by B. J. Woster
“Right. Okay, localize your search. See if you find a listing of warehouses anywhere near Phipps Plaza. Maybe if Price is drinking around there and is in walking distance, he may be stashing his victims near there. It’s thin on logic, but it’s better than starting nowhere.”
Chapter 10
Brooke was exhausted, and self-pitying tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. Moving a refrigerator may be an easy task for a man, but for someone of her four-foot-eight petite stature, she may as well be trying to move Mount Rushmore.
Still, as the hours ticked by, she did make progress, although it was far slower than she’d have preferred. She gauged the distance between where it currently was to the wall beneath the window…so close, but the gap was still too far from the wall. She sat down with her back against the fridge door, place her hands on the ground, pulled her knees up to provide the needed leverage, and then shoved as hard as she could. A moment later, it bumped to a stop. She stood and wiped her hands on her shirt, pleased that this part of her work was completed. Now she just needed to reach that window.
At this point, she wasn’t wasting any more of her precious time. She judged the top of the fridge to be about a foot and a half taller than herself. She stood on her tiptoes and latched onto the rusty edge. “I’m going to need a tetanus shot if I get cut,” she moaned, and then attempted to pull her weight up. She wasn’t a weakling, but after struggling with a fridge for hours, her arms’ muscles were shuddering with fatigue. After a few minutes of exertion, not accomplishing a thing, she let her arms and legs drop, and screamed in frustration at the top of her lungs. Tears pricked her eyes again and she suddenly had the urge to give up and wait for the police to free her. She was sick and tired of being tired, was even sicker of feeling helpless and crying as if hormonal.
The thought of sitting and doing nothing jarred her from her pity party and she shook away the feeling of helplessness. Time was ticking away fast. She had less than twenty hours remaining. It seemed a really long time, but so had the time she’d spent moving the fridge—it seemed forever until it wasn’t. The thought that she wouldn’t be able to climb up to the window and out to freedom fast enough, had her nerves jumping, producing a rush of adrenaline, and a renewed determination. She would get to that window or die trying. She certainly wasn’t going to sit on her haunches waiting on someone else to rescue her. She returned to her tiptoes, reached up and latched hold again.
“Please,” she whispered, and immediately put her feet against the side panel, pulling with all of her might as her toes shimmied up the side. Within minutes, she topped the old green Kenmore. She immediately noticed the rusted, pitted surface and carefully moved about until she could sit without falling through the surface.
She released a sigh of relief, “Me, two, Christian…well, he’s still got the advantage, but I’m about to change that! I’m getting out of here—as soon as my body stops quaking.”
After ten minutes and with exaggerated care, she moved to a standing position and her hope again waned. Two things made this endeavor potentially undoable.
The first was the condition of the top, which she wished she’d known about before making the effort to use the fridge as an escape tool. Still, she was up here now, so she just needed to move about gingerly. She shifted her feet to the sides, but that stance shaved a couple of inches from her height, which brought her mind to bear on her second issue—the height to the window.
That window was far higher than she’d first estimated. She did a quick mental calculation. The fridge was approximately seventy inches high. She was a diminutive fifty-six inches high, minus two inches for her widened stance, which put her at one-hundred-twenty-four inches from the floor. A little over ten feet. She craned her neck and decided that it was a twenty-foot ceiling, which meant the window was situated about eight feet above her head. She wasn’t going to make that by leaping.
Eight feet.
She sighed loudly, “Dear sweet Jesus, how in the name of all that’s holy, am I going to make that distance? There’s got to be some way.”
She examined the brick wall carefully, noting the uneven lay of the bricks and the many areas in which the concrete in between had deteriorated and crumbled away, leaving more than enough crannies to latch onto. She glanced down at her feet, size five, and then imagined her tiny toes gripping the bricks.
“Would it be possible?” It was risky, but so was waiting here to die. She reached up beneath her skirt and tugged the hose down, slipping them off carefully, so she didn’t teeter off the side of the small surface she was standing on.
“There, now there’s nothing between me and those nooks,” she observed, but still hesitated in starting the climb. It wasn’t that she thought herself incapable, but one false move and she could take a serious tumble, one that could break bone. She sighed heavily.
“Just pretend you’re rock climbing and don’t dwell on the fact that you’ve never rock-climbed a day in your life. Think only of freedom.”
She took a deep breath and let it out with a ‘whoosh’, then reached up to the nearest hole that she was certain her fingers could latch onto and then positioned her foot on one closer to where she stood. It was an experimental start, to ensure that she’d be able to pull her weight up the wall. She tugged her body upward and remained suspended there for a few seconds and then lowered herself back down. She drew in a deep steadying breath.
“Okay, it’s doable, and as this looks to be my only solution for escaping…here I go.”
Chapter 11
Nov 1, 6:30 a.m.
“Good morning, Atlanta, and welcome to the six-thirty edition of Channel 5 news. I’m Patricia Wheaton.”
“And I’m Charles Braxton. This hour marks a deadline rapidly closing in for our men in blue.”
“That’s right, Charles. On the evening before Halloween, we were notified by an anonymous source that Atlanta resident, Brooke Madison, had been abducted, and her assailant had given local police only thirty-six hours in which to locate the victim or she would die. As of this morning, police have only one hour to reach that deadline.”
“It certainly is tense, Patricia, especially as all eyes are currently on the Atlanta Police Department at this hour, who are scouring every inch of every warehouse in the Atlanta district.”
“Channel 5 correspondent, Tanya Marks, has been following social media to get a feel for local response to this crisis. Tanya?”
"Thank you, Patricia. Since we first aired this story yesterday morning, social media sites have been bombarded with comments regarding this incident. Some people who know Brooke have been sending prayers and messages of hope to her family, while others are urging police to do their job and find her. One post, however, has received a multitude of responses, some supportive and others condemning the comment as callous. The post was by screen name ‘I am de man’.
“‘I am de man’ writes: ‘What makes this woman so special?’”
Christian’s gaze shot up from the computer monitor and he grinned, listening intently.
“He goes on to write: ‘Men, women, and children of Atlanta, and in other cities, die on a daily basis, yet they receive no notice. The police make only a half effort to locate their killer, but put the police on a clock and shine the light of media on them, and suddenly it appears that they have a heart and truly care. Why is that? Why can’t they treat every missing person’s case, every burglary, or every homicide with the same due diligence?’”
“They can’t even catch clues when they are thrown right into their faces,” Christian said sardonically, looking at the screen name he’d created in which to write that post. Using ‘I Am De Man’ had been a brash in-your-face, out-of-character move for him, but he was sincerely tired of killing. Tired of his attempts to light a fire beneath local law enforcement’s failings. With Detective Hardwick on this case, he naively believed he’d be leaving Atlanta with only one kill, that Brooke would be spared, that he’d be marking this particular city off his list i
n which he needed to conduct experiments.
He sighed loudly and returned his attention to the monitor, watching as Brooke made a pathetic attempt to scale a brick wall. She’d stopped and restarted several times by his calculations over the course of the day yesterday, each time gaining a slighter higher distance on the wall before giving up and moving back down, only to rest for a short bit before trying again. He winced, wondering when she’d drop off the wall and straight off the fridge onto the concrete floor, or crash through the top. He shuddered at that thought. He knew it was likely that her life would be forfeit in about an hour; however, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t care about her wellbeing until then. He did feel for her efforts, knowing they were costing her a lot—in both energy, and damage to her flesh. He couldn’t see her fingers or toes, but as many times as she’d started up and down the wall, he knew that those digits had to be raw by now, bleeding. And if that wasn’t bad enough, her muscles had to be screaming in agony from the attempts to hold on to a surface that wasn’t meant to be held onto.
During the entire day, yesterday, he’d watch as she tested her confidence and ability to shimmy up a wall—like Spiderman, minus the special abilities. She would climb as far as she thought able, look down at her progress, then slowly return. He didn’t know why she always stopped and scooted down instead of pushing through the agony and continuing to the window. He could only surmise that she stopped when she felt her grip giving way and felt it better to scoot back down and rest than lose that grip and crash.
It wasn’t until around 11 p.m. last night that exhaustion, or the realization surrounding her circumstances, finally overtook her and she stopped her attempts. She slid off the top of the fridge and moved to the bed, sitting down heavily. She drew her knees up and lie her head down. At first, with the rise and fall of her shoulders, he thought she was crying silently, but soon after, she tilted sideways, fell onto her side, and then stretched out fully. She’d fallen asleep.
He was certain that was the end of her attempts, but around 4 a.m. she woke with a start, stretched, and climbed back atop the fridge, as if prompted by an unseen force. He wanted to tell her to patiently wait on the police, that they were scheduled to rescue her within a few hours, but he could not fault her wanting to try to save herself. If it were he in her position, he’d be doing the same. After all, anyone with a lick of common sense knew not to rely too heavily on local law enforcement. They were simply overworked and undermanned, or too apathetic.
He shook his head and cringed when she reached for the wall then withdrew with a sharp inhalation. She stood examining her appendages, confirming his suspicions that trying to scale a brick wall was hurting her. Still, he was impressed. Not many women he’d encountered had the fight in them that she did. It made him will the police to find her all the more. This was one woman that deserved to live.
She started determinedly back up the wall, pushing past the pain, and had been at it for the better part of the early morning. He turned his gaze away from the monitor and glanced at the stopwatch on the desk next to him, the seconds ticking away. The police now had less than forty-five minutes left in which to locate her. After an entire day-and-a-half of searching, he doubted they would succeed now.
A piercing scream rent the air and he jerked his gaze back to the monitor, watching with macabre interest as Brooke lost her grip from halfway up the brick wall and crashed through the rusted top of the Kenmore. The screaming continued, though the tone had changed from one of fear to one of agony. Although he could no longer see her, he easily envisioned her inside the old fridge, one or both legs broken.
“Oh, my dear Brooke, it would appear you must rely on the police to save you after all, although I wouldn’t hold out hope. I know I’ve given up hope, which is why it’s time for me to start considering my next victim. Don’t worry though, my dear. I’ll be here until the very end. Perhaps you’ll pass out from the shock and die peacefully unconscious. It’s always my preference that my victims be awake at the end, but for you…well, I wish unconsciousness. You’ve suffered enough.”
With a heavy sigh, he stood. It was time to start cleaning up his gear and getting set to leave. His faith in Hardwick and the Atlanta P.D. may have waned, but his faith in technology was still very high, and he knew that once he placed that final call to inform them of Brooke’s whereabouts, they’d start a trace. He didn’t know whether tracing a burner cell was even possible with current technology, but it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.
He gave a quick glance at his stopwatch. He’d be making that call in thirty minutes, which meant that before he finalized tear down, he needed to do one final thing. He clicked a button on his computer, which activated the speaker he’d set up inside the warehouse, “If you’re awake, I just want you to know I’m sorry for your pain, Brooke, but you won’t have to endure for much longer now.”
Chapter 12
Nov 1, 7:25 a.m.
“Nothing? The patrols have found nothing?” Hardwick yelled in frustration, slamming his hands against the steering wheel.
“And neither have we,” Wilson said, stifling a yawn. Given more time, he knew that Hardwick would have found the girl and caught the perp too. He had a good record for closing cases. He was one of the reasons that crime in Zone 5 remained low, but the pressure of being thrust into a race against time was more than his psyche could bear.
The radio squawked and both men became more alert. Hardwick snatched at the receiver, “Go for Hardwick.”
“Hardwick, this is Cortez. I thought you should know that my research turned up something interesting. It would appear that our man, Christian Price, has been very busy up and down the east coast. In five cities, that I’ve discovered thus far, there have been twenty murders with a similar M.O., in which the perp has given police a time limit in which to locate his victims; sometimes thirty-six hours, sometimes as little as twelve hours. Police didn’t make a connection because of the diversity of the time limits and the types of kills. Now, get this. In each instance, as the number of kills increased, he’s assisted the police almost to the point of absurdity, providing everything but the actual location, so that the police could swoop in and save the day. Only when a victim was rescued, did this guy stop his ‘experiments’.”
“He went by the name Christian Price?”
“No. In some cases, he didn’t provide a name. In others, he used a different name altogether.”
“So, he’s very interested in us finding and saving his victims, but he’s less eager to be found himself.”
“Considering what’s he’s done, I can’t say as…uh-oh.”
“What, what is it?” Wilson asked, but a quick glance at the clock told them both why Cortez had made that outburst. It was 7:30 a.m. Time was up.
Over the radio, Hardwick and Wilson heard the phone ring and Hardwick closed his eyes in despair, waiting.
“This is Detective Cortez.”
After a short pause, Cortez continued, “No, Detective Hardwick is out on patrol. I can patch you through.”
Another short pause followed and then Cortez came back on the radio.
“You know who’s calling, Hardwick, so I’ll put him through to you.”
Hardwick drew in a deep breath and released it quickly, “We need to run a trace.”
“Already started.”
“Okay. I’ll do what I can to keep him talking.” He took another deep breath and then told Cortez to connect the caller.
“This is Detective Hardwick.”
“I held out such high hopes for you,” the caller said softly, but that didn’t lessen the anger emanating from his tone.
“You’re a murdering son of a bitch, and I’ll see you hang for this,” Hardwick retorted, his breathing heavy. “Tell me where she is!” he demanded. “There’s still time for us to get to her. You don’t have to kill her.”
Christian sniffed loudly, then responded in a tone devoid of emotion, “You will find Brooke at 565 Northside Drive, SW. Dis
patch an ambulance also. If she is still alive, she will need serious medical attention. And Detective, I suggest you allow your men to take some time off. We’ll start again later.”
Before Hardwick could snap another response, the connection went dead.
“Radio Cortez back,” he commanded, accelerating toward Northside Drive.
“We’re only a few miles from there,” Wilson said softly, picking up the microphone.
“Yeah,” Hardwick responded. “Too close. Atlanta is simply too big a city, too many places to hide someone. We could have come upon it eventually, but not necessarily at all. Give Cortez the address and don’t forget that ambulance.”
A quick glance in his rearview showed the Channel 5 truck, following along behind him. They’d not left his vicinity since last night. He’d hope, beyond hope, that releasing a sketch of Christian Price would see the man in custody, but he’d avoided detection, and now a woman was dead, or was soon to be, and he was going to have to explain to that very media why he’d failed. It was something he wasn’t used to. He was used to catching the bad guys and saving the innocent victims.
As he squealed to a stop, he barely threw his car into park before leaping out. Cassandra Bouchard exited her car just as fast and came racing along after him, her cameraman hot on her heels.
“Detective,” she shouted, sprinting up to Hardwick, microphone extended, “we’ve just received a phone call that another woman will be kidnapped tomorrow. Do you have a comment on that, or why the entire police force was unable to locate Brooke Madison before the perpetrator released a deadly gas that killed her?”
Chapter 13
After a long while, Brooke finally stopped screaming, though the pain in her leg was more than she’d suffered in her entire life. She glanced down at the bone protruding from her calf muscle and started crying.
