by Hunt, James
When the idea first popped into her head she thought it was crazy. He was handsome, and she was plain. He was funny, and she was dull. He was charming, and she couldn’t say two words to him without getting tongue-tied. She thought of him every night before she went to sleep, and he filled her mind through most of the day. And the more she fantasized, the more real it felt.
“Hey.”
The voice was haggard and violent and yanked Mallory from the mountainside. She suddenly found herself back in the park, where the drizzle had transformed into a steady rain, and she shivered from the cold.
The homeless man in front of her was tall and gaunt. The jacket and pants he wore were torn, several holes visible in the dark. His left foot wore a boot, and his right, a sandal. Long black whiskers sprouted from his cheek and chin in wild tufts. The rain had flattened his mangy hair to his skull but did little to help with his smell.
“What are you doing out so late?” the homeless man asked.
Mallory pressed the notebook tight to her chest, where her heart pounded against it quickly. She opened her mouth but lost the ability to speak. He was so tall, and the darkness only intensified his ominous features. He moved forward until the water from his beard dripped down onto her lap. He pointed to the backpack next to her.
“What’s in there?”
Mallory took a swallow and then finally mumbled a word. “N-nothing.” She reached for the bag, but the beggar snatched it off the bench before she could stop him. Mallory hopped off the bench and extended her arm as the homeless man stepped back out of reach. “Please, no. It’s all I have.”
The homeless man kept the bag by his side, and his body between it and Mallory. The way he looked at her sent a chill stronger than the cold through her bones. She knew that a lot of the homeless people used drugs, and she wondered if he was on them right now. She remembered from a news segment that specific drugs made people angry. And violent.
“It’s not safe to be out here at night,” he said, his voice so deep it sounded like it hurt him to speak.
Lightning flashed in the sky, followed quickly by the crash of thunder. Suddenly, everything Mallory had hoped for seemed silly. It was foolish to come out here this late. It was stupid to think she could have done this, and now it was all going to end.
“What’s that you have there?” he asked, pointing to the notebook clutched tight in her arms.
Tears formed in the corners of Mallory’s eyes, but they blended seamlessly with the rain. She trembled, shaking her head. He couldn’t have this too. Let him take the bag, let him take whatever else he wants, but not this.
Mallory retreated, the backs of her legs smacking into the bench, and her knees buckled as she fell hard onto the seat. The man reached for the notebook, and she twisted away from his hands, the meaty poke of his thick fingers clawing for her last possession. She spun off the bench before the man could grab hold.
“Give it to me!” The homeless man snarled and moved quicker than he looked as he lunged again. This time he ripped the notebook from her grip, and she screamed as a pair of headlights flashed to her left. The homeless man sprinted away into the rain and darkness while Mallory collapsed to the ground.
A million thoughts ran through her mind at the sight of those headlights. If it was the police, they’d take her home and she’d have to explain to her mother what happened and why she left. And then she’d have to tell her about him, and her life would be over.
Mallory wiped her face, unable to feel the difference between the rain and her own tears, and her sleeve was so wet that she couldn’t tell if it even helped. She was stupid. Stupid for thinking that she could do this. Everyone at school was right. All she was good for was reading books and daydreaming.
The bright headlights finally shut off, and Mallory slowly craned her head toward the car. She blinked rapidly, her eyelashes batting away the water. Someone stepped out of the car and walked toward her. Mallory’s heart pounded faster, and the existential dread of exposure triggered another wave of sobs.
“Mallory?”
The voice sounded far away, but it was one she recognized. She sniffled and then crawled forward. “I lost my bag.” She looked down at her clothes, which were now soaked, despite the raincoat, and filthy from dirt and debris. “Someone took it, and my notebook I—”
“It’s fine. Just get in the car, hurry.”
Before she could argue, the car door shut and the engine sprang to life. Mallory pushed herself off the ground, and with her head lowered she shuffled toward the car. Maybe there was still a chance. Yes, she thought, of course there was. She could get new clothes. And he wouldn’t care what she wore. At least she didn’t think he would.
True love didn’t care for such things. And that was exactly what this was. Mallory reached for the door handle of the car and yanked it open. When she climbed inside she felt better. This was her new life. This was a new beginning. She shut her eyes and found herself back in the cottage on her mountain. She wouldn’t be there alone for much longer. And she couldn’t wait to start fresh.
2
It had started last night just like it always did. The sour pit in Detective Chase Grant’s gut always worsened right before a bust like this. Even after a decade on the force, he still couldn’t stop the butterflies. A part of him didn’t think they’d ever go away. Another part didn’t want them to.
Grant pumped his left hand a few times, closed his eyes, and focused on his breathing. More nerves than poor health. Grant was on the closer edge of six feet, and while the job had added a few pounds over the years, he was still in good shape. Better than most of the cops at his precinct anyways. And at thirty-five he still had a thick head of wavy black hair that refused to gray, giving him a look much younger than his years. The only real signs of his age were the wrinkles when he smiled. Public opinion agreed that he could still pass as someone in his twenties. Though emotionally, he felt more like someone in his sixties.
When Grant opened his eyes, he glanced down to the watch on his left wrist. The digital timer ticked closer and closer to the twelve-hour mark. That’s all most abduction cases lasted. The first six to twelve hours were the most crucial. Though on this particular case, he found himself at a disadvantage since he was brought in a week after the girl was already taken. But he treated it just like a new case regardless of the original timeline.
The driver of the van hit a bump, and Grant smacked into the S.W.A.T. officer to his right. There were a dozen FBI agents riding with him, all covered in tactical gear, with masks over their faces and assault rifles pulled protectively to their bodies. Everyone was quiet.
The officer in front of Grant kept his eyes shut, and his left knee bounced up and down like a jackhammer. He was a younger man, couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. Grant was willing to bet that he had a few butterflies of his own.
“Three hundred,” Grant said.
The young officer opened his eyes, and his knee stopped bouncing. “What?”
“That’s how many hours your tactical training lasts, right?” Grant asked.
“Just about, sir.”
Grant nodded slowly, and grinned. “I was part of an exchange program with Seattle PD five years ago where I cross-trained with our S.W.A.T. unit. Some of the best officers I’ve ever worked with.”
“Hell yeah!” The boast came from further down the van and triggered a series of hoots and hollers. The young man cracked a smile.
“Trust the man next to you,” Grant said. “Once you start moving, your training will override everything else.”
The young officer nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.” The boy’s knee remained steady the rest of the trip.
“Detective Grant, you’ll follow the medical team inside once the house is secure.” FBI agent Chad Hickem was the liaison Grant had been working with for the past twelve hours. He was a mountain of a man. Served in the Marine Corps and was deployed twice in the Middle East. After an honorable discharge he went back to school and r
eceived his degree in criminal justice, and then worked his way up the ladder to lead agent of the missing persons unit for the Northwest Division of the FBI. In Grant’s humble opinion there wasn’t anything more terrifying than a big body controlled by an even larger mind.
“I could cover the back,” Grant said. “I might not have my three hundred, but I got close.”
“And have Seattle PD up my ass for getting their top detective killed in action?” Hickem shook his head. “Hell no.” He turned and adjusted the rifle strap on his shoulder. “You did your job, Detective. Now let us do ours.”
While Grant didn’t like being sidelined, Agent Hickem was right about one thing. Grant did do his job, and he did it quickly. The past week had left the FBI chasing its tail, and it only took Grant ten hours to identify a suspect. And it couldn’t have happened a moment too soon.
The abduction of the ambassador’s daughter had been the only thing the news had covered for the past week. Speculation about who took the girl and why fueled an already increasingly political divide across the country. Pundits on both sides of the aisle pointed fingers, yet no one seemed concerned about what happened with the girl—aside from her parents.
The van squealed to a stop, and the sourness in Grant’s stomach ended. All the nervousness, the anxiety, the fear that accompanied a life-and-death situation that the foundation of these raids was built upon was wiped away. All the pieces were in place now. The hard part was over.
“Team is on me!” Hickem said, his voice booming the orders from the front of the S.W.A.T. van. “Priority is extraction. If we can take him alive, fine, if not, then that’s the way the head rolls.” Hickem opened his door, and at the same time, the agents that Grant had rode with spilled out the back.
The gray colors that plagued the sky just before dawn fogged the world outside. On Grant’s suggestion, Hickem had decided to take the suspect early in the morning. Their suspect was a night owl, according to Grant’s profile.
Grant watched through the front window of the van as Hickem busted down the door and the second and third teams on the other sides of the house stormed inside. Glass shattered, screams were shouted over the radio, and Grant instinctively reached underneath the FBI jacket to the 9mm Glock in his shoulder holster. It was a natural response to the heightened action, and it was hard to force himself to stay in the van, but he did.
Grant pumped his left hand again, doing his best to stem the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and then winced from a sharp pinch between his fingers. He glanced down at the gold band around his ring finger, which had caught a piece of skin. He gave the ring a little twist then quickly returned his focus to the house as the radio chatter died down.
“House secure,” Hickem said. “We have the girl, send in the medical team.”
Grant planted both boots on the ground and jogged toward the house, falling in right behind the stretcher and two paramedics.
Inside, the house smelled like piss, and Grant saw Anthony Myers flat on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back and at least three rifles trained on the back of his head.
“You’re not supposed to be here!” Myers gave a few heavy, labored breaths, his face sweaty and red and his long black, greasy hair clinging to his forehead. “I just needed more time! I could have saved us! I could have done it!”
“Shut up!” One of the agents pressed his barrel harder into Myers’s skull, and the rant ended.
“Detective Grant.” Hickem was farther down the hall and motioned for him to come. He passed the girl as she was loaded onto a stretcher. She looked pale and weak, but unharmed. The pair of medics strapped her down and wheeled her out of the house.
Hickem stood at the entry to a room, his mask off, shaking his head. “Looks like you were right. He was planning on doing it tomorrow. Had the date circled on the calendar, and everything ready to go.”
Grant craned his neck around the door to get a look for himself. Plastic sheets lined the floor and walls. A series of knives were displayed on a white cloth, increasing in size from left to right. A mattress with white sheets and a single pillow was in the middle of the floor. The bastard even set candles out.
“I didn’t think he’d be so theatrical about it,” Hickem said.
“People who twist words and their meanings often do so because of an already twisted mind.” Grant took a single step inside the room but didn’t dare to go farther. If he lingered too long it would become too real, and he’d seen enough of these things in his career.
When the ambassador’s daughter was taken, Myers had killed both members of her security detail, and then with their blood he had written on the sidewalk where they were slain, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.”
“I’m glad we brought you on board when we did,” Hickem said.
But Grant was still staring at the bed. He wasn’t sure if Myers would have raped the girl before he killed her, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. He was just thankful that it was nothing more than a could-have-been.
“You’ll need to put him on suicide watch,” Grant said. “He’s failed in his mission, and he’ll want to join his heavenly Father as quickly as possible.”
Hickem glanced back into the living room where Myers was being pulled outside and whisked off to the nearest detention center to await booking and then the inevitable trial.
“I don’t think that would be such a bad thing,” Hickem said.
“It would be,” Grant answered, watching Myers disappear into the back of a squad car. “He doesn’t deserve to get anything he wants.”
Hickem clapped Grant on the shoulder, and the two walked outside. “You know with the success of this case there’ll be a lot of talk about bringing you on board,” Hickem said. “Hell, they might even want you to try and take my job.” Hickem laughed, but there was always a shred of truth in humor.
“I’ve got a caseload back at my station that needs attention,” Grant said. “You’ll have to handle the next political abduction by yourself.”
The pair shook hands, and Hickem departed to have a word with the forensic team sweeping the building. With the girl safe and the suspect apprehended, Grant looked down at his watch and hit the stop button. Eleven hours, fifty-eight minutes, thirty-nine seconds. With the clock stopped, a weight lifted from Grant’s shoulders, but when the phone in his pocket buzzed with “Mocks” plastered across the screen, he knew it wouldn’t last much longer.
“How’d you find out so quickly?” Grant asked.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Mocks kept her tone serious and her volume quiet.
“Already make the news?” Grant asked, walking over to one of the vehicles about to head back into town where his car was parked.
“The FBI made an official statement on Twitter,” Mocks answered.
Grant would bet his last dollar that they had two versions of that tweet ready. He climbed into the passenger seat, then the officer who was acting liaison for the local sheriff’s department pulled onto the highway.
“You on your way back?” Mocks asked.
“Yeah, I’m about two hours away once I get to my car.”
“Good, because I just had a mother call about her daughter. Says she skipped school today. I’ve got one of the rookies bringing her in now.”
“Get the paperwork started,” Grant said, his shoulders feeling instantly heavier. “I’ll start making calls to the offices. Get them ready in case we need to press forward.” He paused. “You think it’s serious?”
“I don’t know. She sounds like it’s serious.”
“They always do. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Grant hung up and winced from a very faint churn of the intestines just below his belly button. He glanced down to the wedding ring and then to his watch. He drew in a breath, cleared the timer, then started the countdown once more.
* * *
The station was busy for midmorning. The
shift change had already happened, but the news of the kidnapper’s arrest had permeated the ranks of the department. A series of high fives and applause followed Grant all the way to his desk.
Officer Banks sat at the desk behind him, and Grant tapped the rookie on the shoulder. “Where is Mocks?”
Banks pointed toward the back. “She’s in Interrogation Room Three. And, hey, nice work with the ambassador’s daughter. That’s gotta win you some brownie points, huh?”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “Thanks.”
The congratulations slipped off him like water on a seal. Grant’s mind had already shifted gears to a new case. The well-wishes and applause wouldn’t help him now. Once the clock restarts, the score goes back to zero.
“Sorry I’m late,” Grant said, stepping inside the room.
The woman turned, dabbing a tissue at the puffy skin underneath her eyes, which were bloodshot from crying. The features of her face were pulled in tight, and her skittish movements reminded him of a shrew, scared of anything that moved too quickly.
Grant extended his hand. “Mrs. Givens, my name is Detective Grant.” He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter.”
“It’s Miss,” she said, sniffling. “But thank you, Detective Grant.”
Grant placed a comforting hand on Dana Givens’s shoulder. “Please, you can call me Chase.”
Dana nodded quickly, a taut smile accompanying a whimper through closed lips. Grant took a seat next to the mother rather than across the table where Mocks sat. His partner was a brilliant detective, but she lacked the human touch that was often necessary in their line of work. Though he did notice she managed to get the mother something to drink and the box of tissues. Then again, that was in the training manual.
Detective Susan Mullocks was a small woman, barely clearing five feet and a hundred pounds. Petite was the word most used to describe her, but she was anything but. Mocks leaned back in her chair, no notepad, no recorder, every answer from Ms. Givens’s mouth retained in her memory. The only tool used in her interrogation was a green Bic lighter. She flicked it on and off between questions. It helped her think. And it was a reminder of a past that kept her looking forward.