7. Jeff checks out The Sanctuary
8. Jeff ambushed
9. Men at The Sanctuary fly the coop
10. Joseph Feldmann vandalized
Deidre doodled under her list, “Find a common thread.” After Jimmy O’Brian’s name she wrote, “No.” She was certain he had nothing to do with the acts that were being committed. After Jeremiah Rude she wrote, “No,” and drew lines through the two men’s names. She drew a line through Reverend Isaiah and the men at The Sanctuary. They were going to pay for their crimes against the women and children they had virtually held captive and sexually assaulted, but they were gone before Joseph’s house had been splattered with hate. In her gut, Deidre knew that the crimes, other than The Sanctuary, were connected. Her list was whittled down to five. Now she needed a common thread. It came to her mind that the remaining five could be lumped under one heading—terrorism.
At the bottom of the page Deidre scribbled athletic teams and the name “Nick Eliason.” She looked at the words and crossed them out. She thought Nick was a spoiled jerk and thought even less of his mother, but she was positive they would not have been involved in such malicious acts. That left only the option that the crimes were being committed by someone or some group she didn’t know about.
The more she pondered that thought, she realized that in the case of the train derailment, it would take more than one very strong person to have pulled the spikes holding the rails in place, and even if one person had done it, time would have been a factor. She estimated a piece of track to be about thirty feet long. That would span almost ten cross-ties, she figured on her pad. Cross-ties required two spikes to hold the rail in place. Whoever had sabotaged the track needed to pull at least twenty spikes, each requiring a straight up pull of about two tons per square inch. Then they would have had to unbolt the connecting pieces of steel at each end. She knew the bolts were close to an inch in diameter.
No, Deidre concluded. A group of school boys couldn’t have done that, and neither could the scarecrow-like men of The Sanctuary. Whoever did it needed at lot of brawn. Some of the biker group had that, but there weren’t enough of them. She had to be looking for a group whose members were very strong. That left out women, possibly. There had to be several of them, and they had to be filled with a rancorous hate. The thought scared her, because she had no idea who she was looking for. She printed “Militia?” on the paper.
Deidre moved away from the tree she was using for a backrest, stood, and stretched. Suddenly, from behind, her arms were pinned to her sides. A dark, cloth bag was thrown over her head and tied around her neck, and she felt her wrists being drawn together behind her back. She felt the pain of plastic ties being cinched tight. Another pair of hands grabbed her legs and she toppled over to the ground, striking her head so hard on a rock that she saw stars. It was like a display of fireworks being shot off in her brain. Dazed, she felt herself being hoisted over somebody’s shoulder, and whoever it was began walking. Deidre heard the sound of splashing water and felt her bearer stumble. He had waded the river.
Chapter Thirty-Five
In mid-August the sun sets at eight o’clock in Two Harbors, and by seven thirty, Ben was getting a little worried. He hoped his wife hadn’t gotten so involved with her thoughts that she lost track of time. By eight, he was truly concerned, and when he looked at his watch for the tenth time, it read eight thirty. Ben knew something was wrong.
“Girls, hold down the fort,” he called out. “I’m going back to the picnic area to find out what happened to Mom. I hope she didn’t fall and break a bone.” He rushed out the door, then had to come back to retrieve a flashlight with batteries that worked.
The trail wasn’t smooth, difficult to maneuver in daylight, treacherous at night. Ben fought the urge to run. In ten minutes he was at the picnic area, and his heart sank. He hadn’t met her on the trail, and she was nowhere to be seen. He panicked.
“Deidre!” he hollered over and over, cupping his hands to form a megaphone and aiming in every direction. He stood silently for several minutes, listening for any sound—her voice, a breaking branch, a moan. Nothing. Ben shined his light around, and its beam reflected off something white under a cedar tree near the water. It was Deidre’s notebook. He stooped and picked it up and in his state of confusion, got his fingerprints on the pad without thinking he might have damaged a clue. It was hers, all right. He recognized her unique style of penmanship.
Ben turned to home. This time he ran as fast as he could, picking his way over the rough trail. He rushed to the phone and dialed the sheriff’s office while the girls looked on, confusion clouding their faces.
*****
For Deidre, everything became a journey defying her senses. She knew they crossed the river, because she could hear the splashing, but after that the only sound she heard was the swishing of brush as they plowed through the tangled thickets. She could feel the muscles of whoever was carrying her like a sack of potatoes thrown over his shoulder, and she was able to guess he was a very large person. He continued to push on as though the weight of her body was negligible. Deidre was having difficulty breathing through whatever was pulled over her head, and she felt beads of sweat form on her forehead, trickle down her face, and drip off her nose. She lost track of time.
In the distance she heard voices but couldn’t make out what was being said, and the trail seemed to become smoother and wider. She no longer felt the brush swat at her, and her assailant picked up his pace.
“Good work, Lieutenant,” a voice called out. “Take her inside.” Deidre heard a door open, swinging on hinges that could have used some oil, and the tread of heavy boots pounded the wooden floor. Her body was lowered and she felt the jolt as she was dropped unceremoniously. Deidre could tell she had been placed in a corner, because she could feel the adjoining walls press against her back. She was totally confused but still tried to make out what was being said around her.
“Private, go tell Captain Blake that we have her. She’s ready for our interrogation and photographing.”
Deidre heard a voice answer, “Yes, sir!” and heard the sound of his heels clacking together. She pictured him giving some sort of salute at the same time. From what she could gather from her limited senses, Deidre thought she heard the one who had been addressed as “Lieutenant” move a chair and sit down. She smelled cigarette smoke that made her cough. Someone laughed. Deidre shifted her weight, trying to find an elusive comfortable position, and she heard the door swing on its complaining hinges. Someone walked heavily toward her.
“Get her up on that chair,” she heard him command.
“Yes, sir!” came the answer.
She was roughly jerked to her feet by unseen hands, steered in a direction, spun around, and pushed backward. For a moment she felt as though she were falling but then felt herself caught by the seat of a hard-surfaced chair. Her feet were bound to the chair legs, and she felt a pull on her wrist bindings, then a snap as they were cut. Deidre put her hands in her lap and massaged the bruises on her wrists. She thought they were unusually damp and wondered if it was blood. Trapped in her darkened world she felt hands groping her body, at first thinking she was being sexually assaulted, then realizing she was being frisked. She felt the hands remove her cell phone from the front pocket of her tight-fitting jeans.
At that instant, Deidre became acutely aware of how vulnerable she was. Not that she hadn’t known it before, but now, reality hit her like a club. Whoever had her could do anything they wanted—and probably would. Her mind raced as fast as her heart was beating, and for one of the few times in her life, she was on the verge of panic. Suddenly, the hood that had been pulled over her head was jerked off. She found herself sitting in front of a bright light. Deidre was totally blinded by the glare until her eyes could adjust. Even after that happened, she could see little. By squinting and turning her head slightly to the
side, she could just make out the forms of three people standing behind the floodlight. She could feel its heat on her face. The forms looked like men, large men, but one of them was even bigger than the others. She thought he must have been the one who carried her through the woods.
“You are Sheriff Johnson.” It was a statement, not a question. “You have two daughters, step-daughters, actually, and your husband is Ben VanGotten. He works for the FBI and is stationed in the Duluth office.” The voice continued with her biography. “Eight years ago, you thwarted a terrorist attack on the docks in Two Harbors. Seven years ago, you broke a meth ring being run out of Superior National Forest. Five years ago, you collaborated with the FBI to rescue Native girls from being sold as sex slaves. Most recently, you have worked as a private investigator for an attorney in town, and after the elected sheriff was careless enough to let himself be ambushed, you accepted an appointment to fill his position. Is there anything else you’d like to know about yourself? We have more.”
At first, Deidre was shocked and also puzzled at what they knew and wondered why they were telling her. Then it dawned on her: they were trying to break her, psychologically. If they knew so much about her, what must they know about her family and their movements? The thought hit her that they were trying to make certain she knew they were completely in charge. Rather than intimidating her, Deidre became furious. She resolved she would say nothing, show as little emotion as she could, give them nothing to work with. Minutes of silence passed, and the floodlight’s heat was almost unbearable.
The same voice calmly intoned. “You must be thirsty, sitting under the glare of that hot lamp. Private, get the sheriff a bottle of cold water.” Deidre heard the lid of a cooler being opened and in seconds a uniformed man stepped in front of the light with a dripping water bottle in his hand. Deidre reached for it.
“Uh-uh-uh-UH-uh,” the voice behind the lights warned. “I didn’t give you permission to hold it. Private, remove the cap from the bottle.” Deidre expected she would be given a drink. “Private, you look thirsty. Why don’t you drink some of the water?” She watched as he guzzled the bottle’s contents, allowing a stream of water to spill from the corners of his mouth and down the front of his uniform. When he had drained the bottle, he burped and tipped the bottle upside down so the remaining drops fells on the floor. “Okay, now you can give the sheriff the bottle to hold,” the voice said. The private handed her the empty bottle, and Deidre realized she was being manipulated in a very cruel and reasoned way. She threw the empty bottle at the light.
“Now, now,” the voice cajoled. “Losing your temper will do you no good.” For the first time since her capture, Deidre spoke.
“Who are you, and what do you want from me?”
“Oh, so you do have a voice. For a while, I thought you were mute.” He chuckled. “Who are we? That’s an excellent question. One whose answer is neither here nor there. What do we want? Another excellent question. We want to use you for bait. That’s all.”
The implication failed to sink in. Deidre’s head was swimming, and she felt as if she was caught in the middle of a nightmare that wasn’t going to end. She was getting thirsty to the point of real discomfort, and incongruently, she had the pressing urge to relieve her bladder. Bait? Bait for what, she wondered. She was exhausted to the point of wanting to lie down but couldn’t.
Chapter Thirty-Six
By eleven o’clock, Ben was frantic. Two deputies had arrived and Jackie, from the FBI, was on her way. At first, she had been reluctant to come, but by telling her of Deidre’s notation, “Militia,” Ben had convinced her that it might be beneficial for her career if she were to uncover a subversive group. Jackie arrived at Ben and Deidre’s house shortly before midnight. By that time, Megan and Maren had grasped the severity of the moment, and they sat curled up on the couch with their eyes wide open to what was happening and shivering with apprehension.
*****
It had been over three hours since the cloth bag was pulled over Deidre’s head, and she felt bruised and battered. She could endure the minor pain she felt, but it was the constant heat from the lamp that was wearing her down—that and the lack of water. The light was so bright that she wasn’t able to keep her eyes open without them watering, and when she closed them, she saw spots. What caused the most discomfort was that her bladder felt as though it was going burst.
“Can I go to the bathroom?” she asked through parched lips.
“Sure, go ahead,” came the answer, but no one moved to assist her. When she tried to stand, she lost her balance and forcefully sat back down. She heard somebody snicker. What confused her was that her captors had stopped asking questions. Their only interaction was when she seemed to drift off in a half-sleep, half-daze. They would prod her, forcing her to open her eyes, not allowing her even a moment’s retreat into herself. She knew her spirit was slowly being eroded away, and sometime during the ordeal, she lost control and felt urine flow down her legs. For the next hour and a half she was forced to sit in a puddle of her own water, and she could feel the burn of ammonia on her behind. By that time, Deidre was too weak to be humiliated, and she sat in a stupor. One of her guards prodded her to lift her head, and she thought she heard a click like the shutter of a camera closing. She didn’t care.
A wave of relief flooded over her when the light was finally turned off, and she felt the bindings on her legs being cut. Deidre tried to stand, but she couldn’t get her muscles to lift her, and she fell into her own puddle of urine on the floor. Strong hands grabbed her arms, hands so large they completed encircled her biceps and cut off her circulation. For an instant, she thought the hands were blood pressure cuffs being pumped too tight. Then she felt herself being dragged across the floor, her legs trying to support her, but in the end becoming useless. Whoever had hold of her shoved her into a corner and let go. She collapsed in a heap, and the stench of her hour-old urine was acrid in her nose. She closed her eyes and drifted off, not to sleep, but to a state of semi-consciousness.
*****
At midnight, Ben’s phone rang. He looked at its caller ID and was startled to see that the call was coming from Deidre’s phone. He fumbled as he tried to slide the unlock icon. “Deidre! Are you all right?” The voice that answered wasn’t hers.
“Hello, Ben,” the caller said. “As you have probably already guessed, this isn’t your wife on the phone, although she is sitting right beside me. You might say she is our guest.”
“What do you want?” Ben demanded.
“First, I want you to calm down and realize that I’m in control. Then, I want you to listen carefully. After I hang up, I’ll be sending you a series of photos of your wife. They will have been taken by her phone and sent to you from the same. That way you’ll know that we do have her in our custody. Stand by to receive them.” The line went dead.
“What was that about?” Jackie asked, for the first time seeming to take an interest in what was transpiring. The deputies moved closer in anticipation of what Ben had to say.
“Somebody’s holding Deidre. They didn’t identify themselves but said to expect some pictures that are being sent to us right now.” He had hardly spoken the words when his phone chimed, indicating he had a message coming in. Ben hit the message button and a series of pictures opened up on the screen.
In the first, Deidre was seated on a chair. Everyone could see that her legs were bound to it, but her hands were free, resting in her lap. To Ben, she seemed to have a defiant look on her face. Although her hair was mussed and her clothing looked disheveled, she had no visible signs of injury. He took heart in that fact, and scrolled to the next picture. The time signature on it showed it had been taken thirty minutes later, at eight forty-five. Tears came to Ben’s eyes when he saw the change in his wife’s appearance. In this frame she looked exhausted, as though she had spent the past half hour slogging through loose sand. Her e
yes sagged and she sat slumped. He scrolled to the next photo, taken at ten thirty.
In that photo, Deidre had an empty water bottle in her hand. By the bedraggled look on her face, Ben guessed that she had not drunk its contents, but that look was contrasted by the fire in her eyes, anger, and she sat more upright than she had in the previous picture.
“Look at that,” one of the deputies remarked. “At least they gave her something to drink. Maybe they aren’t being too tough on her.”
Ben knew his wife’s expressions. “No, she was given an empty bottle. They taunted her with it, but look at her eyes. Instead of breaking her, they pissed her off. I know that look too well.” He half smiled to himself. “If I know her, she was getting wound up to throw the damn thing at them.” He went to the next photo.
Jackie involuntarily sucked in a breath when she saw it. Deidre was definitely stressed. Her eyes had lost their fire, and she was more slumped than she had been in the first picture. Her lips looked cracked, and her facial expression was lifeless. It was obvious she had experienced a long three hours since the first picture was taken.
The last picture had been taken at midnight, only seconds before the call, and it was the most disturbing. Deidre looked so totally beaten that Ben could hardly recognize the woman he loved. She sat in a pool of what he assumed to be urine, and her pants were soaked, the light blue denim having turned a darker blue on the inside of her legs. She hung her head so Ben couldn’t see her eyes, and one arm was by her side while the other was still bent so her hand rested in her lap. Deidre looked as if she had given up, and the image broke his heart. Tears spilled from his eyes and he wept silently. Before anyone could say a word, the phone rang.
“Agent VanGotten, I assume you’ve seen the pictures of your wife by now. She looks tired, doesn’t she? We’ll allow her to get some sleep soon, but I wanted you to see her and how quickly we can break people. Physically, she’s still fine, although I can’t guarantee that will remain the case. From your training, you must know how carried away some interrogators can become.” Ben heard him laugh, but before he could say a word, the voice continued. “I’ll get back to you with more pictures after she has rested, and we can talk then.”
Preying in Two Harbors Page 20
