Smith pulled the gas nozzle out and placed it back in the pump.
“Besides, what are the police going to be looking for?” Dean said. “Plain white vans? There are hundreds of these in the Cities and thousand all around. We’re fine.”
“Just the same,” Smith replied, “Find a place to dump the van. I’d prefer someplace it won’t be found, like a lake or something.”
Next, Smith dialed Monica. She already was on the move, driving toward East Bethel to rendezvous with her brother.
Smith contemplated his options and emptied his pockets. He had the keys for the Chevy at the Park amp; Ride. The police were looking for plain white vans. Who knows, the police might start pulling them over at random. While it was a little bit of a risk, he decided to drive back into the city and dump the van for the Impala at the Park amp; Ride. Then he would drive up to the northern suburbs for the evening’s meeting.
Carrie’s watch told her it was 6:05, which she assumed was PM. In the dim light of their flashlight, the two girls had assessed their situation. A search of the box revealed nothing other than the flashlight and the Dictaphone. They tried together to again push the roof on their box, hoping against hope that their captors lied about burying it. The top didn’t budge.
For lack of a better option, they listened to the tape again and again, listening for anything that could help them: a slip of the tongue, information to help them get out. It was a pipe dream. There was nothing.
“We’re stuck, plain and simple,” Carrie said, now lying flat on her back with her eyes closed, trying to breathe slowly.
“I’m not feeling well,” Shannon replied with a little sniffle.
“Me neither.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Shannon answered. “I’m diabetic. I haven’t had insulin for awhile.”
“How long?” Carrie asked.
“I haven’t had any since Saturday night after dinner. I usually take it when I eat. I was out super late on Saturday night with some friends. I overslept on Sunday so when I got up, I grabbed some quick breakfast but I forgot to take my insulin. I usually bring my insulin with me, but I was running late Sunday and I accidentally left it at home. Then after work I was going to run home quick and take some. But before I could do that…”
“You were taken,” Carrie finished for her.
“Yes. And I didn’t have any with me in my purse, so I didn’t get to take any while we were at that house.”
“So what happens to you if you don’t get the insulin?” Carrie asked.
Shannon sniffled again. “Depends how long I go without. My doctor said I have a sensitive system. There are a few times in the past where I went a couple of days without insulin and I got really sick. I tend to get disoriented and once I passed out. If I go long enough, I could lapse into a coma.”
“Has that ever happened before? The lapsing into a coma part?”
“Almost. One time, a few years ago, I got frustrated with the whole Type I deal. My boyfriend broke up with me, and I thought the reason he did was because I always had to take insulin. All my friends were leading a normal life, and my boyfriend was leading a normal life, and here I was stopping to take insulin three to four times per day.”
“Was that really the reason he broke up with you?”
“Later on I asked him and he said no. He met someone else,” Shannon answered. “But at the time, I thought that had something to do with it so I said ‘screw it’ I wasn’t going to take the insulin anymore.”
“So what happened?”
“I went a couple of days without it. I became disoriented and didn’t really realize what was going on. Eventually, I fell asleep on the couch with nobody around. My roommates came home and they couldn’t wake me. They rushed me to the emergency room. I ended up in the intensive care unit. Thankfully, the doctors were able to revive me, but it was a close call. I could have easily died if they hadn’t found me. I’ve gone a couple of days now. I’m worried what’s going to happen to me. I could die in here before they find us.”
“Shannon, that’s not going to happen,” Carrie replied, summoning all the confidence she could muster into her voice. She grabbed Shannon’s hand.
“I wish I had your confidence,” Hisle replied, her eyes welling with tears.
Carrie squeezed Shannon’s hand. “Don’t you worry, Honey. I know who’s looking for us.”
“Who?”
“Our fathers for one. Those are two men who can make things happen.”
“They’ve got to be going crazy about now,” Shannon answered. “How can they possibly find us?”
“I don’t expect my dad or yours would,” Carrie answered. “But my dad’s boys on the other hand…”
“His boys?”
“Yeah. Mac McRyan, Pat Riley, Big Bobby Rockford, and Lich. I know them. They are relentless. They will do anything to find us, and they will not stop until they do. They will not let anyone stand in their way. We’ve just gotta have a little faith, Sister. They’ll find us.”
Plainclothes cops had already spread out down the street, knocking on doors and asking questions, as well as distracting neighbors. Mac and Lich climbed over the fence into the backyard again, this time moving to the back door to the garage. Down on a knee, Mac went to work picking the lock on the ancient doorknob. He fiddled with it a minute, and then he heard a little click and felt the lock pop open. Mac opened the door, and he and Lich quickly moved inside the garage and closed the door.
“Let’s clear the house quick,” Mac said, his Sig in his right hand.
Lich nodded as he pulled his Smith. Neither of them expected to find anyone, but this needed to be done. Mac pushed into the house, and he and Lich quickly moved throughout the first floor and then quickly down to the basement. There was nobody inside.
Mac grabbed the radio on his belt as he walked back up the stairs from the basement. “The house is clear. Come on in.”
Lich yelled from the front of the house, and Mac hit the garage door opener. As it opened, the white police surveillance van backed into the driveway. The back door of the van opened, and four forensics techs, two each from the department and the FBI, exited the van. With everyone out, the van pulled out and rolled down the block as the garage door closed. Mac slipped on rubber gloves while everyone else got their equipment together.
With everyone ready, Mac opened the door and let them into the one-story house. The group stood in the eating area, which was separated from the dark wood cupboards and mustard yellow Formica of the 1970s kitchen by a waist-high counter. The card table that Riley saw was the only furniture in their immediate view. Mac pointed to an FBI and St. Paul tech, “I’ll work up here with you two.”
“And I’ll take you other two downstairs,” Lich added.
Now that the house was clear, Mac took his time walking and looking around. His first stop was the living room to his left, which was devoid of furniture, its beige shag carpet the only contrast against the stark white walls. The only thing worthy of notice was the fresh vacuum tracks in the carpet. Leaving the living room, Mac walked down a hallway to the two bedrooms and full bath. The larger of the two bedrooms contained only a queen-size mattress and box spring, but no bed frame or headboard. There were no sheets on the bed. The closet was empty, not even a solitary hanger on the rod. Again, there were fresh vacuum tracks throughout the room.
Across the hall, the other bedroom was tiny, maybe ten by ten, also empty and freshly vacuumed.
“Empty?” a tech asked, walking up behind Mac.
“Yeah, nothing. Freshly vacuumed is about all that I see of note.”
“Being careful?”
“If they were using this house, yes. They have been careful every step of the way,” Mac replied with a sigh. “But it’s a long way from vacuum tracks to saying they were here. It could be that a cleaning company has been in and out for all we know. That might explain the vacuum tracks.”
“I’ll process the room and maybe we’ll find out,” the
tech said.
Mac stepped out of the bedroom and checked on the other tech working the bathroom, which was a narrow deal with a tub and shower on the left and the vanity and toilet on the right. “You got anything?”
“No,” was the terse reply. “I think someone was in here recently, if only because the smell of disinfectant is so strong. This room has been cleaned to within an inch of its life, and today I’d say.” The tech pointed to the vanity. “There’s just the slightest film around the drain of the sink. I’d guess it was cleaner. I took a sample.”
“How about the shower? Maybe the drain?” Mac asked, stepping past the tech and pulling back an orange shower curtain. It clashed badly with the pink tile of the shower and vanity top. “All we need is one hair, and we’d have something to go on.”
The tech shook her head. “I hear you, Detective, but the shower is spotless. There’s nothing in the drain. I checked already. I half wonder if it was even used.”
Mac stepped out of the bathroom and moved back into the kitchen, checking the cabinets and under the sink. All he found was peeling shelf and drawer paper. No silverware, plates, pans, or glasses. The kitchen was empty of any utensils or other common accoutrements.
Next he moved to the two-stall garage. It was vacant except for a green, wheeled garbage can. He flipped the top open. It was completely empty, nary a scrap of paper inside. Looking around he noted nothing in the garage. No shovels, rakes, brooms, tools, garbage bags, anything one would typically find in a man-cave. The cement floor was nearly spotless, other than a light coating of dust and some light tire marks, truck width apart, a van perhaps. There were no cleaning supplies, no mops, buckets, rags or vacuum cleaner, and no dirty towels or refuse. The place seemed almost sterile.
Back in the kitchen, Mac stood with his hands on his hips, looking around. This could be the place, but if it was, the kidnappers had again left nothing behind. It could just as easily be that the house was being cleaned or readied for tenants, not occupied, although Hall seemed pretty certain that people had moved in. They were trying to track down the home’s owner. Maybe he’d be able to shed some light on it all.
“Mac! Come down here,” Lich bellowed from the basement.
Mac bounded down two steps at a time. At the bottom he turned right, down the dark wood-paneled and linoleum-floored hallway that wrapped around the steps to a back bedroom on the left. Inside the bedroom he found Lich and the two techs standing between two twin beds. The beds had silver-barred head and footboards, along with mattresses and box springs, but no sheets or blankets. The beds sat on a gray cement floor. As with the rooms upstairs, it smelled faintly of disinfectant.
Lich waved Mac over to the bed on the left and pointed to the end posts. “See the scrapes here?” Lich said, pointing at the right post of the headboard and then to the left side. “Then, on the other side, the same thing. Then down on the footboard, the side posts, same thing.”
“Yet,” Mac said, waving to the head and footboards, “the rest of the rails are pristine, unscratched.”
“Right,” Lich said, and then turned to the other bed. “And we have exactly the same thing over here. You know what I think?” Dick asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“Hit me with it,” Mac said.
Lich moved to the end of the bed on the right. “Girls are on the beds, arms cuffed to the posts for the headboard and either cuffed or manacled to the footboard,” he said, pointing with his pen at the headboard and then back down to the footboard.
“And the scratches are from the cuffs moving up and down on the posts, the girls struggling to get free,” Mac added.
“ Right,” Lich said, nodding.
“The girls were here, man,” Mac said, with conviction now. “I can feel it. Upstairs, the house has been cleaned top to bottom. The techs are processing it, but they’re finding nothing. These guys are so careful, they even remove the cleaning supplies and the trash. All of that stuff is gone.” Mac spoke with a modicum of admiration. “They’re ready even when we get a break.”
“My gut tells me your gut is right,” Lich said in agreement.
“I’m right,” Mac said, walking out of the bedroom, down the hall and back to the family room at the bottom of the steps. “They used this,” Mac said, waving his arms around, “as a safe house. They take Shannon on Sunday, drive out to River Falls, dump the one van, transfer into the other, drive back here and chain her to the bed in the basement. Then they can take an hour, run up to Clearwater to place the call, then come back nice and easy-like. Whole thing takes maybe three to four hours.”
“They stay here overnight,” Lich said, picking up on the thread. “So they’re close to St. Thomas and are in position to take Carrie the next day.”
“And then,” Mac said, pacing now, his left hand grabbing the back of his neck while he gestured with his right hand, “They bring Carrie back here after they dump the van over in south Minneapolis.”
“Precisely,” Lich said.
Mac laughed.
“What?”
“You said, ‘precisely.’”
“Fuck you,” Lich went back to the task at hand. “Monday night one of the kidnappers drives over to Ellsworth to make the call and then drives back.”
“Then they take the girls and put them underground, but it’s someplace that isn’t that far from here,” Mac said. “So while we’re running around down in Ellsworth and dragging Drew Wiskowski in for questioning, they’re putting together that video.”
“Which they put under the stands at the football field sometime overnight,” Lich added. “After which they come back here.”
“Exactly,” Mac said. “The house gives them a good central staging area, so they can be close to town and operate, yet they’re not too far from wherever the girls are buried.”
“I shouldn’t smile,” Lich said, smiling. “But we’re on it, man. This is something. We just have to lay in wait.”
“ If they come back,” Mac said, doubt creeping onto his face. “This place has been cleaned, is clean,” he said as he climbed the basement steps. “What if they’re not planning on coming back? The ransom call comes tomorrow at six. What if we’ve missed them?”
“Only one way to find out,” Lich said following.
“I know. We’ve got to sit on it,” Mac answered.
21
“ What do you mean ‘ripped out?’”
7:45 PM
The small monkey wrench thrown into the day’s plans was having an unintended but pleasant effect. After exchanging vehicles with Dean in Cambridge, a small town nearly an hour north of the Twin Cities, Smith and Monica had started driving back into town when she spoke.
“There’s a little motel.”
“Looks like they have a vacancy,” Smith added, turning right off of Highway 65 and into the dirt parking lot of the 65-Hi Suites. They had several hours to kill before a midnight meeting. There were ten rooms at the motel and five cars in the parking lot: just enough that they wouldn’t be memorable to the motel clerk, and just few enough that there was minimal risk they would be remembered by a guest.
His first two weeks out of prison, Smith stayed in Chicago and went on a binge, hooking up with a different woman every night. Some nights it was a woman he picked up in some bar. A divorcee, a woman looking for a fling, he wasn’t real particular. If he couldn’t find a woman at a bar, a hooker in a cheap hotel room would do. The quality didn’t really matter. He was working off fifteen years of pent-up sexual frustration, so any woman did it for him.
After Chicago, he moved to the Twin Cities and joined up with Dean, David, and their sister Monica to start the planning. He was immediately attracted to her. Monica was in her mid-forties, but the years were being very kind to her. Twice divorced, Monica was a petite woman with creamy skin, short, jet-black hair in a stylish cut, deep green eyes, a tiny, slightly upturned nose, and full ruby lips. And she was smart as a whip. A CPA, she worked the books for a number of years for area jewelers. That was wh
ere, three years ago, she crossed paths with Lyman Hisle. He didn’t know her, but she knew him.
Monica was in a jewelry store on Ford Parkway, balancing the books, when Hisle walked into the store, dressed in a two-thousand-dollar French suit and two-hundred-dollar Italian shoes. He spent ten thousand dollars in fifteen minutes without blinking an eye, money that Hisle had made off of people like her father.
Anger raged within her as Lyman Hisle whipped out his American Express card and spent the money as if it were nothing, as if he were buying groceries or a DVD. From that point forward, she never let the rage go. As far as she was concerned, Lyman Hisle had killed her father. He didn’t pull the trigger, her father did that. But Hisle drove him to do it. For ten years she suppressed the anger, shoving it to the back of her mind. She’d been able to cope with the damage Hisle’s work did to her father, the drinking, the pills, the loss of all the money, and finally the suicide. But seeing Hisle, seeing him spend all that money so cavalierly, brought it all back.
She was looking for the same kind of payback Smith was looking for. As the planning for the kidnappings began, she and Smith spent many hours together, scouting sites and observing targets. Their passion for revenge ignited the same within them, as though the two feelings fed off of one another. Within a month they were sleeping together. In another month, Smith and Monica knew they would escape together when everything was over. He was in love with her, and she said the feeling was mutual. Monica was married twice and divorced twice. Both times she had married unworthy men, weak men, men she couldn’t trust. Her brothers told her that Smith was none of those things. He was strong. He’d been a man in prison. He was a man they could trust, a man who wanted what they wanted and possessed what they didn’t: the ability and the connection to pull it off.
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