THE ABDUCTION OF CASSANDRA

by William Melden

  Olivia climbed in after him, moving behind the passenger seat and cradling his head in her lap, as Roy helped him lie down. Then he sidled into the driver’s seat and prepared to start the van. “Get in, you guys, hurry,” he called. Cassie and Brandon scrambled up into the van. “Celeste, you take the lead, just like you planned,” he called out. “Straight to Cassie’s house!” He stripped off his bag gloves and laid them on the empty passenger seat. Olivia removed her own, then pulled off Ethan’s. Next came the black stocking caps, pulled off and tossed aside.

  Brandon pulled the doors shut. “Secure back here,” he reported to Royal.

  “Thanks,” Royal replied, starting the engine. Celeste had already put on her helmet and started the bike. She pulled it directly in front of the van and waved.

  As the sound of distant sirens was heard, she popped a wheelie as a flash of lightning brightened the sky. Then she leaned forward and sped toward the gate, the green nursery van close behind. When the Airport Police reached Hangar Thirteen, red and blue strobe lights bathing the old building, the group was gone.

  * * * * *

  12:25 AM EDT: “Hello, Peacock residence.”

  “Lieutenant Peacock? This is Olivia Mendel. I’m sorry to call so late, but it’s an emergency. Did I wake you?”

  Jerry Peacock swung his legs off the side of the bed, where he had been reading a popular novel. His wife looked at him, hoping that this wasn’t an official call, hoping that he wouldn’t have to leave the house again. “No, Olivia, I’m wide awake, and all ears. What’s going on?”

  “Sir, please listen carefully, okay? This is big.”

  “Yes, Olivia, what is it?” He heard the urgency in the girl’s voice, as well as what sounded like a car or truck engine.

  “Lieutenant Peacock. Some of us, you know us all by name, figured out where Cassie was. We didn’t tell the FBI because we didn’t know who we could trust. But we’ve just, um, rescued her. Yes sir, she’s with us now. She’s safe and sound. We’re in a dark green van, from the Mountainview Nursery, heading down Airport Boulevard toward Hillsboro Highway. Celeste Reeves is riding directly ahead of us on her green bike, dressed in black leathers. Sir, we’re headed for the Hixson house, and one of us has a bullet wound. No, it’s not Cassie, it’s Ethan Wren. We could really use a police escort if you have any cars in the area. But if anybody tries to pull us over, we’re not stopping. We’ll need an emergency team at Cassie’s house. We definitely want you to be there, too. Got all that?” She spoke as softly as she could, to avoid distracting Roy, but her words were clear. Her free hand stroked Ethan’s hair; somehow, he had fallen asleep, or finally passed out.

  Peacock’s mind was quick and efficient. “I’m with you, Olivia. Let me — “

  “Excuse me, sir, there’s something else. Please call the Airport Police and tell them that Cassie’s kidnappers, two of them, are tied up in Hangar Thirteen, the one that used to belong to Tristate Airways, at the old airfield. We put on a fireworks show to get their attention. The police’s attention, I mean. Yes sir, fireworks. They need to know that they’re going into a crime scene. That’s where they were holding Cassie! There’ll be tons of DNA and stuff, so they should be careful. And Lieutenant Peacock? There were only two kidnappers, but one of them was Agent Maclean of the FBI. Yes, sir! She’s all dressed up in a Goth costume. I’m gonna call the Hixsons now and tell them we’re on the way. But somebody needs to speak to you real quick.” She handed the phone to Cassie.

  “Lieutenant Jerry? It’s really me, Cassie. It’s all true. I’m free. I’m going home! I love you! Bye!” Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back.

  The phone clicked off in Peacock’s ear. He stared at it. As he punched the speed dial for the police station, he stared at his wife. “Cassie Hixson’s on her way home.”

  * * * * *

  Lightning flashed in the distance, but it took several seconds for the thunder to roll. The storm was moving off to the northwest, and not a single raindrop had fallen on Yorkville. But the weather, and the lateness of the hour, had reduced traffic to a minimum.

  Celeste slowed the bike to forty miles per hour and leaned into the turn onto Hillsboro Highway. Roy stayed within ten yards or so of her, not intending for anyone to pull between them. The passengers in the van were silent, except for Olivia on her cell phone.

  Just a couple of miles to Fleetwood Pike, Roy thought, his eyes on Celeste. Then a couple more to Shawhan. . . . I hope traffic doesn’t pick up. The bike ahead sped up to fifty miles per hour, and Roy followed suit.

  Everyone in the van, except Ethan, noticed when the blue strobe lights of the police car appeared in the rear view mirror. Roy turned on his hazard blinkers in response, but didn’t slow down.

  The sound of a siren never came. They had an escort, not a pursuer. A moment later, a second police car passed them, and pulled ahead of Celeste, not slowing, but clearing the way for her. I hope they know where Cassie lives, Celeste thought, then rebuked herself. Duh, girl, if they didn’t know what we’re doing, they wouldn’t be here. She leaned into the wind.

  * * * * *

  12:30 AM EDT: “Hello? Gordon Hixson speaking.”

  “Dr. Hixson? This is Livvie. Are y’all in bed?”

  He turned on the bedside table lamp and sat up. “Well, yes, Livvie, why? What’s going on?”

  “Dr. Hixson, give the phone to your wife, and go to the nearest extension. I have good news. I can wait, but hurry!”

  Mrs. Hixson sat up, looking at him with apprehension in her eyes. Is this the call we’ve been afraid would come?

  “It’s Olivia,” her husband said, handing the phone to her as he climbed out of bed. “She wants to talk to both of us.” He ran to Cassie’s room, his pajama legs flapping, and picked up the phone. “I’m here, Livvie.”

  “What’s this all about, Livvie?” Mrs. Hixson asked, sleepy and confused.

  “Mom? Dad? It’s me! I’m out!” Now the tears ran freely down Cassie’s face. Olivia had just passed her the phone.

  “Cassie!” her parents cried together. “Is it really you, baby?” her father asked. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on my way home! I’m with Livvie and Roy and Ethan Wren and a boy you haven’t met yet, and Celeste is right ahead of us on her bike. We’re in Roy’s van from the nursery. They — ”

  “Did they release you?” Mrs. Hixson blurted.

  “Mom, don’t interrupt! No, they didn’t. These people came and got me. God showed ‘em what to do, and they did it. The kidnappers are all tied up, waiting for the police! It’s a miracle!”

  “Oh, Jesus. . . .” Dr. Hixson muttered.

  “Mom, Dad, listen. I’m fine, but Ethan is hurt. We called Lieutenant Jerry, and he’ll be at the house with an EMT team. If they get there before us, don’t be scared. It’s not for me. It’s for Ethan.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” her father asked, his doctor’s instincts kicking in.

  “That woman . . . what was her name, Livvie? Oh yeah, Maclean. She was one of the kidnappers. She shot him. It’s the shoulder. Roy already dressed the wound. He and Ethan are so smart, Dad. . . . They were prepared for anything. But that woman! Was she really an FBI person?”

  “Oh Lord, Cassie, yes she was,” Mrs. Hixson answered. “And Daisy never trusted her! I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Mom, I see Shawhan coming up. Wake Nick up, and tell him we’re coming. I love y’all so much! See you in a minute. Bye for now!”

  Dr. Hixson hung up the phone and ran back to embrace his wife. Weeping with joy and thanksgiving, they stepped into the hallway.

  They heard the buzz of Celeste’s bike, and looked down the stairs. The blue light from the first police car was flashing in the window.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Return to Shawhan Terrace

  12:45 AM EDT: “Officer!” Eldon Dayle shouted in a commanding voice. “Help has arrived at last. Will you please untie us? I’ve been shot. This woman shot me!”

  Arrivi
ng in the entryway from the hall, Lieutenant Jaime Sanchez of the Yorkville Police Department ignored him. Surveying the scene, keeping his voice low, he spoke to Sergeant Dean Cordell of the Airport Police, who was already standing at the door. “Has anything been disturbed?”

  “No sir, Lieutenant. We got word to secure the scene and wait for you.” His partner, Officer Russ Hull, stood across the room, in the new doorway leading to Dayle’s office. “Hull and I covered the only two outer doors that were open. I have more men downstairs, but they haven’t seen any signs of life.”

  “Did he say you’re a lieutenant? Could you please untie me?” Dayle pleaded. “I’ve lost a lot of blood. You can see for yourself.”

  Sanchez glanced around the room, taking a quick mental inventory. His eyes fell on the .25 automatic, lying on the carpet a few feet away. “Thank you, Cordell. Nothing’s been touched, then?”

  “No sir. Not even that weapon. We thought that with those people, um, secured, it could wait. And we checked that other room over there.” He gestured toward the black chamber. “It appears to be a bedroom, or a cell, and bathroom. There are two other bedrooms down the hall. Well, not really bedrooms, but sleeping quarters. You’ll see. Nobody in the building but these two people. I was careful not to step in the bloodstains when I checked.”

  “Look at those stains!” Dayle cried. “Untie me. My life’s blood is ebbing away.”

  “Oh, brother,” Maclean muttered.

  “Good man,” Sanchez said, raising his voice slightly. “You can go back downstairs now, you and Hull. It’s going to get very crowded in here in the next few minutes. If you could put some boards over that hole in the hallway, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Yes sir, glad to,” Cordell replied, leaving the room. Hull turned and disappeared into Dayle’s office.

  “Lieutenant Sanchez? Is that your name? Since you obviously habla Inglés, would you be so kind as to untie us? With all your experience, you may have noticed a firearm on the floor beside you? This woman shot me!” Dayle barely managed to stifle a snarl.

  That’s right, Maclean thought. Be snotty. Show them some disrespect. Law enforcement people love that. Idiot.

  Sanchez heard the sarcasm and impatience, and sent a hard look toward the man, but refused to answer. He’s not my problem right now. Let him howl. He walked to the black chamber and checked it out, his eyes narrowing when he saw the manacles on the wall.

  A rotund man wearing the blue uniform of the Transportation Security Administration, his shoulder boards bearing three white stripes, came in from the hallway. His face paled when he saw the blood staining the white carpet. “Lieutenant Sanchez?” he called. “TSA. Are you here?”

  “The TSA. Homeland Security!” Dayle exclaimed. “Could you please help me? I’m wounded. I’m at death’s door.”

  I wish, Maclean said to herself.

  The lieutenant walked out of the bedroom. “Come ahead, officer, but step carefully, please.”

  Ignoring Dayle’s cries, the TSA man waddled over to Sanchez, holding a half-eaten candy bar in his hand. “Supervisory Officer Baxter Poppins,” he said. “What . . . what do we have here?”

  Two more Yorkville police entered the room, one with a still camera, the other with a video cam. They began photographing the room in detail, including the two people tied together on the floor. Outside, other officers were surrounding the hangar with yellow tape: POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS.

  “We have a pretty serious criminal situation, it seems,” Sanchez replied. “I just got here myself.”

  “Yeah . . . very serious,” Poppins replied, taking a bite of the candy bar. The sight of blood had not affected his appetite. “Of course, as a representative of the federal government, I’ll have to take charge.”

  “Excuse me, please,” Sanchez said, stepping past him. “I’ve got work to do.” Feeling insulted, Poppins walked back to the hallway door, mumbling to himself.

  The lieutenant approached Dayle and Maclean, unsnapping the holster that held his Smith & Wesson automatic. He walked around them in a circle, taking in the sight. Bungee cord. Somebody did a good job with those knots. . . . His eyes fell on the open tube of Super Glue. What were they using that for? He looked up at the photographers. “Have you gotten all this?” When they nodded, he squatted down, pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves, and lifted the coffee table off of Maclean’s lap.

  “Finally, you’re going to help us. Finally, some humane treatment,” Dayle muttered.

  “Where’s your wound?” Sanchez asked.

  “My hip. Untie me, and I can show you. I’m dying, I tell you. Me estoy muriendo.”

  The lieutenant saw the ripped trousers, and, still squatting, pulled down the waistband. Ah. The Super Glue mystery is solved. “It looks like someone already patched you up,” he commented. “Ugly job, but effective. You’re not bleeding at all. Relax.”

  “Relax? How can I relax? Can’t you see that I’ve been seriously injured? I’ll be a cripple for life. I could go into shock at any time. Septicemia is setting in. My blood pressure is dropping. You — ”

  “Sir,” Sanchez interrupted, “please shut up.” Dayle stared at the policeman, but fell silent.

  You tell him, cop, Maclean thought.

  “Before you say anything else,” the policeman continued, “The two of you are under arrest for trespassing, breaking and entering, unlawful occupation of a private building, and probably several other things. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say — ”

  “One of you people untie me right now! My name is Shannon Maclean. I’m an undercover agent of the FBI. Let me loose! I know my rights!” She had finally lost her patience.

  “— can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant, I’ll take over from here,” said a voice from the hallway.

  “Who are you?” demanded the TSA officer, stuffing the candy bar wrapper into his pocket.

  “Special Agent Donald Burgess, FBI,” he replied, flashing his identification.

  “Oh . . . well,” Poppins stammered, his shoulders slumping. “I suppose I can leave the situation in your, um, capable hands. I need to get back to my . . . duties, yes, my duties, in the terminal.” He scowled at the FBI agent. “But we’ll be expecting a full report on this matter!” He turned and shuffled down the hall, muttering under his breath. It was almost time for his break, and a sub sandwich awaited him in his office.

  Burgess walked over to the group on the floor and held out the ID holder to the policeman. “Lieutenant Sanchez, is it? Thank you for your help. You and your men are doing a fine job.”

  Sanchez stood up. “Thank you, Agent Burgess,” he said, extending his hand. “Lieutenant Peacock told us you’d be coming. I’ve just read these people their rights. If you’d like to come with us to the police station, we can sort things out together.”

  After shaking hands, Burgess looked down at the two prisoners. “Eldon Floyd Dayle of Roanoke, I presume?” he asked. “Formerly of College Station, Texas? Formerly of Pasadena, California? I already know Miss Maclean.”

  “What? How do you know my name?” Dayle demanded.

  “Is this woman really one of yours?” Sanchez asked, his eyebrows raised. Shannon looked at the floor, not wanting to see Burgess’ face.

  Burgess took a deep breath, shaking his head. “Yes and no, Lieutenant. She’s an agent of the FBI, technically on vacation. She’s not undercover, not legally. She’s not even assigned to a case. I’m afraid these two . . . people, and any possible accomplices, are the kidnappers we’ve been looking for. The Cassandra Hixson abduction.”

  “These two?” Sanchez asked, almost in disbelief. “Where’s the girl?”

  “She escaped, from what I understand,” Burgess replied. “She’s at her home with her family. Lieutenant Peacock and several of your other officers are with her. They were of some assistance
in her escape, I’m told. This has all happened in the past couple of hours.” He shook his head again. It all fits together now . . . most of it, anyway. Lord, this is a black day for the Bureau. But at least the girl’s finally safe. He had to force back all the disappointment, outrage, and frustration that coursed through his body.

  The only movement in the room came from two other agents, also photographers, who had come in and started gathering their own evidence. They wore blue windbreakers with a large yellow “FBI” on the backs.

  Burgess felt as if he were ninety years old. He looked at Sanchez. “I know you have charges, Lieutenant, and you can be sure they’ll answer for those charges. But this is a federal case, and it takes priority. They’ll be going back to the Federal Building with me, and will be held by the U.S. Marshals. You know the routine. They’ll be turned over to the state for further prosecution, after their federal trial.” The lieutenant nodded. He knew how the system worked. “For what it’s worth, I’ll be sending a letter of commendation to your chief, for your professionalism. And Lieutenant Peacock’s.” He was silent for a moment. “I apologize for this agent’s involvement in this matter. It’s . . . a shameful thing.”