Gone Missing: A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked

by T. J. Brearton

  A moment later she was free-falling. Her breath exploded when she hit the ground. It felt like an enormous weight on her chest and she struggled for intake while she floundered in the dirt.

  “Hey! Goddammit…” Leno wasn’t far away.

  Carson kicked her in the thigh. “You fucking bitch…”

  There was a scuffle – two pairs of legs together, men grunting and fighting.

  Then they settled and she was being lifted up, first to a seated position, where she finally sucked in a ragged breath. Her eyes watered and stung. There was a cloud of dust around her. She was hauled to her feet, and she started running.

  “Fuck!”

  They were in the woods, in a clearing, no one and nothing else around except for two wheel ruts through the forest where they must have driven in. Katie sprinted that way, holding her tied wrists against her stomach. She heard the footfalls behind her, closing in.

  She was a good runner, a strong runner. But she was limping, her thigh throbbing with pain, her vision sheeting with tears.

  Carson caught up and tackled her. At the last second she tried to brace for the impact but her hands were useless. When she hit, her face grated into the rocks and dirt. Then everything was still.

  Nothing, for a moment, just Carson breathing on top of her.

  He rolled off.

  “Oh, just like that,” he said. “Leave you just like that…”

  She couldn’t move. She thought a finger was broken from when she landed. Her face was hot, too hot against the dirt, something needling her skin.

  Katie forced her hands in front of her, pushed herself up a bit, started to wriggle away.

  Carson took her by the ankles and dragged her back. Then he was on top of her again, whispering in her ear. “You want it.” He groped her like before, only this time he grabbed her backside. “Just admit it.”

  “Alright,” Leno said. “Knock it off.”

  Carson remained, his face right beside hers, his weight crushing her into the ground. His expelled air churned up the dust, stinging in her eyes. “This is your last warning. Okay? You know what I mean, Katie-pie? Last warning. You fuckin kick me again, you run again, and I am going to hurt you.” He paused, and added, “For a long time, too.”

  Then he was off her, and she could breathe again.

  Katie rolled over, coughing and gagging, and forced herself to sit up.

  She risked a glance at the two men.

  They stood by the truck and camper. Leno watched her, his face now hidden behind a hunter’s balaclava mask, just like Carson’s. But she knew it was Leno, and Carson was the other one – Carson was a bit bigger than Leno, and she thought maybe younger, too. One of his long sleeves was hitched up toward the elbow and she saw tattoos. Hard to be sure. Who were they?

  Leno spread his arms, speaking to Carson. “Hey – hey, what the fuck – am I regretting this?”

  “No.”

  “You want to fuckin – ah, you need a minute? Need to go fuckin jerk off?”

  “No…”

  “Then settle.”

  Carson swore and paced in tight, angry circles, darting looks at her. Like an animal in a cage.

  She attempted to stand up, which was difficult with her hands bound. A random memory surfaced – a conversation with David, something they’d read online about being able to get to your feet without using your arms or hands for support. If you could, it meant you’d live at least another ten years. If you couldn’t, you had problems.

  She struggled, got her knees beneath her.

  Her whole body was shaking.

  Do not cry. Do NOT cry.

  Katie rose to her feet.

  Leno came near, looking her over. “Goddammit,” he said again. He turned to Carson and shouted, “Her face is all fucked up.”

  Carson threw up his hands. “I didn’t tell her to do that!”

  Leno grabbed Katie by the arm.

  Don’t pull away. Don’t scream.

  But she screamed. As loud as she could, she shouted for help.

  He pulled her into a tight hug, clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Carson came running, eyes burning with intensity, but Leno put out his hand, keeping him back.

  Leno said to her, “Stop it. Or I’ll let him at you.”

  Katie nodded. Leno let go. Then he hastily dusted her off. Carson was staring at her, she could feel it, but she kept her head turned.

  “Get the first-aid kit from the glove box,” Leno said.

  “Are you for fuckin real? We have to—”

  “Do it!”

  Carson cursed and kicked at the ground. As Leno kept cleaning her off, Katie looked around.

  The world shimmered behind fresh tears. She blinked them away and drew a shuddering breath.

  Think.

  The clearing wasn’t very big, maybe thirty feet across, and surrounded by evergreen trees. She heard running water in the distance. Some birds were singing. The sky above was overcast, an ugly gray pate. A mosquito whined close to her ear.

  Carson stalked over with a plastic first-aid case and threw it on the ground. He was still behaving like a surly child. He gave her a fierce look – brown eyes, they’re brown – and acted like he was going to talk nasty again. But he returned to the pickup and started getting more stuff out.

  He tossed a large, army-green duffel to the ground, and a pack, the kind for back-country hiking.

  Leno was all thumbs. He swabbed her face like he was cleaning the windshield of a car. She gritted her teeth and took it, her facial cuts stinging like wasps. Then he slapped on a couple bandages and stepped back to admire his work.

  Finally, Leno pulled a cell phone from his pocket and took a picture.

  “Throw me the rope,” he called to Carson.

  Carson pulled a blue mountain-climbing rope from the cab of the truck and chucked it over.

  Leno put the phone away.

  Basic phone, not a smartphone. Maybe a prepaid type.

  Leno tied the rope around her waist. He paused to inspect the cuts and bruises on her wrists from the plastic tie.

  “Hurts?”

  Katie said nothing.

  Leno dipped back into the first-aid kit and did some more antiseptic swabbing, this time at her wrists. He put all the used swabs back into the kit then tested the rope. He played it out, walking away from her, unfurling its full length. There was about twenty feet.

  Katie watched Carson heft the pack onto his shoulders and maneuver himself to situate it right. He kept pawing at his face. The day was warm, extremely muggy. Katie imagined Carson was sweating a bit inside the mask.

  “Get the other thing,” Leno said.

  “Stop fuckin ordering me.”

  Leno turned his head slightly. “Just get the other thing. For Chrissakes.”

  Carson muttered something and leaned inside the camper. “There it is,” he said.

  He walked over to Katie and held up the shroud.

  “No…”

  This time she was sure Carson was grinning beneath the mask. Then everything went black again.

  Chapter Ten

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, thank you all for coming,” Bouchard said to the small crowd gathered in the Community Outreach parking lot. “This is an unusual situation. Katie Calumet – a member of your proud, tight-knit community – has gone missing.”

  Cross stood near Bouchard, Brennan beside him. Brennan was holding his prepared statement.

  A few men from the volunteer fire department had erected a temporary dais using plywood and bricks so that the people talking could be seen by the cameras. Plattsburgh College had provided the podium and easel on which Katie’s enlarged picture faced the crowd. Three affiliate stations had turned out, and at least a half-dozen newspapers.

  “State Police Investigator Justin Cross will share the details of this case with you now.”

  Bouchard stepped back. Cross gave Brennan an encouraging pat on the back and then stepped up to the podium, which
bristled with microphones.

  “Thank you, Captain Bouchard. The particulars in this case have us gravely concerned for Katie’s safety, and we’re urging anyone who has seen her, or has any information, to come forward immediately.”

  He gestured to the road behind them, the park beyond. “Katie was last seen at approximately ten after six this morning, jogging down Footbridge Lane, on her way back home from her morning run. She was wearing a black running skirt and a peach-colored sleeveless athletic shirt, gray sneakers on her feet with iridescent orange laces.”

  He held a hand in the air, palm down. “She is five foot six, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. At six fourteen this morning, she sends her husband a text message. In it, she tells her husband that she hears the sound of a baby crying and is going to investigate. That is the last he hears from her.

  “At six eighteen – so, four minutes later – a member of the community observes a white minivan driving west on Red Ridge Road. And our forensics expert, Dr. Fleming, has determined that tire tracks leading away from the park are consistent with a minivan, which is most likely a white Dodge Grand Caravan. If anyone has seen a white Dodge minivan, we’d like to hear from you. I’ll take any brief questions and then Katie’s husband, David Brennan, has a statement.”

  The reporters started asking questions at once and Cross pointed to one.

  “Stacy Keats, Channel Three. Investigator Cross, I understand there was a baby’s rattle found at the scene, by the park? Can you explain that?”

  “We can’t explain that. We’re analyzing fingerprints lifted from the rattle and testing it for DNA. It’s consistent with Katie’s last text that a baby was crying. That’s all we know.” He pointed to another reporter.

  “Jeff Porter, Adirondack Daily Enterprise. Sir, has there been any contact from the abductors? A ransom note?”

  Cross thought for a moment and said, “We haven’t, at this time, determined that Katie was abducted for ransom. Certainly we’re considering it, but there are other possible explanations for her disappearance we need to consider. No, we have not been contacted by anyone claiming to have her.”

  A third reporter: “What about the baby? Have there been inquiries into who the child is? Are you concerned for its safety?”

  Cross shifted on his feet and cleared his throat. “We’re doing everything we can to determine the particulars here…”

  “What about Katie’s family? Where are they?”

  “We’ve been in touch with the family and they’re on their way to assist us…”

  “Is Katie wealthy? The Calumet family owns restaurants and hotels – don’t you think this is most likely a kidnapping for money?”

  Cross felt a bit battered, growing frustrated. “Most reported kidnappings are either the result of underage girls running away with adult boyfriends, or custody battles gone bad. The logistics of grabbing and holding someone, then successfully collecting the ransom, all without getting caught, are very difficult. A person would have much better chances of becoming a banker or CEO and just stealing the money legally.”

  There was a ripple of laughter and some stunned faces. Cross couldn’t believe he’d just said it. He needed to get off the stage. “At this time, I’d like to ask David Brennan to share his prepared statement.”

  Another reporter blurted out a question before he stepped away – the woman from Brennan’s house.

  “Investigator Cross, if you don’t think this is a kidnapping, there’s a lot of attention here on someone missing for six hours. Is this because of Katie Calumet’s financial standing and the fact that she’s white?”

  Cross began to speak, stopped. Started again. “We’re giving Katie the same attention we would give any member of this community.”

  “You don’t feel it’s disproportionate from the response shown to women of different socioeconomic classes or ethnicities? And also, doesn’t Katie Calumet split her time between here and New York City?”

  Unreal. The reporter was trying to scandalize the situation.

  “If anything, it’s the media who reacts disproportionately. Thank you.”

  The crowd murmured as Cross turned to Brennan and introduced him. Cross shook Brennan’s hand as he stepped onto the dais. Brennan leaned in and whispered, “Told you,” and then took the podium.

  “Hello, good afternoon.” He pointed at the picture. “That’s Katie, that’s my wife. Right now, it doesn’t matter why she was taken, or even who took her. It only matters that she’s out there. It only matters that she gets home, safe. The police have given you the information – a white Dodge minivan. They’ve given you her physical description, now I’ll give you her personal description.”

  Brennan gripped the podium, swept the crowd with his gaze, then stared into the picture again.

  “Katie is kind, loving, and selfless. I know everyone says that when something happens, but it’s true. She’s the most giving person I know. And she’s tough. Katie has been through a lot in her life. She’s going to get through this, too. But she needs your help.”

  Brennan glanced at Cross, who nodded encouragingly. Katie’s husband was far better in front of the cameras than he was.

  Brennan finished by saying, “I want to thank all of you. I want to thank the state police and the sheriff’s department, the crime scene technicians, the fire department, and all of the volunteers. I want to thank the community of Hazleton for coming together and being supportive, telling the police what they can. We have made Hazleton our full-time home for the past year, and this place means the world to us. Please, everyone watching this or reading this, please keep your eye out. Help us get Katie back home. Thank you.”

  Brennan stepped off and Captain Bouchard took his place as the reporters volleyed fresh questions. Bouchard brought the conference to an end as Cross walked off the dais with Brennan.

  The police vehicles behind the dais served as a press barricade and the two men gathered there for a moment.

  Brennan’s eyes were welling up – he’d kept it together for the press but looked like he was succumbing to the emotion.

  Cross said, “You know, I said that about kidnapping…”

  Brennan shook his head. “No, I get it. I understand.”

  “What we talked about at your house, I’m giving that every consideration.”

  Brennan nodded now, and a tear fell. He turned and walked away, this big man weighed down by the circumstances like a millstone around his neck. At this point, there wasn’t much else Brennan could do. Cross thought it was up to him now. Time to get to work.

  * * *

  The call came in to the substation twenty minutes after the press conference. Trooper Farrington handed Cross the phone.

  “Cross here.”

  “Detective Cross, Trooper Alan Rowe. We found a 2008 white Dodge Grand Caravan off Route 8, couple miles west of Bakers Mills.”

  Cross swept his desk clear and brought out a fresh pad of paper. Trooper Rowe relayed the plate number and Cross asked, “How did you find it?”

  “Regular patrol; we got the BOLO two hours ago, so…”

  “Great.” Cross tore the sheet of paper from the pad and got up from his desk so fast he banged it with his leg and knocked over a jar of pencils.

  Farrington was hovering close and Cross handed him the note, saying, “Gates.” Farrington nodded and hustled away.

  “Thank you, Trooper,” Cross said into the phone. “And you’re securing the area.”

  “You want us to?”

  “Rope it off – no one touches the vehicle inside or out. Okay? I’m going to get a crime scene team there to go through it as soon as I can establish if it’s the right vehicle. Bakers Mills, that’s on the way to Speculator?”

  “Affirmative. About ten miles from 87, Brant Lake region. Also, sir, there’s something on the ground beside the vehicle. Piece of paper.”

  Cross froze. He went through the options in his head and made a decision. “Got a pair of gloves, T
rooper Rowe?”

  “I do.”

  “Put them on.”

  “Alright --- vehicle.”

  The connection was bad. “Say again, Trooper?”

  “Hold on --- them.”

  It sounded like he was saying he was going to get his gloves. Cross stared across the room at Farrington, on the phone at another desk. Farrington was talking and nodding. He glanced at Cross and covered the mouthpiece. “Gates is checking with DMV.”

  They waited for a tense minute and then Trooper Rowe came back over the line. “Okay. I’ve got my gloves on. Heading --- the vehicle.”

  Cross fidgeted with his fingers, picking at the residue of nail polish still there.

  Farrington called over. “Gates says the minivan was possibly stolen this morning.”

  “From where?”

  “Ogdensburg. An older man and his wife; the Tremblays.”

  Cross nodded and listened as Trooper Rowe neared the van. He could hear the trooper breathing, the phone making static. “Okay,” Rowe said, “I’m picking up the paper. Looks like, ah… looks like a --- pt.”

  “Say again?”

  “A receipt. A store receipt. From Kinney Drugs.”

  “Address?”

  “This --- from the Kinney drug store in Hazleton. Repeat, Hazleton.”

  Cross felt his skin crawl with adrenaline. “Thank you, Trooper. Sit tight, hold the scene, we’re on our way.”

  He made a quick call to Gates, reporting the situation. “I’ll get into her bank records,” Gates said. “You get the receipt.”

  Cross grabbed his bag and hurried toward the door, Farrington following him out.

  Chapter Eleven

  Shock.

  You’re in shock.

  In the darkness, it was the only thing that made sense. Walking was awkward and painful – her leg was sore from being kicked. Her face stung from the cuts. There was sand in her hair, grit in her eyes. Her head still throbbed from the punch – when had that happened? Time was doing funny things, making no sense.