by James Hunt
“If I can find the root IP, then maybe twenty-four hours, but that’s going to be tough,” Sam said.
“All right,” Grant said, giving Sam a pat on the shoulder. “Let us know when you have something.” Grant disappeared down the hall.
Mocks lingered behind. “Let me know if you find anything on that cross reference. And Sam, this is a priority.”
He gave a nod, and Mocks chased Grant back to their desks, which sat directly across from one another. She pressed her knuckles onto her desk while Grant sifted through a few notes.
“Did you already take down the report for that girl?” Grant asked.
“Working on it,” Mocks answered. “Mother is on her way now. But we’ve got some time before she gets here.”
“Get a package together for Lieutenant Furst,” Grant said, reaching for the squat filing cabinet he kept all of his cases inside. “I want to follow up with the Givens girl.” He gestured to her Pop-Tart box. “Hand me one of those, will you? I didn’t eat breakfast.”
Mocks tossed him a packet, and he tore it open and took a big first bite as he scanned the file.
“Anything exciting happen at the ceremony?” Mocks asked.
“No,” Grant answered, then closed the file and returned it to the drawer. “You stay here while I go and speak with the Givens girl.”
Mocks placed her hands on her hips. “Why can’t I come?”
“Because you didn’t take any notes from the phone call,” Grant answered, then looked up. “Or did you actually decide to write something down this time?”
Mocks grunted and plopped down in her chair. “Imprisoned by my own mind.”
Grant placed the remaining chunk of strawberry pastry in his mouth, and then slid on his jacket. “I’ll call you when I have something. And you let me know what happens with the mother. What was the name of the girl that was taken?”
“Annie,” Mocks answered.
Grant froze. The color drained from his cheeks, and for a moment Mocks thought he was going to pass out. But after the momentary glitch, he wiped a few of the crumbs from his mouth and looked down at his watch. He squeezed one of the side buttons, and it beeped, starting that timer of his. It was a ritual, one that he performed with every new case. He always seemed to be fighting time, but she never really understood why. Maybe it helped keep him focus. After all, she had her lighter.
“We’re already behind in the first hour,” Grant said. “Get the paperwork to Furst ASAP. I’ll call you when I’m done with the Givens girl.” He nodded to the mess on her desk. “You keep eating those damn Pop-Tarts and you’re gonna turn into one.”
Mocks raised a fresh one and smiled. “One can only hope.” She watched him leave, and that same ominous feeling from earlier clouded her senses. It was like a bad taste in her mouth that she just couldn’t rid herself of, no matter how many frosted strawberry treats she ate. She looked at her phone, knowing the next time it rang, it was going to be for another abduction. The only question was when.
***
The park was busier than usual for a Saturday afternoon. Craig Johnson blamed the weather. The sun had finally made an appearance after nearly a week of clouds and rain.
Children sprinted around the playground, chasing after one another, their high-pitched squeals of laughter carrying across the park. Kids played on the swings, the jungle gym, glided down slides, indulging in all the activities with friends. There was so much joy. So much life.
Craig came here often, but not too often. His rusted beater of a car had the potential to attract unwanted attention. And he made sure that he always parked in different locations and mixed up his times throughout the day and week. Saturdays were always a special treat he saved for himself when he’d been good.
It was a type of elated torture when he parked his 1986 Toyota Corolla one hundred yards from the park’s entrance. He cut off the engine, slouched low in the driver seat, and zoomed in on the kids with his phone to get a better look, keeping an eye on the parents at the park’s perimeter.
Sometimes he recorded the kids with video, or snapped pictures, and other times he would do nothing but watch. But today was special. Today was different.
The crowded and chaotic scene made for perfect conditions. He glanced over to the notepad that contained all of the scribbling he’d written from the class online. It was a godsend. All the tricks and tools to perform a successful abduction, all laid out in perfect detail.
Craig was wary about the website at first. There was no guarantee that it was real. What worried him most was that it was a trap to find people that were troubled. People like him.
Police and authorities were always fishing, looking for ways to snag adults who wanted to meet with children. Cyber divisions had grown more sophisticated in catching child predators. And with Craig’s lack of technical understanding, he shied away from computers and chat rooms. Old school worked just fine for him.
Still, it was hard being so close and not able to touch. He came close a few times to giving in to his desires. They festered in his mind like glowing coals; never flaming but always hot.
But regardless of how bad he wanted it, for forty-seven years, Craig played it safe. He never risked exposure because he knew what happened to people like him when they were caught: branded evil, wicked creatures, tortured and raped in prison. They were experiences he wanted to avoid. And if it came at the price of forgoing his desires, then so be it.
So, this was Craig Johnson’s life. He lived alone in a shitty studio apartment with rotting walls, dirty carpet, and failing appliances. He worked as a janitor for a hospital on the south side of Seattle where the pay was just as bad as the stink of its sickly patients. He had no family in the area, no friends, never went on dates. His only source of joy came from these visits to the park. It was days like this that kept him going. And today was going to be the best day of all.
Craig reached for the notebook and examined his checklist one last time. That was rule number one: check, then re-check. Mistakes could get you caught, and he didn’t plan on having come this far only to lose everything.
He glanced in the back seat where the milk crate he’d stolen from work housed food, drinks, and blankets for his drive north. He had enough supplies to last for three days. A second crate sat behind the passenger seat. It was covered with a blue tarp. It was his backup plan, one that he hoped he wouldn’t have to use. It was expensive, but he knew if he got caught, then it’d be worth it. That’s what the website said at least.
Because he lived alone and never went anywhere, never did anything, his savings account had grown into a nice chunk of change: thirty thousand dollars. Over the past four months, Craig had withdrawn small, random amounts every week to avoid suspicion in draining his account. He reached for the money bag and recounted his cash; all accounted for.
Craig flipped through his documents: passports, Social Security card, driver’s license, and bank account information. All of them had a different name: Dave Holgram. It was Craig’s new identity. If this was going to work, then he would have to start over, and so would the boy.
A second set of documents sat next to his own. Craig removed the rubber band holding them together and double-checked to ensure everything was in order. The second forged passport had a picture of a young boy. His Tommy.
The child’s passport was harder to forge, seeing as how there were specific pictures required for passports to be legitimate. But the school’s website where the kid was enrolled had photos from school events, and Craig found plenty to choose from.
Once he had all of the necessary information, Craig sent it to the contact the website had mentioned, along with a check for ten grand. It was pricey, but the website said that it was the real deal. And they were right.
The first three days would be the worst, particularly the first six to twelve hours. That was when the police would be out in full force. Roads would shut down. The boy’s picture would be plastered everywhere after the inevitable AMBER Al
ert, which meant anyone with a cell phone could spot him and call the cops. But because Craig knew all of it was coming, because he knew what the police would do before they even did it, he was prepared. Now it all came down to execution.
Craig lowered his head and drew in a breath through his nose. His stomach was a ball of nerves. He grabbed hold of the steering wheel to stop from shaking, but it didn’t help very much. He shut his eyes. This was it.
Craig stepped out of his rusted car and flipped up the collar of his jacket. He slid on his sunglasses and hat and tucked both hands inside his jacket pockets. He was thankful for the bulky coat, as he hoped that it hid his trembling.
Two girls sprinted past on Craig’s approach to the jungle gym and startled him, both so close that their little hands grazed his left pant leg. A jolt of adrenaline rushed through his veins from the contact, and he two-timed it toward the boy.
Tommy was in the center of the park, and through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, Craig kept a constant bead on him. He already knew what he would say. He already knew how he would get him to the car. Craig knew because he learned everything he could about the boy.
Tommy was always at the park alone. His mother would drop him off for a few hours while she went drinking at a bar down the street. She would return drunk, stumbling out of the car and reeking of booze.
Craig’s mother drank a lot too. She also touched him. But that was a long time ago. Craig could save Tommy from that. He could give the boy something better. And in return, Craig would fulfill his own fantasies.
The cluster of children was thickest at the park’s center, and Craig struggled to avoid contact. The adrenaline continued to build, and the bundle of nerves in Craig’s stomach rumbled, followed by the slow crawl of acid up his windpipe. He swallowed the bile and pressed on. He couldn’t lose it now. He was too close.
Tommy’s blond hair reflected the sunlight as he climbed to the top of the slide. Craig smiled as the boy lifted his arms in the air and slid down. Tommy tumbled into the grass, then laughed and returned to the ladder for another slide when Craig called out.
“Tommy!”
The boy spun around at his name. When he saw Craig, he froze. He was frightened. So was Craig.
“Who are you?” Tommy asked.
Craig looked nervously to the left, then the right. They were the only pair in the center of the park that weren’t moving. And what was worse, Craig was the only adult. A mother stood up from the bench she was sitting on to his left. He was drawing attention to himself. He needed to move quickly.
“I’m a friend of your mom’s,” Craig said. “She wanted me to come and pick you up.”
The boy remained where he was but didn’t exhibit any signs of an outburst. He simply arched an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I know,” Craig said, taking another step forward. “But you need to come with me, and quick. Your mom is in trouble, and we need to go and help her.”
The boy flashed concern. “She is?”
“Yes, and it’s important we go now.” Craig held out his hand, and the culmination of his entire life dwindled down to a few seconds. If the boy backed away or made any type of commotion, then the game was over. But if Tommy placed his little paw into Craig’s massive palm, then all of that waiting, all of that sacrifice, all of that time and energy expended into this one moment would pay off. But Tommy had to play along. “And we have to hurry.”
Slowly, Tommy grabbed Craig’s hand. The moment their skin made contact, Craig clamped down around the boy’s paw and walked back to the car. It was too surreal. A mixture of terror and excitement rushed through Craig’s body.
“What happened?” Tommy asked as they neared Craig’s Corolla. “Is she hurt?”
Craig opened the passenger side door, and the hinges squeaked. He helped the boy climb inside and then offered a reassuring smile. “No, but it’s important we get out of here quickly. She wants to meet us somewhere, but if we’re not quiet and we don’t go fast, then she might be hurt. Do you understand?”
Tommy nodded.
Craig shut the door and saw the woman from before, now breaking out into a quick stride toward his car. She looked like she was reaching for her phone. He struggled to keep a natural pace to the driver side. He fumbled the keys and broke out into a sweat.
The woman waved her hands and broke out into a jog. Craig finally jimmied the key into the starter, and cranked the engine to life, keeping his head down as he shifted into reverse. Tires screeched when he floored the accelerator, the whole car vibrating from the speed.
Once clear of the park, he took a moment to look at the boy now sitting in his passenger seat. The same boy that he’d taken so many pictures and videos of on his phone. The same boy who Craig had watched and fantasized about from this very car. He had dreamed of this moment. But this wasn’t a dream. It was real. The boy was his.
Chapter 3
Normal procedure warranted a successful missing child case to have the victim questioned about the circumstances of their abduction within three hours after being cleared by a medical team, and it was one of those rules that made Grant scratch his head.
It didn’t take him long during his stint as a detective to understand that the people who wrote the manuals didn’t measure the impact on the individual. Sure, statistically that was how a detective would retrieve the most accurate information while the events were still fresh in the child’s mind, but that was the other half of the equation that wasn’t measured: it was still fresh in the child’s mind.
And the parents’ minds for that matter. The kids were still in shock, and Grant always felt a predator himself trying to pry information from them. Out of anyone, he understood the desire to forget the past.
Grant did his best to try and keep his mind focused on the task in front of him with the Givens girl on the drive over, but his mind kept wandering back to the new case and the missing girl’s name.
After the accident that killed his pregnant wife, Grant went into a tailspin, and he did everything he could to outrun the pain of his loss. He changed divisions within the department, moving from Homicide to Missing Persons. He sold his house, car, anything and everything that reminded him of Ellen.
But now, two years later, Grant found himself with a new case, and a new missing child. A girl with the same name he and his wife were going to give to their daughter. Annie.
Grant pushed the thought out of his head and parked outside the Givens’s apartment building. He pounded on the door and after a few minutes, Dana Givens answered. The single mother wore a ratty robe, and her eyes were bloodshot. She’d been crying. He just hoped they were happy tears.
“Detective Grant.” Dana spoke his name softly, and it was accompanied with a light smile. “One of the officers at the hospital said you might be stopping by this morning.” She stepped aside. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” Grant bowed and entered. Their apartment was small, with the entrance hallway too narrow for more than one person to pass at a time.
“You can go ahead down the hall and into the kitchen,” Ms. Givens said. “Mallory is still upstairs asleep. Do you need me to go and get her?”
“Please,” Grant said.
The space in the kitchen didn’t improve. The table for two was jammed between the end of the kitchen counter and a wall. The cabinets were crooked, some of the doors completely off the hinges. But Grant knew it was the best a waitressing job downtown could provide with six twelve-hour shifts. The Givens didn’t have much, but they still had each other. A fact he knew they would appreciate even more now.
Ms. Givens entered the kitchen, alone, hugging herself closely and rubbing the frayed sleeves of her robe. “She’s getting dressed. She’ll be down in a minute.”
They stood quietly in the kitchen. Only the refrigerator hummed its opinion, along with the random bark of a dog. A few nervous smiles were passed about and when Mallory’s footsteps were heard from the hallway, Grant gave a frien
dly wave as she entered.
“Hi, Mallory,” Grant said.
The girl leaned up against her mother. She wore a similar frazzled robe, and her eyes drooped; either from a night of dead-to-the-world sleep, or a restless one. Grant hoped it was the former.
“I wanted to talk with you if that’s all right?” Grant asked.
The girl looked to her mother, who rubbed her shoulder.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, sweetheart,” Ms. Givens said.
“Your mom is right,” Grant said.
Mallory looked at her feet, then lifted her head and looked straight at Grant. “You’re going to ask me questions about what happened?”
“Yes,” Grant answered.
“Will it help stop it from happening to other people?” Mallory asked.
“It usually does,” Grant answered.
Mallory paused, then walked over to the tiny chair jammed up against the wall and wiggled under the table, her hands folded over the top. “Okay.”
Grant smiled. “Thank you.” In an effort to appear more relatable, Grant slid into the chair where he managed to cram all of his six-foot frame without breaking the table. “Mallory, before we get started, I just want you to know that at any time you feel uncomfortable, or if you want to stop, just let me know and we will.”
Mallory drew in a breath and then nodded, exhaling slowly. Her left hand shook and she steadied it with her right. Grant reached across the table and covered both of her hands with his.
“Everything is going to be fine,” Grant said. He slowly removed his hand and then gently placed his elbows on the table, which leaned toward him from his weight. “I wanted to know how everything started. Between you and Stacy.”
Mallory swallowed. “She was there on my first trip to the youth group. She was the first person to talk to me. She made me feel welcome. She made me feel like… like…”
“You were important,” Grant said.
“Yeah,” Mallory said. “Like I was important.”
