Full Tilt

by Rick Mofina

  He’d always kept her locked up in a jail. He’d feed her, give her a bucket for a toilet, a tub to wash, toiletries and clean clothes. He’d bring her books and magazines. Sometimes he’d let her listen to a radio, or he’d give her a TV that didn’t get many channels. Over the years she’d lost track of time, forgot how old she was. She’d try to calculate her age by the dates of the magazines.

  There was no hope of escape.

  This was her life.

  Sometimes Carl would sit outside her jail and watch her. Sometimes he’d come inside, chain her and do things to her. Sometimes, he talked to her about how beautiful she was and how she was his most treasured specimen. A few, rare times, he’d taken her outside the barn for short walks in the woods for fresh air, telling her he was going to be collecting new specimens. That’s what he called them.

  Sometimes he’d make her watch what he did to the new ones.

  Carl was a monster.

  Because of the things he did to her and the other girls he’d captured.

  Their screams haunted her.

  Vanessa scraped at the wall with renewed fear. So much had happened recently. They’d left the barn. Why? For a new home, Carl said, a better one. She never trusted him. He’d put them in boxes that were like coffins. He drove and drove all over.

  Now they were here.

  Why did he bring me here? Is he going to kill me here?

  As she scratched at the wall, shaping letters of her real name, fine particles of stone sprinkled from mortar between the cinder blocks.

  Something bad was coming, she could feel it in her bones.

  Time was running out.

  I don’t want to die!

  Becoming frantic, Vanessa scraped and scraped until she grew hysterical and was on the verge of screaming. She pounded her palms against the cinder block and froze.

  It moved! One of those heavy blocks moved!

  In her frenzy she’d somehow caused it to shift a fraction of an inch. How could that be? She bent over and examined the mortar. Much of it had eroded. She ran her fingers along the gap-filled seam, causing more mortar to fall. Recalling how the door frame holding the steel mesh of her cell had rattled when Carl locked it, she studied the mortar and seams of the blocks supporting the door frame.

  Jabbing her rusty nail into the mortar, she discovered that it crumbled. Faint light passed through the gaps. Very little mortar remained to hold the blocks in place. She pushed hard on them and they shifted.

  If I could push out the ones framing the door it might give way.

  Wait.

  Is Carl here?

  She was convinced he’d left. The floor above hadn’t creaked for more than an hour. No rush of water through the pipes. Certain she was alone, she began pushing and shoving the blocks, moving them a fraction of an inch at a time.

  Minutes went by and her effort grew difficult then futile because she’d moved the blocks to such an angle, the door had wedged.

  Nothing would move now.

  Carl would see this. Escape attempts are forbidden! He’d reinforce the door, then he’d punish her.

  Think!

  She got down on the floor, on her back and, using her legs, pressed her feet against the blocks and heaved with all of her strength. The blocks moved. Grunting under the strain, she kept it up, shifting them to the point of teetering.

  Vanessa stood and slammed her shoulder against the steel mesh.

  Gritting her teeth, she slammed again and again until the steel door collapsed outward and she fell on it, as a few of the cinder blocks toppled with rocky thunder and a dust cloud.

  I did it! I’m out!

  Stunned, she got to her feet, breathing fast. Her pant leg had torn, her thigh was bleeding. Her forehead and arm were bleeding, too. But she felt no pain as adrenaline pumped through her.

  She hurried to the first basement window—it was secured with bars. All of the windows were sealed. She’d have to take the stairs. Casting about for a weapon, she went to a workbench, found a ruler-sized piece of steel and hurried up the stairs. At the top, she pressed her back to the wall, held her breath and listened.

  Nothing.

  She moved down the hall. The floorboards cried out with loud telltale squeak-creaks as she arrived in the kitchen. She unlocked the door and stepped outside, finding herself at the back of the house.

  Her skin came alive in the sunlight and fresh air.

  Thank you, God! Thank you!

  She ran down the dirt driveway.

  Not knowing when Carl would return she kept close to the ditch. Is he chasing me? She kept checking over her shoulder and saw nothing. It took several minutes before she’d cleared the long dirt road on the property and came to a paved ribbon of country road.

  Looking left, she saw the distant rooftops of a subdivision.

  That way’s help! That way’s life!

  She put her steel bar in her back pocket and ran down the empty road, struggling to grasp what had happened, scanning the horizon for a car, a truck, someone walking or on a bicycle, anyone to help. The emptiness of the region was underscored by the slap of her feet on the pavement, her hard breathing and the twitter of birds as she recited what she needed to tell police.

  I escaped! My name’s Vanessa! I used to be Tara Dawn from Alberta! He killed them all!

  As she neared the subdivision, chrome glinted on the road ahead. In the distance a lone car was approaching.

  Be careful. Carl drives a van. I know what it looks like.

  Vanessa hid in the bushes as she studied the car.

  Not a van. A white SUV!

  Her heart nearly bursting, Vanessa rushed to the middle of the road, waving her arms over her head for the vehicle to stop.

  Please, please, please!

  The vehicle slowed to stop. The woman behind the wheel looked worried and moved to open the passenger door.

  Vanessa ran to it, barely able to think—her years of imprisonment, the horrors of her life, all blazing before her to embrace her resurrection.

  “Oh, God, help me! Please! I escaped. My name’s Vanessa. He kill—”

  In the next nanosecond her brain overloaded at the heart-stopping realization that the woman in the car looked wrong because her body was wrong, her hands were too big, because she was Carl dressed as a woman and he was now reaching for her. At the same time muffled screams came from the rear, a teenage girl sitting up, her hands and mouth bound, while she’d managed to nearly remove the tape from her legs.

  Carl’s big hand seized Vanessa’s wrist.

  Instinctively Vanessa stepped back and, with her free hand, reached into her pocket for her steel bar and screamed at the new prisoner.

  “Run for your life! Out this door!”

  With the blinding speed of a frightened bird the young girl flew over the front seat to the open door as Vanessa smashed Carl’s head with steel, enabling the teen to scurry out the door.

  “Run for help!”

  The groggy teen staggered, then ran fast, but Vanessa was locked in Carl’s grip. She hit him repeatedly with the bar, but her blows landed more on the curls of his grotesque wig. He’d managed to drag her into the front, managed to close and lock the doors as they struggled.

  Within a minute he’d overpowered her.

  Her sobs mingled with his savage grunts and the peel of duct tape as he secured her and hefted her like a roped steer into the backseat.

  He turned and glared at her.

  Under the twisted wig, his face was a hideous riot of smeared makeup, sweat, snot and rage at Vanessa for what she’d done.

  The teenage girl was gone. Not a trace of her.

  Vanessa whispered a prayer for her.

  CHAPTER 57

  Greater Minneapolis, Minne
sota

  Twenty-five minutes after landing, Kate watched Minneapolis blurring by her window as Pete Driscoll, a reporter with Newslead’s Minneapolis bureau, pushed his Jeep Wrangler over the limit.

  The bureau had been tipped to the failed abduction of a teenage girl, which had happened earlier that afternoon. Law enforcement sources suspected the fugitive abductor was Carl Nelson.

  “The information we have is spotty,” Driscoll said. “The girl got away, ran for help to a house in Blue Jay Creek. I’ve got a name and an address.”

  “That’s where we’re going now?”

  “Yeah. They’ve taken the girl away. I think she’s fourteen. They’re not releasing her name but we can talk to the person who helped her, a woman by the name of Evelyn Hines.”

  “Good, okay.”

  “We’ve got a shooter heading there, too. But we have to move. If I’ve got the name, you can bet the competition’s onto it, too.”

  Kate had been wrapping up her story in Pine Mills when New York called her with the news out of Minneapolis. She’d called Ed Brennan. He wouldn’t confirm or deny anything but suggested she get to Minneapolis ASAP.

  She got the first plane she could.

  Kate’s stomach lifted as Driscoll sailed along the expressways. The whole time he made calls and sent messages to sources with his hands-free, voice-activated system. Kate called her sources with the FBI and other agencies, pressing them for more information.

  The Bungalows of Blue Jay Creek was a new subdivision at the edge of Hennepin County. Evelyn Hines lived at 104 Apple Blossom Trail. They were relieved that no news or police vehicles were parked out front when they arrived. Kate rang the bell and a woman in her early seventies answered.

  She looked at Kate, then Driscoll.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you Evelyn Hines?” Kate asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Kate Page, this is Pete Driscoll. We’re reporters with Newslead the newswire service.” Kate held up her ID. “May we talk to you, please? It’s about a teenage girl. We understand you helped her?”

  Worry clouded Evelyn’s face as she considered the request.

  “It’s terrible, but it’s true,” she said. “The paramedics took the girl and the police just left. I saw something on the TV news. I suppose this is what you’d call a big story. Come in.”

  Driscoll took Kate aside and tapped his phone.

  “Kate, we just got word, there’s police activity near here. You take the interview, I’ll check it out. Our photographer is on her way.”

  Driscoll left and Kate joined Evelyn, walking through her neat-as-a-pin home to the backyard.

  “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Mrs. Hines.” Kate took out her notebook and recorder. “Can you tell me about yourself and what happened?”

  “Well, like I told the police, I’ve been living here on my own since my husband passed away three years ago. My daughter and grandson live in California. I volunteer at the hospital and I keep busy with my garden.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Kate said.

  “Thank you. The azaleas, daylilies and rosebushes are coming along. I’m thinking of adding a fountain and a gazebo, to make things more calming, more serene.”

  “So what happened today?”

  “I was working out here when I heard a faint cry in the distance.” She indicated the vast fields behind the fence of her property. “It was high-pitched, I thought it might be a dog, or something. Then I saw a person running toward me, shouting, ‘Help! Help!’”

  “What did you do?”

  “At first, I wasn’t sure what to do. I saw what turned out to be a young girl running and shouting for help. She was running in an odd way, with her hands together. I thought it was a trick, or kids playing, but her tone was one of genuine fear, so I opened my gate.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “The girl was sobbing. Her jacket and shirt were torn, streaked with grime. Her hair was frazzled. What I thought was a necklace turned out to be tape she’d clawed from around her mouth. Her hands were bound with tape. I was scared for her. ‘Dear God,’ I said. ‘What happened to you?’ She begged me to call 911.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  “I got her inside. She was delirious, clinging to me, afraid she was being chased, but there was no one. I cut away the tape. Police took that.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She said her name was Ashley. That she was fourteen. That she lived in Edina. Then she was nearly incoherent, saying things like, ‘She was my friend, but he’s a man, a freak! He tried to abduct me—then he took another woman, she saved me! Her name’s Vanessa!’”

  Kate froze.

  “Are you certain that she said the name Vanessa?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Did she say where the man and Vanessa went?”

  “No, just that he took the woman Vanessa, that she’d saved her, is what she told me.”

  Kate struggled to process what she’d just heard.

  Maintaining a hold on her composure, on her incredulity, she continued asking Evelyn questions until Casey Mulvane, the photographer, arrived. After quick introductions, Casey took over, quickly, professionally, getting shots of Evelyn in her backyard by her open gate, looking at the field. The whole time Kate contended with the tectonic shift of her emotions.

  We’re close, so close to Vanessa.

  Later, in Casey’s car, they sped through the neighborhood.

  “Look, those are the TV networks.” Casey pointed to at least three helicopters circling over a distant acreage, a wrecking yard and a cluster of buildings. “It’s crazy there!”

  After traveling a half mile down an empty rural road they came to the entrance, blocked with yellow tape and by clusters of police vehicles. Dozens of news cars and trucks had gathered there with a steady stream of new arrivals. There were more press here than Kate had seen in Pine Mills. Down the long driveway, near the house, were forensic trucks and other emergency vehicles. Investigators and technicians were working among the various buildings. News cameras were aimed at the activity, reporters were making calls. Others were trying in vain to squeeze more information from police at the cordon.

  After Casey parked they found Pete Driscoll, who took them aside.

  “Okay, this is what I know from calling my sources and a buddy in Homicide that I spotted in there.” Driscoll flipped through his notes.

  “Homicide?” Kate repeated.

  “I don’t think they’ve found any victims in there, Kate. After the girl got away, and the 911 call, they started to canvass the area and found this place abandoned. They found the van in the garage, that 2013 silver Chevy Class B camper, the one sought in the murders in Rampart, New York. The VIN matched.”

  “Anything else?”

  “They found a small cell in the basement that appears as if someone broke out of it.”

  Kate stood there, absorbing every word as Driscoll continued.

  “At this point, they think this started at the Mall of America, where the teen was supposed to meet an online friend who turned out to be the abductor. We’ve got people from our bureau there. Anyway, they’re pretty sure it’s Nelson, the guy behind the sixteen murders from New York.”

  “This is wild,” Casey said. “I need my long lens and tripod to get shots of the house.”

  “Excuse me? You’re Kate Page, with Newslead?”

  She turned, nodding.

  “Phil Topley, producer with NBC. Would you give us a few minutes for an on-camera interview concerning your search for your sister?”

  “Hi, Kate.” A woman shouldered in with a card. “Kelly Vanmeer, FOX. We’d like to talk to you for a live interview.”

  Within minutes, Kate was besieged with reques
ts by national and local news organizations. Amid the chaos, the emotional upheaval and her exhaustion, she found a point of crystalline clarity.

  My sister was here, in this area, a few hours ago, saving a girl’s life. Vanessa’s alive and fighting. I’ve got to help her. I’ve got to keep the pressure on Zurrn. My God, he’s going to kill her anyway. My silence would only help him. I have to scream for Vanessa!

  One by one Kate granted all interviews, telling the world everything she knew about Vanessa, about Sorin Zurrn, Jerome Fell, Carl Nelson. She offered condolences for all of his victims. She found the strength to keep it together, for this was a battle and Vanessa’s life was at stake.

  You don’t get this one. We know who you are; we know what you are and we’re going to stop you!

  CHAPTER 58

  Somewhere in the United States

  After driving more than four hundred miles, Sorin Zurrn’s body was still tight with rage.

  When he’d finally stopped at a cast-off, godforsaken motel called The Slumbering Timbers, he nearly lost it with the clerk, who took too long to respond to the desk bell. Something to do with his hearing, he’d apologized when he’d emerged from the back, cigar in the corner of his mouth. Pleased to have a guest, he attempted to make amends after glancing through the window at Zurrn’s vehicle as he registered.

  “Betcha you don’t get many complaints in your line of work.”

  Zurrn stared at the clerk long enough to make him uncomfortable. Then he tossed cash onto the counter to cover the night and snatched his key.

  In his room Zurrn set up his laptops and started to work.