Klein shook his head. “No, not his daughter. But this young woman, she said she his daughter’s last friend. Said she was in captivity with her. Not just Elizabeth, but a bunch of other young girls, and she’d made a promise to come and tell him how his daughter spent her final days.”
Not quite understanding the relevance or importance of the conversation now, all Ethan could do was nod in response to Klein’s hard stare.
“This alleged ‘survivor’ knew things that could have really helped the FBI, Ethan. Things like the identity of the bad, bad people who were involved. Or things like where the other girls were being held captive.”
“Why didn’t she tell you? Is that something like Stockholm syndrome?”
Klein shrugged, raising his shoulders almost as high as his ears. “Don’t know, Ethan. This young woman, this survivor refused to talk, even refused to sit down with us.”
“That’s odd.”
Another shrug. “Maybe, but maybe not. Because something I’ve learned over the long years I’ve been doing this job is that people seem to have their ideals and beliefs when it comes to justice. What it means to you might be different than what it means to Elizabeth Glass’s father. And in most cases, it means some different than the law. So when this young woman, who presented herself as a former abductee to Glass’s grieving old man, when she goofed up in her own misguided attempt to deliver her own version of justice, do you know what happened?”
Ethan stared at the federal agent, noticing how his hard eyes seemed to bulge with the passion of someone trying to make sure his point came across properly. “I don’t know, Agent Klein. What happened?”
“First, we found a mass grave with dozens of young cadavers. And then, when she screwed up again, we found out where the other girls were being held captive, locked up in a disgusting chamber and waiting for some pedophile to make a request to touch and hurt them.”
Ethan noticed how Klein didn’t specify whether those girls in the chamber were dead or alive.
“In total, there were twenty-four girls in that chamber, Ethan. Twenty-four.” He whistled again, shaking his head.
Finally, it seemed obvious why Klein was sharing this story. “Where was this so-called chamber?” He gulped before asking, “Was it in upstate Michigan? In Hollis Falls where Raleigh was treated?”
“No. Not Hollis Falls. But this chamber, we located it in northern Michigan. That’s where we tracked down the remaining abductees, all of them close to starving to death. All because of a screw up by this vigilante justice seeker.” Klein was nodding, his eyes having turned glassy as if his mind was lost on some distant detail. “If she hadn’t screwed up, we’d still be looking, Ethan. So you get my point here, right?”
“Bad things happen in upstate—I mean, northern Michigan?” It was his best guess.
Klein smirked, as if he thought Ethan might be joking around. “Nah, Ethan. The point is that if you really want your wife back, you’re going to have to start telling me whatever it is that you’re holding back. Because if you don’t, when you goof up, we might be too late once we finally figure out where your wife is.”
Ethan felt he was at a crossroads between loss and desperation. “I’ve told you everything, Agent Klein. Every last detail.”
“I sure hope so.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The following morning, Ethan tried to get back to the renovations. But it was late, and he just couldn’t focus. The previous night, Agent Klein had said he thought Ethan was holding something back, but Ethan couldn’t think of what that would be. And so he’d wondered all night about the things that Klein was holding back.
Namely, the address of the young female patient who’d been treated at a northern Michigan hospital with Essential Thrombocythemia. That blood disease was so incredibly rare with an instance rate of something like 30 in a hundred thousand, with the median age somewhere in the mid-60’s to 70’s. While this disease occurred more frequently in women than in men, it was exceptionally rare for someone like Raleigh to develop it in her twenties, like she had.
Ergo, the patient in northern Michigan was likely Raleigh. There were just too many coincidences for it to not be her.
Why hadn’t I thought to contact the CDC?
Inspired by the fact that Raleigh was not only alive, but relatively close by, Ethan abandoned the renovations and grabbed his laptop. Once he got settled in the kitchen at the island, he located the hospital in Hollis Falls that Klein had referenced, and called it.
After a bit of a runaround, he finally reached a woman in the department that would have treated Raleigh. And so he went through his song and dance again.
“I’m an agent with the FBI and I’m calling from our Chicago Field Office,” Ethan said, adding something of a sigh as if that might reinforce his authority. “My colleagues at the CDC mentioned that you recently treated a female patient in her thirties with Essential Thrombocythemia. Do you recall that patient’s address, ma’am?”
Closing his eyes, Ethan face-palmed himself at the use of the word “ma’am” when he could very well be dealing with a highly accomplished doctor with more letters behind her name than the alphabet itself. When he pulled his palm away, he noticed the moisture from his forehead.
The woman on the other end of the line pointed out that the information he sought would violate the hospital’s privacy policies. “I’m sorry, Agent . . . what did you say your name was?”
Clearing his throat, Ethan switched the phone to his other ear. “I understand your concern—I’m with the FBI, after all, and I deal with concerns all the time—” he offered a casual chuckle that didn’t sound casual at all “—but this woman’s whereabouts are crucial to an ongoing federal investigation. I’m talking classified, top secret stuff here.”
Maybe that’s why I never thought to contact the CDC; I can’t bluff my way out of a box.
“Again,” the woman said, her tone rigid and impatient, “you’re asking for sensitive patient information that is protected by our privacy policy. I cannot pass it along without some sort of order from the courts. Something I’m sure that you, as a federal agent, both understand and appreciate.”
With the color rushing to his face, Ethan wiped the back of his sleeve across his forehead once more. “Listen, if you remember treating that patient, it would be incredibly helpful and part of your civic duty—”
“Let me stop you right there, mister.” The woman on the other end had clearly exhausted all of her patience. “If I were to dial the number on my call display, would I even connect with the FBI? Because if I won’t, I suggest you hang up now and never call here again. Otherwise, the real FBI will be getting involved. Do you understand me?”
Thinking it was a trick question, but not willing to take a chance, Ethan simply hung up.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The online obituary for Thomas Braun pegged him as something of a saint, a common theme that resembled Hyatt’s. Except Braun had served a couple of tours in Iraq, which struck Ethan as odd because his last memory of the fake medic involved his blood on Ethan’s fists in that alley off of Congress. Braun, according to the write-up, had fathered a child with his high school sweetheart, a woman who had predeceased him, judging from the comment: “Bro, you can now be reunited with your soul mate and son’s mother on the other side.”
There was definitely some type of story behind Thomas Braun, Ethan realized. Connections between Braun and Hyatt—both dead, both “angels”—someone named Maltby, and another man who’d had access to an ambulance seven and a half years ago. Somewhere in the middle of all of that was his innocent wife.
Although yesterday’s attempt at bullying information from an employee at a remote Hollis Falls hospital had failed, Ethan woke up that morning with renewed hope and enthusiasm. At some point, while he slept, he’d arrived at a solution for how he could narrow down Raleigh’s location.
Still in bed with the laptop open on his knees, Ethan navigated to the search bar at th
e top of his internet browser and typed in: “Elizabeth Glass kidnapping Michigan.”
Tens of thousands of results appeared within a fraction of a second. Ethan noticed the Chicago Trib articles at the top, followed by videos and reports from CNN and other national news agencies. It wasn’t until the fourth page that he found something from a Detroit newspaper, an article about a child porn and trafficking operation. Within the article, there was a link to yet another “related” piece about the twenty-four survivors being rescued from a hunting cabin in a remote part of northern Michigan outside of Boyle Mills.
Not Hollis Falls?
There were images of the cabin in the article, and each of them was downright spooky. Ethan assumed they were photographed that way on purpose, a way to frighten parents into watching their children a little closer when in public. There was greenery stretching across the cabin’s weathered planks and onto the worn roof, two of the four windows in the front were broken, and the door had a padlock on it. The message was clear: even if you found your child in a place like this, you weren’t getting in.
But then he noticed that, off to the side, there was something else that caught his attention: an old rusted incinerator.
His stomach knotted, but he was quickly reminded that he was looking at an image of a hunting cabin where the abducted girls had been found, not the same place where Raleigh was located.
It’s a coincidence that there’s an incinerator in the photo. Just a coincidence. That’s all.
Using an online mapping tool, he saw that it would take him nearly six hours to drive to Boyle Mills, Michigan from 121 Cobalt in Chicago, but if he took toll roads, he could shave half an hour off of that estimate.
And then what?
Boyle Mills was an hour’s drive from Traverse City, thirty minutes from the hospital in Hollis Falls, which triangulated well with the story Braun had told him. A story that seemed substantiated by the Elmwood Marina receipt that Lisa Hyatt had provided.
If nothing else, Boyle Mills might be a good starting point. Fact was, it was his only point; seven and a half years had been too long, an eternity in real-life terms. He needed to see Raleigh’s face again, touch her, make sure she was okay, still breathing, still his wife. Nothing Agent Klein and the FBI could do would help with that, not with their track record.
Rolling out of bed, Ethan grabbed his bathrobe off a hook in the master bathroom and walked downstairs to get his breakfast started. While his eggs cooked in the frying pan, he grabbed the trade magazine with Lawrence Parker and three of his sons on its cover. On page 79, he learned that all but one of Parker’s boys were involved in the business, young men with Ivy League educations, and they were all pushing the boundaries of addiction control research . . . the same work that Raleigh had been involved with.
When the toaster popped, Ethan grabbed a plate and noticed that his mobile phone was vibrating. On the screen, he saw that Agent Klein had send him a text.
Stopping by your place just before 9am. Got questions.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Seven and a half years of absolute silence from the FBI, and over the past few days Ethan had seen more of Klein than he cared to count. If Klein and his team had spent half as much time looking for Raleigh’s abductor seven and a half years ago, they’d have brought her home within weeks.
And now that Ethan had an actual plan of action for rescuing his wife, Klein’s visit was not only going to delay him, but it felt like an intrusion. There was no way the federal agent had anything of real value to offer at this point. Ethan had Hollis Falls and Boyle Mills in his crosshairs; he just wanted to get going.
When Klein arrived, Ethan was seated on the sofa in the front room, scrolling through the images on Raleigh’s phone one more time. He could feel the anticipation building inside him, his stomach roiling and tightening as he stared at the picture of the two of them in Ravinia Park, enjoying their last picnic together before she got into that ambulance.
But soon, he would have her in his arms again. Those smiles, that completeness he felt whenever she was with him would replace the stark emptiness he’d endured over the past seven and a half years.
He couldn’t wait.
The doorbell’s chime interrupted those thoughts. Rising out of the sofa, Ethan headed to the front door and opened it. Klein’s wrinkled, hard face always looked like he’d spent his entire life either working on a farm or at the CEO’s desk for an oil company; he never revealed anything, even that Friday morning as he entered the house and removed his shoes.
“Anything you want to tell me, Ethan?” Klein asked, marching past him into the main hallway.
“I’m not sure why you keep asking that, Agent Klein.” Ethan followed him, noticing how Klein’s hand shot out and dragged along the plastic sheets that kept the renovations work and mess isolated to the formal room.
“Normally, you’re hard at work.” Klein stopped and faced Ethan, his eyebrows drawing closer together. “Remind me why you’re doing all of that work.”
Pointing to the dark flooring at his feet, Ethan explained he was preparing for Raleigh’s return. “Making the house a little more recognizable. And while she didn’t like the orange tint to the old hardwood, I want to offer a nice place that will feel like the home she misses.”
“What if she doesn’t miss this place, Ethan?”
Before Ethan could offer an answer—of course she misses this place, there are photos on her phone that say she loved the life from which she was plucked—Klein spun around on his heels and continued to the kitchen. He grabbed himself a bottle of water and offered one to Ethan. But Ethan had plans, he didn’t want to encourage Klein to spend his entire Friday here, and accepting a water bottle would do just that. Best to stay curt and keep Klein on track so that he could get out as quickly as possible.
Settling onto one of the stools, Klein motioned at Ethan to sit as well.
“I’m good with standing,” Ethan said, watching Klein shrug like it was a bad decision but he didn’t care one way or another.
“What if I told you that the account in the Barbados where you sent that money doesn’t have anything to do with Thomas Braun?”
Ethan decided to sit on one of the stools after all. He scratched his head before speaking his wife’s name out loud. “Are you suggesting it’s Raleigh’s account, Agent Klein? I thought she was in Boyle Mills, not the Barbados.”
Klein raised an inquiring eyebrow. “The account belongs to a numbered company, just like the wire transfer instructions showed.”
It felt like everything he’d worked towards was being ripped out of his chest. “Let me rephrase, then: Is it Raleigh’s numbered company?”
After a pause, Klein shook his head as he looked down into his hands. “We don’t know. All I can tell you is that, when our office requested information for that account from the bank, we listed Thomas Braun as a principal shareholder of the numbered company. The request was rejected on account of Thomas not being on the account, shareholders or directors register, or anywhere else on any other piece of documentation.”
“Did you try Raleigh’s name?” Ethan wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that question.
Klein met Ethan’s stare and shook his head again. “No, Ethan. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t try her name. Do you know if Raleigh would’ve ever had the opportunity to open that account in the Barbados? Like on your honeymoon, a Caribbean vacation?”
Before Klein had shown up, Ethan had been on his way to a small town in northern Michigan that he was certain would point him in the direction of his missing wife. But now . . .
As if noticing his distress, Klein forced a throat-clearing sound. “Banco Barrington won’t give us any information about the account, Ethan. It’s a foreign, private bank and we have no jurisdiction. But what we know is that this numbered company was established eight years ago. Eight.”
“We’ve never been to the Barbados,” Ethan finally said, leaving out that they hadn’t even really g
one on their honeymoon. But as Ethan lowered his hands, an idea came to him. “That numbered company, Agent Klein. Is there any relevance in the, well, numbers?” He couldn’t remember them, and if he could remember where he’d placed the receipt from the wire transfer, he’d have gone looking for it himself.
Klein gave an indecisive nod. “Grab me a pen and paper, will you?”
With his world spinning, Ethan managed slip off of the stool and locate what Klein wanted. Sliding the items across the counter, he watched the federal agent write down the seven numbers before rotating the small paper and sliding it back.
“You tell me, Ethan. Two, four, one, nine, nine, four, zero.” Klein raised his eyebrows. “February fourth, ninety-four? Does that date mean anything, Ethan?”
Shaking his head, Ethan couldn’t imagine what that date would mean to him or even to Raleigh. But if she’d been sitting next to him, what would she say about that? Even moving the numbers around—the second of April, nineteen ninety-four—didn’t yield any kind of much-needed aha! moment.
Klein rotated the page around and seemed to deliberate the same question he’d just asked Ethan. When he looked up, there was something in his eyes that bordered on enlightenment.
“What is it, Agent Klein?” Ethan didn’t think he wanted to hear the answer, not with the way the federal agent was looking at him.
“I think I’ve got the link between these three people. Raleigh, Hyatt, and Braun.” He made it sound like he’d just made that discovery. Like his secret life as a number whisperer was finally paying off. “And, interestingly enough, these numbers make a little bit of sense when you add in this common factor.”
At last, Ethan thought he knew exactly what Klein was talking about. “The third medic? Maltby?”
The Last Night (The Last Series Book 2) Page 20
