by Roger Hayden
She took another look at the clipped magazine letters scattered everywhere and decided that it was time to go. Trudeau’s secret room had been breached and they’d have more than enough to convict him. She flicked the power button of his police scanner, but nothing happened. “Impressive setup,” she said, walking away. “I hope one day it all burns down.”
She continued toward the staircase and then suddenly stopped, frozen in terror. There, on the large bulletin board above, concealed by shadow, was a collage of photos that pierced her just to look at. There were hundreds of glossy photos, some in color and some in black and white of Miriam and her family, all recent and all spine-chillingly real.
There were photos of Miriam and Ana outside the house. Lou and Miriam out for dinner. Miriam walking alone around the neighborhood. Ana walking home from the bus stop. Lou outside his car in the school parking lot. Ana walking inside the Phoenix police station. Miriam stared at the photos, feeling dizzy, her body trembling and short of breath. He knew everything about her, and she needed to warn her family before it was too late.
Hideout
Dr. Trudeau opened the bedroom door and walked inside with a camouflaged backpack over his left shoulder and his right arm in a makeshift arm sling. He winced with each step, the gunshot wound still fresh and his risk of infection greater with each moment. He wore a blue hat, the bill hanging low and shielding his face. His woodsman jacket covered the blood-soaked padding bandages wrapped tightly around his shoulder underneath.
The long drive through the night had been grueling, and he was relieved that they had made it. He was hopeful that his isolated cabin would provide the temporary safety and cover from law enforcement he so desperately needed.
Inside now, with April cowering nearby, Trudeau slowly pulled the backpack from his shoulder, gritting his teeth. Every movement hurt, from walking to breathing. The unfortunate turn of events that evening had only recently come to his full realization of how narrowly he had escaped. He was a fugitive now, a wanted man, and there was no turning back. With the throbbing pain in his shoulder, he could barely think straight. There was much to be done, and he’d have to get it together before the situation spiraled out of control.
He set the backpack down onto a twin-sized bed and looked around the small, dusty room and lit a kerosene lamp on a nearby nightstand. He paused, stone-like and breathing heavily, as a new rush of pain shot through his body, getting worse by the moment. The bullet was still lodged in his shoulder. There was no exit wound, and his entire right side felt inflamed with an excruciating reaction to the slightest movement.
He carefully sat at the end of the bed, mattress sinking as he tossed his hat off and ran his hands through sweaty hair. He moaned in pain as his eyes caught April sitting in a wooden chair in the corner. He saw the usual fear in her vacant eyes, but for a moment he sensed a sliver of concern for him.
“We’re safe,” he said, leaning forward with labored breathing. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Six bags rested on the long wooden beams on the floor—everything Trudeau could grab in his frenzied haste. Some were packed with clothes. Others were filled with emergency supplies. He had everything from first aid kits to a decent hoard of non-perishable food, water bottles, cooking supplies, batteries, flashlights, hunting knives, and multi-tools all grabbed from the reservoir of supplies in his house.
He feared he’d never see his beloved ranch house again but also prided himself as having been prepared for the worst. Survival in an unpredictable world was the key. Living alone had afforded him a few hobbies outside his usual job at the office. Stockpiling was a passion, and now it seemed to have paid off in a completely unexpected way.
Nothing would ever be the same now. Miriam had discovered the truth about him. His career was over. His property and assets would be seized. The manhunt for him would be relentless. Miriam would never stop the search, he was sure of it. And when they came for him, he planned to be ready.
He had been prepared for the possibility of getting caught. He just didn’t expect it to happen so quickly. The van explosion was meant to sabotage the investigation, demoralize the detectives, and close the case for good as one last desperate act of terrorism by a disturbed, suicidal predator by the name of Ken Frohman—one of the men he had set up. Walter Browning, Frohman’s accomplice, was also meant to take the fall and leave Trudeau with a clean slate.
As he sat in the quiet cabin room, contemplating the situation, he regretted involving Miriam in the case. It was, after all, his idea. He had mentioned her in the letters to the police. He wanted her to join the case and embrace being a detective again. He enjoyed watching her, toying with her, and leading her to various locations where each piece of the puzzle had been so carefully laid out. However, this simple act of hubris had consequences. Perhaps he had been too eager.
Miriam had proven herself to be a formidable investigator despite her rogue impulses. Since arriving in Odessa, she had done everything that he had wanted her to do, gone everywhere he had planned. But she wasn’t supposed to have found him so soon, or ever. She wasn’t supposed to have figured it out. Nonetheless, he was sure that they’d soon meet again. Until then, he had a lot of work to do.
In his hasty escape, Trudeau had managed to bring a month’s worth of supplies. The wilderness surrounding them also provided an abundance of resources. There was a creek at the bottom of the hill, plenty of wildlife to hunt, and ground fertile enough to plant vegetables. It was the life Trudeau had always wanted, and he was confident that April would adjust to their new environment in time. She was only a child, but children adapted in ways that adults can’t.
There was no television, Internet, or cell phone signal in the cabin, but they weren’t completely cut off from the world. Trudeau had brought an emergency radio for the express purpose of monitoring news updates in one of the supply bags. He felt a close connection to rural life and he had an affinity for living off the land. His Mercedes was parked far from the cabin, in the woods and covered by branches. If he could just manage to evade the authorities, the plan could work.
April sat motionless with her eyes on the floor, lost in her own world. She hadn’t spoken in hours, not since asking him where they were going. He knew if there was any chance of their living in peace, he would have to establish some trust between them. He’d told her: This was their new home now, a place where they could live without being subjected to the outside world. She would have to understand why they had fled and what they needed to do to stay safe. There was so much to explain that he didn’t know where to start.
She had barely spoken during her week-and-a-half-long captivity. Her fear was always on the surface, but Trudeau could also sense a certain acceptance in her toward the situation. She wasn’t wild and insolent like Tara. She wasn’t a loose cannon like Miriam. She was a well-behaved, introspective girl who had not once lashed out at him. It was the main reason he had chosen to take her with him. She could very well be his Anabelle after all.
He achingly moved his right arm toward his wounded shoulder and touched the thick padding under his jacket with a wince. His eyes met April’s again, just as she looked away. She was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of dirty hiking boots, nothing particularly her size, but they weren’t her clothes anyway. Ever the planner, Trudeau had purchased some children’s clothing weeks before for his expected guests. He certainly wasn’t going to have her wearing the same shabby clothing every day.
As optimistic as he tried to be, there was no denying their situation. His face would be all over the news by morning. “The Chancellor of Doom” would be exposed as respected therapist Dr. Nicholas Trudeau, leaving investigators baffled and a community stunned. Texas would be on high alert.
The van explosion would be deemed an act of terrorism, and he’d be the most wanted man in the country. It was never supposed to be him. Walter Browning and Ken Frohman were supposed to take the fall, but now it was too late. He had been ex
posed.
Trudeau hadn’t heard how many detectives had perished in the explosion, if any, but he was certain that the FBI would take the lead in the investigation. The thought of the federal government pursuing him filled Trudeau with a mix of trepidation and glee. Miriam had obviously survived, but she was finished as far as he was concerned. She had fled the scene of the explosion and pursued yet another suspect on her own. The feds would want nothing to do with her, but he also realized that similar opposition hadn’t stopped her before. Nonetheless, he looked forward to meeting her again.
He unzipped his camouflage backpack with a grunt and pulled out a notepad, placing it on his lap. The air was still and the room silent, save for the faint wolf howls from afar. He examined his written list of tasks as the kerosene lamp flickered, bouncing shadows throughout the room. His modest hideout cabin had adequate living space for the time being. They had a small kitchen, living room, bedroom, and one small bathroom. There wasn’t much in the way of plumbing or electricity, and the old cabin was a far cry from his expensive ranch house. It was to be their home, at least until he could think of a new plan.
With only a few hours until morning, April looked tired. Her unresponsive, catatonic state was clearly a sign of exhaustion and trauma. But if they were going be there together, he needed to establish a common understanding, a connection. Trudeau set aside his notepad while trying to withstand the pain in his shoulder. He was certain that the bullet had cut through his shoulder bone, possibly his clavicle.
That gun-toting bitch, he muttered. It was getting harder to differentiate his admiration and resentment toward Miriam.
He studied April for a moment, trying to figure out what to do with her. She said nothing, her eyes glued to the floor. He couldn’t very well have her running off into the forest every minute his back was turned. That wasn’t going to do. There had to be ground rules.
“April,” he said, clasping his hands together in his best therapist tone. “I know all of this is sudden, and I’m sorry. But first, I want to make a few things clear.”
He paused, pointing his index finger.
“First, I never meant any harm toward you or Tara. I’m not going to hurt you now, nor would I even think of it. There are things you don’t understand, things you shouldn’t have to understand about me and my situation. In the end, we’re going to make this work. We can have a real life out here together. I really believe it. We just need to trust each other.
“I have only the best intentions for you, and you don’t need to be afraid. But I also need to ensure that you won’t do something foolish like try to escape. Remember our earlier sessions, where I asked you about your family life? Your brother? Your parents? Your friends and teachers? I told you that none of them appreciated you, April. I think, in a way, I was guided toward you to make you see that.”
He paused again, waiting for a response that seemed unlikely to arrive. “Do you understand? Can I trust that you won’t try to escape?”
Her tired brown eyes looked up from the floor and met his. Her long, straight hair hung on both sides of her face, down to her shoulders, and she looked at him with a glimmer of defiance despite her intentions to cover it up.
“Because if you do try to escape,” he continued with sternness, “you’re not going to get very far. We’re surrounded by nothing but forest for miles. The safest place for you is here in this cabin right now.”
He suddenly gripped his knee as fresh pain stung his shoulder like a knife stabbing through his flesh. He tilted his head back with his eyes closed and slowly breathed in. After a moment, he then lowered his head and opened his eyes, noticing April’s blank look of skepticism. “I promise not to sedate you from here on out. Nothing in your food or drink. You’ll be able to experience each day completely in control of your faculties. All I ask is your cooperation.”
Her eyes suddenly watered as she looked away.
“What?” he asked. “What is it?”
She then mumbled something under her breath that he couldn’t understand.
“What did you say?”
“The same questions I’ve asked since day one. What do you want with me?”
Trudeau sighed and stretched his back with a discomforting grimace. “It’s complicated. But rest assured, you will eventually understand. You will come to regard me with the same affection I have for you.”
April scowled at him and turned away, whispering, “You’re crazy.”
Trudeau’s expression dropped with disappointment as he leaned forward, his face reddening. “Have I laid a single finger on you?” He paused, waiting for an answer. “Well. Have I?”
“I don’t know!” she said, visibly crying. “I don’t remember, because you drugged me. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home!”
Trudeau’s hand fell to his side with frustration, but he stifled his irritation. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”
The bedsprings squeaked as he slowly rose from the bed, pointing at the bags on the ground.
“I’ll be using my sleeping bag, so the bed is yours. The plumbing here is spotty, as you can imagine. No hot water, but it’s better than nothing.”
He then pulled a small leather bag from his backpack followed by a bag of clear liquid bottles. Shaking in place and sweating, he turned toward the narrow bathroom door that opened into the bedroom. “I have to get cleaned up. We’ve got bottles of water and plenty of food packed away. Go ahead and get some sleep.”
He walked past April, feeling dizzier by the moment. He gestured to her to lie down as he closed the bedroom door leading to the small living area. She said nothing. He opened the bathroom door and slipped inside, switching on the battery-operated lamp near the rusty sink. Trudeau did his best to move around the closet-like confines of the bathroom between a sink, standing shower, and toilet. He turned the old faucet knobs as the spout rattled and water rumbled through the pipes, spraying out in sporadic bursts, brown at first, then clear. Better than nothing.
He placed his surgery kit and bag of antiseptics in the sink. The pain had reached an intensity unlike anything he had ever felt before.
“So, this is what it’s like to get shot?” he said with a chuckle under his breath.
Before getting started, however, he turned around and peeked out of a tiny hole at the center of the door, watching April in the adjacent bedroom. April sat quietly, but not for long. He watched as she crept toward the bedroom door with cautious glances behind her at every step.
Trudeau’s eye remained at the hole, fascinated by her actions. She stopped at the door and took another glance toward the bathroom as he watched in anticipation of her next movements.
Unsurprisingly, April reached for the doorknob and turned it, but the door was locked. She tried again and again as her panic grew, along with the creeping realization that she was locked in.
Poor girl, Trudeau thought. Can’t say that I blame her for trying.
He watched as she pushed against the door with more force, failing to budge it. Frustrated, she moved swiftly toward the small window near the bed and immediately pulled at the bottom, but it wouldn’t move either. Her mouth dropped when she discovered two screws at the bottom, holding the window in place. Trudeau smiled, entertained as though he were watching a subject behind glass.
April examined the kerosene lamp on the nightstand and looked as though she was considering using it. He wondered if she would do it. Ever cautious, she returned her focus to the window and pushed against the glass, but its half-inch thickness remained impenetrable. Realizing this, she moved away from the window and into the far corner of the room, crouching on the floor in a ball and sobbing.
Satisfied, Trudeau turned back toward the faucet and stared at himself in the grimy mirror. His face was pale and sweaty, and he looked on the verge of delirium. He wheezed with every movement and did his best to maneuver his arm out of the sling, lower it, and pull his woodsman jacket off. White flashes consumed his vision as he revealed a bloody
T-shirt covered with padding taped along his shoulder. Whatever he did next, it was going to be painful.
His knees wobbled and his breathing increased as sickness gripped his insides, sending him reeling forward and vomiting into the rusty sink. He tried to keep his balance between violent gasps and gripped the sink edges for support. As the next rush of pain briefly subsided, he unzipped his surgical bag and began to sift through it.
He then glanced in the mirror, recalling everything that had led him to a dilapidated cabin hideout with nothing left but some bags of supplies and one of the kidnapped girls locked in a room. The seeds of his plan had been planted during a therapy session with a new patient named Walter Browning. A man, it seemed, who would be the perfect accomplice in a plan years in the making.
“Tell me, Walter,” Dr. Trudeau had said, “What do you want out of life?”
From the red patent leather chair in Trudeau’s sleek office, Walter turned his head to face his therapist with a confused look. “I’ve told you this, Doctor. I want things to go back to how they used to be. I want my life back!”
Trudeau sat behind Walter with a legal pad on his lap and pen in hand. He felt distracted and unable to give his patients the attention they deserved. Instead, his mind was elsewhere, indicated by the shopping list he scribbled on as the circular wall clock ticked in the distance. Sunlight from the slightly opened Venetian blinds beamed across to the wall of certificates behind them. A bookshelf stocked with copies of his three books was a constant reminder of his accomplishments in the field of psychiatry. An oval glass table centered the room with a box of Kleenex on top. Sometimes, patients could get emotional, especially during the holidays.
“I understand that, Walter,” he responded. “And that’s why I asked the question. We need to discuss how you plan on getting your life back.”
“Plan?” Walter scoffed, tossing his head back against the side cushion of his chair and staring at the ceiling. “What plan?” He then held his arms out, irritated and brimming with anger, prepared to vent in a way that Trudeau had seen in their past two sessions. “I want to turn back the clock. I want to make sure that little teenage bitch never has the opportunity to ruin my life in the first place.”
