Fatal Dawn

by Diane Capri

  The checkout clerk grunted and stuffed the goods in two lightweight plastic bags.

  Gotting returned to his Audi, and continued on the mountain road, minding the speed limits. The last thing he needed was to be stopped by some local cop looking to raise revenue with fines for speeding tickets.

  While he’d lived in Denver, he’d skied and snowboarded over much of the state. There were plenty of resorts that had hundreds of miles of well-groomed runs, but what he really liked was the backcountry.

  He’d begun experimenting with what the French called off-piste sports in Vail, where he’d found large open bowls across the back of the main mountains. But they were over-used areas. He preferred places where the snow hadn’t been touched, the kind of locations he’d found in nature magazines.

  He wasn’t an extreme snowboarder or anything. He wasn’t the type to launch himself off giant drops or schuss straight down a steep mountain soaring thousands of feet in the air. What he loved was the isolation. He’d spent much of his life alone and being alone in nature felt good to him.

  If his plan worked, his name and his face would become publicly known. He’d be required to hide out for a while. Maybe a long while. His mug shot and prints would be circulated to every cop in the country. None of that worried him. There were a million ways to flee to South America with barely a handful of cash, and he’d have much more than a handful to splash around.

  Maybe he’d head down to Argentina. He’d heard about good snow there, and his prison cronies were always talking about Argentina as the ideal place to disappear.

  The Audi carried him effortlessly all the way into the Rio Grande National Forest, south of Gunnison.

  Snowboarding was how he’d come to find the perfect cabin. It had been a mainstay of his kidnapping career while he lived in Colorado. He’d also used the place after he’d moved his baby theft operation to Arizona and New Mexico.

  He slowed at a road sign for US-149. The letters were faded and hard to read. The road was nothing but turns and switchbacks. On either side were rocks that stretched up into soaring mountains, mostly covered with white already. The snow had come thick and early to Colorado this year.

  After fifteen minutes of hard driving, he turned off the road onto a rocky track. The Audi slipped and slithered. The track disappeared into thick pines. The snow was lighter under the tree canopy, but the track steepened. He figured the ruggedness was an asset. No one was likely to happen upon him here.

  After five minutes of intense struggle, the Audi arrived at a derelict shelter. One of the walls had collapsed since he’d been here last, but the sides facing the road were mostly intact. The roof was practically non-existent.

  He angled the Audi into the shelter, turned off the engine, and scrambled out into the cold. The air was bitter. He could see his breath with every exhale and breathing at this altitude wasn’t easy, either. But the blissful silence was totally empty, which he’d only ever found in the mountains.

  The shelter had not been built as a garage for a car. It had probably been constructed long before motor cars were common, he figured. But it prevented anyone traveling the road from seeing his car. That’s all he cared about.

  The nearest neighbors were two miles in either direction, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He limped over to the side of the shelter, dug under the snow, and found the big garden rake he’d left there. It was lightweight plastic and thin strips of easily bent metal. He’d bought it a decade ago and it was still good enough for his purposes.

  He used the rake’s handle as a pole to steady his gait as he worked his way back to the road along the rugged terrain. From the turn-in point, he walked backward as he swept the rake across the car’s path for fifty feet until the tracks extended far enough into the trees to be invisible from the road.

  Satisfied, he returned the rake to its original place. He grabbed his Orange Mart purchases from the trunk and walked farther up the path to where the track stopped. He angled right, ducking through the trees and trudging past the undergrowth. The going was tough. His weak leg ached from the cold and the exertion.

  After fifteen minutes of heavy struggle, he took the next step and burst out of the dense trees and thicket.

  In front of him was a wide-open area. On the far side was a long, steep slope of solid rock. It stretched forty feet above him and only the occasional weed popped out from its nooks and crannies.

  Centered in the rock was a building. It looked like it grew out of the slope, which in many ways it did. Miners had built it long ago as the entrance to a network of shafts. Gotting didn’t know what the miners had been digging for, but the building they’d left served his purposes perfectly.

  He covered the open area with ease. The chemical by-products of the mining had killed off all growth in the area long ago and seemingly forever, as far as he could tell.

  In the center of the building were ten-foot high, heavy wooden double doors. An outer frame was filled with thick, rough cut planks with gaps and holes, but no more than he remembered. The doors had no handles. Across the face of each door, the word Danger had been spray-painted in three-foot-high letters. The paint had almost disappeared, the outline of the letters marked now only by the faded wood.

  The doors were too big to move, and after decades of neglect the hinges had probably seized. He walked around the side of the building. A three-foot-high hatch was the only other external feature.

  His heart skipped a beat when he saw that two planks had been nailed across it. The planks were weathered, but recent. The nails had been driven in hard.

  This was his safe house. If he couldn’t use it, his budding plan would fall apart.

  He debated returning to the Orange Mart to buy tools but appearing in the same place twice might make him more memorable to the clerk. Or more likely, the CCTV. Every space in America seemed to be watched these days. Why would the Orange Mart be any different?

  He searched the area and gathered rocks. Collecting and piling them by the hatch was exhausting work. He wedged a rock into the gap between the new plank and the original hatch and pounded it with another rock. Gradually the rock sank deeper into the gap, widening it.

  He repeated the procedure with a larger rock, gradually widening the gap. He worked his way toward the nails, maximizing the stress until finally, with one last solid crack, the new plank broke. He pried the remaining parts away from the hatch and dealt with the second plank in the same way.

  He used one of the broken planks to lever the hatch open and stepped inside.

  The air was damp and fetid, a choking smell of earth and decay. The rear wall was the solid rock slope. Slivers of light pierced through the gaps in the wooden structure, revealing far more holes than were apparent from outside. Holes that allowed the cold to enter.

  He worked his way into the middle of the building where he found an open path, clear of the spars that held up the rest of the building. A one-time rail track that ran into the mine, the rails long gone.

  Gone, too, was the inflatable mattress he had left there years before. He searched around to find it but had no luck. He grunted. He’d slept rough on enough occasions, he’d manage a few more nights. His payoff would be worth the discomfort.

  Where the rail track’s path met the escarpment was a rusty six-foot metal door that led into the mine. It was closed. He lifted a large handle. Metal scraped against metal. Fortunately, the lock mechanism hadn’t seized, but when he pulled on the door, it didn’t move.

  He wedged one of the new planks into the frame around the door and leaned on it with all his weight. The plank creaked. The metal squealed.

  He shifted all his weight onto the plank. The plank creaked one last time and broke, throwing him on the floor.

  He sat up. He needed the space behind the door. It was the only place he could be sure the boy would be contained. Leaving him in the rest of the building with its shafts of light would give him hope, and hope might enable him to escape.

  He inspected
the hinges. The lower one didn’t move as he levered the door. After fifty years or more, it had finally rusted solid.

  He found an old tin can on the floor and worked his way back to his car.

  He opened the hood. The engine was still warm. He pulled out the dipstick and let the oil drip into the can. It was a depressingly small amount, but he had to open the door into the mine shaft. He threaded the dipstick back into the engine and ran through the process again. It took several minutes, but in the end he had a quarter inch of oil in the bottom of the can.

  He returned to the metal door. The oil had thickened in the cold, but he managed to spread a good layer over the hinge. He let it penetrate for a few minutes then used his weight to lever the door back and forth. The metal screeched.

  In the dim light, he was sure he saw the lower hinge move. He rocked on his heels then threw all his weight backward, pulling on the door handle. The metal scraped. He saw rust crumbling off the hinges. He pulled harder. The door jerked open.

  The lower corner smashed into his right foot, tearing his boot across the top and scraping the tender flesh beneath. Pain burned his foot like a hot poker.

  He screamed as if he’d been attacked by a grizzly and threw himself away from the door.

  He dropped to the ground, writhing in pain, and grabbed his toes, squeezing hard to numb the unbearable agony. Nothing worked.

  He sat on the ground for a few minutes, cradling his foot. In the dim light, he could see the door had gouged a chunk of his skin and underlying tissues. Breathing hard, he waited for the torture to lessen, which took a good long time. If his right leg hadn’t been damaged already, the pain might have been even worse. He shuddered.

  Finally, the torment subsided to manageable proportions.

  He was able to stand. Carefully, he tested his weight. He limped in a circle, walking not much worse than he usually did. Nothing crunched and no bones poked through his muscles.

  He tucked the skin flap back over the wound and folded the leather of his boot into place. Each time he put pressure on the area, a fire raged in his right foot.

  He tore off a strip of the black duct tape, and covered the rip in his boot, pressing gingerly to get a seal.

  Confined inside the boot, with the skin flap in place, his foot throbbed, but the searing torment had lessened. He couldn’t sit here forever. He had no choice but to keep going.

  When he could confidently put his weight on his foot, he went back to the door. It creaked open with just a tug this time.

  He shone his flashlight into the blackness. The tunnel walls glistened with dampness. The air had a different quality in here. He sniffed a couple of times to be sure. Less organic decay and more metallic chemicals, maybe.

  He placed the cans of soda on the damp floor, and the bread on top.

  The flashlight wasn’t bright enough to illuminate all the way down, but he knew that fifty feet back there, the tunnel had been sealed up.

  He stepped out of the tunnel and pushed the door almost closed.

  He wasn’t finished with his preparations, but the discomfort in his foot stopped him from completing his tasks. The rest would have to wait.

  He was ready for the first stage of his plan, at least.

  He’d never abducted an older child before. He figured it would be different from stealing babies, sure. But he was experienced. He’d know what to do.

  Tomorrow, he would kidnap Peter Kimball.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Tuesday, November 28

  11:40 a.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Hallman glanced around the garage one last time. He saw nothing more useful as a weapon than the screwdriver and the hammer. Not that he really thought it would actually be necessary to use a weapon on Norell. He had the feeling the threat alone would be more than enough.

  He gripped the door handle. The distance from the side door of the garage to the kitchen door was four or five paces. He needed to move quickly. If Norell or his wife were in the kitchen, his element of surprise would be lost.

  Once he was in the house, he would go for the wife. Norell would be easier to manage after Hallman subdued her. Norell wouldn’t have the guts to risk any harm to her. The guy was a wimp.

  Hallman took a deep breath.

  Before he could move forward, he heard metal scraping the driveway, and an engine revved as it approached the garage.

  He ran toward the main garage doors. He dropped low and pried back the weather-stripping to see outside. A white Toyota was in the driveway. Henrik Metcalfe stepped out.

  Hallman’s blood ran cold. Had the Toyota been parked in the street? Had he missed it? Had Metcalfe swapped cars to con him? Probably. That was the sort of thing Metcalfe would do.

  He raced around to the hand tools and grabbed a saw. It was unwieldy, but it would inflict a lot of damage. If forced to fight Metcalfe, he needed to inflict as much damage as possible and as fast as he could possibly deliver it.

  He moved from the tools to the side door and pressed his ear against the wooden frame. Footsteps landed hard on the concrete. He gripped the saw with two hands.

  The footsteps stopped. There was a click followed by a creak. He recognized the sound as the kitchen door opening. Were Norell and Metcalfe working together?

  An indignant female voice called out, but Hallman couldn’t hear any conversation. The kitchen door slammed, and everything went quiet.

  He transferred the saw from one hand to another as he wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. Minutes passed. He breathed hard, tense and ready. He was trapped but running would only draw more attention to himself.

  The minutes dragged on.

  The kitchen door opened and closed. Footsteps pounded the concrete again. A car door slammed, and the Toyota backed out of the driveway. Hallman ran to watch through the weather-strip. Metcalfe left alone. The Toyota pulled away.

  A moment later, a flustered man ran down the driveway and closed the gate. He had trouble keeping it closed, Metcalfe must have broken the latch. Eventually it held, and the man walked back toward the house, glancing along the street as he did so.

  Hallman sank onto his haunches. Sweat stuck his clothes to his body. He breathed hard.

  The side door opened.

  He jumped to his feet. He ran headlong around the vehicles, the saw held out in front of him. When the man stepped into the garage, Hallman body-checked the door, slammed it closed, and held the saw inches from the man’s neck.

  “Zander Norell?” Hallman said.

  Norell strained backward, away from the saw. His mouth was half open. His breaths came in short gasps. His eyes were so wide they looked like they might pop out. He nodded.

  “What did Metcalfe want?”

  Norell’s gasps slowed. “What?”

  “The man who was here. What did he want?”

  “Nothing.”

  Hallman pressed the saw against Norell’s neck. “Tell me.”

  “He wanted…he wanted the name…he wanted a lawyer.”

  “Why?”

  “He…he must be in trouble. Yes… He needs a lawyer. You know?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Please, let me go.”

  “Did he hurt your wife?”

  Norell said nothing.

  “Did he kill her?”

  Norell shook his head. “No, no. Please—”

  Hallman withdrew the saw from Norell’s neck but kept it close, threatening. “Where can I find Peter Kimball?”

  Norell’s face froze.

  “Is that what Metcalfe wanted?” Hallman said through clenched teeth.

  Norell licked his lips and nodded.

  “So, where is Peter Kimball?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Hallman pressed the saw against his neck and a thin trickle of blood flowed down his neck and soaked into his collar. “Where is he?”

  Norell’s eyes widened and he took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

  “You sold babies
. Some scheme with Earle Gotting.” He shook the saw in front of Norell’s face. “Tell me and you’ll never see me again.”

  Norell lowered his gaze. “Gotting brought me babies sometimes. I passed them on for private adoption. Good families. I never knew any names.”

  “You passed them on to who?”

  Norell breathed hard and looked at Hallman. “A…a lawyer.”

  “The same lawyer you told Metcalfe about?”

  “I don’t want to get hurt….”

  He pressed the saw blade against Norell’s neck again and ran it lightly across his skin this time. A thin line of blood popped out on his neck. “Did you tell Metcalfe? Yes or no.”

  Norell closed his eyes. “I-I gave him another name. Someone who died a few years ago.”

  Hallman smiled. He’d dead-ended Metcalfe. Plausible deniability courtesy of the dead. Good thinking on Norell’s part.

  Then again, if Norell had lied to Metcalfe, he was probably lying now. He couldn’t go to the police, but he could be buying time.

  Hallman flexed the saw blade. “You got the keys to one of the cars?”

  Norell nodded and held out a key fob. “It’s all yours.”

  Hallman took the keys and shoved Norell toward one of the Mercedes SUVs. “Oh no. You’re coming with me.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, November 28

  11:45 a.m.

  Kansas City, Kansas

  Norell lived in a two-story modern home in a typical suburban area. Trees dotted the grassy apron adjacent to the sidewalk. Residents parked their vehicles in garages or driveways, not along the curbs. Only guests and lawn services parked on the street.

  The drapes were closed. “Looks like nobody’s home,” Jess said as she parked the rental. They got out and moved around to the trunk.

  “At work, probably,” Morris said as he checked his firearm.

  Jess’s Glock was still in its case. She felt self-conscious loading and checking it while standing in the street, but she did it anyway. She tucked the gun in her bag, along with another magazine.