Gone Missing: A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked Page 4

  It also could have been a sign of kidnappers, being either sloppy or clever. Sloppy, and they were amateurs. Clever, and they wanted the cops to find it – it was some red herring. But in either of those scenarios, it was a calling card. This is an abduction.

  Chapter Seven

  The rough terrain bounced her around. Katie drew a trembling breath and attempted to settle her nerves. She’d waited as long as she could withstand, and at last tore off the shroud.

  Things stayed almost as dark. She was moving, no doubt about that, but there was hardly any light to see by. The carpet, the soft rattle of cabinetry, the mouse-shit smell…

  Her pupils dilated. It was a camper, the kind that attached to the back of a pickup truck. Hard to tell if she was alone or not.

  Carson could be with her. Maybe he was hiding in the narrow attic above the cab of the truck. She carefully rose to her knees and looked, able to discern nothing there but darkness.

  The vehicle hit a bump, knocking her off-balance. She hit the ground hard on her shoulder, her hands still bound, and her head clunked against a cabinet.

  She lay still, waiting for Carson to say something if he was hiding.

  Nothing.

  On her knees again, she shuffled toward the rear door. Locked. The door had a window, blacked out. All the windows were dark – maybe a tarp or canvas covered the camper.

  She turned to the cabinet and found all the compartments locked down, too. Everything was buttoned up, in travel-mode. She kept searching, hoping for something to use as a weapon.

  They’d left her alone back here. Thrown her inside and locked the door.

  Her fingertips brushed an unfamiliar shape and she drew back. Squinting in the darkness at the object on the floor, she gingerly touched it again. Smooth surface, hard, then something like a tiny arm…

  The doll that had been in the van was riding with her.

  Katie felt a flash of revulsion. As her eyes continued to adjust, she could see how it lay on the floor, vibrating a little with the road, as if abandoned.

  After a moment, she placed the doll in her lap.

  It continued to be a rough ride, but she didn’t know if they were off-road or this was just what it felt like to travel in a camper. She wondered what time it was. It was getting harder to keep track. Ten in the morning? Eleven? They kept driving and driving. She was miles from home.

  Wherever they were going, they weren’t crossing into Canada – customs would have a look inside a camper, she was sure. They could’ve crossed a bridge into Vermont, but she didn’t think so.

  She thought they were headed south, maybe westerly, toward the center of the state. Maybe the lower Adirondacks.

  Kidnapped. Kidnapped for ransom.

  It was wild to think about, but it was the only explanation. Her captors had to be people who knew her family. They’d known her name, after all.

  She could still feel Carson’s hand groping her breasts, hear his voice in her ear.

  I know what you’re thinking. I can read minds.

  What else had he said? He’d used some peculiar phrases.

  We’ll all get along just like peas and carrots.

  Peas and carrots? She thought it was a line from Forrest Gump. Maybe there was another source, but she didn’t know it.

  A kidnapper who quoted from the movies, acted like a deranged teenager. She held on to the baby doll and stroked its bald, plastic head.

  Oh, tell it on the mountain, Carson had also said. She could hear the song in her head – he’d been humming it.

  David was a music nut. In addition to his moderate success as a piano player, David jokingly called himself a “melomaniac” and had a huge library of tunes. He’d know what song it was.

  She felt a pang of sympathy for her husband – he had to be going through agony right now.

  Or, did he even know she’d been taken? What was happening back home? David wasn’t the paranoid type, but he was protective. He was trusting, a kind man, but he had an edge. Surely he’d called the police and would be looking for her. Would he have any way of knowing she’d been taken? David would be anxious, even angry.

  Thank God she’d sent him that text! It was almost prescient. She’d been joking, but nervous, too.

  How could you be so stupid??

  Katie closed her eyes and shook her head. Stupid, stupid, stupid. If she hadn’t gone over to the minivan, drawn like a moth to the flame…

  She should’ve heeded her conscience and called the police as soon as she’d heard the baby’s cries. But who did that? It was only in hindsight people thought they should’ve summoned help sooner. In the heat of the moment, other instincts were in charge.

  And it hadn’t even been a real baby.

  She lifted the doll from her lap and tried to see its face. Just faint glints of light in its eyes, a dull shine off its head.

  Stupid.

  She set the doll aside. It wasn’t going to do any good to beat herself up. She needed to think. They knew who she was; they were going to demand a ransom. It was the only thing that made sense.

  Unless they just wanted her for… other reasons. Carson had felt her up. She had sensed the aggression emanating from him in the van, could smell it in his sweat. Maybe he’d acted childish in some ways, munching his popcorn, but he’d been aroused seeing her in the shroud, her hands tied up.

  She tried to drag her thoughts away from Carson and his rapist’s vibe.

  Oh, tell it on the mountain…

  The verse came to her. It wasn’t “oh tell it,” it was “go tell it.”

  Go tell it on the mountain… that Jesus Christ is born.

  A gospel song. A Christmas carol. Peter, Paul and Mary had done a version. She doubted Carson was a fan. Who else? Maybe James Taylor, or Paul Simon. One of those. Probably Frank Sinatra – Frank covered everything.

  She could imagine Carson listening along to Frank Sinatra. Carson had that Five Boroughs accent, dropped his Gs. He was a city guy. Her parents lived in Manhattan – her father, Jean-Baptiste, and her stepmother, Sybil. Gloria lived in Brooklyn, where she ran her own restaurant, unaffiliated with their father’s chain. They were all New York people.

  Her father was French; his parents had emigrated from Nice. Sybil was Greek on her father’s side, Italian on her mother’s: the product of a frowned-upon marriage. Sybil was always bringing it up – that her own parents had fled to the States because of their love.

  Kidnapped for ransom.

  Katie’s thoughts scattered when the truck slowed down. She tensed and grabbed the doll, as if it could provide her protection, then set it back.

  She flipped onto her back and scootched close to the door.

  When Carson appeared, she would kick him in the balls.

  Chapter Eight

  His phone rang while he stood in front of Katie Calumet’s large house. “Cross here.”

  “A white minivan.” Deputy King sounded a bit breathless. “Margie Dieffenbach lives across from the post office, just two doors down from the—”

  “From the Community Outreach Center. Okay. She saw a white minivan?”

  “That’s right. Six eighteen, she said.”

  “She was that exact?”

  “You don’t know Margie. She walks her dog every morning at six. Takes twenty minutes. She’d returned, out on her front lawn, the dog doing its business. Says she saw a white minivan go by, she looked at her watch, wondering who was, you know, that time of day, going fast – and we’ve had those two meth busts on Everett Road in the past year. People see anything different, they think about it.”

  “She say the minivan looked like—”

  “Just plain. Oh – dark windows. Didn’t get a make or tags.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Peter.” Cross hung up, flipped through his contacts for Scott Fleming’s number, and dialed.

  “Yeah?”

  “Dr. Fleming. Can you say if the visible tracks could be from a minivan?”

  “Was just going to call
you. This is a sixteen-inch tire tread. I’m going to need to confirm it but right now I’m considering this a Yokohama Avid S33. It’s a worn-out tire; all these original equipment tires have the same problem – they don’t offer very good traction and they wear out quick.”

  “So could you say they were from a minivan?”

  Fleming hesitated. “Yes, I could say that. Given the make of tire and the wear, the cupping… I would say 2008 to 2009 Dodge Grand Caravan or Chrysler Town & Country.”

  “And are the tracks from this morning?”

  He hesitated. “Rained in Plattsburgh last night – did it rain down here?”

  Cross tried to remember if the grass had been wet when he’d left home, either from dew or an overnight rain. He started into the house to ask someone for a weather report when Fleming decided. “Yeah. These are from this morning. I’m ninety-five percent.”

  “And how sure are you on the make of the tire and the probable make of the vehicle?”

  “Uhm, eighty percent on the tires. I’m spraying for latents now, and we’ll take a cast from the dirt…”

  They didn’t have time to wait for a cast – it was going on eleven o’clock. If Katie had driven by Margie Dieffenbach’s house at six eighteen, that meant they were nearly five hours behind.

  “How likely is the make of the vehicle?”

  “2008 was the popular year for the Caravan and the Town & Country.”

  “I need your best guess, Dr. Fleming.”

  “Probably the Caravan. I’m going to say seventy percent on that one.”

  It was good enough for Cross. “Thank you.”

  He called Bouchard next and relayed the information from Fleming. Bouchard would update the BOLO – short for “Be on the Lookout” – which went to all police and was disseminated to the public.

  “We need to get a bird in the air,” Cross said.

  Bouchard grunted. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “We’ve lost too much time…” Cross glanced at the house and saw David Brennan in the window, watching. Cross raised his hand to Brennan then turned away. “Five hours, sir.”

  “Well, where would they go?”

  “We need to look at the border.”

  “You think they went into Canada?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “That’s a lot to cover, Justin…”

  “I know.”

  He hung up as the first news van showed up in the driveway.

  David Brennan and Katie Calumet lived on Cobble Ridge, so named for a rugged section of timberline along Wolf Mountain. Their house was in the woods with no visible neighbors, the driveway steep. The press van struggled to climb the hill, tires spinning in the dirt. Cross headed down, slipping a bit because of his hard-soled shoes.

  The press van pulled over and came to rest. They were looking to camp there, no doubt.

  Cross signaled that they shouldn’t be there with a wave of his arms. “Press conference is going to be in an hour at the Community Outreach building. This is private property.”

  The reporter, an auburn-haired woman in her late twenties, thrust a microphone in his face. “Is it true Katie Calumet was abducted from Footbridge Park early this morning?”

  Cross eyed the cameraman, who staggered in the loose footing as he tried to frame a shot.

  “One hour,” Cross repeated. “At the Community Out—”

  “Do you think this has anything to do with Katie Calumet’s family fortune? Has there been a demand for ransom? Is the FBI getting involved?”

  “I’ll speak to you then.” Cross turned and started hiking back up to the house.

  The reporter shouted more questions but Cross ignored her as he climbed.

  Brennan stepped out the front door and looked down the hill at the press van. “Missing white woman syndrome,” Brennan said when Cross was close.

  “What?”

  “That’s what they call the extensive coverage when a missing person’s case involves a white, upper-class woman. Or girl.”

  Cross was a bit winded from the climb. He stood beside Brennan and watched the reporter direct the harried cameraman to set up a shot of her with the house in the background.

  “Well, maybe that’s good for us, right?”

  Brennan just stared down the hill.

  “Come on.” Cross led the man inside.

  * * *

  Brennan had pictures laid out on the dining room table. “I couldn’t decide which one was best,” he said. He bit at his fingernail as he looked them over.

  Cross selected the one that seemed strongest. He took a picture of it with his cell phone, sent it to Bouchard and Gates. So far the police had been working with Katie’s Facebook profile pic, but this one was better, clearer. Katie had brown hair and dark eyebrows, with stunning aqua-blue eyes. She reminded him of a young Brooke Shields, a boyhood crush.

  “I took that last year in the city,” Brennan said. “Printed it out, framed it, and hung it in my studio.” He pointed at another photo where Katie looked a bit younger. “That one was taken not far from here. We were helping out after Hurricane Irene – that was the first year we were together.”

  Cross looked over the rest of the photos and asked, “How did you meet?”

  “She came to one of my shows, actually, in New York. It’s not really a crazy story or anything. I played The Continental with my band and saw this girl after the show, started talking to her. I stopped touring pretty much right after, left the band.”

  “How come?”

  Brennan shrugged. “I still love music, I still work at it. But I didn’t want to be on the road. And part of it, you know, was about meeting women. But then I met Katie.”

  He grinned, and Cross thought it was the first time he saw something other than pain on David Brennan’s haggard face.

  They moved through the house and Brennan quickly showed Cross around. A computer forensics tech named Kim Yom searched through Katie’s laptop in the living room. Brennan had given consent to the police to check Katie’s email account. He even knew her password.

  The house was spacious and rustic without being showy. Most of the downstairs was open-plan, high-ceilinged. Furniture was well-appointed but in keeping with an understated, Adirondack sensibility, Cross supposed. The few extravagances included a suspended accent lamp made of amber mica.

  Upstairs was a master bedroom and en-suite bathroom, a guest room, another bath, plus one room that was mostly empty but for some boxes in the corner.

  “We’ve been planning to turn this into a nursery,” Brennan said in the doorway. His sadness had returned, his shoulders slumped.

  “When did Katie last speak to her family? Do you know?”

  They descended back to the main floor and entered the kitchen.

  “Uhm, maybe a couple weeks ago. Glo had a birthday. She turned twenty-eight.”

  “And they still haven’t called back?”

  “Gloria did – sorry – meant to tell you. Jean and Sybil, their parents, have been traveling. Their flight returns this afternoon; they’re flying into JFK.”

  “What did you say to Gloria?”

  “I told her what happened. She’s freaking out.”

  Cross leaned on the large kitchen island, topped with granite, fitted with its own sink, and looked across at Brennan. “What did she think?”

  “What would she think? Katie wouldn’t run off. If there was some emergency, we would’ve heard from her by now.”

  Cross nodded, then asked, “Do you know anyone who owns a white minivan? Maybe a Dodge Grand Caravan or a Chrysler Town & Country?”

  Brennan thought for a moment then shook his head. “Can’t think of anyone.” His eyes widened with realization. “That’s the vehicle? That’s who took her?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Brennan came around the kitchen island and towered over Cross, getting agitated again. “But you’re looking for it, right? Jesus, they could be anywhere by now. What are we doing? Why are we standing here in
my kitchen talking about how I met Katie?”

  Cross held the man’s eye.

  “Sorry.” Brennan walked away and out the back door off the kitchen.

  Cross followed and found Brennan taking a pack of cigarettes down from a hiding place beneath the back-porch roof. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth then patted at his pockets.

  Cross had a lighter and handed it over.

  “Thanks.” Brennan blew out the smoke and relaxed. Behind the home, the land continued sloping upward, thick with birch and pine trees. “My mind is just going, going. I can’t think straight. If I think about Katie, alone, with someone doing something to her… I’m just going to go fucking crazy.”

  “I understand.”

  “Because I have to think someone has taken her for money. I can’t think of anything else. I have to think they want money and they’re going to keep her safe. She’s their only insurance. ‘Proof of life,’ or whatever they call it.”

  Cross looked into the woods with Brennan and thought about it. The scenarios were endless, the possibilities vast. Forgetting Canada, that left west to Rochester; south toward Albany, New York City, and beyond; east to Vermont, New Hampshire, who knew how far. Or why.

  Maybe it was extortion, and Brennan was right. But only around 100 cases a year in the US were stereotypical abduction. Compared with the 65,000 persons considered missing and unsafe, it was a tiny fraction. Kidnapping for money was rare.

  “I know I asked you before, but think again. Who would take Katie? Who would know that her family has money and might pay?”

  Brennan faced Cross, exhaled more smoke, and said, “Who knows they have money? Plenty of people. And anyone would assume a family like that would pay a ransom.” His eyes seemed to harden. “But who would be actually crazy and sick enough – maybe desperate enough – to try it? I can only think of a few people.”

  “Let’s talk about those people,” Cross said.

  Chapter Nine

  The door opened. Katie squinted against the blinding light and kicked out as hard as she could. She struck something solid and heard Carson yell. She kicked again and he snagged her ankle and yanked.