by Rick Mofina
“More than you can imagine,” he said. “The FBI’s leaning hard on both of us. They haven’t ruled me out, or ruled Faith out. I don’t know what’s true anymore. I haven’t slept or eaten. Our lives are in pieces. And they’ve pressed me on some of my stories.”
“What stories?”
“Stories where I was threatened. They’re looking for leads on Gage. One of them was that story.”
“What did they know, what did you tell them?”
“They didn’t know anything. They were sniffing at it but I steered them away.”
“That’s good.”
“What if you’re wrong, what if I’m wrong? My son’s life is at risk. I’m thinking of telling them everything—of telling them to look at everyone connected to that story, just in case it is tied to Gage.”
“No! If you even hint at it, it opens the door.”
“We’re talking about my son’s life!”
“I know, Cal, but think. You know why we did what we did.”
Cal said nothing.
“We had to do it, Cal. Right?”
“I know we did.”
“And if you say one word, everything comes crashing down on everyone involved—you and me. And it would hurt everyone we love. Everyone. We’d be charged. We’d face prison time. And then what happens when you find out it has nothing to do with Gage, has no bearing on his disappearance? Then all you’ve done is reveal what we did and go to prison for it. What good are you to your son then? Think!”
Feeling like he was coming apart Cal took a long, hard breath.
“Cal, deep down, you know it’s not connected, right?”
“That’s what I thought at the outset but now I don’t know what to think.”
“Cal, listen to me. The person involved is out of the picture, gone—there could be no connection between him and your son. It’s all in the past and we have to keep it there.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” He choked back a sob. “It’s my son.”
“Listen to me, Cal. Our case is a dead end because the guy is dead. If you go there, it will not only destroy everything, but it will distract the FBI from searching for Gage. You and I will become the focus of the investigation. Do you understand what’s at stake here? If you want to help Gage, you keep this thing buried where it belongs. Keep the FBI locked onto Gage. Do you get that, Cal?”
He said nothing.
“Cal, you have to hang in there.”
Drained, Cal ended the call, closing his eyes against the breeze that flowed through the laundry room window to the backyard.
He leaned back against the wall, absorbing his situation, unaware that Faith was still outside and had heard his end of the call.
62
Abel Renard Wixom’s face stared from the monitor on the wall at the far end of the second-floor meeting room of River Ridge police headquarters.
The lights had been dimmed and the monitor, which also held Wixom’s record collected by NCIC and California law enforcement, glowed on Malko, Marsh, Detectives Price and Lang, their supervisors and other investigators who’d gathered for the call from Norm Howell with the LAPD.
“Can you confirm we’re talking on a secure line and this is confidential?” Howell said.
“Yes,” Price said.
“All right.” Howell’s voice sounded tinny through the teleconference speakers. “As you can see, using stolen identities, false birth certificates and driving licenses, Wixom is also known as Arthur Lee Wilemonte, Melvin Claude Marxe, Wardell Preston Bowles and Felix Steed Vassellef. We know him as Felix Vassellef and we’ve been looking for him.”
“You said he’s central to your investigation?” Malko asked.
“He’s a key player in Illicitum Passio.”
“What’s that?” Price asked.
“The name is Latin. Loosely translated it means forbidden passion or suffering. It’s an ultrasecret worldwide network of pedophiles that uses the dark web to distribute child porn.”
“Understood,” Price said. “I think we’re all aware of people distributing porn online.”
“This group is different. It operates on a level that surpasses any other. It goes beyond the sharing of pictures and videos. Members of Illicitum Passio have been suspected of infiltrating adoption agencies, social service departments and other offices around the globe to arrange to steal and sell children to other members. This group specializes in fetishes, sexualized torture and even ritualistic murder.”
“Damn, that’s the devil at work,” Lang said.
“Members are also pathologically loyal to each other. Illicitum Passio is extremely sophisticated. On the dark web they use a very complex structure of guides and forums. They communicate through a dizzying array of layer upon layer of state-of-the-art encryption, characteristic of an onion router, with servers hidden around the globe.”
“Where does Wixom, or whoever he is, fit into this?” Malko asked.
“Some time ago we got a tip from an internet provider after they’d accidentally uncovered hidden child porn when Vassellef—sorry, Wixom—was having a computer issue. For a moment he’d been sloppy. Shortly after we began investigating him, he vanished.
“Long story short, for more than a year we’ve worked with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, also police in Europe, Asia and South America, and we were successful in infiltrating the group to a certain degree with an officer posing online as a member. We also had limited success tracking Wixom because he kept changing identities. His fingerprint records had a glitch and we missed out that he’d done time for the crimes that your investigation uncovered. Additionally, it got by us that he was a carny with Ultra-Fun.
“As you are all aware, in reality things do not go as smoothly as they do on TV, the movies or in books. Our efforts to track him were hampered. We’d get breaks only when Vassellef surfaced on the dark web in Illicitum Passio. Our investigation took a turn when we recently learned that Wixom slash Vassellef is connected to an orphanage in Thailand.”
“In what way?”
“Supplying them with children.”
A chill rippled around the room as Howell continued.
“And if he has the Hudson boy and he hasn’t killed him, he could be planning to change his identity, take him to Thailand and sell him. Either way, if we don’t find Wixom, Gage Hudson is most likely gone forever.”
Malko, Price and the others darted momentary glances to each other.
“I have to tell you,” Howell said, “when we were alerted to your query we had hoped you had Wixom in custody.”
“River Ridge had him for questioning,” Malko said, “but before proper background on him was completed, he left the area.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“Approximately seventy-two hours ago,” Malko said. “We discovered it less than twenty-four hours ago and put out an alert. We’re going to intensify things because now, given additional information from you, and allegations he molested at least one child here, the situation’s changed.”
“Keep us looped in,” Howell said.
Even before the call had ended, Malko studied the files, revisiting River Ridge information. Early in the investigation one sharp-minded officer had noted the plates and photographed every vehicle, RV, camper, van and car belonging to Ultra-Fun’s staff.
We’ve got Wixom’s RV. That’s a start, Malko thought, looking at the photo of it.
“We’ll get out an Amber Alert as far and wide as possible,” Malko said.
“Agreed,” said Sosa, the River Ridge lieutenant. “We’ve already alerted the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in case he entered Canada, and instructed Mexican officials, US Customs and US Border Patrol to watch for Wixom at every terminal and border checkpoint.”
“I’ll call the US Attorney and State’s Attorney,”
Malko’s supervisor, Agent Paul Bishop, said. “We’ll push them to issue those felony charges against Wixom for what he did to Breeana Kohl and Hannah Dawkins, then we’ll go public with him on our Most Wanted.”
“Tibor.” Agent Dee Lewin was scrolling through her tablet. “We know Cal Hudson covered pedophile cases. We need to go back over all his stories for any possible connections.”
“All right. Good.” Malko continued paging through his notes. “And we’ll reinterview the Ultra-Fun staff, especially Griner and McCain. We’ll lean on them about Wixom.”
“We have to hustle,” Price said. “Because the midway is only in town a few more days and I’m not sure we can get warrants compelling the entire operation to stay put.”
Malko stared at Wixom’s face on the monitor, then he glanced through files on Cal and Faith Hudson, Roy Tate, Sid Griner and Alma McCain.
His jaw clenched like a man preparing for war and he warned himself as he always did at critical points of an investigation.
Don’t get tunnel vision. You haven’t ruled everyone out yet.
63
“How many times does she need to go through this?”
Rex Dunne, Ultra-Fun’s chief engineer, was losing patience with Quinn Hardy, the FBI’s engineer. Hardy had shown no sign of wrapping up her meticulous search with investigators for an alternative way Gage Hudson could have exited the Chambers of Dread.
Dunne, out of Hardy’s earshot, dragged his sleeve across his brow. “We’ve been at this, what, over thirty-six hours now.”
“I hear ya.” Brian Lodge with the county nodded.
“We’ve combed through every inch of the floor, the walls, the ceiling and outside. We examined the undercarriage and the roof. We found nothing. It’s clear that the boy likely wandered off.” Dunne pointed his chin to Hardy, who was at the spinner. “What’s she looking at again? Is she ever going to stop?”
* * *
All the bolts in the critical areas of the spinner were satisfactory and all the nondestructive test reports, the NDTs, were in compliance, Quinn Hardy thought as she reviewed the rotation mechanism one more time.
Flipping through the binders, she checked off the occupant load records again. Then she reviewed the section’s floor plans, but when she came back to the alarms she waved Bud Porter, the state inspector, over.
“The records show the electrical system took a lightning strike in Milwaukee,” she said, “which made the alarms and security cameras perform erratically.”
“Yes, we’ve covered this,” Porter said. “The systems were working when I signed off.”
“They could still be switched off manually.”
“That’s against procedure.”
“But it’s possible.”
“It would have to be logged and there’s no confirmation.”
“Sometimes people forget and sometimes people lie.”
“That’s true.” Porter sighed and turned to the others in the distance. “Look, Quinn, we’ve been over this thing exhaustively. We’re in agreement that the attraction was performing and in compliance and we’ve found no alternative exits.”
“I still don’t know.”
Hardy shifted her attention once again to the walls that surrounded the spinner to where Gage Hudson was last seen. Like the rest of the interior they were all painted black to enhance the dark. Again, she tried to imagine Gage amid the chaos of a rotating floor under his feet, flashing lights, loud music, screams and an actor chasing patrons with a chain saw.
“I can’t shake this feeling that we’re missing something,” she said, tapping on the curving black wall and listening. The surface of the wooden wall was foam, molded to resemble ancient bricks like a dungeon wall.
“It’s a divider wall.” Porter flipped through his manual. “We’ve looked at it. The records show it was used in another incarnation when the attraction was called Horror-Rama-Tour-of-Hell.”
Tapping and thinking as she walked around the other side, Hardy returned with an idea.
“Bud, humor me. Take your tactical flashlight, go to the opposite side and run the beam close to the wall, moving it slowly up and down.”
Porter shrugged and unholstered his light from his belt.
“Guys,” Hardy called to the others. “Kill all the lights, please.”
After a ripple of muttering and switches snapping, the attraction was thrown into total darkness. The floors creaked from Porter working on the other side of the wall as Hardy stepped closer, seeing nothing, not even her hand in front of her face.
“Are you running your light, Bud?” she called.
“I am.”
Still nothing—then a bright sliver of light flashed.
“Hold it,” Hardy called. “There! Where you are now—move it up and down slowly.” Another sliver flashed and Hardy shifted her position until a hairline seam of light leaked through on her side.
“Okay, guys, can we have the lights back, please?”
Hardy stood still with her gloved finger on the light leak and within seconds she discerned an almost invisible section. She ran her fingers along it, up and down, noticing a very small mesh peephole about eye level. She also noticed that the wall had some give. Carefully and gently she pressed the wall until she heard a click.
Hardy froze.
The wall sprung slightly inward a few inches and she saw a track above and below, similar to the sliding doors of a closet. Hardy rolled the section of wall and it revealed a hidden passage no more than a foot and a half in width, all painted black and winding in the direction of the nearest exit door.
“Well, look at that,” Porter said. “A false wall.”
“Don’t move or touch anything, Bud. Come with me.”
Hardy rushed to the exit, went outside to the landing that faced the chain-link fence and vacant lot. She began pressing on sections of the exterior wall until she heard another click and opened a narrow door, so camouflaged by the murals painted on the exterior that it was invisible.
“Okay, come on!”
Hardy rushed back to the spinner and the entrance. She got Porter to run his powerful tactical light along the floor. Upon detecting foot impressions in the dust and other matter, Hardy reached for her phone and punched a number.
“A person with knowledge of this wall could’ve used it to swallow Gage Hudson in the chaos and darkness,” she told Porter while it rang. “They could’ve taken him in a heartbeat. We’re going to need the Evidence Response Team down here now—Hello, Agent Malko?”
64
Alma McCain chewed on her fingernails watching the FBI’s Evidence Response Team roll its white cube van up the midway to the Chambers of Dread.
“Sid, they’re gonna find out what we did. I can feel it.” She stood behind him outside of their RV as more police arrived. “What’re we gonna do?”
“Why don’t you shut up, get back in the van and let me think.” Sid Griner never turned from eyeing the increased activity at the Chambers.
Alma stomped into their Ford camper, slamming the door behind her.
This is getting so freaking serious. They’ve been working on the Chambers for days. Suddenly there’s more FBI everywhere. She continued biting her nails while pacing. They must know I lied on the polygraph. I tried to do what Sid told me—I kept changing my answers. I said I was upset. But it’s like the FBI knows everything and so much is happening. I’m scared to death for that little boy.
She glanced at Sid’s laptop. The screen showed the FBI’s website where Abel Wixom was now one of the most wanted men in the country.
If they catch him what will he tell the FBI?
Alma ran her hands through her hair.
I bet Abel would try to make a deal. Put it all on us.
She looked through the window at Sid.
So would he. He’d make a
deal and put it all on me. He’d say I was crazy because I lost my son in a fire. If things turned bad, Sid would try to save himself. He would. She bit down on her bottom lip. I can’t wait for that to happen. I’ve got to do something.
Alma’s breathing quickened and her eyes swept the interior for her wallet. She found it on the galley counter and slid out the business card for Grace Kelsey, the lawyer Ultra-Fun had arranged for her polygraph. Alma turned the card over and over, thinking for a moment before putting her wallet in her purse, slipping it over her shoulder and stepping from the van.
“Where’re you going?” Sid asked.
“The drugstore—I need things.”
“What things? I’ll go with you.”
“Female stuff. I’m going alone, Sid.”
* * *
Almost trotting the first few blocks from the fairgrounds to the drugstore, Alma thought, I should just get on a bus and disappear.
By the time she’d reached the parking lot she’d abandoned the idea and gone straight to the public phone that stood in front of the drugstore.
Forty-five minutes after using it she was at River Ridge police headquarters in an interview room with lawyer Grace Kelsey at her side.
“My client has remembered more information,” Kelsey told Malko and Marsh, who sat across the table from them. “And in exchange for providing you this information, we’re seeking immunity from any prosecution.”
The two agents flicked a stone-cold stare to Alma.
“Do you know where Gage Hudson is?” Malko said.
“No,” Alma said.
“We won’t make any deals. That’s for the US Attorney and the County State’s Attorney to determine. We have no time here. What’s your information and remember you’re still under the Miranda warning.”
Alma swallowed and looked to Kelsey, who nodded.
“Sid and I were paid five thousand dollars to temporarily shut off the alarm system and the cameras.”
“Who paid you?”
“Abel Wixom.”
“Why?”