The Lonely Mile

by Allan Leverone

  A few drops of water struck the windshield, fat and loud, advance scouts for the army of rain that was undoubtedly about to follow. Great. Angela Canfield cursed again, hoping she would not be forced to run through the rain but accepting that she probably would. It was just her luck.

  She rounded a corner going much too fast and nearly plowed into the back of Bill Ferguson’s van. She stood on the brakes, watching as the other vehicle loomed in the windshield, becoming cartoonishly large, certain she would not be able to stop in time. She envisioned herself stuck inside the wreckage of the car as the drama played out a couple of hundred feet away inside Martin Krall’s home, and she cursed again. Then her Caprice bounced to a stop, the front bumper just kissing the rear of the van, both vehicles lurching once before settling.

  Special Agent Canfield leapt out of her car almost before it had stopped rocking, drawing her weapon and cutting across the deserted road at an angle, moving toward the dilapidated house ahead in an all-out sprint.

  CHAPTER 51

  May 28, 4:05 p.m.

  A QUICK INSPECTION OF the window frame through the dirty glass showed thumb locks securely fastened on both windows, but Bill could find no contacts or any signs of wiring that would indicate the presence of an alarm system. He set his backpack down on the ground and knelt next to it, unzipping the canvas bag and rummaging through the items he had taken from his store less than an hour ago. The moist wind whipped his hair, and his sleeves flapped uncontrollably.

  He found his glass cutter and lifted it out of the bag, then stood and faced the window to his left. He pressed a small suction cup to the pane of glass directly above the lock’s thumb latch, adjusted a small screw setting, then quickly ran the razor-sharp diamond-tipped blade of the glass cutter in as wide a circle as possible.

  He dropped the glass cutter into the backpack and took out a small hand towel. He wrapped the towel around the knuckles of his right hand and tapped sharply on the window pane in the center of the circle he had just scored. A small piece of glass roughly the size of an Olympic medal popped out of the window and dropped to the cement floor on the inside of the garage. Bill cringed, waiting for the glass to shatter and for Martin Krall to come running into the garage to investigate, undoubtedly carrying the Glock he had brandished last week at the rest stop.

  Neither happened. The glass struck the floor on its side like a coin being spun on a table, made several wobbly revolutions, and came to rest under the window. Bill quickly reached through the hole he had just made and thumbed the latch, then pushed up the entire bottom unit. He picked up his backpack and put it back on, then hoisted himself up and clambered inside the garage, hoping he had been right about the lack of an alarm system.

  His feet hit the floor, and he stood silently, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the murky dimness of the garage’s interior. Although it was daytime, it had gotten so dark outside that precious little light penetrated the windows.

  Before trying to get into the house, Bill thought he’d better check the interior of the truck, on the off chance Carli was being held inside the enclosed cargo box. It seemed unlikely, but who knew how Martin Krall’s disturbed brain worked? He walked to the box truck, Browning held in his right hand, backpack slung over his shoulder. He pulled open the back door of the cargo box, and his jaw dropped in amazement. Now he understood the significance of the truck to Martin Krall.

  Inside the cramped space, Krall had custom-built his own, portable, mini torture chamber. On the right side of the cargo area, a small metal-framed cot sat bolted to the wooden floor, outfitted with sturdy leather straps with adjustable buckles which, presumably, were used to immobilize the arms and legs of his victims. A ball gag, attached to an adjustable Velcro strap designed to fit around the backs of his victim’s head, hung on the side wall next to the cot. Traces of a stain, faded to a dull, brownish color but still clearly recognizable as blood, covered the cot’s thin, filthy mattress.

  Bill thought about Carli and his blood ran cold.

  Rage and fear jockeyed for position as the dominating emotions inside Bill Ferguson’s skull. The fear was sickening, paralyzing. It screamed at him. Carli’s dead. You’ve found her too late. She suffered degradation and humiliation and terrible debilitating pain at the hands of the sick bastard. You’re too late! He bent over, hands on his knees, and thought he might be sick right there on the floor of Martin Krall’s rolling torture chamber.

  Then he refocused his mind on Carli, on the sweet, all-American Girl exterior that belied the tough little fireplug within. If anyone could go up against this perverted sociopath and come out alive, it was Carli. He would not believe she was dead. He would not acknowledge that possibility until he saw the evidence with his own two eyes. Carli’s alive, I know she is, and I will get her back. Right now.

  Bill’s hands were shaking, and his stomach rolled and churned like the storm clouds outside. He hoped he would be able to hit what he was aiming at with the Browning if it came to that—when it came to that. Determined, he strode toward the doorway that would bring him inside the home of Martin Krall.

  On cue, as if underlining the significance of the moment, the storm outside broke with a vengeance. A crash of thunder shook the entire house as lightning struck a tree that must have been just outside, maybe in the very spot Bill had occupied mere moments before. A half-second flash of brilliant, white light shot through the two windows behind him and he jumped in spite of himself, nerves jangling, thankful he had engaged the safety on the Browning. He reached for the knob on the door that opened into Martin Krall’s house, fearing it was locked, praying it would not be.

  It was time to find Carli.

  CHAPTER 52

  May 28, 4:12 p.m.

  “OUR TIME TOGETHER IS limited,” the kidnapper said, “and thanks to your little act of treachery last night, we have already lost more than twenty-four hours.” He glared at Carli like he expected an apology, like she was somehow in the wrong for trying to escape the terrible fate awaiting her. She had been trying not to think about specifics regarding her immediate future, but it was hard not to, given the circumstances of the situation. In any event, it seemed fairly obvious to Carli what her immediate future held in store for her, and the prospect was horrifying.

  What were her options? None. Pacifism seemed to be the best choice—the only choice, really—so she vowed to continue her strategy of delaying the inevitable as long as possible. “Why is our time limited?” she asked, surprised at how calm and steady her voice sounded. She didn’t feel calm or steady.

  She didn’t really think he would answer, but he surprised her. “Because you don’t belong to me,” he said with a smile. He seemed, in his own twisted way, genuinely to want her to like him. Why else would he bother to explain? “I’m just a middleman. I took you to deliver you to someone else, and the agreement is that the two of us get just one week together before that delivery takes place.”

  Carli shivered. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to spook the guy, who was clearly more than a little disturbed, by showing her fear and demonstrating weakness, but the matter-of-fact lunacy in his voice was chilling. “What happens after our week together? Where will I go? Who are you going to deliver me to?”

  The man shrugged. He was still standing in the exact spot she had first seen him in when the lightning flashed. Carli knew it was only a matter of time before he moved forward and began doing what she knew he was planning, but, for now, he seemed more interested in explaining himself than getting down to business.

  “Beats me,” he said. “I think you’re going to end up somewhere in the Middle East eventually, but all I’m really sure about is my end of the agreement. It’s pretty standard every time I deliver a girl. I get her for a week, and then the people who placed the order take possession after that. So, after my seven days are up, I deliver you to a specific location and leave you there. Sometime after that, my colleagues come by and retrieve you. Once delivery is finalized, I receive a nice little
wad of cash from my contact and wait for the next order. That’s all I know.”

  Hearing what the future held was terrifying, but even more so was the dispassionate way the man outlined it. Carli had learned about sociopathic behavior in a school psychology course last semester, and this man exhibited the classic signs. A subject that had seemed theoretical and remote in a textbook, nothing more than words on a page and questions on a test, had become terrifyingly real.

  In one way, though, oddly, she felt comforted by his words. If this crazy man was allowed to hold her here for a week, that meant she had nearly six days left before he carted her off to who-knew-where to face that unthinkable fate. One thing Carli Ferguson knew—one thing of which she was one hundred percent certain—was that her dad would come and save her within a week. He would never rest until he got her back. She didn’t think it, she knew it.

  The idea of being sold into slavery was as terrifying as it was hard to imagine, especially if it meant Carli would spend the rest of her life as the property of some Arab sheik in a dusty desert, halfway around the world, but she refused to dwell on the consequences of being taken outside of the United States by some slavery ring. If that happened, she knew she would disappear forever. But it wouldn’t come to that. She refused to believe otherwise.

  “You know,” the man said thoughtfully, “I was planning on bringing you upstairs for a shower and some clean clothes before we consummate our special relationship, but I don’t think I can wait that long, despite the fact that you’ve peed your pants, you messy girl. You can clean up after we finish.”

  Another blast of thunder shook the house, and the accompanying lightning flash illuminated the I-90 Killer as he strode forward, hands fumbling with his belt buckle. Carli shrank back against the bed’s headboard, acutely aware of the headboard pressing into her back like the bars of a prison cell.

  Rain pelted the casement window set high up in the foundation wall, and she could hear the wind whistling and moaning, whipping around and through the shoddy construction of the house. With eyes wide and afraid, she watched him approach. She was breathing heavily, almost panting, her terror now complete and overwhelming.

  She listened to the wind roar—it sounded like the approach of a freight train—and wished she was out there in the storm. Or anywhere else.

  CHAPTER 53

  May 28, 4:12 p.m.

  BILL THANKED GOD OR karma, or maybe just plain old luck—it was about time he got some—for the noise of the storm. Between the crashing of the thunder, the keening of the wind whipping through the trees and around the house, and the splattering of the windswept rain against the windows, the racket was practically deafening. It prevented him from hearing anything on the other side of the door that connected the garage to the house as he pressed his ear against it, but he figured the opposite would also be true—the constant noise would mask the sound of his approach as he made his way through the house.

  He was sure Martin Krall was home, since there was a car parked in front of the garage. Maybe he was right on the other side of the door, six feet away, gloating about his successful kidnapping of Carli Ferguson and how he put one over on, not just the FBI and the New York and Massachusetts State Police, but on Bill Ferguson himself.

  Bill flicked the safety off the Browning and grasped the tarnished brass doorknob with his right hand. He was sweating like he had just done fifty pushups. Another crash of thunder sounded outside, and the resulting flash of brilliant lightning illuminated the garage like Fenway Park during a night game. He turned the knob, opened the door, and cautiously peered inside, then walked through the door into an empty kitchen.

  Dirty dishes littered a single-basin sink as well as the kitchen table, which was located next to the garage entrance. The dingy green and white tiles of the linoleum floor were way overdue for a good mopping. But the thing that drew Bill Ferguson’s attention immediately upon entering the kitchen, as soon as he had determined no one was present and about to shoot him, was the terrifyingly large bloodstain splattered all over the floor and halfway up the wall of a hallway running adjacent to the kitchen. It looked as though someone had died a violent death here. Recently.

  A surge of fear and anguish coursed through his body. A mental picture of Carli lying on the floor mortally wounded, leaking blood from a serious wound while the I-90 Killer watched in amusement, sprang unbidden into Bill’s mind. He set out to check out the rest of the house, hurrying, moving as fast as he could without alerting Krall to his presence.

  The remainder of the home’s first floor was just as deserted as the kitchen, although signs of habitation were everywhere. A dirty pair of white gym socks had been tossed haphazardly onto the living room floor next to a sagging green couch in front of the television. An opened newspaper covered the messy coffee table. Dirty drinking glasses were scattered around the room, some still half-filled with liquid.

  But there were no people, injured or otherwise.

  Bill bolted up the stairs and quickly searched the second floor, once again finding plenty of evidence that Krall lived here, but nothing whatsoever to indicate the presence of Carli or any other kidnap victims.

  Bill realized that, if she was here at all, Carli must be in the basement. He hoped the I-90 Killer hadn’t created his own private little dungeon there, like the portable one in the back of his truck, or worse. Bill raced down the carpeted stairway to the first floor and into the kitchen.

  Adjacent to the entryway was a wooden door, identical to the one from the garage, located to its right as he faced it. This had to be the doorway that would lead to the basement and, hopefully, to Carli.

  Bill allowed himself a pleasant, momentary vision of Krall off somewhere else, like he had thought before, at a job or shopping or even searching for another victim. In this scenario, Bill would waltz down the stairs, find his little girl safe and sound, untie her, and bring her home. He would be more than happy to let Special Agent Angela Canfield handle the job of hunting down and arresting Martin Krall.

  It was a nice dream. But Bill knew it was an unrealistic one as well.

  He repeated his exercise of a few minutes ago, leaning up against the door and pressing his ear against it, straining to hear voices or footsteps or any other sound that would give him some indication of whether anyone was there or not, and if they were, what they might be up to.

  He could hear nothing but the relentless pounding of the wind and rain against the house and the occasional terrifying crash of thunder and lightning. Once more, he grasped a brass doorknob with a sweaty hand and eased the door open, praying to God that his luck would hold.

  Bill exerted a steady upward pressure on the knob, hoping the added tension would prevent the door’s hinges from squeaking excessively and alerting Krall, if he was there, to his presence. The door slipped open, revealing a wooden stairway disappearing into the gloomy semi-darkness of the basement.

  These stairs, like everything else in the home, appeared badly in need of repair. One tread, about halfway down the stairs, had come loose and been thrown haphazardly onto the riser. He’d have to be careful not to trip on that or some other loose tread on his way down.

  He took one step, then two, then a third, and slowly descended into the stifling humidity of the cellar. Shadows moved below, and Bill knew he had been right. Whatever was happening in this house was happening down here.

  One more step, and Bill’s eye level was finally below the first floor joists, allowing him a view of the entire basement. He stopped in his tracks, horrified. Chained to a bed, lying on a ratty, filthy mattress, was his little girl. Dried blood crusted one side of her head, running from her scalp, creating a mass of hopelessly clumped and knotted hair, down her face and onto her Avril Lavigne t-shirt. Her jeans were a filthy mess, stained with dried blood and urine. But all he cared about at this moment was that she was alive! She’s alive! Carli’s alive!

  A man—undoubtedly Martin Krall, although his back was to Bill, so he could not say for certa
in—approached Carli from the left of the stairs. His right arm was swathed in bandages and Bill flashed on all of the blood he had seen on the kitchen floor. Was it possible Carli had inflicted that injury on Krall? His heart swelled with pride for his gutsy child.

  Krall knelt next to the cot as Carli cringed back against the grungy black iron bars of the headboard. Her eyes were screwed shut and her mouth drawn down in a grimace of fear and disgust. The man fumbled with her belt buckle and unsnapped her jeans, mumbling to her in a low voice. Bill could just make the sound out over the noise of the storm, although he couldn’t tell what the man was saying.

  Every fiber of his body was screaming at him, Shoot! Shoot him! Do it now before he turns and sees you! Before he does any more damage to your little girl! Bill raised the Browning Hi-Power and sighted down the barrel, then shook his head in mute frustration. Krall’s body was positioned directly in front of Carli. If he took the shot and Krall moved at the last second, or if Bill missed—his hands were shaking badly, it was a definite possibility—or if he hit Krall, but the round went through his body, it would strike Carli. There was no question about it.

  Bill wanted to scream, and would have, if there was any way to do it without alerting Krall to his presence and giving up the advantage of surprise. He moved down another step and then another, somehow remembering in the tension and fear to step over the faulty stair tread. In a few seconds, he had reached the bottom of the stairway. Krall still hadn’t heard a sound.

  He took two steps and reached a position immediately behind Krall as the man was unzipping his little girl’s jeans. Bill lifted his gun to blow Martin Krall to Hell and—