by Alex Gates
Fortunately, holiday traffic dotted the roads. Tim pulled from the subdivision and onto the more populous Route 19. I skipped out behind a Nissan and kept a couple car lengths behind as Tim led us outside of the town and into the darkness. Not a lot of people chose to drive through the wooded county park on Christmas Eve, and even less of them drove with such purpose.
North Park was a county recreational maze of trails and trees, but Tim blew past the ballfields and bike trails snaking into the woods. I turned off my lights and crept a quarter mile behind him. We moved slow as the road yielded to a hard-packed dirt path covered in snow.
I couldn’t follow with the car, but I sure as hell could track him on foot. I pulled off to the side, tossing Ben the keys. He pocketed them and laughed.
“If you think I’m letting you traipse off into the darkness alone, you’re more delusional than I realized. And take your goddamned cane. Jesus.” He swore as he rolled from the car and doused his boot into a wet puddle. “Is it too much to ask to spend my holiday drunk and alone?”
“There’s always New Years.”
“Yeah, let’s hope you don’t get me killed before we ring it in.”
Always an admirable goal.
We crossed the road, snow crunching under our boots. I pulled my cell and kept the screen dim for a flashlight. Ben chose to hold his gun. Wouldn’t be a holiday without writing a weapon’s discharge report.
The darkness swirled around us, the sky cloudy but not releasing the snow predicted for the idyllic Christmas morning. The car tracks led up a small incline, but Tim had parked at the top. His footprints traveled into the tree line. A shadow bobbed in the distance.
Running.
His desperate cry echoed over the woods.
“Kaitlyn!”
“Shit!” Ben kicked off the snow. “Is the kid here?”
If she was, it wouldn’t be for the right reasons.
We ran, but my leg was stiff from the hours sat in the cramped car. I dropped my cane, and the quick pain shot a wave of nausea through my gut. I fought through it with a frustrating limp. Ben sprinted ahead of me, shouting into the dark for Tim.
Too late.
The first pop echoed through the woods. The flash of a gun illuminated a spec in the trees. Ben pointed.
“I got him! You get Tim!”
Easier said than done. Tim had fallen, flailing in the snow with a furious, pained howl. Another shot fired into the night. A splash of snow narrowly missed his side. Icy dirt pelted him from the wide shot.
I slid to his side. His foot awkwardly bent behind him, pinned in a hole in the ground.
No.
Not a hole.
A trap.
A hole only big enough for a man’s foot, bordered with two pieces of wood that had been buried under the snow. The trap held Tim in place with thick nails, hammered through the wood. He’d stepped on a wire in the hole, flipping the wood upwards. The nails had dug into his ankle just before the bone snapped.
“Kaitlyn!” Tim’s screams echoed into the night. He grasped the air and battled the snow, the cold, his own broken bones to claw towards a bundle resting under a tree. “Kaitlyn, no!”
The hem of a blue dress fluttered in the breeze. Thin legs rested motionless on the snow.
I ran, tripped, and crawled, fighting the low hanging pine boughs to reach the child sleeping beneath the tree.
I fell to my knees.
She wasn’t sleeping.
Her hair was brushed, neatly pulled back with a pretty white bow. Her face was ashen, but in the night, in the snow covered quiet that was her final resting place, she looked almost porcelain. Lovely and bright. She’d grown so much from the pictures in her file.
Most of the pictures.
He’d folded her hands, tucking them prim and proper over her waist. No blanket, but she needed nothing now. Only peace.
She’d been so close to home.
My watch buzzed. The time read twelve o’clock.
And the kidnapper had left us a Christmas present, terrible, heart-breaking.
20
Do you realize it yet?
That hopelessness?
-Him
They buried Kaitlyn Gibson three days after Christmas and laid her to rest next to her brother.
I didn’t belong at her funeral. The glares and whispers proved it—the second failed detective on the case, unable to save a little girl from a terrible fate.
Even when she had been so close.
But I attended anyway. I lingered in the rear, far from the tears and prayers, solemn mourning and stoic disbelief. A child’s funeral was never a beautiful service.
But at least Kaitlyn had one.
A chance to acknowledge who she was, what she might have been.
Did that make it any easier? Better?
Comforting?
I huddled in my coat and leaned on my cane as I limped across the full parking lot. My steps slowed as I spotted the note tucked into my windshield wiper. The words were scrawled on the back of a prayer card.
L,
I’m terrified, but I don’t know what else to do.
I think Jason knows where Sophia is. He might be getting a ransom.
Please—you have to help. I don’t want her to die too.
-Michelle
The scribbled note was written in a great haste, dotted with cold ink against my car’s windshield.
Michelle Carter was terrified.
And she had a right to be.
The kidnapper didn’t want money or bribes. The child was enough. The little girl was greater than currency. It offered him control. Prestige. Pleasure.
And the closer the families got to the truth, the more dangerous he became. David Wicker was fortunate to only be cut by falling glass during the shooting. Tim Gibson put off surgery on his broken ankle to attend his daughter’s funeral.
The kidnapper had only punished the fathers for their attempts to free their children. God only knew what would happen if he targeted the rest of the family.
Especially the Carters. Especially the boys.
Especially since he probably saw her write it.
I balled up the prayer card and pitched it into my car. “Damn it.”
The church bells clanged. I waited for the chimes to end before placing the call. Ben answered, lingering on the far corner of the lot. He’d been tasked with cataloging the license plates of the cars in attendance. Three undercover officers inside had recorded the service. The rest monitored the funeral from mobile cameras.
A man who’d spent his last seven years obsessing over the chosen children from Poppy Drive wouldn’t allow his little diva to spend her final moments above the earth alone.
He’d be here. Watching. Observing.
Searching for me as fiercely as I searched for him.
“Got something?” Ben asked.
“Maybe. A problem. You see anything? Anyone watching me?”
“Everyone. Mostly the families though. I’d steer clear of Tim and David. They’re on the warpath.”
“Anyone else?”
“No one that looked suspicious.”
“He wouldn’t be suspicious,” I said. “But he’s not that good of a chameleon.”
Ben disagreed. “Don’t underestimate this asshole, London. He’s out for blood.”
“More than that. I just got a note from Michelle Carter. She thinks Jason is collecting money for a ransom.”
“Christ.”
“I’m heading over there now. Stay with the procession. Our pervert isn’t going to miss a chance to sit graveside for this.”
“Got three undercovers with me. We’ll find the son of a bitch.”
I didn’t believe him, but I liked the optimism.
The Carter’s home was the most disorganized of the families. It made sense. Sophia had only been taken in the summer. Her case was still new, the pain fresh. Chaos unraveled any family structure, and the financial toll was almost as much a burden as the fear and
anxiety.
Days missed from work led to forgotten bills. Collection notices became as common as new Missing Person flyers. The family had no rest, and, in the terror of losing their child, they sacrificed their own sleep, health, and appetite.
The Carter’s oldest son assumed most of the responsibilities while his mother helped with the case. He took my coat and offered me a drink, chiding his younger brother for leaving his jacket in a puddle of melting snow in the entry way. He reminded his siblings to get their laundry together, and went to finish playing Call of Duty.
Michelle must have seen how hard he worked, but the worry ate through her, slicing off little bits of her control day by day.
She fretted in a kitchen beset with unsorted piles of non-perishable food from Costco. A stack of Mac and Cheese, a case of water, Rice Krispie Treats for school lunches. The kitchen table was layered with papers and files and a cork board that mirrored what we had at the station. She’d pinned dates and times, but she hadn’t gotten any further than me. No matter what name she placed on the board, nothing added up.
She apologized for not having a place to sit, but I was beyond searching for cordial comforts. Who cared about a glass or water or a plate of cookies on the table? Girls were dying. And Michelle knew it. She peeked at me from under blonde, fringed bangs and whispered in absolute terror.
“Tell me what to do, Detective.” She searched beyond the kitchen, ensuring the boys were safe in the living room but couldn’t hear the conversation. “I’m terrified.”
So was I. “There’s nothing to be afraid of if we act rationally. What makes you think that Jason is gathering a ransom?”
“I wasn’t supposed to see it.” She rubbed her face, clearing the threat of tears with a sniffle. “I’m not supposed to go in his server room. He does remote IT in there. Manages an off-site server for his work. Has his own workshop with parts and hard drives and RAM just everywhere. Aany little shock could fry a circuit, and this house has always been so dry in the winter. I can’t do anything about the static.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not trespassing in your own house.”
“Right.” She nodded, quickly. “But I saw his monitor. I was trying to dust. Needed something to take my mind off everything. And…and the monitor is a touch sensor, right? It just came on. And usually he keeps his computer locked because he doesn’t want the boys getting on an unrestricted network—and they would. Oh, God they would. And the things they’d search for. Anyway. He had this program open. A wallet. It’s something that they use for online currency. I don’t really understand it.”
“A crypto-currency?” I asked. “One of the anonymously traded ones? Like Bitcoin?”
“Bitcoin! That’s the one. I don’t know how or why…but he had a lot of money in there.”
“How much is a lot?”
Michelle hesitated. “Fifty thousand dollars.”
Jesus. I didn’t react, but even that gave it away.
“Oh, God. That’s it, isn’t it?” She closed her eyes. “No, no, no. He’s trying to reason with this maniac. He’s going to give him that money.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Can he do that? Is that an option?” Michelle flipped her hair behind her ears. The effect was cherubic. It amazed me how much she looked like Sophia. “You never said that we could pay to get our baby back.”
“That’s because he’s never demanded a ransom before.”
“Did you offer him any?”
How was I supposed to tell a mother that the sadistic monster raping her daughter did it for the power, control, and pleasure?
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” I said. “A man like this, producing this content, operating with that much security and secrecy…he wouldn’t need money. In fact, he’s probably made much more from the kidnappings than he would have in ransoms.”
“How?” Michelle answered her own question, her expression twisting into despair. “Because of the internet. They pay to see him do those things to her.”
“Michelle, please listen to me. No matter what Jason says, no matter how perfect a ransom sounds, you have to know that it won’t work. This man is targeting the families. He’s tried to kill David Wicker and very nearly murdered Tim Gibson. He’s already taken Kaitlyn’s life. A ransom will not get Sophia back—it’ll only get Jason hurt…or worse.”
“But what if there’s a chance—”
“There’s not. Even if there was, we need to manage it. Negotiations. Communication. Not only to secure the child, but in case there’s any way we can identify who he is and where is he via the ransom request. We have to know everything that happens. Everything.” I took a breath. “What do you think Jason knows?”
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hall. Just my luck.
Michelle flinched. Jason fumbled with his coat, silent and staring. His eyebrow twitched.
“What should I know?”
Michelle cleared her throat. She stood from the table and busied herself, clearing some of the groceries by sorting them into the same piles on a different surface. “I thought you were at the funeral.”
“And I thought you were home with the kids.” Jason rubbed the bridge of his nose—a habit from the glasses he no longer wore. “What the hell is going on? Why is she here?”
Michelle didn’t cower from her husband like Heather, but she wasn’t like Amy either. Not the type to keep a horrendous lie or start an affair. Pinterest and pumpkin spice, but not deceitful or abused.
“Where are the boys?” she asked.
Jason jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the living room.”
“Are you sure?”
“Just saw them.” He grabbed the back of a kitchen chair and waited. “What are you talking about with her?”
She hesitated, almost as if she expected him to answer. He didn’t speak. It irritated her. Her eyebrows crinkled.
“I found the money, Jason.”
To his credit, he answered without blinking. “What money?”
“The Bitcoins.”
“What Bitcoins?”
She tensed, but her voice never rose, sparing the boys in the living room. “The fifty thousand dollars in bitcoins you have on your computer.”
Michelle’s quickening anger confirmed what our reports had found. The Carters were nearly underwater on their house and struggling. Judging by Jason’s red face and sputtering profanity, he hadn’t expected his wife to find the money.
Where had Jason found an extra fifty thousand dollars?
“You were on my computer?” Jason’s indignation quickly turned to rage. A purple vein pulsed in his forehead. He went from calm to irrational in half a dozen heartbeats. Not the profile we had built for him. “What the hell were you doing in the server room?”
Wrong answer. Michelle bristled. “What are you doing with that kind of money?”
He pointed at me. “You. You…need to leave.”
But this was getting too interesting. I declined. “I think you need to answer her question.”
“Like hell I do. This is my house—”
Michelle interrupted him with bitten, harsh words. “And that’s our money. Money we’ve needed for the mortgage, for the kids’ lunches, for search parties!”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Then why? Why didn’t you tell me?” Michelle’s anger became a plea. “Or couldn’t you tell me?”
Jason stared only at the table. Her words broke with a sob.
“Is it for Sophia?” she whispered. “Please, Jason. Please. If you’re working with the kidnapper. Just tell me. Just let me know.”
He ignored her. I didn’t let him leave the kitchen.
“Did he come to you?” Michelle spoke quickly, her own hope building a miraculous rescue in her mind. “Did he tell you that he had her? The videos, Jason. They said he hasn’t…done anything to her in months. Did you pay him? Please. Tell Detective McKenna. Let us help!”
“Shut up, Michelle.” He
balled his fists, but Jason wasn’t the physical type. He paced. Sweat beaded his brow. “Just shut up.”
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
“Why? Because it’s nothing! Nothing to do with Sophia.”
“But it’s money for our family.”
“Yeah!” He shrugged. “It’s money. So what? It’s an investment! People at work have invested in Bitcoins since it was invented. The prices inflated lately. It means nothing. It could crash at any minute. It’s fifty thousand today, might be ten dollars tomorrow.”
“Or it could be sixty thousand,” I said. “Seventy. A hundred thousand. Bitcoin is remarkably stable, Jason. And you know that. Hell, I see it every day.”
Michelle didn’t understand. I hesitated.
“It’s the currency people use to buy videos of the girls,” I said.
“Oh God.” Michelle’s frustration unleashed in a quick shriek. “Jason, what the hell have you done? Why do you have this money?”
And he had no answer.
My stomach clenched as the boys snuck into the hall, peeking into the kitchen as their father fretted and fumed. His profanity made them jump. Once. Twice.
“Goddamn it.” His voice took an uneven pitch. A lie? “It’s just money. Just an investment.”
“An investment in the same money men use to watch that pervert rape our daughter?”
The youngest son began to cry. So did Michelle.
And suddenly I had fifty-thousand reasons to talk with Jason one-on-one.
“Michelle,” I calmed her with a touch to her shoulder. “The kids are listening. Why don’t you take them in the other room?”
“I…” She brushed the tears away, faking a smile through a broken heart as she saw the boys. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Jason…” I said. “There’s no crime for having an investment for the future. We know it’s the same as a 401k, all right? But I have some details about the case to talk about…” I glanced into the hall and spotted the wide-eyed kids. Jason followed the glance. “I don’t think it’s for young ears to hear. Why don’t you come to the station with me? Michelle can stay with the boys.”
