by Rick Mofina
Yes, she’d expected it, but nothing had prepared her for the cold, dark reality hitting her like a blow to the stomach, for this room was sacred to her. This is the room where she had read to him when he was little. Green Eggs and Ham and Paddle-to-the-Sea were his favorites. This is the room where she’d taken care of him when he was sick, where he still liked to snuggle with her and where he’d once said that he wanted to marry her because his mom was the best mom in the whole wide world. Gage was a sweet boy, a trusting boy who believed that everyone was good and believed everything she and Cal told him.
This was the room where Gage dreamed.
Faith could almost see him now lying on his side, his hair mussed, sleeping sound and safe below his poster of the Chicago Cubs. Looking around she saw the things he treasured, the things he touched, thinking how they were now somehow desecrated with fingerprint powder.
There was the Lego stadium and skyscraper he’d built, his remote control helicopter, his ball glove, his book of world records. He’d page through it for hours, asking her, “Hey, Mom, do you know how tall the world’s tallest man is?”
Faith nearly smiled at the memories.
How he loved playing games on her iPad, and how he’d play forever if she let him. How he loved watching the Simpsons or iCarly and eating pizza or nachos.
Faith picked up one of his T-shirts, a Chicago Bears shirt he got at a game he’d gone to with Cal.
Cal.
Why had she agreed to the polygraph?
It had left her devastated and confused. The piercing insinuations and accusations...about abuse, drugs, money, the lock and chain, about Cal and their marriage.
Their private lives were none of the investigators’ business.
Yet their questions had spawned others in her mind.
Who was Beth Gibson? Why were the police concentrating on Gibson and Cal?
The questions whirled around Faith as she stared at Gage’s shirt.
She held it to her face and was consumed by guilt.
I should’ve been holding your hand.
She breathed in her son’s scent.
Will I see you again?
She knew the odds, knew the statistics; she knew the probabilities in cases of missing children.
All of them told her that her son was dead.
I won’t believe you’re dead. Everyone’s preparing me, telling me that I should brace for the worst. But I won’t accept it, I can’t. I know I’m going to see you again. I carried you inside me, next to my heart—every fiber of my being tells me I’m going to see you.
But her pain came in waves and her guilt was overwhelming.
Hugging Gage’s T-shirt, Faith raised her head to the window.
She shifted her thoughts to the street, zooming in on the vehicle parked near the end of the block.
She knew that car. She recognized the man sitting behind the wheel.
Her breath caught in her throat.
First he shows up at the press conference, and now he’s watching my house.
Silently, she cursed, willing him to leave. I don’t need this—not now. She prayed he’d leave before Cal caught a glimpse of him—and before the police did.
31
Cal found Faith in Gage’s bedroom holding one of his T-shirts.
She seemed startled when he entered the room.
“Where did you go?” she asked, her voice quavering.
“The garage, to search for that lock and chain.”
Faith stared at him. “They asked me about it.”
“And?”
“I told them I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I don’t remember, Cal.”
“You were there, Faith. In the car when I bought it.”
“Why are they so focused on them?”
“Because I bought them at the plaza where they found Gage’s shoe. It looks bad. They likely think it could be related and I’m somehow behind his disappearance.”
“Are you?”
Cal froze, taken aback by her question. “What?”
“Why don’t you tell me why you bought that lock and chain?”
His eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe you’d ask me this.”
“Why not? It’s what the police have been asking both of us for days. They must know something we don’t.”
Dismayed, Cal shook his head.
“I bought that stuff,” he said slowly, “because someone had tried to break into Gage’s team’s equipment storage bin at the park. Dean called me on our way to the game and asked me to. You know this—you were there with me.”
“I was upset. I don’t remember everything.”
“Well, that’s the truth.”
“You still didn’t answer my question. Are you involved?”
“No, Faith. Are you involved?”
“Just stop it! Oh God, what’s happening to us?” Faith stared at him, then her eyes went around the room before she thrust her face into Gage’s T-shirt, keeping it there until she’d regained some composure.
“Did you find the stupid lock and chain?”
“No.” He watched her reaction. “Do you know where it is?”
“I have no idea.”
They stood there, together but alone, trapped in the horror of Gage’s disappearance. His room was like a flag of hope, or the portent of a shrine with the specter of his death looming, underscoring how helpless they were, desperation slowly coiling around them.
“Cal.” Faith’s voice was soft as she kneaded Gage’s tearstained shirt. “Are you telling me everything?”
“What do you mean?”
Faith ran her fingers over the material, thinking.
“I’m going to ask you a question and I want the truth,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Are you seeing someone else?”
“What?” Incredulous, he stared at her for a tense moment. “Why are you asking me this now?”
“At the Star-News summer picnic I saw you with Chelsey Blake.”
“So?”
“She’s pretty and I saw what she was doing.”
“What was she doing?”
“I saw her slide her arm around you, and she ran her hand up and down your back. It was so familiar, so intimate. And you’re never home.”
“Don’t do this.”
“You’re always working.”
“Faith.”
“What’s going on? Are you going to leave me for her? I want the truth.”
Cal shut his eyes, took in a deep breath while shaking his head.
“For God’s sake. Chelsey’s affectionate with everyone. We’d been working together on a story when her boyfriend broke up with her at the same time her mother died. She needed a shoulder but I’m telling you nothing happened, or is happening with her. She left the paper months ago. She’s not even in the country anymore.”
“Okay, then who is Beth Gibson? And why did you take her call in private the other day?”
Cal could feel his face flush and he covered it with both hands. “I told you—she’s just another caller from the neighborhood who wanted to wish us well and give her support. We’ve had dozens of people call us, most of them strangers. I don’t know her.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it. I don’t get this. What’s going on with you?”
She didn’t answer as she studied Gage’s T-shirt.
“Faith, what the hell are you getting at?”
“I’m scared. I don’t know what to believe.”
“You don’t know what to believe?” He shook his head. “What about you? What’re you keeping from me? Huh? I’m working at holding this family together. You know I’m looking for a new job, something to provide for us and give us all a new star
t. What’re you keeping from me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you think I’m stupid, Faith?”
“What’re you talking about?”
Cal reached into his back pocket for the page he’d torn from the flyer, tapping the ad circled with blue ink, and thrust it at her.
“This!” he said. “I found it in the recycle bin.”
Faith’s face reddened as she stared at the ad for a divorce lawyer.
“This goes beyond ‘thinking about a separation,’ which is what you told me in the car that day on our way to Gage’s ball game. You sure went a step further with this. So what else have you done? Have you been planning something, Faith?”
“Cal, no, you don’t understand.”
A ringing sounded in Cal’s shirt pocket, halting their argument. He looked at the number—the Chicago Star-News.
“Is this Cal?” the caller asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m so, so sorry to bother you. It’s Joannie, at the paper.”
The young newsroom assistant was breathless.
“It’s okay, Joannie. What is it?”
“I got this woman on the line who’s asking for you. She refused to leave a message. She just said that it was critical that she speak to you, that it was a matter of life and death about Gage!”
“Transfer her to my phone now.”
Faith asked, “What’s going on?”
Cal held up a hand for her to wait while the line clicked.
“Hello, is this Cal Hudson?” The caller was a woman, sounded like she was in her midthirties or forties.
“Yes.”
“Cal Hudson whose son is missing?”
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
Silence.
The caller ID display on his phone showed the newsroom switchboard number because the call had been transferred from there to his phone. He found the recording button on his phone and pushed it.
“Who’s calling?” he repeated.
Nothing.
“We have your son, Mr. Hudson.”
“Oh God!” Cal squeezed his temple with his free hand. “Where is he? Let me speak to him—please!”
Cal’s pleas were answered with silence.
“Is he safe? Where is he? Please! I’m begging you! Let me talk to him!”
“We can’t allow that.” The voice was calm, monotone.
“Cal?” Faith, realizing what was unfolding, rushed to him, placing her hand on his arm. “What is it? Did they find him?”
At that instant her phone rang. She looked at it and nearly dropped it as she fumbled to answer.
“Faith, this is Agent Malko. Are you near Cal?”
“Yes, standing next to him.”
“We’re getting a location for the caller. Cal’s got to ask for proof of life. He must keep the caller talking. We’re moving on the address.”
She whispered Malko’s instructions to Cal, who nodded.
“I want to speak to my son!” he told the caller. “How do I know this isn’t a hoax?”
No response.
“Tell me!” he shouted. “How do I know?”
“Because I have his other shoe.”
His heart pounded, tears stinging his eyes.
Faith tapped Cal’s shoulder, repeating what Malko was telling her in a whisper so the caller couldn’t hear. “The press has reported the shoe, but only we know that they found the left one. Ask the caller if they have the right or left shoe.”
“Which shoe?” Cal said. “Do you have the right or left shoe?”
Silence crackled over the phone.
“I have the right shoe.”
Cal ran his hand over his face, turning to Faith.
His expression said it all. Faith’s face crumpled as she reported back to Malko. Cal pleaded with the caller. “Please, what do you want? Is it money? We’ll pay! Please, let me speak to Gage, please!”
“You won’t be speaking to him ever again because today is his last day on earth.”
The line went dead.
32
Chicago, Illinois
Within seconds the FBI had traced the location of the call to the southwest side of Chicago.
It originated from an address at the fringes of Archer Heights, a community with a large Polish population near Midway airport.
The FBI alerted the Chicago police.
The information came up on an emergency dispatcher’s screen. She immediately circulated the call to the Eighth District, advising no lights and no sirens to the responding Chicago police units in the Archer Heights area. Within four minutes they’d locked on to the location, a low-income strip of the city’s Bungalow Belt.
While marked units held back, a lone unmarked car rolled by the address, which was near a vacant lot where several old men were leaning against an eviscerated F-150 pickup truck, passing around a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.
The residence was a long-neglected bungalow-style house with cracks webbing the foundation. The brick walls were crumbling, the front porch sagged, paint blistered on the doors and windows. The yard was a riot of wild grass, entwining weeds, shrubs, trash and patches of a dying hedge. It had a small ramshackle garage with swing-out doors shut tight.
They were secured by a lock and chain.
A Chicago PD SWAT team was rolling on the address with an ETA of twenty-two minutes. More CPD units converged on the area establishing an outer perimeter to seal all traffic moving in and out. People whose homes were in the line of fire were quickly and quietly evacuated.
Out of sight, a block west, the SWAT team had set up a command post in the parking lot of a church. The commander was informed that the house had no complaint history and the primary resident was Kazik Pulaski, aged seventy-two. His name was run through several police databases. Pulaski, a retired Chicago bus driver, now disabled and using a wheelchair, did not come up in anyone’s system.
The commander had directed his team to establish an inner strike zone around the house by first sending in scouts to determine lines of fire and safety points. Once they were good to go, squad members wearing helmets, armor, headset radios, and equipped with rifles and handguns, began taking positions. Sharpshooters moved to key points while the utility man, the breacher and other team members lined up on the house. The squad pressed against the brick walls as they got in place around the front and rear doors. Sharpshooters found positions in neighboring yards.
At the same time, a small, heavily armed team, equipped with bolt cutters, had lined up on the garage.
While team members settled into their positions awaiting instructions, the commander used the hood of an unmarked Ford Police Interceptor to study maps while outlining the hot zone, consulting with the FBI and determining an entry and rescue strategy.
Despite Pulaski’s clean background, it was decided that surprise was critical given that a hostage could be used as a shield in a protracted standoff. Circumstances warranted a no-knock forced rapid entry. The commander requested eyeball reports from the team members in position.
The house’s windows filled the sharpshooters’ scopes.
“We’ve got a white female in her forties, lying on a bed in a bedroom in the southwest corner. No weapons seen,” one sharpshooter reported.
“Elderly male in a wheelchair watching TV in the living room,” a second team member reported.
“No sign of occupants or movement in the garage,” a third reported.
The commander made final checks with the team leaders.
All was green.
The commander said, “Go!”
Flash-bang grenades smashed through windows. Amid the deafening noise, smoke and chaos, SWAT members charged through the front and back doors to the living room, shouting orders to the man. “Pol
ice! Hands over your head now!”
Members rushing into the bedroom yelled at the woman. “Get on the floor, on your stomach, now! Hands behind you! Now!”
“What the hell’s this?” the old man in the wheelchair protested as his hands were cuffed in front of him.
Outside, SWAT members cut the chain and began pulling open the doors to the garage.
* * *
In the house, all bedrooms were checked. The bathroom was checked, closets were checked, the basement and attic were checked. Special equipment was used to scan the walls, floors and ceiling for body mass. The house was inspected three times for any trace of Gage Hudson.
Nothing was found.
* * *
The woman’s bedroom reeked of body odor.
After handcuffing her, SWAT members helped her to a sitting position on her bed. She had long, unkempt hair. She was wearing stained sweatpants and a black T-shirt with a death’s-head image. She revealed that she was missing most of her teeth when she smiled at the SWAT members and said, “Hello.”
After the smoke cleared, the chaos gave way to calm. Several agents in FBI windbreakers entered the house and began searching it while others went to the living room and bedroom to question the two occupants.
In the living room, the old man nodded, acknowledging he was Kazik Pulaski.
“It’s my daughter” was all he told them of the woman.
That was it. He sat in silence, tears rolling down his face, as agents continued questioning him in vain.
In the bedroom, an agent searched the woman’s bag on her dresser, finding ID indicating she was Ula Pulaski, aged forty-one.
“You’re Ula Pulaski?”
“I am.”
“Where’s Gage Hudson?”
“I want a lawyer. I know my rights.”
“Where’s Gage Hudson?”
“I’m not sayin’ nothin’. I want a lawyer. I know my rights.”
“What is your relationship to Kazik Pulaski?”
“He’s my father. I want a lawyer. I know my rights.”
The agents surveyed Ula’s room, while another called in a request for Ula Pulaski’s name to be run through NCIC and several other criminal databases. There was a laptop computer on a desk, next to a landline phone. The desk was cluttered with news clippings concerning Gage Hudson’s disappearance.