Tracing a Kidnapper

by Juno Rushdan

“A long time, I know,” Dash said. “Turns out that Chloe Lasiter bought the nanny agency that Jackson used. I spoke with the placement coordinator. She claims she’s never met Lasiter in person, but that Chloe was the one who hired Liane. Guess when? One week before Jackson’s previous nanny had a car accident that forced her to quit.”

  She hired her own alter ego, then took out the caregiver in order to replace her. That was creepy.

  The degree of deception Liane had gotten away with was staggering. It unnerved Madeline, chilling her to the marrow. The commitment. The patience. The high level of manipulation and organization. Liane was a psychopath. Calculating and carefully plotting each move, using focused aggression in a planned-out manner to get what she wanted.

  No wonder Liane had been a mile ahead of them. She’d had two years to devise every step.

  “But she had an alibi.” Madeline thought about all the ways she’d been diverted from looking deeper into the woman as a suspect. “You saw it yourself. She was at the movie theater for three and half hours.”

  “We watched the footage again. During the playback we saw how she did it. After she hit the concession stand and entered the theater, she changed her top. Actually she put on a black hoodie and removed her wig and glasses. It must’ve been hidden in the backpack. We caught it this time because of her shoes. The same Converse sneakers. When we zoomed in, it was her. Not only that, but there’s also more. Once I confirmed it was her, I checked the cinema’s parking lot footage. She drove the black Ford Transit to the movies. That means—”

  “Emma had been in the back of the van at the time.”

  “Liane parked at the far end of the lot away from any other cars,” Dash said. “If the kid had been in there, tied up and gagged, no one would’ve heard her.”

  Madeline’s stomach churned into a knot. “The last text Jackson received from her came through while she was sitting across from me in the interview room. How did she pull that off?”

  “She must have used a timed app to send the message. Deliberately synced it to happen while she was at the office to throw us again,” he said. “And you’re not going to believe this. The name Liane Strothe is an anagram for Theon Lasiter. It’s almost as if she wanted Jackson to figure it out. She’s been right in front of us the whole time. We just didn’t have all the pieces to see it.”

  Questions cascaded through Madeline’s head in a deluge. “What about the background check you ran on her?”

  “Looks like she must’ve paid a pretty penny for the extensive identity she had created. It was professional. Done by the best of the best. Detailed to look and feel real. The data trail went all the way to childhood medical records.”

  An identity invented and two years invested to get back at Jackson. The knot in her stomach tightened. This whole time they had been playing the wrong game. They didn’t even know who the hell Chloe Lasiter was.

  But Madeline was going to find out.

  “We got an address for Lasiter. Purchased under an LLC Theon had formed with her for privacy,” Dash said. “She owns a house on the north side of town. Near Sand Point.” He rattled off the address. “Isolated area located far from any other homes. It’s likely she’s holding the girl in her garage or basement. Nick and I are headed there now with the police to search the place.”

  That would be easier said than done.

  “If you’re still in Olympic Manor, you’ve got time to meet us for the raid.”

  “I’m not.” She was on the opposite side of Lake Washington. “Listen, Chloe Lasiter has been the epitome of careful, organized. You guys need to take extra precautions. The woman is an expert at bomb making and booby traps. She won’t just let you waltz in and take Emma. She’ll defend the house.”

  “Lasiter never thought we’d figure out her real identity. That’s what she considers to be her safe house. Still, we’re playing it by the book. Nick coordinated with the bomb unit and SWAT. We’re all en route together. Every precaution that can be taken is. Seriously, don’t...worry...the kid...be there,” he said, breaking up. “...got this...covered.”

  If he was right and they took Liane by surprise, things could still go wrong. Getting caught wasn’t part of her plan and she certainly wasn’t finished with Jackson. No telling what else she had in store for him, and there weren’t going to be any exceptions regarding the target of her vengeance. Liane had gotten a taste of power, enjoyed the sweetness of her revenge and wasn’t ready to give that up. Being forced to deviate from her plan would make her panic.

  Panic was a potent thing. Highly volatile like tree resin. It had the power to change a person. Robbed them of rational thought. Thus far, Liane hadn’t killed anyone, but Madeline knew all too well that panic could turn a person into a murderer. All that was needed was the equivalent of a lit match.

  Madeline clenched the steering wheel, her palms growing sweaty. “How far out are you?” she asked.

  “We’ll be...in fifteen minutes.”

  Madeline factored the time it would take her to turn around and drive clear across town to meet them. Forty minutes at best. “I’m almost at the Survivalist Zone site,” she said, slowing down on the rocky road. “Be there in ten minutes.” That was her best guess off the time estimate Dennis had given her since there was no address to load in the GPS. “I still want to check it out.” No point in wasting the drive. “Call me as soon as you search the place and let me know what you find, one way or the other.”

  “Hello? Hello? Madeline, I...can’t—”

  The signal cut out.

  Great. She checked her phone. No bars. She looked around beyond the trees to the hills and mountains of the valley she was in. The terrain must be interfering with the cell phone signal.

  She passed an ETC sign warning against trespassers and to only enter the area at your own risk.

  * * *

  A QUARTER OF a mile from the Lasiter house, Nick stopped the vehicle, and everyone else pulled over behind him. It took two minutes to huddle up. The best route of approach was through the woods where the suspect wouldn’t see them coming. She lived off the beaten path with the closest neighbor half a mile down the road.

  “The suspect should be considered armed and dangerous,” Nick said to the team of law enforcement assembled. “She’s proficient in homemade explosives and setting booby traps. SWAT will check the rear entrance, which is the target ingress point, for any explosive devices. If they find something, the bomb squad will take care of it. Once inside, we need to move quickly but cautiously. Sharp eyes as you clear rooms because we don’t know if there might be any nasty surprises waiting for us. Remember, the suspect is holding a six-year-old girl captive in a room with no windows, a garage or a basement. Our number-one goal is to get the hostage out unharmed.”

  They needed to bring this case to a close. The right way. No shots fired and no casualties was preferred.

  Everyone acknowledged the directives.

  Nick’s adrenaline surged as he drew his service weapon and gave the signal for the team to move out.

  They crept through the woods, silent and alert. It was a good thing there were no neighbors in the vicinity. One less thing to contend with. One less factor to cause a complication that could affect the outcome.

  Once they made it to the edge of the wood line, Nick whispered into comms, “Hold. Everyone hold.”

  The house was a two-bedroom ranch style. Fifteen hundred square feet. Drawn curtains covered the windows, blocking a view of the interior.

  Nick watched for a minute while he slipped a tactical light on the rail of his Glock. No sign of movement inside, no shadows, no lights, no rustling of the curtains. Then he gave the hand signal for SWAT to advance.

  The four-man team hustled up to the rear door, taking their positions. Using their equipment and a tactical under-door camera, two men checked the entrance for explosives. Everyone else waited, tense a
nd watchful. A quick thumbs-up indicated it was all clear. This was it. The other two guys swung forward with a battering ram.

  There was nothing for Nick to do besides prepare to enter, steadying his nerves, which were the byproduct of adrenaline. Being wired and impatient served nobody. He smoothed out emotions like ice under a Zamboni and then he was ready to rock and roll.

  The ones holding the battering ram had an internal count bred from practice—fast, efficient, fluid. On the third swing they breached the door.

  Boom! The force brought the door down, tearing it from its hinges.

  Nick and Dash were already on the move. They swept inside the house, going in a different direction from SWAT.

  The interior was dimly lit with no natural light filtering in. Nick switched on the flashlight he had attached to his weapon. Dash did the same.

  The garage was on the west side of the house, where Nick and Dash were headed.

  Over comms, the others reported in as they cleared rooms. No kid. No Chloe. Nothing.

  At the garage door, Nick and Dash positioned themselves on either side of the frame with their backs to the wall. Any potential explosive devices were more likely to have been placed at an exterior door or window. They exchanged a glance and Nick nodded, giving the go-ahead.

  Dash tried the doorknob. It would be quieter and easier if it was unlocked. The knob turned. He swung the door open and pulled back in case of any incoming gunfire.

  With his gun at the ready, Nick was the first through the door. Dash followed in.

  The garage was empty, and the walls were bare. There were no signs that anyone had been held hostage.

  Reporting in over the radio, Nick moved back toward the center of the house.

  One of the SWAT guys came up to him in the kitchen. “No basement and no attic. But we found something you’ll want to see.”

  Nick followed him into the living room.

  One half of the main wall was covered in newspaper articles. Nick swept his flashlight over the headlines and read them. Some Liam had found and discussed. Others were about the success of the Survivalist Zone video game, Theon Lasiter winning an award, Jackson selling the games and cutting the department to make billions in profit. Theon Lasiter’s suicide. Jackson braving a new frontier for ETC.

  Nick and Dash shared a look, then they moved down to the other side of the wall.

  A picture of Jackson Rhodes with a red X drawn over his face was front and center at the middle of a web. Chloe had drawn lines to the connections. The nanny agency. The Duwamish site. Emma Rhodes. Maybe web wasn’t the right word. It was a labyrinth of pain and misery that she had plotted out. All of it led to one final piece. The Survivalist Zone site—the image looked exactly like the cover of the video game.

  “That’s where she’s holding Emma,” Dash said.

  “Maybe that’s her endgame, where she wants to finish it. So that Jackson will know why. I mean, none of this means anything unless Jackson understands what he did wrong in her mind and why he’s being punished.”

  “Then why hasn’t she lured him out there already?” Dash asked.

  Nick shrugged, thinking it through. “She hasn’t had the chance. Madeline has been with him the entire time. Chloe needs him alone and unmonitored.”

  Dash looked at him, his eyes widening with concern. “But Madeline is on her way out there now.”

  Someone flicked on the light switch.

  There was a popping sound. Then electricity hissed and crackled. The smell of pine and burning wires permeated the air.

  “Move! It’s rigged!” someone else yelled. “Go! Go!”

  Nick and Dash bolted for the back door. But SWAT jumped through windows. Their exit was faster, smarter. Nick cut to the right, heading for the closest window. Raising his arm to shield his face, he dived through the pane of glass and rolled onto the grass. Dash leaped through next, landing beside him, just as the bomb went off.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Madeline stopped at the locked gate to the Survivalist Zone mock-up. In between the six-foot-high bars, she saw a cabin. One story with a chimney. Looked like any other cozy cabin. Part of her expected to see some kind of obstacle course, but according to Dennis Garcia the point was that intruders weren’t meant to see the defenses.

  She punched in the code Jackson had given her and it worked.

  Pushing the gate open, she looked around at the lush evergreens, listened to the wind whispering through the soft needles. The forest was serene.

  She drove through, leaving the gate open, and parked a few feet from the cabin.

  At the small porch, she checked for hidden traps before stepping up on it. The doorknob twisted, and she pushed the door in, staying outside in case something had been triggered.

  But there was nothing. She entered, one step at a time, looking and listening as she went.

  With a quick glance around the open space, Madeline determined that no one was inside, though someone had been. The unmade cast-iron bed had been occupied recently. She put her hand to the side of a thermos on the table. It was warm.

  Pushing her jacket behind the holster on her hip, she put her hand on her weapon.

  The cabin had windows with no curtains, which let in plenty of natural light. The floor and walls were wood. Bare, not plastered with newspaper. Except for one.

  Madeline crossed the room. On the wall, near the top, was a picture of Theon, smiling, holding a copy of his video game in one hand and in the other an award—a statuette that resembled the Winged Victory of Samothrace but with a head. Below the photo was a list of actions Jackson had taken that led to the obituary of Theon Lasiter. Madeline glanced over at a metal chair that was bolted to the floor and faced the wall.

  Was the chair meant for Jackson?

  Maybe Chloe wanted to draw Jackson here, intended to put him on trial, have him face the evidence of what she considered his crime to be.

  If Chloe was out here and not at Sand Point, then where was Emma? The large open space of the cabin didn’t resemble the room from the picture that Emma had been in.

  Madeline’s gaze fell and she noticed the twin-size bed was in a weird spot in relation to everything else in the room. As though it should have been pushed against the wall, but instead it was in the middle of the room. She stepped back and lowered to one knee.

  One of the legs on the bed was positioned over a door in the floor. Madeline got up and shoved the bed to the side. She tugged on the door handle.

  The hatch door lifted, revealing a hanging rope ladder that led to a lit room belowground.

  Madeline climbed down, one hand on the ladder and the other planted on the grip of her gun. Halfway on her descent, she turned and came eye to eye with Emma.

  A wave of relief swept over Madeline. She’d found her.

  The little girl looked so much like Jackson. She was sitting on a bed that had a gray wool blanket, playing with a doll. Her glassy brown eyes flared wide as she pulled her legs up to her chest and drew back against the wall.

  “You don’t need to be afraid of me, Emma. My name is Madeline,” she said, jumping off the ladder and looking the child over. Her face was clean, her hair brushed. Remnants of a sandwich, a bottle of water and a Hershey’s bar wrapper were on a small table nearby. “I’m an agent with the FBI. It’s like the police. I’m also a friend of your dad. I’m here to help you. To bring you home.”

  Madeline glanced around the bunker. The floor was concrete, as were the walls. Without the newspaper to hide the fact that the walls were made of bare concrete, it would’ve been easy to tell that Emma was being kept in a cellar. Or a bunker.

  Emma leaped off the bed and ran to Madeline, dropping the doll at her feet. “Where’s my daddy?” The girl’s voice shook. “I want to go home.”

  Madeline gathered Emma into a tight hug. “Your dad is waiting for you. He miss
es you so much.”

  The girl squeezed back, and an unfamiliar warmth flooded Madeline.

  She wasn’t used to this struggle to balance her emotions with her job. As though the two had to remain separate in the same manner she held herself apart from everyone. Never allowed herself to get close, to become attached. Until Jackson. For so long she believed cutting herself off was the only way to protect herself when she had only been cheating herself.

  Maybe she was strong enough to dedicate herself to a purpose and have a life.

  Pulling back from the hug, Madeline took out her phone and thumbed a quick message to Jackson so he’d know Emma was all right.

  The message failed to send. No reception, she reminded herself.

  Emma tugged on Madeline’s jacket. “She’ll be back soon,” the girl whispered.

  “How do you know?”

  “She told me that someone was here. To stay quiet while she took a look and that if I didn’t, she would hurt Daddy.”

  Not only was Chloe at the site, but she was aware that Madeline was, too.

  Madeline ushered Emma to the ladder. “We’re going to get out of here, sweetheart. Right now.” She helped the child up, staying behind her on the ladder.

  When Madeline climbed out of the bunker back into the room, Emma was staring at the wall with Theon’s picture.

  “That wasn’t there earlier,” the little girl said.

  Chloe must be close to ending this if she had just hung up her version of evidence.

  Madeline took Emma by the hand. “Let’s go.” They rushed through the door and hurried toward the SUV, but Madeline stopped short.

  “What’s wrong?” Emma asked. “Why aren’t we leaving?”

  All four tires were flat. Slashed. And the gate was closed.

  They weren’t driving out of there.

  Chloe was close by. Probably watching them now.

  Madeline looked around, scanning the woods, and hauled the little girl back inside the cabin. “Change of plans, Emma. I have—”