Gone Missing: A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked

by T. J. Brearton

  Helicopters could be heard thudding through the air day and night. Supplies were dropped – food, fresh clothing, batteries, more tags. At least 100 spots were marked by searchers – broken branches, cairns of rocks, anything resembling a footprint or scrape of blood on a tree. An empty bag of potato chips was found, looking like it had been manufactured a decade before.

  Dogs were out – a state police bloodhound unit, barking through the forest.

  Katie Calumet had been in the woods for seven days.

  Cross received periodic updates from Gates. Occasionally they spoke by radio, when it was something general. Otherwise Cross was texting with her on a secure sat phone.

  Frost had doled out dozens of the phones to law enforcement. In some distant, bean-counting part of his mind, Cross kept a rough tally of all the expenses this case was racking up. The search equipment – flashlights, tags, ponchos, radios, sat phones, GPS trackers – rented gear, for the most part. The meals, the mileage for personal vehicle use, the fuel to keep the helicopters in the air; it went on and on.

  A prison break in recent years that had a thousand cops chasing down a fugitive for twenty-three days ended up with a price tag north of $1 million. If the search for Katie Calumet went on much longer, it was going to wind up somewhere in the same vicinity.

  God’s country. Cross had never realized how big the park was. Standing on the bluff that was half of Twin Mountain, gazing out over the sweeping expanse of vegetation, the undulant folds of the earth itself – it was stunning. There wasn’t a sign of civilization in sight for 360 degrees. At night, the profusion of stars was breathtaking.

  On the bluff was a good place for a signal, and as Cross noted some of the deciduous trees had tips turning color as autumn continued to sneak in, he pulled out the sat phone and sent a text to Gates.

  Any luck locating Montgomery’s wife?

  He waited for a return text, was surprised when the sat phone rang with an incoming call.

  “I just got out of a debriefing with Agent Wick. It looks like Jean-Baptiste Calumet has cooked the books a bit with his taxes. Don’t ask me how it all works, but the gist of it is: Calumet buys some prime, seaside real estate somewhere, builds a luxury hotel and resort, fills it with all sorts of expensive things, and then nobody ever stays in it.”

  “He’s not laundering money or anything?”

  “I don’t know. The FBI isn’t saying that. What I heard is overstatement of deductions, concealment and transfer of income, underreporting income – and he’s got more than one set of financial ledgers. The IRS is working with the feds on it.”

  Cross scraped a hand over his stubbled jaw. Marty’s brother, Jude, had worked IRS criminal investigations for years, and he’d once told Cross how car dealers, salespeople, and restaurant owners were among the types identified as most likely to commit income tax fraud.

  “Eric Dubois is where it gets interesting,” Gates said.

  “Oh? Do tell.” Cross glanced at David, sitting with some other searchers further away on the bluff.

  “Dubois was the chef from Dobbs Ferry,” Gates said.

  “Right. He took over after Katie’s husband, who helped get that restaurant going.”

  “Dubois was dating Gloria Calumet.”

  Cross didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then, as much to himself as to Gates, “Did they know? Katie and her husband?”

  “I have no idea. Dubois says it was a brief fling, so maybe she never mentioned it. And you can’t go asking anyone either, because this is coming out of a closed federal investigation.”

  Cross suddenly craved a drink. He realized he was on a sobriety streak. All this time in the woods and no one had brought any booze along. “Well, I could just make conversation,” Cross said.

  “Yes, you could do that…” Gates sounded conspiratorial. “Look, the feds and the IRS are looking at Calumet for the tax fraud – and he’s outraged. You haven’t seen a newspaper for a couple of days; he gave a statement to the press about inappropriate government action. He called it a witch hunt. His daughter is missing and the FBI is investigating him for what he claims is just wild conjecture and outright lies from people who’d like to see him fail. He’s a successful businessman, an immigrant, etcetera. The feds barely seem interested in the kidnapping, or Vickers and Montgomery, because despite all this, there don’t seem to be any connections between the kidnapping and Jean Calumet’s financial issues.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s the vibe I’m getting. And it’s pretty strong.”

  Cross scratched some more at the beard growing on his jaw, and turned his back on David and the others.

  “Yeah, but we still have a case.”

  “I don’t know, Justin…”

  “I’m not talking about impeding, not even assisting, per se. Just keeping with our own case. We do still have a case. And it’s finding Katie, but it’s finding out who did this, too. Even if the feds don’t seem to care.”

  “Justin, I…” Gates sound weary. “I can’t go down to New York City right now. I’m…” She seemed to search for the right words. “I’m trying to put my marriage back together. My family. I’ve been away so much.”

  “My marriage has already come apart.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I’ll go down to the city. Find Eric Dubois and talk to him, talk to Gloria.”

  “You need a break. You need to see your own daughters…”

  “I’ll take a break. I’ll see them. And I want to find Johnny Montgomery’s wife, too.”

  Cross spared another look at the searchers sitting around on the bare rock, lunching under the sun. It startled him a little that David was watching.

  Cross waved a hand, wondering if Katie’s husband had any idea Gloria had dated Eric Dubois at one time.

  He also suddenly felt torn – like leaving was giving up on Katie.

  “There’s one more thing,” Gates said. “Jeff Gebhart is awake.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He’s still in critical condition, but he came to.”

  “What has he said?”

  “Not much yet. He doesn’t remember the crash. We asked about Montgomery, and he stopped talking completely. Won’t say anything about a cabin.”

  “He’s afraid.”

  “Maybe. Yeah, probably. That and his brother Abel went to see him. With the lawyer.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah.”

  Gates fell silent and didn’t speak for so long Cross thought the satellite call had been disrupted. Then she said, “Listen, this is unfamiliar territory. I’m not going to pull rank on you or tell you what to do, one way or the other. Maybe Bouchard will, but I won’t. You decide, Justin.”

  It plagued him for the rest of the afternoon.

  After lunch, the searchers rallied and started down from the bluff, descending the backside of Twin Mountain toward Spruce, the next peak in the chain. They moved through the woods in a phalanx, and Cross listened as Katie’s name was called out over and over. It suddenly seemed tedious, like it was leading nowhere, and at last he made his decision.

  Before he got a chance to call Gates back with his answer, the dogs started going crazy. One of the searchers cried out, excitement in their voice, and a touch of horror.

  “I’ve got a body!” The searcher’s voice echoed in the deep woods. “People, I’ve got another body here!”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  It was just about the most delicious thing she’d ever eaten in her life.

  Either the same rabbit or one just like it had returned to the spot fifteen minutes later. This time she’d squeezed the trigger and forced herself to stay steady while the gun fired. Her targeting had been better, but she’d still missed.

  With one round left, she’d waited another twenty minutes. Whatever was beneath that tree – clover, mushrooms, something – the rabbits wanted it.

  Third time’s the charm.

  The rifle shot got th
e brown, furry creature in the head. Katie had leapt up, forgetting her injured leg in a moment of ecstasy. She’d been reminded of it a split second later as her thigh gave off a trumpet of blinding pain and she’d hit the ground.

  Crawling to the rabbit, she’d pulled out Hoot’s pocketknife. Just a little red thing, blade about two inches, but sharp. He’d obviously used something much bigger to skin those coyotes but she’d never found it. Never searched his person, though, either.

  The rabbit’s limp body had been soft and warm. She’d gripped it, and, crying, used the pocket knife to saw off its head.

  Whether it was right or not, she didn’t know. But none of the hanging skins in Hoot’s cabin had featured heads.

  She wouldn’t look at the rabbit’s tiny severed cranium, but dragged herself a ways away, then tried to peel the skin from the neck down like a banana. It was impossible until she used the knife, sawing as she pulled. But the thing was so small and floppy, it kept slipping in her grip. The knife would plunge in or glance off. Twice she cut herself. She blinked back more tears. She gritted her teeth. She screamed.

  She left the carcass in the dirt and rose to her feet, yelling for help.

  I’m not going to stop until someone hears me.

  -You’ll drive yourself crazy.

  Shut up. She the fuck right up. I’m so fucking sick of you, I’m gonna fucking yell until someone HEARS ME.

  Katie collapsed to the ground. Rolled over onto her side.

  She was aware in some oblique way that the little glen she was situated in, the shade dapples and sun streaming down in bars of light alive with dancing insects – she was like some perverse Disney princess waiting for Prince Charming.

  She went back to the rabbit. Getting the fur over the paws seemed impossible, and she gave up. She chopped those off, too.

  Must’ve been where “lucky rabbit’s feet” came from.

  Getting a fire going was easier. She was becoming a professional pyro. In minutes she had a good blaze going. She hoped, as always, that someone spotted the smoke, but this time that hope was overshadowed by the joy of cooking.

  A large stick, rammed right up the rear of the thing and out its neck. Two other sticks jammed in the ground, as Y-shaped as nature made them, and she hung the rabbit there to cook.

  When the muscle was blackened, she picked it up by the spit. The meat was hot, barely cooked, but she bit into it.

  It was gamey, sort of penny-flavored, in definite need of salt, but outstanding.

  That had been two days ago.

  Katie hobbled along on her crutch, her stomach gnawing at her again. The hunger beat its familiar drum. Her usual mental refrain – that she was lost, that she should have found the trail by now, that she was walking in circles – was going strong.

  She blotted it out with a song.

  “Go tell it on the mountain. Gooo tell it on the mountain. Gooo tell it on the mountain…” She turned her face to the sky and yelled the last verse. “That Jesus Christ is bornnnn!”

  Her voice cracked on the last word. She’d screamed herself hoarse more than once so far.

  The woods parted. She stopped at the edge of a small lake, checked her compass. The needle blurred in her vision. She felt drunk. Thirsty. Time to make another fire. Boil water.

  She dropped her pack and pulled out the pot, set it aside. Went to work looking for birch bark and small sticks for kindling. Set it up and pulled out her matches.

  She had two things of matches – a generic white book from Carson and a small box that said “Diamond” and looked like it had been manufactured in 1950. Those were Hoot’s – just a few rattling around, so she went for Carson’s, which she’d been using all along.

  About six left.

  She struck the first one, and the head crackled but the flame died.

  She struck another one; this time there wasn’t even a crackle, and the head stripped off.

  The whole booklet felt softened. She felt around inside the pack. Damp in there. But she’d been keeping the matches inside a plastic baggie. Had she not sealed it up well enough the last time? Or forgotten to put the booklet back in the baggie?

  She went through the rest of them.

  No flame.

  Took out the box of Diamond matches, slid it open. The few in there seemed dry, and the first one caught.

  “Time for a trip to the hardware store,” she said.

  She fed the flame to the birch bark, which crackled and smoked, and the fire grew. The smell of burning birch never got old. It was comforting, and her giddy, punch-drunk feeling abated.

  Katie grew somber. She sat and tried to fold her legs Indian-style.

  It’s bad to say “Indian-style.” No one says that anymore.

  When we were girls we would say “crisscross apple sauce.”

  -So fucking what.

  So what.

  The hunger was so great, her whole body felt it. Desiccated, she crawled to the edge of the lake with the pot, filled it up.

  She looked back at the fire, realizing she’d forgotten to forage for any bigger pieces. The small twigs were turning gray, the fire dwindling.

  She hobbled in a circle, grabbing everything she could find.

  Maybe it was all a dream.

  Maybe she’d been running this whole time. Loop Three, the big loop. A car coming round the bend by that big gray house with the red trim she admired. Nice cedar shakes for siding.

  Watch out!

  Boom. The car impacts her, throws her back.

  How far had Monica flown through the air? Or had the truck run her over, pinned her beneath the wheels?

  She’d never asked.

  What had Monica said to Jean before she died?

  God will take care of me.

  Maybe that’s what. Monica would say something like that.

  God will take care of me now.

  Katie fed the larger pieces of wood to the fire, making a teepee shape. The flames, almost snuffed out by her negligence, started to lick the wood. To taste it. Crawl up and devour—

  Loop Three.

  The kidnappers had been watching her. They had to have been. Studying her. She hadn’t been random; they’d known her name. How else would they have known the way she ran, passing the footbridge park near the end?

  Unless they’d had some other information about her.

  She went back for the pot. When the wood burned a bit more, the teepee would collapse and there would be a nice bed of coals for the pot. In an hour or so she could be quenching her thirst. If she wanted it cold, she could wait for morning.

  Katie limped back to the water’s edge. She tore off Hoot’s sweater, stripped the pants, pulled down her running skirt. She waded right in, feeling the cold, mucky bottom suck at her bare feet.

  The water came up to her breasts.

  Katie bent her knees and submerged.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Cross watched as the rescue helicopter lowered the hoist with the human-sized basket.

  When it touched down, he and the others strapped in Montgomery’s body, then the airlift crew hauled it up.

  Jonathan Montgomery had been shot through the side of his stomach. He’d apparently administered himself first aid and tried to staunch the bleeding – he’d managed to disinfect the wound and apply a compress but had bled out in the end.

  Gut wounds were a terrible way to die, Cross thought.

  As Montgomery’s body reached the helicopter, Cross turned to David Brennan. “You should camp here for the night.” He had to speak loudly over the thudding noise.

  The helicopter hovered. The basket began to lower back to the bluff.

  There was room for one more passenger, and Cross had radioed that he wanted to fly out.

  David’s long hair was blowing around his head. He clapped Cross on the shoulder. The man had a grip like a Viking. “Thank you for everything.”

  Cross didn’t feel particularly proud.

  “Don’t give up.” He didn’t know wha
t else to say.

  “I’m not going to.” David smiled. It looked to Cross like he’d lost several pounds, his cheekbones prominent, his hair sweaty as he tied it back.

  Cross climbed into the basket. He watched David shrink away on the ground then stared up at the cargo winch, where the retracting chain disappeared into the chassis.

  He was grabbed by the crew and yanked into the helicopter. With the basket stowed, the cargo winch swung out of the way and the helicopter banked in the air, causing his stomach to drop.

  Montgomery was beside him, wrapped in an evidence bag.

  Johnny M., at long last. Vickers had died; now his partner was dead. Cross recalled his press conference speech with a bittersweet tinge. Ill-advised though it may have been, he’d been right that a successful kidnap-and-ransom was hard to pull off.

  But it wasn’t over. Katie was still out there.

  The helicopter turned east and flew away from the setting sun. Cross risked a look out the window at the expanse of wildlands below.

  God’s country.

  * * *

  It felt like he hadn’t been home for ages. The place was drafty and Cross closed a few windows he’d left open. The weather had taken a sudden dip in temperature and he thought of Katie Calumet exposed to the elements.

  He took a shower and watched the water turn brown as four days of being in the woods sluiced off him and swirled down the drain.

  Despite what he’d said to David, he was suddenly overcome with the assurance that they weren’t going to find her. He imagined Katie’s husband out there for weeks, maybe months, eventually alone, walking himself down to his bones, calling out his wife’s name.

  Was there ever a point when a person gave up? What was that point like – how did it feel? Was it a numbness, was it a relief?

  He shaved, standing with the towel wrapped around his waist, the bathroom steamy. He wiped away condensation from the mirror and stared into his own eyes.

  The doorbell rang. Before he could finish cleaning up his face, he heard the door open and the telltale voices of his daughters.