Gone Missing

by T. J. Brearton

He led them through the woods, still no discernible trail in sight. She kept slipping because her running sneakers were wet and didn’t have the traction for such terrain. And her tied hands affected her balance. Her wrists were a mess, purple and sore.

  “If you cut the ties, I can go faster. Don’t you have a… something? A deadline? We’re probably supposed to be somewhere by a certain time, right?”

  Carson was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. He only chuckled at her. Most of the time he had his head bowed, looking at something. It had to be a GPS device.

  She needed to get close to him. She wanted that GPS. Then she would run, and he would never catch her.

  An occasional hiker, she’d eschewed GPS in the past. But she could figure it out. Shit, her phone had GPS. She used it all the time.

  She thought GPS devices not only showed you where you were, but could broadcast your position for others to find you, same as a cell phone. Carson had most definitely switched that function off. When she got a hold of it, though, she’d turn the tracking back on. Maybe there was even a distress signal, an SOS button. Either way, she’d use it to get herself the hell out of the woods.

  Yeah, she could figure it out. She had to.

  Katie looked at the sky through the trees. The clouds had dissipated into a thin gauze; the sun had passed its zenith and was lowering. She put the time at about two o’clock.

  The longest she’d ever hiked without stopping was close to five hours. This could end up surpassing it. The best she could deduce, they were somewhere deep in the center of the Adirondack Park. The walk in had started as a gradual incline, then steepened. Now they walked parallel to the slope of the mountain.

  “How far are we going?”

  “You’re being a nag.” He jerked the rope and she stumbled but managed to keep her footing.

  Carson suddenly stopped. Cocked his head, listening.

  She heard it, too – somewhere down the slope, the soft burble of voices. Then laughter, from a child. A trail was nearby. An official trail with late-summer hikers. She knew it.

  Katie stared through the trees, desperate for a glimpse of someone.

  Scream. Scream now.

  Before she could even pull a lungful of air, Carson had raced toward her. He drove her to the ground and clamped his hand over her mouth.

  His weight was so pulverizing she couldn’t breathe. His masked face loomed above her, turned to the side. “Shh. Don’t make a fucking sound.”

  She clawed at him. She needed him off her.

  People!

  They’d heard hikers. People in the woods. Someone to summon help. It would all be over if she could just get free of him, just cry out…

  It felt like her ribs were cracking. She drove her knee into his midsection and he grunted and rolled over, but kept hold of her.

  On top of him now, her mouth uncovered, Katie screamed, a blood-curdling sound she hadn’t known she was capable of. Carson slipped an arm around her, covered her mouth again, pinned her against him. He swung a leg over and tightened around her even more, like a boa constrictor – the more she struggled, the tighter he coiled. She thought about biting his hand, and did.

  He yanked away and then hit her on the back of the head. The world flashed white, as if flooded with light. This time Carson flipped her over, got on top of her, and shoved her face into the ground, her mouth filling with dirt, her vision with black.

  His hand was on the back of her head, pressing down like a garbage compactor. Her smashed nose felt like it could break. She struggled and drummed the ground with her feet and tried to get up.

  She had no air. Her mouth and nose were buried in the dirt.

  Carson was suffocating her.

  She imagined how he looked above her, grinding her down, eyes wild, teeth gnashed. This was how she was going to die.

  Her mother’s face flashed in her memory – sad, kind eyes, long dark hair, a light smile curling the edges of her lips.

  Katie bucked one last time, giving it everything she had.

  Immobile. Helpless.

  A strange peace slipped over her.

  Carson let go. He rolled away, the absence of his weight making her feel insubstantial, like there was nothing to her. She raised her face from the earth, drew a shredded breath into her crushed lungs. She coughed and gagged and gulped in more air, half-expecting Carson to cover her mouth again, jump back on her, and plow her into the ground.

  “They’re gone,” he said.

  She dropped her head back to the dirt, face to the side.

  Gone.

  She listened, hearing only the sounds of the forest – the birds, leaves hissing in the breeze.

  Gone. It was over.

  Katie pushed herself up and onto her knees. Touched her nose with her bound hands and saw blood on her fingertips. Her hair was tangled with pine needles and small twigs. She turned to the side and retched brown spittle.

  Then she looked up at Carson, standing nearby, looking down the slope.

  “That was fucking close!” he said in an excited whisper. He even bounced a little.

  He shook his head as if incredulous, walked to the bags he’d dropped, and picked up something from the ground.

  The GPS was about the size of an old transistor radio, bright orange. He poked at it and scowled, staring at the screen.

  “Not supposed to be there,” he muttered. He scratched at his face through the mask. “This fuckin thing…”

  If they’d come close to a hiking trail, it meant that they weren’t too far from civilization – she’d even heard a child laughing. People didn’t go on massive hikes with kids, only easier hikes: day hikes.

  Katie spat out more dirt and pine needles. “Samatter? You lost?”

  Carson kept focused on the GPS. “Shh.”

  “Fuck you,” said Katie. Then she leaned onto her side and gagged again. More clogged dirt and blood-laced saliva poured out. She spat, and kept spitting, then sat back. “How about that water now, okay? To chase down the dirt.”

  Carson finally looked at her.

  “Yeah – yeah, okay,” he said. “Sure. Drink all you want.” He fished a water bottle out of the bag and headed toward her, holding it outstretched. “And when you have to urinate, you go in your little skirt. Let it run down your legs. Maybe I’ll lick it up aft—”

  Carson’s leg shot out from under him on the loose, slanted ground. He landed on his elbow, eyes wide in shock and pain. The water bottle and GPS went tumbling.

  Katie scrambled for the GPS.

  Carson looked around, saw her, headed her off. He scooped up the device before she could get to it, and then he tripped again, went down hard.

  Katie laughed. Couldn’t help it. She tasted the blood running from her nose into her mouth but she threw her head back and laughed some more.

  Carson grabbed the water bottle next and threw it at her, but she managed to duck out of the way. She caught it before it could roll down the hill.

  A sports bottle, the kind with a pop-top. She opened it and guzzled the water. Best thing to happen in her entire life, even if it felt like razors slicing her throat. Swallowing dirt, screaming for help – if she was a singer, her career would be over.

  You’re getting punchy. Losing it.

  Go easy – there will be another chance.

  Carson looked over the GPS, perhaps to see if it had been damaged, then clipped it to his belt. He stared at her. Even from a distance, she could see the malevolence in his eyes, like he wanted to tear her in half.

  Finally he hefted the large backpack onto his shoulders. He was dressed in camo pants with cargo pockets, and a black T-shirt. The boots on his feet looked like top-of-the-line hiking gear, but none of it had saved him from landing on his ass.

  Twice.

  She felt another laugh bubble up and spat some bloody water before she could swallow it.

  Carson glared at her some more and gave the rope a hard tug. “Get on your feet, bitch.”

  She pulled
back on the rope and hoisted herself up. “Urinate,” she said.

  “What? Shut up, anyway.” He looked down the hill, in the direction of the voices.

  “Who says ‘urinate’? ‘I have to go urinate. You’re going to urinate and I’m going to lick it up.’ Who says that?”

  “I said shut the fuck up.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Shut the fuck up. I know. Maybe you’re an ex-con? Some of those tats look homemade. What did you do time for? Rape? You fucking asshole.”

  Carson started back toward her, though mindful of his footing.

  “Oh boy,” Katie said. Her voice was nasal, nose congested with blood and soil. “Here he comes. Here he comes to threaten me again. Big fuckin man.”

  He stopped short of her, and she sensed the emotions working through him. Her body tensed for the attack, but her mind was clear.

  “You think you know me,” Carson said calmly. “You think this is going to work, this little act. You think because you’ve been through a little bit of shit, now you’re tough, now you’ve got nothing to lose. Trust me, Katie, you’ve got a lot more to lose. And I’m the perfect guy to take it from you.”

  His eyes were level and direct. She understood now that Carson wasn’t crazy – he was something else. And she grew still, holding his inhuman gaze.

  “We’re not lost,” he said. “There was a trail – didn’t show up on the map. But we’re on course, making good time. There will be no more trails, no more people where we’re going. This is not gonna end on your terms. Okay? You’re not in control, Katie.”

  He turned and walked off. She stood until the rope tautened, then she was forced to follow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gates called Cross on his cell.

  “We tried pinging her phone,” Gates said. “Nothing. Inactive. But the phone company records show the last ping was at six twenty-two this morning. It hit off the tower between Hazleton and I-87.”

  “This is all clear evidence of interstate travel,” Cross said. “Minivan confirmed stolen, eye witnesses, and tire tracks place it in Hazleton this morning; here it is five exits south near Bakers Mills, just a few miles from 87…”

  “Well, it’s off the interstate now. I’m just saying, maybe they jumped on 87 and jumped off, but the feds don’t get involved just because of a technicality that they were on the interstate for a few miles.”

  “Then what does it?” His voice went up an octave and he closed his eyes, rubbed a hand over his face.

  “I’ve contacted them,” Gates said on the phone. “They’re monitoring. They’re waiting to see what develops.”

  Cross opened his eyes and stared through the window of his car at the minivan. The area was crawling with techs. Traffic on Route 8 was slow, people rubbernecking the scene, state troopers urging them through.

  “We’re all waiting, now,” Cross mumbled.

  After a pause, Gates said, “You doing alright with this?”

  He scraped at the lingering nail polish on his hand. “I’m supposed to get the girls back tomorrow. Once a month in the summer I get them mid-week.”

  “Right, right… have you talked to Marty?”

  Cross’s wife was born Marie Tabitha Rourke, and at some point in her youth it had been shortened to Marty and the nickname stuck. Tomorrow marked the third month of their separation.

  “I haven’t, no. She’s working pretty long hours.”

  “Where do the girls go?”

  “Marty found a good day care, and her mother pitches in.”

  Gates was silent. Cross knew she’d had her own issues with her job getting in the way of her family life. Only for her, Cross felt, people were a lot more judgmental. She asked, “We’re supposed to be hearing from Katie Calumet’s parents any minute now, right?”

  Cross checked the time, just past three in the afternoon. “Yeah, I would suspect.”

  “And the sister, Gloria?”

  “Yeah, Gloria Calumet. I spoke to her about an hour ago. Very distressed, very worried. She’s driving up to the house – Katie and David’s house.”

  “Okay. Well, we’ve got the hotline going and we’re monitoring Facebook. Lots of people showing concern and support for Katie, no real leads. Her social media is pretty toned down anyway.”

  “David told me Katie ‘wasn’t much for posterity.’”

  “Yeah I see that; her posts are few and far between.” Gates seemed to be thinking. “You’ve spoken to David quite a bit – said he mentioned some names…”

  “He talked about a former restaurant partner named Henry Fellows. Jean Calumet bought him out a while back. Fellows went on a downward spiral – he made some bad investments in the housing market and lost big after the crash. Fellows called Calumet a few times, at random, seemingly; he’d be drunk, blaming his misfortune on Calumet. Calling him a predator.”

  “Sounds promising – what else you got?”

  Cross sat up a little straighter, stopped scraping at his nails. “David also mentioned a lawyer who was fired by Calumet. He also mentioned a spurned chef from the Dobbs Ferry restaurant; name is Eric Dubois.”

  “Go on…”

  “Dubois is interesting. But – also – what kind of struck me was the way Brennan talked about Jean Calumet, and his wife, Sybil. I mean, all these stories, presumably they come through Katie, you know, secondhand information – I didn’t get the feeling that David Brennan and Jean Calumet are particularly close. Nor is anyone close with Katie’s stepmother, Sybil.”

  Gates was quiet, mulling it over or perhaps waiting for more, but Cross didn’t know what it all added up to yet. After a few more moments of silence, he said, “Sorry about the press conference today. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Gates either didn’t hear the apology or ignored it. “So what do you want to do?”

  Cross watched the techs working. He glimpsed Brit Silas, walking away from the van, coming toward him.

  “Can I call you back, Dana?”

  “You bet.”

  Cross ended the call and rolled down the window.

  Silas got right to the point: “We’re going to need food, a place to take bathroom breaks.”

  Cross nodded. “Do you have water?”

  “Yeah, some. But this is…”

  “I know. I’ll make it happen.”

  Silas lingered by the truck for a moment, then surprised him by patting his hand. “It’s going to be alright, Justin. We’ll get ’em.”

  She turned and walked away.

  * * *

  Cross headed north, back to Hazleton. With each mile he felt heavier, like he was letting Katie down. He reminded himself that Brit Silas was an ace crime scene technician and could potentially identify Katie’s abductor, or abductors, thanks to the minivan. It was a major boon to the case.

  Abductor or abductors? His gut said multiple persons involved. A driver and a heavy – someone to keep hold of her. But the idea lingered that they weren’t concerned with the van. Maybe they’d taken pains to remove traces of themselves but otherwise left the van for police to fuss over, maybe even to slow the police down.

  How smart were these people? Fly-by-night criminals looking for a payday? Or practiced professionals with a carefully thought-out plan? Was there anyone else, behind the scenes, like Fellows?

  Why switch vehicles, if in fact they did? Because they figured someone would have spotted it?

  And so they changed to what type of new vehicle? Something fast? Something rugged?

  * * *

  David Brennan had shut his driveway gate and the press vans were parked on the edge of the road. Two reporters were talking with a state trooper who saw Cross coming and opened the gate back up. The reporters ran over to the truck and jabbed microphones at Cross.

  “Investigator Cross, what’s the story on the stolen minivan?”

  “Any word from Katie’s captors?”

  “Is it true Katie left behind a note of some kind?”

  “Please respect the family,” h
e said, “give them their space, and let law enforcement do its job. There will be another press conference soon. Thank you.”

  He drove through and up the drive. Cars everywhere. Katie’s house was both part of an investigation and ground zero for running the operation.

  The main living area consisted of three plush couches and two thick wooden end tables, all arranged in a horseshoe shape, open to a clerestory window. The window viewed the low sun burning through the forest. No one was sitting down.

  Bouchard stood with Farrington and several other troopers. David Brennan was talking quietly with them.

  Gloria Calumet was nearby, her back to Cross. She watched two CSTs dressed in white jumpsuits carry forensic equipment up the stairs. The investigation was getting samples of Katie’s DNA but also scouring the house for a note from Katie, possible evidence of a planned departure, any signs of foul play. The main room had been cleared.

  Gloria turned around as Cross neared. She surprised him with how attractive she was, momentarily distracting him when she offered her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she told him.

  “You too.”

  Maybe because he was in the man’s home again, Cross started to think of Katie’s husband more by his first name. David also shook Cross’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

  “My parents are flying in,” Gloria said, unprompted. “I booked them a room at the Hazleton Inn.”

  “They didn’t want to just stay here?” Cross asked.

  Gloria glanced at David, who gave Cross a look, as if to say, See?

  Gloria said, “Sybil has certain needs,” and left it at that.

  “Okay. Well, I’d like to talk to them as soon as they arrive. Do you think that’s possible?”

  Gloria and David exchanged another look. “I’m sure you can stop by once they’re checked in,” Gloria said. “Just letting you know that my father is liable to say that they have had a very long day of flying and more could be accomplished after a night’s rest.”

  “I need to ask – how does Katie get along with your parents?”

  “Fine,” Gloria said straight away. “Our father has always been there for us.”