And Then There Was One

by Patricia Gussin

  Streeter took a call from SWAT communication. “We’re approaching the perimeter. Starting the roadblocks. We’ve been waiting for this call for five days, sir. We’re ready to rock and roll.”

  Streeter wished he could call the Monroe parents. But of course he’d have to wait. What if the girls weren’t there? What if all this was a wild-goose chase?

  “We got a hit on the car,” a female voice blurted through the radio. “Brown Escort, Michigan license plate number ending in fortyeight. Registered to a Margaret Spansky, Parker Road, Holly. So she owns the car and the property. Driver’s license picture matches the police sketch. Looks like the real deal.”

  Streeter checked the clock — 10:45 p.m. His driver had pulled off the road against a clump of leafy bushes within the perimeter they had blocked off, but out of sight of the target address. “Fifteen minutes till takedown,” he mumbled. “God, let this go down on the side of the angels.”

  From his spot off the road, Streeter could feel, more than see, the SWAT team creep up to the house on Parker Road. His window rolled down, he heard the occasional engine, but not a human voice. Nor did he hear the helicopter yet, nor would he until the exact moment of impact.

  Which happened at precisely the appointed moment. As soon as the targeted area came alive with floodlights, Streeter instructed his driver to position the car behind the emergency vehicles that were creeping into place. Although against protocol, he got out of the car and stood behind it, listening to the shout of “FBI” as the team in flack jackets surrounded the house, forced their way through the door, and poured inside.

  Streeter listened so intently at first that he didn’t hear the crackle of his radio inside the vehicle. His driver handed him the receiver.

  “Sir, we’re inside. Nobody’s here. But they were, not long ago. You’re clear to come in. Sorry, sir.”

  “Shit,” Streeter’s heart plummeted as he trudged up the muddy driveway. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Traverse City National Writers Series to Host Master Crime Novelist Elmore Leonard.

  — Traverse City Record-Eagle, June 2009

  “Ma, will you quit yappin’. The kid’s not gonna suffocate.”

  “You gotta stop for gas pretty soon. I’ll just check her out then.”

  “Sure,” Spanky said, just to shut her up. Like he was gonna let her open that trunk under the lights of a gas station. She was right that he’d have to stop for gas. Stations were few and far between on the back roads he was taking. There’d have to be one near Bay City. From there he’d drive north and west, avoiding I-75. If he drove nonstop, he’d pull into the cottage around eleven thirty. Maybe later, ’cause he had to keep the speed down to legal.

  “I hear something,” Marge tugged at his sleeve. If only she’d pay as much attention to the shit she was in. Instead she worries herself to death about Precious back there.

  “The kid’s just banging around. Means she’s doing fine.”

  If the woman would just shut the fuck up. Give him quiet to think. This four-hour drive was nothing compared to his Detroit-Miami-Detroit run, but then he had peace and quiet.

  Spanky had lots to figure out. Like how would he get the money? How much to demand? There was already a one hundred grand reward. So he’d ask for more. Maybe double. Not too much or they’d put more effort into stopping him. Scott Monroe must have socked away a load when he was catching in the majors. And everybody knew that psychiatrists charged hundreds of dollars an hour. He calculated mentally. What would they have in the bank? Then he just laughed out loud. It was the aunt that put the reward money on the table and that woman was loaded. She had her own plane. That had to cost her more than he was going to ask to get her niece back. Go with two hundred grand, he decided. He’d give it more thought when Ma calmed down, but for now that seemed a good number.

  “Spanky, are you listening to me?”

  “What?” he asked, distracted by his mental arithmetic, and reminding himself to look for a place to gas up.

  “I mean it, Spanky, I gotta go. Real bad. I got this bladder condition, you know.”

  He did know because he’d seen boxes of those adult diapers.

  “Gotta hold it, Ma, ’til the next station.”

  “I can’t,” she squealed. Seeing her squirm, he wondered if she had a diaper on now. Maybe not. What if she went in the car and he had to smell piss all the way?

  “Okay,” he said, spying a clearing ahead. He braked and pulled off the road.

  “I need to go in a proper ladies’ room.”

  Spanky couldn’t help a chuckle at the horrified look on her face.

  “Just get out and go,” he said. “I’ll close my eyes. And nobody’s comin’ down the road.”

  Facing her, he dramatically squeezed his eyes shut until he heard the car door open. Maybe he’d hop out and take a piss, too. That’d be safer than going in a men’s room. Spanky swung his big frame out of the car as Marge had finished urinating. He’d just unzipped his fly when he saw her heading toward the trunk.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he said. “She waits till we get there.”

  “What if she has to go now?”

  “Guess she’ll have to pee her panties. Maybe you should have put one of your diapers on her? Now get back in the car while I take a leak.”

  “Spanky, that’s not very nice,” she said. “How do you know about that?”

  “We don’t have any secrets between us, do we, Ma? Oh shit,” Spanky said, banging his fist on the fender. “Fucking shit.” For a moment he stood beside the car, not getting in. “Secrets” and “panties” had triggered something.

  “Spanky, is something the matter?” Marge hesitated before opening the passenger door.

  Yes, something is the fucking matter. We are in the middle of a kidnapping scam, number one. Number two, I left something behind in my truck. Stuff I’d been savin’ for a while, my collection; twenty of them now.

  He knew that his mother knew about his stash. When he was home, he stored his trophies in a chest under his bed, and he could tell whenever someone peeked inside. But Ma had never said a word about it. So was it really a secret? Didn’t matter. He wouldn’t have to collect panties anymore. He’d buy those day-of-the-week pastel ones for his little Precious and he would wash them out by hand in the sink. He could feel the touch of the fabric in his hands. It made him want to jerk off right then. But he’d have to wait until Ma went to sleep. Then he’d slip into bed beside Precious.

  “Everything’s cool, Ma,” he said. “Just hafta figure out what we’re gonna do next.”

  Spanky prided himself on two skills. There wasn’t a vehicle that he couldn’t fix. And once he looked at a map, there wasn’t a road that he couldn’t follow. In his mind he had the itinerary memorized up until they had to take a series of private dirt roads. He’d need Ma to navigate those. He hadn’t been to the log cabin on Elk Lake since he’d been an eight-year-old kid, twenty-five years ago.

  Alex fell asleep in the trunk of Maggie’s car. Luckily, she wasn’t afraid of the dark, like Sammie. She even used to practice walking around in the dark, pretending she was blind. She’d been crying for a long time, her eyes burned, and it felt good to close them. Before she drifted off to sleep, she arranged the stuff surrounding her in the trunk. She put everything with sharp edges in the back and she piled the softer bundles in front of them. She took the Sleeping Beauty bedspread and curled up inside, propping her head on the pillow and hugging Sammie’s teddy. Now she was glad she had Sammie’s. The gray teddy made her feel like Sammie was not that far away. And Sammie would get the police, and soon she and Sammie would be back with Mom and Dad. But what about Jackie? Had she already died of some terrible disease?

  Alex woke up when she felt the car stop. It was totally dark and for a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she heard voices outside and remembered. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could tell it was Maggie and that man. She held Sammie’s te
ddy very close to her chest, and tried to think of what Sammie would do. Sammie would fight, that’s what she’d do.

  Alex crawled out of her cocoon and felt around her. For what she didn’t know, but her hands found what felt like a canvas bag with a zipper. She fumbled to unzip it, and when she did she reached inside, feeling something cool and hard, like metal. For a minute she thought it might be a flashlight, and her fingers frantically searched for an offon switch. She couldn’t find one, so she used the object to bang on the side of the trunk. She made a lot of noise, but no one came and opened the trunk. She hoped that Sammie would have found help, but how could anyone know where to find this car? Then she heard two car doors slam and the car started moving again.

  Marge was so mixed up. She’d waited so long for her two little girls, and now she’d lost one. Spanky should have tried harder to find Jessica. That’s what her heart told her, but in her head she knew that they had to take Jennifer and run.

  What would she have done all those years ago if only Jessica had drowned and if Jennifer was still alive? Wouldn’t she have loved Jennifer and done anything in the world for her? Marge silently shook her head as Spanky drove the last twenty-five miles from the resort atmosphere of Traverse City to Elk Rapids, a sleepy town between Grand Traverse Bay to the west and Elk Lake to the east. The skies were dark with rain as they’d left Detroit, but up North there was no rain, she could make out every star.

  “We’re almost there,” she said as Spanky took the turn leading to the shores of Elk Lake. The roads were deserted, and Marge hoped the cottage was as pristine and isolated as it had been twenty-six years ago.

  “What do we do if someone’s there?” Spanky asked. “It’s the middle of the season.”

  “Evan swore he’d never go back. His sister lives in Europe somewhere, and she’d only come in August. I remember there’s something about the deed. Like they have to keep it in the family.”

  “Fucking family.”

  Marge wished that her son did not use such bad language, but now wasn’t the time to scold him.

  “We’re close to the turn-off,” she said. “Go left on the gravel road about a mile.”

  Marge let out a deep breath as she recognized the Spansky property. She instructed Spanky to slow down and take the turn into the dirt driveway. There was so much overgrowth that she felt sure that no one stayed there. “I don’t think anyone’s here,” she said as the onestory log cabin came into view.

  “Not much traffic on this path,” Spanky stated the obvious. “But somebody could be in there. No lights, but it’s late. What if they’re asleep?”

  “Try the door.” Marge’s voice shook and her heart raced. Not with fear, but with the flood of anguish. Here was where she had lost her babies. “If it’s locked, I remember a secret way in.”

  Spanky tried the door. “Locked,” he said.

  “Okay,” Marge stepped out of the car onto the pine-strewn path, the headlights being the only source of light.

  “Lord almighty, this looks exactly like it did back then. The air smells so fresh.”

  “Just get going.” Spanky walked beside her along the side of the house until she paused at a certain point and bent low to the ground. She brushed aside saplings and thick clumps of weeds obscuring the recessed handle of a trapdoor leading to the basement. Marge gave a strong tug and the door creaked open. Then she brushed away enough debris to extend the opening wide enough for Spanky to crawl through.

  “Go down there, take the stairs up, and sneak around and check the bedrooms. There’re two. One on each side of the main room, the one with the fireplace.”

  “Hold this,” Spanky said, handing Marge the tire iron that he’d taken from his truck. “Shit, how am I supposed to fit through this space. Marge squeezed her eyes shut as he maneuvered his bulky frame through the rusty trapdoor. “Lemme have that back,” he grunted, holding out his hand for the iron.

  “Remember, you’re in the basement,” Marge said. “When you go up the steps, tiptoe to the bedrooms.”

  Marge was wondering whether she should get Jennifer out of the trunk when Spanky appeared at the front door.

  “Ain’t nobody here,” he called.

  “Don’t be so loud,” Marge whispered a warning. “Can Jennie come out now?”

  “I said, ain’t nobody here, Ma. Let’s unload the stuff first, then I’ll get the kid. Gonna hafta ditch this car.” He jerked his head toward the nearby moonlit woods. “Any place to hide it around here?”

  “Let me think,” Marge considered as they hauled plastic bags of groceries into the cottage. “But Spanky, we need a car. How will we get to the store?”

  “Got enough to hold us a few days. Maybe we’ll have to ‘borrow’ a car. Shit, Ma, what the fuck do I know? I need time to figure it out, but the cops’ll spot the car right off. I’ll hot-wire some wheels once we get a plan.”

  “There’s a swamp along the road. Evan always made us stay away. Maybe the car would sink enough so nobody’d see it, but it’s too dangerous tonight.”

  “I’ll park it in back for now. But Ma,” he glared at her, “once I get that kid inside, you be sure to tie her up good. I don’t wanna run all over hell lookin’ for her, too.”

  Marge took in a sharp breath. “Oh, my poor little Jessie. I hope she’s okay.”

  “Your precious little Jessie, or whatever the fuck her real name is, is rattin’ on you right now. Forget about her. One will be just fine.”

  Marge was too distracted by the baby carriages and high chairs and cribs in her mind to see the grin that spread over Spanky’s face.

  CHAPTER 47

  FBI Action in Holly, a Detroit Suburb.

  — Breaking News at Eleven, Friday, June 19

  Streeter bolted out of the car and pushed past a clutch of agents with FBI emblazoned on their flak jackets. They’d done their job, invaded the suspect property and secured it. Now the case was back in his hands, at least until the director called the SAC again to question his competency. What did the SWAT commander mean, nobody’s there, but they were, not long ago? What had gone wrong?

  Barging into the crushed door of the shabby frame house, Streeter demanded a report.

  “Lot of shit in here you have to see,” the team leader started. “Hell, I don’t know where to start. This is real fucked up.”

  “Get on with it,” Streeter said, following the agent down a flight of cement stairs.

  “That informant, Talbott, looks like this is where he delivered the twin beds that your guys thought was a crock of bull.”

  Streeter felt his face turn red from anger, or was it embarrassment?

  “Didn’t mean for it to come out that way. We’re all just frustrated, that’s all. My men have been on call night and day. Then we get here too fucking late.”

  “Just show me what you’ve got.” Streeter had no time to indulge his ego. “Geez, this is where they were?” He stared at the twin beds. One covered by a Cinderella comforter. The other bare except for the fitted sheet. Sleeping Beauty design. Just like Kellie’s, his youngest daughter. “How long ago?”

  “Don’t think it was long. Found a carton of ice cream left out on a counter upstairs. Almost melted. Maybe three to four hours.”

  “Shit.”

  Streeter tried to focus. Agents from the field office had joined the SWAT commander at the site, and they relayed what they knew of Margaret Spansky, age fifty, and her son, Samuel, age thirty-three. Owner-occupants of record. Margaret Spansky, confirmed as the owner of brown Ford Escort; Samuel Spansky, as the owner of the Ford pickup parked at the side of the house. She was employed by the Ford assembly plant in Flint. No police record. Just an ordinary citizen. He an independent trucker, nonunion. Petty arrests, drunk and disorderly. No convictions.

  “Check this out,” one of the agents said.

  “What?” Streeter’s attention had lapsed momentarily. When he looked up, his whole body shuddered at contents of a plastic box held out for his inspection. Streeter
felt a surge of bile fill his mouth and both hands flew to cover his mouth lest he vomit here in front of his peers and subordinates.

  “We found this in the truck, tucked under the front seat along with a half-empty box of forty-four magnum hollow point shells.” The agent handed Streeter the case, made of clear plastic, like something you’d keep a baseball card collection in. Or a paper doll collection like his middle daughter, Kassie’s. She had a box just like that. As Streeter took the box, he sensed all eyes were on him. An agent handed him a pair of gloves.

  He heard himself groan. “Oh, God, no.” Inside the box was a collection of little girls’ panties. Gingerly, with a gloved hand, he counted the individual items. “Twenty.”

  “Other strange things,” the SWAT commander said. “Come on upstairs. This you gotta see.”

  Streeter climbed two flights of stairs with several agents in his wake. En route, the commander pointed out the living room, nothing unusual. The kitchen, in disarray as if someone had thrown food around quickly. Like packing to get the hell out.

  “Upstairs, you’re gonna see what appears to be the woman’s bedroom. Neat, nothing unusual. The son’s bedroom, also unremarkable except for a collection of child porn. Guy’s a real pervert.”

  “Oh, God,” Streeter said again. How was he going to tell Katie and Scott Monroe?

  “But now for the weirdo thing. There’s a third bedroom. Check it out.”

  Streeter had peeked into the other two bedrooms, still shaking his head, but as he peered inside the third, he stopped short. A room decorated almost completely in pink: candy-striped wallpaper, carnation pink carpets, wall-to-wall shelves on two sides painted magenta and displaying a collection of eighteen-inch dolls in colorful, international costumes reminiscent of Disney’s “It’s a Small World.” Two identical cribs in hues of pink and lavender, tented with yards of hot pink satin canopies, dominated the room. Each crib held cuddly stuffed animals, all in soft colors. The closet door was open and inside he saw frilly dresses in pink, white, and yellow. There seemed to be two of each, ranging from toddler sizes to sizes that would fit his own daughters, Kloe, eight; Kassie, seven; and Kellie, five. And the Monroe triplets?