36 Hours

by B. J. Woster

  The captain waited only a moment for the shouts to die down and then continued. “To keep it simple, there will be four squads to a grid. Each car will be supplied a list of potential places to check within that grid. Keep track. Call in each location to dispatch and they’ll mark it off on our primary map, along with the search time. When you hear a call over the radio from your search group, mark off the location they relay. You’ll likely run across places that aren’t on your map. Call it off to your group for them to denote so that they don’t search it again. The key here is efficiency. We have limited manpower and limited time. Understood? Good. Now, we’re going to call you up by car number. As soon as all four groups are assembled and provided with lists, you get moving.”

  “And remember,” Hardwick interjected, “that we’re focusing on maintenance closets within parking structures.”

  “Right,” the captain concurred and then set about calling car numbers. It took another hour to dispense the lists to all of the units and another half hour after that for everyone to get their cars out of the parking lot. “I only hope the search goes more efficiently than this, or we’re in a world of hurt,” he muttered to Hardwick as they watched the remaining black and whites pull out of the garage.

  Hardwick shook his head, “We’re down to fourteen hours left, and I have to admit, Captain, that I’m more than a little concerned. Price may think he’s done us a favor, but he’s obviously unfamiliar with Atlanta. Harding was right; there are literally hundreds of parking structures, and several maintenance closets in each one. How are we ever going to stop this man if we don’t have the resources to do proper searches?”

  “It’s a concern I bring up at every budget meeting,” the captain sighed heavily, “and a concern that gets shot down every time. There isn’t any way to convince the pencil pushers of our need because they aren’t out there on the front lines to see the damage their budgetary restrictions cause. And that’s not a discussion for now, not when there’s a woman’s life at stake. I need you out there…”

  “Doing what? We have black and whites searching every possible location. Wilson and I would just be the ones overlapping their searches. It’s better if we stay here to…I don’t know…to coordinate their efforts.”

  “I thought that was my job,” the captain quipped humorlessly. “You need to be out there, coordinating in the field, listening to radio transmissions to ensure no building is left unsearched. That’s what your team is expecting anyway,” the captain concluded, nodding toward the other three detectives assigned to this case, sitting in a corner, waiting on Hardwick.

  “Very well, Captain,” Hardwick muttered, started down the steps, and then turned to the captain again, “I have to say though that I’m mad as hell at being manipulated like this, so when we do finally catch Price, I’m going to want a few minutes alone with him.”

  The captain chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully for a minute then nodded briefly. With a loud sigh, Hardwick turned and left the building.

  Chapter 20

  Sequoia knew her eyes were open, but she couldn’t make out anything at all. It was dark as pitch and that made her nerves jumpy. As soon as her brain registered that, it moved to the next observation—she couldn’t move. She was bound, hand and foot—and waist—to a chair. A very hard chair. Next for her brain to ascertain was that she couldn’t speak. She poked her tongue out as far as was possible and closed her eyes in growing despair. Her mouth was covered with duct tape.

  She tried to remain calm as the horridness of her circumstances flooded into her brain at once, but that attempt was completely shattered when her arm twitched and she felt something pinch her skin. Although she knew she wouldn’t be able to see what it was, it was instinctive to try. Still, she didn’t need to see it to know there was a needle in her arm, and the pinch of tape easily revealed there was a peripheral venous catheter attached. She was a nurse, so her brain formulated quickly that having a needle in the arm meant that there was something to be injected into her body—or extracted; however, since she couldn’t feel the coolness of a liquid slithering through her veins, she could only draw speculative conclusions. The unknowing was unnerving.

  She was about to start squealing to try to draw attention, when the door opened, flooding the blackened room with fluorescent lighting. The light was dim, but after being in complete darkness, it was startling enough to make her wince. Recognition dawned as her abductor stepped in, and she did start squealing. She fought against the restraints, but was so securely fastened that her struggles didn’t even budge the chair. She stopped struggling and stared at the man, wide-eyed, her breathing ragged.

  “Okay, now that you’ve gotten that out of your system, we’ll proceed. I can’t stay long,” he said, drawing a syringe from his jacket pocket, “since the search for you is well underway. I’ve given the police a very good clue as to your location, so you should make it out of here alive. However, I can’t have you cheating by making too much noise. It’s up to them to find you, not up to you to reveal your location.”

  The sight of the needle made Sequoia nauseous, but it also triggered something in her mind—that she had a needle in her arm, and with the light flooding the room, she could inspect that needle. Was the purpose of the peripheral venous catheter for him merely to inject a sedative into her body? The thought brought a small bit of relief to her worried mind.

  Instinctively, she turned to inspect that intravenous catheter, following it upward to a medical bag…

  She gasped behind the duct tape. It was full of an unidentifiable cloudy fluid and the knob meant to regulate administration was attached to…

  She gasped again, as she felt a needle slide into the vein on her other forearm. She turned her head and watched with rising panic as her captor depressed the liquid from the vial. Slowly the contents emptied. The panic dwindled and she felt her head begin to swim, her eyelids grow heavier.

  “There now,” he whispered, bending to plant a kiss on her cheek, “you get some sleep. I gave you a higher dosage this time, because I can’t have you waking before the search is up…” he glanced at his watch, “in approximately twelve hours. You should waken before the deadline though, because I firmly believe that people should be lucid at the end of their lives.”

  He set to work, but despite the woman now being unconscious, he continued with his explanatory monologue. “If the police don’t arrive before this timer reaches zero, it will trigger a series of events,” he stopped talking long enough to check the wiring, wrapped around the dispensing knob, to ensure it was tight enough to turn fully when the mechanism was set into motion. He nodded in satisfaction and then finished his thought, “that will end with a massive dose of deadly venom from the Puff Adder rapidly flooding your system. Just a single injection from a Puff Adder bite may result in the loss of a limb, and if left untreated can kill a full-grown human within thirty minutes. Imagine then what the results will be from injecting the equivalent of ten bites. Pray they get to you first, for you don’t want to suffer this fate.”

  He stiffened suddenly when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Another glance at his watch showed it to be just after 1:30 a.m., which seemed far too early for someone to be arriving for work. He stiffened as the thought struck him that it could be a police officer making the rounds of this particular parking structure. A glance at his car, parked in the shadows, determined it was a fair sprint away; however, he’d not likely make it before the driver spotted him.

  Still, he needed to distance himself from the victim. He shut the door and then darted over to a nearby concrete barrier, cursing that he’d left his equipment in the closet. He peered over the top but couldn’t see any cars approaching. He cocked his head and listened carefully, judging the vehicle to be at least one level above. That meant he had time. Limited time, but better than no time at all.

  He darted back to the closet and slipped inside, quickly collecting his remaining supplies. When done, he peered outside and when he stil
l didn’t spot the vehicle, he slipped out, maneuvering along the wall into the darkest recesses. He was halfway to his car, slithering from shadow to shadow, when a utility vehicle rounded the corner.

  “Damn,” he whispered, knowing that he’d misjudged the maintenance staffs’ schedule. He’d assumed that no one would access the closets during nighttime hours, that the maintenance staff worked first or second shift, that everyone would have clocked out prior to this time of morning. He’d been wrong; and now there would be a price to pay.

  “Damn,” he muttered again, when the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of the closet. He was unprepared for this unforeseen occurrence, which meant he’d have to think on his feet, something he wasn’t very adept at, since he always planned everything carefully.

  This also meant that he’d have to confront the worker, and if that worker proved young and fit…he inhaled sharply. He wasn’t unfit himself; couldn’t be in his chosen profession, but he was more on the slight build than the beefy build, which is why he never abducted men. Even slender men could hide a deceptively wiry strength, and he simply couldn’t risk getting assaulted and injured; when he had so much work to do.

  He suddenly started praying that the worker be old and infirmed; deciding that were providence indeed on his side in his experiments, then surely it would assist in ensuring they be successfully executed.

  Executed.

  The word popped into his head and he knew what he had to do, but he only had seconds to prepare to do it. He quickly, quietly, rummaged through his remaining materials and grinned when he found something useful. He turned back, expecting to see the worker approaching, but he remained in his car; talking on his cell phone.

  “Ah, if only people realized how distracting a cell phone can be,” he whispered gleefully. Slowly, he maneuvered around the side of the concrete beam, and then crouched down and scooted quickly alongside of the utility vehicle. He stopped by the passenger side door when he heard talking and then realized that the man was still conversing.

  “Yes, dear, I promise I won’t forget,” he was saying, “but shoot me a text just to be sure?” He laughed at her response, “Okay, I’ll see you when I get home. Do try to get some sleep. Love you.”

  Christian pursed his lips and shook his head, if you hadn’t come in to work, perhaps you’d have seen your woman later, he thought to himself as he shimmied around to the front of the cart-like vehicle, remaining very low. When he reached the front bumper, he peered around the side, waiting patiently, like a predator after its prey. He knew he’d have to strike fast, and that his attack would need to be accurate, or he’d find himself in a likely unwinnable fight.

  The door opened then closed and Christian’s nerves jumped to high alert. He peered around the side one more time, and sized up the maintenance worker as quickly as possible. It wasn’t difficult. The man was short in stature—just slightly shorter than himself—and very slender. He sighed inwardly with relief.

  With quiet tenacity, he quickly moved up behind the worker and threw the remnants of the catheter tube over his head, latching it onto his neck with determined vigor. With a grunt of effort, he tightened his grip, pulling firmly, until he heard the struggling man’s breath begin to take on a gurgling sound.

  To his credit, he struggled viciously, but he was no match for Christian’s resolve, and his struggle was waning rapidly.

  “Nothing personal,” Christian said, as the man began to collapse, his breathing shallower. “You just came to work at the wrong time.”

  Without releasing his grip, Christian began tugging on the man, pulling him along like a heavy burlap sack, with nothing more than string as the handle. The distance to the concrete wall on the other side of the garage was about twelve feet away, but pulling the man across the flooring using only the catheter was cramping Christian’s fingers. He stopped pulling and dropped the body, “You have to be dead by now, right?” He asked, leaning down to listen for any signs of life. He heard none, so decided that it was safe to continue along, pulling the man by his feet. He covered the remaining distance quickly, then tugged and pulled until the man toppled over the concrete barrier into the overgrown grass below. He took a deep breath and then pocketed the catheter tubing, swiping his hands together, pleased with his work.

  He looked back at the utility vehicle and tried to decide what to do with it, when another idea struck him. He’d leave it right where it was. The placement of the utility vehicle would prove another hurdle for the police. Would they see it and assume that a maintenance worker already accessed the closet, meaning the woman couldn’t possibly be there? Or, would they utilize their limited brainpower and decide to search the closet anyway?

  He grinned, “This will indeed make for a good experiment.” He turned back to the area in which he’d dumped the dead maintenance worker, “You’ve inadvertently done me a favor, too bad I couldn’t return it and let you live. Time to find a place to set up my equipment so I can keep a sharp eye on things.”

  Christian climbed into his vehicle, but stopped short of pulling onto the main street when he spotted two police cars a few blocks away. He put his car into reverse and turned around, heading up to the top of the parking structure. He wished he hadn’t set the start of this experiment so close to the close of the last, it left him precious little time to plan appropriately and he hadn’t found a suitable place in which to set up his gear. That meant his only recourse was to stay put and monitor from his car. He sincerely doubted that the police would be searching vehicles for his latest victim. At least he hoped not. Perhaps he should call and amend his clue to specifically search… no, too easy and they’d never learn a thing.

  He parked near two other vehicles, surprised there was any cars there at all; grateful to know that there were those who burned the midnight oil like he did. He turned off his ignition and pulled out his laptop, connecting to the first unsecure Wi-Fi signal he could snatch hold of. As soon as he procured a signal, he turned on the camera he’d set up in the closet. He knew he wouldn’t be able to see anything in the darkness, but he would be able to see if anyone breached the door.

  He turned up the volume, then lay his head against the headrest. He’d never had so much time to wait for something to transpire, not without having something to do while waiting. The sudden drop in activity lowered the adrenaline pumping through his body and weariness set in. His eyes drifted closed and he fell asleep.

  Chapter 21

  “Black and whites are beginning to return from their assigned patrols—” the captain started but Hardwick interrupted him.

  “And not one has located our victim? Shouldn’t we have them start another search?” Hardwick asked, concern lacing his tone. He stared up at the map they’d placed in the dispatch office, noting all of the marks that dotted the paper. There were so many that he knew doing a re-search would be futile. The captain verbalized his thoughts aloud.

  “There’s no time. We’ve only got thirty minutes—”

  “Twenty-six minutes, to be precise,” Wilson interjected. “Sorry.” He added quickly before they could chastise him.

  The front desk phone rang, interrupting the captain’s retort. He reached over and snatched up the receiver before the front desk sergeant could.

  “Go!” He snapped at the caller. He sighed heavily after replacing the receiver and his brow etched with deep concern as he turned back to his detectives, “The last of the patrols are headed back now. I’ve instructed all officers to reassemble for a final—and hopefully speedy—evaluation on what we may have overlooked.”

  “I don’t get it,” Cortez snapped. “We’ve covered every possible avenue. Dotted all our Is and crossed all our Ts, but we’ve still managed to screw up somewhere. Could he be playing us?”

  “You mean did he feed us false information to get back at Hardwick?” Wilson asked. This time, despite the looks of disgruntlement, Wilson didn’t apologize. Instead, he raised his chin a notch, “Don’t tell me I’m the only one thinking it. H
ardwick has been riding this guy since the Madison abduction, and Price made it clear that he didn’t like you none,” he concluded, turning to face his partner.

  “I thought we already clarified that the information was legit. We all agreed it was legit, despite his animosity toward me. What I think, Wilson, is that you’re overlooking the fact that he wanted us to find this one; he didn’t want to have to move on to a fourth victim. Because he knows that the more times he’s forced to abduct someone, the greater the chances he’ll screw up and get caught, and the last thing this guy wants is to get caught. So, no, I don’t think he fed us misinformation; I think one of our patrols screwed up.”

  “Shit,” the captain muttered. “That’s a monumental assumption, Hardwick.”

  “Maybe,” Hardwick defended, “but it’s also the most logical one.”

  The captain sighed heavily, “Well, if that’s the case, let’s see if we have time to find out which patrol it was, and pray we have time to right the wrong. Let’s go.”

  The four men filed from the captain’s office and entered the conference room where, once again, every member of the APD’s Zone 5 converged. They stopped milling about, murmuring to one another when they saw their superiors enter. Each one quickly took a seat and waited for the captain to take his place at the podium.

  “We have twenty minutes to find this girl,” he said without preamble, “yet each member of my department has returned empty handed. Not a damned clue as to where she is. That means that we either overlooked a place, or failed to check them all. Now, which is it and what can we do to rectify it?”

  The members of the force started discussions among themselves, and with each passing minute, the knit in the captain’s brow deepened. When the clock ticked down to nearly ten minutes remaining, he knew that their chance of saving this next victim was nearly nonexistent. He wanted to cry out of sheer frustration.