by James Hunt
Bobby stopped shaking his head and then turned to look. “Oh those. Just old junk. Books and stuff.”
Her eyes saw something in the corner—a possible key to her freedom. There amidst the cobwebs was a rusty shovel. She could make it work.
“That person who took me,” she asked. “Where is he?”
“Who?” Bobby asked, inquisitively. He then nodded in understanding. “Oh. You mean Phyllis. Yeah. She’s not here.”
“Why do you keep looking up?” Ana asked. “Do you know a way out?”
Bobby crossed his arms and looked at the ground. “No…”
“So why don’t you help me look before the bad man gets here?” she asked, standing up. Her eyes stayed locked on the shovel across the room. “How am I supposed to use the bathroom cooped up in here? How am I supposed to eat? How am I supposed to do anything?”
Bobby shrugged. “I don’t know.”
She breezed past him, with only escape on her mind.
“Hey,” he said, turning around. “What are you doing?”
Ana froze at the boxes. The shovel was ten feet away from her, barely visible. “This place is so drab,” she answered with her back to him. “We need to clear out these cobwebs.” She turned slightly to see where his attention was. He eyed her with suspicion but didn’t look prepared to stop her.
“You shouldn’t really mess with anything here. If the bad man finds out—”
“Who’s the bad man?” she asked. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby said. “He never told me. I just call him that because he’s bad.”
“Is this his house?”
Bobby looked around the basement, nodding. “One of them. Yeah.”
Ana looked up the stairs. She had a plan and it seemed plausible when she played it out in her mind. “Can I ask you a favor, Bobby?”
Bobby perked up. Finally, she was responding. “What is it?”
“Can you watch the door for me while I clean?”
He grimaced and looked down with disapproval. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Come on. Just do it. You want to be friends, right?”
His face suddenly brightened up. He nodded with enthusiasm.
“Then do this one favor for me, and we can be friends.”
Bobby pivoted around and inched his way to the bottom of the stairs, where he sat cross-legged and stared at the door, waiting. Ana thanked him and inched past the boxes, moving toward the shovel, which rested just within arm’s reach. She took one last quick look behind her as Bobby remained dutifully on watch. She crept forward, took the wooden handle of the shovel, and gently lifted it up with both hands. There was no room for mistakes.
Bobby was three times her size and at least two hundred pounds or more. She wouldn’t stand a chance if it came down to it. She hummed innocently and held the shovel up while taking careful steps past the boxes and toward the staircase where Bobby sat.
“You’re doing a good job, Bobby,” she said quietly as she inched toward him.
The back of his head made a big, red target. One quick swing, and she’d have enough time to escape. She’d never hurt anyone before, but the urge to hit his head with the shovel came naturally, for survival’s sake. She raised the shovel as high as her arms could take it, gritted her teeth, and closed her eyes.
She swung it down with all her might and was surprised by the resounding thump that echoed through the basement as the force of impact shook her arms and sprained one of her wrists. Bobby shouted in agony and hit the ground with his hands covering his head. She dropped the shovel, hearing it clank on the ground and bolted past him up the wooden stairs.
She had never run so fast in all her life. Her feet leapt stair after stair until she reached the top. She came to the large metal door and gripped the rough edges of the black vintage knob, turning it. The door wouldn’t budge. It was locked.
“You little fucking bitch!” Bobby shouted out from the bottom of the stairs.
He lay in a ball with his hands still covering his head. He hadn’t made any moves yet, but Ana could see the window of opportunity closing with every lost second. She turned back to the door and jiggled the handle again, pulling and pushing in a distraught frenzy.
Her balled fists pounded on the door as she screamed to be let out. Below, she could hear the stairs creaking. Bobby was up and moving toward her. His boyish, mop-top wig lay on the ground. His real hair was short and gray. His previous friendly demeanor had been replaced with rage. He pushed himself up on one of the treads, keeping one hand on the railing and the other cradling his head.
“You’re gonna get it now,” he said in a low growl. She looked past him to the shovel lying on the ground, regretting that she had dropped it so easily.
“Stay away from me!” she shouted, pressing her back against the door. She tried the handle again, but nothing would budge. She was locked in.
The man climbed up each step, wincing in pain and scowling at her with fury. Shaking, Ana felt truly afraid. She screamed again as tears flowed from her eyes. He grew closer, only a few steps away. She balled her fists, ready to defend herself. As he took the next step she launched one foot forward to kick him in the head. His hand lashed out and grabbed her foot.
“Gotcha now, baby bitch,” he said with malice.
She grabbed the doorknob behind her with one hand, but was yanked away with one wrench. Her screams were silenced with once swift smack across her face. Another white flash and she could taste even more blood in her mouth than before.
Stunned, she tilted her head back and tried to block the next blow as it walloped her ear and sent her head ringing. A smack followed across her face—quick and brutal. She could already taste blood.
The man then gripped her by the neck with one hand and held her up. She clawed at his hand, gasping. Her throat was getting tight and everything went blurry. She tried everything she could do to get free, kicking, trying to bite his hand, butt him with her head, but there wasn’t enough room to do it. Panic rattled her bones. He wouldn’t stop squeezing. Then suddenly she felt release.
“You’re not getting off the hook that easily,” he said. With his hand still around her neck, he moved to the side and threw her down the stairs. She tumbled upon each hard step and hit the ground in a barely conscious heap. She could barely breathe, and every bone felt like it had been broken. Ana dared to open her eyes just a bit and saw the man staring at her silently from the top of the stairs.
He fished into his overalls pocket and pulled out a set of keys, unlocking the door. He opened the door, still holding his head with one hand, and then looked down at her. “You get some rest now, because I’m gonna have some fun with you later.”
His words faded as Ana saw him leave the basement and slam the door shut, locking it. The shovel lay near her—the key to an escape plan that didn’t work out. Would she ever get another chance? She had no answers. She only hoped that she could endure whatever abuse the man had in store for her.
***
Phillip Anderson leaned against the kitchen counter while holding an ice pack against his bandaged head. The blow from the shovel hadn’t killed him, or even hurt him too badly, but Bobby was gone from his mind, never to surface again. He had changed out of his child-like suspenders and into a pair of jeans and an oil-stained windbreaker. He had managed to stop the bleeding from the gash in his head and had begun to get his thoughts together. Staring out the kitchen window of his dilapidated two-bedroom safe house, he plotted his next move.
The drive from Sarasota had been long and difficult, as he’d been forced to change vehicles multiple times. Having his face plastered all over the local news hadn’t helped matters either. But he had help. Two men were posted outside his safe house, located deep within the rural everglades.
Phillip was careful in most of his dealings—and had long ago set up a series of getaway vehicles and safe houses that would allow him to go into hiding whenever the time might make it necessary. Wha
t the Lee County and Sarasota Police Departments didn’t know was that he’d had an escape route planned out for years. And it wasn’t long until he’d flee the country for good, never to be seen again.
He fully expected Miriam to come through for him and secure his parents’ release. Though she showed surprising resilience, he believed he had broken her.
His small team of highly compensated men made up his security detail. His safe house was hidden in a rural stretch of land owned under a different name. He believed that the FBI couldn’t find it no matter how hard they tried. The small, cabin-like house was concealed under a large camouflaged tarp. Everything was in order, but Phillip wasn’t done with Miriam, or her daughter, for that matter. Not by a long shot.
He stepped outside onto the front porch, holding the bag of ice to his head in one hand and a cell phone in the other. His two men, muscular and formidable-looking, stood in the yard scanning the area. One of them was looking through a pair of binoculars. They were both wearing camouflaged clothes and had a fair amount of facial hair. They were also armed with AR-15 rifles slung around their shoulders—all supplied by their boss. Phillip walked down the front steps and into the weeds that surrounded the house. His men turned and looked at him as he approached.
“Damn. You all right?” the one with the binoculars said.
“Yeah,” Phillip replied, taking slow and careful steps. “Just had a little accident while trying to make some repairs around the house.”
The two men glanced at each other and then looked back at Phillip.
“Gotta be careful out here,” the other man added. “Ain’t no hospital for quite a ways.”
Phillip asked them for an update and if they had seen or heard anything out of the ordinary.
“Nothing,” they both replied.
“No one’s coming out here,” Binoculars replied.
Phillip walked around the front to see for himself. Palm trees and brush extended into the horizon. Beyond the forest lay marshes and wetlands—much of it federal property. Phillip would have to be careful how he moved around. Everything was peaceful and serene, but he never let the obvious deceive him.
“Can’t be here much longer,” Phillip added. “Have to keep moving on.”
“How’s the girl?” the other man asked.
Phillip glared at him, annoyed at the question. The man shifted the conversation quickly to Miriam. “I mean, if we’re going to make the trade with her mother.”
“Just keep an eye out,” Phillip snapped. “I’ll handle the rest.”
“Of course. No problem,” the man said almost apologetically.
“I will say, since you ask, that we may need another one.”
The man blinked, confused. “Another?”
“Another kid,” Phillip said. “That girl is a handful. She needs someone to keep her company.”
Both men nodded. “We’ll look into it, boss.”
Phillip turned back toward the house and climbed the stairs, cringing at the pain in his head but trying not to show it. He sat at a small porch table and set his phone down—twice the size of any smart phone. It had been affixed with a voice box and some wiring to prevent location tracking. Phillip was no fool. He knew what he was doing. Perhaps he thought he knew more than he really did. Perhaps he even underestimated his adversaries. His throbbing head was a reminder of that. He picked up the phone and called a number over twenty digits long. It was time to get the next phase of his plan moving along. He could hear static on the other end of the line, followed by a man’s faint voice.
“Yes?”
Phillip leaned forward and pressed the phone against his ear. “It’s me. What’s the status?”
“The status?”
“Yes, the fucking status on my parents.”
“We’re working on it.”
Phillip balled his fist. “No, no, no. Just get everything in place. I want that cop bitch to make it happen. Where is she? Did she get to the station yet?”
There was a pause on the other end. Phillip could hear chattering in the background.
“FBI are here,” the man replied.
“I don’t give a shit about the FBI. Where’s Castillo?” he barked.
“Hold on,” the man said. There was another long pause.
“She just walked into the station with another detective.”
Phillip smiled. “She did?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. Keep an eye on her.”
“No problem.”
Phillip hung up the phone and set it back down on his table. He breathed in the fresh air, feeling good about himself. Everything was going according to plan.
Interrogation
Miriam arrived at the station with Lou at her side. It was busier than she had ever seen it. Police and investigators clogged the lobby, halls, and offices—moving with a purpose. The atmosphere was bordering on chaotic. The local media had set up camp outside ever since word got out that the entire Anderson family had been taken in.
There was also news of the FBI being in the building somewhere. The case had drawn immediate and wide attention—the long-suspected crime family who lived on the outskirts of town was now in custody.
The ten acres that made up Anderson Auto Salvage had been cordoned off, seized by the authorities in order to search for evidence, though little had surfaced since taking the Anderson boys—Greg, Walter, and Jake—into custody. Their parents, Boone and Judith, had been placed in a holding room separate from their sons. The police had one main concern: the whereabouts of Phillip Anderson.
The Andersons baffled investigators. On the surface, they seemed a typical blue-collar working-class family who owned and operated their own business. They were tight-knit and proud, a loyal bunch who were distrustful of outsiders and who had a particular disdain for law enforcement. But they weren’t being held for their idiosyncrasies. Two kidnapped girls had been discovered underground on a rural stretch of land owned by the family.
The age of the victims—between ten and twelve years old—put the case within federal jurisdiction. Out of six missing local girls, only two had been discovered. The other four, missing for years, were feared dead, though no remains had been discovered. As a result, authorities planned for a mass excavation of the Anderson salvage yard.
The investigation would take hundreds of man-hours at a cost well beyond the town’s resources. The Anderson family was needed to give information to fill in the gaps. But so far, they weren’t talking. Formal charges hadn’t been filed. Every moment was critical. The district attorney had already contacted the sheriff’s office. Like everyone else, he wanted answers. The county was overwhelmed with all the attention and demands. The local news media were ready and waiting, eager to take the latest developments in the Snatcher case and sensationalize them.
Miriam pushed through to the front desk to get her visitor’s badge with Lou at her elbow escorting her. She knew she had her hands full. The feds were taking over now, which would make her involvement twice as difficult. She’d not only have to convince them to play ball, she’d also have to take on the very same department she’d resigned from a year prior. The deluged desk clerk looked up, adjusting his glasses, and studied Miriam. His round, reddish face had a surprised look. He wasn’t expecting to see her again so soon.
“Ms. Castillo. What are you doing back here?” he asked.
“Some things never change, Officer Sherman. Could I get a visitor badge, please?”
People filed by past her, waving their key cards into a scanner and then passing through a set of double doors leading inside where all the action was. The building was high security, but no one would know it from the number of people coming and going. Miriam looked up at a wall clock above Officer Sherman’s desk.
It had been an hour and a half since she last heard from Phillip Anderson. If she secured the release of his parents, would he keep his word? Was the word of a child murderer worth anything? Miriam didn’t think so, but she felt as though sh
e had no other choice. He had Ana, which meant that he had everything.
Once she was badged, Lou escorted Miriam into the precinct only to have themselves called out from across the way by Captain Richard Porter—a stern but reasonable officer who had supervised the unit for the last five years. He was Miriam’s old boss—a constant thorn in her side, as she remembered it. Now he was at it again. However, the look of concern on his face said differently.
“In my office now, please,” he said, signaling to them from three rooms down the hall. They forewent the busy homicide division to their right and moved past the hordes of plainclothes and uniformed officers. They all seemed intent on pushing to the holding rooms across the way—where the Andersons no doubt had found residence.
Miriam sighed. Porter was meddling again, just like old times. She wanted Anderson’s parents freed, even if she had to smuggle them out of the precinct herself.
“I don’t have the patience for this,” she said quietly to Lou.
“Let’s just see what he wants,” he replied. “You can’t do this on your own. The sooner you get him on board, the better.”
As they got closer to his office, Captain Porter backed into his room and cleared it out. “That’s enough, ladies and gentlemen. Start preparing that excavation team.” Ten or so uniformed officers exited the room carrying notebooks, their faces worn and tired. Porter’s thin, lightly stubbled face looked just as weary.
Miriam hadn’t seen him in over a year. His short hair had gone from dark brown to gray. He closed the door behind them, pulled down its blinds, and pointed to a pair of green vinyl chairs in front of his desk.
The office was quiet and the muffled commotion outside seemed to come from a different world. With their main suspect still at large, there was no room for celebration. Papers were scattered all over Captain Porter’s desk. Both his office phone and cell phone rang without interruption.
He walked over, placed his cell phone on silent, and took his landline off the hook. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and adjusted his square-framed glasses. He pulled out his swivel chair but didn’t speak. Instead, he placed both hands flat on the surface of his mahogany desk and leaned forward.