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

by T. J. Brearton

  “You carried a twelve-pack of beer fifteen miles?”

  Fifteen miles was a guess. Six hours of hiking and she estimated they’d averaged two, maybe three miles an hour. She looked for a reaction, but Carson didn’t satisfy her.

  Katie was trembling, and she tried to hide it. She felt afraid – more afraid than she’d ever been in her life – but she knew she was also wet, and it was damp in the cabin, and she’d had nothing to eat all day, and only one bottle of water. She had no appetite but she needed to eat and drink. She would feel better, too, if she was allowed to apply some of the first aid to her many cuts and scrapes, maybe splint her finger, which felt like it had turned to hot stone.

  She kept looking at the windows – the light almost completely gone, just this dark, dark blue in the glass.

  It’s too late to run now.

  -I’ll use the flashlight. Just need to eat first, get some water.

  It’s absolutely nuts to think you can find your way back, even with the GPS.

  -I don’t need to find my way back, exactly. Just out.

  You’re talking about running in the dark, in the woods, flashlight or no, with this maniac chasing you.

  -I have to try.

  You’re at least a dozen miles into the middle of nowhere. Don’t be crazy.

  Her mind grew still as Carson unscrewed the top from the Jameson, pushed up his mask partway, and took a long drink.

  Katie averted her eyes from his exposed chin, surveyed the food again. “How long are we staying? Is this enough to eat?”

  Carson calmly screwed the top back on the bottle and set it down ever so gently. “God, it’s like we’re fuckin married. ‘Where’s the water? When do we eat? How long are we staying?’ What did I tell you, Katie? You’re not going to control this. Fifteen miles? What – you think I’m impressed you did a little math in your head? You’re way fucking off, by the way. Just like you’re way off thinking about how we came in, or where we are.”

  “Whose cabin is this? You knew the Jameson was there.”

  He stared, dumbfounded, then threw his head back and laughed. “You. You are something, right? Is that what they tell you? ‘Katie, you’re so full of spirit. Katie, you’re just so strong. Oh Katie, Katie…’” He made smooching sounds inside his mask.

  Finished with his antics, Carson clucked his tongue, scoffing at her, and walked away.

  There was something wrong with him. More than the obvious. He was like an actor, some kind of perverse performer. Humming religious tunes, quoting movies, delivering grim monologues, or wallowing in periods of depressive silence.

  By the bare bed was a small table and an oil lamp. He found a book of matches and fiddled with them. The first few didn’t strike, but then the fire bloomed and he lit the lamp. The soft light spread through the room and created deep shadows.

  Katie was still standing just inside the door, close to the kitchen area. She’d been able to pick a loop in the knot free. If she couldn’t get the rest undone, the rope had some give to it and she thought she could slide it over her hips and down her legs. She didn’t need twenty feet of rope trailing behind her as she ran through the dark forest.

  This is nuts! Don’t do this.

  “So can I make myself a sandwich?”

  Carson unclipped the GPS from his belt and tossed it onto the mattress. “Uh-huh. You think I’m going to make you something? Come to think of it, make me one, too. Extra bologna, extra mustard.”

  She got moving. She went about her business like she was in her own kitchen, setting out the condiments, arranging the ingredients. She opened the cabinet on the floor.

  The smell was awful. She pulled out some plates, peppered with mouse shit, then saw a dead rodent in the corner, just a tuft of fur and a tiny skeleton.

  “We might want to wash these.”

  Carson stomped across the floor. He grabbed up the basin and started for the door, then stopped in the doorway and glared at her.

  But he didn’t say anything. He left.

  Katie set the plates aside.

  Sudden tremors wracked her and she gripped herself in a hug. Hot tears welled and she took deep, shuddering breaths. The tears fell and she hastily wiped them away.

  Don’t let your mind go there. Don’t let it.

  -How can I not? I’m in the middle of nowhere with a violent psychotic. No one knows where I am.

  Someone does. Leno does.

  She busied herself preparing the food, using the excess plastic from the bread bag to lay out the slices. A quick search for cutlery revealed it in the drawer of the cabinet, also littered with mouse poop. She wiped the blade of a butter knife on her shirt, uncaring about mouse shit or dirty plates. She’d just wanted a moment free of Carson.

  There were noises out back, squeaking sounds, what she assumed was Carson working the manual water pump.

  She hadn’t really looked at the walls when she’d first come into the room. One was decorated with an ancient pair of snowshoes. Another had something hanging that looked medieval; she thought it was an animal snare. It made sense – a place like this in the middle of nowhere was used for hunting, maybe trapping animals. There might be a rifle or shotgun somewhere. She glanced above the door and saw an empty gun rack.

  Carson returned and heaved the filled basin onto the counter beside the range, water sloshing.

  He strode back to the door and retrieved a large urn, also full of water.

  “See, your royal highness? Plenty of water to wash and drink.”

  Then he found the beer and popped open a can. He slurped it down and then watched what she was doing. “How’s the food coming? Jesus, come on, I’m so hungry.”

  “It’s ready. I need to use the outhouse.”

  She figured there was no other way than to just come right out with it. She waited to see if he would remind her of his threats.

  He flapped his hand at her, as if disinterested, wandering toward the food. “Fine. Knock yourself out.”

  He was letting her go.

  She slowly turned, walked to the door. She stepped out into the darkness. Saw the stars overhead. A trace of violet sunset just above the trees.

  Run.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Given Jean-Baptiste Calumet’s net worth – and rumors that he was a driven, relentless entrepreneur – Cross expected a brawny, quick-tempered man, maybe a cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. But Calumet was of average height, thin, with a quiet voice and kind of gentle way about him.

  His wife, Sybil, also bucked the stereotype of the icy stepmother. She was athletic, an attractive woman in her late fifties, also with a reserved manner. There was, however, something Cross found cunning in her eyes, as if predetermining potential threats. Then again, her stepdaughter had been abducted. Wary was the general mood.

  They ordered a late meal at the Hazleton Inn, the kitchen closing, just one other occupied table in the candlelit dining room.

  Cross had given them some time to eat, but no one had much of an appetite. Gloria’s food was untouched, Jean’s and Sybil’s meals lightly gone over. Only David had cleaned his plate.

  “I’ll need to ask each of you to provide fingerprints – we call them elimination prints – and submit to a DNA swab. It’s non-invasive, just a quick swipe of your cheek. Is that alright?”

  No one objected.

  “Do you have children, Mr. Cross?” Sybil took a drink of her red wine.

  “I do.” Cross had opted for ice water. “Two girls.”

  “What are their names? How old?”

  “Patricia and Ramona. Six and two.”

  “Good ages,” Sybil said. “That four-year difference – that’s the same as Katie and Gloria.”

  Sybil glanced at Gloria with a smile.

  “We’re five years,” said Gloria.

  Sybil’s smile faded.

  Gloria looked into a corner and grew somber. She had withdrawn since Jean and Sybil had arrived – or maybe, once again, it was just the shock of
their terrible situation, and everyone was off.

  It was hard to get a read on people in dire circumstances.

  On the other hand, maybe it was in such circumstances that true character was revealed. Like meeting over dinner to discuss their missing daughter – it had been the Calumets’ idea, not Cross’s.

  He stirred his chilled water with the straw and said about his daughters, “They’re good girls.”

  “I’m sure they are. And their mother? What does she do?”

  “She was a teacher for a while, college level, business courses. Now she works as a hospital administrator.”

  “Very nice,” Sybil said.

  The unspoken subject matter was looming large.

  “I would also like to fix each of your phones with a recording app,” Cross said. “We’ve done this with David’s phone, but we don’t know who may get a call, or when. It could be from Katie, and there could be vital information we need to save. Or it could be from her abductors. Does anyone have an objection to this?”

  Again, no one did.

  Then Gloria asked, “Abductors? Plural?”

  “It’s an assumption. There’s likely more than one vehicle involved. Someone needs to drive, someone needs to keep her – keep Katie safe. It’s in their interest.”

  “Assuming they want money,” Sybil said. “With respect, there’s a lot of assuming going on…”

  “That’s fair. You’re right, we don’t know yet.” Cross cleared his throat and said, “We also would like to collect the data from your phones. Your call log, your texts. Anything on there could help us.”

  They exchanged looks; nobody moved. Then Gloria tossed her phone onto the table. “You can take mine. Anything you need.”

  “Thank you,” Cross said without picking it up. “Just hold on to it for the tech when she comes. Her name is Kim Yom.” He looked to the parents and raised his eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t,” Jean Calumet said. “I have confidential dealings with partners and investors. But I am willing to parse anything relating to Katie and turn it over.”

  Cross looked to Sybil, her mouth a grim line.

  “Nothing on my phone will help you,” she said.

  Cross let it be for now. He’d talk to Gates and see if they would decide to press the issue.

  “Well, thank you everyone. I know this is… this is a very hard time. I appreciate your cooperation.” He started to rise and added, “I hope you’re able to get some rest tonight.”

  Jean walked Cross to the door. “Mr. Cross, I know this can’t be easy for you either. You have daughters of your own.”

  It was a nice thing to say, but odd.

  “It’s my job, Mr. Calumet. I promise you we’re doing everything we can.”

  Calumet patted Cross on the back, nodding. “I know, I know. Much of it is out of our hands now. But I’m sure we’ll get Katie back safe. Whatever they want, we’ll give it to them, and we’ll get Katie back. Good night.”

  Cross stepped onto the porch of the inn and Jean Calumet closed the door.

  It felt like Calumet had just walked him to the door of his own house, not the restaurant of an inn where he’d booked a room.

  Cross took a breath of the night air then walked to his car. The stars were turning on above.

  And then it hit him: Calumet expected a ransom note or phone call soon. He was resigned to do whatever was demanded. Perhaps his demeanor, strange to Cross, suggested that he was dealing with it as a business expense.

  The cost of being rich, perhaps.

  Cross fired up the car and flicked on the headlights. It just didn’t make sense, though. Kidnappings were rare. One didn’t expect a child kidnapped for ransom as the normal course of being rich. There were plenty of rich people in the country; very few of them ever had kidnapped daughters. This wasn’t Venezuela in the 1980s.

  Maybe Jean Calumet had known this was coming.

  Cross lit a cigarette. Seeing David smoke had tempted him.

  The dark road slithered out of the blackness, the car headlights bleaching the evergreen trees.

  * * *

  The phone vibrated beside his head. It was 2:56 a.m.

  His mouth felt like cotton. One double Scotch had become three. Luckily, exhaustion had claimed him before three could become four, and he’d passed out on the couch.

  “Cross here.”

  “We just wrapped up for the night.” Brit Silas sounded as alert as if it were 2:56 in the afternoon. “We went over the whole thing with pads and lint rollers. Then dusted everywhere. I had Joe Minnie do the front seats first and we sent those prints to the BCI hours ago. Justin, we got one match so far. From a partial.”

  Cross sat up on the couch so fast the empty Scotch glass tumbled to the floor with a bang. “You got a match…”

  “Like you recommended, we did the steering wheel first. Nothing there but Mr. Tremblay and one of his children, Jeremy Tremblay. So, unless we’re thinking the Tremblays are behind this, our bad guys were wearing gloves.”

  “The Tremblays are not behind this.”

  She was quiet a moment. “I know. It was a joke. You know – middle-of-the-night humor.”

  “That’s stellar material. So where did you find the partial?”

  “In the back, one of the rotating seats. On the armrest. Maybe the gloves came off for a moment, as it were. Justin, he’s in the system. Name is Troy Vickers, and he’s been through Rikers and Anderton, got a sheet like the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

  It was unusual for Brit Silas to act this clever. She was really excited.

  Troy Vickers.

  Cross stood up and stripped out of his old clothes. “Give me the highlights of the sheet.”

  “Most recent, he assaulted and raped a college student attending Forrester University, here in New York State. He did three years at Anderton Correctional.”

  Her words were practically ringing in Cross’s ears.

  “Any grand theft auto? Where’s he from?”

  “No grand theft. But burglary, drug charges, two D-Dubs, other assaults preceding the rape charge. He’s originally from Sherman Oaks, New Jersey.”

  “Sherman Oaks… that’s the suburbs.” Marty was from Jersey.

  “That’s what I got. I’m going to catch a few hours’ sleep.”

  “Alright. Helluva job, Silas. Thanks so much.”

  “You bet. Go back to bed.”

  “Oh, I’m wide awake now.”

  He went to the bathroom, moved his bowels, showered, and shaved. He made himself breakfast and was at the substation before the sun rose.

  If the abductors were going to contact police to demand ransom, by now they knew who to call. He’d been on the news, all over the internet – Cross-dressing Cross. He stared at the phone on his desk, willing it to ring, daring it to.

  “Come on…”

  In the meantime, he logged on to the system and read about Troy Vickers.

  Before his days as a rapist in New York, Troy Vickers got a DUI in California, then an aggravated unlicensed driving six months later in the same state. California suspended his license and he moved back east where he collected more charges for attempted unarmed robbery of a drug store in Brooklyn. The fresh offenses landed him at Rikers, where he languished for a year.

  He was a failed actor. His parents were upper middle class, from the New Jersey suburbs. He’d been in a toothpaste commercial at age eight.

  But the acting life didn’t seem to work out for Troy Vickers.

  The next thing on his sheet was the rape of the Forrester University student, which landed him at Anderton Correctional for the three-year bit.

  Cross sent Vickers’ picture to all law enforcement in another BOLO and scanned through his list of aliases and known accomplices.

  Vickers went by “Vicky” and “The Vic.”

  As nicknames went, Cross thought, they were particularly distasteful. Vicky was a feminine name and a “vic” was cop-talk for victim. It was like Vickers advertised his
sick tendencies. Or others had pinned it to him.

  He had no KAs, or, known accomplices. His work was solitary – drinking and driving, robbing drug stores for prescription pills, raping women.

  Even criminals had ethics, and most didn’t like rapists. More than likely, Vickers had endured further punishment in jail as an outcast among outcasts. Maybe he’d been segregated for his own safety.

  Cross wanted more information on his time inside. Despite his poor standing among other inmates, it was possible Vickers had bragged to one of them about a kidnapping plan. At the very least, someone at Anderton was bound to know something about him. Cross was no penologist but suspected that most inmates relished bragging about their crimes and schemes.

  He picked up the phone and got the secretary for Assistant Warden Carl Brill.

  Brill agreed to send over basic prison records on Troy Vickers, but the information excluded visitation and phone records, which required a court order since they included third-party information.

  On the phone with the secretary, Cross devoured the information as it showed up in his inbox: All inmates were given a type of IQ test as part of their mandatory mental-function evaluations. Vickers scored high. It didn’t make him a smart criminal necessarily – he’d left his fingerprints in the minivan after all – but it meant something. Cross wasn’t quite sure what yet.

  Vickers had had four different cellmates during his stay; he’d been moved twice, and once during his stay a cellmate was released and another moved in.

  “Who’s there now?” Cross asked.

  “Of those four…” she said, and paused, “Dauber, Hernandez, and McSweeney are still here.”

  “Who left?”

  “Mark Johnson. Six months ago.”

  “Can you send me all their info?”

  “Just the basics; same as Vickers.”

  “Fine. State prisoners can’t access the internet, is that correct?”

  “It depends. For Vickers, no.”

  “What about cell phone?”

  “Again, no. Use of personal cell phones has to be approved by the inmate’s counselor, and Vickers’ counselor did not approve. And before you ask – yes, a counselor would have to be compelled by the court to discuss inmate matters.”