisted. “When he comes back and finds Roxie gone, he’s gonna be even more pissed.”

“I will.” Elaine picked up a postcard from the top of her mail. “That’s weird. Why would someone send me this when I live here?”

She turned it over and gasped, her heart slamming against her ribs. Before a wide-eyed Bernie could speak, Elaine handed her the card. “It’s from Chelsea,” she whispered. The card’s front showed the Knoxville Sun sphere, a landmark that had dominated the city’s skyline since the 1982 World’s Fair. But the message on the back was the unmistakable writing of her younger missing cousin, Chelsea, read, “Hope to see you soon.”

“Good Lord.” Bernie’s tone was reverent as she put the card on Elaine’s desk. “Could Chelsea be in Knoxville?”

“I don’t know,” Elaine expelled a sigh of frustration. “The card has a St. Louis postmark. Her last one three months ago was from Manhattan. But in all the years she’s been missing, she’s never written, ‘Hope to see you soon.’”

Four years ago, her fourteen-year-old cousin, Chelsea, and her boyfriend, fifteen-year-old Martin Driscoll, had run away together. Both aspiring dancers, Elaine had no doubt they’d been tricked by child traffickers with promises of fame and riches. They were far too sheltered to survive on the streets without some kind of help. They’d simply vanished and except for the occasional postcard from around the country with cryptic messages, they remained missing.

And because of Chelsea, Elaine began her work with Operation Phoenix, hoping against hope to learn Chelsea and Martin’s whereabouts. To this day, she’d learned nothing, but she wasn’t about to stop. Chelsea and Martin were out there, and Elaine was determined to find them.

“If traffickers have Chelsea, how do you suppose she gets away long enough to send the cards?” Bernie asked thoughtfully. She’d known Chelsea since Elaine’s family adopted her as a four-year old child and adored her.

“By being very careful,” Elaine said. “If traffickers have her, they’d beat her if they knew.” The thought made her sick. “How did Big Daddy learn I helped Lulu get away?”

“There’s a woman named Tina Paxton who’s been working at the clinic for the past six weeks,” Bernie said. “Roxie said she saw her talking to Big Daddy at the club last night.”

“Do you think this Tina is spying for him?” Elaine asked.

“I’ll bet even money on it,” Bernie said. “Tina probably remembers seeing you visit the clinic, told him, and he put it together. Thank God she was off today.”

“I’ll tell Sergeant Miller that too,” Elaine assured her. “Now, I have some good news. Tennessee Task Force, a new multi-agency dedicated to helping find lost, trafficked children and teens, has invited me to be a Families United representative. Maybe they’ll consider helping women like Lulu and Roxie.”

“That’s great!” Bernie declared. “And I’ve a feeling Chelsea is finally on her way home.”

“Maybe she’s with those girls Big Daddy is bringing and the card is her way of letting me know?” Elaine dared to hope.

“Then we’ll catch and bust the bad guys!” Bernie vowed.

Her friend’s optimism was infectious. “How about lunch at Sophia’s to celebrate?” Elaine suggested. “My treat.”

“A nun with a vow of poverty never turns down a free meal,” Bernie joked. Whatever money she occasionally had, she spent on everyday items for her patients.

“But you’ll freeze in that jacket,” Elaine scolded. “Wear this.” She took her Rainbow Pride jacket from the back of her chair and passed it over. Her heavy fisherman’s style sweater and scarf were more than warm enough.

Outside, a drizzling rain met them, and Bernie pulled the jacket’s hood over her head. Foot traffic was heavy, and Elaine guessed folks were already shopping for pre-holiday bargains at the downtown stores and boutiques.

A burly man in a UT t-shirt, ballcap and ski-goggles approached as they crossed the street. He bumped heavily into Bernie, and she clutched his arm, but he jerked away, and she staggered, grabbing Elaine. “Oh, my precious Savior,” she gasped, holding up a blood-covered hand.

“Bernie!” Elaine shouted. “Someone please call 911!” She lowered her friend to the street and knelt beside her as onlookers sprang back. The man wheeled around, but the goggles covering his face made him unrecognizable.

“Son-of-bitch!” he hissed. “She’s wearing your jacket!”

He plowed through the onlookers while in the distance an emergency vehicle’s screams drowned out the crowd’s shouts and cries for help.

“Hang on, Sister Bernie.” Elaine propped her friend against her. “Help is almost here.”

“I’d have given him the jacket if he’d asked,” Bernie gasped. “Good thing I went to confession last night, huh?”

“Hush.” Elaine unzipped the blood saturated garment to gently apply the handkerchief someone had pushed into her hand against the wound in Bernie’s chest.

Bernie’s breathing slowed and her eyelids fluttered. “He thought I was you,” she gasped. “Everyone knows you wear this jacket. He thought I was you.”

“Don’t talk,” Elaine begged as the EMS van roared up. Behind her, the crowd was silent.

“When does an Irish nun not talk?” Bernie managed a huffed laugh. Then she gripped Elaine’s arm. “Stop Big Daddy,” she whispered. “Don’t let him hurt any more girls.”

She sighed, as if sliding into sleep and her body went limp. Elaine gently closed Sister Bernadette Nolan’s eyes, kissed her forehead and wept, ignoring the EMT’s touch on her shoulder and their suggestion to go to the ER.

Much later, after going to the convent with Sergeant Miller to tell the other nuns what had happened, Elaine returned to her office where she kept a change of clothing. On her desk lay a note, with the cryptic message, printed in block letters. UR next BITCH.

So, after giving Miller her blood-soaked sweater, she called her friend Anne Hamilton to ask about her recent experience with Brotherhood Protectors.