Gone Missing Read online

  She looked uncomfortable, surrounded by strangers under terrible circumstances. Cross got the impression that Gloria didn’t approve of her parents’ behavior, but was their apologist. David just kept his thoughts quiet.

  Cross decided more could be discussed with her and David in private. For now, he needed to get everyone on the same page. He’d already spoken with both Bouchard and Gates about whether to exclude Katie’s husband or sister from certain things: They’d agreed to use discretion where prudent but otherwise keep them clued in.

  “Okay.” He clapped his hands together. “Forensics is still working on the abduction site and the abandoned minivan. We’re getting elimination prints from the Tremblay family. We hope to identify latents found on the steering wheel and door of the minivan and match them to our abductors. There was no blood found – not Katie’s, or anyone else’s, at either scene. DNA is possible, but processing unfortunately takes some time.”

  “But you’re sure Katie was in the minivan?” David asked. “Because of the receipt?”

  “Yes. Together with the eye witness from Red Ridge Road, and the tire tracks, and Katie’s text to you, we’re fairly certain Katie was abducted at six fifteen this morning and the vehicle she was taken in was found alongside Route 8 outside Bakers Mills.”

  “So where do you think she is now?”

  Cross hesitated. He glanced at Bouchard, who made a subtle nod. “My hope is that we get prints, we match with someone in our system, and get an idea who might be involved.”

  “You don’t have any idea where she is.” David’s eyes were shining.

  “We’re confident we know where she was a few hours ago.”

  “And you’ve contacted the FBI?”

  Bouchard answered, doing his usual tap-dancing about FBI prerequisites while David and Gloria visibly despaired.

  Cross had a map he unfolded on the large coffee table.

  “Listen – what’s going to help us now is to exhaust all possibilities. Partly we can narrow that down based on the travel so far and the location of the minivan. Meaning, we’re sure they’re not headed into Canada. The minivan was discovered west of Bakers Mills. Route 8 comes to a T-junction not far from there, and it heads north while Route 30 goes south…”

  “And then I-90, eventually.” David leaned down for a better look.

  “Yes, at Amsterdam. It’s possible they got off I-87, took the county routes, and then got back on an interstate, being I-90. It’s a slower way to go – the side roads are windy, bumpy, lower speed limit – but maybe they just wanted to be off the main roads.” Cross marked Bakers Mills with his finger. “It’s possible that they switched vehicles at this spot.”

  David stared at the map. “But also possible they took her into this area, somewhere. You’re searching all around there?”

  “Absolutely. Going door to door in Bakers Mills, we’ve got K-9 and bloodhound units in the woods all around the rest area, and a search and rescue team has set up an incident command nearby. They’ll be combing through the woods there.”

  Cross stood upright and regarded Katie’s sister and husband. “But they could’ve moved on. We have to accept that as a possibility, that they switched vehicles and kept going.”

  “Why?” Gloria engaged Cross with direct blue eyes.

  “Why would they keep going?”

  “Why any of it?” She was trembling. David reached her and put an arm around her shoulders.

  Cross considered it. “Well, that’s the big question.”

  “We’re assuming they want money,” Gloria said.

  “We’re not assuming anything. What we know is that your sister is missing; we know the facts that the evidence has borne out. The rest is guesswork. Where they are, and who they are. The ‘why’ will show itself eventually.”

  Cross glanced at Bouchard, and Bouchard cleared his throat and spoke for a while, just platitudes again, while Cross excused himself to get a glass of water.

  He walked into the kitchen, open to the other rooms, so he could still see Gloria. As Bouchard spoke to her, she looked at Cross.

  He filled a glass from the tap, drank, and leaned against the sink. His phone buzzed in his pocket – a call he had to take.

  * * *

  “You’re a celebrity,” Marty said after Cross slipped out the back door. “Did the girls do that to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your nails. There’s pictures of your hand all over the internet – you’ve gone viral. One caption is ‘Cross-dressing Cross.’ You haven’t seen any of it?”

  “Oh, you’re kidding me…”

  “I didn’t think I’d be the first person to point it out, sorry. Anyway, I was calling to say, you know, I realize this is a huge deal. I can keep the girls this week.”

  It was always bittersweet to get relief from parenting. Cross missed his daughters terribly when they weren’t with him. But he had no choice. “Thank you, Marty. Is your mom going to help?”

  “She’s going to spend a couple nights. She’s the one who pointed out the pictures of you.”

  “Oh, great…”

  “What did you say at the press conference? Something about bankers and CEOs?” There was humor in Marty’s voice. It struck Cross that this was the longest conversation they’d had for weeks.

  He smiled a little. “Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking…”

  “This is a big deal. Katie Calumet has been in local politics, her family is incredibly wealthy, and she’s pretty. You’re going to have round-the-clock coverage of this, all the news channels, papers, and bloggers.”

  He felt his smile weaken. “I know.”

  “Alright, I’ll let you get back to it.” She paused and added, “Be careful, Justin.”

  He ended the call then opened the browser on his phone and Googled “Cross-dressing Cross.”

  The first hit was a blog he’d never heard of. The headlining picture was a close-up of his hand grabbing the podium at the press conference earlier that day, showing residual paint on his fingernails. He skimmed another article entitled, “Cross Downplays Possibility of Kidnapping for Money.”

  The article went on to accuse Cross of “burning the candle at both ends,” alluding to a marital separation and several sightings of Cross out “on the prowl” at a local bar. It finished by posing the question of whether he was the right cop for this high-profile case.

  Feeling nauseous, Cross found the picture had been tweeted a bit, some users as far away as California, and in some cases the hand close-up was paired with Cross’s professional headshot.

  Other articles focused on Katie Calumet, which was better, and the local news stuck to the facts. He’d been called for quotes several times throughout the day and saw he was accurately reported. At least there was that.

  David stepped out of the house, not realizing Cross was there. “Oh, sorry. You want privacy?”

  “No, I’m all done.” Cross put the phone away.

  David pulled a cigarette from his hiding spot. He lit it and asked, “You don’t think this is about money?”

  “I don’t know whether it’s about money or not.”

  “Did you give any thought to what we talked about earlier?”

  “Of course. I spoke to the senior investigator. She made a call to a New York City detective and they’re looking into Henry Fellows and the chef, Eric Dubois.”

  “And Lee Beck, the lawyer.”

  “Yes.”

  David nodded, blew smoke. “Good.” He stared into the woods, appearing lost in thought. “God, I hope she’s alright. This waiting is agony.”

  “I know.”

  David faced him. “What do you think? I mean, what do you, personally, really think?”

  “I didn’t mean to dismiss the possibility of ransom. I think it’s very possible. Even probable, now that we have more info. Someone kidnapping Katie for other reasons? If they just saw her and grabbed her – no. This looks more premeditated than that. Stolen minivan, then
a vehicle switch – they have a plan. I think we’ll hear from someone tonight. At the latest, tomorrow morning.”

  “Fuck. It’s nerve-wracking…” David suddenly dropped his head and sobbed.

  Cross had been wondering if the big man was going to break down at some point. He moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder.

  David wiped away the tears and stamped out his cigarette. He waved at the lingering smoke, as if dispelling his emotion.

  “Katie is…” He tried to finish but emotion overtook him again.

  Cross waited.

  “You know? She’s… she’s all I got,” David finished.

  He went back inside. After a moment, Cross followed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Katie broke the long silence, her voice sounded alien in the dimming woods.

  “Wherever we’re going, we’d better get there soon.”

  Carson didn’t respond. Katie thought he was winded. He was in decent shape – wasn’t fat, anyway – but he didn’t seem accustomed to this type of workout. Not that she was some CrossFit guru, but she had been running for two years now, doing yoga almost every morning. Her aches and pains were from Carson’s assaults, not the hike.

  Her finger continued to throb, her cuts were stinging, and she was bruised from head to toe, but she felt strangely good, alert.

  That’s what shock is.

  The air was getting cooler. The lowering sun flashed amid the trees, which she thought were red spruce. Mostly they walked in shade, through an understory of striped maple and witch hobble. She’d seen some sugar maples further back, just before their brush with the hikers, but that had been a while ago. The forest had become wilder, and twice she’d had to wait while Carson struggled through the tightly packed evergreens. He’d rerouted them each time, muttering curses when the branches snagged the bags on his back. The rope was frequently getting twisted up, too.

  They’d crossed another stream, just a trickle of water. It was likely more robust in the spring as the snowpack melted, but they’d been able to get over it by stepping on rocks.

  She knew a few things about the Adirondacks from the nature hikes she helped coordinate for the Visitor’s Interpretive Center at Paul Smith’s College. Mountain living conditions were harsher than the valleys and flats. That meant stands of red spruce and balsam fir – the trees she was recognizing – placed them at least 2,500 feet in elevation. If she remembered her timberline forest facts, then at about 4,000 feet, the red spruce lost vigor and weakened, leaving the balsam fir to dominate. If they reached that elevation, they were in the High Peaks, an area she was somewhat familiar with.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” she said to Carson. Her nasal passages were clotted with blood, making her sound sick.

  That he hadn’t spoken in so long was unnerving. She wanted to be able to predict his actions. But the wild and impulsive would-be rapist had changed over to this silent, determined person.

  “Are you busy reading my thoughts about trees?”

  Still nothing. The sight of him was fading with the eventide. She’d finished her bottle of water some time before and finally had to pee. She considered doing as he said and just letting it run down her leg. But no, it wouldn’t come to that.

  “I need to stop and use the bathroom.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  At least she’d gotten him to say something.

  She could detect the glow of the GPS as he hunched over it, pushing tree branches aside. The rope got snared again, jerking him to a halt. Carson freed it up and kept going.

  “Why don’t you just cut it? Where am I going to go?”

  No response. She felt partly stupid trying to talk to him. She almost wanted to goad him, bring back the aggressive Carson. This subdued, unknowable version of him made her increasingly worried.

  “I really have to go…”

  “It’s right here,” Carson said.

  Katie saw nothing. Then Carson pushed through some more trees and effectively disappeared.

  The rope kept drawing her along until she passed the tree line and stepped into a clearing.

  There was a log cabin sitting on a gently sloping field.

  The sun was almost gone; all that remained was a pinkish blush of alpenglow. Seeing the log cabin set back in the high grass filled her with conflicting emotions. It was a sign of civilization; it was a place to rest, maybe eat – she was starving – but it also represented a kind of finality: She had to spend the night in there with Carson.

  She saw an outhouse in the gloaming, twenty yards from the cabin, at the edge of the tree line.

  Carson led her across the clearing. He stopped by the front door and took off his backpack and the duffel and slammed them both down on the uneven porch.

  “Goddamn.” He was breathing heavily again and he bent forward, hands on his knees, looking around. “Home sweet home.”

  Katie kept her distance. The rope was slack, hidden in the grass. “Are we going to eat?”

  He patted the air with his hand, annoyed. “Yeah, yeah, we’re going to eat. I’m fuckin hungry too, you know.”

  She said nothing else, her mind busy retracing their steps.

  It had been an incredibly long hike, but she’d mentally pinned some of the landmarks – a cluster of sizeable boulders, two enormous oaks that had long since fallen and formed an X, a switchback where they’d zig-zagged up a steep section. And for a good portion of the middle of the hike they’d been walking perpendicular to the slope of a mountain.

  She also thought she had a sense of the general direction they’d traveled – west. The sun had almost always been in front of them, and slightly to her left.

  But then they’d humped it north too, up the face of the mountain, and the deciduous trees had transitioned to pines, then the red spruce and balsam fir. Here and there they’d descended south, once or twice seemed to double-back east, and Carson had done a lot of stopping and looking at the GPS and circumnavigating those impregnable thickets. After another long slog with the sun dropping ahead of them, they’d reached the clearing. It had taken six hours, she guessed. Seven at the most.

  Carson snapped the rope, forcing her back to the moment. “I said come here.”

  She walked through the wet grass and he pulled out a pair of pliers from the backpack. “Give me your hands.”

  He used the pliers, which had sharp edges, to clip the plastic tie. Katie spent a moment basking in the wonderfulness that was having her hands free. Then she thought about the GPS.

  “Feel better?” he asked. “Done complaining?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Carson gave her a long look, his eyes glinting in the failing light. “Don’t give me that passive bullshit. That agreeable, pliable bullshit.”

  “Okay.”

  She could see his eyebrows draw together in the holes of his mask. “Oh, see. There you go. That’s it right there.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  He made a disgusted sound and turned to the front door, which was unlocked. Her hands were free but she was still tethered by the rope. He had gathered up most of its length and pulled the remainder taut and she followed him into the cabin.

  It was dark within, redolent of must and neglect.

  Carson flicked on a small flashlight he carried and shined it around. A cast iron wood stove dominated the single room, its stove pipe penetrating the roof. About half a face cord of wood was stacked beside it.

  In one corner was a wash basin, a small propane range, and a wood block for preparing food. The kitchen, Katie thought. In another, the dining room – three straight-backed chairs, dirty and festooned with cobwebs.

  The last corner of the cabin had a twin mattress on a box spring.

  The bedroom.

  It made her sick to look at. The despair seemed to suck at her heart.

  “Well, it ain’t the Waldorf Astoria.” Carson tied Katie to the wood block in the kitchen area and stepped out, presumably to gather up the
bags.

  She dragged her thoughts away from the bed. What kind of cabin was this? Did it belong to Carson or Leno? Maybe someone they knew? Was it on private or state land?

  A light breeze rustled the outdoors, like the dying exhalation of the day. She reached behind and felt the knot of the climbing rope around her waist. Started to work at it.

  She listened for Carson, heard the splatter of his urine in the grass. He moaned with satisfaction.

  She picked at the knot some more, scanning for a weapon. There was a first-aid kit in the kitchen area on top of a freestanding cabinet. Maybe in the cabinet there was a knife.

  Behind the wood pile, she glimpsed the handle of a hatchet. Even better.

  Carson stepped back into the cabin and dropped the bags. “Food,” he mumbled. “Yeah, food.”

  He rummaged through the duffel then dragged it toward the kitchen. He started taking out items and setting them on the wood block. Katie saw bologna, processed cheese, a squished loaf of bread, a jar of mustard. Carson kept going until he’d emptied the bag of all its food contents, then looked over the spread, puffing his chest with obvious pleasure. More cold cuts, another loaf of bread, a half-dozen cans of soup, ramen noodles, spaghetti sauce – bachelor food. No water.

  “What are we going to drink? You threw away the water bottle.”

  Carson flicked a look at her. He’d set his flashlight down on the range, and the light caught the side of his face.

  Instead of yelling at her, he reached into the duffel again. He pulled out two six-packs of beer and set them on the floor.

  Then he said, “Oh, yeah, and let’s see if it’s here…”

  He went to the cabinet and showed her what was inside. He took the bottle of Jameson, knocked the first-aid kit to the floor with a bang, and slammed it down. “Haha!”

  “I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” he said, like she was spoiling the fun. “There’s a pump out back. Jesus. A well. Don’t fuckin worry about water, okay?”

  “You carried a twelve-pack of beer fifteen miles?”

  Fifteen miles was a guess. Six hours of hiking and she estimated they’d averaged two, maybe three miles an hour. She looked for a reaction, but Carson didn’t satisfy her.