THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA

by William Melden

  “Oh, no sir,” Olivia answered. “Like I say, she didn’t show me the message, or describe it. She just said that it had a more recent picture of Cassie, and that she looked okay, and then said that the text had included a reference from Hamlet. She didn’t say what the connection was.”

  The agent exhaled. Excellent. I didn’t think she’d do anything that foolish. “Thank you, Olivia. Sorry to interrupt. So, what about the reference?”

  She stopped playing with the bracelet and looked in Burgess’ eyes. “Shakespeare wrote a lot about fathers and daughters. It was one of his big themes. But that reference in Hamlet, about Jephthah, was so casual, just an offhand remark that Hamlet made, to rattle this old guy, Polonius. It wasn’t really important to the play. Well, Mrs. Hixson told me how hard Cassie’s dad took it. She said he was so heartbroken after you left, that he kept saying ‘What have I done wrong?’” She shook her head in sympathy. “Well, I’m Jewish, so I’ve read that story, too. And I got to thinking. Jephthah did something dumb, and his daughter died. Dr. Hixson thought it was a jibe at him. But he hasn’t done anything wrong. And Cassie isn’t dead, so far as we know, right? I just wondered . . . could the kidnapper have been thinking about himself? Like, maybe he was Jephthah, and he felt guilty about something. Is that just too far-fetched?”

  She bit her lip and watched the agent. Am I making a fool of myself? Am I wasting his time?

  Burgess leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. That wouldn’t have occurred to me in a thousand years, he thought. This girl picked it up right away. Am I getting too old for this?

  He shook it off and looked at her. “You have a different way of looking at things, Olivia. Really outside the box. When the Hixsons explained to me about Jephthah, I assumed it was a poke at Dr. Hixson, too. But there may be something here.” He picked up his pen to make a note, then put it back down. “But tell me this. If Shakespeare wrote so much about fathers and daughters, why did the kidnapper pick something so . . . casual, as you say? Why not something more obvious and dramatic?”

  Olivia tried not to squirm in her chair. He’s interested. He thinks I might have something. “Because, Agent Burgess. He must have known that the Hixsons were super-religious. I mean, it’s not exactly a secret around here. And he didn’t know whether they’d recognize something from The Merchant of Venice or King Lear. But he knew they’d get the Bible reference.” She snatched a Kleenex from her purse and held it to her nose. “Ah-cheep!” She blushed. “Excuse me. Allergies.”

  “Gesundheit,” the agent said, making notes. “How long have you been studying Shakespeare, Olivia? You seem to be quite an expert.”

  “No, not at all,” she replied. “Mom started me on it when I was thirteen, after my bat mitzvah. She always said that, outside the Scriptures, there was more wisdom in Shakespeare than anyplace else.”

  He scribbled in his notebook. “I’m certainly learning my own limitations.” He finished writing, then looked up at the girl. “Okay, Olivia, is that all? I think you’ve given us another avenue we might pursue.”

  “No sir, there’s nothing else,” she replied. Yay! I didn’t make a fool of myself after all.

  “Well,” he said, rising from his desk, “I can’t thank you enough.” He walked her down the hall and opened the door to the waiting room. “If you think of anything else, let me know. Now you can go downstairs and pick up your firearms.”

  She laughed and shook his hand. “Thanks again for your time, Agent Burgess. I hope it helped.”

  As soon as the door closed behind her, the agent hurried back to his office and picked up the phone. I can’t handle this locally. I need Washington.

  He reached a friend in the depths of the Public Documents section. “Richard, this is Don Burgess. Good to hear your voice too, buddy. . . . Listen, I need a big favor. I’m working a kidnapping in Yorkville, and we may have a lead. The Case Number is 007-YK-100. Here’s what I need you to do. You’ll have to pull in some help, maybe from the Academy. I want any and all public records of teenage girls who have died violently in the past twenty or twenty-five years . . . make it twenty-five. This will be for the Southeastern district, plus Oklahoma and Texas. I know how many there’ll be, Richard. But I’ve got a girl out there who could be killed at any time. And listen, my friend: there’s even a political angle to this case, concerning the victim. No, I don’t have time to explain right now, but I will when we’re face to face. But if this thing goes bad, you’ll be hearing about it on CNN.

  “You can narrow the search this way: the girl you’re looking for will have been survived by her father. Her father, Richard. He may have been a college professor, maybe in Liberal Arts, maybe something else. Or a high school English teacher. He must currently be alive. That should narrow it down, at least temporarily. I don’t think we’re looking for a murder, but it could be. Murder, suicide, automobile accident, anything. Any girl who didn’t die of natural causes.” His tone of voice became impatient. “Don’t tell me how much you’ve got on your plate, Richard. This is a big priority. I’ll have a written request on your desk tomorrow, but get on it right away. Forty-eight hours? Oh, cut it out, huh? We’re part of Homeland Security. Get the NSA surveillance and records. Not forty-eight hours. Not thirty-six. Make it twenty-four hours tops. Sorry to come down on you so suddenly, but this takes priority. I owe you.”

  He picked up the phone and started to dial Maclean, then hung up. Nah, skip it. She’s busy with interviews. I’ll bring her up to speed later. It was time for lunch.

  * * * * *

  Dayle glared down at Cassie. “You might want to start showing me some respect, you little snot. You’re not alone any more. Maybe you think you’re a tough kid who can take a beating. But do you want your new friend to suffer for your impudence? You fixed his broken nose. Keep talking smart to me, and we’ll see if you can set a broken leg. Or a broken neck. We’ll see how much good your Scripture verses can do then.”

  Cassie and Brandon looked at each other. His eyes were full of fear. She forced herself to smile at him, to offer him some reassurance.

  She looked back at the screen. “You might want to be careful how you treat the son of a federal judge,” she said. “What you’ve done to me is bad enough. In the meantime, where’s he supposed to sleep? Have you got another ‘bedroom’ for him? Are you gonna feed him and stuff, like you have me?” It’s not as bad as you think, Brandon, she thought. Be calm.

  Dayle laughed. “You mean you don’t want him to share your quarters? I’m surprised. But, as a matter of fact, the answer is yes. He’ll have his own room. You think I’m going to leave the two of you alone, to figure out some silly plot?”

  “Then you ought to have Skip show him around,” Cassie said. “I’m gonna take a nap.” She looked at Brandon. “You’re gonna be okay,” she added.

  He still looked frightened, but he managed a small smile. Oh, I know I’m gonna be okay, girl. But not you. “Thanks for helping me,” he said.

  The door to the hallway swung open. Skip stepped into the room. “Come on, boy,” she snarled from under her collar. Brandon hesitated a moment, then followed her out.

  Cassie turned her back on the video screen and returned to her chamber, pushing down the bitter thoughts toward Chad and Madison that she’d successfully hidden.

  What now, Lord? she asked.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Celeste’s Ride

  Lord Jesus, this feels good. Celeste bent low over the handlebars, the wind roaring over and past her, as she zipped down Amnicola Highway. The beam of her headlight flashed onto the empty road. Well, not quite empty. She saw the taillights of a car a few hundred yards ahead and slowed slightly. I really needed this. Sitting around worrying wasn’t helping anybody. But this is like . . . well, it is a breath of fresh air! She giggled inside her helmet.

  Reaching the intersection, she squeezed the brake and leaned into the turn onto Airport Boulevard. Here I come, Mr. Runway. Time for Celeste to fly
! After a few short minutes, as the lights of the far-away air terminals winked past her, she slowed down even more, and turned onto the dirt road leading to the outskirts of the old airfield. She stopped when she came to the chain link fence, and tapped the kickstand into place. Walking to the gate, surrounded by weeds, she pulled a key from the pocket of her green leathers. I’m so glad that Roy’s dad said I could use this place. . . . She opened the padlock and pulled the chain free.

  She walked the motorcycle through the gate, then turned and snapped the padlock on the chain closed again. She remounted and eased over the unpaved access road to the edge of Runway 20C. Pausing, her eyes getting accustomed to the total darkness, she felt the front wheel edging onto the asphalt, as if the bike were eager to start moving again.

  How long has it been since they used this strip? she wondered. Probably ten years. It’s been that long since they renovated the terminals and put in the new runways. Now these old ones are like a ghost town. If the airport keeps growing, this place will probably be a new parking garage pretty soon. That’ll be a shame. But it’s not my problem, not tonight.

  She released the brake and squeezed the throttle, but held the bike at twenty miles per hour. Follow your routine. Check it out first. You don’t want to hit a new crack in the asphalt, or run into a deer, at eighty miles per hour.

  She cruised down the runway, glancing ahead and side to side, then made the circuit around Runways 16C and 8A. Nothing but the usual weeds growing up through the runway, some as big as shrubs, but nothing new. Just a few ancient hangars sitting off to the sides, their rusted signs proclaiming names long forgotten: Tri-State Airways, Crimmins Freight and Cargo, and the old maintenance hangar. A blinking red light rose high above each one, to warn incoming flights: the only part of the old airfield that was still maintained. About thirty thousand feet of empty space. Beautiful. And I can ride until I’m blue in the face. She giggled inside her helmet. What would Roy say if I turned blue?

  Her inspection complete, she rode to the end of 20C and turned around. Grinning inside her helmet, she hit the throttle and released the brake at the same time, popping a perfect wheelie, shouting with excitement as she sped down the runway on the bike’s rear wheel.

  Whoops! Wrong time of day for that. The headlight pointed into the sky. I need to see where I’m going. She leaned forward, bringing down the front wheel, and hit the throttle. Forty miles per hour . . . fifty . . . sixty . . . sixty-five. She wanted so much to take off the helmet and feel the wind in her face and hair, and peel off the jacket, but she knew better. She’d lost control of the bike before, and knew that leather and fiberglass were a lot easier to replace than flesh.

  She leaned into the turn onto 16C, her body almost parallel to the ground, and straightened up, intending to push even harder. Then she noticed.

  Over there . . . Tri-State Airways Hangar . . . there’s a light on inside. She backed off the throttle. Looks like somebody’s up on the second floor, where the offices would be. Not a window, just a bright glow from between some steel panels. . . . But who? Why? Nobody’s been here for years.

  She brought the bike to a stop and turned off the headlight, letting the motor idle, her boots planted on the asphalt. The hangar was perhaps a hundred yards from where she sat. She saw no activity, but this was the first time she’d ever seen any light from inside one of the hangars. She pulled off her helmet and watched.

  There could be all kinds of explanations for this. Maybe somebody bought the hangar and . . . no, the hangar belongs to the airport. Could an old employee of Tri-State have come back to get something? No, that’s dumb, Tri-State’s been out of business for years and years. Are the airport people doing something new out here? Why would they do it this late at night? Anyway, if they had plans, Roy’s dad would have warned me not to come here anymore. I don’t get it. So sketch. . . .

  A sudden shudder. Dope dealers? Smugglers? They’d be interested in an abandoned airstrip. . . . She cut the bike’s engine and walked it back a few yards, to the “shelter” of a huge fern growing out of a crack in the asphalt. Suddenly, the light in the hangar went out. What now? In a moment, a much more obvious light, as a side door she’d never noticed opened. Somebody’s coming out!

  A tall figure stood in the illuminated doorway, then turned and pulled the door shut. Oh, great! Now I can’t see him at all. Who is that? It looks like he’s all dressed in black . . . or she? I can’t tell. Celeste saw the halogen beam of a flashlight flicker to life. The light moved around to the far side of the hangar and disappeared.

  This might be a good time to get out of here. No, maybe not. . . . Sit still and wait, girl.

  She heard the distant rumble of a car engine starting up. Then, almost silently, a dark compact car emerged from the far side of the hangar, with only the parking lights turned on. It moved onto the runway and picked up speed. Thank God! He’s going in the opposite direction. There must be another gate. . . . Well, why not? It’s a big area.

  She waited until the rear lights disappeared, and waited a minute more. Then she put her helmet back on, started the bike, and got away from the old airfield as fast as she could.

  * * * * *

  Cassie bent down to open the bottom drawer of one of the cabinets in the white room. Locked. She sighed. They’re all locked. Well, why should I expect anything else? He said that those “surprises” would be rewards for good behavior . . . the carrot, not the stick. I don’t think he likes my behavior these days.

  “Looking for anything in particular, Cassandra?” Dayle’s voice crackled out as the video screen came to life. “More strawberries? Something to read? Do you really think you deserve any rewards at the moment?”

  She stood up and faced the screen. “You know what? I didn’t deserve to be kidnapped. I didn’t deserve to be beaten. And I really don’t care about your hundred-dollar strawberries. To tell the truth, I was just bored, and curious. Do you blame me?” It was all she could do to answer the man calmly. She was trying very hard not to hate him.

  “No, I don’t blame you at all.” He sat at his desk, not playing with his fountain pen, but simply holding it between his forefingers. “But boredom is a waste of time. Curiosity, now: that might have some value. Cassandra, you don’t realize it, but I’ve given you a gift that very few people ever receive. I’ve given you time to do some thinking, without distractions.”

  She turned her back to him and walked to the sofa. Let him talk, she thought. Might as well relax. They can beat me up any time they want. Why sweat it? Settling onto the sofa, she put her feet up on the heavy new coffee table. “And what am I supposed to be thinking about, in your opinion? Your lecture about the strawberries, and what a wonderful world this is?”

  “You should be thinking about that,” he replied. “But there’s something else. You’re already thinking it. Maybe not now, but it’s crossed your mind. Your parents have raised you to believe that if you try to lead a good Christian life, God will take care of you. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,’ that sort of thing. So, where is this loving God now? Where was he when we took you, or when Skip was working you over? Where was he when your ‘Christian’ boyfriend fell into the arms of that peroxide blonde, just when you needed him the most?”

  “Platinum blonde, not peroxide blonde,” she corrected him. “There’s a difference. And that’s an easy question: God was right here, using you to show me what Chad was really like. I thank you for that. It might have taken me longer to admit the truth, if I were on my own. See? You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good. Do you like being God’s tool? His little puppet?”

  Dayle’s face darkened. Cassie saw the veins in his forehead throbbing. He worked his jaw, not speaking. Finally, he seemed to compose himself. “You’re very glib,” he said. “You talk a good game. But I repeat: where was God when you really needed him? Don’t claim that you haven’t wondered.”

  Cassie leaned back, head resting on the back of the couch, and gazed at the ceiling. �
�Sure, I’ve wondered. I don’t understand why he’s allowed this to happen. But you just quoted the book of Psalms. Did you ever read the ones where David cried and complained, not understanding God? I never claimed to be smarter than David.”

  “Cassandra, you’re very smart. I chose you because you’re smart. When you get out of here, if you get out of here, you have a long life ahead of you. As I said before, the world is at your feet. You can be whatever you want to be. So why persist with this ‘God’ fixation? It only limits you. It enslaves you. I’m not a monster. I was raised in church, too. But I really became free when I left all that business to the less intelligent people.”

  If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed, Cassie thought. Then she bit her lip, looking back at the screen. “If I get out of here? You told me at the beginning that you weren’t planning to kill me. Was that a lie, too?”

  “No, it wasn’t. But you never know what might happen. Skip, for example, has more of a temper than I do. It’s all I can do to hold her back sometimes. But you’ll probably be released. When you are, you really don’t need to be a slave to any primitive desert superstition. You’re not a nomad or a slave. You’re a bright, attractive, capable young woman of the twenty-first century. If David really existed, he was just a tribal warlord. We’ve come a long way since those times.”