by Blake Pierce
She sighed. “Look, can we switch to English, please?”
Her father muttered something about, “Can barely understand him when he tries to speak English.”
John’s frown only deepened.
Adele studied her father. He was behaving strangely. At least, stranger than usual. Aggression, defensiveness, irritation. All these things were regular traits of his personality. But they rarely reared their heads at the same time so seamlessly.
“Dad,” she said, “are you okay?”
Her father glanced at her, but before he could reply, a sudden ruckus broke out from the volunteers further along the trail.
The three of them turned, staring up the highway.
“What do you mean?” one of the officers was asking, his voice loud enough to be heard.
“Missing,” replied one of the young searchers, twisting at his orange vest with trembling fingers. “He was with us, but then he just disappeared. We looked for half an hour. Couldn’t find him. We thought he might have come back.”
The officer shook his head.
“He’s not here?” said the searcher. “Dear God. Where is he?”
Adele frowned back at her father. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
The Sergeant stroked his mustache. “Another kid missing. Part of the search party.”
“Maybe he’s already gone home. Could’ve left the search early. It was kind of grueling for a while there.”
But Adele’s father seemed distracted, glancing toward the trees again. “I’m going back out there,” he said. “Thank you for the offer for dinner, but I’ll take a rain check.”
Adele shifted. “Back out there? It’s dark and freezing, Dad. Let’s just pick up tomorrow morning.”
But the Sergeant shook his head firmly. He still wasn’t wearing a proper jacket, but had retrieved a sweater, it seemed, from his car.
“Well, if you’re going to go…” She trailed off, allowing the sentence to dangle. She glanced over toward the searchers and frowned. One of their own had gone missing. Vaguely, images crossed her mind—images of Amanda. Of the brutality, the pain she’d endured. She’d been tortured, abused. Adele shivered, wondering at the treatment of the other victims. This new fellow, now—this young searcher. Also missing. What would he be enduring? How soon could she stop it?
“I’ll come with you,” she spoke, breaking her own train of thought. “John could come pick us up at the end.”
But her father was shaking his head still. “No, I don’t need a babysitter. I’ll be fine. Just another hour or two,” he said.
Again, Adele was struck by how strangely he seemed to be behaving. There was a cadence to the way he spoke that suggested frustration. Anger, even.
“You’re sure?”
In answer, her father waved dismissively and then turned, head down, shoulders hunched, marching determinedly back toward the forest.
“He’s an ass. But he’s a helluva stubborn ass,” said John.
“Stubborn ass,” said Adele. “Wonder where I’ve met one of those before.” She rolled her eyes and turned past her partner, moving in the direction of their parked car and leaving her surly father to search the forest at night on his own. He was a police officer. He’d handled himself for years before Adele had even been born. Still, she felt a niggling of worry as she left. She could still hear the disturbing sounds from the volunteers, protesting their missing companion.
The timer was ticking… each passing second measured in ounces of agony. Each moment a venture into the torturous ministrations of Amanda’s kidnapper. She’d promised the Johnsons a conclusion. She’d promised.
The trees around her seemed darker. All of a sudden the night around her, illuminated by safety lights and headlights, seemed oppressive, and swelled with shadows.
***
The drive back to the airport motel passed in silence. The whipping lights, flashing by on the highway, streaked shadows in strange shapes across John’s muscled chest. Agent Renee remained quiet as well, but occasionally would glance at Adele expectantly, as if waiting for something.
The third time this happened, she frowned at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Good talk.”
She leaned her head against the glass again, staring at the passing cars on the other side of the road.
“You think something is wrong with him?” said John.
“My dad?”
John nodded.
“Like you said, he’s a stubborn ass. But,” she trailed off and winced. “I missed Christmas with him. Spent it with Robert.”
“Because of the snowstorm?”
Adele turned, looking at him. For some reason, she felt a flush of relief. “Exactly, you understand.”
John nodded. “I’m sure he understands too.”
Adele gnawed her lip. “I don’t know what he understands. I never have, probably never will. He just hasn’t seemed himself lately.”
John’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel, and he peered through the windshield, tracking the highway back to their motel.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, I hope so. Can’t say the same for us. Ms. Jayne says we’re on a timer. Agencies from the countries of the missing persons are wanting to get involved. If we can’t solve this soon, the case will probably be taken from us. And you know how it is when people coordinate from all over.”
John winced. “They won’t solve anything at that point. Just will keep getting in each other’s way, then hiding things from other agencies, then won’t communicate out of spite. Seen it plenty.”
Adele nodded. “And all these other people, the ones Amanda warned us about. We’ll never find them. John, we have to do better. They’re counting on us.”
John’s fingers tapped even quicker against the steering wheel, and through gritted teeth, he muttered, “I know.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Diedrich woke in a chicken wire cage. His head throbbed, pulsing, flashes of white light dancing across his vision. He winced against the invasion of pain, winced against the curdling memories seeping back into his brain. And winced, an extra measure, against the fear, now suggesting itself in cold prickles up his spine.
Beneath his head, he felt the rigid, coarse shape of a pillow. Beneath his arm, the floor. Cold. Concrete.
Still wincing, and struggling against the sensation in his head, he moved into a sitting position, doing his best to register his surroundings.
Diedrich heard the sound of rushing water. Pipes. He strained, blinking a few times and wincing once more from the effort of moving. Pain blossomed across his skull. He reached up, and found his arms wouldn’t move. He winced and glanced down. His hands were tied in front of him.
The metal mesh of the chicken wire cage surrounded him, from floor to ceiling.
Diedrich heard shuffling. He glanced sharply to the side, and nearly blacked out again from the motion. Pain exploded across his eyes, and his head thundered from the rapid movement.
He eased himself back into a forward-facing position, blinking, allowing his head to recover, and then, slowly this time, glanced to the side.
There were other cages in the room. Cages with people.
They were in a dark, damp basement, it seemed. No lights, no windows. The walls were pure concrete, streaked with dust and molded stains. The water pipes above moved through the room. Diedrich’s uncle had worked as a plumber once upon a time, and so he knew they were likely below a house. Or, at least, somewhere nearby.
He glanced toward the other people in the cages. Many of them dirt streaked and stained. He could smell shit in the air, and spotted a bucket in the corner of each of the cages. He had his own bucket.
And while his hands were bound, his feet were free. Hesitantly, he got to his feet, easing into a standing position. The quiet rushing of water could be heard again from the plumbing above.
“Hello?” he said, tentatively, his voice creaking. “Juergen? Mi
chael?”
Frightened eyes from grimy faces turned to look at him. Everyone in the other cages surrounding the room had room to stand as well if they had wanted to. But none of them were. They all leaned against the back of their cage, their shoulders pressed to the wall, as if trying to keep as much distance between themselves and the cage doors as possible. A simple latch held the cage in place. Diedrich was pretty sure, if he tried, he could undo the latch from within.
Fumbling, he reached his hands toward the cage door and tried to poke a finger through.
The moment he did, someone said, in a weak voice, “Careful, don’t.”
But then his flesh touched the metal of the gate, and a pulse of vibrant pain shot through him. He was knocked back, his teeth jarred.
“The doors are rigged,” said another voice in the dark.
Still wincing against the sudden shock, Diedrich now peered around at the other cages, gasping, his chest heaving where he leaned against the back mesh. His hand was numb, tingling.
In the other cages, he spotted two other boys, young men, though it was hard to discern their ages from the grime and dust. He spotted six girls also surrounding the basement, also trapped in cages.
Everyone had their hands bound. Besides the cages, and the pipes above, the only items in the room were small, coarse pillows on the cold hard ground, and a single, thin blanket next to the buckets.
“Where are we?” Diedrich said, softly.
Just then, he heard a creaking sound, and the others in the room began whispering fiercely and pulling in on themselves, curling into defensive positions.
Diedrich spotted the door opening at the top of the wooden staircase. A thin shaft of orange light stretched into the room. Diedrich spotted someone’s feet—booted feet, with a thin glaze of mud—reach the top step. More creaking, and then the person began to descend the stairs, heading into the basement one cautious step at a time.
Diedrich stared as the person appeared. An older man. Gray-haired. Kind eyes. The same man he’d encountered on the side of the road. But he was no longer smiling. Now, what Diedrich had taken for laugh lines seemed more like a leer. In this strange, veiled light of the dark basement, the man almost had plastic features. His skin was like candle wax, or like a snake. As if his face itself were a mask.
The gray-haired man approached the cages, and he reached out on the wall and flicked a breaker switch. There was a quiet buzz and then a fading hum. The man called out, in a short, barking voice, “Roll call!”
Diedrich watched as hesitantly, the eight others crowded in the basement, pushed their hands against the front of their gate now, pushing open the small hinge lock and stepping into the dark room. They moved with tentative, shuffling steps. Their shoulders were hunched, their bodies thin and frail. Diedrich spotted cuts and bruises on everyone. Everyone seemed half clothed. All their shoes were gone, socks too. No one wore gloves. They seemed to have been intentionally given thin clothing, and, with a sudden realization, he realized he was only in his undershirt and boxers.
He shivered at the thought of someone undressing him while he was unconscious. He glanced at the others and saw the way they huddled together for warmth.
He thought of running in the forest, half naked, without shoes, without gloves. A slow dawning sense of horror settled on him as he realized they were dressed in a way that prevented escape.
“Roll call,” the man shouted. “Children, obey your father.”
One at a time, the prisoners in the basement lined up next to each other, their bound hands jutting in front of them. Diedrich noticed their wrists were so chafed they had scabbed, and he spotted infections on some of the wrists. As if perhaps they been bound for weeks without reprieve, maybe longer.
His own wrists hurt and the rope was rough and brittle. One at a time, though, the captives called out a number.
“One, present,” said a wiry, gaunt-faced boy, furthest from Diedrich on the other side of the room.
“Two,” said a girl, “present.” Her shirt barely covered the tops of her thighs, and her legs had scars up and down them—old wounds that had healed.
One at a time, each of the people in the room called out their number: three, four, five. Present!
At last, the person closest to Diedrich said, “Eight, present!” It was a young Asian girl. She seemed to have the most dust and dirt on her. She had the most scars, and a couple of the wounds she displayed seemed fresh: a gash over her left eye and bruises along her cheek.
Silence fell over the room for a bit. Everyone waited, and a few glanced toward Diedrich, expectant.
“Roll call,” the gray-haired man said, testily.
Diedrich cleared his throat, and in a croaking, hesitant voice, he ventured, “Nine? Present?”
This seemed to satisfy the gray-haired man. He nodded, pleased, flashing a smile. In any other context, it would’ve been the warm look of approval given from a father to a child. An expression so perfectly formed, but equally out of place in the context of the basement.
After Diedrich spoke, a few of the others next to him relaxed, tension easing—if only a little—from their postures.
The gray-haired man spoke again, and this time, his eyes fixed on Diedrich, unblinking. “Welcome to the family. Everyone, welcome your brother.”
A practiced chorus arose from the assembled others. “Welcome number nine!” they said.
The gray-haired man walked over to one of the boys and tapped him on the chest. “Tell me one thing you like about your sister,” he said, pointing at the girl next to him.
With deadened eyes, and an equally lifeless voice, the boy said, “She is kind and nice, and I like her very much.”
The gray-haired man smiled. “Good job. And then he fished something from his pocket and pushed it against the boy’s lips.
Diedrich glimpsed a flash of color. For a moment, he thought the man was drugging the boy. But then, with an equally sickening realization, he realized it was a small chocolate bonbon. The boy didn’t protest, but allowed the bonbon into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
The man patted the boy on the cheek, then moved over to the girl next to him. “Number four,” he said, “tell me one thing that you like about me.”
He draped his fingers against the side of her cheek and affectionately stroked a lock of her hair.
She shivered, but in an equally deadpan voice said, “I like how generous you are. You’re nice. I like you.”
The gray-haired man shuddered at this, as if aroused, and he reached into his pocket and pulled out another chocolate bonbon, pressing it into the girl’s mouth. His finger circled her lips once, twice, then pulled away.
She also chewed and swallowed.
The gray-haired man turned, and with straight legs and steps, marched in a small circle until he was facing Diedrich again. “Our family loves each other,” he said, pointing a finger. “You want to belong, you’re going to have to learn to love as well. There are rules. It’s important that you’re obedient. Without obedience, there can be no family. Understand?”
Diedrich felt a flash of anger, but his hands were still bound. There was something about the man’s posture and attitude that sent warning signals off in his mind. So he simply nodded.
This seemed to annoy the gray-haired man. “Speak when you’re spoken to,” he shouted. He stepped forward, and Diedrich flinched. Instead of hitting Diedrich, though, the man slapped the Asian girl hard across the face. The blow sent her tumbling back, and she crashed into a gated fence.
“I said, do you understand?” he repeated, yelling at Diedrich.
“Yes,” Diedrich said in a shaky voice, his eyes on the girl. He bent at a knee, trying to reach out to help her rise.
For a moment, he thought he would receive a blow too. But instead, the gray-haired man said, “Look at that, your brother helped his sister back to her feet. That’s what we call love. Really good job, number nine.”
After Diedrich helped her to her feet, he turned
and flinched. The gray-haired man was right in front of him. His hand was extended, and he had a small brown bonbon he was trying to press into Diedrich’s lips.
In that moment, a flash of anger filled him once more. This man had him caged, kenneled in the basement. He was a psycho. Insane. Diedrich’s fury rose in his chest. It was just an old man.
A split second of a decision. A flicker of a look from the girl closest to him. She mouthed something, but he couldn’t tell what. Then he decided.
Diedrich rushed forward, hard. He sent the old man tumbling to the ground. Diedrich kicked him once, twice. Then he leapt over the fallen form of the old man and raced toward the bottom of the stairs. His tied hands still hung in front of him, but his feet were free. He hurried up the steps and kicked open the door at the top.
He’d been expecting a house, or some sort of room. Instead, he found himself at the bottom of a long shaft. For a moment, he didn’t quite realize what he was looking at. It seemed like they were at the bottom of a well. And the staircase was built into the side of the base of the well. A long metal ladder stretched up from the base of the well to the top. He could just barely glimpse light coming through from the moon above. But as he stared at the ladder, horror filled him. He couldn’t climb it with his hands bound. As he stood there, in his underwear and undershirt, the cold settled on him. His bare feet scuffed against the ground, and he glanced toward the well. A second later, he realized glass was scattered at the base of the ladder. Thick shards of glass, glinting, threatening. His feet were bare.
Desperately he search for another way out of the well, but the sides were sheer, stony. It went up for nearly thirty feet. He couldn’t climb the ladder. He tried to drop, to rub his hands roughly against the stones. But there was no time.
He heard the thumping of footsteps on the creaking stairs behind him. He spun around, desperate, trying to protect himself. He felt a hard blow across the side of his face, and he felt someone grab his bound wrists and drag him, pulling him.
He tried to protest, but then the person hit him across the wound on the back of his head, and his skull exploded with pain.