THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA
Page 17
Cassie watched the screen. Dayle was looking at her expectantly.
“You know, whoever-you-are, you talk too much,” she finally replied. “Why don’t you just cut to the bottom line? Let’s see . . . oh yeah. It all boils down to ‘Yea, hath God said?’’’ Dayle’s face began to darken again. “Well, it worked with Eve. By the grace of God, it won’t work with me.”
“Very well, Cassandra. You’ll learn. You might not learn from me, but you’ll learn. Right now, it’s time for a small tour.”
The door to the hall burst open and Brandon stumbled in, followed by Skip. The boy immediately walked over to Cassie, standing close to her, as if to protect her, or to be protected. Skip motioned for them both to follow her.
“Go with Skip now, children,” Dayle commanded. “This will be a learning experience for both of you.”
Cassie and Brandon looked at each other, then followed Skip out the door.
* * * * *
Burgess walked into the office suite of the Shiloh Community Church. Sitting at one of the desks, alone in the office, a young girl looked up from her computer. “Hi there,” she chirped, smiling at the agent as she rolled her chair back and stood up. “How are you today? I’m Ruth McKinnon. Can I help you?” She walked to the divider separating the entry from the work area.
Cute girl, Burgess thought. Not the cheerleader type, somewhat on the gawky side, but radiates personality. “Hello there, Ruth.” He pulled out his badge. “I’m Special Agent Burgess of the FBI. I have an appointment with Pastor Hudson.”
“Oh yes, I saw you on the schedule. It’s nice to meet you.” I can’t believe it. An FBI guy, here? But I guess with Cassie gone. . . . She picked up the phone receiver and tapped a key. “Dr. Hudson? The gentleman from the FBI is here. Yes sir, thank you.” She smiled at Burgess again. “If you want to have a seat, Dr. Hudson will be right with you. Cup of coffee?”
“No thank you, Ruth, I don’t think so.” He rested his forearms on the divider, hands folded, trying to be casual. His job intimidated some people, but Ruth didn’t seem to be one of them. “I’ve been sitting down all day. But while we’re waiting, maybe you could help me.”
“Me, sir?” She seemed surprised. “Well, if I can. What’s on your mind?”
“Just routine matters, really. Are you a volunteer here? As a clerical worker, I mean?”
“Yes sir,” she replied. “But I only work part-time. My mom is the real church secretary, but I work twenty hours a week. I just graduated from the Academy last year.”
“Oh, the Academy here at the church? Good for you. Congratulations.”
“Yessir, Shiloh Christian Academy. Thank you, sir.”
“So tell me, Ruth. How many folks attend the church, on a regular basis?”
“Hmmm, let me think. On Sunday mornings? Probably three fifty, three seventy five. Sunday nights? Maybe a hundred. Same for Wednesday night prayer meeting.”
He had pulled out his notebook and scribbled down the numbers, then smiled up at her. “I have to write everything down. You wouldn’t believe the paperwork in this job.”
“No, they don’t show that on the TV shows. It’s all chases and guns and stuff.”
“Well, there’s a little of that, but the paperwork . . . you know how that goes,” he said, nodding to her computer.
She grinned. “Yup, I sure do.”
“Agent Burgess? I’m Dr. Rice Hudson. Would you care to come into my office?”
The man had emerged from his office silently. Burgess straightened up and turned to face him. “Hello, Pastor. Thank you for your time.”
“Of course,” Hudson said, gesturing for the agent to follow him. “Thank you, Ruth,” he called over his shoulder.
Moving to a seat in front of the pastor’s desk, the agent looked around. It was the office of an educated and professional man, degrees and award certificates prominently displayed, the entire wall behind the desk covered in bookshelves. Hudson settled into his chair behind the desk and steepled his fingers. “I assume your visit concerns the Hixson girl,” he finally announced, breaking the silence.
“The Hixson girl?” the agent thought. That’s a pretty chilly way to refer to a member of your flock. “Yes, Pastor, that’s right. We’re following — ”
“‘Dr. Hudson’ is fine,” the man corrected.
Oh boy. One of those. “Yes, Dr. Hudson, I beg your pardon. I’m here about Cassandra Hixson. We’re interviewing virtually everyone who knows her, as per standard Bureau protocol.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t know Cassandra very well,” Hudson sniffed. “I know her parents, Gordon and Barbara, much better. They’re some of our most faithful members. But I’m barely acquainted with Cassandra, or her brother.”
“Well, of course, I wouldn’t expect a man with your responsibilities to know all the teenagers and children. But — “
“That’s right,” Hudson interrupted again. “We have an excellent Youth Director, Gideon Hernandez, who can probably help you. He knows all the children. But you see, the Hixsons are home schoolers. Most of our parents send their children to the Academy here. We really believe that the church Academy offers the best educational option for Christian parents, but obviously not everyone agrees.” He shrugged. “That’s certainly their right. In any event, it’s tragic what’s happened to Cassandra.”
“Well, Dr. Hudson, we’re trying very hard to keep it from turning into a worse tragedy. And you can be a real help to us, in your unique position.” Appeal to his vanity. It drips off him like sweat.
“Of course. Anything I can do.” He seemed pleased.
“Thank you,” Burgess replied, pulling out the notebook. “If you could answer a few questions. First of all, how many members does Shiloh have?”
“We currently have five hundred eighty-four members,” he replied promptly. “You understand, those are official members, names on the church roll. Not all attend regularly. Some don’t attend at all. I suppose that’s true in most large churches. At our main service, I’d estimate about three hundred fifty attendees each Sunday.”
Same answer Ruth gave me. Well, at least he’s honest. “That’s still an impressive turnout.” Flatter him. “In any case, Dr. Hudson, you’ve already gotten to the heart of my concerns. I’m sure your regular attendees are good, faithful people. But the ones that are inactive. . . . I grew up in church, sir, and I’m not totally ignorant. There are always people dropping out, or getting their feelings hurt, or feuding with someone else in the congregation. Right?”
“I’m afraid so,” sighed Hudson. “‘All flesh is grass.’”
“And I’m guessing that, like any good pastor, you have your finger on the pulse of the congregation. So, I ask you very seriously, Dr. Hudson: are you aware of anyone who left the church, or became inactive, because of any problems with the Hixsons? Have the Hixsons been involved in any, pardon the expression, church politics?”
The pastor considered the question. Then, in the space of a moment, his manner changed. He relaxed, and his face softened. “I’m not quite as young as I used to be, Agent Burgess. Can you give me a minute?”
“Of course,” Burgess replied. He’s human after all?
Hudson began tapping the keys on his computer keyboard. When the church membership list came up, he scrolled down slowly, studying each name. After five or six minutes, he shook his head. “I don’t see anyone that might have had a conflict with the Hixsons. Of course, I’m not a mind-reader. But the Hixsons are very . . . inoffensive people. I don’t think the answer is here, Agent Burgess.”
The agent suppressed a sigh. Another dead end. “Well, sir, I appreciate your checking. You can see why we’d want to look into this.”
Then Hudson surprised him. “I certainly can. Tell me, Agent Burgess, have you developed any ‘persons of interest’ in the case yet? I’m not asking for names.”
“Well, you’re aware that I can’t discuss that in detail. But we’re constantly checking possibilities.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hudson,” the agent said. “That might be very helpful.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Hudson replied. “But there’s a girl’s life at stake. If you come up with any leads, you might want to cross-check them with the Directory.”
“Yes, sir. The more information, the better. You’ve been a big help. I won’t take up any more of your time.” He stood and handed the pastor his card. “If anything comes to mind, I’m always available.”
“Find Cassandra, Agent Burgess,” the pastor replied, taking the card. “God be with you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Burgess turned and walked to the door. Life is full of surprises. That stuffed shirt has a heart in it. He opened the door and walked out.
A half hour later, the agent walked out of the Academy gymnasium, where he’d interviewed Gideon Hernandez, the Youth Director. What a contrast! Hernandez was funny and sympathetic and seemed to be really worried about Cassandra. When he wasn’t talking about Puerto Rico, that is. . . . I wonder what made him move to Yorkville? He said ‘The Lord led me.’ I wish somebody would lead me to Cassandra. . . . He pulled his car out of the church parking lot, easing into the traffic on Broad Street. I can see why Hernandez is so good with kids. . . .
His thoughts were interrupted by the beep of his phone. He flicked it open, keeping a close eye on the traffic. “Burgess here.”
“Agent Burgess? This is Shelly Hays, with Digital Forensics at Quantico. We received a cell phone from Agent Maclean, relating to Case Number 007-YK-100. Yes sir, the Hixson girl’s phone and laptop, and her mother’s. Maclean wanted us to trace the most recent text message. Right, the ransom message, with the instructions for the e-mail account.”
“I’m glad to hear from you, Agent Hays,” Burgess replied. “Any luck?”
“I think so, sir . . . yes, I suppose so. Not so much with the mother’s phone . . . in fact, we’ve already sent that one back to Yorkville.”
“Right,” Burgess answered, eager for the woman to get to the point. “We received it, and returned it to Mrs. Hixson. So what have you found?”
“Well . . . ” Hays hesitated. “It doesn’t make any sense. We’ve checked and double checked, and even brought in the people from NSA.” Her voice sounded hesitant. “We keep getting the same result, but I certainly can’t explain it.”
“Okay, tell me about it, please.”
“Well, Agent Maclean didn’t specifically request this, but we traced all the messages. Most were just what you’d expect: the Hixson girl calling or texting her friends, and vice-versa. But we gave special attention to the first ransom message, the video, because it had the same IP as the latest message. Of course, the IP is just a starting place. When we use our other tools, we can practically trace a message to a few square feet of the sender. Anyway, we focused the search and were able to run it down to a single source.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” Burgess said, his heart beginning to race. “Both messages came from the kidnappers. So please, don’t keep me in suspense. What did you find? Where did it finally lead you?”
“Um, this is crazy . . . but like I say, the results are consistent. Sir, both of the ransom messages were sent from the Bureau office, there in Yorkville.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Down the Dark Hall
Cassie and Brandon moved a few steps into the hallway, Skip looming ahead of them. Cassie blinked, her eyes adjusting to the semi-darkness of the long corridor. Where are we? I thought this was an abandoned motel or something . . . but this is way different. Why is it so narrow? Two people could walk abreast, as she and Brandon were now doing, but not three: Skip stayed ahead of them.
The hallway, or whatever it was, seemed to stretch out for hundreds of feet. No, that’s silly! It can’t be that long. . . . Let me figure. As the Goth led them forward, Cassie tried to compare it to something familiar. In the distance, a red “EXIT” sign burned above a doorway, but it was very small, very far away. A football field is a little over a hundred yards, three hundred feet . . . think of the fifty-yard line . . . somewhere in between, then. If she was figuring correctly, the hallway was a little less than two hundred feet long. Her own “suite” was at one end of the corridor, the Exit sign at the other. But why so narrow? This place is so random! The only illumination came from naked light bulbs in the ceiling, every fifty feet or so, not very bright.
“Stop,” said Skip. They had only walked about fifteen feet before reaching another door, on their left. Cassie watched as Skip turned and punched in a number on a keypad, then pushed the door open. “In,” she commanded, standing back to allow them access.
“Oh. This is my room,” Brandon said, keeping his voice down. “I mean, it’s where they put me.”
Skip stood in the doorway, her arms folded. “See, girl?” she sneered in her muffled voice. “You’ve got it easy.”
I guess so, Cassie thought. Not as big as the white room, but bigger than “my bedroom.” Walls made of drywall or sheetrock, whatever they call it . . . still has the labels on it. Is that what the other rooms are made of, too, but just painted? Paint makes them look heavier. But no manacles! I wonder why? No carpeting. Mattress on the floor . . . but a double-sized mattress. That’s bigger than mine, but it’s not really a bed. At least they gave him a blanket and a pillow. In one corner, a toilet. In the opposite corner, a shower stall with a plastic curtain. Sink and mirror, a few towels, and a small chest of drawers, with a few magazines on top: Men’s Health, Sports Illustrated, Maxim. The same kind of fluorescent tubes as in the other rooms.
“At least they gave you something to read,” she said.
“Those magazines were already here. I didn’t ask for them. The bureau is just for clothes and stuff, but I don’t have many.” Skip didn’t seem to mind them talking, as long as she was there to hear them.
Then Cassie suddenly realized. “There’s no video screen,” she murmured. The walls were entirely bare. “Not even a regular TV.”
He shook his head. “No. But there’s a speaker in the ceiling. He talks to me on that, and there’s a mic someplace, so I can talk back. I don’t think there are any cameras in here, either.”
Cassie looked around the room a second time. These people aren’t tormenting him, like they are me. No mind games. Just looks like a plain kidnapping. She shook her head. None of it made any sense.
“Home sweet home, huh?” Brandon tried to smile, but failed. Cassie heard the hopelessness in his voice, and took his hand in hers. She started to speak, to try to encourage him.
“Enough,” Skip announced. “Come.”
They stepped back into the hallway, Skip pulling the door closed. This time, instead of leading the way, she pushed them ahead. “Go,” she ordered. “Observe.” She walked a few steps behind them. Brandon took Cassie’s hand, and held on to it. If Skip noticed, she didn’t react.
Cassie looked around as they moved forward, taking it all in. They passed a door on their left. There was no keypad on the wall outside. They paused and Skip reached over and tried the doorknob, which didn’t budge. She looked at Brandon and Cassie. “Locked. Nothing there.” Then she nudged them forward. Perhaps fifteen feet later, another door, also locked. “See?” Skip growled. “Nothing.” She repeated this routine as they passed several other doors. Okay, we get it, Cassie thought. Unused space. If you used these rooms, there would be keypads. You’ve made your point. But why are all the doors on the left?
Skip pushed them forward. They all walked to the end of the hall, where the Exit sign glowed above the final door. It had a keypad. “Turn around,” Skip instructed. “Go back. Slowly.” Again, she followed them. Now, all the doors were on their right. The opposite wall was painted a dull white. Looks normal enough. That’s
probably just drywall, too, Cassie thought.
She was conscious of Brandon’s hand clutching her own. She squeezed. It’s okay, she wanted to say. If I can make it, you can make it. She felt like a combat veteran, encouraging a new recruit. The boy reminded her a little of Ethan Wren, although he wasn’t quite as timid as Ethan, and was a bit bigger. She never would have guessed that he was actually eighteen years old, and the opposite of Ethan in almost every way.
Her thoughts were interrupted when Skip abruptly grabbed the back of her shirt, and Brandon’s, jerking them to a halt in front of another door. But the woman didn’t open it. “Stop,” she hissed. “Turn around. Look down.” They were about halfway down the long corridor. Although she’d missed it when she first walked down the hall, Cassie now saw the outline of a trap door, held shut by an eye hook. She stared. They’d walked over it twice without even noticing it.