by Alex Ander
Stockwell followed.
He came to a quick halt ten paces later and whirled around to stare at the main house.
Studying her man, she noticed a look on his face, the same rattled look she had seen after he had come back from surveilling the compound from high above. “Talk to me. What’s going on inside that brain of yours?”
Putting his left hand on his hip and wringing the back of his neck with his other hand, Jacob grimaced while shaking his head and squinting at the landscape. “I can’t explain it, Stockwell. I,” he pumped the fingertips of his open right hand toward his chest, “I just have this feeling, this,” a tick, “this overwhelming sense that,” he spun around in a complete circle, “I...”
She noted sweat beads forming on his brow.
“...that my place is,” he jammed an index finger toward the ground, “here.” He whipped his head left and right. “We can’t leave, Stockwell.” His words were coming out at a quick clip, “We just...”
She clutched his arms.
“...have to...”
“It’s okay, Jake.”
“...stay—”
“Easy, easy.” She took his face in her hands. “Look at me.”
He resisted.
“Jake, look at me.”
His fast-blinking eyes settled on her.
“Just relax.” Her tone was quiet, gentle, soft. “We’ll stick around for as long as we need to. All right?”
He grabbed a quick breath, let it out, and nodded. “Sorry. I-I...I’ve never felt anything like that before.” His chest rising and falling once, he exhaled a blast of air and spied the buildings again.
She patted his chest. “Tell me. What is it you want to do?”
He flicked his eyes toward her then went back to gaping at the structures. “I want to go over everything again. My heart’s telling me—” he closed his eyes and waggled his head, “my gut...is telling me we’ve overlooked something.” He wandered a few steps away from her while gesturing. “Let’s start with the house first.”
*******
TEN MINUTES LATER...
Jacob and Stockwell had gone over every square inch of the main house. Having found nothing that might lead them to the teen girl, they spent two minutes searching the ‘A’ frame hut. Again, they came up empty-handed on clues to Miranda’s whereabouts.
Leaning back against a counter, the tiny sink behind him, the table and chairs a couple feet ahead of him, he looked down, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.
Stockwell eyeballed him. “We’ll find her, Jake.” She tipped her head toward the door. “We still have that cabin and outhouse left to check.” She envisioned the man Jacob had taken down and zipped earlier. “We also have someone we can press for information.”
He glimpsed her. Why didn’t I think of that? He pushed off from the counter. “Good idea. Let’s go ask him—” he stopped and cocked his head to one side to gape under the kitchen table.
She followed his gaze. “You see something?”
He pointed under the table while giving the entire interior another once-over. “Everything in here is old, broken down, outdated...except for,” he wagged his finger at a four-foot-square brown rug under the table’s legs, “that rug.”
She frowned at the floor covering, “It does seem to be new,” then half shrugged. “So what?”
“Give me a hand.” He gripped two corners of the table.
She grasped the other end.
They moved the table further away from the sink, knocking over a chair in the process.
Jacob kicked the overturned furniture out of the way, stooped, lifted a corner of the rug, and lit up the area underneath with the flashlight on his CMMG. His heart rate doubling at the sight of a thin black line bisecting several floorboards, he swept away the plush mat then followed the black line with the light’s beam.
Stockwell’s eyes grew bigger, as she watched him make a square over the boards. “A trap door.”
“Or,” sticking two fingers into an opening that used to be a knot in one of the planks, “the door to a prison cell,” he hefted the three-foot-square panel past ninety degrees.
At one hundred thirty degrees, the heavy weight stopped, a rusted chain keeping it from going any further.
Stockwell shined her MP5’s flashlight into the black opening. “It looks to be a good six or seven feet down.”
Jacob glanced beyond her and saw the long, wooden lattice-like object he had seen earlier leaning against the wall. “I’m guessing,” he skirted around the square hole, “it’s probably,” and dragged the eight-foot-long ‘ladder’ away from the wall, “six feet. Grab that end, will you?”
They maneuvered the ladder into the opening and stabilized it, leaving a two-foot section protruding above the floor.
He unslung his rifle and handed the weapon to his teammate before drawing his Coonan and retrieving his SureFire E1B Backup flashlight. He grabbed the topmost rung and placed a boot on a lower rung. “Stay up here. I don’t want both of us down in a hole at the same time.”
She nodded while laying his rifle on the floor beside her. “Be careful.”
He descended. “Always.” A beat. “Give me some light.”
She aimed her own E1B Backup behind his head, covered the lens with her free hand, and barely spread apart two fingers to diffuse the beam’s intensity.
*******
His boots landing on compacted earth, he turned around, clicked on his E1B, and illuminated the enclosure.
An elementary school ‘Four square’ court in size, its walls made of clay, vertical posts supporting horizontal beams overhead, the barren space was cool and moist.
He directed his light straight ahead.
A floor-to-ceiling door save a three-inch header above and a one-inch-thick board below.
Hunching forward a bit to keep from hitting his head on the beams, he walked to the other side of the cavern and examined the barrier.
Wide, rough sawn boards, the up-and-down planks held together by five, evenly spaced left-and-right 2x4s; three rusty hinges on the left side; on the right, a corroded metal clasp secured by a U-shaped bolt.
He frowned at the sight. Definitely meant to keep people IN. He lifted the U-bolt, rotated the hasp out of the way, and looped the U-bolt through the staple again. He pulled the hasp and opened the door.
Darkness.
His 357 Magnum pointed forty-five degrees downward, he shined his light all around the cell.
A red form entered and left the circle of light.
Swinging his arm back, he centered the beam on a figure.
Her back against the wall, holding her balled hands up to her face, her left forearm out in front of her to block the blinding light, a girl blinked rapidly. “Don’t come any closer. Just,” her voice hitched, “just stay the hell away from me.”
Jacob aimed the 400 lumens at the dirt floor between him and the frightened teen. The spill light was plenty bright to make out her red, sleeveless mid-thigh dress and facial features, features that matched the mental image he had of Miranda. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to one side. Staring at the teenager gawking back at him, a different name, a familiar name came to him.
It took Miranda’s mind a few moments to strip away the black paint from his cheeks and chin and add a full beard. Lowering her fists a few inches, listing away from the wall, she squinted at him. “Dad?” Her heart skipped a beat. “Is that you?”
His imagination zipped back to when he was in the tree above the compound, to when he had thought he had caught a glimpse of his daughter’s profile. That WAS you. Jacob raced toward his little girl, “DD,” his outstretched hands leading the way. “Oh, my sweet baby girl.”
Missing for nearly three years, sixteen-year-old Deanna Delilah St. Christopher (DD) rushed into her father’s open arms.
He embraced her.
She squeezed him with all her might. “I just knew you’d find me, Dad. I never gave up hope. Never.”
He ki
ssed her head and her cheeks then gave her another huge hug before holstering his firearm and setting the flashlight on the dirt. “Let me look at you.” He grasped her upper arms and took a step backward. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Do you...” he went to one knee.
DD shook her head. “No.”
“...need medical attention?”
She snickered. “No. I’m fine, Dad...now that you’re here.”
Expecting to be at eye level with her, he had to crank his head back to meet her gaze. “I can’t believe this. You’re so,” he ran the back of his left hand across his wet cheeks while unsuccessfully trying to choke down the knot in his throat, “you’re so tall.”
DD touched fingertips to his face. “And you’re not furry anymore.”
He laughed while swiping at the never-ending water lines running from his eyes. “No. I’m not, kiddo.” He sniffled then stood and drew her to himself for a third clinch. “I’ve missed you so,” his voice cracked, “so much.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Dad.”
He pecked the top of her head then kept his face buried in her hair. “I love you.”
*******
Having heard the entire exchange from her earbud, a beaming Stockwell stood near the opening in the floor.
In her ear, DD’s voice: “I love you, too, Dad.”
Jacob: “Come on. Let’s get you out of here and home where you belong.”
Five seconds later, Stockwell saw her man’s smiling countenance appear from below.
“I’m coming up,” a beat, “plus one.”
She grinned at him. “Copy that.”
DD ascended the ladder first.
Stockwell helped the younger female make the changeover from ladder rung to solid footing.
Moments later, Jacob emerged from the square, stood behind his kid, planted hands on her shoulders, and faced his partner. “This...is my daughter,” he paused, “Deanna St. Christopher.”
“I know.” Stockwell smiled at him and tapped her ear. “I heard everything.” She acknowledged DD. “We have something in common, you and me. We share the same name.” She lifted her right hand. “I’m Deanna Stockwell. I’m your dad’s—”
“Work partner. She’s my work partner. We work together.”
Stockwell confronted Jacob.
Jacob arched his brows once and proffered a pleading look.
Her gaze went from him to DD to him again before settling on the teen. “Yes. That’s...that’s right. Your dad and I work together. And I...I,” faltering, she blinked a few times then extended her hand a little further, “I’m so glad to finally meet you.”
DD dodged the handshake and wrapped arms around the older woman’s waist. “Thank you. Thank you for finding me.”
Stockwell hesitated a beat then returned the hug while eyeballing Jacob.
He mouthed the words ‘Thank you’ to her.
She flashed a partial smile, nodded at him, and patted the youngster’s back twice. “You’re very welcome, Deanna.”
“DD,” the girl shot back while pulling away from Stockwell. “Everyone close to me calls me DD. That now includes you.”
The female FBI agent glimpsed Jacob, came back to his offspring, and smiled. “Thank you, sweetie. I appreciate that...very much.” She rubbed the teen’s bare upper arms before wrapping her left arm around the girl’s shoulders. “You must be freezing. Let’s go find you a blanket or something.”
The corners of Jacob’s mouth curled upward as far as they could go, as he crossed arms over his chest and watched two loves in his life begin the bonding process.
DD cranked her head around. “Are you coming, Dad?”
He picked up his CMMG rifle and slung the weapon. “I’m right behind you, sweetheart.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 30
Phone Calls
8:18 A.M.
MOUNTAIN LAKES MEDICAL CENTER
CLAYTON, GEORGIA
An hour ago, Jacob, Stockwell, and DD had arrived at the Mountain Lakes Medical Center’s emergency doors. Upon learning of the girl’s ordeal, staff had taken the teenager into a patient room where she would be seen by a doctor and given a full examination.
Once the doctor had arrived, and the door to his daughter’s exam room had closed, Jacob had asked for a secluded room, so he and Stockwell could make private phone calls.
For the last forty-five minutes, the two agents had nursed cups of coffee while claiming chairs in opposite corners of a small consultation room. She had been updating Assistant Director Brolin on the operation while Jacob had been sharing the good news with his ex-wife, the mother of his child.
Stockwell sipped her beverage. “That’s right, sir. I’ve already sent you the coordinates for Sheriff Winston’s location. You’ll find him bound in the trunk of his cruiser. He had knowledge of what was going on at that compound. He may have even been part of it.”
*******
Sighing, Jacob uncrossed his legs, leaned forward, and held his forehead in his hand. “Look, Livs—” he waited while his ex-wife spoke. Hearing her take a breath, “Liv—”
She cut him off.
He massaged his temples and waited for another pause. Sensing another breath coming, he pumped his open hand outward and sat straight. “Olivia, there’s no need for you to fly out here. A nurse,” he poked a finger at the room’s closed door, “just told me she’s doing remarkably well and will most likely be discharged in a couple hours.”
*******
“Yes, sir. I understand.” Stockwell took another pull on her coffee. “Yes, sir. I’ll come by your office the first chance I get.”
Moments passed.
She glanced at Jacob. “I’ll pass along your sentiments.” She listened for a few seconds, “Thank you, sir,” then clicked off.
*******
“By the time you buy a plane ticket, drive to the airport, and get down here, Olivia, I’m guessing we’ll already be in the air...maybe even on the ground in New York.”
Stockwell finished her drink, got her man’s attention, and wiggled her empty cup.
His eyes popping out of his skull, he nodded his head vigorously.
She chuckled at her frustrated man and left the room, returning a few minutes later with two cups of fresh coffee.
“I promise, Livs, as soon as the doctors have finished, I’ll put you on the line with her.” Jacob slouched in his chair, looked up at the ceiling, and scratched the back of his head. “Maybe I can even find some way where you two can video chat.”
Her hands full, Stockwell kicked the door and winced when the heavy wooden barrier slammed shut with a bang.
Jacob spied her.
She froze in place and hunched her shoulders before miming ‘Sorry’ to him.
“I will.” He grinned at her while stretching out his free hand. “I promise. You’ll be the first one I call when she’s done with her exam.” A beat. “Just try to relax, Olivia. This is great news. Our daughter is alive and well, and...”
Stockwell handed him a cup.
“...and she’s coming home to you.” He glimpsed her, accepted his gift, and whispered, “Thanks,” before turning his concentration back to his call. “Like I said, she’ll be there before you know it.” He sipped. “All right. See you soon. Bye.” He tapped the ‘End’ icon, dropped the mobile onto his lap, and let his head fall back against the wall with a thud.
Stockwell sat on his left and crossed her legs—knee on knee, left over right. “She’s just acting like any normal woman—mother—would act like under these circumstances, Jake.” The FBI agent curled both hands around her cardboard container and blew on the liquid inside. “You need to cut her some slack.”
“I know. I know.” He sat upright, put his coffee on a table to his right, and picked up his cell again. “She’s a terrific mom, and I understand what she’s feeling, but it makes no sense to come out here...and then just turn around and head back again.”
St
ockwell ogled him. “What would you do if you were somewhere else, and you knew your missing daughter had been found?”
He spied her.
She curled up one side of her mouth.
He opened the ‘Contacts’ on his phone and tapped ‘Higs’ from a list of names. “Oh, you think you’re just so smart, don’t you?”
She gently sent her bobbing, topmost foot into his lower leg. “Isn’t that why you’re with me?”
Through his phone’s speaker, Higs’ voice: “It’s good to hear from you, Mr. St. Christopher. How are things progressing?”
Standing, Jacob whispered in her ear, “Of course that’s why I’m with you...” then kissed her on the cheek while gliding his palm up her outer thigh, “among other things.”
Snickering, she playfully swatted away his advance and sipped her coffee.
He turned his back on her, stepped away, hooked a thumb into his waistband, and pressed his phone to his right ear. “I have an update, Higs...an awesome update.”
Jacob shared his news, and the men had a thirty-second back-and-forth, before the former Army Ranger wrinkled his brow. “You don’t sound very happy, Higs. You did hear me, right? The Miranda girl turned out to be my daughter. DD’s alive. DD’s safe.”
“I did indeed. I’m quite pleased at the outcome.”
“Actually,” Jacob mulled over the conversation from a minute ago, “you don’t sound very surprised.” His scowl deepened. “Did you know my DD was being held at that compound?”
*******
STATEN ISLAND, NEW YORK
ST. GEORGE NEIGHBORHOOD
NONDESCRIPT OFFICE BUILDING
(THE “KEEP”)
Seated at the end of a conference table, Higs looked down at his laptop.
At the top of the computer’s screen, lined up horizontally: the five photos of the missing teens.
At the bottom of the screen: a photo that had not been included with the five that had been sent to Jacob and Stockwell’s phones at the start of the mission.
The singled-out image showed an aged, digital representation of what thirteen-year-old Deanna St. Christopher would have looked like at around age sixteen. Beneath the image, “79% MATCH” blinked in a red-colored font.
