Lost Girls tc-2

by Bob Mayer

  The helicopter slowed and came to a hover fifty feet away. It settled down onto the sand and a crew chief jumped out, sliding open the cargo bay door. A man dressed in a blazer and tie got out. There was a metal briefcase chained to the man’s wrist. He stood underneath the rotating blades and waited. The man was bland looking, portly, with thinning blond hair and a broad face. Someone people would pass on the street and never give a second glance to.

  There was nothing in the old station Gant needed. He stuck out his hand to Goodwine. “Keep an eye on everything. I’ll be back.”

  Goodwine simply shook his hand and nodded.

  Gant walked to the waiting man. He did not shake his hand, but jumped into the cargo bay and took a seat. He picked up a helmet and put it on. The man got on and did the same so they could talk over the intercom. Gant nodded. “Mister Bailey.”

  “Mister Gant. Mister Nero needs you.”

  Gant leaned back against the red cargo webbing as the chopper lifted and turned back to the south. “When did you know about my brother?”

  Bailey reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a piece of gum, which he carefully unwrapped. He rolled the pink rectangle into a tight cylinder and then popped it in his mouth. “Three weeks.”

  “How did he die?”

  “A natural death.”

  That earned Bailey a sharp look from Gant.

  “I dug up his grave,” Bailey said. “He was buried outside his cabin in Vermont.”

  “Who buried him?” Gant asked.

  “Neeley.”

  Gant nodded. One bright spot in a sea of black. Gant had never met Neeley but he knew his brother had excellent taste in women. “What did he die of?”

  “Cancer,” Bailey continued. “I re-buried him.”

  Gant didn’t ask why Bailey had dug his brother up and he recognized that Bailey wasn’t offering an explanation so he changed the subject to the future. “Is this a Sanction?”

  “We don’t know yet.” Bailey pulled a picture out of his pocket. Gant took it. A girl smiled up at him.

  “And?”

  “Emily Cranston is the daughter of Colonel Samuel Cranston.”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar. “And Cranston is?”

  “The commander of the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg.”

  Gant wondered why Bailey was dragging this out and didn’t hand over the file. Gant glanced down at the titanium case on the floor next to Bailey’s sand covered shoes.

  “I only want to brief this once,” Bailey said, catching the glance.

  Gant frowned. He worked alone. “Who else do you have to brief?”

  “We’re picking someone up.”

  “Who?”

  “A shrink.”

  “Why do we need a shrink?”

  Bailey took the photo back. “Because we think the girl is still alive.”

  Gant wasn’t sure what that had to do with a shrink but he was used to Bailey being evasive. “Why do you think that?”

  Bailey reluctantly opened the briefcase and removed a piece of paper. “That’s a copy of what was left at the site she was taken from.”

  Gant glanced at the paper. “It’s part of a cache report.” Gant had first learned to make such a report at Fort Bragg, as a student at the center the father of the girl now ran. He knew now why Bailey had come for him.

  Bailey nodded. “We think Emily Cranston is the cache.”

  * * *

  The lifeguard was setting out the beach chairs as the woman came by, right on schedule. He saw her every morning he worked and he assumed she came by on the days he didn’t, not being so self-centered to imagine her walks revolved around him in some way. The tide was going out, water giving way to gently sloping beach. The woman appeared to be in her late thirties, in good shape, but the skin on her face was stretched tight, not from a lift as many of the rich women on the island did, but from some inner tension that the lifeguard instinctively sensed he didn’t want to know the reason for.

  She walked at a steady rate, not with the frenzy of the ‘power walkers’, nor the idle stroll of the tourists looking for shells. She walked as if she were on her way to some place she had to be, but didn’t want to get to. The lifeguard paused in his chair unfolding and raised a hand in greeting as was the way here on Hilton Head, where everyone acted friendly, especially to locals.

  * * *

  Susan Golden forced herself to acknowledge the lifeguard’s wave with a flutter of her right hand. It was more out of habit than anything else, but years ago she had allowed herself to accept that habit was important. Indeed, she had built a large portion of her professional life on the principle that people were predictable.

  Passing marker number fourteen, she turned right, heading inland toward the house she rented. As she walked up the thin concrete beach access path, she noted that the off-shore breeze had stopped and the air was still and hot. She too came to a complete halt when she saw the Beuafort County Sheriff's car parked in her drive. A young deputy was standing next to the car, looking decidedly nervous. His apparent discomfort paled in comparison to the surge of emotion that raced through Golden. He saw her and straightened, one hand unconsciously running down the front of his khaki shirt, straightening the folds.

  "Dr. Golden?"

  She could only nod at first as she struggled to find her voice. "Did you find him?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Did you find him?"

  “Who, ma’am?”

  “My son. Jimmy.”

  "I'm not sure—" he paused and regrouped. "I was sent here to escort you to the airport."

  "The airport?" Golden repeated dully.

  "Yes, ma'am." He awkwardly opened the door to his patrol car and pulled out a clip board, and held it out to her.

  She didn't take it, afraid to see what was on it.

  The deputy continued to hold the clipboard out as if that would relieve him of his discomfort. "It's a request from the Department of Defense. Asking us to help you get to the airport as quickly as possible. A plane will be there shortly for you. Apparently someone needs you."

  Golden's shoulders slumped. A mixture of relief and anger replaced her fear. "Why?"

  The deputy pulled back the clipboard and glanced at the faxed letter, and then shrugged. "It doesn't say, Ma'am. It's signed by a Mister Nero if that means anything to you."

  "It doesn't."

  Golden still didn't move as the deputy shuffled his feet.

  "There's a number you can call?" the deputy suggested.

  Golden didn't want to call but she knew she had to. It could be about Jimmy.

  She took the cell phone the deputy offered and the clipboard. She punched in the number.

  It rang once and a woman's voice answered.

  "Yes?"

  "This is Doctor Golden and I—

  "Hold please."

  The voice that came next wasn't human, that was Golden's first reaction even before the words hit home. The voice was metallic, words sliding over steel and adjusted to be legible.

  "Doctor Golden, my name is Mister Nero. A young girl is missing and we need your help in trying to resolve the issue. The girl is Colonel Cranston’s daughter. Please go with the deputy to the airfield. There will be a plane there shortly to pick you up. All will be explained then. Thank you."

  The phone went dead.

  Sam Cranston. Golden remembered seeing a photograph on his nightstand. A young girl, pretty in a clean, freshly scrubbed way, slightly overweight. Golden felt faint and her body slumped, the deputy reaching out a protective hand, placing it on her shoulder.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Please stop calling me ma’am,” Golden said. “And take me to the airport immediately.

  CHAPTER THREE

  One of the children had spotted a snake earlier in the morning so the caregiver’s eyes were constantly going toward the line at the edge of the play area where manicured lawn met palmettos, shrub brush and pine trees. Cathy Svoboda hated
snakes and she was responsible for a half-dozen twelve year olds who ran about the park. She was thin, in a nervous pale way, with dark hair cut short in the latest Hollywood fashion according to the magazine she bought off the rack at the checkout counter. Twenty-four, she’d worked at the Chez Petite daycare center in Enterprise, Alabama for two years.

  Cathy was seated on a wrought iron bench, giving her a clear view of all six, the playground and the tree line. She kept bringing her left hand up to her chin, resting on it, then sliding a hidden finger into her mouth, teeth gnawing at an already chewed down nail. She was counting days.

  Three weeks late. Twenty-two days actually. That she knew from the marks on the calendar taped to her old refrigerator. It was the extra math back from that marked day which bothered her. Mark, her fiancé, had done his reserve duty thing over a month ago, spending two weeks with the other boys pretending to be men. Mark’s friend Sean had shown up at her door with a twelve pack a day after Mark had gone off. She didn’t mean for it to happen. She could admit to herself now that she’d just been stupid and drunk.

  She closed her eyes and her forehead crinkled as she pictured both Mark and Sean in her mind. They looked a lot alike. Same color eyes and hair. Roughly the same height. Could one really tell? She wasn’t sure. She opened her eyes and blinked.

  How long had he been there? Cathy was startled, her eyes fixing on the man standing in the shadows under the wide oak near the swings. She didn’t remember seeing him before. He was looking at the children. The man wore a long black leather coat, unusual for the area and weather, and a cap with a bill pulled down low over his eyes, putting his face in a shadow. She should have been paying closer attention, she chided herself. Her head swiveled as she quickly did a visual head count. Her heart slowed toward a more normal cadence as she accounted for all.

  But Brandon, the little tow-headed kid who always had to push things, was on one of the swings. Cathy stood abruptly as Brandon turned when the man said something to him. She began walking across the closely-cut grass as Brandon stopped his swing and said something in reply. The man knelt down so that his head was at the same height as the boy’s. He whispered something that Cathy couldn’t hear as she arrived. He put a piece of paper in Brandon’s hand. Cathy reached them and grabbed Brandon’s other hand, pulling him off the swing.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded, staring at the man.

  “I was just asking him if he liked his teacher.” The man gave a slight smile as he got to his feet. “He said yes.”

  His face was scarred as if it had been head on in a wind of slicing rain. She’d never seen anything like it and she could tell Brandon was nervous. Cathy leaned over to pick up Brandon, thinking the stranger was—

  Her thoughts stopped, as there was a glint of sunlight off something metal in the man’s hand as it flashed forward. She felt like she’d been slapped in the neck and her eyes opened wide as she saw blood on Brandon’s hair. Had the man hurt him she wondered? How? She hadn’t seen him touch the boy. She looked up — the man was gone. So quickly. Cathy blinked, hearing Brandon screaming as if from a distance, but he was right in front of her. More blood, soaking his blue t-shirt.

  Cathy tried to hush Brandon, to calm him, but no words came. She felt sick, faint. Brandon fell backward into the sand under the swing, his hands up, protecting his face, both palms covered in blood, still wailing. Too much for a little boy, Cathy thought in panic.

  She saw a jet of red spurt from her onto Brandon. Stunned she reached up toward her own throat — Brandon must have be scared.

  She sunk to her knees as warm liquid splattered onto her hand. She looked down and saw that her new sundress was completely soaked in thick red. She looked at Brandon once more. She wanted to tell him he wasn’t hurt. That he was just scared. But no words would come. So tired. She pressed her hand against her neck, feeling another pulse of blood come out, along with bubbling air. That was so strange. But no pain. Stranger more.

  Her baby. She’d never thought of it in any way beyond the numbers. She tried to scream and red froth bubbled out of the deep six-inch smooth incision in her throat. Cathy fell forward into the sand and the last surge of arterial blood barely trickled out of her neck into the sand.

  * * *

  Emily opened her eyes and tried to remember where she was and what had happened to her. Before she remembered anything, she felt a wave of panic so strong she felt sick with its intensity. She could see nothing, hear nothing, and she couldn’t move. For a terrible moment, she thought she had been in an accident and was paralyzed. Too quickly came the terrifying realization. A hospital room would never be this dark. That thought forced her to accept that her situation was much worse than an accident. Suddenly she was rolled to her left side by centrifugal force, and became aware that she was moving, or rather she was in something moving.

  She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. Then she knew. She remembered the sound of metal slamming; she remembered hitting her shoulder hard as a rough arm had tossed her down. It was so fast. Emily was astonished that it had been so fast. A piece of tape had been slapped over her mouth. There had been no way to stop what had happened. For a moment she felt anger. An anger blossoming from her sheer inability to prevent what had happened to her. That lasted as long as her second futile attempt to swallow.

  The fear found her once more, and she felt her stomach begin to heave. She was alone with a madman. Emily fought panic at the thought of being completely at this man’s mercy. She knew it was a man, and for the first time in her short life she understood with a deep clarity that she could die. She had felt the strength in his arms, and though his face had been covered, she’d had a brief glimpse of his powerful body. She tried to think. What exactly had happened? Had he hit her? Was she hurt? Then she remembered the stinging pain in her arm. He had given her some kind of a shot. That must be why she was so disoriented and thirsty.

  She could still feel the van moving, and hear the roar of the tires beneath her. It felt like they were going fast and that the road was smooth. She thought they must be on an interstate. Emily was overcome with fear and nausea once more. He was taking her far away.

  Nobody knew where she was. Maybe nobody even knew she was missing. Maybe Lisa and the girls hadn’t even bothered to see if she was home. She could feel the tears well up at the thought that no one knew she was missing. She cried silently, the tears hot and biting against the skin around her eyes, trapped by the blindfold covering her face. She could see nothing, not even a trickle of light around the edge of the cloth wrapped tightly around her head.

  Shaking her head as if to toss out the sadness, she decided to take stock of her position. She could cry later.

  Her legs were tied together at the feet and also the knees. She could move them from side to side, but that was about all. Her arms were pulled behind her back and tied at the wrist. Her shoulder hurt from slamming onto the floor of the van, but there wasn’t much painful tension, yet. Either her kidnapping had been recent, or she had recently been tied up. She felt ill at the thought of being handled while she was unconscious. This thought forced her to wonder if she had been assaulted. She relaxed for a moment, willing herself to calm her thinking and to calm her body. Did she feel anything? Suddenly the van slowed abruptly and made a sharp turn. She rolled violently to the right and felt her shin hit something sharp and unyielding. The van began to slow down. As it came to a stop, Emily began to pray. Not a real prayer as in church but the truest she had ever uttered: oh please, oh please. She just wanted to live. She could handle anything as long as she got away.

  The screech of the door sliding open reminded her of the beginning of this nightmare. It also forced her to remember the van in more detail. She had paid no attention to it in the parking lot, but she now remembered that it had been dark and had no windows in the rear.

  Emily knew the door was open. She could feel the fresh air, and smell freshly cut grass. She thought she heard something. She concentrated. In
the second Emily strained to hear, she felt a hand on her shoulder and the needle puncture the bare flesh of her arm. The door slammed and she immediately knew she was passing out. She had to remember this. The air had felt cooler, less humid than the beach. The grass had just been cut. As she lost consciousness, she realized what the sound had been. She would have smiled, but she had already fallen into a deep well of darkness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The walk across the Parris Island airfield from the Coast Guard chopper to the jet tarmac had been all of fifty yards. The plane was a Gulfstream, modern and swift, but the inside was decorated by a government bureaucrat with a mind toward expenditures and budget without a single concession to luxury. Cheap plastic paneling covered the bulkhead and standard airline seats were bolted to the thinly carpeted floor. Near the rear were four seats, in pairs of two facing each other with a plastic table between them. That was where Gant and Bailey headed. The exterior of the plane was painted flat black, the only marking a tail number that was on file with the FAA, but didn’t reveal the true operators of the aircraft.

  In the open space behind the four seats was a large plastic case, which Gant had opened upon entering. It held Gant’s deployment gear and he’d quickly inventoried it. Satisfied all was as it should be, he pulled out a pair of black khaki pants and slipped them on, replacing the worn shorts he’d been wearing. Then he took a black polypropylene undershirt and put it on. Over it he shrugged on a body armor vest, securing it in place with sew-in straps of Velcro. It was a thin vest and once he put a black, long sleeve shirt over, it was practically impossible to tell he had it on. The vest was slightly uncomfortable but Gant thought the trade-off was more than worth it.