by Simon Wood
Had two great kids.
It had only taken a moment to lose one of his children. Some sick freak had snatched him out from under them. How could that happen? He and Jane took every precaution. They’d entrusted their children to a good school--the best they could afford with their two incomes. They’d gone private to prevent this kind of thing from happening. He palmed away the tears clouding his vision and swerved around a UPS truck.
He felt the guilt spreading through him, eating away at his spirit. He’d failed his son, Sammy. Abduction was a parent’s worst fear, but he hadn’t wanted to be one of those parents who saw phantoms on every street corner. Putting bars on the windows and deadbolts on the doors didn’t keep them out, it kept you in. But that cavalier attitude had led to this. His worst fears had been realized. Someone had taken his son.
“I’m sorry, Sammy.”
A new sensation swept away his guilt. Imagination, strong and invincible, assaulted him. He’d always been able to conjure up images from secondhand accounts. That’s what made him such a good reporter. He didn’t just relay facts. He told stories--living, breathing stories. He turned readers into eyewitnesses--transporting them to the actual locations, inserting them inside the people present at the celebration or the tragedy. Now that talent turned on him. From the meager facts available, Scott constructed a nightmare. Sammy appeared to him, his smiling face melting into a scream as the abductor dragged him kicking and screaming inside a van. His imagination blinded him with these false, but true, images. The abduction was true, but the events were lies, just images his fear conjured up. He would know nothing until he reached the school. He stabbed down on the gas again and frightened a hybrid hatchback out of his way.
At the cost of a door mirror snapped off against the corner of a Safeway trailer truck, he made it to the school. Half a dozen SFPD cars were staked out in front. Was that all his son warranted--six patrol cars? Not that these cops were any good now. Talk about closing the stable door after the horse had bolted. Where were these bastards when Sammy was being snatched?
He ground to an untidy halt in front of the cop cars and abandoned his Honda in the roadway. Let the city tow it, he thought. He spilled out onto the asphalt, gathered himself up and raced towards the school gate. He hadn’t gotten ten feet when his cell rang. He darted back and snatched it off the car seat. He hit the green key on the run.
His antics drew the attention of two uniformed officers protecting the school’s perimeter. Seeing him charging towards the school gates, they moved as a unit to intercept him.
Scott put the phone to his ear, “I’m here, babe. It’s okay. I’m here.”
“That’s good to know.”
The voice on the line chilled him. Instead of his wife’s soft tones, he heard a voice that was harsh, blunted by an electronic disguise. The words came out robotic and demonic. Scott recognized the voice, but he hadn’t heard it in eight years. The raw adrenalin left him as swiftly as it had come and he ground to a halt with the cops still racing towards him.
“It’s been a long time, Scott. I thought I’d reintroduce myself.”
“What have you done with Sammy?”
“Nothing--yet.”
Scott feared asking the obvious question, but there was no way around it. “What do you want?”
The cops caught up to him. They bombarded him with questions and threats. He ignored them. He listened to the distorted voice on the line until it hung up.
He lowered the phone. A wave of nausea swept over him, taking his legs out from under him. The two cops caught him before he hit the ground.
“He has my son.” Misery clung to his words. “The Piper has my son.”
“Jesus Christ,” one of the cops said.
Chapter Two
“Independent, Scott Fleetwood.”
He’d answered his desk phone out of reflex and he cursed himself for it. He was late finishing up a feature piece for tomorrow’s deadline and some two hours past the time he’d told Jane he’d be home at his last update. No doubt she was calling to chew him out about leaving a pregnant woman expecting twins alone. Only last night they'd agreed on names--Sammy and Peter if they were boys, and Emily and Rachel if they were girls.
When no one answered, he said, “Hello?”
“This is the Piper,” the garbled voice said.
Yeah, right, Scott thought. There were plenty of freaks out there eager to see their name in print. What better name to use than that of the infamous serial kidnapper? It was common knowledge that the Piper used an electronic voice disguiser. It wasn’t exactly a difficult item to obtain these days with all the spy gadget stores around.
He leaned back in his seat. “You won’t be insulted if I ask for proof?”
“Of course not.”
“Put Nicholas Rooker on the line. I’m sure his parents would like to know that he’s alright.”
“Can’t do that. He’s not with me.”
What a surprise, Scott thought. He checked his watch. If he left in fifteen, he’d get home by eleven.
“That’s disappointing,” Scott said. “Look, I’ve got to go.”
“And miss out on the story of your career?”
Scott smiled. He had to give it to this guy. He had plenty of cool. He sounded just like the Piper. Scott sat up in his chair.
“Look, I don’t have to travel far in this city to find someone who’ll tell me they’re the Piper if I give them a buck. If you really want me to take you seriously, you’re going to have to do a lot better than you’re doing. Tell me something no one else would know.”
Silence. Just what Scott expected. He was about to hang up when the Piper spoke.
“I sedate the kids with chloral hydrate. You won’t find that in any FBI press releases.”
Hairs stood up on the back of Scott’s neck. There’d been plenty of publicity surrounding the Piper and his seven kidnappings in as many years. The Piper targeted the families of Bay Area millionaires. The Piper’s current victim, Nicholas Rooker, was the son of San Francisco’s premier property developer, Charles Rooker. A lot had been said about the kidnapped children, but Scott couldn’t recall any mention of doping. Even so, that didn’t make it the truth.
“I’ll need to check it out.”
“Then check it out.”
“Give me a number where I can call you back?”
An electronic laugh came from the phone. “Nice try. I’ll call you. You’ve got an hour.”
Scott hung up his phone and hit the internet. He combed story after story and found no mention of chloral hydrate. Even the Independent’s own morgue kicked up nothing.
He called Keith Ellis on his cell. Ellis was a reporter who was tight with the cops, since he had family in the SFPD and Oakland PD. Ellis tried shooting the breeze, but Scott shot him down. He had fifteen minutes before the Piper called back.
“Okay, what do you need?” Ellis asked, sounding put out. He was in a bar judging by the burble of voices and music in the background.
“The Piper. Any mention of him using chloral hydrate on any of the kids?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Can you ask someone? Now?”
“What is all this?”
“I can’t explain. Can you do it?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“Get back to me in ten. Okay?”
Scott hung up in the middle of Ellis’ protests. He eyed the clock at the right-hand corner of his computer monitor, then his desk phone, then the clock again. If he really did have the Piper calling him, it was the story of his career. He tried not to let his imagination run away with itself.
Ellis called back with three minutes to spare. All of the Piper’s kidnap victims had been doped. The Piper drugged them to keep them docile. When the FBI ran blood tests on the children, they found chloral hydrate in their blood. The Feds were keeping the knowledge from anyone outside of the investigation.
Scott’s excitement left him panting. Ellis pushed for details,
but Scott hung up on him and ignored his subsequent calls.
The voice claiming to be the Piper called back exactly one hour from his previous call. “Well?” he said.
“You have the benefit of the doubt. You’re either the Piper or someone very close to him.”
“Caution. I like that.”
“Why come to me?”
“I had to call someone. You answered the phone.”
Scott deserved that. He was hoping for a little ego stroking. If anyone was going to get his ego stroked, it was the Piper. He’d come out of the shadows to talk after all the speculation about him. Scott wasn’t going to blow it now.
“You know I’m going to have to go to the FBI with this.”
“I want you to. I want someone to document this kidnapping. But I don’t want you to go just yet. We have a lot to talk about. Are you okay with that?”
The implication of what the Piper was asking of Scott hung in the air like smoke. “Yeah, I’m okay with that.”
That decision eight years ago had cost Nicholas Rooker his life. When Scott looked back on that night, his involvement with the Piper seemed so tenuous. If he hadn’t stayed late that evening, he wouldn’t have picked up the phone. If the Piper had picked a different newspaper, a different reporter’s life would be in shreds. If he’d only gone to the FBI right away, then... So many ifs.
That night had led him here. He was in the principal’s office with Peter on his lap, the boy’s arms wrapped around his neck. Jane sat beside him, leaning into him as if body heat would make things better. They’d all been crying. Clare Donnelly, the school principal, kept telling them how sorry they were, as did the two SFPD inspectors. Their condolences failed to penetrate. Scott was numb.
“It’s my fault,” Scott murmured. “I’m being punished.”
The Piper hadn’t made a threat after Nicholas Rooker’s death, but it hung there in the air unsaid and unseen. A lot of people blamed Scott for botching the Nicholas Rooker kidnapping. He’d started writing his own ticket when the Piper came to him. The infamous kidnapper had selected him out of all the reporters out there. The LA and New York Times were courting him. Book offers were falling through the mail slot daily. A Pulitzer Prize had been put aside for him when the next round of awards came around. He was talking to the Piper, kidnapper of children.
But he wasn’t. He’d been conned. He’d been talking to Mike Redfern. Redfern wasn’t a malicious hoaxer or some deranged lunatic who claimed responsibility because his cat told him to. No, Redfern was a sad, lonely man who lived out elaborate fantasies. He’d read and absorbed the theories about the Piper’s identity and put himself in the kidnapper’s shoes. He’d gotten the Piper’s identity down pat. Scott hadn’t been the only one fooled. The FBI believed Redfern was the Piper, which only fueled him to keep going with his fantasies. Only when the FBI caught him, did it sink in that they’d been suckered. Worse still, while everyone had been focused on Redfern, the Piper had been overlooked, his demands disregarded and his ultimatum ignored.
Nicholas Rooker’s body had been found in Golden Gate Park the day after Redfern’s arrest. The Piper had been humane. He’d sedated the child first before smothering him.
Nicholas’ face from that night flooded Scott’s memory. The image became so vivid it hurt his vision. Sammy’s face bled into Nicholas’ until Nicholas no longer existed and Scott stared at his son’s dead face.
The world had pointed a finger at Redfern. His childish antics had led to Nicholas Rooker’s death. The finger pointed at Scott too. The LA and New York Times stopped calling. Hate mail replaced the book offers. The Pulitzer went to someone else.
And the Piper? He never made a public announcement. He didn’t call a competing newspaper or send a note to the television stations. He simply disappeared. After seven kidnappings netting him in excess of ten million dollars, he went underground.
“Mr. Fleetwood,” a squat inspector said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. The FBI is on the way.”
The FBI. The mention of the illustrious name was meant to fill him with confidence and hope. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot of hope to be had considering the Bureau had failed to catch the Piper on all the previous occasions. Only one thing could make things worse.
“Who are they sending?”
“You’re in safe hands, Mr. Fleetwood. They’re sending their top guy.”
“Would that be Tom Sheils?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“You could say that.”
Chapter Three
Sheils pulled up in front of the school. SFPD didn’t give him any grief at the scene. They looked more than happy to offload this case onto the bureau. He welcomed another shot at the Piper. The thought of finally bringing the bastard down filled him with excited determination. His hand trembled when he presented his ID to the cop protecting the school entrance. The officer seemed not to notice and directed him to the principal’s office.
Thoughts of Nicholas Rooker tempered his excitement. That boy weighed heavily on his conscience. Circumstances had worked against him, but he’d let Nicholas down. He should have done better. Now he had another chance. If he failed, he doubted he’d get another.
No one ever blamed him for failing to catch the Piper. No one faulted his methods, but the fact remained he’d worked every Piper kidnapping, and he’d never even gotten close to catching him. That single fact affected him more than his stalled career. Pride ate into him. He’d closed a lot of high profile cases, but he’d lost to the Piper every time. Statistics said he’d lose again, but he didn’t think so. This time the Piper had screwed up.
He’d made it personal.
The Piper was a “for profit” kidnapper. He kidnapped for the income his victims earned him. He went after prominent Bay Area families who could rustle up a million or two without a second’s thought. But Scott and Jane Fleetwood didn’t fall into that category. They could bankrupt themselves and still not come close to the Piper’s usual ransom demand.
But that wasn’t the point.
This was payback. Scott Fleetwood had derailed the Nicholas Rooker kidnapping and now the Piper was dishing out a little retribution. Sheils could relate. He’d wanted some of that action himself. If Scott hadn’t given Redfern his fifteen minutes, then the FBI wouldn’t have been sidetracked. The Piper blamed Scott for botching the Nicholas Rooker kidnapping and so did Sheils. If Mike Redfern’s bullshit hadn’t suckered Scott in, the Piper would have gotten his money and Nicholas Rooker would be alive.
This was personal for the Piper, which was good. Until now, the kidnapper had kept things business-like and detached. But if he was making this personal, that made this kidnapping emotion driven. That made him reckless. Reckless people were easier to catch, but twice as dangerous. Emotion would bring the Piper down. His desire to destroy Scott would distract him from the business of kidnapping.
Thoughts of the Piper’s emotions turned him to his own. He didn’t like to think he hated Scott, but he did. His interference had killed Nicholas as sure as if he’d suffocated the boy himself. Scott had brought this pain upon himself and he deserved every miserable minute of it. Sheils’ bitterness drew him up short. He couldn’t face the Fleetwoods with that attitude. Regardless of how he felt about Scott, there was a frightened boy out there who needed him.
While he took a moment to compose himself, his cell rang.
“Have you spoken to the Fleetwoods yet?” Bill Travillian asked. Travillian was the Special Agent in Charge of the San Francisco division and Sheils’ boss.
“No, I’m just about to.”
“Just take it easy on them.”
“You mean take it easy on Scott. Bill, I can separate my personal feelings from my job.”
“I hope so, Tom. I’m assigning you to the Piper because you know more about this prick than anyone and you’ve earned the right to bring him in, but I won’t if there are going to be problems.”
There weren’t going to be any problems. Hi
s duty came way above his grudges. He wanted Samuel Fleetwood back safe and sound, irrespective of who his father was. Samuel was priority number one with the Piper’s apprehension a close second, but Sheils couldn’t deny he’d enjoy watching Fleetwood squirm during this case.
“You have nothing to fear. I’m here for the Piper.”
Travillian paused, mulling over Sheils’ response. Travillian wasn’t a bureaucrat. He was an old school agent who’d come up through the ranks and had twenty years of fieldwork under his nails. He knew his stuff. Sheils felt the man pick through his reply, analyzing it for its truth content.
“Okay, Tom. I’m trusting you on this one.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. Just stop this bastard.”
Sheils found the principal’s office and knocked on the door.
***
Scott’s stomach tightened when Sheils entered the office. He never expected to cross paths with the FBI agent again. After Nicholas Rooker’s death, Sheils had pushed for Scott’s arrest. The charges ranged from wasting police time to accessory to murder, but Sheils’ pleas fell on deaf ears. The denial only fueled Sheils’ contempt for him.
The last eight years had taken their toll on Sheils' hair, skin and waistline, but not his resolve. The agent burned with the same purpose he’d encountered eight years ago.
Sheils introduced himself and said, “I won’t patronize you by asking how you’re holding up.”
“Thank you,” Jane said.
“Are you going to get Sammy back?” Peter asked.
Neither Scott nor Jane made any move to admonish their son for his question. They needed the answer as much as he did.
“We’re going to do our very best to find your brother.”
“That doesn’t answer his question,” Jane said.
Sheils squirmed under the intensity of Jane’s stare and turned back to Peter. He put out his hand to the boy. “You have my word as an FBI agent that I’ll bring your brother home safe and sound.”
