THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA

by William Melden

  Skip pushed them both against the far wall and knelt down. She tried to unlock the trap, but the metal hook was too tight and small for her gloved hands. Reaching inside her jacket, she pulled out a switchblade knife and, with a flick of her wrist, snapped the blade out. She worked at the hook until it came free, then pulled the trap door open and stood up.

  Brandon and Cassie both peered into the hole in the floor. About five feet to a side, she guessed. It was like looking down an elevator shaft. What’s down there? the girl wondered. It’s so dark . . . wait a minute . . . something kinda roundish, just bulges . . . is that a tarpaulin covering it? A sheet of some kind?

  She and Brandon looked at Skip, hoping she’d explain. Instead, she glared at Brandon. “Shirt. Off!” she barked. Brandon looked stunned, as well as frightened. “You want my shirt off? Why? What are you —“

  “Skip doesn’t like questions, Brandon,” Cassie blurted, but not soon enough. The Goth grabbed the collar of his shirt with one hand, and with the other, brought up the switchblade and slashed through the cloth, leaving it hanging in tatters on his shoulders. “Off!” she repeated. Brandon shrugged the ruined shirt off, and stood trembling, bare-chested.

  Skip looked in his eyes, then in Cassie’s. “Curious?” she asked, in what sounded like a muffled sneer.

  She shoved Brandon’s shoulder, catching him off-balance, and he tumbled through the opening. He screamed as he fell, probably fifteen feet, onto the shapeless mass Cassie had just seen. Something metallic rattled as he struck the heavy tarpaulin.

  “Owwww! Oh — ” The obscenities flew freely as he twisted and thrashed on the tarp. “What is this? Get me out of here!” Cassie looked down in horror.

  “You want out?” Skip asked, mocking him. “Okay.” Putting the switchblade away, she pulled a remote control from her jacket and pushed a button. A loud hummm as an unseen hydraulic lift came to life, and slowly raised the boy, and the mysterious mass, up and through the opening. Brandon continued to squirm, cursing.

  Cassie couldn’t blame him. His torso and arms were covered in tiny cuts. Dozens of small triangles of sharp steel stuck up through the tarp. Skip bent over and grabbed the boy’s arm, pulling him to his feet, back onto the hallway floor. His khaki slacks were torn and shredded in places. Blood began to ooze from the little cuts.

  Skip took the canvas tarp in both of her gloved hands and wrestled it free, revealing several large coils of ugly, gleaming razor wire, the kind used atop fences around prisons. Without the tarp’s protection, Brandon would have been cut far more seriously, instead of merely pierced. Had he struggled against the naked razor wire, he probably would have been sliced to pieces.

  Skip wadded up the tarp and tossed it toward the exit, then clicked the remote control again. The hydraulic platform began to lower into the darkness, the razor wire gleaming in the dim light. As Brandon and Cassie watched it descend, Skip knelt and wiggled the trap door until it came loose from its hinges, leaving only a hole in the hallway floor. She threw the door toward the exit, where the bloody tarp lay.

  She stood, breathing heavily, and pushed her captives back toward their rooms. “No more door,” she croaked. “If you try to escape . . . now, move.” Looking over their shoulders, Brandon wiping at the blood on his chest and arms, they saw only a large hole in the floor, between them and the exit.

  That’s a big hole, Cassie thought. I didn’t notice at first. So now I know where the exit is . . . and I can’t get to it, even if I could get out of the white room. She doubted that she could wiggle her way past the hole without falling in. And why was the hole right in front of that doorway?

  Skip herded them to Brandon’s room, unlocked the door, and pushed them inside. Then she strode past them to the bureau and opened the top drawer. She pulled out a white paper bag, the top stapled shut, and tossed it onto the mattress. “You two behave yourselves,” she muttered. Then she left the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

  Although the cuts were small, Brandon was a mess. “We’ve got to get you fixed up,” Cassie said, looking around the room. “I don’t know how. . . .”

  “Hello, children.” Eldon Dayle’s voice burst from the overhead speaker. “Did you enjoy your tour?”

  Brandon turned in circles, hands clenched into fists, as though looking for him. “What’s the matter with you? What are you doing to us? Why don’t you come in here and face us like a man?” This wasn’t part of the deal, he thought. Why all the rough stuff? I’m not getting paid for this.

  Dayle laughed. “Why, Brandon, I’m only trying to help you. In case you and Cassandra had ever considered escape, I wanted to spare you some real pain. I thought I’d give you an object lesson.”

  Cassie laid a hand on his bloody shoulder. “Easy,” she said. “At least we don’t have to look at his ugly face in here.”

  “Oh, Cassandra, how unkind,” Dayle replied. She could hear the smirk in his voice. “Aren’t you supposed to love your enemies? This is a big day for you, young lady. You’ve gotten out of your own quarters, and at least you’re not bored any more, are you? In fact, you’ll find that Brandon’s door is unlocked, and so is yours. You can go take a nap if you like. Maybe say some more useless prayers. Or, you can stay and use your outstanding first aid skills to help this boy, the way you did before. It’s up to you. I would have told Skip to take the two of you to the white room, but I didn’t want him bleeding all over the carpet, like he did before.”

  “I can help him,” Cassie said without hesitation. “I will help him. I suppose you’ll be watching the whole thing. How many cameras are in this room?”

  “Would you believe me if I said none?” Dayle replied.

  “Probably not. You’ve lied to me often enough.”

  “Well, then, there’s no point in answering you. But I’ll remind you that I told the truth about the cameras in your bedroom and bathroom, didn’t I?”

  She frowned. “I think so. I quit worrying about it a long time ago.”

  “Well then, believe what you like. I’m telling you there are no cameras in here. In there, I should say,” he chuckled.

  “So,” Cassie continued, “I stay to help Brandon. Am I stuck in here? Or are the doors really unlocked?”

  They heard Dayle sigh in exasperation. “I’ve already told you they’re unlocked. They’ll stay unlocked. You’re not in solitary confinement any more. You can move about as you wish. I think you’ve just had a very effective demonstration of the boundaries. And remember that you never know when to expect Skip. Good-bye for now, children.” A microphone clicked as Dayle stopped talking.

  Brandon and Cassie looked at each other. “Is this guy crazy?” the boy asked. “He had me make this stupid video for my parents. . . . I guess he wanted to do it before I got all cut up. That bi — that Goth even put makeup on my face. And now this.”

  “I know, they did the same to me,” Cassie sighed. “But never mind that. Have they given you any other clothes?”

  “Uh-huh. I have a set of sweats and some shorts and t-shirts. Just like what you have.” Cassie was wearing gym shorts and a sweatshirt.

  I really, really don’t want to be in this position, she thought. I don’t even know this boy . . . but we’re in the same boat. And maybe . . . well, it’ll be good to be able to help somebody. And there’s nobody else to do it.

  She walked over to the mattress, picked up the white paper bag, and ripped it open. She peered inside. Really? They planned this whole thing? Gauze, band-aids, antibiotic cream, iodine . . . seriously? She shook the things out onto the mattress so that Brandon could see. “They take real good care of us, huh?” She tried to keep bitterness out of her voice, and failed.

  “Yeah, I never had it so good,” he grumbled, adding a few profanities.

  She looked him in the eye. “Listen, Brandon, I know how you feel. Remember?” She pulled up the hem of her sweatshirt: her belly and ribs were still covered with purple bruises. “But I’m a Christian, and I don’t appreciate that kind
of talk. So knock it off, okay? I know you hate those people. But you’ve got no reason to disrespect me.”

  He looked down at the floor. This girl is serious. Even in the middle of all this stuff, she sticks to her guns. Weird. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking up at her. “I meant no offense. For real.”

  “Apology accepted. Now, listen. I’m gonna go sit outside the door and do some thinking. Take a shower and get as clean as you can. Then just put on some shorts, no shirt, and come get me. We’ll see about those cuts. Okay?”

  She’s blushing, he thought. This is hard for her. “Okay, Cassie, thanks. Give me five minutes.”

  She stepped into the hall and sat on the floor, hugging her knees, her head down. I can do all things through Christ, which strengtheneth me. . . .

  She continued to pray, her words punctuated by the yelps of the boy in the shower, the soapy water running into his cuts.

  * * * * *

  MEMORANDUM

  PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL

  TO: James A. Philby, Special Agent in Charge

  Office of Professional Responsibility, Washington, DC

  FROM: Anthony Blount

  Senior Polygrapher, Internal Security Division

  RE: Examinations of Special Agents Burgess and Maclean

  As part of the ongoing investigation of unexplained and potentially criminal activity in the Yorkville Bureau office, I administered separate and individual polygraph examinations to Special Agent Donald Burgess and Special Agent Shannon Maclean on August 12. The subject of the examinations was their knowledge of, and possible complicity in, the crime designated Case Number 007-YK-100.

  In addition to the customary control questions, I asked each agent the following:

  1. Have you ever met, or been in the physical presence of, Cassandra Hixson, subject of Case Number 007-YK-100?

  2. Have you ever spoken, either in person or by telephone, with Cassandra Hixson?

  3. Are you aware of Cassandra Hixson’s current whereabouts?

  4. Do you have direct eyewitness knowledge of Cassandra Hixson’s disappearance?

  5. Have you ever communicated with Cassandra Hixson via telephone text message, Internet messaging, or any other electronic contact?

  6. Have you been aware of Cassandra Hixson’s whereabouts at any time since her disappearance was reported?

  7. Have you ever used Cassandra Hixson’s personal cell phone to send a voice or text message?

  8. Do you know the identity of the person or persons who abducted Cassandra Hixson?

  9. Do you know the identity of the person or persons who now hold Cassandra Hixson hostage?

  10. Are you aware of anyone working in the Yorkville office of the Bureau who has used Cassandra Hixson’s cell phone from the Yorkville Bureau office?

  11. Were you involved in the abduction of Cassandra Hixson?

  12. Are you aware of anyone from outside the Bureau who has used Cassandra Hixson’s cell phone from within the Yorkville Bureau office?

  13. Have you ever been involved in the unlawful detainment of Cassandra Hixson?

  14. To the best of your knowledge and in your professional judgment, allowing for the possibility of error, is Cassandra Hixson alive at the present time?

  15. Have you answered all of these questions truthfully, honestly, and without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion?

  Both Agent Burgess and Agent Maclean answered “No” to Questions 1–13.

  Both Agent Burgess and Agent Maclean answered “Yes” to Questions 14 and 15.

  It is the opinion of this examiner that Agents Burgess and Maclean answered all of the above questions truthfully.

  All supplementary data, including polygraph readings and interview video recordings, will be forwarded to your office.

  Examinations of other Bureau personnel in Yorkville will continue.

  * * * * *

  Brandon stood in the middle of the room, clad only in his gym shorts, his arms by his sides. What a sight, Cassie thought. All these cuts, and his nose is still swollen. And that bruise covers most of his face. Skip must have used a lot of blush to make him presentable for his video. She squatted on his mattress, dabbing the iodine onto the cuts on his legs. He clenched his teeth, but didn’t groan or protest; she had already applied the antiseptic to the cuts on his torso and arms, which were now covered with pinkish-red patches.

  “Y’know, the iodine itself doesn’t really hurt,” she commented. “It’s mixed with alcohol. That’s what stings. Did you ever put on after-shave when you’d cut yourself?”

  “I don’t use after-shave,” he replied through gritted teeth.

  Keep his mind occupied. Try to make him laugh. “I don’t either,” she said. “I just rinse the stubble off my face with water.” She lifted the leg of his gym shorts as high as she could without revealing anything too personal, and dabbed at the cuts on his upper thighs. “I’m not gonna do your butt, or . . . well, we’ll just trust the soap and water for that part.”

  He managed a half-smile. “I’m glad you’re not a nurse. A nurse would do everything. Ouch.”

  “I could never be a nurse,” she replied. “The sight of blood makes me faint.”

  This time he did laugh. “Yeah, I can tell.” He looked down at her. “I didn’t know you had a sense of humor.”

  She pulled up the other leg of the shorts and continued the process. “We both kinda need one right now, don’t you think? It’s better to laugh than to cry. I’ve done enough of that. Anyway, it’s part of the treatment. ‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’”

  “Is that something from the Bible? It makes sense.”

  “Yup,” she said. “The book of Proverbs.” She looked up at him. “A lot of stuff in the Bible makes sense. Do you ever read it?”

  He shook his head. “No offense, but I always thought that was just for little kids and old ladies.”

  She stood up, screwing the cap back on the bottle of iodine. “Stand still. We’re not finished yet. I’ve gotta put the antibiotic cream on you, and maybe some band-aids.”

  He sighed. “Will that sting, too? The cream, I mean?”

  “No, it should be soothing.” She reached for the tube of cream and opened it, and began dabbing it onto the cuts on his shoulders. “See? It’s greasy, but it doesn’t hurt. I guess it’s really an ointment, not a cream.”

  “Well, it feels okay,” he commented.

  “Yeah. So tell me, Brandon. Do you know where Yorkville got its name?”

  That’s a weird question, he thought. “Huh-uh. I just figured it was like New York or something.”

  She shook her head, smearing the cream onto the cuts. “Nope. When the town was founded, way back before the Civil War, it was called Patten’s Crossing. But later they changed the name, because of this guy Alvin York. No relation to Alvin the Chipmunk. He was just a country boy, from up near the Kentucky border, about a hundred years ago. He didn’t go to school. His neighbors said he was ‘no-account’ and a ‘Hell-raiser.’ All he did was drink moonshine, gamble, and beat people up. Got in trouble with the law. This is when he was a teenager, and in his twenties.”

  Sounds familiar, Brandon thought. “So why did they name the city after him?”

  She rubbed a bit of the cream into a cut on the back of his neck. “Well, guess what? One day he became a Christian. Got saved. Was born again. Whatever you want to call it. And he changed his ways. Then World War I broke out, and he got drafted. Hold still, will you?”

  “Sorry. It tickled.”

  “Anyway, he went off to war, and became a big hero. I mean, super-big. They made a movie about him. One time he was attacked by six German soldiers. What do you think he did?”

  “I dunno. Killed ‘em?”

  “Well, yeah. But get this. The Germans all had rifles, and had him surrounded. But York’s rifle was empty. He pulled out his pistol and killed them all before they could get off a shot. He hated killing, just hated it, but he wasn’t a wuss. Then later, he
took seven of his own men, just seven, and captured about a hundred and thirty German soldiers, all in one day. Took them prisoner. Didn’t kill any of them. He won like fifty medals from different countries. And the whole time, he carried his Bible with him, and read it every chance he got.”

  “Man,” Brandon said. “I’d never even heard of him.”

  “Well, it was a long time ago,” Cassie continued. “Anyway, that’s where Yorkville gets its name, ‘cause Tennessee was so proud of him. So tell me, Brandon —” she laid her hand on his shoulder — “was Alvin York a little kid, or an old lady?” She patted his shoulder and re-capped the tube of cream.