The Silent Child Boxset: A Collection of Riveting Kidnapping Mysteries

by Roger Hayden

  She moved to a narrow, vertical window beside the door and tried to peek in. It was dark inside, and she could barely see a thing. She didn’t want to leave without speaking to him. She was even prepared to wait for him if he wasn’t home, even though Detective Knight was expecting her at the station. Walking down the steps, Harris pulled her cell phone out and called his number again. It went to voice mail as it had done when his boss called.

  “This is Bill. You know what to do.”

  Harris soon spoke. “Mr. Simmons, I’m Detective Harris with Melville County Investigations. It’s important that I talk to you.” She faced the house, pacing before the steps. “I’m at your house right now. I need your help. I need you to call me back ASAP. Thank you.” She hung up and lowered the phone with increasing concern.

  The man who had potentially sold his van to the kidnappers had vanished. She didn’t want to go into details over the phone, though she hoped she hadn’t scared him off. She approached the door and knocked repeatedly. She then listened against the door and heard a chime from inside coming from what sounded like a phone.

  She went for the doorknob and found it unlocked. She pushed the door halfway open as it creaked. Calling out his name, she reached for her pistol. Sunlight seeped into the foyer as she stuck her head inside. “Mr. Simmons? Are you in there?”

  She heard another chime. She didn’t have a warrant but felt there was a fair amount of probable cause to enter. A potent odor suddenly struck her as she stepped inside. Unmistakable. Something wasn’t right indeed. With her pistol out, she moved slowly through the tiled foyer, past a line of shoes lined up against the wall. She passed a cluttered living room and didn’t see any signs of Simmons yet. A small kitchen awaited her ahead, where she noticed a cell phone resting on the counter and plugged into a nearby outlet. The smell of decay seemed to get worse the deeper she got inside the house. There wasn’t a window in the house without curtains drawn or blinds closed.

  She flicked the light switch on and immediately backed away from a circular kitchen table in the corner where a man was sitting. Gasping, with her pistol in the air, she shouted, “Put your hands up!” But the man didn’t move.

  Her eyes adjusted to the hanging light above the table and rested on the slouched man, who was covered in blood from his neck down. She stared at the gruesome sight and thought she was going to be sick. A waft of feces and rot struck her, more potent than the last time. She covered her mouth and cautiously approached the table, her pistol steadied in one hand. The man before her had his throat slit.

  Dry blood had crusted to his shirt. The table was stained with the same brownish red. Harris circled around him and saw that his arms were bound behind the chair with a zip tie. His eyes were closed. His mouth was open in a state of frozen shock. He was barefoot and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Harris spun around, alert at the prospect of the killer still occupying the murder scene, although it was obvious this wasn’t a fresh killing.

  Everything in the house was still and quiet. A nearby refrigerator hummed. She could still hear birds chirping from outside. She supposed that the corpse at the table was Bill Simmons. She approached the cell phone on the counter and saw that her number was displayed on the screen as a missed call.

  “What happened to you, Mr. Simmons?” she asked, turning back to face him.

  She then moved quickly out of the kitchen and down a hall with one bedroom at the end and a bathroom across from it. Her search yielded nothing more. It was just a normal bedroom, slightly messy with clothes everywhere. She noticed a desk inside with its drawers open and papers tossed about. Then it hit her. If Simmons had produced a bill of sale, it could lead to the purchaser of her van, the ‘weirdo’ Simmons himself had referred to. But now was not the time to go rummaging for documents. There was a murdered corpse in the kitchen.

  Harris estimated his death to have been within or around forty-eight hours. She moved back through the house looking for any signs of a break-in. The windows were intact, and the home didn’t appear to be burglarized. A full entertainment center was on display in the living room amid a shelf with collectible plates. This was about something else. The connection was far too great. She drew her cell phone from her pocket and called the station.

  “This is Detective Harris,” she said urgently to the dispatcher. “I’m at 5512 Piedmont Drive with a 187. Victim is male, late forties. Throat slashed and left to die. Send backup.”

  Harris then called Captain Star’s office. After three rings, the captain picked up. She could tell she was on speaker. “There’s been another homicide that I believe is directly linked to the kidnappings.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, sounding irritated. “I’ve got a retired detective here who says you called him in to help with the case.”

  “Sir, I did, but first, there’s a murdered man by the name of Bill Simmons. He may have sold the kidnappers their getaway van. I came to talk to Mr. Simmons and found him dead in his kitchen. His throat was slashed, and his hands were tied behind his back. I’d say he’s been dead for at least twenty-four hours.” She paused and wasn’t surprised to find dead silence over the line. She imagined them huddled around the phone, minds racing.

  “Wait…” the captain said. “So. You’re there now?”

  “The door was unlocked. I walked in after a whiff of a strong decaying smell.”

  Star sighed as his chair creaked forward. “The chief is supposed to deliver a statement within the hour. The task force is supposed to arrive soon after that. They’re calling this an act of domestic terrorism. I’ve got to drive to Felder’s next-of-kin this afternoon with the chief and the major. And now you’ve found what, another victim?”

  Harris entered the kitchen, pacing with the phone to her ear. “Yes. I think our killer wanted to silence him, stop him from leading us to them. It’s like they know our every move.”

  Then Knight got on the line, speaking from a distance in the chief’s office. “Sounds familiar,” Knight said.

  Harris thanked him for coming in. “Can you come to the scene?”

  A hesitant pause, and then Knight said, “As long as I’m not in the way.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Charles,” the captain said. “We’re going to need all the help we can get.” He then addressed Harris. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll send CSI right over.”

  “Yes sir,” she said. He hung up without a word. She left the kitchen, unable to take the smell, and went out the front door. The clean air was instantly refreshing. Harris gagged at the thought of Simmons’s corpse at the table. There was no doubt in her mind as to the identity of the deceased. It had to be Bill Simmons. And his killer was the same sick individual who had murdered Felder. The investigation had gone full circle, and she had a van to find before another victim turned up. She sat on the steps and waited. Far from feeling the closure needed, she felt more determined than ever.

  20

  Breed

  Everett sat comfortably behind his work bench, soldering some wires. He’d been down in his basement for hours and was starting to get hungry. The red numbers of the digital clock said 2:15 pm. The past few weeks, he and Belma had been busier than he could recall. They’d been moving around a lot, living in one place just long enough to get settled, and then moving on, but lately had decided to return to the place they used to call home: Melville, Florida.

  Their family had grown over the years. Everett felt invigorated at their prospects. They had long moved from their secluded cabin in the hills to a sprawling farmhouse where they could complete their work and retire in peace. Everett always had a knack for explosives. Before serving a higher purpose, he had worked as a pyro technician for concerts and fireworks shows. His self-taught bomb-making skills were exceptional. He’d learned a lot from his army father, who had served in the ordinance corps during WWII. His father had always believed in him, even if Everett saw disappointment in his eyes before he died. For so much of Everett’s life, he had lacked direction. A
ll of that changed after he met Belma.

  The door opened, and he heard footsteps. Belma soon came into view at the top of the stairs, carrying a tray. She looked into the darkened basement, squinting.

  “Why don’t you turn some lights on?” she asked, annoyed.

  Everett looked up from his desk lamp, his glasses resting on the tip of his nose. “I haven’t replaced some of the bulbs yet.” A lone fluorescent bulb flickered from above. The seven other bulbs were all burnt out. Everett had put it off for a while. He was preoccupied with a myriad of other tasks. Belma came downstairs and set the silver tray down on the corner of his workbench where there was space. A ham sandwich rested on a plate, along with a snack-size bag of chips and a glass of milk. She couldn’t have arrived at a more perfect time.

  “I figured I’d bring some food down to your cave. Lord knows the next time you’ll emerge.”

  Everett glanced up with his smile, holding his soldering gun. “Thank you, my love. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d endure endless suffering,” she said, squeezing his free hand. She then walked past the table, observing the rest of the spacious room that resembled an underground lab.

  There were maps and blueprints on the wall next to a long white board with equations written all over it in marker. In the corner and under the stairs were shelves stocked with medical supplies, survivalist kits, canned goods, and non-perishable foods. Tools and wires occupied the shelves of another unit, next to a full pallet of fertilizer. On the ground were rows of pressure cookers. Everett’s basement had all the supplies necessary to construct improvised explosives, giving him everything he needed to perfect his trade and carry out his mission.

  Everett set his soldering gun down and leaned back in his chair, stretching. The entire room smelled of cooked wires. His sleeves were rolled up. A small lens scope hung from his neck. Belma was right. He’d been in that room all day. He pushed himself up against the table and rose to his feet, his knees cracking. Belma fiddled with the tuning knob of his portable stereo. He’d been listening to the oldies station. She considered most music rubbish but did have an affinity for classical.

  “You know how much that bothers me,” he said as static crackled from the radio.

  Belma turned the volume down in response, stepping away. “You need stimulation, dear.”

  Everett pushed his work aside and moved the tray in front of him. She cut his sandwich in diagonal angles, just the way he liked it. He set his glasses aside and took his first bite, noticing her fixation on the blueprints taped to the concrete wall. “How’s our girl?” he asked, chewing.

  “Terrified,” Belma answered. “Hysterical. Unable to say a word.”

  Everett shrugged and took another bite. “The others worked out just fine.”

  “Not all of them,” Belma said.

  Everett continued chewing, mind wandering. “Look, I miss Sarah and Jenny like it was yesterday,” he began. “Sometimes things happen that we have no control of, and we have to move on.”

  Belma moved away from the wall and then leaned against the table. “You never answered my question from last night. How are our finances?”

  “We’re fine,” he quickly said. “You know money has never been a problem for us.”

  Belma shook her head and stepped back. “I don’t want to move again, Everett. I want to stay here and raise our family. Teach them our ways, spread our message to this whole damn town.”

  He set his glass of milk down and wiped his face. “This is home now, B. Everything is going just as planned. This will all end soon. And then we can focus on our family.”

  “You really want this to be the last girl?” Belma asked.

  Everett thought to himself and then responded. “We’ll see how it goes. Once her first cycle starts, I’ll do what’s necessary. And then we’ll see what kind of fruit she bears.”

  Belma crossed her arms with something clearly on her mind. Everett went to take another bite of his sandwich and then looked up, noticing. “What is it?”

  She answered with a sigh and a shake of her head. “We’ve been through this before, and I’m not going to dwell on it. But do you enjoy your time with our girls?”

  The remaining sandwich dropped from his hands. “I would be lying if I said otherwise. But I’m doing this for us. We have a legacy to uphold, a message to spread to this world. It begins with us here. It begins with our family.”

  Belma lowered her arms to her side and then sauntered toward him, dragging her long nail along the table. “Sometimes I wonder if you think of me when you’re bedding these girls or if you’re thinking of the girls when you’re bedding me.”

  Everett slammed his hands on the table, losing his patience. “Dammit, Belma. I’ve got work to do here. Don’t you understand how important this is? That detective woman reached out to Knight, just as we had planned.” He suddenly stood up, chair rolling out behind him, and moved to the map and blueprints on the wall behind him. “This ends everything. The police won’t know what hit ‘em.” His hand smacked the wall against a van’s diagram. “Pretty soon every lawman in the county is going to be searching for our blue van. Right now, it’s safely hidden in the barn. Soon enough, it’ll be right on their front doorstep.” He spun around and smacked his hands together, indicating an explosion. “After I’m done making these explosives, that baby’s going to leave a crater in the ground the size of Wyoming.”

  A smile slowly swept across Belma’s face as she stared at him with a star-struck gaze. “And our retired detective friend?”

  “He’ll be summoned into action. We might have to start following him around again, but mark my words. They’re all going to die. The police have meddled long enough. We will send them a clear and defiant message.”

  Unable to contain her glee, Belma threw her arms around him and squeezed tight. “You always have the answers, baby. I’m so happy for you…for us.”

  “Me too,” he said, squeezing her back.

  After a quiet moment of holding each other, Belma looked up at him with newfound concern. “What about that man who sold you the van?”

  She looked at him, admiring his gray eyes and even his stubble-ridden face. His formerly blond hair had nearly turned completely gray over the years and hung just over his forehead in a shaggy mop-top. He said reassuringly, “I took care of our van dealer friend just the other day. Gotta tie up those loose ends, you know?”

  Belma nodded as she rubbed his chest. “You should go meet Crystal. The sooner the better.”

  “All in due time. I’d like to check on Brittany first. She’s had her hands full with the little ones,” he said.

  Belma nodded. “Everett Jr. tried to escape the other day. Forgot to lock the door behind me.”

  Everett placed his palm against her warm cheek. “We could all stand to be a little more careful. Not to worry; this will all end soon enough. And it will end with the death of our enemies.”

  “Hypocrites,” Belma seethed. “Those liars and bastards.”

  “We’ll take out as many as we can,” Everett continued. “And in the ensuing chaos, destroy all potential evidence linking us to a crime. And then we get on with our lives, starting with fixing this place up.”

  Belma hugged him again. “You always know what to say.” He rubbed her back as dim static buzzed from the radio. “Everett?”

  “Yes?” he said, eyes closed and cheek pressed against hers.

  “Have you ever resented me for not being able to have children?”

  “No,” he said. “Never. Like I’ve said before, there’s always another way. We are the prophets of light, drawn together to change the world. It’s coming to a glorious close.” As they hugged, he reached over and grabbed a flyer from the table, handing it over. “What do you think?”

  Belma backed away from him and observed the crumbled flyier for the annual Melville County Fall Harvest Festival. The event was set to commence in two days at Hyde Park. “How are you going to get
the van anywhere near this event?”

  “We’re not going to do anything,” Everett said. “Our friend Detective Charles is going to help us.” He gently brushed Belma’s auburn hair back with one hand and returned to his table. “You just make sure we have a room ready for his wife. I’ll be paying her a visit today.”

  Belma maintained her rapt gaze as her husband resumed soldering wires and thin smoke trailed upward. She often watched him work but soon turned away and continued to the stairs. Halfway up, she stopped and turned to him with a question. “We’re not bad, are we?”

  “Of course not,” he said, looking down. “This is a battle we must win. There are innocent casualties in every war.” He paused and glanced up at her, sincerity lighting his eyes. “Remember, they started this. They’ve tried to poison our minds. They’ve tried to turn us against each other and drive us insane. That all ends now. They won’t know what hit them. And we’re going to give Detective Charles the ride of his life.” Belma continued up the stairs, seemingly satisfied.

  The door closed, and the room fell quiet. Everett turned the radio tuner back to his oldies station but found that a commercial was playing. He and Belma had been together for quite some time, fifteen years to be exact. Their lives had irrevocably changed one fateful day. It felt like a lifetime ago. In vengeance, they had found solace. People had to be made to suffer. And soon… many would die.

  Detective Harris walked with other detectives inside Simmons’ house as police cordoned the area outside. Paramedics were on the scene but instructed not to move the body until investigators completed their sweep of the kitchen. Bill Simmons was identified as the victim. He was a forty-six years old, twice-divorced father of two who lived alone. There was no evidence of a break-in or robbery as a motive. Simmons’s back and front doors were both unlocked. The killer could just have walked in. This led Harris to believe that they must have known each other. Detective Richard Prater from Homicide took several pictures of the seated corpse, taking special notice of the lacerations on the victim’s side and arm. There was also bruising on the face, a sign of a struggle. A thorough search of the kitchen gave no clear indication of what had happened. Most curious of all, no note was left behind.