American Justice

by J K Ellem

  The chopper wheels hit the ground. Beth and Ryder sat back in their seats as big burly bodies poured out both sides, crouching low, weapons up, panning left and right, threads of red cutting through the night.

  Ryder nodded to Beth. They undid their harnesses and Beth followed her out through the opening and into the swirling vortex beyond.

  41

  A torrent of dust and dirt engulfed Beth as she moved forward through the maelstrom, gun drawn, two-handed grip, muzzle down. Grit and debris whipped up by the powerful rotors stung her face, invisible hands pulled at her clothes and hair. Through the swirling haze dark shapes moved, narrow beams of light sweeping across a barren landscape.

  To her right, another shape slinked forward like her, not big or bulky. It had to be Ryder.

  The torrent of wind and dirt began to subside as Beth moved farther away from the wash of the rotors. Then the sky above Beth hammered and the second helicopter appeared and set down off to her left in a flurry. Shapes tumbled out then fanned out with practiced efficiency, a second wave to save life or bring death.

  A structure came into shape, the outline of a squat building silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Beams of light converged on the shed. Parked next to the shed sat a fuel tanker truck, gleaming metal and big tires, its rear end facing Beth.

  At the sight of the truck Beth’s gut twisted, her grip tightening on her gun. She traversed sideways, angling to her left, widening her line of sight to the left side of the cab of the truck, bringing her aim up to the side window.

  A small swarm of red dots hovered over the truck’s side door and window, searching for a head to shoot. But the truck was deemed empty and the swarm moved on, joining the rest of their flock at the shed. There the red dots clustered over the heavy front door and around the windows.

  Ryder fell back to where Beth was standing. She pointed at the truck and Beth nodded. It was the one, she was certain. It hunkered in the darkness like some malevolent mechanical beast. The numbers on the plate matched.

  Beth and Ryder edged toward the front of the truck. In the gleam of Ryder’s flashlight they looked at the front bull bar. The metal was scarred and there was a smudge of dark paint, a ten-inch stain on the metal, a scrap of paint that had come from Beth’s SUV.

  They closed on the shed just as the HRT went in, blowing the heavy door off its hinges and inward with a low-velocity charge.

  Miller slithered out of the darkness and joined them while they waited. Thirty seconds later it was all over. No shots, no screams, nothing, just an eerie silence.

  A burly HRT member came back outside and beckoned to Beth, Ryder, and Miller.

  Inside the shed HRT members milled around, a single bulb swung from a cord above, shadows in the corners. Pritchard was gone, there was no hostage, but she had been there, Beth could feel it.

  She saw the bed with the mattress, an indent where someone had lain. Leather restraints. She saw the chains and ropes hanging from the rafters above. She saw the rows of cutting and sawing tools neatly lined up along the wall.

  “Torture chamber,” Miller said as he squatted down, taking an interest in the brownish stains on the floor.

  Ryder agreed. “We’ll turn this place inside out, hair and fibers, DNA, everything.”

  Beth wondered off toward a row of saws and long knives that sat neatly arranged on the wall above a long wooden tool bench. As she stared at them she wondered who they had been used on. Whose skin and bone had they tasted?

  “Hey, over here.” Beth broke from her morbid trance and looked back. Two HRT members were carrying a large trunk they found at the rear of the shed. They set it down under the solitary light bulb then stood back, rifles with flashlights pointed down at the old trunk.

  For a moment no one wanted to touch it, hesitant. Finally Ryder pulled out a set of latex gloves and handed them to Beth then nodded. It was her show, her right.

  Beth nodded, slipped on the gloves, squatted down and inspected the front of the trunk. There was no lock, just two heavy latches. She flipped them open then paused, her stomach twisting.

  She took a deep breath then swung up the lid.

  Beth gasped in shock.

  All eyes fell on what was inside the trunk.

  “Jesus Christ,” Miller whispered.

  The trunk was full of personal items, a macabre collection of souvenirs taken from the now dead. There were wallets, purses, handbags. Shoes, watches, jewelry, rings, hair clips. Beth picked up a silver bracelet, held it under the light. “Marley” was engraved on the tiny name plate. Beth felt a pain of sorrow. Marley Anderson, vanished twelve months ago, her vivid green eyes stared out at Beth every night from the wall in Beth’s study. Beth found a California driver’s license in an old tattered wallet. Craig Porter, another smiling face from her wall, college student, an only child.

  Beth was confused. She did the mental sums in her head. There were so many items in the trunk, too many. The quantum of personal items seemed far more than the faces she had pinned on her wall.

  “There must be hundreds of personal effects in here,” Miller said as he looked down. He had seen a documentary once about the Nazi concentration camps, had seen footage of the piles of personal items that were taken from people before they were sent to the gas chambers. A huge pile.

  Ryder squeezed Beth’s arm. “We’ll tear this place apart and the truck, too. We will find him Beth, I promise.”

  Beth looked at her, but she felt totally numb. Her mind throbbed with this new revelation. Beth had only seen the tip of the iceberg of Pritchard’s heinous murderous reign. She had underestimated the depth of what he had done, the number of people he had abducted and murdered. There were hundreds of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters left wondering what had happened to their loved ones.

  Beth ran outside and, in the darkness, retched into the dirt.

  Miller made the call to bring more resources to the property. Every item would be bagged and identified. Ryder went outside and saw Beth wiping the side of her mouth. “I’m fine,” Beth said, a little embarrassed.

  “The chopper,” Ryder said. “I hate flying, too.”

  Beth gave an appreciative smile. She wanted to stay and inventory every item they found in the trunk. It was very personal for Beth, she felt connected to the victims. It would be a painstaking process to try and bring some closure to the victims’ loved ones. But deep down, she knew they might never find all the bodies, wherever they were.

  Ryder understood and watched as Beth walked back into the shed.

  Ryder stood for a moment in the cold air looking at the heavens, the stars slowly rotating above her. It was unfathomable the depths of human nature, the depravity of some people. She thought she had seen everything until tonight.

  While Beth was physically sick, Ryder was angry just thinking about all the victims Pritchard had taken, tortured, then killed.

  Then it hit her. She caught her breath, remembering the last time she was actually sick. It was so long ago, as a child, with her father. Then the name Prometheus came into clear view in her mind. The memory of the name that had eluded her suddenly appeared clear as day from the depths of her memory.

  But the notion was so absurd, so far-fetched. Am I just getting desperate for leads? She started to question her sanity, her judgement. But she felt her intuition tingling.

  Ryder watched as headlights angled off the road in front of the property and headed toward her—more agents arriving in dark SUVs. She walked to one of the idling choppers, content to leave Beth and Miller to sort through the nightmare they had discovered.

  There was some other place Ryder had to go, a trip she needed to make, a person she needed to visit. It didn’t make sense but nothing did in this insane world we live in.

  And as she approached the chopper, thinking about her childhood, about distant memories of happier times, she prayed she was wrong.

  42

  She didn’t know where she was. Her wrists were bound, her mouth gagged, a hood
placed over her head, the cord drawn tight around her neck. The inside of the hood was hot and reeked of the panic and desperation of others who had worn it before her.

  Her mind was filled with fear.

  He had taken her from the bed then pushed her into the trunk of a vehicle.

  They had been driving, for how long, Jessie didn’t know. She tried to count minutes in her head and judge the speed of the vehicle, but the fear she felt was all encompassing and her mind drifted to her fate. He was taking her somewhere, the place of her own burial she was certain.

  It would be absurd to think he was going to let her go. She had seen his face, clearly, up close.

  The ground under the tires was loose and uneven. After a while the vehicle turned, and then accelerated, the surface switching to smooth and straight. That continued for a while until she felt a dip then a series of turns. Then the bump and sway again, a dirt road, the tires slipping, then catching, the crunch of gravel and loose stones. She felt her dark world tilt upward, as the vehicle labored uphill in low gear, the air feeling distinctly cooler but the hood still stank.

  After a while they slowed, passed over a ribbed section, the car vibrating. A small bridge perhaps.

  Then they stopped.

  She squirmed and fought when he pulled her from the trunk, but the feel of a gun pressed to her temple and the threat of imminent death settled her.

  Hands, rough and uncaring, pushed her forward. It was cold and she shivered in her thin clothes. The smell of a forest surrounded her, the smell of earth, the sound of nocturnal insects. It felt dark, but she was in a much darker place.

  They trudged uphill, a hand again pushing her forward. Now and then she would feel the nudge of the gun if she slowed or paused. She fell once, stumbling on a log or branch, she wasn’t sure. The thought of picking it up and swinging it at him, using it as a weapon, had entered her mind. But she was a blind person fighting an enemy that was all-seeing. He hauled her up and she heard him curse.

  She fell again. He cursed some more and pulled her up again, this time a little rougher, fingers digging into her arm.

  When she fell a third time, he kicked her, like one would kick a dog, not too hard but hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. She gasped in pain as he hauled her up a third time, more threats of killing her followed.

  Onward she stumbled, continuing uphill. The farther she went, the colder it became. Her skin prickled and numbness began to seep into her bones.

  Then came the regrets, regrets about her life. Jessie’s head soon filled with the things one tends to contemplate in those final moments when we know we are about to die. Maybe she should have travelled more, been more caring, seen more of her own country, gone to church. Jessie prayed, made a pact with God that if she got out of this, she would go to church every day from now on.

  She tried to imagine a future that would never be. Kids would have been nice, and as she stumbled onward she pictured herself as a wife, then as a mother, living a life so distant from the nightmare she was living now. Unresolved issues with her own mother entered her mind. Perhaps she should have been less selfish, less caught up. But that is the world we live in today, she told herself under the hood, a world of being self-absorbed, of instant gratification, of seeking constant approval from total strangers. A sense of value, of acceptance based on the number of likes, shares, tweets, and right swipes.

  Then anger rose in Jessie’s mind, anger at herself for wasting her life. For wasting something that was too short and yet so precious.

  The ground plateaued and the going became easier on her legs. The atmosphere changed, it now had a certain heaviness to it. Her breath became labored, each inhale through the coarse fabric of the hood more difficult.

  A hand grabbed her, steadied her, then twisted her shoulder, changing her direction. Jessie adjusted and walked on, the ground flat and hard. It dipped slightly, then sloped gently downward before flattening out again. It had suddenly become very quiet. The forest sounds, the birds, the insects all gone, replaced by the distinct echo of her footsteps. She could feel the air press in around her, containing her, she imagined walls around her, a ceiling overhead.

  She was inside something, maybe a warehouse. An abandoned building perhaps. The air smelled gritty, laden with dust, damp, musty, undisturbed for decades.

  It felt like she had just entered a tomb.

  43

  The next morning Carolyn Ryder drove five miles south before she came to the turn-off she was looking for. She followed the private road for another mile. The rise and fall of the road as it wound its way through the undulating landscape, the scattering of trees, a distinct rocky outcrop shaped like a sentinel watching all who approached… these landmarks were all memories that came flooding back to her.

  She pulled up at a set of imposing wrought-iron gates and pressed the intercom, conscious of the security camera that swiveled toward her. Moments later the iron gates parted and she drove through.

  She followed a sealed road, a new addition. So was the heightened security. The last time she had been here, it was just a cattle gate then a dirt road, uneven and dotted with potholes, muddy when wet, dusty when dry, screened on both sides by thick and unruly vegetation that would scrape the sides of her father’s car. Now the road was a smooth stretch of ironstone asphalt, rows of irrigated native trees lined each side, equally spaced, well-manicured, and deliberately planted. Order and uniformity everywhere.

  The trees parted and a desert vista spread out in front of Ryder, a canvas of earthy reds, ochre, and tan. The road threaded its way amongst small hills before opening up onto a wide flat plain of green, an oasis amongst the muted Mars-like landscape.

  Perched on a distant hill was a sprawling homestead, fashioned in stone and timber with a vaulted roof and acres of vertical glass that took in the beautiful but harsh landscape from every angle. The homestead was surrounded by desert gardens where carefully chosen drought-resistant plants and pale green succulents grew amongst oceans of pebble and stones. The entire homestead and landscaping blended perfectly with the natural surroundings, the owner conscious and considerate of the natural beauty of the habitat.

  There were stables on the right—another new addition from when Ryder was last here—and a proper equestrian outdoor riding ring. A young girl, a teenager, sat atop an Arabian, doing laps around the circumference, horse and rider moving as one, the girl’s pale hair billowing out behind her. She was making purposeful strides, working the horse hard, not content to just ride for enjoyment.

  Ryder slowed the car and stared at the girl, a once immature clingy sapling had blossomed into a young, vibrant tree.

  Cassie. My God.

  The last time Ryder had seen Cassie Tanner, she’d been a scrawny child with braces and pigtails, dressed in Dora the Explorer pajamas.

  Had it really been that long since she’d been here?

  Ryder accelerated and followed the road to the homestead.

  She parked in a space reserved for visitors and made her way up the huge stone steps. The morning air was cool and clear and in the distance snowcapped mountain peaks rose in an endless sapphire sky.

  Ryder was ushered inside by a tall attractive young woman whose tailored suit would have easily cost what Ryder made in a month’s salary. Ryder found herself standing in an expansive atrium walled in with beautiful river stone and volcanic rock under hewn timber beams.

  The woman introduced herself as Stacey, and told Ryder she was a personal aide and appreciated Ryder calling ahead. The senator had a very busy schedule today but he was more than happy to meet his one and only niece on such short notice. The young woman was friendly but formal and had an air of corporate efficiency about her. Maybe D.C. law firm trained, definitely Ivy League educated. Ryder had seen enough of them in Washington when she was stationed there. Bright young graduates, drawn to the intoxicating mix of power and prestige of the Capitol.

  The young woman asked for identification.

  Ryder pr
esented her FBI badge. The woman scrutinized it slightly longer than expected before handing it back with a curt nod.

  The woman then withdrew and left Ryder alone in the atrium.

  “Ms. Ryder?”

  Startled, Ryder turned around.

  A mountain of a man stood a few feet away, like he had materialized out of thin air.

  “I’m sorry to alarm you.” The man smiled and extended a huge paw of a hand. “My name is Pieter Hoost, I am head of security for the senator.” The man was huge, a six-foot-six tower of muscle, bone, sinew, and confidence rammed into a tight black T-shirt, black tactical pants, and thick-soled boots.

  “I didn’t see you there,” Ryder said.

  “That’s why I’m head of security,” Hoost replied.

  Ryder took his hand, her own swallowed up in his huge palm.

  “Head of security?” Ryder asked.

  Hoost nodded as he looked down at her. “As you know Ms. Ryder, when the senator is outside of Washington and at home in his district, he has no protection.”

  Ryder nodded. Senators, while in Washington, had the protection of the US Capitol Police. But they had no protection away from Washington unless they were part of the inner circle.

  “Have there been threats against my uncle?” Ryder’s eyes fell to the formidable sidearm, snug in its holster on the man’s thigh, a thigh that was as thick as Ryder’s waist.

  Hoost shrugged, “Just the usual spate of social media rubbish. Nothing significant to bother the FBI with. We have it under control.”

  “We?” Ryder asked. “How many of you are there?”

  “Enough to deal with any minor skirmishes”—his eyes narrowed—“or something more determined.”

  Ryder noticed the man’s posture harden, a slight tensing of his shoulders and arms. Yes, I bet you can take care of yourself, you testosterone-filled meathead, Ryder thought.

  “The senator thought it would be safer to employ his own security detail while at home. Family means everything to him.”