The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  Smothered, that was what it felt like. Lottie couldn’t breathe with the fog and couldn’t see through the darkness. She panned her arms around her like a madwoman in a padded cell. Right place for that, she thought. Her hands touched air. No walls. The only thing she felt was the ground beneath her feet.

  Baby steps, heel to toe, she moved forward. Four steps. Nothing. Why was it so dark? A blackout? There was no hint of the yellow shadow from the street lights in the distance. She knew you could normally see it from almost five kilometres away. But now it was as if the town had been plucked from its foundations and spirited away in an ethereal haze. Her hands swiped down a spider web, its gossamer trail hanging from the wheelie bin to her right. She counted three industrial-sized bins with her fingertips.

  Feeling a presence behind her, she paused. Held her breath. Listened. The slow hum of traffic on the N4. No other sound. I’m definitely raving mad, she told herself.

  Easing her way forward, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone was right behind her.

  Where was he?

  He saw the detective through the fog. She was close. What to do? He couldn’t let her find anything. It would be endgame for sure. He eased around the side of the building after her. She couldn’t prevent him from finishing his quest. A promise was a promise. It didn’t matter that he’d made it to himself. He had started this and he was going to finish it.

  He was now so close he could smell her scent. He crept nearer. Heard her breathing, low and fast. Was she afraid? He didn’t believe that for one moment. She was a fine adversary. But now wasn’t the time to test her fortitude. He had to act.

  Stealthily he edged closer, holding his breath so she wouldn’t sense him. With precision and accuracy he slid his arm around her throat, pulled her into his chest and squeezed.

  Her arms flailed about, trying to dislodge his, before they fell slowly to her sides without finding a target. Feeling her head slump against his shoulder, he released her and she fell at his feet. Moving quickly, he hurried away from the bins and back to his van.

  The bastard Carter had squealed after all.

  Lottie didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. She opened her eyes and rubbed her throat, trying to breathe through the tightness and pain. Clutching her under-arm holster, she felt her gun. At least that was something. He hadn’t got away with her weapon. He had stolen her pride but replaced it with a dogged resolution to catch him.

  Sliding her phone from the back pocket of her jeans, she saw the screen was cracked, but she could still make the call.

  EIGHTY

  ‘Jesus, Boyd, faster.’ Lottie stamped her foot to the floor as if the accelerator was on her side.

  ‘Shut up. I’m concentrating on the road. I can’t see a thing.’ He switched the wipers on to clear the mist from the windscreen.

  She swallowed hard. Her throat felt like someone had thrust broken glass down it. Boyd had seen the van screech out of the hospital grounds and down on to the dual carriageway. He’d put the car in gear and rushed over to find her fumbling with her phone among the wheelie bins. She’d insisted they follow the van.

  ‘I don’t know where I’m going,’ he said. ‘I’ve lost him.’

  The fog was dense, the road twisty; she could hardly blame him.

  ‘If he turned left onto the N4, he could be heading for Lough Cullion and Monk Island. Maybe that’s where he brought Chloe.’

  ‘You have no idea if Monk Island has anything to do with anything.’

  ‘Where else could he be heading?’ Lottie said. ‘It has to be Petrovci.’

  ‘It could be anyone.’

  She thought for a moment. She remembered the strength of the arm that had choked the breath from her.

  ‘I don’t know who it was,’ she admitted. But she knew she couldn’t let him get away.

  The car skidded up from the main road on to the slip road.

  ‘It’s the wrong turn, Boyd,’ Lottie screeched. ‘Ouch.’ Her throat blazed in pain.

  ‘Shit!’ He kept driving. ‘I can’t go back down. I’ll cut across the link road.’

  With blue light flashing and siren blaring, Boyd sped across the ring road. Lottie planted her feet firmly in the footwell and held onto the dashboard. Around a corner, past the cemetery and along a narrow road. He righted the vehicle and its lights bounced off the fog, blinding them. Red tail lights up ahead.

  ‘There he is,’ Lottie said.

  The lights disappeared.

  ‘That could be anyone,’ Boyd said, and the car swerved into the centre of the road. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Follow the verge,’ Lottie shouted.

  He said nothing, his hands white as they clutched the steering wheel.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ Lottie whispered.

  She caught his glance and screamed as the car mounted the grass before sliding back on to the road.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Boyd. Watch where you’re going.’

  ‘He’s getting away.’

  Rounding the next corner, Lottie knew the railway crossing was ahead. ‘Dear God in heaven, whom I don’t always believe in, don’t let there be a train. Please.’

  Flashing lights through the fog. Amber, amber, red.

  Boyd slammed the brakes to the floor. The seat belt cut into Lottie’s shoulder and chest with the impact. The barriers slid down with a clunk in the night air.

  She leapt out of the car to see the tail-lights of the van crest the hill and disappear.

  ‘Fuck. What do we do now?’

  ‘Radio for backup and wait for the train to pass.’

  ‘Five minutes. That’s how long it takes.’ She was helpless to stop the tears. ‘Five fucking minutes until the train passes.’

  She felt Boyd put his arm around her shoulders. He led her back to the car.

  ‘I hope he doesn’t do anything while we’re stuck here,’ he said, resting his head on the steering wheel.

  ‘Hope is a fine thing,’ Lottie said. ‘He could have Milot or Chloe. Couldn’t he?’

  ‘He hasn’t got them, Lottie. He was meeting Carter to get the boy,’ Boyd said with a level-headedness she couldn’t manage at the moment.

  She turned to look at him. ‘Then where are they?’

  He shifted his hands along the oars, tightening his grip as he rowed. He never risked using an engine, but this was a time he knew he could do with one. Soft ripples swam away from the boat, a watery swish trailing in their wake. Arm muscles trembled with each heave as his journey inched along. The fog began to lift and he could see the orange shimmer of the setting sun reflecting on the small waves. He was aware of the trees surrounding the shoreline, which appeared black in the shadows, and the dock hidden through a river of reeds. He aimed straight ahead.

  It had been a close-run thing with the police. The train had saved him. He’d been lucky. This time. But now he was sure they knew about his killing ground. A little water swirled beneath his booted feet, splashed in from the lake, as he squinted through the disappearing fog. Monk Island. He shivered with anticipation. Maybe this time he would succeed in a fulfilling his destiny. But without the boy. Pity.

  As he docked the boat a few minutes later, he thought about the clear water. Water he’d used to wash away the impurities from the bodies. He had two more to cleanse. He hoped they hadn’t succumbed to starvation. It was a few days since he’d been here. It would be a pity if they died before he could send them on their way to redemption. He laughed out loud. Redemption? Only he could achieve it.

  He jumped up onto the short wooden jetty shielded by wild shrubbery and hauled the boat astern with a thick rope. He wrapped it carefully around a stick jutting from the edge of the worn slats and tightened it in a double knot. He filled his lungs with fresh air, exhaled; repeated the exercise three times.

  Ducking under the leafy trees, he followed a pathway of trodden grass. He had made this journey on numerous occasions and knew the grass suffered only the trampling of his own feet. No one else ven
tured to this island. He had reconnoitred it well. Church Island, two kilometres to his right, was where the indecent escapades occurred, leaving his island to birds and badgers. An unofficial sanctuary for wildlife, he was the only interloper, with, of course, his own prey.

  Almost there, and he couldn’t dampen the excitement throbbing through his veins, from the follicles of the hair on his head to the tips of his toes. And for once the swelling inside his trousers comforted him.

  At last the clearing opened up before him, illuminated by the rising moon, a blue haze around its rim. A bird skittered from a tree with a loud flapping of wings. He slumped to his knees. The two bundles were where he’d left them. Unmoving. No, he was wrong. He checked one, then the other. Soft, laboured breaths. They were still alive. He looked skyward and gave thanks. Slowly he unwound the tape from the first bundle, peeled back the fringed folds of woven wool. At last she lay before him.

  A bruise had risen on her forehead where he had kicked her. He traced his finger over her face, pausing as he felt the indentations of the wounds on her cheek.

  ‘Damaged bird, your wings are broken but I can set you free and let you fly again,’ he whispered.

  He unwrapped the covering from her body and marvelled at her nakedness. Allowing his finger to linger on her deepest scar, his salty tears dropped silently on to the wound. His actions had caused this and now he would heal her. Forever. He would release her from her pain and bring her peace and eternal salvation. Pity she wouldn’t be able to thank him. He sacrificed them in order to save others who paid him well for it. But that wasn’t why he did what he did. Was it? He was following in footsteps. It was ordained. And with her death, she would make the evil one pay for causing his father’s death.

  Rising to his feet, he moved through the undergrowth and hauled out his steel toolbox. He took a key from his inside jacket pocket, unlocked the lid and opened it. From under a soft cloth he extracted the gun wrapped in leather. Checking the magazine was empty, he counted the bullets from a cardboard box, loading each one carefully. Then he clicked the magazine back into the semi-automatic and chambered the first bullet. One was all he required, but he liked the feel of a fully loaded weapon. Power and control.

  Clouds moved swiftly across the sky and a warm mist caressed his skin.

  With his gun in one hand and the silencer in the other, he turned around.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  When the train eventually passed and the barrier lifted, Boyd put the car in gear and set off again.

  ‘Where did he go?’ Lottie asked. ‘Did he keep on driving? Or did he turn off for Monk Island?’

  ‘Wish I knew.’ Boyd exhaled in exasperation.

  ‘Stop!’ Lottie shouted.

  The car screeched and Boyd skewed it up on the verge. ‘What now?’

  ‘There.’ She pointed to the narrow slip road at the side of the rail track. With the fog lifting, the lake sparkled like molten glass beyond it. Jumping out of the car, she disappeared into the vegetation.

  ‘Wait,’ Boyd shouted, slamming the car door.

  ‘His van.’ Lottie stood beside a small white vehicle. She tried the door. ‘Locked.’

  Boyd reached her side and stood with his hands on his hips, looking out over the lake.

  ‘There’s Monk Island,’ he said.

  ‘How are we going to get over there?’ she asked. The bleat of her phone broke though the air. ‘Kirby. Have you found her?’

  ‘Not yet, boss. But you need to get back to the station.’

  ‘I’m in pursuit of a suspect. I think it’s Andri Petrovci.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We’ve just found Petrovci attempting to get into his apartment.’

  Lottie turned to look at Boyd, then let her gaze span the lake.

  ‘So who the hell is over there?’

  Mimoza heard the click of the magazine going into the gun. She knew what it meant. She sensed him moving, aware of him leaning over her, touching her.

  ‘Ah, little Mimoza. I’ve waited for this moment to set you free.’

  ‘Milot?’ she whispered, her voice a thin wheeze.

  ‘I wanted to bring him to join you, but fate intervened. Or should I say a cop called Lottie Parker. She is on my list once I finish here.’

  The lady detective had not forgotten about her after all. Mimoza tried to smile. Her lips cracked and her throat seized up. Don’t let me die yet, she thought. Just let me see my little boy one last time. Was that his apple shampoo she could smell? The man was lying. He was certainly cruel enough. Milot was here.

  ‘Milot? Please,’ she begged.

  ‘Shut up. I’ve told you I haven’t got him.’

  She had to do something. Milot needed her. She needed him. She willed strength into her body. The act of opening her eyes was torture. She had to, though. Had to force herself to act. Otherwise she was going to die.

  Shifting her elbows underneath herself, she tried to sit up. ‘Please…’

  ‘Oh, will you shut up?’

  She squinted through half-open eyes. He was right there. On one knee. Looking down at her. Gun in his hand. She’d seen plenty of guns in her short life. It didn’t frighten her. What did frighten her was the thought of never seeing her son again.

  That thought infused a superhuman energy into her body. At last she was half sitting up, leaning on her elbows. He seemed to find it amusing and laughed. Why would he think that was funny? Because he’s mad, a voice in her head told her. Mad. And how do you fight madness? With madness, she thought.

  ‘I… I know you…’ she began.

  ‘Of course you do.’ He laughed again. A manic sound.

  Good, she thought. Now I can act. For Milot. She took one last look at the stars in the sky. She saw only the smile on her son’s face and the light in his eyes as she brought her leg up and kicked out as hard as she could with the little energy she had left. And an image of her son smiling and giggling lit up in front of her like a miraculous icon.

  ‘Mama loves you, Milot.’

  The sound of a gunshot split the silence of the night.

  ‘What the…’ Lottie ducked, automatically reaching for her gun.

  The trees above her head shook with the flutter of birds taking flight. Boyd dragged her up.

  ‘Over there,’ he said. ‘On the island.’

  She threw her arms up helplessly. ‘He’s there and we’re here. Blare the siren. Quickly. Up as loud as it can go. And where is our backup?’

  She stared across the water as Boyd ran to the car and switched on the siren.

  The fog returned as quickly as it had vanished, falling in a soft sheen around them. Only the light flashing on the car told her where it was. She strained her ears above the screeching noise. No further shots. Had they scared him off?

  ‘We need a boat,’ she shouted above the din.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A boat. Where can we get one? The shore. I’ll try along the shore.’

  Without waiting for Boyd, she climbed over the rail tracks and down the other side. Slipping and sliding, she ended up on the rocky shore. In the dense fog, she couldn’t see further than her hand. She took out her phone to switch on its flashlight and realised Kirby was still on the line.

  ‘Kirby. We need a boat. Quick.’

  * * *

  They killed the motor and the boat glided to the island shore. It was half an hour since they’d heard the shot. A man living nearby had run out of his house to investigate the siren just as two squad cars pulled up. Lottie had told him what they needed and he’d returned immediately with an engine and quickly rigged it to one of the boats pulled up on the shore.

  Now he jumped out and secured the boat. ‘It’s a hidden dock,’ he said. ‘Not many know about it. Best that way. Enough interfering bastards—’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lottie interrupted. ‘Wait here.’

  Taking Boyd’s hand, she stepped on to dry land. With their weapons at the ready, they
crouched under low-hanging branches and made their way along a grassy path.

  ‘This vest is fucking heavy.’ Lottie hated wearing the ballistic vest Boyd had taken from the trunk of the car, but she knew she was no use to anyone dead.

  ‘How did he find this place?’ Boyd said.

  ‘Shh. I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Why was there only one shot?’

  ‘Will you shush? Listen.’ She put out her hand and pulled him back towards her by the belt of his trousers. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘It’s only damn birds.’

  ‘No. Stop. It’s like someone crying. Dear God. Chloe?’

  ‘Wait,’ Boyd said.

  But Lottie ran past him, falling through the undergrowth. ‘Chloe!’ she shouted, all her training vanishing with the night. ‘Chloe?’

  Charging into a clearing, she stopped suddenly, sending Boyd crashing into her.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.

  He switched on his flashlight, scanning it over the scene. The light bounced off the fog, but Lottie could see three prone bodies in front of her. Her hands and legs trembled uncontrollably. ‘Please God, no. No!’

  She turned away. Couldn’t look.

  ‘Tell me, Boyd. Is it Chloe?’ She thought his pause went on forever.

  Eventually he said, ‘It’s not Chloe. None of them are Chloe. But I know who they are.’

  Blowing air through her nose, she tried to regain control. She moved towards him on her hands and knees.

  ‘Who are they? Are they alive? I heard someone crying.’ Pulling aside a ragged blanket, she stared into a young face. ‘Maeve Phillips. She’s alive, Boyd, but unconscious. We need help. He could be here.’

  ‘He is.’ Boyd pointed. ‘Bullet through the belly.’

  Lottie cradled Maeve to her chest. ‘He’s dead? What about the other one?’

  Boyd moved away from the man and edged to the other person. ‘Can’t see a bullet wound.’

  Lottie laid Maeve down gently and looked at the naked body of the girl at Boyd’s feet. Clutched in her lifeless hand was a semi-automatic pistol.