Stolen

by James Hunt

  “So that’s it?” Katie Speath was the first to speak out. “You can’t really believe that your daughter will be returned to you if you do this?”

  “It’s the oil company behind this!”

  “We can’t give in to them now!”

  “What about my sick kid? Huh? When will I get my healthy boy back?”

  Each accusation was justified, every point sharpened with the panicked tongue of a parent—parents who had watched their children waste away, parents who had lost their savings, taken out second mortgages on their homes, sold every precious belonging they had to keep their kids alive. They were in pain. That pain needed an outlet. And Lena took all of it.

  “I understand everyone’s hesitations and frustrations, but—”

  “No!” The shrill cry erupted from the middle of the crowd, and every head turned as Carla Knox stormed to the front. Red-faced and crying, she trembled. She kept her arms locked like pieces of steel beams and clenched her fists until the flesh had grown so colorless that it was nearly transparent. “You can’t do this.” She’d separated herself from the crowd entirely and slowly shuffled her way to Lena. “You promised us. You promised that the people who hurt our children wouldn’t win.”

  The mother’s grief had transcended into something more than just pain. It was rage. “Carla, you have to understand—”

  “You don’t understand!” Carla thrust her finger in Lena’s face, spit spewing from her lips. “I have a daughter in the hospital who had her kidneys destroyed by the water she drank, the water that the oil company polluted! I have a husband in a coma in the ICU with burns that cover over sixty percent of his body from the explosion on the rig he worked on.” She wasn’t able to hold back the tears anymore, and the finger that was still shoved in Lena’s face trembled along with her voice. “So don’t stand there and tell me that you fucking understand, because you don’t. But now you feel it don’t you?” Her whole body shook, and the madness in her eyes only intensified. “You finally feel the dread that all of us have felt over the past two years. You’re no longer on the outside looking in. Your daughter’s life is in the same peril all of ours are. And I hope it stays that way!” She capped the rant with a hard shove into Lena’s chest.

  Lena tripped and landed on her ass, and before she even had a chance to look up, Carla Knox charged, fists swinging, voice screaming, and eyes wet with hot tears. Bodies rushed over to stop the fight, and a flurry of hands reached for both Lena and Carla as the two grappled on the floor.

  Carla yanked Lena’s hair, thrashing her head back and forth while Lena clawed her fingers against Carla’s neck, drawing speckles of blood. One last hard yank, and then Lena felt her head break free from Carla’s grip.

  “You can’t do this! You can’t do this to us!” The crowd pulled Carla back, and the deputies from outside rushed through the door. Reporters thrust cameras inside to get a look before being pushed back behind the police line.

  “Everybody out!” The deputies escorted the families outside, and before Lena could stop them from leaving, she herself was pulled back into the kitchen, kicking and fighting the officer the entire way.

  “Let go of me!” Lena ripped her arm from the officer’s grip, and it wasn’t until she turned around that she realized it was Jake who pulled her away.

  “Take it easy.” Jake lifted his hands defensively and then stepped around her to the doorway to get a better look at the crowd being funneled out of the office. “That probably went better than expected.”

  Lena gently patted the side of her head where Carla had tried to rip the hair from her scalp. “Yeah.” She found a seat in the chair and then collapsed. The morning and the riots from the night before had worn her down, nailing her bones to the chair, and her body refused to move. “I didn’t know what else to do, Jake.” She struggled to lift her head, and when she found her brother’s gaze she saw her own pain reflected in his eyes. “I don’t know if this is the right thing.”

  Jake knelt on one knee, bringing him level with her face, and gently cupped both of her hands into his. “Whatever you need to do to get your family back is always the right thing.”

  Lena threw her arms around her brother’s neck, feeling the tears burst from her eyes as she squeezed him tight. Despite the few years of separation in their age, they’d always shared a bond, something that was unbreakable no matter what, and whenever one of them was in trouble that bond had always grown stronger.

  “Listen, I need to go and look up a few things at the office. We got some good leads from the autopsy that I need to check on.” Jake pulled back and wiped a thumb across her cheek, catching a tear before it rolled all the way down. “I’ll keep the deputies here and make sure that Gwen is still okay back at the house. All right?”

  Lena nodded. “Thank you.”

  Jake kissed her forehead and walked to the door, his boots thumping against the wood, but stopped and turned around just as he had his hand on the knob. “Whoever took Kaley fucked with the wrong family.” He swung the door open, placed his cowboy hat back on his head, and left.

  The words resonated in Lena’s mind, and for the first time since she found out that Kaley had been taken she wasn’t afraid. Purpose surged through her veins and gathered all of the fear and pain that lingered in the wake of the morning’s events, hardening them into the needed grit to push on. Jake was right. They picked the wrong family.

  14

  31 Hours Left

  On his escape from Lena’s office, Jake swatted away the reporters’ questions as a horse’s tail flicked away gnats that got to close to its ass. He crossed the street to the station and escaped inside before he grew deaf.

  “Sheriff!” Deputy Longwood bellowed over the crowd. At nearly six feet six inches, Longwood was easy to spot across the room. He squeezed his way past the crammed bodies and met Jake at the front of his office. “The lab gave me some new information in regards to some evidence found on Coleman’s body.” He kept his voice hushed, and Jake was glad he hadn’t brought up the incident with Kelly.

  “Let’s head back to my office.” On the way over, Jake glanced over to the cells. The rioters had been released an hour ago, all of them charged with misdemeanors and given fines, but he saw a man passed out in one of the cell’s cots. He stopped and nudged Longwood with his elbow. “Who’s in the cell?”

  Longwood looked up from his notes, shaking his head. “Not sure.”

  “Go on ahead. I’ll meet you in a minute.” With each step Jake found himself darting between deputies, soldiers, and Red Cross workers. The man’s face was covered with hair, and he stirred but didn’t wake. And when Jake finally approached the cell bars he felt his blood boil. He snatched the arm of the nearest deputy. “Get me the keys to the cell. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The deputy hurried off, and Jake slammed his palm into the bars, the heavy iron ringing with a thud, and Nick woke from his slumber, moaning from the intrusion. He sat up and cradled his head in his palms. The deputy returned, and Jake snatched the keys from his hands and unlocked the cell.

  Without a word Jake lifted Nick off the cot by the collar of his dirty shirt and slammed him against the concrete wall. “What the hell are you doing here, Nick?” Years of drug abuse had left him skinny as a rail and light as a feather. Jake could practically keep the man lifted off the ground on his own.

  Nick shook his head, blinking his eyes rapidly. “Jake? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “You’re in my jail, asshole.” He tightened his grip on Nick’s collar. “You know you’re not supposed to be within ten miles of Gwen and Lena, so what the hell are you doing in my county?”

  Whatever brains that hadn’t been eroded from the drugs seemed to recognize the names, but his eyes and speech were so groggy Jake didn’t think Nick was even sure himself. “I saw… something on the television. The riots… I just wanted to make sure Gwen was okay.”

  Jake tossed Nick back onto the cot, and the deadbeat cracked his
head against the wall. “You haven’t tried to make contact with them in five years. Now, I’m going to ask you again. What the hell are you doing in my county?”

  “I told you!” Nick raised his voice but immediately reined in his temper, rubbing the back of his head. “I saw the riots, and I wanted to make sure Gwen was okay. That’s it.”

  “She’s fine.” Jake snapped his fingers, and the deputy who’d given him the keys to the cell stepped inside. “I want him taken back to Bismarck. And I want it to happen now.”

  “I’ll find someone to take him over.”

  Jake took a few slow steps toward Nick, who cowered on the cot, keeping his head down. “If I ever see you in my county again, I will bury you.” He leaned over so they were face to face. “Being sheriff comes with a lot of power. And I will use it.”

  The cell door slammed with a heavy thud, and again the iron bars rang. Jake locked the door and then tossed the keys back to the deputy on guard duty. When he returned to his office Longwood was sitting down, and Jake shut the door behind him then sat on the edge of his desk. “What’d you find?”

  Longwood flipped open the manila folder that contained the lab results. “They found some residue under Coleman’s fingernails, and it had traces of salt, hydrocarbons, radioactive material, and industrial chemicals of magnesium, iron, barium, strontium, manganese, methanol, chloride, and sulfate.”

  Jake furrowed his brow. “You and I both know I didn’t do well in chemistry in high school. What’s it mean?”

  “Those are all chemicals found in the byproduct water waste from fracking.”

  “That’s what the smell was,” Jake whispered softly to himself.

  “What?”

  Jake waved it off. “Nothing.” He stepped around the deputy and returned to his desk, keeping his hat on as he sat down. “Coleman was a maintenance worker. Made sure the equipment was running smoothly. Taking care of waste product is a job for a roughneck, not anyone with technical training.” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “Have you gone back to the oil site and requested any of Coleman’s files yet?”

  “The judge just granted the warrant an hour ago. I was about to head over,” Longwood said.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Longwood shook his head. “You have enough going on here, Sheriff. I can handle it.”

  Jake rotated his shoulders and pushed himself out of his chair. “I need to put some distance between me and all this. And besides, there are a few workers I want to question in regards to Kaley’s disappearance.”

  “Sheriff?” The intercom buzzed and stopped Jake at the door. “Sheriff, you in there?”

  “Go on ahead. I’ll meet you out by the car.” Once Longwood had disappeared, Jake reached for the receiver on the phone. “What’s going on, Jackie?”

  “I’ve got the lab on the line for you.” She paused, and Jake heard the dry gulp she took before she spoke the next part. “They have the ballistics report on Deputy Keen.”

  “Put ’em through.” A click sounded in Jake’s ear, and he paused a moment before answering. “This is Sheriff Cooley.”

  A scratchy voice answered loudly. “Hello, Sheriff! It’s Zeke!”

  Jake pulled the phone from his ear and winced. “Yeah, Zeke. What do you have for me?”

  “Er, just one second here.” Papers shuffled, and twice it sounded as though Zeke had dropped the phone. “Ah, here it is. Yes, the bullet that killed Deputy Keen had properties that only two bullet manufacturing companies use, and one of them only sells in Texas.”

  “And the other?” Jake asked.

  “There are a few shops in Bismarck where they’re sold, but that’s about as far as I can pinpoint it for you, Sheriff. Other than the fact that the bullet was armor piercing, there isn’t much else to tell about it. No alterations, nothing.”

  “Thanks, Zeke.” Jake hung up the phone and paced the small stretch of floor between the door and his desk. If the perp was smart enough to buy armor-piercing rounds, then they were probably smart enough to buy it from a place that lacked any type of surveillance equipment.

  Jake reached for his cell phone and scrolled down the address book until he came across Wheelan Dexter. He clicked the number, and the phone dialed. Three rings later, and he got an answer. “Wheelan, it’s Jake Cooley… Yeah, I’m doing fine. Listen, I need a favor. Do you still have contacts over in Bismarck? Great, see if they can track down anyone selling armor-piercing rounds either legally or illegally. The make of the bullet is Rochet… Thanks.” Jake paused for a second, unsure of how far he was willing to push his professional friendship. “Do you still have your connection with the Feds? I need you to look up a name for me and see what you can find. The individual is Scott Ambers.”

  The yellow painted lines of the highway started to blur, and Ken shook his head, forcing himself to stay awake. The steering wheel shook a little bit in his hand, which sent small jolts of adrenaline through his body, but what really kept him awake was the man in the passenger seat. “How far out are we going?”

  “I’ll let you know when we’re close,” Scott answered.

  The past three hours on the road had left both Ken’s mind and ass completely numb. The rolling hills of the landscape never changed, and they had been the only car on the road for the past hour. When he wasn’t trying to keep his eyelids from closing, Ken noticed that every hour Scott received a phone call. He would answer, listen for a few seconds, say nothing, and then hang up. But more disturbing than the phone calls were the pair of gloves that rested over his thigh. They were large, black, and well worn. And Ken hoped he wouldn’t find out what the man used them for.

  Ken shifted in his seat and lifted his arm and rested it on the door, where he pressed it against the window. The miles passed, and he was forced to hold the steering wheel at a perfect two and ten to keep them from flying off the road’s shoulder, not that there was anything there but grass—grass and dirt as far as the eye could see. But under all of that nothing was an ocean of oil.

  A career in lobbyist politics was probably the only career in the world where you can work in every type of industry, from crops to plastics, and the job never changes. Because despite the product differences, all of the executives wanted the same thing: money.

  If money was the root of all evil, then Ken was the gardener that shoveled the shit to make sure everything kept growing. But after nearly a decade of shoveling his own brand Ken couldn’t stand the smell of it anymore. Never in his life did he wish he could quit more than right now.

  “Turn right up here.” Scott pointed ahead, and Ken saw a dirt path cut through wild grass that had grown over the sides.

  Ken eased off the accelerator, and vibrations ran up through the tires and into the cabin the moment he turned off the paved road. He kept a slow pace, unsure if his luxury sedan would be able to handle the rocky terrain, but when he finally saw a small farmhouse at the end of the path the anxiousness intensified.

  A cloud of dust washed over the car from back to front when Ken stopped thirty feet from the front porch. Ken kept his seat belt on, and when he looked over to Scott he watched the brute slip a hand into the right glove. “What are we doing here?”

  “When we get inside, don’t do anything. Don’t speak. Don’t get in my way. And do not answer any questions that you’re asked. Got it?” Scott flexed his gloved hand and opened the door.

  Ken’s mouth went dry, and he simply nodded. He unbuckled his seat belt and followed, keeping a distance of a few feet between them as they made their way toward the front porch.

  A light flicked on in the front window the moment Ken put his foot on the first porch step, and by the time he made it to the second step the door had flung open. An elderly man who had to have been in his seventies stood in the doorway. Dusty, faded overalls hung loose around his body, and white whiskers sprouted randomly from his face like weeds. Thick eyebrows hung over blue eyes that were the only redeeming quality left of his aged features.

  “
Who the hell are you?” The old man’s voice sounded stronger than the rest of him. Bony, arthritic hands clung to the doorframe, which he had to lean up against to ensure that he didn’t fall over.

  When Scott didn’t answer the old man’s question Ken grew nervous. A tight ball formed in his stomach, and he reached for the wedding ring on his finger that wasn’t there.

  Scott pulled out a folded piece of paper and tossed it at the old man’s feet. “We’ve given you enough time, Mr. Lanks. Sign over the land. Today.”

  The old man’s face flushed a cherry red. “I told you bastards that I’m not selling! I don’t care how much money you’re trying to offer me! You understand? Get it through that thick skull of yours! I’m never selling!”

  A rush of wind blasted Ken in the face when the old man slammed the door shut. He remained still for a moment then took another step up, the wood groaning underneath his weight. “Scott, what the hell is this about?”

  But he never got an answer. Scott walked up to the front door and without a word smashed his foot into the old wood, cracking the frame and splintering a quarter of the door off its hinges. From the stairs Ken heard the old man shouting unintelligible words, and then came the screaming. Trembling, Ken took a step. He found himself drawn to the violence, drawn to the pain, drawn by his own curiosity. Muffled groans and heavy thumps sounded from the living room, and when Ken entered the house through the busted-down door he saw Scott hovering over the old man. One hand gripped the geriatric’s collar, and the other was clenched in a fist and raised high in the air. “You gonna sell?”

  Completely defenseless, the old man slid his arms lazily at his sides as he lay spread eagle on the floorboards. He lolled his head back and forth, surrounded by splatters of blood. He coughed and hacked. The red marks on his face from where Scott had struck him sharpened in color and formed lumps over his skin.