Purgatory Creek

by C. E. Nelson

  There was some light coming in the small windows on the garage, but not much. Flashlights and guns in front, Jenkins and Trask squeezed between the garage wall and Daniel’s car. There was a single concrete step up to the door leading into the house. Trask stepped up, grabbed the door handle, and turned it, pushing the door slowly open. He didn’t expect to hear any alarm at this point, but he did expect to hear something. There was no sound.

  Trask found himself in the eating area of the kitchen. A round maple table with four chairs was in front of a window to his right, the doorway to the lower level directly ahead. To his left along the wall was a fireplace facing the living room. Light was coming through the picture window in the living room, but not much. It was coated with a black film, the same thing he had noticed on the windows in the garage. The window on the other side of the table also had the coating.

  Dave turned back, signaling with his light that Jenkins should go left, into the living room. She nodded, and Trask went right, into the kitchen. They both quickly cleared their areas, meeting at a hallway. Jenkins shined her light down the narrow passage revealing five doors, three on the right, all closed. She quickly stepped down the carpeted hallway to the first door, standing with her back to the wall next to the door. Dave moved past her and did the same thing on the other side of the door. Melanie reached over, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

  It was a bathroom. Empty. The counter was clear. Empty towel rack by the tub. No shower curtains. There was a hand towel hanging on a rack by the sink but otherwise there was no sign the room was even in use.

  The next door was skinny, opening up into the hall. A small linen closet. Nothing inside. The last three doors led to bedrooms. The largest, at the end of the hall, had a queen bed, dresser, and a connecting half-bath, but it did not appear that anyone had slept there for some time. Dave slowly pulled open the top drawer on the dresser. It was empty. Did the same with the next drawer down. Nothing.

  The other two bedrooms were completely empty. No furniture. Hardwood floors in both that were so dusty they left footprints. They walked back in the kitchen.

  “No one is here,” said Jenkins.

  “Yeah. It’s like no one even lives here, at least on a full-time basis. Kind of like a cabin.”

  “You think they’re gone? Maybe they were never here?”

  Dave had his back to Jenkins, facing the sink. He set his light on the counter and then turned back to her. Two empty glasses in his hand. He raised the glasses to his nose. Whiskey. “They were here. And maybe they still are. We need to go downstairs.”

  Chapter 46

  Daniel couldn’t decide what to do first. He had a plan just yesterday but now, now he wasn’t sure. Looked at the battery charger, the implements on the shelf, and then at Trask. There was blood around the wire on Trask’s neck. Daniel wondered if he left Trask here long enough if he would just choke himself to death. No, that wouldn’t do. No, he wanted to do this himself.

  But not just yet. The buzz he had just a moment ago had disappeared. Daniel put a hand to the bump on his head. The area was sore, and a dull headache was building. He was tired too. Except for his unintentional nap, he had been up nearly the entire night. And getting Trask in the chair had been work. More than he expected. He needed more aspirin and a nap. Maybe some coffee and a quick breakfast, after and then he’d feel better. Ready to take on the task at hand and really enjoy it.

  Daniel put his lips next to Don’s left ear. “You know Agent Trask, you really ought to lose some weight. You’ve just tired me all out. I’m just going to let you sit here and think about all of the things I’m going to do to you for a while why I take a short nap. Freshen up a bit so I’m all ready to make sure you get the full benefit of all of the work I’ve done. How does that sound?”

  “You’re making a mistake, Daniel.”

  “No. I don’t think so. You’re the one who made the mistake. You should have left me alone, Trask.” Daniel moved behind Trask and jerked his forehead back, Trask wincing at the pain as his head hit the back of the chair. “Feel free to yell all you’d like. The room is completely soundproof.” Daniel chuckled and then left, closing the door behind him.

  The pain in his head was more insistent now, and Daniel could feel the weight of his body as he walked to the bathroom again. He picked up the bloody towel in the sink, then looked up at his tired face in the mirror. “Wow. I am beat.” He left the towel in the sink, closing the drain and then filling the sink with water. Left it to soak. Got the aspirin bottle and walked across the hall to the kitchen.

  Daniel had outfitted the entire lower level of his home so that he never really had to go upstairs unless he needed to get to the garage. When he first moved in, he had his computer equipment in one of the empty bedrooms upstairs. But then he had added the security equipment and the monitors and more computer equipment, and with the school buses running up and down the road, well, the lower level had just been a better option. After moving his security and computer equipment down, things sort of evolved out of convenience. It was just easier to have a kitchen there too since he spent so much time there, and then, it just made sense that his bedroom was downstairs as he would sometimes work late into the night.

  The kitchen on the lower level already existed for the most part when he moved in, the previous owners had one installed at the end of the family room, along with a bar. They had also added a gas fireplace in the large bedroom on the lower level as well as connecting the bedroom to the bath. It was much quieter there too.

  Daniel filled a glass with water, downed the aspirin, and walked down the hall to his bedroom.

  Cousins’ stomach was sour. He thought he felt more tired than he had ever been in his life, but he couldn’t sleep. It was partially the caffeine, but mostly it was because of what he was going to do, needed to do. He picked up his phone and dialed.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  “My boys are dealing drugs, and they have a gun.”

  “What is your name, sir?”

  “Trevor Cousins.”

  “And where are you now, Mr. Cousins?”

  “I’m at home.”

  “Are you in any immediate danger, Mr. Cousins?”

  “I don’t know. I – "

  Cousins sensed the presence behind him. He turned to see Blake, a gun in his outstretched hand, inches from Cousins’ face.

  “I warned you.”

  Blake pulled the trigger, the bullet entering his father’s forehead and then exploding out the back. Trevor fell to the side, his limp body dropping to the floor. Blake picked up the phone and shut it off.

  The kidnapper liked Sunday mornings. Not that they were any different from any other morning, really. The kidnapper was essentially retired, working only an odd day here and there. Each day was pretty much the same as the next, but something about Sunday made it special. There was the large paper with all of the advertisements for the week that would take much of the morning to go through. Drink coffee, maybe have some coffee cake too. Strawberry cheesecake was the favorite.

  The kidnapper thought back to Sundays as a child. The whole family would get dressed up and drive into town. Their parents would lead the way across the lot and into the church. They’d sit in hard, uncomfortable benches for what seemed forever, the children running out the door of the church as soon as the service had ended. The kidnapper’s brother and two sisters would play on the swings in the churchyard waiting for their parents to finish their visiting. Finally, their parents would look at them, wave, and walk down the sidewalk to the small café on Main Street.

  The café was almost always full on Sunday mornings. The smell of coffee and fresh baked goods filled the air. Families crammed into booths and waitresses scurried about with orders. The kidnapper and siblings would crowd the glass pastry case, trying to decide what treat they would order. They’d run to the booth their parents had chosen, getting there just in time to give the waitress their order. Their father would nearl
y smile.

  It was the only time the kidnapper could remember anything close to a smile on his face. For the rest of the week, the man had been a solemn beast. He had been a teacher. The kidnapper could never figure out why. As far as the kidnapper could tell, the man hated children. The beatings and discipline he unleashed on the children in his class came home with him every day. Any infraction of one of the man’s many rules, known or unknown, would result in a slap if they were lucky, the belt if they were not. His ruler cracked across knuckles if he found a child not studying intently after dinner. Nothing but the best grades were tolerated.

  The kidnapper had killed him. And wasn’t sorry.

  They lived on a farmstead and rented the land and outbuildings, including a barn and silo, to a farmer. The farmer milked cows and stored silage in the silo to feed the animals. One morning he had talked to the kidnapper’s father about the silo, indicating the motor had stopped. The kidnapper’s father said he would look at it when he returned from work in the afternoon. The kidnapper had been at an after-school activity, dropped off by the late bus at the end of the driveway, and was walking toward the house when the kidnapper’s father came walking across the yard, saying he needed help to fix the motor on the silo.

  The kidnapper wanted to change clothes before going to the dirty silo but knew it would not be good to argue. The man had been working on the motor, his hands and pants covered with grease, and felt he nearly had it. He told the kidnapper to wait at the power box for his signal. When he appeared in the opening high on the silo, he would yell for the power to be switched on.

  The kidnapper had been in the silo more than once. Climbed the ladder attached to the outside of the silo and peered into the cavity, watching the giant blades as they circled inside, churning the feed and pushing it down. The kidnapper watched as the man climbed up the ladder before disappearing inside. Counted to twenty. Figured that was plenty of time for the man to have reached the center and turned on the power. For a moment nothing happened, but then the kidnapper heard the blades begin to grind nearly blocking out the sound of the man screaming inside.

  Despite everything, the kidnapper had become a teacher. It had been interesting at first, almost fun. Teaching history to high school kids. But the kids had no interest in anything that happened less than an hour ago. They were inattentive and disrespectful, some using their large physical presence to try to intimidate the kidnapper. So, the kidnapper had moved to middle school, found it was more of the same, finally moving to a grade school in central Minnesota.

  Grade school kids were better. They would listen to the adult, do as the kidnapper requested. Things were good for a few years but then, it was their attention span that finally got to the kidnapper. Every little thing distracted them. A laugh across the room, a noise in the hall, a spitball fight. It only seemed to get worse. The kidnapper had slapped the back of their heads, rapped their fingers with a ruler, but that only brought momentary reprieves in the behavior. It also brought complaints from ungrateful parents and warnings from the principal.

  It was really by chance that the first one happened. The kidnapper taught at a school in a small town and lived in the country. Driving home from school one afternoon, the kidnapper had come across one student walking on the side of the road. His mother had called the school saying she could not get there for an hour to pick up her son and said it was OK for him to walk home. The kidnapper had pulled up alongside the boy, asking if he wanted a ride. The boy immediately climbed in. The kidnapper told the boy that a stop at the house was necessary to feed the cat before taking him home. Asked the boy if he would like to help feed the cat.

  It was almost too easy. The kidnapper had knocked the child out with a frying pan, tying him to a chair in the basement after checking to see that the boy was still alive. When the boy awoke, the boy had cried, the kidnapper beating him until he was silent. Told the boy the only way he would get to go home would be if he could complete the lessons set up for him.

  But the boy had failed miserably. Could not spell or read simple words. Could not print within the lines. Could not complete simple arithmetic. And so, the boy had received punishment. A ruler across the knuckles. A slap across the back of the head. A switch to the shoulders. The punishments grew increasingly harder as the kidnapper became more upset with the boy’s inadequacies until a wrench to the side of the boy’s head had crushed his skull. The kidnapper buried the boy behind the woodpile in back of the house.

  It went that way at the kidnapper’s next two schools before the kidnapper retired. The kidnapper had moved to Minnetonka. There had been a posting in the local paper asking for substitute teachers. The kidnapper thought that the children’s misbehavior would not be an issue for a substitute, and the job would bring in some extra money.

  The behavior of the students shouldn’t have been an issue for the substitute, but there was something more now. The kidnapper had a taste for dealing out the discipline. Needed to show the children why they needed to give their respect. It was an urge only satisfied by giving a child a lesson he or she would not survive. And that is what the kidnapper had done. Disciplined them to death.

  Austin Newman had been a bonus. The kid had just happened to walk by when the kidnapper had been outside. Grabbed him and subdued him with little effort.

  The kidnapper was thinking about the boy now. How long the kidnapper would let it last. Up to the boy really. Do his lessons and pay attention like he should, well, there was no telling how long he would last. Of course, he’d have to survive the discipline. Discipline was very important.

  The kidnapper munched on some coffee cake and wondered what was going on with the police. Was certain that it didn’t concern the child in the basement, but now there was a small uneasy feeling. The cops had been all over the neighborhood for the last two days. The kidnapper thought their presence was lessening, but now here they were, screaming down the road with their sirens on. Could they think they had a lead on the boy?

  No, the kidnapper decided it had to be something else. Was kind of curious as to what was going on but didn’t feel like getting dressed and joining the neighbors that were undoubtedly already on their way. No, a little more coffee and then it was time for another lesson. The boy needed another lesson.

  The kidnapper got up, walked to the counter, and poured another cup. Sipped it while looking out the window over the sink. About to go back to the table when another police car raced by, this one with no lights. Waited a few moments longer, sat back at the table, and watched what the kidnapper guessed was an unmarked cop car come flying by. Now the kidnapper was really curious. Maybe it would reduce suspicion if the kidnapper did take a walk down the block. Be seen by the neighbors. Find out what was going on.

  The kidnapper went to get dressed.

  Chapter 47

  Michael Little couldn’t stop the slide. The ground and plants on the incline by the school parking lot were wet from the rain. He tried to slide down on his feet but lost his balance, ending up on his butt and then his back for a time. His tennis shoes ran into a branch at the bottom of the hill, and he tumbled onto the grass along the road. With muddy hands, he brushed the back of his shorts, then wiped them on his thighs. Looked at the mud and said, “Mommy will be angry.”

  For the briefest of moments Michael considered not going home for fear of his mother’s reaction, but, he had no other place to go. He was hungry, tired, and he needed his mom. Michael had lost the knife in his tumble but somehow held on to the dinosaur. Looked at the ground, found the knife near the curb, and started walking home.

  Dave and Melanie both heard the sirens. They thought about going upstairs to let the cops in but decided to continue their search. Stood for a moment at the top of the stairs and listened as the sirens went past. Odd.

  “Think they’re lost?” asked Jenkins.

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t seem like they should be. And why would they have their sirens on? We are trying to be a little discreet here.” Dave wa
lked to the front door, unlocked it and opened it, making sure the screen door was also unlocked and came back. “Nobody outside. Don’t know what that was. Let’s go.”

  Jenkins led the way, holding the railing as she descended the stairs, gun in front. The stairway was dark, but there was light below. Possibly light in the hallway or from the room to the left of the landing. Turned out to be both. Jenkins poked her head around the corner to the left to see the kitchen and family room area, light coming through the film-covered windows. A spotlight in the hallway ahead was on.

  Palm and Grace assembled with Scott and his team a block east of Volk’s home. The street was quiet. Apparently, no one was going to an early church service. Scott said they would move down the street on foot, three men breaking off to cover the back of Volk’s place while he and two other officers went in through the front. Palm and Grace were to follow Scott and his team in. Palm reminded Scott and the group there may be a child inside. This could quickly turn into a hostage situation if Volk had the kid – and the kid was still alive.

  They were on the move. The group crouched at the corner of Volk’s lot, the officers all drawing their weapons. Scott nodded, and they were moving, the three men covering the back cutting between Volk’s house and the one next door, Scott and his men with Palm and Grace charging the front door. Scott pulled open the screen door, held onto the handle as he leaned back and kicked out. Volk’s door held. Scott immediately kicked again, and the door burst open.

  Scott moved down the entryway and glanced to his right, down the hall.

  Volk poked his head out of his bedroom door, saw Scott, yelled “Shit”, and slammed his door shut.

  Scott hurried down the hall, put his back to the wall by the door where he had seen Volk, and rapped on the door.