Gone Missing

by T. J. Brearton

  He fell silent and they both gazed at the searchers heading into the woods. Cross heard voices calling out Katie’s name.

  “They’re not going to find her out there,” Brennan said.

  Chapter Five

  Katie stared up at the ceiling, still gripping herself in a protective hug.

  It had been a half an hour, at least, of straight driving at high speeds. In the North Country, that only happened on the interstate.

  The question was whether they’d gone north or south. If they’d gone north, then by now they’d be coming to the US–Canada border. But there was no way they’d make it across, not with her lying in the back of the vehicle.

  It had to be south. And if she was right in her time estimate, that put them somewhere around Schroon Lake, or Pottersville. Maybe even as far as Lake George, but she doubted it. She’d driven I-87 many times on her way to the city.

  “Get her ready,” Leno called.

  Carson had lapsed into silence for a while – she even suspected he was dozing at one point, his legs still up on the bench seat, head tipped back. He snapped to attention now and swiveled the seat a half turn, leaned out of her sight.

  The minivan slowed and listed to one side as they curved down what was surely an exit ramp. It came to a stop and Katie’s pulse quickened. Stop signs and secondary roads meant she had another chance at escape.

  Carson loomed over her with a plastic tie in his grip. “Hold out your hands.”

  She hesitated.

  “Raise up your fuckin arms.” His voice was muffled from the balaclava mask, but she knew a bridge-and-tunnel accent when she heard one – maybe Queens or Brooklyn, but possibly even Jersey.

  Katie did as she was told and he cinched the plastic tie tight.

  “Ow.”

  “Oh, tell it on the mountain. Sit up. Lean against the seat here.”

  It was difficult; her body was stiff from running, from all the adrenaline and tension, and from lying still for so long. But she was able to get on her butt and scrunch between the bench seat and the swivel seat. The baby doll was right behind her head. She couldn’t resist a glance.

  The doll looked back with a blank stare.

  Duped by a toy. Some kid’s Bitty Baby and an app that sounded like an infant’s cries.

  “Eyes front,” Carson commanded.

  With Carson distracting her, she didn’t know if they’d taken a right or left from the stop sign, but they were moving again, albeit much slower than on the interstate. Probably back on Route 9, which paralleled the interstate down all the way to New York City.

  For the first time, she could see Leno up front. Since he was driving he wasn’t wearing a mask. He had black hair, a bald spot on top.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Carson said. He leaned down so his face was inches from hers. “I can read minds.”

  She could smell his breath through the mask – cheese popcorn and something worse. He laughed in her ear and then sat up straighter, reached away, and came back with something in his hands. She couldn’t tell what it was at first. Then he unfurled it and slipped it over her head.

  The instant she was plunged into blackness she started to panic.

  There had been something that visibility had provided her – a sense of proportion, reason, even hope. In the stifling shroud, it all fled. Now she was in a directionless, timeless environment.

  You can still hear, you can still sense things. Relax.

  “Oh man…” Carson sounded aroused. “This is just fuckin… Oh man. Look at this, huh?”

  She sensed him move closer and then his voice was in her ear again. “That shit turns me on.”

  When she felt his touch, she recoiled. But he grabbed her arm and yanked her close. His hand encircled her breast and gave it a squeeze. The hand moved to the other breast and groped that one, too, and the nausea rolled through her again. She felt revulsion, anger, and fear all at once.

  “Carson!” Leno snapped.

  The hand withdrew.

  It was the worst thing to happen yet. She’d thought maybe – maybe – this situation was something which wouldn’t turn sexual. She could still feel his hand on her, like it had left an impression.

  No. Don’t think about it.

  She couldn’t account for the certainty, but a pure, inarguable logic formed in her mind – if she gave in, showed fear, disgust, even anger, it would only feed Carson and make her situation worse.

  He was dangerous. They both were, but she felt a particular malevolence from Carson, an impulsivity. Leno constantly yelled at him, like a parent trying to keep an unruly teenager in check.

  She refocused on the driving. They were slowing again, perhaps nearing another intersection. Maybe they’d turned left at the last stop sign, crossed over the interstate, which would definitely put them on Route 9. If they made a right turn here, then it was highly likely she was correct about their proximity to Schroon Lake.

  He just groped you.

  They made a left turn.

  What if he rapes you.

  She felt her hopes sink again. She didn’t know where they were after all. Pottersville? Okay, then it could have been a right turn first, when Carson was distracting her, and then this left…

  Was that correct?

  Stop. Forget it. You’re somewhere off 87, that’s enough to know for now.

  But it didn’t feel like enough. Everything was dark. She didn’t know where they were. Her hands were tied. Carson had just molested her.

  Why did they take you?

  She was surprised she hadn’t asked herself that earlier. Then again, it wasn’t every day she was abducted.

  Maybe they just want money. This is a kidnapping.

  The thought should have brought her some relative comfort, but it didn’t.

  The minivan took an abrupt turn and hit a few bumps in the road. The sound of the road beneath the tires changed – that whine of rubber on asphalt was gone. A few seconds later, they came to a stop and Leno killed the engine, plunging them into silence.

  Carson was in her ear once more. “Alright, Katie. We’re getting out. Real quick, just real quick. You’re going to do exactly as I say, when I say it…”

  She heard Leno open the driver’s side door. The van rocked slightly when he slammed it behind him.

  “… and we’ll all get along just like peas and carrots, alright? Now, stand up.”

  She did, and he put his hand on the back of her head. She listened intently – no sound of nearby traffic, no voices, nothing. Then another vehicle door opened and closed. An engine started up. The van slid open in a loud rush.

  They hadn’t arrived at their destination. They were switching vehicles.

  Carson pulled on Katie and her mind raced. Shrouded, her hands tied, running would be futile. The noise of this new engine was close. She was only going to be between vehicles for a few seconds.

  Carson tugged on her, and Katie reached for the zip pocket on her running skirt.

  He kept the hand on her head so she wouldn’t bang the roof, pushed down, and bent her further as they stepped from the van. He guided her to the ground and she slipped her fingers into the small pocket.

  The receipt was still there – she’d stuck it in after buying bottled water on a previous run and it stayed, went through the wash. She withdrew it using two fingers and let it drop, praying Carson wouldn’t see.

  Then she was being shoved into the second vehicle. Carson forced her onto her hands and knees, awkward because her wrists were bound.

  She lost balance and sprawled forward, her face scudding across thick carpeting. Carson heaved her from behind, and she had to roll her shoulder to get further inside, ending up on her back.

  She panted for breath, her skin tingling all over.

  Calm down, calm down, calm down.

  Then the door banged shut, a lock engaged, and the vehicle got moving.

  Chapter Six

  Captain Lance Bouchard arrived at the scene. Bouchard was a t
all, barrel-chested man in his fifties. His silver mustache sprouted fledgling handlebars. Cross had a word with him away from the commotion.

  “David Brennan has called all of her friends,” Cross said to Bouchard. “He called her family – her parents – and left messages. He put out a message on Facebook. I think we need a press conference as soon as possible.”

  Bouchard looked around. People were gathering beyond the tape, just a half-dozen or so. Cross knew there would be more, and the media would be there soon too.

  “How long has it been?” Bouchard asked.

  “Three hours since she sent him the text.”

  Cross had coaxed Brennan into handing over his phone again and he showed the captain.

  Bouchard’s lips twitched as he read it, and then he looked off again. “But there’s been no contact from anyone claiming to have her.”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you don’t think she ran off.”

  “I don’t know. He says they have a healthy marriage. No big fights or anything.”

  A silence developed.

  Bouchard said, “A baby crying…”

  “Yeah. Maybe a baby or, I don’t know. Could have been a lure. A fake cry, something to attract her.”

  Bouchard regarded Cross with his slate-gray eyes. “A fake cry?”

  Cross shrugged. “A recording or something? Maybe not. Is the text enough to get the feds involved?”

  Bouchard made a dismissive sound. “No. I don’t know. A fake baby?” He seemed fixated.

  “My daughter has one of these dolls, it cries, sounds almost real. Anyway, we checked with the hospitals – Hazleton, Lake Placid, Plattsburgh, Lake Haven – thinking maybe a baby was hurt, and Katie accompanied whoever it was to an emergency room. But nothing.”

  Like Brennan, Cross didn’t think Katie Calumet was in the nearby woods, either. He thought it most likely she’d absconded with a friend for reasons unknown, but there was still that pinch in his gut that things were far worse. And he had a hunch there was something Brennan wasn’t talking about. “Do you know about the Calumet family?”

  “Never heard of them,” Bouchard said.

  “They’re pretty loaded. Restaurants, hotels.”

  Bouchard let it sink in then turned around with his hands on his hips. He looked up Footbridge Lane, which stretched almost out of sight before intersecting with Red Ridge Road. “And you already called Stock County?”

  “They’ll help with the door-to-doors, yes, sir. Deputy King lives around here, too. He knows a lot of the people. I just figured it always helps to have a friendly face. He’s with another deputy, and three troopers, and they’re covering those couple houses up there, the Community Outreach Center over there, and Red Ridge. K-9 units just arrived and are in the woods.”

  Bouchard’s gaze traveled to the rattle in the dirt. “No one has seen anything so far?”

  Cross nodded up the lane. “Doreen Flaherty lives in that light-green house, see it? She’s an early riser and says she saw a woman jog past at about six. She said, ‘Black running skirt, peach-colored sport top.’ Brennan was asleep when Katie left so he doesn’t know what she had on, but he thinks it sounds right. He’s going to get us a photo of Katie and we’ll make copies, show it to Flaherty, show it around to everybody else. Sir, I really think we have to get the press conference going—”

  Bouchard held up a hand. “I heard you. I understand.”

  “And we need to at least apprise the FBI of the situation, so if and when there’s a call for ransom, or anything like that, we can hit the ground running.”

  Bouchard looked grim but thoughtful. “And Gates – she agrees with you?”

  “Yes.” Cross glanced at his watch. It was after nine. He felt impatient, a tension mounting.

  “Alright,” Bouchard said. “We’ll do it right over there in the Community Outreach parking lot. I’ll issue the flash lookout and get the social media alerts going. I’m going to act as incident commander and I’ll expect your plan as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  * * *

  Brit Silas, a seasoned crime scene technician, began photo-documenting the scene as soon as she arrived. She appeared unhappy, waving people back from the shoulder, even though it had been cordoned off. Scott Fleming, the tire and foot track analyst, was on his way.

  After a quick meeting with Silas, Cross gathered the deputies and troopers who’d returned from the door-to-doors.

  “We’ve got one eye-witness report of a red pickup truck driving down Footbridge Lane at approximately midnight last night,” said a female trooper.

  “Three witnesses say they saw a woman jogging early this morning,” said Deputy Peter King. “One says he recognized Katie from around town.”

  “No one from Community Outreach saw anything?” Cross asked.

  King shook his head. “The first person there opened up at seven forty.”

  “That’s it?”

  They all looked forlorn.

  “That’s it,” King said.

  “Okay. Keep going. Widen out.”

  Cross thanked the deputies and troopers, then turned his attention to David Brennan.

  Brennan looked shell-shocked, eyes glassy and ringed red. He had his phone back, thumb on the screen as he walked in a slow circle.

  Cross approached him as the K-9 unit emerged from the woods, the cops blank-faced, dogs panting in the heat.

  “Well, we’ve checked that off our list,” Cross said about the area search. “Any word back from Katie’s parents yet? Her father or her mother?”

  “Stepmother.”

  “Stepmother, got it. Heard back?”

  “No. I would have told you.”

  Cross was of average height, but Brennan looked over Cross’s head as his eyes darted around, taking in all the activity.

  “David?” He caught the man’s gaze at last. “How about her mother?”

  “Her mother died when Katie was sixteen.”

  “Okay. And Gloria is her only sibling.”

  “Right.”

  “What I really need from you, David, what would be really helpful is if you could head back to your house now – I’ll have Trooper Farrington take you – and get a photo of Katie. A good photo, clear, of her face. Do you have something like that?”

  “I got stuff right on my phone.”

  “Sure. Or, you know, professional would be best. If you got it.” Mostly Cross wanted to give Brennan something to keep busy. “And I need a list,” he said. “All of Katie’s extended relatives, all of her friends, and their phone numbers. Whatever you can find. We’re going to have a look around your house. Not because of suspicion; we just need to look at everything. Maybe Katie got a recent piece of mail. Maybe she left a note—”

  Brennan suddenly threw up his hands. “She’s not missing! Someone took her!” His outburst drew attention.

  Cross led him away from things, toward the woods on the other side of the blacktop lane.

  “Someone tricked her,” Brennan said, softer this time.

  “Okay. It’s possible. And maybe someone that knew Katie would respond a certain way?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. You said she was the type to—”

  “Just about any woman is going to respond to a crying baby. Probably most men, too.” He paced around and ran his hands over his hair.

  Cross thought he had a point. “Okay, but – I know this is personal – anything that might be… Did Katie ever lose a baby, anything like that?”

  “No. But we’ve been trying.” Brennan’s voice was low.

  “You’ve been trying? To have a child?”

  “Not long. Nobody knows.”

  Cross absorbed this. “Not her sister or anything? No one in her family? Yours?”

  Brennan sighed. “My family is… my parents are both passed. I have a brother who lives in Seoul. Otherwise, I mean, everyone who knows us knows we don’t have any children. Or… I don’t
know what they think.” He added, “I’m forty-four, Katie’s thirty-three, so there’s some pressure; some expectation.”

  Cross caught something, just the sense that Brennan wasn’t completely on board with having a child. Or maybe it was resentment. Pressure from whom? The sister or stepmother, probably.

  He placed a hand gently on Brennan’s back and pushed him toward Farrington, who was waiting to take him home. “We’re going to have a press conference in an hour,” Cross said. “You think you’re up for it?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Good. Think about what you want to say. Keep it personal, direct, honest. Just what type of person Katie is. We’ll handle the details. Go home with Trooper Farrington now, get me that list of Katie’s contacts. Someone is going to come by and have a look at her laptop, too. Okay?”

  “Alright…”

  Farrington led Brennan away by the arm. A vehicle came slowly down Footbridge Lane and Scott Fleming got out. He glanced over at the trooper loading Brennan into the back of a cruiser. Then Fleming ducked under the crime scene tape and approached Cross.

  “Morning,” Fleming said.

  “Morning.”

  They joined Brit Silas and made a plan. There was only time for visible and plastic track analysis before the press conference. Latents and samples would take much longer.

  “Right there,” Fleming said, pointing. Cross saw the bit of dirt and mud on the blacktop leading away from the soft shoulder. Fleming had a large case with him. He opened it up and went to work.

  Cross and Silas stared down at the baby’s rattle.

  “Why’s it there?” Silas asked.

  Cross had been wondering the same thing since the beginning. It supported the theory that a real baby was involved, in distress, and Katie had gone off with someone in an emergency situation. Or Katie had seen the rattle and thought she’d heard a baby, then something else happened.

  It also could have been a sign of kidnappers, being either sloppy or clever. Sloppy, and they were amateurs. Clever, and they wanted the cops to find it – it was some red herring. But in either of those scenarios, it was a calling card. This is an abduction.