by James, Ed
“I thought it was the nanny?”
“Keep our options open.”
“Fine. Let’s head out, then.”
Fourteen
KAITLYN
20:45
I check both ways, but the traffic’s still heavy. Should’ve crossed a block back.
The Greyhound station huddles under the freeway like the Fremont Troll. A squat gray building set back, almost lost beneath the concrete. The roar of cars from above is almost deafening, so I hug Ky closer. He’s quiet again. For now.
Behind me, the Tesla shop is still open this late, doing solid business to the city’s tech bros, assholes like Landon Bartlett. Train tracks run across the road, unprotected on either side. Nothing to stop anyone just running along.
CenturyLink Field’s lit up, even though there’s no football on tonight.
The white man appears, and I cross. Halfway over, it switches to the countdown. Ten, nine, eight, but we’re across and I walk over the empty lot just as a bus pulls in. Heading to Vancouver, so the wrong direction for me. I don’t have a passport, so I couldn’t get across the border. Another joins it, marked for LA. Ten minutes to get a ticket, otherwise I need to leave here and wait out somewhere.
I push through the door, hugging Ky, nervously checking for cameras. No obvious ones, but there’s a long-ass line for tickets. I can’t use the self-service machine, as I don’t have any electronic payment methods. And I don’t want to leave prints or DNA or anything. The line seems to be moving fast, so I join it, patting Ky and cooing to him.
And then he starts up again, a loud-ass scream tearing out from those tiny lugs, making my ears rattle.
The man in front turns to glare at me.
I try to soothe Ky, but nothing’s working. If anything, he’s getting worse. Getting louder too.
The guy turns around again. Thick stubble, plaid shirt, green ball cap with no logo. “You going to shut that kid up?”
“I’m trying my best.”
“Listen, missy, I’m sitting on a bus for fifteen and a half hours and I don’t want your kid screaming all that way.”
“I’m trying my hardest here.”
“Maybe should’ve tried harder when some douchebag was banging you.”
“What did you say to me?”
He turns back to face the front, but mutter-shouts, “Slut.”
“Hey, you don’t speak to her like that!” A big woman grabs the guy’s arm and bends it back. “You creepy little bastard.”
“Get offa me!”
I back away a few steps, give them space. Last thing I need is attention.
“Get your hand offa me, bitch!”
She moves forward and presses him back against the wall, then says something I don’t catch.
The guy seems genuinely scared.
“Get your punk ass outta here, you hear me?” She lets him go and gives him a nudge.
He gives me one last look, then scoots off outside, muttering about flying instead.
“Asshole.” The woman shakes her head at me. “They sure ain’t all locked up.”
“Thanks for helping me.”
“I’m a cop, ma’am. Just doing my duty. That asshole comes back, I’m going to take him down to the station, my sister’s wedding be damned.”
“Where you headed?”
“Eugene.”
“That’s in Oregon, right?”
“Uh huh. My baby sister’s lived there ten years now. Where you headed?”
“Portland. I think.”
“You think?” The woman chuckles. “You best be sure.” But she’s at the front of the line, so goes off to buy her ticket.
And Ky’s not screaming any more.
“Ma’am.” The muffled voice comes from the left cashier.
I walk up and rest Ky against my hip. “One-way to Portland, please.”
“Economy or Economy Extra?”
“Extra, please.”
“That’s a cute little kid. Twenty-five dollars.”
“Thanks, ma’am.” I take out the cash and pass it through.
“There you go, sugar.” The woman passes the ticket back through the barrier.
I reach through for the ticket, my hand shaking like crazy. “Thanks.” I walk off, but stop dead at the doorway. The message on the screen makes my blood run ice-cold:
Emergency Alert
Child Abduction. Lake Washington, Seattle WA.
Victim: Ky Bartlett, 6 weeks, white male.
Suspect: White female, late teens/early 20s. Blonde hair.
Vehicle: Bus.
Last seen: Lake Washington, Seattle WA.
If observed call 911.
I stumble outside, and my legs are like jelly. I hold Ky close to me. This was already a huge mistake, but it’s getting deeper and deeper.
“Bus to LA leaves in four minutes!”
The woman from inside is getting on the bus. She stops and gives me a wave, like she’s going to be my friend all the way south.
I make to follow her, but a police cruiser hurtles past, lights flashing. Down the street, a load of black SUVs are shooting this way.
They’re on to me. Goddamn it, they’re going to catch me. I need to run.
So I walk away calmly as I can, slipping through the back entrance onto Sixth and away from the cars. I have no idea where I can go. Or what to do.
I crumple my Portland ticket and stuff it into the trashcan.
Someone grabs my left arm, twists it back. I do everything I can to hold on to Ky.
“Give me him.” A woman’s voice, coming from behind.
“No!”
She jerks my arm up my back—feels like it comes right out of the socket. “I know that’s Ky Bartlett.”
“Bullshit.” My voice is thin.
Ky’s staring up at me.
“I’m calling the cops on you. Come on!”
“We can come to some kind of arrangement.”
“No we can’t.”
Tires squeal and a car door opens. Cops? Is this my bus friend? Called in her buddies?
Footsteps come toward us. Her grip slackens. Then she tumbles forward.
What the hell?
I swing around and hold Ky close to me.
This woman stands over her, holding a gun. “Get in the car!” She looks Arabic or something. Black hair, but real short with this crazy quiff. Long face, but a real sadness to her, like she’s followed by a cloud. “Come on, Kaitlyn!”
She knows my name. I just stand there, holding Ky tight to my chest. Do I have any other options here? “Who are you?”
“A friend sent me.” She points up the street. “Now, I suggest you hop in, unless you want to explain that kid to the FBI.”
I really don’t have a choice here.
Fifteen
CARTER
20:55
Carter pulled up outside the Seattle Greyhound station and stepped down onto the damp asphalt, the surface flashing blue and red from the assembled police cruisers. On the street, a bus’s brakes hissed, ready to set off south to LA. Hard to make out anyone taking control of the chaos, anyone who could explain why a bus was being let out.
There, a huddle of local SPD officers sipping coffee. A sergeant and two patrolmen. Like they were shooting the breeze outside the football stadium before the game started, not hunting down a child abductor.
“Max Carter.” His badge was enough to get rid of the two junior guys. “Care to update me?”
“Sure.” The sergeant took a slug of coffee from an unlabeled paper cup. His sleeve read M. Wearmouth. “Basically, there’s no sign of her. A ton of guys in there are speaking to passengers, but all that seemed to happen was a fight in the line. Some guy said a woman clawed a man’s face. Another said they were getting it on.”
“Are they still in there?”
“On the bus to LA.” Wearmouth tore off the lid so he could slurp coffee. “Next stop Tacoma.”
“And you just let the bus go?”
“Te
lling me I shoulda kept it here?”
“That’s your job, isn’t it? You had intel that a child abductor was aboard that bus.”
“Shaky intel at best. There’s a ton of passengers on there, going nowhere except Tacoma. You get intel she’s on there, your guys can pull it over and get her offa there.”
“We have intel that she was here. It’s logical to delay the bus.”
“You don’t have authority here.”
“This is a federal investigation. Of course I do.”
Wearmouth sipped coffee. “Cool your heels, hotshot, we got statements from the passengers.”
Carter stared hard at him, trying to figure out if it was worth pushing him, or worth sending a car after the bus. “Start with the woman in the fight.”
“Sure. Name’s Deandra Allred.” Wearmouth reached into his pocket for a business card. “Cop, based up in Redmond. Got her cell if you want it.”
“What she tell you?”
“That she was arguing with this dude in the line, said he was a piece of work. We picked him up, got him on the way to the precinct. Tried to headbutt Sandy.” He thumbed over to a fellow officer, J. Sanderson, looking pleased with himself for some reason. “Allred said this young woman with the baby? The guy was being a prick to her, reminded her of her ex-husband. She might’ve overreacted, but the guy shot off like the hounds of hell were after him. Makes me think if he hasn’t done something bad in there, he’s done it elsewhere.”
Carter almost rolled his eyes, but kept calm. He took out his cell and showed the surveillance video screenshot. “We’re searching for a blonde-haired woman. This match the description?”
“Sure.” Wearmouth took another drink. “That’s bang on the money. Blonde, tiny baby. Weeks rather than months. Bought a ticket to Portland, paid cash.”
Portland sure made sense. Big enough city, but taking a baby on a second bus? Seemed incredibly risky. “Okay, that might be something. She still here?”
He took a slurp of coffee. “We took everyone off. Youngest, aside from actual kids y’know, was this thirty-five-year-old woman, weighed three hundred pounds.” Another slurp, this time baring his teeth. Carter wanted to slap the cup from his grasp. “Whoever this girl was, she ain’t on that bus.”
“You any idea where she went?”
“Some dude said she slipped out of the line, but he didn’t see her again.” Wearmouth pointed through the side entrance onto Sixth Avenue. “That way.”
“How many people you got searching for her?”
Wearmouth just shrugged.
Carter felt something inside him die. “Quit drinking coffee and do your job. Get on top of this. Now.”
“Sure thing.” Wearmouth jogged off, talking into his radio.
Carter walked off, trying to process the map. They were in the badlands between Chinatown and the southern suburbs, near the sports bars around the twin stadiums. Calling them dive bars would be doing them a huge favor. Parking lots where there used to be factories. Starbucks HQ wasn’t far off.
This woman had bought a ticket for Portland, though, so assume her plan was changed. To get on the freeway south she’d need to take the on-ramp on Fourth, then get straight onto I-5. But she’d need a car.
Where was she going?
“Hey!” Wearmouth was running back to Carter. “We found someone.”
Carter followed him on foot, spooking the hell out of a guy coming out of a bike store.
Wearmouth stopped dead halfway down the block and Carter caught up.
No sign of anyone.
Wait a sec. There.
Carter drew his gun. “FBI!”
A barrage of moans and curses sitting down.
“Stay right there.” Footsteps rattled behind him. “I’m a federal agent. Interlink your fingers and—”
“I can’t move.”
“What?”
“I’m hurt. Some asshole Tasered me.”
More footsteps behind him, rounding him slowly. Elisha stepped around his Suburban, her gun drawn too.
Carter took a step forward. “Ma’am, I’m approaching you. No sudden moves.”
“I’m not going anywhere, asshole.”
Carter holstered his pistol and walked over, hands up. “Ma’am, where’s the baby?”
“I don’t have him!” Another deep moan. “This is Ky Bartlett, right? The kid in the Amber Alert? He was here! She had him!”
Carter took a long hard look at her. Blonde-haired, petite, late twenties maybe. Holy mackerel, it was the woman from the bus stop surveillance video. “What’s your name?”
“Marie. Marie Edwards.”
The woman Chase had told them about. Her brother had been staking out the Bartlett home just before Ky was taken.
“Okay, Marie.” Carter beckoned over the agents. “Let’s take her in for questioning.”
Sixteen
KAITLYN
20:57
I crane my neck to check behind us, watching the cars idling. Big black SUVs. FBI. This is serious, but it’s not as present as it was. I hug Ky tighter and kiss his soft skin. “Who was she?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Feels like I should know.”
“Trust me, you just want to get the hell away from Seattle.” Driving, she glances over at me. “Kaitlyn, it’s better you don’t know.”
Ky’s head pokes out of the blanket, pink and tiny. “How do you know my name? Who are you working for?”
“A friend of yours. He wants to keep you safe.”
“Who?”
“Do you have a cell on you?”
“My iPhone’s… not here.” I slump back in the seat, tickling Ky under the chin. He gurgles and coos. “I’ve got an old iPod Touch.”
“I know. That’s how I tracked you.”
“You can’t track someone—”
“Check the back.”
I get it out of my pocket and flip it over. There’s something stuck to it. “What the hell is that?”
“A tracker. Our mutual friend had it put there so he could keep an eye on you.”
It sends a shiver up my spine. Someone knew I couldn’t do without my tunes.
“I’ll dispose of this.” She snatches it from my grasp. “Do you have a burner?”
“A what?”
“A disposable pre-paid cell phone.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Then they can’t track you. Good. They’ll have pinged every cell near the house at the time of the abduction. If you’ve genuinely gone off-grid, then you’re not on their list of people to speak to. Are you telling me the truth?”
“Of course I am.”
“Good. Well, right now, they don’t know it’s you.” Without taking her eyes off the road, she reaches for a backpack on the back seat, then tosses a plastic packet onto my lap. “That’s a burner phone with a spare SIM card. It’s unused. Two hundred bucks credit. Use it as much as you need but if you feel any heat, get another SIM card. Always pay cash.” She takes a left. The roads are night-time quiet, enough people to blend in, but not hordes of FBI SUVs trying to box us in. She’s cutting a zigzag through downtown, like she’s playing that snake game on old cell phones. “Do you know any Russians?”
“What? Russians? No.” I bite a fingernail. “Well, there was some kid in my grade in middle school who said her mom was from Moscow, but nobody believed her.”
“Right.” She takes a right now, along the old docklands road through the roadwork and construction.
I stroke Ky’s back, slowly and gently. “Are you taking me to the feds?”
Her gaze drills into me, like she’s daring me to push her. “I’m helping you. What is your plan?”
Ky giggles. Hidden under the blanket, it’s hard to tell if he’s happy or not.
I shrug again, give her teenage indifference. A cool facade. Blankness masquerading as sophistication. “I bought a Greyhound ticket to Portland, but there was heat… So I ran. Then that woman…”
She
pulls up at the stoplight and waits in a line. Sounds like some roadwork going on down the block. We’re trapped in a no U-turn zone, hemmed in by the one-way system. “Why Portland?”
I lift up the blanket and check Ky again. Nothing specific, but he has a worried look on his face. “You got a better idea?”
“Look, buying the ticket might not have been that bad an idea. Assuming they find out who you are, they’ll case the Greyhound station, probably put people on the bus at all stops. First will be Tacoma, right? They’ll either have people there or have to run through surveillance video hunting for you. When you’re not on it, they’ll check the next stop and the ones after that. I advise you avoid Portland and all stops on the way, okay?”
“How do you know all that?”
“Used to be my job.”
“And now?”
“Now my job’s just to survive, day to day. It’s my business to be prepared, Kaitlyn. Now it’s yours too. Think everything through before, but always be prepared to improvise. Welcome to the club. And stay off public transport. The problem isn’t transport, it’s the public part. Can you go home?”
“I haven’t been back to Bremerton since I left for college last year.”
“Bremerton?” She nods at the ferry. “They run till midnight, right?”
“Something like that.” I nibble at my bottom lip. “Thing is, my folks won’t exactly be pleased to see me.”
“That’s probably not true.”
“I did that ‘just leaving’ thing. Mom wasn’t happy. Sat at the kitchen table when I left, didn’t come after me or anything. Just sat there, crying.”
She hits the gas and makes it through the roadwork, but hits another stoplight, indicating right, toward the giant towers of downtown Seattle. All brand-new, no iconic buildings like in New York, Chicago, or LA—not yet. The harbor’s lit up as a night ferry crawls in to land. Beyond, Pike Place Market looks empty of tourists, silent and waiting for the morning’s fish. “Can you be safe there?”