by Rick Mofina
Fresh tire tracks in the dried mud.
The place was supposed to be abandoned.
Cal’s pulse quickened as he climbed over the gate.
His stomach tightened and he headed down the dirt road penetrating the property as breezes fingered through the treetops. He estimated the road twisted for a hundred yards before he came to a hill and spotted a structure.
A cabin.
Cal crouched down, stepped into the forest to study the building without being seen. There it was, in the small valley below: a log cabin. It had a satellite dish on a roof corner, a water pump on the sagging porch and the wagon wheel leaning against a porch post.
It matched Wixom’s photo.
This was it.
No vehicles, no signs of life. A quiet stillness enveloped the property.
He should call somebody—Rory, police, somebody.
Before Cal did anything, a sudden, muffled noise broke the silence. Like a cry—soft, deadened as if far away. It was there, then gone.
He couldn’t wait another moment.
Using the forest as cover, he rushed to the cabin, his back to the side wall, feeling the hewn logs through his shirt. Fighting to slow his breathing he listened for more sounds, hearing nothing but his own heart.
Peering around a corner behind the cabin, he caught a glint of chrome from a vehicle nearly covered by a large tarp. Cal moved closer to it, seeing the plate. California. He copied it down, reached for his phone.
Thud!
Cal stopped. That noise—whatever it was—had come from inside the cabin. He positioned his phone to call Malko for help but cursed with disbelief. The signal was weak; the battery was low. The call refused to go through.
Damn, damn, damn!
He shoved the phone in his pocket and went to the cabin, looking in windows. One revealed a bedroom. Cal recognized the bed by the landscape painting above it.
That’s where Gage was being held in the photo.
But the room was empty.
He pressed his ear to the glass and heard voices inside.
Moving to another window he saw a TV tuned to an all-news channel.
Moving to other windows and looking inside, Cal saw no one.
He’d come to the front door and a decision.
He knocked—hard, repeatedly—wishing he had something for a weapon.
Nothing happened.
He placed his ear to the door and heard the TV. He turned the doorknob.
Locked.
He went to the back door and tried the knob. It clicked and turned all the way but the door wouldn’t budge more than a quarter inch, stuck.
“Hello!” Cal called.
Nothing happened.
Every instinct began screaming at him to get inside.
But he needed something, anything, to serve as a weapon. Casting about he found an ax handle, looking something like a baseball bat. It would do. He turned his shoulder and slammed against the door, causing it to swing inward, and he was hit with a wave of body odor and rotting food.
The kitchen.
A portrait of chaos, counters plastered with dirty dishes, dishrags, empty tins of canned beans, spaghetti, potato chip bags, beer cans, take-out wrappers.
“Hello?”
Cal moved to the bedroom, certain it was the same bedroom in Wixom’s photo.
Empty.
He looked under the bed and in the closet. Nothing. He moved to the bathroom—it had a toilet, sink, shower stall, which was dry. The medicine cabinet held nothing.
The sound of the TV drew him to the living room. It was spacious with hardwood floors, a stone fireplace and a sofa. An area rug covered the space between the sofa and the large flat-screen TV, which was on a stand and flickering with CNN news about the Middle East.
Cal saw no one in the room before his attention went to the coffee table in front of the sofa. Splayed copies of the Chicago Star-News and Chicago Tribune covered it. Each edition was open to stories reporting Gage’s disappearance.
Cal’s stomach twisted. He was on the verge of screaming out for Gage when he heard the creak of a plank in the floor. Sensing a presence he cast about the room, looking everywhere—the crossbeams of the ceiling, the living room—and found nothing.
Then he saw it.
Almost imperceptible.
As if beckoning him.
A ripple in the area rug exposed a darker seam between the floorboards. Cal lifted the rug. The seam outlined a rectangle, about the size of a fridge door, in the floor. A recessed latch at one end.
A cellar door.
Cal yanked on the latch and lifted the heavy door.
It opened to stairs that descended into blackness.
He hesitated, tightening his grip on the handle.
Should I go in? What if this is a trap?
Cal was motionless.
It’s too quiet.
“Hello? Anyone home?” He called down only to be answered with silence.
Then something stirred in the dark below.
Cal froze at the sound of the voice he suddenly heard.
“Gage, always remember Mommy loves you. You have to be strong and remember that no matter what happens I love you, sweetheart.”
His wife was speaking—to their son.
82
What the hell’s happening?
Cal’s heart hammered in his chest.
“Faith? Gage?”
He was answered with silence and called again.
“Faith! Gage!”
Darkness had swallowed all but the top few steps. He searched the frame of the door for a light switch but found nothing. He fumbled for his phone but its light was too weak. Then he remembered the miniflashlight on Rory’s key ring.
It provided enough light.
“I’m coming down!”
The stairs squeaked as if awakened; the black, dank air smelled earthen—like a grave. The narrow light beam hinted at a confined subterranean space, revealing water seeping down the uneven stone walls, glistening like those of a dungeon.
“Faith, Gage?”
Baby-soft breathing, bordering on frantic panting.
Cal pivoted, his light piercing the dark, capturing the edge of a stained mattress on the floor, a bare foot, little legs, a small chest, bound hands, a taped mouth and small eyes enlarged with fear, tears streaming.
“Gage!”
Half sobbing, Cal flew to his son. Gage, his head shaved, looking so small, so fragile, trembling.
“Oh God, son, I’m here. Dad’s here!”
Cal dropped his handle and felt the chilled skin of Gage’s cheeks as he worked to remove the duct tape from his mouth. In that instant snot erupted from Gage’s nostrils, his cheeks puffed and his teary eyes ballooned as he groaned a warning. Cal heard a quick, rustling movement behind him, the light diffused, then a sudden force to his head turned the world black.
83
Semiconscious, Cal’s eyes fluttered.
He couldn’t move.
Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak. Squeak-creak.
The base of his skull throbbed with pain. Pressure was on his mouth, face, arms and chest. His nose prickled with familiar pungent, clammy air.
Where am I? What’s that sound? What happened? Think... Go back... Cabin... Cellar... Faith’s voice... Gage...
Cal’s eyes flickered open to a filmy, underwater vision.
Disoriented, he stared woozily. A metal chain was creaking. The room swayed in black and white as an interrogation-style naked bulb swung from the ceiling. The cellar was oscillating between light and dark...light and dark...
And in the rhythm, in the light, Cal saw Gage.
So small, so terrified, and trembling on the mattress.
In that instant their eyes met—Gage
’s overwhelmed with fear; Cal’s filled with love, guilt, shame and anger.
Cal moved to be with him, to save him, to comfort him, but was paralyzed, stripped to his underwear, his upper body restrained to an old wooden chair, wrists pulled behind him and taped to the backrest.
A spent roll of tape was on the floor.
He cursed into the tape sealing his mouth.
The chain squeak-creaked, throwing the light across the cellar onto the large figure standing before him. He was muscular, about six feet tall, wearing combat pants and boots, a sleeveless T-shirt exposing his powerful tattooed arms.
And in that instant of light Cal’s blood turned to ice upon seeing the man’s head enshrouded in a black leather hood with sliding zippers open for his eyes and mouth.
The Decanus.
Questions burned through Cal’s mind: Where was Faith? He’d heard her voice...
The hooded man stared at Cal.
As the light swung, Cal saw in the fringes of the confined cellar a workbench, a laptop sitting on it. It was frozen on a frame of a TV news story and it dawned on him. That was Faith at their first news conference at the fairgrounds, where she encouraged Gage to be strong. Cal had heard her voice as she spoke to the cameras, addressing their son.
The hooded man turned away from Cal to the workbench.
As the light swung, the man moved a tripod with a video camera closer, training it on Cal and Gage.
The man then turned to the bench and pulled on a rubber apron, then shoved the light so it continued its rhythmic swinging.
A metallic rattle sounded as the hooded man rolled a cart bearing tools and surgeon’s instruments, positioning it before Cal and Gage.
84
Behind the wheel of her parked patrol car, Deputy Alexa Sloan finished her burger and fries.
I shoulda had the salad but what the heck.
She removed the straw and tipped her take-out cup to her mouth for the last of her chocolate shake but it got away from her and dripped onto her shirt.
“Darn.” Sloan dabbed the stain with napkins she’d soaked with her bottled water as her radio crackled.
“Hey, Alexa, got a report of a possible suspicious person at a property on Timberline. Sending you details now, copy?”
Sloan reached for her microphone. “I’m close by. Ten-four.”
The mobile computer in her car beeped and, while tidying up, she read the information: a report of a man asking questions concerning an uninhabited property on Timberline. Sloan looked at the address. She knew the place, the Fortress. Caller said the man had a “suspicious demeanor,” and indicated he was going to check out the property. He was driving a blue Subaru. Caller was Lynn Violet, the former mayor.
All right, let’s check it out.
Sloan started her car and headed for Timberline.
Veteran cops might regard the call as small potatoes but being twenty-two and four months out of the academy at Springfield, Sloan drove with a twinge of excitement.
Tilting her visor mirror to inspect the stain, she wished she’d had a spare shirt in her car. Can’t do much about it now, she thought as stones popped under the wheels and the dust churned behind her. Within fifteen minutes she eased off the accelerator as she came up to the property and scanned the area.
Bingo.
A vehicle was far off on the side of the road half-hidden in the bush. Sloan stopped, radioed her position, then prepared to step out to inspect it. She still found it awkward exiting her car with her heavy utility belt. She positioned her cap but it kept slipping, reminding her that she needed to adjust the band.
The car was a blue Subaru, all right. She called in the plate, observing that it sure as heck was suspect, parked the way it was. As she surveyed the area for any sign of people, her dispatcher responded.
“Vehicle’s registered to Rory Clark, River Ridge, Illinois. No wants, no warrants. No report of it being stolen, copy?”
“Ten-four.”
Seeing nothing in the area, Sloan got back into her car and moved it up to the square white stone and gated entrance.
She typed on the keyboard of her car’s computer, submitting her position and status. Then she got her portable radio, clipped on her shoulder microphone, tested it and climbed out. She debated on whether to bring her shotgun, deciding that her sidearm would do.
Sloan hefted herself over the gate and headed down the twisting forest road. Walking in the tranquil shade the loudest thing she heard was the leathery squeak of her utility belt. It would take time for its newness to soften, she thought.
Her shift had been quiet so far with a medical call for someone who’d broken their wrist in an off-road vehicle crash. She also tried to serve papers in a child custody case, but the person was not home. Her last call was to help a man who’d flagged her down on the highway—his truck quit and he needed a tow.
Who knew what this call could yield. In this neck of the woods she’d learned that some of the locals were a little odd but there was never any trouble. Maybe she’d find a drug operation like a meth lab. Or maybe it would be a simple trespass issue.
Or maybe it would be nothing at all.
As the old-school cops told her, the job was ninety percent boredom and ten percent sheer terror, which suited Sloan, a farmer’s daughter, just fine.
Reaching the cabin, she knocked on the front door.
No response.
She cupped her hands to her eyes and pressed her face to the window. The TV in the living room was on and the rug in front of it was raised.
She tried the door. Locked. Moving around the cabin she saw a car covered with a canvas, noted the California plate and requested her dispatcher run it through NCIC.
“Stand by, Alexa.”
While waiting, Sloan took stock of the property. Light winds hissed through the surrounding trees, giving her a sense of dread. Something wasn’t right here. She could sense it in the air.
Her radio sounded with a burst of static.
“Alexa, that California tag is flagged by the LAPD and the FBI.”
“What for?”
“Stand by.”
As Sloan waited, her eyes were drawn to the cabin’s back door.
It was open.
Something’s definitely not right.
“Alexa, you’re being advised to stay put, and await further instructions. Vehicle is connected to the abduction of a nine-year-old boy from Chicago. Hang in there. Stay put. We’re reaching out to the FBI. You copy?”
Abduction? Nine-year-old boy from Chicago? The story in the news?
Sloan’s heart was beating faster as she concentrated on the back door.
Why was it open? Why was the Subaru on Timberline nearly hidden?
Pulling pieces together Sloan moved to the back door. She hesitated, considered the situation, then stepped inside to the upheaval of the kitchen and the rank air.
At that moment she heard a noise.
Instantly Sloan unlocked her holster, drew her weapon and proceeded to the living room.
85
I’m not going to die without fighting back!
Shooting a glance to Gage, then at their captor, Cal began shaking with rage. Adrenaline jetted through his body. His nostrils flared with hard breathing as he summoned every molecule of strength and battled his bindings. The tape bit into his wrists, but his legs were unbound, and the chair creaked and wobbled.
The chair was old and the legs were loose. The thing was weakening, and if Cal used all his strength, he could stand.
With blind fury he rose to his feet, turned and—using the chair’s legs as a weapon—drove himself backward into the hooded man. Cal’s surprising violent explosion knocked the man to the ground and sent the instrument cart crashing. Standing over him Cal lined up, then stabbed the chair’s splintered spear-like legs
over and over into his groin, his torso, his head, before jumping up and heaving his full weight on the chair into the man’s chest.
As the man lay groaning Cal got to his feet and smashed the chair full bore into the stone wall.
Pain webbed through his back and arms as the chair broke apart, partially freeing his arms. Bleeding with broken jagged pieces taped to him, Cal found a knife from the tray on the floor. Hands shaking, cutting swiftly and cutting himself in the process, he removed tape from his arms and mouth.
Then he cut away the tape from Gage’s hands and face, got him moving up the stairs.
“Hurry, son, run! I’m right behind you.”
As Cal climbed the stairs behind Gage, a hand seized his ankle, stopping him cold and dragging him down.
86
Gage scrambled up the stairs, squinting into the light of the living room, and froze.
He was staring into the barrel of a gun aimed at him.
“Jee-zuss!” Deputy Alexa Sloan blinked at her target.
A sobbing, frail little boy—trembling in his underwear, skin streaked with blood, strips of tape affixed to his body, hair shorn from his head, eyes bulging—raised his small palms.
“He’s fighting my dad down there. He’s going to kill him!”
Sounds of mayhem spilled from the cellar as Sloan immediately grasped the situation, seizing her radio.
“This is Sloan. I need back up and EMT now!” Then to Gage, lowering her gun and pointing to the kitchen: “Sweetie, get out of the house through the back. Follow the road to my car and wait there for more police.”
Gage inched toward the kitchen, crying, “Help my dad. Please!”
“I will. Go! Go! Go!”
Adjusting her grip on her gun, Sloan started down the stairs, the lamplight bursting like lightning flashes amid the thrashing of two people on the floor locked in a savage life-and-death struggle.
“Police! Freeze!”
Sloan’s command was ignored. She saw the gleam of a blade. One man, wearing only underwear, his skin laced with blood, the other clad in black and hooded. Grunting and panting in their struggle, one of them shouted, “Help me! Help me!”