Last Seen

by Rick Mofina

  Something twigged.

  Maybe it was an answered prayer.

  Recognition hit like a sledgehammer to his head.

  Fortress of Solitude, like Superman’s remote base.

  He knew where the cabin was.

  Fear and hope whirled in Cal’s mind when he heard someone reaching into his thoughts, saying something now. “Cal?” Why was someone saying his name?

  Rory Clark stood next to him, compassion in his eyes.

  “Cal, I don’t know what to say. We’re all praying for Gage. Tell me if there’s anything we can do, anything at all.”

  Cal’s thoughts shot through him like the chaos of the spinning room of the Chambers of Dread, echoing with the last instructions by the recorded demonic voice: Choose your exit now, or perish!

  Cal seized on one thought. “Rory, I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Where? Why?”

  “I think I know where Gage is, where the FBI’s going.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to be there when they find him.”

  The concern on Rory’s face deepened. “You haven’t slept or eaten. You’re going through hell. I think you should just sit with us, let the FBI do their job and wait for news. Have something to eat, a shot of whiskey, something.”

  “No, no, I’m useless here. I’ve got to get out. I can’t take my car. I need to leave through the side so the mob out front doesn’t see.”

  “But what about—” Rory gestured to Price and Lang.

  “I’m free to go. I’m not under arrest. Not yet. I’ve got to do this. Rory, help me.”

  His friend blinked several times, considering his plea.

  “This is my fault,” Cal said. “I have to fix it! I have to be there, no matter what. Even if Gage is...even if he’s...dead. Please help me!”

  Rory found something in Cal’s eyes that sealed a decision and he reached into his jeans. His keys jingled as he put them in Cal’s hand.

  “Take my Subaru. It’ll need gas.”

  “Thank you. One more thing, and keep this confidential.” Cal was writing on the pad Faith used for their grocery list. “Ask Jack to use his real estate skills and search all property records for this name ASAP and call me with the result.”

  “Ezili,” Rory read the name. “But wouldn’t the FBI do this already?”

  “Yes, but they won’t tell me anything. I need to confirm where they really are so I can be there.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Thank you and don’t tell a soul. I’ve got my phone—call me with any news.”

  “You do the same.” Rory glanced at the detectives, then back at Cal to wish him luck but he was already headed to the side door of his house.

  It was shielded by a tall wooden fence and shrubs, which would provide enough cover for Cal to make his way through the neighboring yards to Rory’s Subaru.

  79

  Somewhere in Illinois

  Westbound on I-88 beyond Chicago somewhere between Aurora and De Kalb, Cal looked out at the rolling green countryside as he pushed the Subaru past the speed limit.

  The car’s GPS put the driving time from Chicago to his destination at over two hours. Nothing had broken on radio news broadcasts. Other than press interview requests, which he ignored, he’d received no messages on his phone. He adjusted his grip on the wheel and forced himself to breathe evenly and think clearly.

  God, please let me be right about this!

  Fields floated by, pulling him back to when he’d visited Ezekiel Ezili’s apartment. Back to its peculiar smell, a mix of drugstore cologne and baby powder. The place was neat, spotless, nothing out of order.

  Ezili had few pieces of furniture, giving his home an air of stark, desperate stillness. Cal thought it strange how he’d kept a bowl of candy at the door, evocative of Halloween, as if he’d expected children to visit.

  Then there was Ezili himself, his shirt always tucked in, belt buckled tight. Cal remembered his pale face and weird, jagged bangs of thick black hair. “I cut it myself,” he’d said, “to save money.”

  During their conversations there were long, odd silences and Cal broke one by inquiring about a framed photo on the wall.

  “That? Oh, that cabin’s been in my family for ages. One of my ancestors built it in the early 1800s near Savanna, in the hilly forests overlooking the Mississippi, in the northwest corner of the state. A good place to get away from it all, to think, or to hide. I call it my Fortress of Solitude.”

  Fortress of Solitude.

  That’s exactly how Wixom’s message had described where the Decanus was keeping the “cargo,” in a location that honored Ezili.

  Cal realized that the photo of the cabin in Ezili’s apartment had the same features as the photo pulled from Wixom’s computer: nearly covered by dense forest, the water pump on the ramshackle porch, wagon wheel leaning on a post.

  It had to be where they were keeping Gage.

  Cal was nearing Dixon when he left the interstate and the phone rang.

  “Cal, it’s Rory. Jack says he had his people search all property records and nothing comes up for the name Ezili. Could it be under another family name or a company name?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll find where the FBI is somehow.”

  Cal could’ve had his newspaper check if they had a lead on where the FBI was, but he didn’t want to risk anyone knowing what he was doing.

  Now, well over halfway to his goal, he accelerated along Route 52, a lonely two-lane ribbon threading past farms, churches and rural cemeteries. The power poles zoomed by and he soon came upon Savanna, a sleepy town of a few thousand people.

  Time hammered against him as he eased along the quiet tree-lined main street, searching the two-and three-story nineteenth-century buildings. He saw the opera house, the food store, the VFW hall, before he locked on to what he needed.

  Cardinal, Violet and Carroll Real Estate.

  After parking, he entered the agency. It had a waist-high counter and three desks in an open-office area. Maps and pictures of properties covered one wall, while pleasant photos of the region, awards and framed certificates covered another. The only person he saw in the office, a silver-haired man, was at his desk talking on the phone. He interrupted his conversation to acknowledge Cal.

  “Be right with you, sir.”

  Cal then noticed a large enclosed office at the far end of the floor. The door was open to a woman working at her desk, looking like a person of some authority.

  “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” The man came to the counter smiling.

  “I’m interested in a specific property, a cabin, and I was hoping you could help me locate it.”

  “Certainly, is it listed with us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have an address or a name?”

  “I don’t have much. It was built in the 1800s. It overlooks the Mississippi and may belong to the Ezili family.”

  “Ezili? Can you spell that name for me?”

  Cal spelled the name and the man returned to his desk and typed at his computer keyboard. “Hmm, nothing comes up in our listings.” The man scratched his chin and turned to a large wall map.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have more,” Cal said.

  “Well—” the man studied the map “—I know of cabins from that period near Palisades, with gorgeous views of the river from the bluffs. Got some up near Galena and near Chestnut Mountain. What was that name again?”

  “Ezili.”

  “Ezili. The name doesn’t ring any bells with me. Course, I’ve only been here since last fall, moved from Kansas to be with my daughter.”

  “Are you talking about the Ezili who murdered that boy in Chicago a while back?”

  Cal and the man turned to the woman who’d just spoke
n, having overheard them and stepped from her office. She was in her sixties, hair swept back in a sharp, streaked wave.

  “Yes.”

  The woman shook her head. “No, I don’t think there’s any property out here connected to that business.”

  “Are you sure? The cabin may have been called the Fortress of Solitude?”

  “Like in Superman?” The silver-haired man smiled.

  “That’s right,” Cal said.

  “The Fortress of Solitude?” The woman’s eyes narrowed with curious intelligence. “You look familiar. Who are you?”

  Cal had to think fast, had to be careful.

  “I’m a writer from Chicago.”

  “And why’re you interested in the property?”

  “A friend suggested that it might be coming up for sale at a good price. That it offers a lot of privacy and solitude. I thought I’d drive by and take a look, but I don’t know where it is.”

  “You could go to the town hall and ask the clerk, Muriel, to look through property records.”

  “Guess that’s my next stop, thanks.” He smiled and turned to leave.

  “Hold on.” The woman had walked to the map, tracing her finger on it. “I don’t know anything about an Ezili property. But this Fortress of Solitude thing has me thinking. Now, if memory serves me...”

  The silver-haired man whispered to Cal, “Lynn grew up here. She knows everybody and every inch of the county, even served as mayor for a few terms.”

  Her finger tapped on the map.

  “Here.” She turned to Cal. “Got a pen and paper?”

  “I do.” Cal reached into his pocket.

  “It’s on Timberline. Drive right down Main Street, turn left at the high school.” Cal took notes. “Turn left at Lucky’s gas station, that’ll put you on Pioneer, then take the second right. That’s Timberline. You go about four or five miles, maybe longer, on Timberline. You won’t miss it—there’s a big square white stone at the entrance to the lane, and it’s got the word Fortress painted on it. Heard a local say once that whoever lived there called it the Fortress of Solitude.”

  Cal finished his notes. “Thank you.”

  “You should know that no one goes out that way. People tend to stay clear of that property.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Nobody living there. It’s all but abandoned.”

  “I understand.” Cal put his notes in his pocket. “Well, I’ll be on my way. Thank you for your help.”

  * * *

  Lynn watched Cal through the window as he drove off.

  “That man looks so familiar,” she said. “I’ve seen him but I can’t recall where. Does he look familiar to you, Tom?”

  “No, first time I’ve ever seen that fellow,” he said, lifting the counter so he could pass through. “Excuse me, I’ve got to step out and pick up my prescription. Be right back.”

  Tom had walked about half a block when he stopped and patted the pockets of his jacket. He’d forgotten his wallet on his desk. When he returned to the office, he heard Lynn at her desk, talking to someone on the phone.

  “He said he was a writer from Chicago. He asked a lot of questions, and I’m telling you, something about him didn’t sit right... He’s up to something... Yes, he’s headed out there now...”

  80

  Minutes after leaving the real estate office, Cal cursed under his breath.

  He suddenly realized he was low on fuel and pulled into Lucky’s gas station, anxious about the time he would lose.

  Tires and motor oil were stacked neatly in front of the station. A sign over the door said Open and one above the pumps where he stopped said Self-Serv. Cal filled the tank, then went inside to pay. A radio was playing the end of a country song—“Beer for My Horses.”

  “Just the gas today?” the large, tired-looking, woman with a rose tattooed on her upper arm asked from behind the counter as the radio news began.

  Cal hesitated, keeping an ear cocked to the broadcast. The top story was a political scandal out of Washington, then something from Iraq.

  “Sir?”

  “Sorry?”

  “If it’s just the gas, that’ll be thirty-six dollars.”

  Cal nodded, reached for his wallet and froze at the next story.

  “Citing unnamed sources, the Associated Press is reporting that moments ago the FBI launched an operation in an undisclosed location in the case of Gage Hudson, the nine-year-old boy who recently disappeared from a Chicago-area midway ride. No other details were reported. Switching to sports...”

  “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “Uh, right, yes.” Cal slapped two twenties on the counter and rushed to the Subaru with the clerk calling after him about his change.

  Please, God, let them find Gage alive.

  Cal’s knuckles whitened on the wheel as he consulted the directions, accelerating on Pioneer, watching for the turn for Timberline. It came up faster than he expected: a paved, worn ribbon of twisting road that cut into forest so dense treetops blotted the sunlight. Cal blinked as his eyes adjusted. He had to be less than five miles away now.

  I’ve got to get there before it’s too late. I’ve got to see him.

  The car shook as the paved road abruptly transformed into a dirt road. No signs of life, other than an occasional No Trespass sign, or a gate. Any buildings were concealed, the forest underscoring the isolation in this corner of the state. That’s when worry that had been gnawing at Cal flared.

  Why hadn’t he seen a single police vehicle?

  He knew how these operations unfolded with command posts, perimeters, road closures and SWAT teams.

  He wished he had an emergency scanner, or had made some calls to sources, something more to help.

  Dust clouds rose and churned in his rearview mirror, gravel popcorned against the undercarriage, and he searched the shoulders for a square white stone. He shot a glance to the odometer; he’d gone just over six miles and was beginning to panic when his phone rang and he seized it.

  “Cal, it’s Rory, have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “CNN’s broken the story on Gage that the FBI just moved on a property outside of Milwaukee.”

  “Milwaukee?” Cal slammed on the brakes and pulled to the side.

  “Isn’t that where you are?”

  “No, I’m nowhere near Milwaukee!” Cal switched off the ignition and the Subaru was swallowed by its own dust cloud. “Did they find Gage?”

  “Nothing’s being reported on the outcome. I’m sorry, I thought that’s where you were.”

  “What’s being reported? Tell me everything.”

  “Right now they’ve got live aerial shots of a rural property, a heavily wooded area with SWAT types and other officers moving around. The anchor is somber—said the property is linked to a known violent sex offender. No mention of what they’ve discovered, or if arrests have been made.”

  A deepening fear coiled up Cal’s spine.

  “Cal, can you get there? I haven’t told anyone where you went. Huppkey asked and the cops here are eyeballing me. They want to know where you are. I told them I wasn’t sure. Can you get to Milwaukee soon?”

  Cal didn’t answer. He stepped from the car and leaned against it.

  “Cal, can you get there?”

  “I don’t know what to do. I’ve got to go.”

  Rory’s voice grew distant as Cal lowered the phone and ended the call.

  Milwaukee?

  He’d been wrong about this place. Dead wrong.

  As if winded by a gut punch he stared through the dusty haze at the forest, tortured by his last clear memory of his son, just before they’d stepped into the Chambers of Dread. Gage was bursting with happiness at the thrill of the attraction. But the pure joy in his eyes had been lit by the fact his
parents were together with him.

  And it was a lie.

  They’d pretended to be happy while carrying on with deceitful, hurtful acts, like the horrible people they were.

  I’ve lost my son because of what I did. I sacrificed him to vainglory. And the last thing I did was lie to him.

  Gage, I’m so sorry.

  His son gone, his marriage shredded, his career over, felony charges and prison looming, Cal fell to his knees, tormented by the image of Gage—captive, bound and gagged—knowing it would be seared into his soul forever.

  Cal sobbed great heaving sobs.

  So loud he barely heard his phone ring.

  He stared at it with dread for he knew what that call would be.

  They were going to tell him his son was dead.

  81

  Staring at the ringing phone Cal wiped his face and braced for the news.

  Fingers trembling, he answered.

  “Cal, it’s Rory. It’s all happening fast. NBC says USA TODAY and the Chicago Tribune are reporting that law enforcement sources have found nothing at the Milwaukee site. It’s a false lead.”

  “A false lead?”

  “The wrong place! Is there police activity where you are?”

  Cal’s mind was spinning. If Milwaukee’s the wrong location does that mean that he was at the right one? He clenched his eyes to digest the possibility.

  When Cal opened his eyes the dust cloud had settled and in the distance he saw a square white rock with the word Fortress painted on it.

  “Cal? Where are you?”

  “I’m near Savanna on Timberline Road and I’m going to check something out. I’ll get back to you.”

  “What? You’re breaking up—I can’t—”

  Cal moved the Subaru as far off to the side of the road as possible then he walked to the stone. Looking in all directions he saw nothing but thick forest, heard nothing but birdsong.

  Some ten yards deep into the woods from the stone he saw a rusted steel gate nearly hidden by undergrowth. A sign affixed to it with wire said Keep Out Private.

  Cal caught his breath. The locked chain wrapped around the latch and gatepost was new. Past the gate he saw a dirt road disappearing into heavy woods, but one thing stood out.