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

by T. J. Brearton

  She almost threw the phone across the room, but she tapped the red button instead, and the icon disappeared from the screen.

  As she got to her feet and prepared to head back outside and try to have a better conversation with the socially-challenged Fallon, another thought struck her: Even if the SOS hadn’t just alerted someone working with Carson, there could have been a check-in time. If so, Carson was dead and hadn’t checked in with anyone for more than twenty-four hours now. The phone, for a few minutes a sign of good fortune, was now a terrible harbinger.

  The phone meant someone could be coming.

  Katie didn’t waste any more time. She found Fallon by the cliff edge of the clearing. She approached with caution, keeping a safe distance from the hermit, bringing herself to the edge.

  There were no coyotes below. There wasn’t much of Carson left, either. Just an unrecognizable effigy of bones and shredded flesh inside cargo pants and a bloody T-shirt.

  Fallon squatted a few yards upslope from her, looking down. Then he rose and headed toward the berry bushes, like he was going to make his way down there.

  “Wait… Excuse me, sir. Can you wait a second? Please…”

  He halted, keeping his back to her.

  She quickly caught up to him. “Thank you… Listen, I really need to get out of here. I need to get back home.” Katie couldn’t help the tremble in her voice. “Do you understand? Can you help me get back to Atwell, or Hoffmeister?”

  Nothing, not a word or movement, just a few blinks of those cloudy eyes. Then Fallon said, “Yah.” But he stayed where he was, his forehead wrinkled in a frown, his lips working like he was chewing.

  “Oh… thank you. And please, listen, I’d be happy to…” she sputtered, feeling the gratitude well up, the slight sting of tears on the verge, “whatever you need…”

  Fallon turned his head just slightly and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.

  “You’re bleedin’,” he said.

  She felt something now she hadn’t noticed before, a light tickle on her cheek. She touched her face and saw blood on her fingertips. A branch or something had cut her while she was in the woods. It wasn’t much blood, just a small tear.

  He turned away again, looking like he wanted to go down to where Carson was. Why, she didn’t know. But she got the sense Fallon was anxious about something.

  “You’re worried about the coyotes?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I’ll go clean up. I’ll make sure there’s no blood. You think they’ll come back?”

  Nothing.

  “Okay, listen, I’ll wash. You do whatever you have to do. Please don’t leave me, though. Will you promise me? Sir?”

  He cut another look at her, grinding his lips together. He was still scary, his lack of communication was unnerving, but Katie was growing more assured that Fallon wasn’t going to try to hurt her.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  Every answer began with a pause. “Hoot.”

  “Hoot? It’s nice to meet you. I’m Katie.”

  She stuck her hand out; he looked and then took it. His brief, gentle grip was cool and coarse as sandpaper.

  She repeated, “I’ll just go clean up, and I’ll wait for you. Okay?”

  “Yah.”

  “But, Hoot. There could be someone else coming. What you found is a satellite phone. It could’ve been a way for them to keep in contact with each other. Someone might be on their way.” She watched him closely. “I’m sorry.”

  He stood there for a few more seconds then made a small grunt and moved off to the trail which wound down to the rocks below.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Agent Frank Paulson looked embarrassed when Cross came into the dining room. He was younger than Cross, maybe just thirty, and perhaps not accustomed to making mistakes. He was explaining those mistakes to Captain Bouchard.

  “It was a burner,” Paulson said. “We should’ve figured it would be switched. But usually when they’re switched, the old burner is destroyed…”

  Bouchard turned to Cross. “What happened?”

  Gates had called him ten minutes after leaving Malone. Cross relayed the story to Bouchard: “A truck driver on his way to the border found the phone in his rig. Someone, probably Montgomery, tossed it in there, and when the driver found it he threw it away at the next gas station.”

  “But he wasn’t at the gas station. How in the hell did we find him?”

  “When he gets to the border, he thinks maybe he ought to tell someone about finding a random burner in his truck, and CSBA call it in.”

  “When did it get stashed in his truck?” Bouchard asked. “Where?”

  “Could be anywhere. Unfortunately this guy is hauling FedEx. He’s made about twenty stops today, originating in New York City. And he doesn’t lock his doors.”

  “Jesus…” Bouchard rubbed his jaw then asked, “We’re certain he’s not working with these guys?”

  “We’re certain. He’s clean. His log is good. Gates is checking for anything, though, just in case.”

  “Shit.” Bouchard glanced at his watch and said what everyone was thinking. “Montgomery is expected to call again in thirty minutes. I guess at least we’ll have another number to work with.”

  “Yeah, and then they dump that phone, too…”

  Paulson spoke up. His skin had turned a shade of red. “So far we haven’t found anything – besides the phone – in or around the convenience store that points to Montgomery. But the store is shut down until further notice, we’re scouring the town, checking motels, restaurants, the public washrooms at the beach, anywhere and everything. Plus, CBSA turned the guy’s truck inside-out.”

  “Great,” Cross said with a touch of sarcasm he couldn’t help.

  * * *

  Cross and Bouchard left for the inn, ten minutes away.

  The place was empty except for law enforcement and the Calumet family. The feds had turned the restaurant into a command station. A new skiptracer manned the controls, doing what Paulson had – and there were more screens, hard drives, and mysterious black boxes than Cross had ever seen in one place. One looked like something from a Star Trek episode – the size of a shiny bread box with several colored lights and toggle switches. A stingray.

  David Brennan was sitting in handcuffs. He was in the corner where dining rooms chairs had been stacked out of the way. He looked a bit like an animal in a cage of bristling chair legs. A state trooper hovered near, but Gloria was right beside David, her arm around his shoulders.

  Jean and Sybil Calumet were center stage. They wore fashionable athletic clothes. A hip New York couple, Cross thought, though Jean looked aged and slightly hostile.

  “Have we worked out the finances?” Cross asked. There was no reason to treat the subject delicately. Either the money was ready or it wasn’t.

  Geoffrey Wick was the new FBI agent in charge, tall, deeply tanned, with platinum-white hair. “We have,” said Wick.

  Jean Calumet’s cell phone sat on a table, hooked into various devices and a speaker phone, all resembling some kind of technological life-support system.

  The phone rang and Gloria jumped.

  Calumet reached out and hit the answer button. “Hello?”

  Nothing for a moment, just breathing. Then, through the speakers: “You fucked up.”

  “We’ve got the money,” Calumet said evenly. “Almost the whole way. We’re able to pay 17 million. That’s all we can do. Anything else and you’d have to wait a while.”

  Cross felt mixed emotions. He’d never been involved in something like this, and just hearing the kidnapper’s voice in real time was surreal. Calumet had a kind of poise he hadn’t shown before now, as if he’d been backed into a corner and didn’t like it – he’d gotten meaner in the past twenty-four hours. Maybe it was a version of Jean Calumet others were familiar with, people like the disgruntled ex-chef Eric Dubois, or former business partner Henry Fellows.

  “That’s n
ot what I mean,” the kidnapper said. “I said I only wanted to deal with you…”

  “You are dealing with me. Of course my family is here. Of course the police are here. I have no control over that.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth!” The voice, already louder than anyone there in person, rattled the speakers.

  The kidnapper spoke again, calmer. “Whatever happened, I’m holding you responsible.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “I said shut up. Now listen up. My account shows nothing. No deposit. Not a cent.”

  Calumet opened his mouth to explain, but Cross caught his gaze.

  Cross shook his head and Calumet pursed his lips.

  “So here’s what I’m going to do,” the kidnapper said. “You have six hours. Six hours from right now to transfer the money. Now, before you start babbling about how it takes time for the deposits to show up – I know that. I’m not stupid. The numbers route the money in such a way you can’t cancel the transaction once it’s sent, so don’t even bother. Or go ahead, knock yourself out. I’m sure the FBI has told you they’ll be able to get the money back. I’m sure everyone’s very fuckin smart over there. Huh? Right, Jean? Six hours, or I’m going to split her from her crotch to her fucking throat.”

  It sounded like the kidnapper was about to end the call, and Cross spoke up. “We know who you are.”

  Cross could feel all of the eyes in the room suddenly on him, but he ignored them.

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Investigator Cross. We know who you are, John.”

  The kidnapper went silent. Cross thought he could hear the faintest of noises in the background, like running water, maybe a river, or falls.

  “Jonathan Robert Montgomery. Did time in a juvie facility in Pennsylvania. You met your wife, Janice, in Brooklyn. You own a house in Lake Haven.”

  More silence, just that burble in the background. Then, slowly, “Investigator… Justin… Cross.”

  Cross felt like an electric shock went through him. Had he just made a terrible mistake? He risked a look at Wick, and the agent was clearly displeased.

  “Mr. Cross,” the kidnapper repeated. “Going to crack his first really big case, is that right? Look around you. Take a good look at Jean-Baptiste Calumet. Look at his wife. Look at his daughter. I’m sure they’re all right there. Take a look at Katie’s husband. You want to do some investigating? There you fucking go. Six hours, Cross.”

  The line went dead.

  “Something happened,” Cross said.

  Everyone was talking. Bouchard was pissed. Wick was livid. Sybil gave Cross a look that could cut glass. Only David seemed to regard Cross without enmity, though something else lurked in his gaze…

  Cross shouted above the voices, repeating, “People! Something’s going on out there. You could hear it in his voice – Montgomery said, ‘Whatever happened, I’m holding you responsible.’ Something has gone wrong.”

  “Of course it did,” Jean Calumet said. “He’s talking about this… this bait phone.” He rose from the couch, his hands fisted. His face blushed with anger and he turned on the others in the room. “All of you have put Katie’s life at risk. I would have just paid. Gotten her back.”

  Cross shook his head. “Something else. Are you listening to me?” At this point he couldn’t help it. The emotions had gotten control of the room, himself included. He glared back at Calumet. “And what are you talking about, you ‘would have paid’?”

  “Cross!” Bouchard reprimanded.

  “You didn’t have the money anyway,” Cross finished.

  Bouchard neared, and Cross was sure his captain was about to grab him and drag him out of the restaurant when the agent at the controls spoke up. “We got this one! Different signal strength – more powerful.”

  Wick strode over. “Bought at the same location?”

  “No. Montgomery only bought the one prepaid at the Target in Plattsburgh. The one we traced to Malone. This one is another species of phone. Hang on… We got the identifying numbers on the hardware, just need a few minutes to double-check everything…”

  Cross was sick of chasing phones.

  “Are you crazy?” Jean Calumet bellowed. For a small, sometimes diminutive man, his presence had swollen, his voice filling the room. He grabbed his phone and unplugged it from the wires, shaking with rage.

  “Hey!” Wick yelled, grabbing for the phone. “Hey, hey, don’t do that! The trace is still running!”

  Calumet gripped the phone and glared at Wick, daring the agent to take the phone back.

  Sybil rose beside him, calmly, brushing lint from her yoga pants. She looked at the police like they were insignificant then took her husband by the arm.

  “We’re done here,” Sybil said. “This is a family matter.” She faced Wick. “You can speak to our lawyers about anything else.”

  She took Calumet by the hand and made as if to leave.

  Cross stopped them. “Listen. I’m with you. You’re right – we went after a bait phone. Our priority needs to be Katie. And I’m telling you I think something happened out there, wherever she is. We have to work together now…”

  Jean Calumet took a threatening step forward. “This is my daughter, my life. You have no right to hijack my life and put Katie in danger like this. These people would’ve let her go. I know it. I’m going to pay, and that’s it.”

  “This guy,” Cross reasoned, “you heard him – okay? He’s rattled. Who is Montgomery to you, Jean? Do you know Johnny Montgomery? Troy Vickers?”

  Calumet lowered his voice to a menacing whisper. “I don’t know any of these people. But he wants to deal with me, and me alone. He said so from the beginning. We’re leaving.”

  “Sit down, Jean.” It was David. “Or I’m going to start talking.”

  Calumet was stunned. The air was so thick with tension it felt heavy, like gravity was stronger here. Nobody moved.

  Cross faced David. Before he could speak, Calumet shouted across the room, “Look at you – you think anyone wants to listen to you?” He pointed at David, presumably indicating his handcuffs as he snarled, “Are you… Is this helping anything? This is what you do? Katie is out there and this is what you’ve got, David? You don’t… Nothing you could say would change anything anyway. You’re worthless.”

  Cross continued to stare at David, thinking, What do you know? What haven’t you told me?

  David addressed the group. “If my father-in-law is right about one thing, we need to pay these people and get Katie back. That’s the only move.” His gaze zeroed in on Calumet. “But you need to sit down, shut up, and do what you’re told.”

  Jean Calumet was fuming but stayed in the restaurant, even as his wife Sybil pulled on his arm. Finally, she gave up.

  Bouchard spoke in Cross’s ear. “Kitchen. Right… now.”

  * * *

  They stood among the stainless steel features of the inn’s large kitchen.

  Bouchard paced. “Jesus Christ. Do they know the kidnappers, or what?”

  “I don’t know. But I think Brennan is right. Even Calumet is right. We just need to pay. No more traces. And we need to widen the search.”

  Bouchard pointed at the wall. “I’ve got 300 people out there, searching Bakers Mills and the outlying area. We’re talking about Bakers Mills, to Speculator, further west to Old Forge, then south, east, north – what? Search an area of six, maybe seven thousand square miles? We’ve had DEC keeping an eye out for smoke for the past twenty-four hours. But fires are allowed everywhere outside the High Peaks. There are fires all over the place. We’re out of moves.”

  Bouchard stopped pacing and gazed levelly at Cross. “And what are you talking about? ‘Something is wrong,’ you keep saying. Look – maybe Katie’s abductors didn’t expect that truck driver to find the phone as quick as he did, and throw it away somewhere close enough for us to find it that fast. That’s what went wrong – whatever you heard in his voice. First you think they’re ‘out there,’
and now you think something happened – we don’t have evidence for any of it.”

  Cross was silent.

  “What about Gebhart?” Bouchard asked.

  “Still comatose. There’s a chance he might not even wake up. What’s David Brennan doing here? Gates said he got physical with a trooper. Why is he—?”

  “The feds don’t like all the press at the house and are keeping the Calumets sequestered. I wanted everyone in one place, so I had Brennan brought over.”

  Bouchard leaned heavily against the large stove. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “You called the kidnapper by name.” Bouchard looked older than usual, tired. “That was a unilateral decision you made, and it could have terrible consequences.”

  “Cap—”

  Bouchard lifted his hands and drew a deep breath. “Agent Sair was explicit – we should give the kidnappers no indication of what we know, or think we know.”

  When Bouchard met eyes with Cross, he seemed saddened. “I’m going to let you go here, Cross. I want to defer to the FBI completely. We have strong evidence of foreign commerce now that we know the bank is in Switzerland, and that puts it fully in federal jurisdiction.”

  “Captain Bouchard…” Cross said, straightening his spine.

  They stood facing each other, and Cross’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He took the call.

  “Gates?”

  “Call came into the hotline a few minutes ago,” she said. “A family on the Northville-Placid Trail heard someone scream yesterday.”

  Cross caught a breath and held it. Then he relayed the information to Bouchard and put the phone on speaker so they could both hear. “Dana, I’m here with Bouchard. Why are they just calling in now?”

  “Just got back home. That’s a long hike. They hadn’t seen any of the news. And they weren’t sure – they thought the noise they’d heard might’ve been an animal. Then they saw the report about the minivan.”

  Cross locked eyes with Bouchard. “That’s the right region. I mean it’s another forty-five minutes west of Bakers Mills, right? But Speculator is close – could be the route they took.”