Double Trouble

by Scott Wittenburg

  “A car just came by that looked like it was going to pull into the driveway but then drove on by. Not sure what that was all about.”

  “Think they saw you and changed their mind?”

  “Good chance of it.”

  “Hmm. I’ve got two squad cars following behind and we’re going to cover both sides of the house in case somebody tries to make a break for it. We need to get the girl to safety right away, so here’s what I want you to do. Are you facing north?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Drive up to Oakland and make a left. Stay on Oakland until one of the cruisers catch up to you. You still driving that Pilot?”

  “I am. I take it the chief got back to you.”

  “He did. That’s why I suddenly have all this backup.”

  “What if that was one of them who just drove by? They might be back before you get here.”

  “We’ll just have to risk that. You need to move now, Alan.”

  “Okay, we’re on our way.”

  Alan pulled out, not particularly pleased to be doing so but still thankful that Mike Draker had come through.

  He turned onto Oakland just as another car pulled out from the intersection headed in the direction of the house. Alan immediately recognized the driver: Mansky!

  “Shit!” he shouted. “Mike, it’s Mansky, the main guy—he’s heading south toward the house!”

  “Damn, I’m almost there!”

  A thought suddenly occurred to him. “What if he knows what’s going on and is going back to kill the girls? Or hold them hostage?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t have said that. Goddamn it!”

  “I’m going back after him, Mike!” Alan shouted, dropping the phone. “Hold on, Carly!”

  Alan spun the steering wheel all the way to the left, hit the curb, threw it into reverse and back into drive in about five seconds. Fishtailing his way out of Oakland onto Melton Street, he gunned the engine and saw Mansky up ahead. He was only a couple of doors from the house.

  Alan lay on the horn and flashed his headlights off and on as he tore down Melton Street like a madman. If Mansky didn’t notice him, the man was deaf and blind. The car’s brake lights suddenly came on as the car turned into the driveway.

  Suddenly Alan saw flashing red and blue lights appear out of nowhere heading toward him, accompanied by the blare of a siren. He saw Manksy’s car peeling down the driveway just as Alan sped past the neighbor’s house. Alan was about fifty yards ahead of the police.

  “Get down on the floor, Carly!” he shouted and cut across the lawn through a hedge and onto the driveway. He tried to slow down enough to make the sharp turn to the left and ended up clipping the hedge running along the driveway. As he went around the curve he saw Mansky fleeing from his car, heading toward the garage. Another car was already parked in front blocking both garage doors, forcing Mansky to make a run for a smaller door around the side. Alan floored it and was able to cut him off just in time.

  Mansky suddenly pulled out a gun and took aim at the Pilot. Alan ducked down, expecting to hear a shot ring out. It didn’t happen. He stole a glance out the driver’s side window and saw Mansky running toward the house just as a cruiser sped around the curve past the Pilot and headed Mansky off before he reached the house. Screeching to a stop, the officers flung their doors open and crouched behind them with their guns drawn.

  “Hands up—get on the ground!” one of them commanded.

  Instead of complying, Mansky fired off a quick shot, ran over and took cover behind his car. Alan couldn’t believe his eyes when Mansky’s head suddenly popped up from behind the front fender and he fired again. One more shot rang out and Mansky immediately fell to the ground.

  An unmarked car pulled around the curve and came to a stop. Alan could see in his rear view mirror that it was Mike Draker. One of the officers was running over to the house while his partner went over and stood over Mansky. Judging by the officer’s demeanor, the gangster was in very bad shape.

  Alan whipped off his seat belt, turned around and peered down at Carly lying on the floorboard.

  “You okay, honey?”

  “Yeah, that was scary!”

  “It sure was, but I think it’s all over now.”

  Draker ran over to the Pilot and opened the door.

  “You two okay?” he asked.

  Carly stood up in the back seat.

  “You need to stay on the floor, honey—sorry,” Alan told the girl. “We’re fine, Mike. You guys got here just in the nick of time.”

  “That Mansky?” the detective asked, gesturing toward the fallen man.

  “Yup, that’s him.”

  “Well, we need to secure the area. Stay here with the girl until we’ve checked everything out, okay?”

  Alan nodded. “Will do.”

  “Are they going to save my friends?” Carly asked from behind the seat.

  “Certainly, as soon as they’re sure there aren’t any more bad guys lurking around.”

  Alan heard more sirens out front, followed by the sound of police chatter coming over police radios. Draker was on his cellphone, probably calling in for more backup.

  Moments later one of the rear doors opened and out came a pair of police officers. Apparently the house was cleared. Alan wondered who owned the silver Audi parked outside the garage. Whoever it was must have blown the scene already unless they were still in the garage with the victims. He studied the garage and noticed that there were no windows whatsoever in the structure, neither on the folding doors or the side entrance door. Considering the elegance of the house, he was baffled at the stark simplicity of the garage, which stood out like a sore thumb.

  Alan wanted to join the investigation but knew he would be relegated to stand by until the police were done doing their jobs. Just as he began to wonder when somebody would be coming for Carly to remove her to safety, a female officer appeared outside his door.

  “Is there a young girl in there with you?” she said.

  “Sure is. You taking her to the station?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer opened the Pilot’s rear door and stuck her head inside. “What’s your name, honey?”

  Carly slowly stood up. “Carly.”

  “My, that’s a pretty name! My name is officer Owens and I’m going to take you to the police station so we can track down your parents. Is that alright with you?”

  “Yes, but what about my friends? I want to see them!”

  The officer glanced at Alan questioningly, evidently not sure what friends she was referring to.

  “The other victims,” he explained. “They’re in the garage, we think.”

  “I see. I’m afraid it’s not safe to see them right now, honey. Maybe you can see them later, okay?”

  “I guess so,” she replied, clearly disappointed.

  “What do you say we go call your parents?”

  “Okay,” she said. “I miss them so much!”

  The girl got out, came over to Alan and gave him a hug. “Don’t forget your promise to come and see me!”

  “I won’t—take care, Carly. I’ll see you soon.”

  As he watched her being led away from the scene, Alan’s heart was heavy. He was elated that the girl was safe and would soon be rejoined with her family, but at the same angered that she’d been forced into this horrendous situation in the first place.

  A couple of paramedics carrying a gurney appeared and ran over to where Mansky lay on the ground. Now that Carly was safe, Alan got out and joined Detective Draker who was standing outside the garage. When Draker first spotted him, Alan watched his expression switch from one of reprimand to reluctant acceptance. That was because Alan had just cast him a look that said, “Don’t even think about sending me away, buddy. I’m going in there with you.”

  “What’s the plan, detective?” Alan said.

  “We’ve got the place surrounded. They’re doing a check on the owner of the Audi right now and we’re standing by to see what the chi
ef thinks we should do next.”

  “Have you tried talking to anyone inside yet?”

  “No. If somebody’s in there besides the victims, we can’t take the chance of them harming the kids. They’ll be desperate and liable to do anything to avoid capture.”

  “I see,” Alan said. “Is Mansky still alive?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Died instantly.”

  “Too bad—that means he didn’t suffer. Did you get a key to the garage off him?”

  Draker held out his hand to show Alan a ring of keys. “Right here.”

  Alan noticed that the door was made of solid steel and had two locks—one that worked the door handle and the other a deadbolt. He wondered what was happening on the other side of this door right now. Were the children all huddled in the corner, scared out of their wits, wondering what was going on outside their prison? Or was the owner of the Audi in there, standing over them with a loaded gun, just waiting for the moment the police broke the door down so he could end their young lives before he was taken away?

  Just then Alan realized he hadn’t heard from Ron Fowler yet. He wondered if he’d been able to contact the feds and if they would be showing up on the scene any time soon. The question seemed moot at this point, since the Columbus PD seemed to have the situation under control. He had never for a moment thought this case would come down to this.

  Mike Draker’s police radio suddenly chirped to life. “We have a positive ID on the Audi. It is registered to a Phillip Steven Evans, seventy-nine Melton Street, Bexley. Your present location, copy?”

  “Copy. How should we proceed?”

  “Advise the garage occupants of the situation and demand their surrender. If there is no response, enter the premises with extreme caution, copy?”

  “Got it,” Draker replied. “Get me the bullhorn, Collins,” he shouted over to one of the officers covering the front. The officer nodded and headed over to a cruiser.

  Draker got back on the radio. “You all heard the orders. Everyone stand by.”

  The officer came back and handed a bullhorn to Draker. He switched it on, tested it, and stood back a few feet from the door.

  “This is the police. We have this place surrounded—there is no chance of escape. You are ordered to come out with your hands up immediately,” he demanded.

  Everybody stood in total silence, awaiting a response. Moments later, Draker cued up the bullhorn again. “This is your last chance to surrender. Come out with your hands up now, or we are coming in.”

  Not a single sound came from inside, causing Alan to wonder if anybody was even in there.

  Draker continued staring at the door for another moment then pressed the talk button on the radio. “We’re going in.”

  He summoned another officer over to where they were standing. “Back me up, Fenton. Alan, wait here until we’ve cased the place out.”

  Alan nodded and stood off to the side. Draker trained a flashlight beam on the keyring, chose a key and tried it in one of the locks. Wrong one. He tried the other and it fit. He gently turned the key until he heard a click. He chose another key and inserted it into the deadbolt lock. A full turn and there was a resounding click as the bolt was freed.

  “Stand back,” he ordered. He turned the door handle and cracked the door open. After motioning to the officers to be on the ready, he stood off to the side and kicked the door open. Alan braced himself for the blast of a gunshot from inside. Instead there was nothing but silence.

  Draker took a cautious peek inside, shook his head and motioned for the others to look inside. Alan came around and peered into the area. It was a foyer of sorts with another door placed about six feet in. The second door had a pair of locks as well. The entire foyer was covered with a thick wall of soundproofing material. No wonder they hadn’t been able to hear anything—the place appeared to be totally soundproof.

  “Give me the horn,” Draker said. He repeated his warning for the occupants to surrender again—almost verbatim. After a pair of warnings, Draker swore under his breath and tried one of the keys in the door. It worked. He tried the other key in the deadbolt and it too worked. As before, everybody stood back as Draker kicked the door open.

  Again, no gunshots. So far, so good, Alan thought.

  Draker motioned for Fenton to stand by. Before stepping through the doorway, he shouted, “This is your last chance to surrender. Drop your weapons or we will open fire.”

  Total, eerie silence. Alan was stunned. Where the hell is everybody? Are the girls in there? Are they still alive? Or has their captor murdered them, knowing that nobody outside could have heard the shots, and was now waiting to open fire at the first person who steps inside?

  Draker stepped cautiously up to the doorway and peeked in, first to the left and then to the right. He flicked a wall switch and lights came on, revealing a table and a few chairs set up along the wall on the far side of the garage.

  “Looks clear—not a soul in sight,” the detective announced. “There’s a single door in the far corner we need to check out, though. Let’s go.”

  Fenton followed Draker inside, gun drawn, and Alan followed behind. Once inside, he saw a room that looked less like a garage and more like a studio apartment—located on the wrong side of town.

  The floor was covered with a variety of randomly placed cheap throw rugs. The furniture was cheap as well and secondhand: a dull-colored dinette setup consisting of four mismatched chairs and a table with a deeply scratched surface that looked like a 1950’s reject. There was a soiled avocado-colored sofa backed against the wall, a beat-up coffee table in front of it and what looked like a thirteen-inch cathode ray television sitting on top of a dilapidated aluminum TV stand. The only light source for the entire room was the four-foot fluorescent work light fixture suspended from the center of the soundproofed ceiling.

  Perhaps the most depressing aspect of the place was the walls—all unpainted cinderblock covered with thick layers of soundproofing material.

  But where were the children?

  “Looks like that could be a bathroom,” Alan said as they walked over to a built-in room that was about seven-foot square built into the far corner of the space.

  Draker went up and simply knocked on the door. “Police, come out with your hands in the air.”

  When there was no response, he swung the door open and looked inside.

  “Nobody here.”

  It was indeed a bathroom, a half-bath, that consisted of a toilet and a sink. No shower or tub. Like the rest of the place, all bare bones. The fact that this room was vacant meant only one thing: the victims had already been taken away.

  “Shit!” Alan hissed.

  “Looks like we’re too late,” Officer Fenton said.

  “But why the hell was Mansky trying to come in here? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Hell if I know,” Draker replied. “But there’s no doubt about it—this place is a bust.”

  “There must be something in here important enough that Mansky would risk his life to get it,” Alan declared.

  “Could be. Let’s take a look around.”

  They spread out and began searching the contents of the room. Alan realized that there was no sink or running water except for inside the bathroom. There was no fridge, or a stove or any sort of appliances for cooking. How did they eat?

  Alan went over to the sofa, removed the cushions and looked for anything that may be hidden there. Nothing but some loose change, lint and a lot of dog hair—no doubt from the previous owner. He replaced the cushions, pulled out the sofa from the wall to look under it and did a double-take—

  “Over here!” he shouted.

  Set into the floor was what appeared to be a trap door, its hinges mounted near the baseboard. The door was just a little smaller than the size of the sofa.

  Draker and Fenton ran over.

  “I’ll be a sonofabitch!” Draker exclaimed. “I wonder what’s down there.”

  “Let’s open it,” Fenton sai
d. “I don’t see a handle, though.”

  Alan crouched down and ran his hand along the edge of the door. “There’s a small hole here—it could be threaded. Maybe we can screw in something that could work as a handle.”

  They looked around for something to use and a moment later, Fenton cried, “Check this out!”

  He had unscrewed one of the knobs off the end table. Protruding from the end was a threaded screw. Fenton knelt town and screwed the knob into the hole in the door. It fit perfectly.

  “Must be the same knob Mansky used,” Alan said.

  “Open it up,” Draker said. “We know the bad guys can’t be down there unless they found a way to slide the sofa back into place.

  Fenton pulled up on the door but nothing happened.

  “Jesus, this thing is heavy!”

  “Forget your Wheaties this morning?” Draker said, pushing Fenton aside to take over.

  He pulled on the knob until he was red in the face from the strain and finally gave up. “It must be locked somehow.”

  Alan went over to the hinges and examined them. He slid his fingernail in under one of them and pulled up. The hinge flipped over, revealing a recessed finger-hold space carved into the door.

  “What’s the deal?” Draker said.

  Alan flipped the other hinge over and saw a steel slide bolt in the locked position.

  He slid the bolt open.

  “Fake hinges,” he explained. “No wonder you couldn’t lift it—the hinges are on that side.”

  “Who in the hell dreamed this contraption up, you suppose?”

  “Russian engineering,” Alan replied dryly.

  He placed his fingers in the finger hold and pulled up. The door easily swung open. All three men looked down into the darkness. Draker switched on his flashlight and aimed it down the hole. There was a narrow wooden staircase leading down to the floor of the space. Draker descended the steps and disappeared from sight. A moment later, Alan heard what sounded like another door opening, followed by the high-pitched shrieks of several obviously terrified girls

  “I’m with the police—you’re safe now!” Alan heard Draker shout.

  Moments later, Alan watched as a parade consisting of five very young children—four girls and one boy—ascended the steps from their underground cell to freedom. As he looked into their sad, wary eyes and saw their dirty faces and cheap second-hand clothes, he nearly choked up with emotion.