by James Hunt
Nervous, Greg leaned back and gripped his seat. He tried the door, but it was locked. “Hey. Hey, Sergeant Lutz!”
“Quiet down back there,” Lutz said, holding the mic.
“This is two-two-four, what’s your situation?” a voice asked over the radio.
The locals were out in full force—both men and women of all ages. They looked angry and riled up. An uproar began among the crowd once the Dodge got closer, people yelling, whistling and brandishing their weapons.
“Pedestrians intentionally blocking the road,” Lutz responded. “Failure to heed command to clear.” Though the command had yet to be given.
“Turn around!” Greg demanded.
Lutz slowed to a stop a fifty feet from the barricade. The mob immediately moved toward them, their eyes widened with hatred and rage.
“Are you out of your mind? Turn the fuck around!” Greg shouted.
“Shut up!” Lutz said, turning his head. He then spoke into his mic. “They’re surrounding the vehicle. We’re outnumbered here. Requesting immediate back-up.”
A rock smashed across the windshield, startling both passengers. The mob encircled the car, hitting the back and side windows with baseball bats, smashing out headlights, taillights, and side windows. Lutz panicked, and looked around all sides of the vehicle while unfastening his pistol from its side holster.
Greg crouched down in the back, covering his face with his arms. “I told you to back up and get us the hell out of here!”
The officer radioed in for back-up again, shifted the car into reverse, and drove backward, though the assaults kept coming. The windows on all sides were cracked and spider-webbed. The front windshield was nearly ready to let go. Some men moved out of the way behind the car, but others jumped on the hood and started to go to town on the rear window.
Greg slumped further down into his seat as the relentless pummeling of the windows continued. He looked up to see Lutz pointing his gun toward the back window, where two large men were riding the trunk.
A tire iron smashed into the windshield. Lutz swerved to the left and slid into a side railing. His head whipped hard against his window. The gun flew out of his hand and into the back seat. Glass from the windshield and rear window exploded into shards. For a moment, everything was still and quiet.
Greg opened his eyes. Shooting pains wracked his neck and back. The police radio blared with cross-chatter. Lutz snapped out of his daze and tried to shift the car into drive. The mob took no time swarming the car. There was no stopping them. They reached in through the window, unlocked Bentley’s door, swung it open, stuck a gun to his face, and yanked him out.
Cheering, a group of men threw Lutz onto the road, holding their guns on him. He pleaded, warning them that backup was on the way. The men didn’t seem worried. Theirs was a justice that had existed outside the law for generations.
Running out of options, Greg grabbed Lutz’s 9mm pistol from the floor and held it up. He looked behind him and saw a man climbing through the back window where it had been smashed out. He fired two shots into the man’s head. The people gasped as the man flew back, slumped over, and rolled off the car. If they were angry before, Greg had seen nothing yet.
They smashed the remaining windows out of both doors with crowbars. From the floor, Greg tried to hold the gun steady as a bearded man yanked the door next to him open. But before he could fire, he felt an electric shock hit him, throwing him back against the seat as it surged through his body, immobilizing him.
He screamed out in pain, realizing that a Taser clip had lodged into his chest. His pistol fell to the floor. Hands grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him out of the car in a fury, his head bouncing against the door panel on the way out, and then the ground. He screamed as they dragged him across the pavement on his back, elbows bloodied and bruised, as he tried to dig his heels in. The mob swarmed around him, beating him with sticks, bats, and whatever else they could find. The hits came fast and hard and they wouldn’t stop.
Sergeant Lutz lay on the ground, unable to do anything but watch as they pulled Greg across the road to the grass on the other side.
“Where are you taking me?” he shouted.
“Child killer!” they yelled.
“Scumbag!”
“You’re gonna burn in hell!”
The taunts continued as Greg thrashed and fought. They took him to an open field and propped him next to a tree to finish the job.
“Better do this before them cops show up!” an urgent voice in the crowd warned them.
Greg lay in a fetal ball as pain throbbed throughout his body. For a moment, no one said or did anything. He thought they might have finished with him. Then came a blow to his head with a baseball bat. Then another across his back. He screamed out, but gargled blood. A man grabbed his head by the hair and put a rope around his neck. They pulled it tighter, then dragged him by his hands and feet, and then held him upright, leaning against the tree.
His body folded in half. “Not like this!” Greg pleaded between desperate gasps of air.
But it was too late. They had gotten this far, and nothing was going to stop them. The faint sirens in the distance were too far away to end it. The rope was flung over his head and tightened around his neck. Someone tossed the other end over a heavy branch as the crowd cheered at a fever-pitched. Several men hoisted him up and snapped his neck before he could say another word, leaving him there for all to see.
Deadly Exchange
Captain Porter leaned into the microphone to continue his prepared remarks. The room was silent as reporters watched him with veiled skepticism. The department hadn’t had the best record, having twice missed their opportunity to arrest the Snatcher. The result was a public relations nightmare. Porter knew they had to get control of the situation and do it fast. Passing the buck to the feds would do just that.
“We are currently working in conjunction with the FBI to locate Mr. Anderson as well as keeping his relatives under tight surveillance. And we want to emphasize that there is currently no evidence that links the rest of the Anderson family to the crimes of Phillip Anderson.”
Chief Walker scanned the room trying to gage the mood. Porter was losing them. He sounded too scripted and robotic, yet there was uncertainty in his tone.
“This man will not get far, as an official manhunt is currently underway.”
Porter stopped and looked up into the crowd. He adjusted his glasses and pointed at the cameras. “Mark my words. He will be found. Just as our dedicated officers discovered his bunker and rescued Jenny Dawson and Emily Beckett, we will solve this case and bring this man to justice.”
He paused and shuffled through his notes. The silence in the room was deafening. “I also want to remind you that his crimes stretched far beyond our jurisdiction. He abducted children from other counties as well, and they share the responsibility of bringing him to justice every bit as much as we do.”
Chief Walker leaned in, put a hand on Porter’s shoulder, and whispered into his ear. The captain nodded and calmed his aggressive tone. “However. We look forward to working with the FBI and locating Mr. Anderson. If you or anyone you know has any information that could lead to the whereabouts of this man, please call the Lee County Police Department immediately.”
Several reporters suddenly raised their hands, taking Porter by surprise. The questions one after the other, with no time in between for answers:
“Can the department verify the last known location of Mr. Anderson?”
“Can you answer why former-police sergeant, Miriam Castillo, was brought in on this case?”
“Who is the detective currently undergoing surgery?”
Porter looked around the room, trying to point, but found himself overwhelmed. Chief Walker leaned into his ear again. “Get this room under control!” he forcibly whispered.
Porter outstretched both arms, moving his hands up and down, tamping the air, asking for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, please. One question at a time.”
The room briefly went quiet. Porter pointed at a female reporter in the front. “Yes. Ms. Lopez…”
“Captain Porter, what’s your response to the assault against Greg Anderson on Route 44?”
Stunned, Porter blinked. His slight smile dropped. “Excuse me? What about Greg Anderson?”
The reporter continued while looking at the screen of her smart phone. “It’s just been reported that the police vehicle escorting Greg Anderson home was attacked and Anderson himself was beaten and lynched.”
The room gasped as the clamor grew. Porter’s face went pale. He turned and looked at the officers standing behind him. No one seemed to know anything about it. He looked to Chief Walker, whose stoic expression didn’t provide any answers. Most of the reporters were now looking at their phones. Porter leaned close to the microphone, his voice wavering as reporters began talking over each other, demanding answers. “We’re not aware of any assault at the moment.”
A clamor of side conversations filled the room. Porter tried to take control, but it did no good. The room descended into chaos.
***
Miriam had been on the road for close to three hours, borrowing Lou’s car for the duration of her travel. He was reluctant to give her the keys, but with everything going on, she convinced him otherwise. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” she told him.
Any chance that she would make it to Miami before sundown was absurd. But she had hoped that she could race against time. The thought of Ana sitting alone in some abandoned theater, or worse, filled her imagination with terror. There was good reason for Miriam to believe that Ana wouldn’t be alone. She tried not to think about what her daughter had been through. Her father murdered. Did she know it? Had she seen it? Nothing would ever be the same again for either of them. Freddy’s death hadn’t fully sunk in yet. Nothing really had. All she could concentrate on was getting to Miami and doing whatever Phillip Anderson told her to do. Grieving, coping, and healing could wait.
Lou had called her phone repeatedly, but she hadn’t answered. She was afraid of talking to anyone for fear that Anderson would find out. Lou had sent her a text about Greg Anderson, furthering her anxiety. The horror of it convinced her she could ignore Lou no more.
“Where are you?” he asked on the first ring.
“I’m on the road,” she replied.
“Nice time to take a drive. We’ve got a major situation here.”
“I can’t deal with any of that right now,” she said, watching the road. The Homestead exit was only two miles away.
“They’re putting the Anderson family in protective custody. Walter Anderson’s home was vandalized. His family barely got out of there.”
“What about the parents?” Miriam asked with urgency.
“They’re okay. Once Greg was attacked, the squad car escorting his parents came back to the station.”
“No!” Miriam said.
“Look, Miriam. I know what you’re thinking. It’s time you bring the FBI in on your daughter’s abduction. You can’t do this on your own.”
“What happened to Greg Anderson?” Miriam asked, skirting around the notion of accepting FBI assistance.
“He’s dead,” Lou said. “Bunch of locals blocked off a road. Took Sergeant Lutz out of his car at gunpoint. They hanged Anderson from a tree.”
Miriam covered her mouth in shock. The world, it seemed, was crumbling around her. Would Phillip retaliate against her? She was so close to Ana she could feel it. He hadn’t called her. Perhaps he didn’t know. Miriam stopped herself. Of course he knew. It was foolish not to prepare herself for the fallout.
“I did everything he wanted me to!” she said.
“Huh?” Lou remarked.
“The bastard who took my daughter.”
“Is that where you’re going? Miriam, listen to me. Don’t do this on your own. You’re putting yourself in danger and isn’t going to help anyone.”
“Lou…” she began. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m already here.”
“Where?” he asked, frantically.
“Homestead,” she replied. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I’m only here to get Ana, then I’m going home.”
“Don’t do this. You can’t trust that psychopath.”
Miriam glanced at her dashboard. It was 8:30 p.m. She merged onto the Homestead exit. Palm Trees lined the side of the road. “I don’t have a choice. Goodbye, Lou. I’ll call you once I have her. Do not tell anyone.”
She hung up feeling that she had said too much. What was done was done, and she’d have to deal with it. Her Beretta rested in the seat next to her, fully loaded. She’d shoot one hundred men if it meant getting Ana back. The GPS attachment on her dashboard directed her to take her first right.
The inland community of Homestead was largely agricultural and run-down in many areas. She could see why Anderson picked it. He hadn’t asked for a ransom. Maybe she had done enough to earn her daughter back. Anderson’s unstable, irrational reasoning made little sense to her—one of the main reasons she came to the meeting packing.
She looked at every car driving next to her. Was she being watched? She was five miles from the theater and her heart was He hadn’t called her yet. The silence wasn’t comforting. She had no way of knowing whether Ana was even at the location where she was heading. But she had made her mind up about something. If Phillip was there, she was going to shoot him. Freddy deserved that much.
She passed a series of hotels and a shopping mall. Her eyes glanced downward at her phone every other second in the off chance that he would call. Then it occurred to her that Phillip Anderson was probably loving every minute of it. He knew that he had her on edge. He was reveling in it. She took a left at a busy intersection, too concerned with the situation at hand to pay attention to landmarks or anything outside of her GPS directions.
She continued down a narrow road with bland, unoccupied buildings and empty parking lots—many enclosed in chain-link fences. It looked as if the area was being cleared for redevelopment. Construction company signs indicated as much. Miriam was beginning to understand why Anderson had picked this area—there was no one around.
The GPS indicated the next building on her left. The shuttered theater. She pulled to the side of the road and slowed down, approaching a run-down building, obscured by trees, with a fence around it. The cracked pavement outside was punctuated with weeds growing in the crevices and scattered with litter. A No Trespassing sign hung lopsided from the fence. Plywood boarded the windows. A box office was in view below a marquee with the word Closed pieced together in crooked letters. There were no other vehicles in sight and Miriam was panicky. She braked and shut off her headlights. Her cell phone screen remained blank. The Plaza looked deserted, inside and out. Beretta in hand, she took her phone and held it up, waiting.
She turned and looked at the building, observing. There didn’t even seem to be a way in. Anderson hadn’t specified whether Ana would be inside or outside. Miriam knew nothing. She was completely blind, and if her instincts told her anything, the meet-up looked like an ambush. However, she could wait no longer. Ana needed her.
A cool breeze hit her face when she opened the car door. Traffic sounded from the intersection down the road. Dogs barked in the distance. A plane flew overhead, its tiny lights blinking. The world was going on just as it always did. No one knew where she was, except Lou, who only had a vague concept. But whoever was in the theater with Ana knew everything, and all too well.
She crept to the fence, gun drawn, and noticed a large realtor’s sign posted on the fence, indicating that the building was sold. To whom? She wasn’t sure but had an awful hunch. She stepped to the six-foot fence and looked beyond its rusty chain-links. The air was quiet and still. Nothing looked disturbed or out of the ordinary. It was an abandoned theater, no different from the dilapidated former business district that surrounded it. She grabbed the fence with one hand and looked up. It was a simple enough climb, and there was no point
in standing around and waiting for a red carpet.
With the pistol wedged in her side pocket, Miriam put one foot up in between the links and began climbing the fence. It shook and rattled as she reached the top, placed one leg over, and then climbed down the other side.
Her shoes hit the pavement, and she turned around. The building remained ominously quiet and dark, but as she approached, she saw a door ajar at the side of the box office. She pulled her pistol out in one hand and looked at her phone in the other. A breeze swept through, a cold chill that pushed the creaking door closed.
Miriam stayed low and hurried toward the building with her eyes intense and focused. As she approached the empty box office, a note taped to the window caught her eye—the handwriting eerily similar to the note left on her kitchen table.
Miriam, come on in. The water’s fine.
It was all the confirmation she needed. She put her cell phone in her pocket and held the pistol with both hands and backed against the concrete wall, inching closer to the door. Glass from broken beer bottles littered the ground, shards crunching with every step. The metal door hadn’t shut completely. Her hand went to the door handle and she pulled it open slightly. She peeked inside and only saw darkness.
“Ana?” she said softly. There was no response.
She steadied her shaking hand and tried to remain calm, despite her heart’s rapid thumping. The only thing left to do was to go inside the darkened lobby. She slipped inside with her police instincts sharp and alert. Her eyes adjusted a bit to the low street light seeping inside, and she moved cautiously, but with the quickness born of experience. There was an empty snack bar across the faded green carpet. Anyone could be hiding anywhere. She backed against the wall to her left and called out for Phillip, ready to face him.
There was no movement from behind the snack bar and no response. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed a double-door entrance to the theater directly across from her. Both doors were opened a crack, and she could see a flicker of light beckoning her closer. She looked around, holding her pistol up and then moved across the room in a swift rush.