And Then There Was One

by Patricia Gussin

  They kept going after stopping to sit on a log and eat a salami sandwich and an oatmeal cookie. When she asked Maggie about running out of water, Maggie just laughed and pointed at the lake.

  “That’s salt water in the ocean,” Alex said, twitching her nose in distaste.

  “No, Jennie, not an ocean, a lake. Lake Michigan or Lake Superior, I’m not sure. One of the Great Lakes. Didn’t you learn about them in school?”

  School seemed such a distant life to Alex that she simply shook her head, hoping Maggie was right about the water.

  Leaving the boat in the same secluded spot as yesterday, Spanky headed for the tent. He was disgusted with himself. He had forgotten to get Precious to tape the message that it was Wednesday and please rescue me, Daddy. Now he had to recalculate his timing and perhaps move the ransom pick-up to Thursday. No problem there, he could use some slack, and he’d be able to get another night’s sleep on the road.

  At first he thought they were both asleep. All was quiet. Ma liked to sleep late on her days off, that’s why he hadn’t awakened her when he had left an hour and a half ago. But the campsite was empty. Okay, he told himself. Hadn’t he suggested that they pick berries? All kids love picking berries. He knew he had. A glance about confirmed that nothing looked disturbed. No choice now except to wait for them. While he waited, he’d get some sleep.

  Spanky awoke to the bark of a dog. He had no idea how long he’d slept. Looking around he did not see Ma or Precious. They must still be out there. He rose groggily from the floor to peer out the tiny flap window. He saw a yellow dog scamper along the path in the woods that led to the cove where he’d stashed the Grady White.

  “Shit,” he mumbled. Spanky felt the heft of the Taurus .44 Magnum revolver in the wide pocket of his cargo pants. Where there was a dog, there’d be a human. He checked his watch. Noon. He needed to find Ma and Precious, get the kid to tape that statement, and get the hell out of there.

  Spending fifteen minutes circling the campsite, Spanky found no trace of either Ma or Precious. He went back in the tent, hunger gnawing at his stomach. He’d only taken a ham sandwich and a Snickers bar, but he’d left them enough to eat for a week. He poked around in all the bags. He found cans of sodas, apples and bananas, loaves of bread, peanut butter, but where were the energy bars?

  CHAPTER 59

  Happy Father’s Day to All You Dads Out There.

  — Sunday Radio, June 21

  Streeter had arranged to meet his team of four for breakfast at eight a.m. As he exited the elevator his face registered surprise and suspicion as a paunchy man in a uniform approached. Streeter figured the guy must have been waiting for them in the lobby.

  “You Agent Streeter? FBI?” the man asked.

  Streeter planned to come off as Mr. Nice Guy, not The Jerk as most agents presented themselves.

  “Yes, I am.” Streeter pulled his badge, holding it out for the man to examine.

  “Chief Bagley,” he said, pulling out his own credentials. “Just put a call into your room. Figured maybe you were on your way down. I came down from Charlevoix. Following up on that van I called you about.”

  Streeter was embarrassed that he’d forgotten the small-town chief’s name.

  “I got the report,” he said. “Thought you needed to know. There’s a match. Prints in that abandoned van match the cabin on Elk Lake. All three, match. That little Monroe girl was in that van. I’d like to escort you to Charlevoix. It’s about a forty-five-minute drive with the sirens on.”

  Streeter’s heart pounded. Alex was in that van. Miami had never made sense. His gut had been right. Where was she now?

  His two agents and two pilots had arrived, and the six men clustered in an alcove adjoining the bank of elevators.

  “I’ve got a vehicle waiting that’ll hold all five of you,” Bagley said. “So let’s roll.”

  “Should we go in the copter?” Streeter asked the lead pilot.

  “I think I can get you there faster,” Bagley said. “But it’s up to you.”

  Bagley, Streeter, and his two agents climbed in the sheriff’s van, leaving the pilots to make arrangements to land at the Charlevoix airport. True to his word, Bagley made the fifty-mile drive along Route 31 in less than forty-five minutes. On their arrival at the Charlevoix County Sherriff’s office, they were met by a cadre of deputies and two State Police officers.

  “Put the word out,” Chief Bagley ordered. “House-to-house search if need be. Concentrate on the lake shore, but I’m worried about a boat —”

  Streeter followed Bagley into his small office and asked if his agents could set up camp there. He had to call this finding into the agency and have the FBI confirm the print matched. As Streeter waited for e-mail confirmation of the prints, he watched as local police fanned out to canvas the small resort town. Bagley had ruined Father’s Day for a medley of town, county, and state law enforcement.

  It didn’t take long. Confirmation. Alex, Marge, and Samuel Spansky’s prints all over that stolen van. Not sure what to do next, Streeter was interrupted by an excited Bagley.

  “I’m on my way to the marina. Manager there just got a phone call of interest. Come with me. It’s just a couple of minutes away. We can talk on the way. Let’s go.”

  An officious looking man in pressed khakis and a white tee shirt with a sailboat emblem was waiting at the entrance to the Sunset Marina office. Streeter noted that the clipboard in his hand shook as did his voice when he walked toward them. “Can you turn off the flashing lights?” he asked. “And can you all come inside. I’m Mike Gates, the manager here, and I can’t afford to raise any panic about stolen yachts.”

  He’s worried about a boat when a little girl’s life is at stake.

  “I’ve got a problem,” Gates started. “A stolen boat, Grady White thirty-foot center console with twin three hundred-horsepower outboards, Yamahas. Owner’s name is Dale Bole. He’s from Chicago, but traveling out of the country. He left no permission for someone to use his boat, so I can only assume that it’s stolen. He’s the type of guy who never lets another human being so much as touch his watercraft. Best I can tell is that the Grady White’s been missing since between yesterday morning when I made my routine security rounds and about ten this morning when I first noticed it missing. Could have been anytime in between. This is my busy season and —”

  “Anybody see anything unusual?” Bagley interrupted.

  “I’ve asked around, but nobody saw anything out of the ordinary. Nothing like this has —”

  “Camera surveillance?” Streeter asked, glancing around at the expensive watercraft that made Sunset Marina their home.

  “I’ve been going to put in a camera system,” Gates said, Adam’s apple bobbing, “but there’s not much crime in Charlevoix.”

  “Not unless you have my job,” Bagley said with a smirk. “You telling me that kids don’t fool around and ‘borrow’ these luxury boats?”

  “That’s what I thought might have happened, but when the officer came by to ask about anything out of the ordinary, I told him —”

  The van and now the boat? Why a boat? And where? Streeter had no answers, but decided to wait for the results of the immediate area search before calling in reinforcements. But he’d have to do so soon, and the search would include the rough waters of Lake Michigan.

  When the sun got very hot, Jennifer asked Marge if they could go up by the trees and rest for a while in the shade. She’d agreed and the two of them sat leaning against a huge fir tree. Marge was sweaty and her back ached something fierce, but it felt so good to have Jennifer, so contented, sitting beside her. But Marge knew that she didn’t dare drift off to sleep unless she tied Jennifer up. So she sat awake, panting for a while as she cooled down, relaxing only when Jennifer dozed off.

  When Jennifer woke up with a start, Marge realized that she, too, had fallen asleep. She checked her watch, three hours had passed.

  They each ate an apple and started walking again. They didn’t talk
much, but enough that Marge knew that Jennifer was afraid of Spanky. And with good reason, she knew. Once she found Evan, he would protect them both. But what to do now? She started to feel the raindrops landing on her head and the sky had turned dark and threatening. She’d have to find them shelter. Was she still on park property? She didn’t know.

  Marge, with her arm around Jennifer, regretted that she hadn’t brought warm clothes, not even a sweat shirt. “You’re shaking, Jennie,” she said, drawing her daughter into her ample breasts.

  Bagley had pizza delivered and the dozen or so men gathered in the too-small police headquarters gobbling quickly, anxious to be on the street, looking for any trace of Alex Monroe. Streeter had called his boss at home with an update and the SAC said he’d check with Miami, and get back to him.

  Streeter had just dialed his ex-wife’s home in Grand Rapids, when the marina manager ran through the door, shouting something. Hanging up, not sure whether Marianne had picked up, Streeter met him in the middle of the room. “I tried to call,” he said, “but the phones were jammed, so I ran over.”

  Streeter could see sweat seeping through the preppy shirt.

  “I got a call from a man.” Gates’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, and he referenced the notepad. “Rudy Conover. He said he saw the Grady White, that’s the missing boat I reported. I wrote it all down.

  “Go on,” Streeter said when the man hesitated and swallowed again. “When? Where?”

  “A state park in the Upper Peninsula. He’s a pilot that flies his own plane and he likes to, you know, get away from phones, television. He and his wife have a special spot. Only his wife died and now there’s just him and his dog.”

  “When did he see the boat?” Streeter interrupted.

  “This morning, ten o’clock. He’d been walking on the beach and took a shortcut back to his camp. His dog barked and started to sniff a boat pulled up to shore at an inlet at the far end of Wells State Park. When he got closer, he recognized it as belonging to a guy who eats in his restaurant.”

  “Where’s that?” Streeter asked.

  “Chicago. The guy that owns the boat lives in Chicago and has a summer home in Charlevoix, and Mr. Conover’s restaurant is in Chicago. They’d talk about going to the U.P. and such, something they had in common. Anyway Mr. Conover was pretty sure that my client, Dale Bole, would never leave his boat untended on the shore like that. So Mr. Conover steps back into the trees and waits just to check out what’s going on.” Again, a glance at the clipboard. “Waited about fifteen minutes. He said he didn’t go too close, but close enough to keep an eye on the boat, half expecting to see Dale Bole appear on the scene. But no, he sees a big man, definitely not the owner, leave a nearby campsite, get into the boat, and take off.”

  “Alone?” Streeter asked. “No woman? No child?”

  “You have to call Mr. Conover yourself. Gates checked his watch and extended the clipboard to Streeter. “He said that he’d stay by a pay phone for fifteen minutes in case the chief here wanted more information. He left the —”

  Before he could finish the sentence, Streeter had his phone out. “Read me the number.”

  Streeter’s hands trembled as he punched the numbers, praying that this Conover would still be there.

  “Hello,” a man’s voice picked up at the first ring.

  “Mr. Rudy Conover?”

  “Yes.”

  “Special Agent Tony Streeter, FBI. I understand you have some information about a boat that may be linked to the Monroe girls’ kidnapping.”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I got suspicious when I saw the Grady White abandoned in that inlet. Not a very safe thing to do. Dale Bole would never leave his boat unattended. I waited a while, out of sight, thinking something was fishy. I didn’t know whether I should interfere, but I thought if that were my boat, I’d sure as hell want someone watching it for me. In about fifteen minutes a bald man — not old, I’d judge in his thirties — with a mustache and a goatee, comes along on a path leading from a campsite. I stayed back and tried to keep Duke from barking. Successfully. After that I walked back to my campsite, got in my car, and drove to a pay phone over by the park entrance. I called information in Chicago, looking for my customer’s phone number. Unlisted, they said. Then I got the bright idea to call the restaurant. We like to confirm reservations so I figured we might have this guy’s number in the computer. My lunch hostess was there; she found the number right off.” Conover paused to take a long breath.

  “You’re doing well, sir,” Streeter said, wishing he’d minimize the embellishment.

  “I called immediately. Housekeeper answered. Said Mr. Bole was out of the country. Said that he would never loan out his boat. Gave me the name and number of Sunset Marina. I made the call and told them I’d wait around the pay phone for a call back. My cell service doesn’t work out here.”

  “You’re at the Wells State Park right now?” Streeter asked, checking coordinates on a map the sheriff had given him.

  “That I am.”

  “Sir, we have evidence linking your story to the Monroe kidnapping case. Could we ask you to stay right there until we arrive? We desperately need your help, Mr. Conover. Please?”

  “I left my campsite unsecured —”

  “Sir, we’re looking for a nine-year-old girl.” If necessary, Streeter would have him detained by the park rangers, but he’d have a much more cooperative witness if he agreed on his own.

  “If you put it that way, of course. Sure, I’ll stay.”

  “We’re on our way to the park,” Streeter said. “Stay there. We’ll call the rangers and brief them. Don’t talk to anyone else, and, thank you, sir.”

  Streeter knew very little about state parks, another one of his shortcomings. As Marianne had pointed out, the girls needed to experience the great outdoors. She’d grown up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, spending every holiday at one of Michigan’s many lakes. He wondered if she’d ever been to J. W. Wells State Park. The park, located on Green Bay, not far from the Michigan-Wisconsin state line, comprises almost seven hundred acres of near wilderness and has an extensive shoreline. Some of the campsites were remote, others clustered closer to the main beach area.

  Having arranged for the FBI helicopter to move on from Charlevoix to the park, he studied the map while waiting for the pilots to refuel. The driving distance to Cedar River, a tiny town a mile from the park, was about 230 miles. The drive would involve crossing the Mackinac Bridge, going west and then south. By boat the park was directly west of Charlevoix, some 150 nautical miles.

  Streeter contemplated the timing. Samuel Spanksy had stolen a boat in Charlevoix. He must have crossed Lake Michigan, heading due west to that state park. Had he stayed the night? Was Alex with him? According to Conover, he’d left the campsite about three hours ago. He’d left alone, without his mother, without Alex. Had he left them somewhere in the park? Or did he plan to pick them up somewhere along the way? Or were they already on their way to Miami to trade Alex for money.

  Should he have the park rangers immediately check out the site where Conover had seen the stolen boat? His instinct said, “no.” He would personally lead this search. There had been so many mistakes along the way. He prayed that this decision would not turn out to be yet another one. Too many mistakes, too many dead, Maxwell Cutty, Norman Wade, and Camry had texted him that Cutty’s former sister-in-law, Roberta, had taken her own life. By holding back the rangers, was he risking another screw-up?

  Streeter had alerted the head park ranger that he’d be arriving, but he had not shared the reason for the highly unusual descent of federal agents into the middle of nowhere. He did ask that there be fast boats and extra personnel on standby. He had emphasized to Rudy Conover that he not disclose the possible Monroe child connection. All he needed was a bunch of cowboys trying to be heroes.

  The weather got progressively worse as the helicopter crossed Lake Michigan and descended onto the makeshift tarmac near the park office. The for
ecast included falling temperatures, a thunderstorm, and seven-foot swells. As Streeter and his two agents jumped out of the cabin, they were met by a cadre of six uniformed park rangers and Conover, a rugged looking guy in his seventies. Streeter detected a mix of curiosity and hostility, but when Conover, without a trace of hesitation, indentified Samuel Spanky’s photo as the man whom he’d seen, Streeter had their full allegiance.

  A team now, they discussed options as to how to approach the campsite described by Conover. Since no road led to the site, they decided to go by police boat. The hovering of a helicopter would be too loud, but it could be called out at a moment’s notice. Streeter with Conover, the senior park ranger, and one junior ranger took the lead boat. His two agents and the remaining park rangers would follow in the second, leaving the student ranger behind to handle park functions, the most important of which would be communications. Before climbing aboard, Streeter hesitated. During the helicopter ride, he had briefed Agent Pentero, from the Miami field office and now the lead FBI special agent in charge of the Monroe kidnapping. He’d gotten the go-ahead to proceed to the park, but it had come in a tone dripping with derision. Streeter’s competence with the agency was at a crossroads. Should he call in SWAT? No, he decided. That would take too long.

  A young ranger took the helm as Conover guided the craft toward the exact spot in the woods where he’d watched the man motor off in Dale Bole’s boat. Streeter hadn’t realized that the waves of Lake Michigan matched those of the oceans, and by the time the boat approached shore, they were all drenched in frigid water.

  Streeter was the first to jump onto the shore. “Can you lead us from here to the campsite?” he asked Conover. “Or would you rather wait here?”

  “Follow me,” Conover said. “Single file. Path’s narrow.”

  Streeter looked at the rough, overgrown terrain, then down at his pressed charcoal gray suit and polished dress shoes. Not optimal attire for a takedown in the woods, he thought as he followed directly behind Conover.