The Abducted Super Boxset: A Small Town Kidnapping Mystery

by Roger Hayden

Another gunshot, this time from inside the cabin. The blast horrified Desmond to his core.

  “Now you’ve done it!” Malone shouted from a broken window, coughing as tear gas filled the cabin. “I told you that I’d waste her. Her blood is on your hands!”

  His words were unreal. It had to be a bluff. Desmond wasn’t going to accept it. Suddenly another gunshot sounded from inside the cabin just as the police kicked down the front door and stormed inside.

  “Get off of me!” Desmond shouted.

  Sergeant Calhoun released his knee and stood up with an unmistakable look of fear on his face. “Y-You need to stay put, sir. For your own safety.” His trembling voice told Desmond all he needed to know: something had gone horribly wrong. Calhoun ran off to join the others inside the cabin as Desmond pushed himself up and doubled over coughing from the drifting vapors of tear gas that floated in his direction.

  Covering his mouth, Desmond rushed toward the cabin and its busted down door. Everything ahead of him was a blur. His heart pounded in his chest as his breathing intensified and turned into panicked gasps. The windows of the cabin were all shattered. Glass lay on the ground next to spent casings. Tear gas streamed out from all the openings.

  Desmond held his mouth under his shirt and rushed inside anyway, much to the consternation of the uniformed police officers who stood in a small circle surrounding two bodies lying on their backs in a pool of dark red blood oozing across the wooden floor.

  As he barreled through, he felt hands holding him back, pleading with him to remain calm. But something in his mind snapped. The girl on the floor. She still looked alive. The blood all around her head could have come from the man.

  “Let me talk to her!” Desmond screamed. “Let me hold her, damn it! She’s alive! Don’t you see that? Why are you standing around doing nothing?”

  More hands grabbed him, pushing him roughly away, until he fell onto the floor, facing the ceiling, which was half blown away. There were holes large enough to let in shafts of sunlight. The tear gas continued to obstruct his vision like mist. He coughed and gagged while shouting repeatedly for them to let him see his daughter.

  “Anabelle!” he cried. “Daddy’s here. I’m here to save you!”

  One Slip

  Day Four

  Dr. Trudeau had never seen the forest look so inviting. The trees swayed with a cool breeze. He reveled in the silence, well aware that things weren’t going to be peaceful for very long. Yes, as a temporary hideout, the cabin was looking more permanent by the hour. April had yet to warm up to him. His shoulder ached with an intensifying pain that he could barely stave off.

  His Mercedes was parked a good distance away at the bottom of the hill, covered in branches. It wasn’t safe for them to drive anywhere. At least for a while. Every state trooper in Texas was probably looking for his silver Mercedes, license plate number: RJU3P. For the time being, they were trapped.

  The cabin was the safest place, the only place they could hide. And if they ever found him here, he’d be ready. Despite the desperate situation, Trudeau looked up at the sky awash in deep blue and felt optimistic. There was still hope for him and April. They could still have a life together if they tried.

  Trudeau walked the shaded perimeter of his cabin, Tara safely locked inside, searching out the best spots to lay trip wire. He had a few blocks of C4 left and wanted to put them to good use. He was no expert bomb-maker or woodsman, but he had a strong grasp of survivalist tactics and explosive ordnance from years of research.

  He had learned about setting alarms and traps and the materials needed like fishing line, to mini-sentry traps, and the blank .22 charges that went inside. He had learned about the range of certain explosives and how to effectively maim and immobilize intruders without killing them. Most importantly of all, he had learned how to prevent a raid on his cabin through carefully concealed traps and visible barricades.

  Trudeau walked along uneven terrain in his hiking boots, blue jeans, and a button-down long-sleeved flannel shirt. He also had on sunglasses and a bandana tied around his head, looking nearly unrecognizable from the day prior. His walking stick helped him maintain balance and eased the throbbing pain in his shoulder.

  He walked the wide space between two pine trees and crouched down. The grass seemed just high enough to conceal the trip wire. He then observed the ground below from his elevated vantage point. There were a few places for approaching intruders to hide, and once he laid his traps, they’d be heard as well as seen.

  The cabin and the land surrounding it had been purchased years before under his old name, a person he no longer was. He was confident that it would take time for investigators to make the connection. He felt safe for the time being. A look into Dr. Trudeau’s past would show a clean record and no connection to his previous life, or so he hoped. Feeling emboldened, he breathed in the fresh air and let his mind wander in the calm early-afternoon air.

  Miriam entered his mind. He had been watching her and her family for some time, trying to get an idea of what kind of person she was. She lived a normal life of relative anonymity. He also saw someone inside her, screaming to escape this ordinary routine. Would she join him and April? Could they all run away together and start anew? They could move to South America. The Virgin Islands. Honduras. He still had some contacts and just enough cash on-hand to facilitate getting new identities and passports. Such ideas, however, were a distant dream. It wouldn’t take investigators very long to find out who he really was. And he knew that Miriam would never stop until he was caught.

  He wanted to explain everything to her and why. They both shared an undeniable connection—the tragic loss of a loved one. But whereas Miriam lost her ex-husband to a ruthless killer, she had gotten her daughter back, whereas his daughter perished in an inept rescue attempt. As a police officer, she owed him.

  Trudeau walked back to the cabin to get the trip wire material, noticing signs of its neglect over the years. Panels were missing, much of the wood was rotting, and there were several small holes in the roof. There were also raccoons living under the crawl space. However, it was currently in far better condition from when he had purchased it. From a distance, it looked like nothing more than a dilapidated backyard shed.

  Feeling suddenly dizzy, he sat in his outside folding chair under the cabin’s small canopy. The coming news broadcast on the emergency radio next to him filled him with excitement at the sound of the announcer’s urgent voice. It didn’t take long for the update to bring him completely up to speed.

  “A manhunt has been issued for local therapist and author Dr. Nicholas Trudeau in connection to three kidnappings in the area and what authorities have described as a terrorist attack against law enforcement in the form of a vehicle-borne improvised explosive attack. Three detectives are listed as dead and two injured. They were reportedly led to the vehicle through an anonymous tip claiming that the van held two of the missing girls, Tara McKenzie and April Johnson.

  “Trudeau’s alleged involvement has stunned the community, and his connection to suspects Walter Browning and Ken Frohman, both deceased, is not currently known. Law enforcement personnel, with the aid of the FBI, are currently searching for his whereabouts. He reportedly fled his home with at least one of the two missing girls. Residents are urged to contact local police or the FBI hotline with any information on the whereabouts of Dr. Trudeau, who is considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

  Trudeau nodded his head, impressed with the report.

  “There goes my occupational therapy license.”

  He pushed himself up as a local weather report followed and leaned against his walking stick. He then turned to the cabin and walked inside, smelling the aroma of grits still in the air. April’s door was closed and not a sound came from inside.

  Trudeau neared the door and knocked politely. “April? Are you ready to come out yet?”

  Predictably, there was no answer.

  He remained patient and knocked again. “It’s a nice day out
. Come see for yourself.”

  Again, there was no answer, and his patience was coming to an end.

  “I’m coming in,” he said, unlocking the door.

  He entered the room to see an empty bowl on the bed and April curled up in the corner. Sunlight beamed from the tiny window onto the bathroom door. Her change of clothes remained stuffed in the bag he had packed for her. She still wore the checkered pajamas from the night before.

  “I’m glad that you’re eating,” he said, approaching her with his dirty hiking boots scuffing against the wooden floor. He stopped at the foot of the bed and shook his head.

  “Why don’t you get changed and get some fresh air?”

  Sensing her disinterest, he sat on the side edge of the bed, knees cracking, and leaned closer to her as she recoiled against the wall. “Would you like to help me set up some traps?”

  She gave no answer.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said.

  Her eyes remained on the ground as though it pained her to look at him. “I don’t want to be here,” she said under her breath.

  “I don’t want to be here either, but we’ve got to make the best of our situation.” The mattress creaked with his leaning toward her. “Did you know I had a daughter once? She was younger than you by about five years, but smart as a whip. She was the light of my life.”

  April looked up but said nothing.

  “That’s right,” he continued. “She was everything to me.”

  He rocked his head back and then stared at April with intensity. “I know there’s something wrong with me, but I wasn’t always like this. All I feel is anger and resentment.” He paused and shook his head, smiling. “Well, look at this. Now I’m the patient and you’re the therapist. I just really hope that you can see that I’m really not that bad of a guy.”

  “I don’t care,” she said with a strained voice. “All I want is to go home.” She squeezed her eyelids shut as tears streamed out. “Why won’t you let me?”

  “Because I need you, April. Don’t you understand? I’ve chosen you so that we can be together. You’re my daughter now.”

  “No…” she said. “I’m not.”

  Her eyes watched in fear as his right hand moved toward the pistol holstered at his hip. “You are. Whether you accept it or not.” He then pulled the pistol out, displaying it in the sunlight. “And if any of them try to take you away from me, I’ll be ready. You can call me Daddy, or Dad. Whatever you prefer.”

  ***

  The presence of law enforcement at Trudeau’s house had grown overnight and into the morning. Miriam and most of the investigators and police on the scene hadn’t slept a wink. The search for Dr. Trudeau had spread statewide, and there were no reports of his whereabouts. It was still early and the confidence that he hadn’t gotten far was still the opinion of the hour, but many were baffled about how he had gotten away in the first place and managed to stay hidden.

  Miriam sat in the dining room with several of Trudeau’s notebooks recovered from underground, where he had outlined every step of his plan in addition to ones he never enacted, including timelines, locations, expenses, and contacts. It looked as though he had been developing his plans for months, perhaps years.

  Tara had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance to be reunited with her parents, and Miriam promised to visit soon. She felt a connection with the girl and was certain that they’d remain in contact over the years.

  The FBI was at the house, but Miriam hadn’t been introduced to them yet. She preferred to remain in the background and research all she could about Trudeau while Ector County PD ran operations in concert with FBI protocol. It wasn’t her first time dealing with the feds. The Snatcher case had involved them as well.

  One advantage she had learned of while working with them was that they operated with unlimited resources. Trudeau’s notes, so far, had indicated no certain escape plan or route. He wrote of retreating into exile should his plans ever fall through, but from what she had gathered, he believed the van bomb to be the final piece in obliterating any evidence of his involvement in the kidnappings.

  The promises of reward money to Walter Browning and Ken Frohman was more of a ploy to gain their assistance. From what Miriam could gather, Trudeau had two glaring motives: revenge against a police department he held liable for his daughter’s death, and the search for a “replacement.”

  Detective Shelton approached her from the living room with two people at his side, a man and a woman with matching blue jackets, button-down collared shirts, black slacks, and pistols at their sides. Their IDs dangled from their necks on lanyards and Miriam had a pretty good idea of who they were.

  “Lieutenant Sandoval, this is Special Agent Jill Pinkerton and Special Agent Donald Murphy with the FBI.”

  Miriam closed the notebook and stood up, extending her hand. “Hello, I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Murphy, the male agent with trimmed brown hair, youthful face, and puffy cheeks shook her hand first with a tight grip. “The pleasure is all mine. Thank you.”

  Pinkerton, taller than her counterpart with straight auburn hair tied back, red lips, and sterling crystal eyes seemed decidedly more skeptical upon meeting Miriam. “Yes, we’ve heard a lot about you. You were brought in to assist with the case from Phoenix?”

  “That’s correct,” Miriam said, feeling a little on the spot.

  Agent Pinkerton looked at her partner with uncertainty but then smiled back at Miriam. “It’s strange. You don’t hear about that happening every day. Certainly not between county by county jurisdictions.”

  Shelton politely cut in. “Lieutenant Sandoval was brought in as an advisor for two specific reasons: her experience with the Snatcher case, and the reference of her name in many of the kidnapper’s letters.”

  “Ah, the Snatcher case,” Agent Murphy said, rubbing his chin. “I know a few agents who were involved in that case. Real psychopath there.”

  Miriam wanted to say, “If you only knew,” but kept her comments to herself.

  Agent Pinkerton stepped forward, noticeably more serious and down to business than her partner. “We’ve been briefed about what’s happened within the past twenty-four hours, and I must say, it’s all rather overwhelming, unbelievable even.”

  Miriam nodded. “There is a definite surrealism to it all. But Trudeau is still at large, and that’s all that matters.”

  Pinkerton studied Miriam for a moment as other FBI agents dressed in similar clothes toured the house, taking pictures and talking with other local investigators. Miriam wondered if the two in front of her were officially in charge of the scene. “So, you’re with the Phoenix Family Division?” she asked.

  “I am,” Miriam said as she saw Pinkerton’s eyes move downward and stop at the piece on her belt. “And they issued you a weapon? Talk about surreal.”

  Shelton stepped forward to elaborate. “Miriam—I mean, Lieutenant Sandoval is a former detective, which is one of the reasons we called her out here.”

  “I’ve read your statement,” Pinkerton continued. “Seems like you had a hunch about this Dr. Trudeau from the beginning.”

  “That’s correct,” Miriam said. “I think he deliberately led the department on from the beginning.”

  “And you also have more theories about where he is currently hiding?” Pinkerton asked.

  “I do,” Miriam said. She cleared the table of notebooks, closing them and stacking them neatly. “Do you have a moment to sit?”

  The two agents looked at each other and then nodded.

  “Let’s hear what you’ve got,” Agent Murphy said.

  Shelton pulled out two chairs across from Miriam for them to sit on and then walked around the table, sitting next to Miriam. Arms folded, the agents waited as Miriam unfolded a map of the area where Trudeau had marked key points throughout Odessa.

  She then opened Trudeau’s scrapbook, flipping to the back where the pages were filled with pasted newspaper clippings. With the visual aids in place
, she began. “It’s no real surprise that Dr. Trudeau isn’t who he said he is. I’m more surprised that he was able to operate freely within the criminal system without anyone connecting him to his previous identity, Desmond Turner.”

  “We are aware of this and we’re currently talking with his ex-wife, Patricia,” Agent Pinkerton said. “She lives in Connecticut and claims not to have seen or heard from him in over ten years.”

  “We’ve also frozen his financial assets and are monitoring potential withdrawals, credit card usage, and phone activity,” said Agent Murphy.

  Shelton leaned forward with his own question. “And have you seen any activity on either front?”

  “No,” Pinkerton said. “Nothing.”

  “Trudeau may be smart and resourceful, but he couldn’t have gotten very far,” Miriam said, continuing her case. “Not with all the checkpoints quickly set up on every major road for miles. Plus, he’s injured and has his captive in tow.”

  “Not like he can just check into a Motel 6 and wait it out,” Shelton said.

  “We understand this,” Pinkerton said. “So where do you think he is?”

  Miriam took a breath and tried her best to lay it out for them. “Trudeau has amassed a stockpile of supplies, emergency gear, and non-perishables. All of this we discovered in his garage and adjacent underground room. He was more than prepared for this possibility. Now that he’s on the run, there’s one place that comes to mind.”

  She ran her finger along the map, past Odessa, and stopped at a blank spot where there was no city, town, or landmark.

  “It’s not far, but it’s just far enough for him to remain unseen and out of the public eye.”

  “Wolf Creek,” Shelton said.

  Miriam then pointed to the first news article displayed in the open scrapbook. “That’s where his daughter was killed sixteen years ago. There’s a cabin, I’m not sure exactly where, but if it’s still standing, that’s where he’s hiding.”

  Pinkerton nodded in agreement but displayed her continuing skepticism. “It makes sense, but why would he want to return to the very place his daughter was killed?”