“Here, take yours,” he said, a dash of panic to his voice.
“Thank you,” Cole replied.
“Next week is blueberry cheesecake,” Doherty added.
“Oh, we’ll have to come back for that,” said Cole.
Doherty nodded as he licked at the edges of the sugary mountain before him. Cole, playing with the straw to her milkshake, replayed the afternoon in her head.
After the press conference, they had had a meeting with their boss, Lieutenant Ingle, to brief him on where they were with the case. The image wasn’t a pretty one. Anyone who had purported to know anything had been just as Emily Green described: full of shit. The other two girls who had been out with Emily, Katia and Jessica, corroborated what she’d told them, and a quick call to Kevin Polk’s dad confirmed that Kevin, in fact, had never gone out that night.
To make matters worse, no one near the appliance repair shop that night remembered seeing anything suspicious. They’d begun checking with nearby registered sex offenders, but so far everyone they’d questioned had witnesses or evidence placing them somewhere else at the time of the abduction. It was as if Sara Beth Parker had dissolved more than she had disappeared. As if she had simply ceased to exist. There, at home, in the evening. Gone in the morning.
Still, Cole’s gut told her something awful had happened to Sara Beth, and it bothered her that any other theory was even being entertained.
“So, what was up with the press conference today,” Cole asked.
Doherty stared at her, pretending to be confused by the question, but they both knew what she was talking about.
“What do you mean,” Doherty asked.
“When that reporter asked if we had reason to believe she hadn’t been abducted,” Cole replied.
“I answered the question honestly,” Doherty said
“Come on. Even if you believe she might not have been taken, you know if we don’t drive it into the media that this girl is in immediate danger, they’ll bury the story and we need people tuned in. We need eyes out there.”
“Assuming she wants to be found.”
Cole turned toward her partner. There was a sharp tone to her voice now.
“Assuming what now,” she asked.
Doherty wiped his mouth with a napkin, and paused, choosing his words carefully.
“Look, we’ve been dancing around this the whole time now, so if I’ve got to be the one to say it, I’ll say it,” Doherty said, “We don’t know that this is an abduction.”
“The hell we don’t,” replied Cole angrily, “You actually think this is a runaway?”
“She got in a fight with her mother,” Doherty replied, “She was pissed off. Pissed off kids rebel. It’s what they do. And if she snuck out, where was she going? The only reason she had to go out were her friends and she said nothing to them.”
“And what about her phone,” asked Cole, “I suppose she took it with her just to toss it in some random parking lot.”
“Maybe she realized it could be tracked. Maybe the FaceTime call reminded her she still had it. The only thing the phone says is she was out, and we know she left her house by her own choice.”
“This is why the Lieutenant called us in today, wasn’t it? They want to kill this case.”
“Angela, we’re Major Crimes. There are nine of us for a city of over 50,000. Every one of us is working multiple cases as it is. You know that. They just want to make sure we aren’t using resources on a girl that doesn’t want to be found. If she’s a runaway, we can kick it to patrol and let them look for her.”
The two detectives fell into another tense silence. Cole was glad they were standing across the parking lot from everyone now and hadn’t drawn attention to themselves. She looked on at the crowd. Easily half of them were children. Not children that ran away or were taken. And the parents were happy parents, not ones wrought with grief like Anne Parker. These were happy families. The way families should look.
She knew Doherty and anyone else who thought Sara Beth Parker had run away was wrong. Deep down, somewhere inside she couldn’t describe, she just knew. But she also knew, in a way, it didn’t much matter. The way things were going, they needed to catch a break if they were going to bring Sara Beth home.
21
Jackson watched as the group of people plummeted 300 feet, screaming as they disappeared out of view behind the Play ‘n’ Win arcade directly in front of him. Slowly, they reappeared as the ride aptly named Drop Zone lifted them back up into the sky to do it all over again. People pay good money for torture, Jackson thought.
“Thinking of doing that next,” asked a voice behind him.
Nathalie was giving him her signature sly smile, teasing him over his dislike of thrill rides. You must be the only ex Spec Ops guy on the planet who hates roller coasters, she would say, playfully challenging his bravado.
“That? That over there is called cruel and unusual punishment,” Jackson answered, “And it’s supposed to be banned by the constitution.”
Nathalie threw her head back laughing as she reached for him and pulled him to her. Jackson looked down at her. The sun was catching her auburn hair, giving the impression she was crowned in a halo of light. To Jackson, she might as well be.
“Daddy, daddy, look,” said a voice at Jackson’s feet, “Basketball!”
Evan, their son, watched as a couple of teenagers took shots at hoops placed unnecessarily far away.
“I don’t know, bud,” Jackson replied, “You think you’ve got the arm for that?”
“Uh huh,” Evan answered.
Jackson and Nathalie laughed, leaning into one another again. They were out enjoying a day at King’s Dominion, a theme park near their home in Richmond, Virginia. The idyllic day had drawn out the masses – Jackson had never seen it so crowded – but they didn’t mind. Nothing was getting in the way of their little family.
“Ok, well, Mr. Cruel and Unusual Punishment,” Nathalie said, “Mama wants to ride the Ferris Wheel.”
“Good luck with that,” Jackson replied.
“Come on,” Nathalie begged, “It’s not even a roller coaster, it’s a kiddie ride.”
“Well if it’s a kiddie ride, then I guess I’m too old.”
“Ugh, you suck.”
“Language, Nat!”
Jackson nodded down towards Evan. Nathalie smiled and mouthed the word ‘sorry’.
“Well, what about you, kiddo,” Nathalie asked Evan, “You want to go on the ride with mama?”
“Uh uh, no way,” replied Evan, as he bear-hugged Jackson’s leg.
“You guys are killing me with your brotherhood of solidarity,” Nathalie said.
Jackson smiled at her, picking Evan up into his arms.
“Here, give me the camera, we’ll get a shot of you,” Jackson said.
Nathalie handed him their digital camera and ran on to the Ferris Wheel just as the operator was closing the gate. Nathalie took off and up in a slow-moving arc. Jackson booted up the camera and looked for her through the viewfinder.
“Daddy,” said Evan fidgeting in his arms, “I want to do basketball.”
“In a minute, bud,” Jackson replied, “We’re watching mama right now.”
Jackson put Evan down as he continued to squirm, shaking the camera. Jackson’s view of Nathalie was blocked as her basket crossed over the top of the wheel. He kept looking in the viewfinder, following her basket around. As she came down the far side, Nathalie reappeared, making a goofy smile as she waved at the camera. Jackson clicked a few shots.
“Perfect, bud,” Jackson said, “Look, I got mama.”
Jackson went to show Evan at his feet, but he wasn’t there.
“Evan,” Jackson called out.
He looked around him. Evan wasn’t there. He looked over towards the basketball hoops. Not there, either.
“Evan,” Jackson called out again.
He looked the other way. Nothing.
“You guys didn’t see a little boy just now did y
ou,” Jackson asked one of the employees, “Green shirt? Blue shorts?”
The ride operator shook his head. Nathalie came jogging over, worried by the look of panic on Jackson’s face.
“What’s wrong,” Nathalie asked.
“Evan,” replied Jackson, “He – I don’t know. He was right by me and then he wasn’t.”
“Evan,” Nathalie shouted, looking around.
People around them now began to look on as their perfect afternoon devolved into the worst day of their lives. Jackson stood up on the counter for the basketball game, trying to look over the crowd. An employee implored him to get down but he ignored him.
“Evan,” Jackson screamed, “EVAN.”
Jackson’s body bucked in his bed as his mind shot awake from the nightmare he was having. It was the same nightmare he had had more nights than he could count, the nightmare he had not only dreamt but lived. His eyes struggled to focus in the relative darkness as he rolled over to check his watch. The muffled pitter patter of steady rain tapped on the roof overhead. He pressed a button that backlit the face of his Casio Mudmaster. It was just after six in the morning. It was also 65° in the room, the air pressure was 1001 mbar, the watch was currently sitting at 911 ft. above sea level, and, sitting in his hand, the watch was presently facing north. Of course, sitting there half naked in bed, very little of that information mattered.
He rolled over to the edge of the bed and slowly sat upright, his joints aching as they expanded and contracted. He placed his arms over his head, stretching them upwards, and finally stood up. He had beaten the sun up, leaving Jackson to navigate his cabin even in complete darkness.
Still in his boxer briefs, he went to the sink and grabbed the pour-over coffee maker, a fresh filter and the small canister of coffee out of the pantry, and went to work. A corporal during his first tour in Afghanistan turned him onto the brewing method and Jackson hadn’t made coffee any other way since.
After shaking enough ground coffee into the filter, he grabbed the tea kettle, filled it with water, and threw it on the stove. He thought about him now, Corporal Ramirez, as he brushed his hand over the scar just above the left side of his pelvis where a jagged piece of metal had torn into him as he pulled a bleeding Ramirez out of the line of fire.
Jackson’s body was a tapestry of scars, evidence of a life lived harder than most. The bottle cap-shaped scar on his knee from being shot outside Fallujah. The jagged V in his left deltoid after an IED tore a nearby Humvee to shreds in southern Kandahar. And the two long slash marks on his right forearm from a bar outside Mobile, Alabama. No purple heart was awarded for that one.
He stood there in his boxer briefs and listened to the kettle begin to hiss on the stove. Jackson lived on his own in almost every way possible. His cabin was heated by a wood-burning stove situated just off his back porch, his water was well-based, and he got television and internet off of satellite dishes mounted on a post next to his driveway. In fact, the only thing actually hardwired to his cabin was the electricity, and that was only because his forested land didn’t make a great spot to throw up solar panels.
The hiss of the steaming water turned over to a whistle as it began to boil. Jackson pulled the kettle off the stove and began slowly pouring the hot water over the coffee grounds. The smell of brewing coffee – rich notes of chocolate and hazelnut – began to fill the open-concept timber frame cabin. An early twilight backlit the clouds nestled overhead, painting the earth around Jackson’s cabin in a bluish-grey light.
As the coffee finished brewing, he took off the grounds and filter, poured himself a cup, and walked over to his laptop. The logo on the cover lit up as he opened it and he heard the machine whir to life.
He searched for any more news on Sara Beth Parker. The results were disappointing as the police hadn’t given much more information yesterday during the press conference. Aside from Sara Beth herself, there was very little for the public to look for. No suspect, no person of interest, no vehicle. Jackson frowned, both frustrated and curious.
One article, however, had mentioned that police recovered what they believed to be her phone and wondered what the police had found on it. He wouldn’t be able to see her texts or calls, obviously, but there was other information that could be found.
Jackson opened up a new browser window and searched for Sara Beth Parker on every social media platform he could think of. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr. The list went on. As he expected, she had profiles on a number of them and virtually none were made private. He scrolled through her Instagram posts. Many of the more recent ones now had comments of people praying for her and begging for her to come home. Her last post had been on Monday, the day she disappeared. It was a photo taken from somewhere near her torso aimed at her legs and feet laying on a bed. He read the quoted caption below.
“This house is a prison! On planet bullshit! In the galaxy of this sucks camel dick!”
A quick google search told him it was a line from the movie Step Brothers. Perhaps she had been grounded or something, Jackson thought. According to news articles, it was believed she left her house willingly. It wouldn’t be the first time a grounded teenager snuck out in rebellion. Just this time it seems like it had gone disastrously wrong.
He shut his laptop and stared at the wall in the dark, thinking to himself. The lack of information handed out to the public continued to bother him. He knew first-hand in cases like these the public is your best resource. It was possible Sara Beth Parker ran away, that she left her house and just kept on going, but his gut told him otherwise. Teenagers were not experts in trade craft. More times than not, a runaway left some sort of trail. Being spotted on camera at a bus station, or using a family member’s credit card or telling a friend where they were. There was no trail for Sara Beth. Or, if there was, the police weren’t letting on. That told Jackson something was wrong.
He reached for his phone on the desk, dialed a number, and waited for the person on the other end to pick up.
“It’s me,” Jackson said, “What do you know about the Parker case out of Harrisonburg?”
22
The loud clanging of metal awoke Sara Beth from a restless sleep, the first that hadn’t been chemically induced since she had been taken. How long ago had that been, anyway, she wondered. Confined to a covered dog crate, she had lost any semblance of time. Surely, it must have been at least a day. Had it been more? Many more?
Now she could hear wheels rolling on the ground. Wheels that sounded like the ones she heard beneath her when she’d first awoken in the cage. Did they bring someone else in? Was there now a fourth person here with them? She waited to hear the metal hinges of the door swing again – a sign that whoever was here had left – and then worked up the nerve to say something.
“Hello?”
There was no answer.
“Maybe no one’s there,” said Meghan.
“Maybe whoever’s there is knocked out just like we were,” said Keera.
In the time that had past, Sara Beth had risked a few small conversations with the other captives. Meghan Anderson, the girl Sara Beth first knew as the one crying, was from Glen Allen, Virginia, a suburb of Richmond. Keera Caldwell, the one who had first scolded Sara Beth to shut up, was from Lewisburg, West Virginia.
Both recounted what they remembered about their abductions. Meghan had talked the night away with a guy in a bar and he was walking her to her car when she felt a sharp prick in her arm. The last thing she remembered was the man helping get her inside a car that wasn’t hers. Keera had been driving home from work when she heard two loud pops and pulled over. Some nails had punctured two of her tires. Soon, a car pulled over. She was explaining to the driver she was fine when a cloth with a heavy chemical smell was shoved in her face. She told Meghan and Sara Beth she’d tried desperately to fight free from the man before everything went dark.
Initially, Sara Beth had been relieved when she first learned she wasn’t alone. After hearing their stories, though,
she was more terrified than she had been before.
“Hello,” Sara Beth said again.
Again, her greeting went unanswered.
“I’m telling you. They’re out cold,” said Keera.
The muffled taps of footsteps could be heard in the direction of the squeaky door.
“Quick, shut up,” said Keera.
The door swung about and bounced into something with force as a clumsy melody of thumps and bangs came ambling through. A moment later, the cloth over one end of the crate Sara Beth was in lifted up just enough that she could see a pair of jeans and boots from the knee down. Her heart lunged into her throat as fear coursed through her body.
A beefy pair of hands fed the nozzle of a hose through one of the openings in the crate and turned it on. Cold water shot out and splashed into Sara Beth’s face.
“Stop,” Sara Beth screamed, “What are you doing?”
“Drink from it or don’t,” said a man’s voice, “I don’t really give a fuck.”
Sara Beth lay shaken, holding the hose in one hand. She didn’t trust this man, clearly one of her captors, but she couldn’t help herself. Her mind became overcome with how thirsty she really was. She looked at the flowing water for a moment before throwing all caution aside and burying her face into it. She slurped and chugged, taking only short, sporadic pauses to breathe. The water had that same metallic taste she remembered from days of playing in the sprinklers in her backyard. In a strange way, the off taste was comforting.
She was still trying to drink as much as she could when the stream cut off. The man ripped the hose out of the crate.
“Alright, that’s enough,” growled the voice.
She listened as he walked around the room, more metal clanging and the whooping of the hose being whipped around. Both Meghan and Keera made incoherent noises in successive order. Sara Beth assumed he was doing the same thing to them. A small act to ensure they didn’t die, she thought. Yet, anyway.
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