Vanished - A Mystery (Dixon & Baudin Book 1)

by Victor Methos

  “I don’t know.” She put her face in her hands. “I just wish I knew what to do.”

  “You need to tell him and end it.” He leaned forward. “I’m going to serve him this week.”

  “No, you can’t. I’m not ready.”

  “Sorry, Hillary. It’s for both of us. I’m being strong for both of us.”

  “Chris, that is the worst possible way he could find out.”

  “Then tell him.”

  She averted her eyes from him, staring out the window. “I used to think being married was going to be a dream. Like it just happened, and that was all there was to it. I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. But it’s work. Everything, in the end, is just work.” Hillary stood up. “Do whatever the hell you want. I won’t be with you, Chris. I’m sorry.”

  She left, not looking behind her until she was out the door. Chris was staring at her, and smiled. She pushed through the door and hurried to her car.

  52

  Rebecca’s apartment reminded Baudin of his grandmother’s house in the best sense: comforting and clean. Lots of quilts and old paintings, the smell of lemonade, carpets so clean you could eat off them.

  He sat across from her on the couch. Her eyes looked glossy—a sedative, maybe. Maybe more than that. He couldn’t imagine she would be this calm after what she’d gone through.

  “Tell me what happened, Rebecca.”

  She swallowed and looked down at the floor. “They called the police at the hospital. I already told them what I remembered.”

  “We’re not that kind of police. Tell me what happened.”

  She swallowed again. “I met this guy at a bar. I have a fake ID, and I thought… I met him there. He said his name was Casey and that I was the most beautiful girl in the place.” She wiped at tears that had formed. “I’m so stupid.”

  “No,” he said soothingly, “you’re not. Please continue.”

  “We flirted, and he said he would give me a ride home. On the drive back, he convinced me to stop at his place for a drink. We had some drinks, and we talked and laughed. He was so… I don’t know. I was used to immature guys. But he talked about what Paris was like and what hunting in Africa was like… he was so… I don’t know. And then I started going, like, numb. I couldn’t feel anything. And he smiled.” She began to cry. “He just smiled at me like I was a piece of meat… and he picked me up and took me upstairs. On the bed… and they… all these men, they…”

  “Did you see any of them?” Baudin said softly.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head and wiping away the tears that were rolling down her cheeks, “no, they wore masks.”

  “Did they ever take them off?”

  “Only one did. He sat in a chair by the bed while the others…”

  Baudin wanted to reach out and lay a hand on her to let her know she wasn’t alone and no one would hurt her, but she was so medicated, he wasn’t certain it would matter. What he was fearful of was when the medication dulled and the true horror of what happened hit her consciousness. He wondered if she would be strong enough to survive.

  “Tell me about the one in the chair.”

  She swallowed again, wiping at tears that were long gone. “He just wanted to watch. He sat in a chair and smoked a cigar. He had to pull his mask up to smoke, and I saw most of his face. I don’t think he meant for me to see it, I don’t know… and he just looked at me. He would laugh sometimes… he thought what they were doing to me was the funniest thing in the world…”

  “A cigar? You’re sure of that?”

  “Yeah. I remember the smell.”

  Dixon pulled out his phone and showed something to her. A violent convulsion gripped her, and she nodded, immediately looking away. Dixon showed the phone to Baudin. It was the official photo of Chief of Police Robert Crest on the department website.

  “What happened after?” Baudin said.

  “When they were done, they put a mask on me, and then I felt myself hanging from somewhere. I don’t know how long, maybe just a night, I think. And then you came.”

  Dixon said, “You’re not the first they’ve done this to, Rebecca. We had another girl a couple weeks ago that the same thing happened to. But they didn’t put her in the closet. They drove her somewhere and left her in the street. Do you have any idea why they put you in there?”

  She nodded, the tears dribbling down again. “Casey said… he said they were going to kill me. They were… they were going to crucify me. I screamed, and he just laughed.”

  Baudin felt his heart drop. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The arrogance of it… the cruelty. He wished he could kill that son of a bitch again.

  “Excuse us one sec,” Dixon said. He rose and walked out the front door and stood there. Baudin followed him. “This is too big for us,” Dixon said. “We gotta take it to the FBI.”

  “No, man. This is our fight.”

  “We’re not in the Wild West. And I’m not a damn assassin.”

  “I don’t wanna kill him. But answer me honestly: with the connections he’s got, is there any chance he’s not gonna slide on this? How many people, respectable people, are gonna come forward and say the Chief of Police was with them on the night in question? How many character witnesses are gonna take the stand and call that poor girl a liar?”

  “What, then? You wanna take care of it Dodge City style and kick down his office door?”

  He shook his head, staring at the girl. “No, man. I wanna force their hand. I want them to make a mistake.”

  “Like what?”

  Baudin looked at him. “You still got that friend in the news, right?”

  Dixon was silent a moment. “You wanna use Rebecca as bait?”

  “If she goes public, they gotta come after her. They don’t have a choice. The allegation, once everybody knows about it, is enough. It’ll ruin him. What they’ll need is her to commit suicide. Then they can say she was crazy and who knows what else she was making up. They can’t do that later, once the story’s taken hold. They gotta do it quick. As quick as possible.”

  “How can you possibly be sure they would do that? They might not do anything. They might just lawyer up.”

  “No, man. They gotta come after her. It’s what I would do.”

  A long silence passed between them. Dixon looked in on the girl as well. “She’ll never agree to it.”

  Baudin could see the girl’s hands trembling, either from anxiety or the medication to treat the anxiety. “No, I think she’d do just about anything to get at them.”

  53

  Baudin sat on the couch in Jessop’s office as the five o’clock news played on the television. The letters on the screen and the words coming out of Rebecca’s mouth seemed almost comical to him—mostly because he was picturing Chief Crest, his face bright red, a cigar in his mouth, exploding in his office at anyone near him.

  Jessop watched the entire broadcast. Rebecca had gone through what she remembered in detail with one fabrication: that she later saw the chief’s photo online and that was why she called the news. It helped bolster her story that two police officers had taken her statement at the hospital, verified by a nurse who was there, but had never filed a report. The officers had informed dispatch that the woman was “unreliable” and that they would look into her story, but had never done so.

  “Captain?” a female voice said through his phone’s intercom.

  “What?”

  “I have several reporters wanting comments. The chief and assistant chief can’t be found.”

  “Tell the reporters to fuck themselves.”

  “Um… okay.”

  “No, Erica. For shit’s sake, don’t tell them that. Just tell them no comment.” He leaned back in his chair, eyeing the two detectives. “You two have anything to do with this?”

  Baudin said, “Why would we have anything to do with this?”

  “Don’t be cute. I’m serious.”

  “Cap,” Dixon said, trying to take the spotlight off of them,
“two uniforms took her statement and didn’t do shit about it. You know how that’s gonna look? Whether the chief is innocent or not, he’s already been convicted.”

  Jessop sighed. “I know. He’ll have to resign. There’s no other way. He was a friend to the detective division. We needed him.”

  Baudin folded his arms. “I want to put her in a safe house.”

  “What? Are you shitting me? She’s accusing the chief of police of kidnapping and raping her. You want us to spend funds putting her in a safe house?”

  “You don’t have to spend anything. My realtor said we can use an abandoned house on Claremont Ave. She doesn’t need a detail, I don’t think she’s in any danger. But the chief has a lot of friends that might try to intimidate her. I think the safe house is a good bet for a while.”

  Jessop looked to Dixon, incredulous, seemingly searching for anything that would explain what Baudin had just proposed. “She’s just a kid, Cap. We’ll drive her to the safe house, and that’s it. A few days there, and then she’s on her own.”

  He shook his head. “Shit, why not? The whole damn department’s goin’ to hell. We might as well protect the enemy, too.”

  Baudin said sternly, “She’s not our enemy.”

  The two men glared at each other. Baudin had done his homework. Jessop was not an alum of Sigma Mu. He’d gotten a two-year degree from a community college in criminal justice when he was in his thirties and never took part in the college life. He was just a blind cog in a big, powerful wheel.

  “Few days,” Dixon said, “then she’s on her own.”

  Jessop nodded. “Few days. Don’t tell anyone. And take a good statement from her so we don’t look like we’re in on this shit, too.”

  Claremont Avenue was as middle class as it got. As Baudin stared out the window at the dwindling sunlight, he saw several men driving home from work. Most of the cars here were trucks, large work trucks with mud spattered on the wheels and undercarriage. The men looked tired by the time they got home, trading sweat for money. Sometimes, the thought of working outside all day with his hands sounded more appealing than almost anything else. He wondered how people found what they would enjoy the most. If someone would really love to be a chef but had never cooked, how would they know that was their chosen path in life?

  Maybe he had a path, too. Something he was meant to do that never came to fruition. Painter, perhaps, or writer… revolutionary.

  More than any other moment in history, he would’ve liked to have seen the French Revolution with its upending of society and replacement with something else. The upending wouldn’t have been beautiful. It had been bloody and vicious: some of the proletariat ate the bourgeoisie in the streets. Cannibalism, the ultimate act of conquest. The streets must’ve been coated in blood so thick it would’ve soaked the shoes… and Baudin always returned to the same question when he thought these thoughts: could it happen here?

  The door opened, and Dixon hurried in, carrying a thick canvas bag that looked as though it contained a cello. He put the bag down in the center of the empty living room and unzipped it. Inside were two M4A1 assault rifles.

  Dixon picked one up. “Smaller and lighter than the M16. Thirty round mags, high fire rate.” He tossed it to Baudin, who caught it, running his hands along the smooth surface.

  “Where’d you get military assault rifles on such short notice?”

  Dixon grinned. “Shit, man. This is Wyoming.”

  Baudin lifted the weapon and looked down the barrel. It felt light, much lighter than he’d expected. He swept back and forth with it and then leaned it against the wall. Also inside the bag were two pistols, several boxes of ammunition, and two Kevlar vests. He took one of the vests and put it on over his shirt as Dixon did the same. CPD was written in bold print across the back.

  The men looked at each other. Baudin felt like asking if Dixon was certain he wanted to be here but thought he already knew the answer. And somehow, just the asking seemed insulting. Instead, he grinned.

  “Now what?” Dixon said.

  “Now we sit on our asses until they get here.”

  54

  Folding chairs next to a window wasn’t exactly the most comfortable position Dixon had ever sat in for a long period of time. But it probably wasn’t the worst, either. As he ate a Hershey bar, the M4 between his legs, a cap turned backward on his head, and his eyes out the window, he somehow felt more like a real cop than ever before. That was in spite of the fact that what he was doing would not only cost him his job but probably his freedom as well.

  He didn’t expect the chief to show up. Neither one of them did. But if they were right, someone would have to come down. Jessop was loyal to the chief and would tell him what they were doing.

  If someone did come, then Baudin and Dixon were correct, and the chief of police of Cheyenne was a monster. Once he had that certainty, Dixon would do anything to stop him. Right now, he didn’t feel that. They had to be certain.

  Outside was pure black with only the porch light illuminating the lawn. Most of the neighbors had gone to bed, and the street didn’t have much traffic. Dixon took another bite of chocolate and scratched his scalp underneath the cap.

  “There’s someone out there,” Baudin whispered.

  Dixon froze. Slowly, he put the chocolate bar down. He pulled the curtain back just slightly, peering farther onto the lawn.

  At first, he didn’t see anything. Just an empty blackness that fought any visual penetration. Then, slowly, he could see movement. Just on the outskirts of the blackness, a figure moved across the lawn. It skimmed along the edge, around the house, and disappeared in back.

  “On it,” Baudin said, before rising and silently disappearing to the back of the house.

  Dixon’s heart was in his throat, and he wished he hadn’t eaten anything. Nausea was clawing at him, and he fought it the best he could.

  On the other side of the house, he saw the same movement. A dark figure scurrying through the blackness. It didn’t go around back. It came right to the porch.

  A man, tall and lean, dressed all in black, with a black mask. He tried the doorknob, and when it didn’t open, he took out a small kit. He inserted something into the lock and began jiggling it. Baudin had been right; Jessop wasn’t Sigma Mu, but he was in on this. At the very least, he was reckless.

  Dixon took the M4 and duck-walked to the front door. He perched on the stairs leading to the second floor and aimed the weapon. Sweat stung his eyes, and his heart was so loud he thought the intruder could hear it.

  The lock clicked open, and the door creaked. Nothing happened at first, no one came in. Then the figure in black casually stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He scanned the space, starting on the right, the direction opposite where Dixon was.

  Dixon stood up. “Put your damn hands on your head.”

  The man’s head whipped around. Dixon expected him to run, or surrender, or scream, but not to attack. But that was exactly what he did. He ran at Dixon and jumped on him like a cat. Dixon squeezed the trigger, and the rifle shot along the wall and up into the ceiling as he was knocked back onto the stairs.

  The figure struck him in the face with a fist so hard his head bounced off the step behind him. He struck again and again, and finally Dixon rolled to the side and then swung wildly, impacting against the man’s jaw just enough to stun him. Dixon wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat and squeezed. The man did the same. The air was cut off. He felt his eyes bulging, and his head felt as if it were being blown up with air like a balloon about to explode.

  Dixon let go and slammed his fist into the man’s face in a succession of blows that loosened his grip. He kicked out with his legs, and the man tumbled back. He hit his head on the hardwood floor, and Dixon was on him.

  Now on top, he was pummeling him with his fists as he heard rounds fired in the back. But he didn’t stop until the man wasn’t moving anymore. Not until his hands screamed, and he felt as though he’d broken his knuckles. W
ith every blow, the fear left him a little. He didn’t stop until it was nearly gone.

  Out of breath and bleeding, Dixon rolled off the man and lay next to him on the floor. He felt as though he’d been drowning and had just been rescued. Every muscle cried for relief, but no matter how deeply he breathed, it didn’t come.

  The figure was breathing, too. A shallow, dry breath. But he wasn’t moving.

  With the last ounce of strength he had, Dixon got to his knees. He crawled up the stairs and retrieved the M4. Before he could turn around, the figure had him again. His arm was wrapped around Dixon’s throat, squeezing the life out of him.

  Within moments, Dixon felt himself passing out. In a Hail Mary, he flung himself off the stairs, landing with the man still on his back. The grip around his throat loosened, and he rolled over. He wrapped his fingers around the figure’s throat again and pressed.

  The man’s windpipe crushed under his grip like dry cereal, and a gasping, hacking sound came from the figure. Dixon moved away as the man thrashed violently, his hands at his throat in the universal sign of a lack of air. Dixon didn’t move. He probably didn’t have the stamina to help even if he wanted to. But he’d also never killed before and didn’t want to. He pulled out his cell phone to call an ambulance, and it was ripped out of his hand.

  Baudin flung the cell phone across the room.

  “What the hell!” Dixon shouted.

  Baudin ripped off the man’s mask. The man was young, and his eyes were wide with terror. He was sucking breath like a fish that’d been thrown from a lake onto dry land.

  “I know him,” Dixon said. “That’s Josh Everett. He’s a uniform with the city.”

  Baudin lit a cigarette. “Not no more.”

  Dixon watched him. He had a flicker in his eye, the terrible calmness of someone in his element. “We can’t let him die.”