Snatched Super Boxset

by Hunt, James

  “W-what do you want?” Craig shifted his eyes between the detectives, his mouth ajar and running his tongue over his thin lips.

  “We never formally met,” Mocks said, breaking the ice. “I’m Detective Mullocks, and this is my partner Detective Grant. We’re the ones who shot you.” She smiled, but Grant kept his expression stoic. Whenever Mocks took the lead, Grant played the strong, silent role.

  “I-I want my lawyer,” Craig said, his tone lacking confidence. “I have a right to—”

  “Not you,” Mocks said. “Kiddie rapists get a special exemption on lawyers.”

  “The website,” Grant said. “Who told you about it?”

  Craig Johnson burst into tears. “Please, I didn’t do anything to the boy. I promise you. I swear to god nothing happened.”

  “But something was going to happen,” Mocks said. “Wasn’t it, Craig? That’s why you took the kid, why you wanted to shuffle him up north across state lines. We saw the passports. You must have spent a pretty penny on those.”

  Grant leaned closer to Craig’s face, his shadow slowly covering Craig’s figure, blocking out the bright lights of the room. “Who told you about the site?”

  Another wave of sobs erupted from Craig, tears bursting from his eyes as he mumbled unintelligible words through his blubbering.

  “You’re gonna have to repeat that,” Mocks said. “I didn’t catch it.”

  “I met him at the park I go to,” Craig said, regaining some ability for coherent speech.

  “Where you abducted the boy,” Grant said, finishing the sentence.

  Craig nodded. “He told me he could help give me what I wanted. He said no one would ever find out if I did exactly what he told me to do.” He shut his eyes, squeezing out a few more tears. “So that’s what I did.” He sniffled and opened his eyes, looking at Grant. “He never gave me a name. Just a card with the website information.”

  “Where’s the card now?” Grant asked.

  “I-I destroyed it,” Craig answered, shrinking deeper into his pillow. “He told me to.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed. “The man was… frightening.”

  “What’d this guy look like?” Mocks asked.

  “Older white guy. Grey hair. It was longer, down to his neck, but I only saw what wasn’t covered with his hat,” Craig said. “He wore sunglasses too.”

  “What about scars, tattoos, birthmarks, anything like that?” Mocks asked.

  “I can’t remember,” Craig answered.

  Grant wrapped his hand around Craig’s throat, and the beeping skyrocketed. “We need something more than a geriatric who gave you a card to throw away.”

  Craig thrashed in his bed, but weakly so, like a piece of prey that knew it was caught. He tried to speak, but Grant’s grip was too tight.

  “What was that?” Grant asked.

  “Spiders,” Craig said, his eyes wide. “Spiders on his hand. Three of them, crawling over a black web. They were all black.” Grant let him go, and Craig bawled.

  Grant turned to leave and Mocks followed. She caught up to him halfway down the hall.

  “Put out an APB for an older white male, grey hair, with three spiders over a black web,” Grant said. “We need to follow up with Sam, see what he has so far on the computer.”

  “Hey,” Mocks said, blocking his path before they reached the elevator. “Are you all right? That wasn’t your normal tough cop.”

  Grant held up his watch, the timer ticking toward ten hours. She looked, then stepped out of his way, and he pressed the down button and they descended to the first floor.

  “You don’t have to keep reminding me that this is urgent.” Mocks crossed her arms, staring straight ahead. “You don’t have a monopoly on wanting to successfully complete our cases. Last I checked, we were still partners.”

  The elevator doors pinged opened, and Grant had a clear view to the automatic glass doors at the hospital’s entrance where a few members of the press had clustered, waiting for him outside. Grant sighed. “Great.”

  “I’ll handle it,” Mocks said, stepping in front of Grant on their exit. The doors opened and the press immediately swarmed them.

  “Detective! Do you have any leads on who could be behind these abductions?”

  “Did the suspect survive the altercation at the house?”

  “How many more children are at risk?”

  Mocks held up her hands. “We’re currently following several leads in regards to the abductions. We don’t have any further information to provide you at this time. Thank you.”

  The horde of reporters slowed their pace to a crawl, and Grant’s patience grew thinner. All of the frustration, fatigue, uncertainty, and stress of the past two days reached a tipping point.

  One of the reporters veered from Mocks and thrust a microphone in his face. “Detective Grant, have you used some of the tactics on current suspects that you used during the altercation with Brian Dunston two years ago?”

  The comment stopped Grant dead in his tracks, and Mocks turned to try and intercept, but she was two steps too slow. Grant smacked the microphone out of the reporter’s hand and shoved him hard in the chest, sending him to the pavement.

  Camera lights flashed quickly and the rest of the reporters captured the moment with video and sound as Grant cocked his arm back and hardened his hand to a fist. Before he struck, Mocks stepped in his way.

  She shoved him as hard as she could, throwing all of her five-foot, one-hundred pound frame into it that only moved Grant a few inches. Another round of camera flashes and questions polluted the air, but Mock’s sudden action was enough to snap Grant out of his rage.

  The pair turned and hurried to the car, the reporters following, with Mocks stuck in the middle of it, waving her hand and saying that they weren’t taking any more questions and they didn’t have a comment.

  The reporters pressed against the side of the car, and Grant reversed out of the parking spot as Mocks blocked her face from the cameras peering inside. Grant floored it out of the parking lot and, thankfully, they didn’t try and follow.

  “What the hell was that?” Mocks asked, slapping the dash. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”

  The rage receded from Grant’s mind, but the memories of the night from two years ago poured into his consciousness. Flashes of blood appeared on his knuckles. Brian Dunston’s blood. His screams. His pleas for mercy. His pleas for forgiveness.

  “I’m sorry,” Grant said, his breaths quick and shallow. His heartbeat accelerated and his head spun. He slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road, the rest of the traffic blaring their frustrations for the inconvenience. He shifted into park, but left the engine running. He kept his hands tight on the steering wheel. He needed to hold onto something. He couldn’t slip back into that madness again. Not now.

  “They shouldn’t have asked you about that,” Mocks said, her tone softer. “That reporter deserved what he got and what he would have gotten. But that’s not how it’ll be spun on the six o’clock news. And that’s not how the captain will see it.”

  Grant cursed under his breath and shut his eyes. “It was stupid. I know. It’s just…” He looked at Mocks. “I’ll never really know.”

  Mocks shook her head, confused. “Know what?”

  “What my daughter would have sounded like. Who she would have grown up to be. I’ll never know what kind of father I would have been. And it’s a question I’ll never be able to answer.”

  There was a time when he’d thought he could find those answers when he transferred to Missing Persons. He wanted to believe that he could help ease his own pain by easing the pain of others. But he still felt the loss. It was as sharp today as it was two years ago.

  “No,” Mocks answered. “You won’t.” She leaned closer. “And that’s the burden of the living, Grant. That’s what makes life hard, and dirty, and wonderful all at the same time. It’s that pain that gives us strength. It’s given you strength, and while you may not
feel it in your own life, others have felt it. I’ve felt it. It’ll never leave you, I know. But don’t let the pain swallow you up.” Mocks laid her hand over his on the wheel. “The pain can’t define you, because then it controls you.”

  Grant rested his forehead on the crest of the steering wheel and shut his eyes. His insides were on fire, and the sucking pain in his chest pulled him inward. He wanted to fight it, but he’d been fighting it for a long time. He was tired.

  “We still have to find Annie Mauer,” Mock said. “She still needs us.”

  Annie. Grant lifted his head. He glanced at his watch. The timer ticked away seconds with impunity, a steady reminder that time was the master of all.

  Grant shifted into drive and pulled back out onto the road. “We’ll head back to the precinct. See what Sam was able to pull off the computer.” He just wasn’t sure how long he’d still have his badge when he arrived.

  10

  The press had doubled around the precinct. Grant and Mocks parked in the back to avoid the circus. Grant lingered in the car after Mocks had gotten out. She knocked on the window, and he held up his hand.

  Grant closed his eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled, and counted to three. There wouldn’t be anything pleasant waiting for him inside, but he had to face it. He stepped out of the car and followed Mocks inside. After three steps, the captain spotted them heading to Cyber.

  “Grant! Mullocks!” Captain Hill’s cheeks wobbled in sync with his flabby neck, his skin flush red. “My office, now!”

  “Captain,” Mocks said. “We’re—”

  “I said now, damnit!” Captain Hill turned on his heel and marched back toward his office. The rest of the department had gone quiet, and it wasn’t until Grant and Mocks were halfway to his office that everyone resumed their activities.

  Grant was the last to enter and he shut the door, sealing them inside. Lieutenant Furst was in the corner with his arms crossed. Hill had plopped in his chair and leaned forward.

  “I received a call from the station manager at Channel Four news asking me if I had a comment about the assault that one of my detectives performed on one of his reporters,” Hill said.

  “Sir,” Mocks said. “You have to know that—”

  “Shut it, Mullocks!” Hill thrust a finger in her direction, then pivoted his aim toward Grant. “Every news camera in this city is looking for the inside scoop on these abductions, and the last thing this department needs is its officers losing their cool under pressure. Do you have any idea the scrutiny we’re under right now? No one feels safe. No one wants their kid to be taken, and every single person across the state is counting on us to end this.”

  Hill leaned back in his chair, the rant taking the breath out of him as he sucked down a few gulps of air, his forehead dotted with beads of sweat.

  “Captain, this is bigger than just the abductions that were reported,” Grant said. “We have reason to believe that a crime organization that calls itself The Web is involved in these abductions and the overall trafficking of sex workers through the entire West Coast.”

  “I don’t give a shit if it’s the goddamn Illuminati,” Captain Hill said. “I want. Those kids. Back!” He slammed his fist on the desk and knocked the phone off.

  Lieutenant Furst kept quiet. Grant waited for him to speak up, but it never came. Not that he blamed the lieutenant. Grant was a dead man walking, so it didn’t matter what he did next.

  “You don’t let me finish this case, and there’ll be more than just my assault on the six o’clock news,” Grant said.

  Hill lowered his voice. “Watch your tone, Detective.”

  Grant walked to Hill’s desk, getting in his face. “I’ll tell that reporter who asked me about Brian Dunston exactly what he wants to know. How you helped falsify the report of what happened that night. How you intimidated him to not press charges. And the best part of the story? It’s true.”

  “You are way out of line!” Hill’s cheeks wiggled and reddened. Spit flew from his mouth.

  “Let me finish this case,” Grant said. “You know that we’re still your best bet to find those kids.”

  “Detective Grant,” Furst said. “This isn’t—”

  “The only reason you’re pissed about that reporter is because it reflects badly on you, Captain,” Grant said. “You wouldn’t give a shit if I hadn’t been recorded. You only care when it disrupts your afternoon nap. So if you really want to save your ass, then let me and my partner do our job.”

  It was bold, but it was Grant’s only play. He knew Hill would suspend him and an investigation would be ordered. Any superior officer would have done it under normal circumstances. But this wasn’t normal.

  The captain calmed a bit, and Grant knew it had worked.

  “You will have to answer to the charges filed against you,” Hill said. “I will keep the wolves off your back until this is done, but after, you turn in your badge. And if you fail, then all of this comes crashing down on your head.” He looked at Mocks. “Both of your heads.”

  Grant turned on his heel and stepped out before any more stipulations were thrown their way. Grant got the time he needed. Now he had to deliver.

  Mocks walked quickly by his side on their way back to Cyber. “You know they’re going to run that story in the news no matter what. Everything from that night will be made public.”

  “I know,” Grant said. “But it’s like you said.” He looked down at her. “I can’t let it define me.”

  Mocks snorted and then stopped at her desk to retrieve a fresh Pop-Tart from its packaging. She ripped open the top and devoured it in three bites. “God, I was starving.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “Sometimes I wonder if I substituted Pop-Tarts for drugs.” She shook her head. “Still not sure if it’s the healthier option.”

  Grant chuckled unexpectedly, and it helped calm the nerves. He felt steady now, more purposeful. The mission was clear, and they had good intelligence. Now they just needed the head of the snake.

  When they arrived at Cyber, Sam had three laptops open on his desk: his own, the one that belonged to Stacy West’s fiancé, and the laptop they had retrieved from the gang’s headquarters in the south side.

  “Tell me you have something, Sam,” Grant said, sneaking up behind him.

  “Well, I have made progress on the site,” Sam said, pulling up a spreadsheet and list of names. “I’ve managed to locate all the IP addresses used by the usernames on the website and have even matched a few more real names, though none of them have been close in location to where the other kids were abducted.”

  “Send them out to the precincts where they’re located anyway,” Grant said. “Have the officers bring them in and search their homes. They might get lucky and find something.”

  “I don’t think it’ll be hard for them to get a warrant in our current environment,” Mocks said.

  “What about the laptop from the gang?” Grant asked. “Anything?”

  “Oh-ho,” Sam said, his voice low and throaty. “You could say that.” He held up the blue note pad that Grant had taken along with the computer. “It’s Cebuano, one of the main languages of the Philippines. This whole laptop is programmed to only accept, and react, to that type of language. It’s even embedded into the coding, which I have never seen before.”

  “What do you mean?” Mocks asked.

  “Coding is like math,” Sam answered. “It’s universal. And while different programs have specific languages, the language is the same in the program regardless of the country it’s in.” He lifted the laptop. “But this little tart has had its hard drive tweaked to have the Cebuano language embedded in its core coding.”

  “So what does that mean?” Grant asked.

  “It means it’s been a pain in my ass,” Sam answered.

  “There is something on that computer The Web doesn’t want anyone to see,” Grant said. “There has to be a location, some date, something that tells us where this is all going.” If it hasn’t already h
appened.

  “I’m working with a translator from the State Department, but it’s just slow going,” Sam said. “I’m sorry.”

  “We don’t need sorry,” Mocks said. “We need evidence.”

  “I can give you what I have so far,” Sam said, reaching for a notepad. “I wrote everything down that I’ve decoded.” He gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry for the messy handwriting.”

  Grant handed the pad to Mocks once he realized he couldn’t decipher the chicken scratch. Mocks looked it up and down. “These are just random pairs of numbers.”

  “That was in a folder titled ‘hilo,’” Sam said. “Which translates to venom in English. Most of the files on the computer follow some type of spider theme.”

  “Let me see,” Grant said, taking the notebook from Mocks. He counted down the paper. There were eight sets. “All of them came in pairs like this?”

  “Yeah,” Sam answered.

  “GPS coordinates?” Mocks asked.

  “It fits the length for longitude and latitude,” Grant said. “Sam, type the first one in.” Grant handed the paper back to Sam and he opened up a GPS. The first pair of coordinates zoomed in on the coast of southern California.

  “Could be drop off points for shipments of women coming in from the Pacific,” Grant said. “Try another one.”

  The second set of numbers was a location off the western coast of the Baja peninsula.

  “Keep going,” Grant said. “There has to be one closer to Seattle.”

  “Wait! I got one,” Sam said. “Forty-six, forty-six, fifty-nine, dot, sixty-four, ninety-six North. One-twenty-four, five, forty-six dot thirty-one, twenty-eight West.”

  The map zoomed in on the southern coast of Washington State, and Sam expanded the image. “It looks like it’s in the heart of Grayland Beach State Park.”

  “Secluded, off a main highway, thick cover from the trees, no coastal lights,” Grant said. “Nighttime when that park is closed, it would be the perfect drop off point for smugglers.”