THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA

by William Melden

  “Twelve or thirteen . . . they’ve been friends a long time. By the way, Roy, you can drop the ‘sir.’ Makes me feel about a hundred years old.” He slumped in his chair, like an old man on a park bench.

  Roy grinned. “Just the way I was raised, sir.”

  “Good for you,” Burgess said, straightening up. “Both parents at home?”

  “Uh-huh . . . sir. Pops works at the York Regional Airport. Vehicle Maintenance Assistant. Mom works at the Yorkville Hilton. She’s a cook.” He grimaced and shifted slightly in his chair, one hand rubbing his stiff leg.

  The agent noticed. “Mr. Williams told me about your leg. Is it hurting?”

  Royal shook his head. “No sir, the leg never hurts. Sometimes when I’m sittin’ down my hip pains me a little, if I’ve been moving a lot. I notice it after a match, or when I’ve been working. No problem.”

  “Do you have a job, Roy? I know you’re busy here at the gym, but. . . .”

  “Oh, yes sir, I gotta help out at home. Right now, I’m workin’ at Mountainview Nursery and Garden Supplies, just doin’ general labor. During the winter, I work the night shift at the Tennco Leather Supply. I’m a stacker. You know, saddles and tack.”

  Burgess nodded. Discipline. Does this kid ever sleep? “So, Roy, you don’t have to answer, if it’s too personal. But I know Celeste is home schooled, and you left school when you were . . .” He flipped a page in his notebook. “Sixteen. So, how did the two of you meet?”

  “At her dad’s funeral home. My great-grandma had passed, and Mr. Reeves was handlin’ the arrangements. We were just kids, like eight years old. We been like that ever since.” He held up two crossed fingers.

  “Sounds pretty special. Okay, tell me, how well do you know Cassie? Mr. Williams told me that you coach her . . . in boxing? Really?”

  Royal smiled. “Not exactly. Cassie’s not a fighter. I mean, she doesn’t care about fighting. Great girl, but she doesn’t have the heart for it. Anyway, I been telling Celeste for years how the boxer’s workout is the best there is. You know, for cardio and strength and stuff.” Warming to his subject, Roy felt a bit more comfortable with the agent.

  Burgess nodded. “One of the best workouts I know. We use it at the FBI Academy.”

  Royal’s eyes widened momentarily. “No kidding. Isn’t that something? Anyway, Celeste —“ he laughed — “Celeste wasn’t about to do all that stuff. She said, ‘Royal Skelly, you take me like I am, or I’ll kick your butt!’” The agent chuckled. “And you’ve met Celeste, so you know she’s only ‘bout as big as a minute. Anyway, Cassie was trying to put together an exercise routine? So Celeste got her this book, ‘The Boxer’s Workout.’ And before long, Dr. Hixson had bought her all the equipment, and put it in their basement. Me and Celeste go over there and I show her how to use it the right way. Everything except sparring. First time she tried to work that heavy bag, it swung back and put her on the floor. She’s really doing great now, though. Her upper-body strength . . . when that bag sees her comin’ now, it wants to run away.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing a good job,” the agent smiled. “Do you ever go over to the Hixsons’ by yourself?” Fishing expedition. I know what he’ll say.

  “No sir, never have. Wouldn’t be proper.” He paused, wondering how much he should say. “See, Cassie’s really Celeste’s friend, not mine. She’s a nice girl, but . . . well, let’s say I’m really happy with Celeste. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  The agent nodded. Just what I thought. But I had to ask.

  “Don’t get me wrong, sir,” Royal added, looking worried. “Cassie, she’s my sister in Jesus. The Hixsons . . . they all treat me really good. Every time we do the workout, Cassie’s parents send out for pizza afterwards, or the three of us go to a movie. They’ve had me over to dinner, with Celeste. But I just don’t really feel at home there.”

  Burgess paused, and scribbled another note. “I think I understand, Roy. Anyway, it sounds like a fine friendship. Okay, now I need to get back to the case. Ready?”

  “Yes sir,” Royal replied.

  “Here’s the important question. Does anyone here, I mean the gym and the neighborhood, know about your relationship with the Hixsons? Besides your parents, I mean.”

  “I . . . I don’t think so, sir. Just Mr. Williams. It doesn’t come up when I’m talkin’ to people. And I don’t do that social media stuff, even with Celeste. Don’t have time for it. . . . Come to think of it, I don’t even think Celeste does. Anyway, no offense, sir, but why do you ask?”

  The agent sighed, then put away his notebook and pen. “Well, we’re investigating this thing from every possible angle. Dr. Hixson’s associates. The other home school families. Even Chad Walker, because he’s the Mayor’s son, in case it might be political. With me so far?”

  “Yes sir. Coverin’ all the bases.” He successfully hid his contempt at the mention of Chad Walker.

  “Right. So, I’ve got a fine young boxer here, whose girl is best friends with the victim. And this fine young boxer comes from . . . well, the rough side of town. That’s how most people think, anyway. Now, I can see what a good family you have, and I’m impressed with how you live your life. But the gangs, Roy. If any of them knew about all this, they might see the Hixsons as an easy target. It’s just another possibility I have to consider. Now it’s my turn to say ‘no offense.’”

  Royal’s face took on a look of disdain. “No offense taken. These gangbangers . . . they wouldn’t have the brains to pull off no kidnapping. They’re so doped up they prob’ly couldn’t even find Cassie’s neighborhood. This ain’t their style. Isn’t their style.”

  Burgess nodded his head. Of course not. No street punk could have written that ransom note. “That goes along with what our Organized Crime Division says. They pretty much stick to the neighborhood, right?”

  “Right. But they stay away from here.” He inclined his head to indicate the gym.

  The agent studied the young boxer. “Mr. Williams says that’s because of you. But he suggested that you tell me about it.”

  Roy looked down, embarrassed. He rubbed his leg again, thinking. “It’s no big thing. They used to come around, tryin’ to sell cocaine and stuff. One of ‘em offered me a rock one day. I gave him a left to the liver and threw him out the door.”

  Burgess raised his eyebrows. “What happened then? Did his guys come after you?”

  “Uh-huh. Five or six of ‘em came through the door one day, they were all gassed, and making a lot of noise. I told the main guy, the leader, to get in the ring with me. He laughed at me, called me a cripple.” Roy’s dark face turned even darker at the memory. “But he finally did it, and we laced ‘em up.”

  “And?”

  Royal looked worried. “Well . . . this won’t get me in trouble, right? You’re just here about Cassie?”

  “Definitely. What happened?”

  Here’s where I get arrested. But the cops didn’t arrest me when it happened . . . they laughed. “Um, he went to the hospital. Broken jaw, busted eardrum, two broken ribs. They don’t come around anymore.” He held his breath.

  “I guess they don’t,” Burgess muttered. He looked at Roy and forced a smile. “Well, that’s really all I needed to know. I appreciate your time. Now, is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

  “Yes!” Royal exclaimed. “What about Cassie? Have you heard anything? You figure she’s still alive? We really miss her. We’re prayin’ and prayin,’ but . . .” He shrugged, words failing him.

  The agent stood up. “I wish I could say, Roy. We’re making progress, but I can’t discuss it. As far as we know, she’s alive. I can tell you that there’s no bad news.”

  Roy stood up and took Burgess’ outstretched hand. “Okay. I had to ask. I guess we’ll keep prayin’.”

  “You do that, Roy. While you’re at it, say a prayer for us. This is a tough one. . . . Well, I’m going to say goodnight to Mr. Williams. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.” He turned and stepped thro
ugh the door, looking for the gym owner.

  Progress, Roy thought. Doesn’t sound like much progress to me. But he seems to be tryin’. . . .

  Burgess saw Cyrus Williams by the dryer, folding towels. He walked toward the man, scowling to himself. Progress, nothing. Another dead end. Nothing but dead ends . . . I hope that kid makes something of himself. He deserves it.

  * * * * *

  Eldon Dayle opened the manila folder and looked at the eight-by-ten photograph of the young man. He doesn’t look a day over sixteen. And after the life he’s had . . . people are extraordinary. He turned the pages of the slim dossier, for perhaps the third time, satisfying himself that he’d selected the right candidate.

  “You’re certain, Skip, that this boy is actually eighteen years old? He certainly doesn’t look it.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve seen his birth certificate.” Standing next to Dayle, she looked down over his shoulder. She rarely came so physically close to him, but sometimes a second pair of eyes was helpful. Her jacket was completely unzipped, her face uncovered, a black t-shirt tucked into her leather pants. “As you can imagine, sir, he’s very old for his age.” She stepped back, not wanting to crowd the man, observing the boundaries.

  “They used to say that about me, Skip. That I was ‘wise beyond my years.’ But that was an intellectual matter. This boy’s education has come mostly from the streets.”

  He began to read random snippets of information from the dossier. “Comes from a moneyed family, but beaten and abused by his alcoholic father from an early age.” He clucked his tongue. “Not the sort of behavior you’d expect from a Federal Bankruptcy Court judge. . . . So he acted out, became a rebel, and the old cycle ran its course again. Mother a habitual abuser of prescription drugs. The more the boy misbehaved, the more his parents ‘self-medicated.’ They either abused him or ignored him. The misbehavior got worse. Became an emancipated minor at sixteen and left school. What’s he been doing since, Skip?”

  “Everything and nothing, sir.” Dayle glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised. “Working various unskilled labor jobs, living with a series of friends, dealing drugs, but on the small-time level. Anything to make a dollar and be comfortable. What’s really interesting, sir, are his social skills. He can fit in anywhere. Those first sixteen years with his family taught him the social graces.”

  As he closed the folder, the edge of a page sliced Dayle’s finger. He didn’t wince, but held the fingertip up and examined the first droplets of blood forming. Flesh. Blood. So fragile. “Fascinating,” he murmured.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Never mind,” he said, wrapping the fingertip in a handkerchief. “Well, bring the boy in, Skip.”

  She zipped up her jacket, masking her lower face again, and stepped into the hallway. A moment later, the young man walked into the office, Skip close behind. Dayle waved him to chair in front of his desk.

  “Brandon Fox,” Dayle began. “I trust you’re doing well today?”

  “Yes sir, thank you very much. I haven’t had the pleasure of your acquaintance?” His smile was more polite than friendly.

  “You don’t need to know my name, Brandon.” He gestured to the video screens on the wall behind the boy. “I’m sure my assistant has brought you up to speed on our set-up here?”

  Brandon turned in his seat to look at the monitors showing the white room. As he glanced around, Dayle studied him. Shaggy blonde hair, but stylish-shaggy, not sloppy-shaggy. Clear complexion, a touch of pink in the cheeks, smallish features. He really does look sixteen, the man reflected. As instructed, he had dressed in preppy/casual clothes, not jeans or sneakers.

  Turning back to face his new employer, he nodded his head. “Yes sir, it’s just as she described it.”

  Dayle caught the boy’s eyes with his own, held them, as if looking into his soul. “And you’re perfectly clear what your duties are? You think you’re up to it? I don’t tolerate mistakes.”

  “Y-yes sir. I’ve given it a lot of thought. I think I’m the man for the job, if you’re satisfied.”

  “Very well, Brandon. I think we agreed on $5,000, cash, half up front, half after the job is completed. My assistant has already paid you the advance?”

  “Yes sir. Thank you.” This will be the easiest money I’ve ever made.

  “Then we might as well begin. Skip, show Brandon to his room. The job starts now.”

  Brandon Fox stood up, and reached across the desk to shake Dayle’s hand. “That’s not necessary,” the older man growled. The boy stopped, straightened up, and walked over to join Skip. His friendly face offered the Goth a smile.

  She had slipped a set of brass knuckles onto her gloved hand, and now smashed her fist into his face. He staggered backward and fell to the floor, blood streaming from his nose. Skip leaned down, grunted, and grabbed the back of his collar. She dragged him out the door, barely conscious.

  Dayle’s eyes shone as he pulled the handkerchief from his finger and examined the paper cut again.

  CHAPTER TWELVE: Madison Makes Her Move

  Dr. Hixson shifted his weight from foot to foot, clutching the phone, his knuckles white. “Pick up, pick up, pick up!” he demanded, running his free hand through his tousled hair. Barefoot, clad only in his dark blue pajamas, he glanced across the kitchen at his wife, as she flitted back and forth between the sink and the overhead cabinets in her nightgown. The digital clock on the coffee maker read 1:35.

  “Burgess here,” came the answer, after what seemed like a dozen rings.

  “Agent Burgess? This is Gordon Hixson. I apologize for calling so late at night, but we’ve heard from the kidnappers again. Yes, we’re sure it’s them. It came in a few minutes ago on Barbara’s cell phone, a text message. Can you get over here right away?”

  “Yes, Gordon, of course. Give me twenty minutes, all right?”

  “That’s fine. Barbara and I aren’t even dressed. We’ll be waiting for you.”

  Daisy stood in the middle of the kitchen, tongue lolling out, tail wagging, eyes moving back and forth between Cassie’s parents. Upstairs, Dominic dreamed that he was flying above Yorkville like Superman.

  “I’m putting on some clothes,” Dr. Hixson said. “Be right back.” As he headed for the door, Mrs. Hixson spooned coffee into the machine. “Just bring me my long robe, Gordon, please.”

  Agent Burgess was as good as his word. A moment after Dr. Hixson returned, wearing jeans and an untucked t-shirt, and his wife had put on the waffle-knit cotton robe, a soft knock was heard at the front door. Daisy charged for the door, growling.

  Cassie’s dad followed the dog and looked through the peephole. “Slack, Daisy,” he commanded. The dog sat, fully alert.

  “Come on in, Agent Burgess, Agent Maclean,” he said, opening the door and stepping aside for them. Both agents were dressed casually, Burgess carrying his laptop. “I hope I didn’t wake you up, but. . . .”

  “No, no,” Maclean interrupted, eyeing Daisy. “We were both up doing paperwork. Tell us what’s happening. Where do you want us?”

  “The living room is fine,” Mrs. Hixson piped up, joining them with a coffee mug in her hand. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “If you don’t mind, yes, thank you, Barbara,” Burgess replied. “Maclean?”

  “Sure thing, Barbara. Can I help?” She reached out a hand for Daisy to sniff, palm up.

  “No thanks, I can — “

  Mrs. Hixson’s reply was cut off by a sudden, rumbling snarl. All eyes turned to Daisy. She was no longer sitting, but stood, legs ready to spring, hair bristling along her back. Head lowered, fangs bared, her eyes were on the female agent.

  “Daisy. Slack!” Dr. Hixson clapped his hands. The dog backed away a few steps and sat again, quivering, her lips still drawn back, eyes locked on Maclean.

  The young woman clasped her hands together, as if grateful that both were still attached. “I th-think I just startled her,” she stammered. “I don’t, um, know her well enough yet. It’
s okay.” She followed the others into the living room.

  “I apologize, Agent Maclean,” Mrs. Hixson said. “That’s not like Daisy. Maybe she’s just picking up on our excitement. Sit down, everybody.” She hurried off to the kitchen, returning in a few moments with coffee on a serving tray.

  “Okay, Gordon, what’s happened?” Agent Burgess literally sat on the edge of his seat. “When did you hear from the kidnappers? How?” His laptop was open on his knees.

  “It wasn’t over thirty minutes ago. I called you as soon as we’d seen it. Barbara?”

  His wife fished in the pocket of her robe and pulled out her cell phone. “Ever since that first message, we’ve kept everything charged, and turned on,” she explained. “We didn’t know how they’d contact us, so we’ve tried to be prepared for anything.” She handed the phone to Burgess, who carefully set his laptop on the floor.