by James Swain
Behind the house was a shaded backyard. There was no grass, the ground as hard as a rock. The tracks disappeared, and I got on my knees, and placed my cheek next to the ground. My grandfather had taught me how to track, and my eyes picked up the faint disruption in the earth. It was the outline of a car’s tires going straight into the forest. I stood up and dusted myself off.
“What did you find?”Long asked.
I brought my fingers to my lips and shushed him. Long grew infuriated.
“Are they in there?” he asked.
I pulled out my cell phone. Long was my client, and I had an obligation to tell him what I knew. But my greater obligation was to making sure no harm came to Sara. I needed backup, and I called Burrell’s number.
“Who are you calling?” Long asked.
“The police.”
“But they might get away! We have to save Sara!”
Long had watched too many TV cop shows. In those shows, the heroes saved the day during the last few minutes of the program, and shot the bad guys while rescuing the victim. In real life, the police showed up and displayed a massive show of force that convinced the bad guys to throw down their weapons and give up. That was the script I was going to follow.
Long drew his gun from its holster. It was a Glock 19, and it looked like it had come right out of the box.
“Put that away before you hurt yourself,” I said.
“Like hell I will.”
Long ran into the forest brandishing his gun. He was going to get us killed if I didn’t do something. Dropping my phone into my pocket, I started to run after him. I had not taken five steps when I heard a gunshot, followed by Long’s ghastly scream.
CHAPTER 34
Carl, you all right?” I called out. “Help me!” Long screamed.
I instinctively drew my Colt. Someone had taken Karl’s gun away from him. That was usually what happened when people who didn’t know how to handle firearms decided to play John Wayne.
I cautiously entered the forest. Buster was glued to my side, his hackles sticking straight up. The forest was thick with oak and punk trees, the ground peppered with tiny flecks of light. Dozens of birds chattered overhead, and I heard the unmistakable rustle of a squirrel running across a pile of leaves.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I saw Long hanging upside down thirty feet from where I stood. He had walked into some kind of animal trap, and been jerked into the air. Blood ran freely down his leg, and there was a nasty bullet hole in his shoe. The stupid son-of-a-bitch had shot himself in the foot.
“I’m trapped,” Long gasped.
Long was lucky to be hanging upside down, since it restricted the amount of blood he was losing. I started toward him, then froze.
To Long’s right was a clearing filled with tree stumps. In the middle of the clearing stood Mouse and the giant with their shirts off. The navy Jeep Cherokee was parked behind them, and had a camouflage tarp covering its roof.
The giant was swinging a tree limb in his hands like a Louisville Slugger, and was preparing to bash Long’s skull in. He had a perfectly round, childlike face, the skin soft and without lines. Living on the beach, I’d seen plenty of muscle heads, and none had held a candle to this guy. He had muscles on his muscles.
Buster went low to the ground, and emitted a menacing growl. The giant checked his swing and glared at my dog.
“Bad dog,” the giant said.
Buster sprang forward and let out a vicious bark. The giant jumped back in fear and dropped the limb to the ground.
“Bad dog,” he said again.
The giant talked like a little kid. It occurred to me that he wasn’t the one I should be focusing on. His partner was the problem.
I shifted my attention to Mouse. He was small and emaciated. His sunken chest was covered in crude ink tattoos that told me he’d done time in the federal pen. He was holding the Glock, and was aiming it directly behind him at the front seat of the Jeep.
“Drop your gun, or I’ll kill the girl,” Mouse said.
I looked inside the Jeep. Sara Long sat in the passenger seat. She was tied up, and had duct tape over her mouth. Her beautiful face was distorted with fear. Her terrified eyes locked onto mine.
I cursed myself. I should never have let Long come along for the ride. In all my years hunting down missing kids, I’d never let a parent do that. I’d let the money Long had given me cloud my judgment, and now I was paying for it.
I took a step back without lowering my Colt.
“Drop your gun right now, or she’s history,” Mouse said.
I saw the giant pick up the limb from the ground, and rest it on his shoulder. He was going to smack Karl right in the back of the head with it.
“Not happening,” I said.
I aimed at a tattoo directly above Mouse’s heart. Fear flashed across his eyes.
“You want to cut a deal?” Mouse asked.
“What kind of deal?”
“Back up with your fucking dog, and we’ll leave and not kill the girl or her daddy.”
“Nobody will die?”
“That’s right. You have my word.”
I trusted Mouse about as far as I could kick him. If I backed up out of the forest with Buster, the giant was going to bash Karl.
“Make your friend get in the car first,” I said.
Mouse flashed a crooked smile. “Lonnie, get in the Jeep.”
“Don’t I get to kill him?” Lonnie asked, sounding disappointed.
“No. Get in the Jeep, and strap yourself in. We’re leaving.”
“But I want to smash him.”
“Now!”
Lonnie pouted and tossed the limb to the ground. He opened the back door of the Jeep, and stuffed his enormous body into the backseat. He fumbled getting the seat belt to work.
“Start backing up,” Mouse said.
I glanced at Sara, and saw tears flowing down her cheeks. All I could think of was poor Naomi Dunn, and how I’d let her down eighteen years ago.
“I’m sorry, Sara,” I whispered.
I clicked my fingers for Buster. He came to my side, and I hooked my finger through his collar. Together, we backed up out of the forest.
Once Mouse was out of eyesight, I heard him get into the Jeep, and start up the engine. Then he and the giant and Sara were gone.
CHAPTER 35
Someone once said that the most pitiful sound in the world was a man crying. Karl Long certainly proved that to be true.
He cried as Mouse and Lonnie drove away. He continued to cry when I cut him down, and laid him on the ground. His foot was a bloody mess, and I searched the campsite for something to turn into a bandage.
“I fucked up,” Long sobbed.
I wasn’t going to argue with him. Left to do my job, I would have rescued Sara and brought a pair of killers to justice. Instead, I was back to square one.
I did not find anything resembling a bandage. Not wanting to see him bleed to death, or go into shock, which a loss of too much blood would bring on, I took off my shirt, and ripped it in two.
“Hold still, this is going to hurt,” I said.
I made the bandage good and tight. Long stopped the waterworks and gritted his teeth. Buster plopped down beside him, and Long rubbed my dog’s head.
“Okay, now you have to get up,” I said.
“I don’t think I can walk,” Long said.
“I’m not asking you to walk. Just stand up. I’ll help you.”
I pulled Long to his feet. He leaned against me, and hopped on his good leg. The blood was draining from his face, and I knew his wound was starting to hurt.
“What now?” Long asked.
I took out my cell phone and handed it to him. “I’m going to carry you to the chopper. While I’m doing that, I want you to call nine-one-one, and tell them what happened.”
Long powered up my cell phone and made the call. I threw him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and hiked out of the forest. The sun was
blinding, and I crossed the property with my head bowed, listening to Long talk to a 911 operator.
“Tell the operator the Jeep is probably heading north on Twenty-seven,” I said.
“Right,” Long said.
We were approaching the pasture where the chopper was parked. Long was a load, and I found myself gasping for breath. Buster ran ahead of me, barking loudly.
“Oh, Jesus,” Long suddenly said.
My cell phone fell out of his hand, and bounced on the ground.
“Karl, are you all right?” I asked.
Morris jumped out of the chopper and came running toward us. I laid Long on the grass. He had passed out and looked like death warmed over. Morris took his pulse and shook his head gravely.
“He’s going down fast. I have to get him to a hospital,” Morris said.
“His daughter’s abductors are getting away. We have to look for them.”
“Look, mister, my priorities are different from yours,” Morris said. “Karl Long is my boss, and I’m not going to let him bleed to death. That’s my call. Now help me get him into the chopper.”
“Just do one sweep north,” I pleaded. “That’s all I’m asking. It’s what Karl would have wanted.”
“You’re not listening. Get out of my way.”
Morris gathered up Long in his arms and hustled across the pasture to the chopper, where he poured Long into the backseat. I started to follow, then heard a woman’s voice. Grabbing my cell phone off the ground, I pressed it to my ear. The 911 operator was still there.
“This is nine-one-one. Please tell me your emergency,” the operator said.
“This is Jack Carpenter,” I said. “There’s a navy Jeep Cherokee heading north on Twenty-seven. The vehicle is carrying an abducted woman named Sara Long. Are there any cruisers in the area?”
“Hold on,” the dispatcher said.
I watched Morris get into the chopper and shut his door. A sickening feeling filled my stomach as the chopper began to rise into the air.
“Hey!” I screamed, shaking my fist.
Morris lowered his window. “I’m taking him to Broward General. I’ll come back for you later!”
“You son-of-a-bitch!”
“Sorry man!”
I cursed Morris, but the chopper’s blades drowned out my words. The chopper rose into the sky, and I watched it float away. The 911 operator came back on the line.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there are no cruisers in the immediate area.”
“How about police choppers?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, but there was an emergency on the other side of the county, and they’re all taken.”
My head felt ready to explode. I sat down in the grass and stared at the ground. “I used to be a cop. Can you please tell me what’s going on? I need a chopper.”
“I thought your name sounded familiar,” the operator said. “There was a drug bust on the median of I-95 earlier today. The car was filled with cocaine and automatic weapons. The guys running the drugs made a run for it, and the choppers are being used to track them down.”
“So I’m screwed,” I said.
“Give me a description of the vehicle, and I’ll send an alert to the neighboring counties. If you’d like, I can also send a cruiser to where you are.”
“How long will that take?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”
A horrible laugh escaped my lips. Mouse and Lonnie had already gotten a good head start. Worse, they were driving into central Florida, which had hundreds of unmarked roads and practically no cops. With that much more time, they would be impossible to track down.
“Why not,” I said.
I folded my phone and rose to my feet. Sitting still was not an option. I had to do something or I’d go crazy. Mouse and Lonnie had departed in a hurry, and hopefully left some clues as to where they’d gone. I headed back to the clearing in the forest.
I did a quick search of the area. It was filled with crudely made animal traps, which I quickly disarmed. Mouse and Lonnie had left the tarp, a couple of half-finished cans of soda, and a bag of trash. I dumped the trash onto the ground and poured through it. A receipt from a florist named Nell’s caught my eye. They had spent thirty dollars for flowers, and I wondered what they were for.
I checked the time. Twelve minutes had passed since I’d called 911. I needed to walk down the dirt road to 27, and flag down the police, who wouldn’t be able to find this place otherwise. As I started to leave, I called for Buster. No response.
An uneasy feeling came over me. Had Buster stepped into another trap? I called again. To my relief, I got a loud Yip! in response. Buster only yipped when he found something that he didn’t want to part with.
I followed the sound through the forest to another clearing. My dog lay on his belly in the dirt. He was clearly pleased with himself, and his tail thumped the ground.
“What did you find, boy?”
Next to Buster’s feet was a bouquet of freshly cut carnations. Half were red, the rest white. I picked them up, and saw they were resting on a pile of small white rocks. Someone had put the rocks there, and I wanted to know why.
I took the top rock off the pile. Lying beneath it was a thin gold chain. I gently pulled the chain free from the pile. Hanging from it was a gold crucifix.
I swept the remaining rocks aside. Lying at the bottom of the pile was a laminated card covered in dirt. I cleaned the card on my pants leg and stared. It was a Florida driver’s license for a woman named Kathi Bolger.
“What the hell,” I said.
Bolger’s head shot was on the card, as was her weight, height, and DOB. Born June 9, 1969, she stood five foot ten, and weighed one hundred and sixty pounds. The photo showed a pretty blond with expressive eyes, and sun streaks in her hair.
My hand shook. Bolger’s profile was the same as Mouse and Lonnie’s other five victims. Young, pretty, and of good size.
I looked at the gold crucifix hanging in my other hand, and the white rocks spewed across the ground. Then it clicked what Buster had found.
It was Bolger’s grave.
CHAPTER 36
As I walked toward 27 to meet the police, I realized who Kathi Bolger was.
Kathi Bolger was the oldest open missing person case in Broward, and had gone missing in 1990. I’d reviewed her file as many times as Naomi Dunn’s. Like Dunn’s case, the details of what had happened to Bolger were etched in my brain.
Bolger had lived by herself in an apartment near Bonaventure. Enrolled at the local community college, she’d held down several part-time jobs to pay tuition. She had a boyfriend, and got along well with her family. Her life was normal, except the fact that one day she’d vanished off the face of the earth.
The Broward cops had conducted an extensive manhunt. Dogs, horses, choppers, and an army of volunteers had searched for Bolger. Not a trace of the young woman had been found. Not even her car had been located. In that regard, her case was different from Dunn’s. There was no evidence in the Bolger case to suggest foul play. She had simply vanished, something that happened to dozens of people in south Florida every year. Because of that, I had not considered her a possible victim in this case, but now I knew better. Bolger had been Mouse and Lonnie’s first victim.
I came to a padlocked gate at the end of the road. I hoisted Buster over, and climbed over myself. Standing next to Highway 27, I looked both ways. Not a car in sight.
I took Bolger’s license from my pocket, and studied her photo. She’d gone missing at the same time Daybreak had been shut down. Maybe a coincidence, only I didn’t believe in those. The solution to her disappearance was right in my hand.
My skin started to tingle. A story was taking shape in my mind. Nineteen years ago, Mouse and Lonnie had escaped Daybreak. They’d abducted Kathi Bolger and brought her to this remote farm. Something terrible had happened, and Bolger had died. Needing a replacement, they’d sought another woman similar to Bolger. That woman had been Naomi Dunn. And the cycle
had continued, right until a few nights ago.
A flashing light caught my eye. A police cruiser was racing down 27 from the south. I hailed it down.
Although I’d left the force in disgrace, some cops considered me a hero for what I’d done. The one who responded to my 911 call belonged to that club. Officer Riski shook my hand, said it was a pleasure to meet me. He grabbed a T-shirt from the gym bag in his cruiser, and said I could keep it.
I put the T-shirt on, and found it was a perfect fit. It had the words Broward County’s Finest stenciled over the pocket. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Riski cut the padlock on the gate to the farm. I loaded Buster into the cruiser, and we took off down the dirt road. By the time we’d reached the cracker house, I’d told Riski everything that had happened.
“You’re sure this is the woman’s grave,” Riski said.
“Yes,” I said.
Riski called CSI on his radio. Normal response time was twenty minutes. Riski would have to go back to 27 to meet them, just like I had for him. It gave me an idea, and I said, “With your permission, I’d like to look inside the house.”
“Think it might contain some clues?”
“Yes. I think the woman in the grave might have been kept there.”
“Go ahead. Just don’t touch anything,” Riski said.
I got out of the cruiser with Buster, and Riski drove back to the highway.
The cracker house was made of cinder block and had a pitched metal roof. As I shouldered open the front door, sunlight flooded the interior, followed by the scampering of little feet. I gave the critters a good head start, then let Buster loose.
I followed him inside. The front of the house was a combined living room/dining room, the few pieces of furniture covered in mold. I noticed the walls in the room were shifting. I had seen this phenomena before. The house was so thick with cockroaches that they made the wall panels move.
I stuck my head into the kitchen. The linoleum floor and counter-tops were coated with dust, which lifted eerily into the air whenever I exhaled.
In the back of the house were two small bedrooms. The first bedroom looked like a man cave, and contained a pair of twin beds, a boxy TV sitting on an upturned orange crate, several unopened crates of beer, and a pile of adult men’s magazines.
