The Silent Child Boxset: A Collection of Riveting Kidnapping Mysteries

by Roger Hayden

  No, she thought. It can’t be.

  The car was long and low-riding, and she had seen it before: Oldsmobile Classic, its burgundy color revealed under the street lights. She immediately closed the blinds and backed away from the window just as the car sped off. Victoria rushed out of the kitchen and through the foyer, receiving a curious glance from Brooke as she swung the front door open and ran outside. She raced down the driveway and saw the taillights of the Oldsmobile in the distance. It was too far away to catch a license plate. She stopped in the middle of the street, arms out and shouting to the vehicle, “I’m right here! Show yourself, you coward!”

  But the car kept moving. She looked around and saw some neighbors watching her from their windows, and Brooke standing outside the door, concerned. Her head lowered with embarrassment as she returned to the house in haste.

  “What was that all about, Mom?” Brooke asked her.

  “Nothing, just get inside,” she said, nudging Brooke in and closing the door. She turned and locked the chain and deadbolt, storming past Brooke and checking each window in the living room.

  “Mom,” Brooke repeated, watching her. “What is it?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Victoria said, distracted and scatterbrained. She then stormed off down the hall to Brooke’s room, going right.

  “Hey,” Brooke said, following.

  Victoria walked past the clutter, past the posters of teenage heartthrobs and pop singers, and checked the lock on her window, shutting the blinds in the process. Brooke stood at the doorway and watched in silence.

  “Keep your window locked at all times,” Victoria said with her back to her daughter. “Do you hear me?”

  Brooke nodded and said “yes” not above a whisper. Victoria turned and rushed past her, straight into the bathroom across the hall, and checked the tiny window—too small for anyone to fit through. She locked it anyway and then went off to the study, checking the locks at both windows and pulling the curtains shut over the already closed blinds.

  She checked their sliding glass door leading into the back yard, the garage door at the end of the hall opposite Brooke’s room, and finally the windows in her own bedroom. Everything was locked. Everything was closed. There was no chance, she believed, that anyone could get in.

  She reemerged into the living room and saw Brooke sitting on the couch with a shaken and sad look on her face that gave Victoria pause.

  “Oh, honey. I’m sorry,” she said, approaching the couch.

  Brooke’s eyes began to well with tears as she lowered her head. Victoria then sat close to her and placed a hand on her back. “I don’t mean to worry you. I really don’t.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Brooke said, hiding her tears with her hands.

  Victoria sat silent for a moment as guilt rushed over her. “I will, okay?” she said, rubbing Brooke’s back. “Just give me a minute.” She paused and took a deep breath as Brooke quietly wept. She decided to tell Brooke what was happening within the family, but hold back about her stalker. “Your father and I both love you very much. We’re just going through some issues right now. Nothing too serious, but there’s a lot we have to work out. You’ll see him soon, but to be honest, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “Why?” Brooke said, rubbing her eyes. “What happened?”

  Victoria sighed. “We’ve been married for ten years. It’s not a super long time, but it’s long enough for things to happen. There’s a lot of things, but whatever happens, we will still both be here for you no matter what.”

  Brooke raised her face, exposing tears that Victoria quickly wiped with her thumbs. “It sounds like you’re getting a divorce. Is that it? Are you getting a divorce?”

  “I don’t know,” Victoria said. “But I promise not to keep you in the dark anymore.”

  “So, is he really on a business trip?” Brooke asked.

  “I’m not too sure. He went away for a couple of days. You’ll see him soon.”

  “And what’s with this running around and buying guns and all that?” Brooke asked.

  “It’s for our safety,” Victoria said, rationalizing that it was only a half-lie. “Without your father around, I feel a little vulnerable, especially with that woman found in the lake.” She then pulled Brooke closer and squeezed her shoulder. “But I’m not going to let anything happen to you, understand?”

  Brooke nodded as Victoria kissed her on the cheek. “Understand?”

  “Yes,” Brooke said.

  Victoria suddenly turned toward the kitchen as a high-pitched timer beeped and a mass of steam flowed out from the stove.

  “Oh no!” she said, jolting upward. “I forgot about the rice!” She ran off in a hurry to see a boiling pot of rice bubbling over and spilling all over the stove. She turned the stove off and waved a kitchen towel, fanning the thick cloud of steam. Whew, she thought. That was close. And it wasn’t over yet. She was still shaking and her nerves had never felt so on edge.

  Victoria lay in bed after watching a movie with Brooke, feeling the emptiness of Todd’s absence. Her revolver sat under the glow of her lamp on the nightstand. The house was silent enough to make her alert to every movement inside or out, real or imagined. It was past ten, and she was wide awake. She had felt better after her talk with Brooke, despite the future uncertainty. Her mind drifted with thoughts overlapping as she squeezed her hands together and tried to remain calm. Her bedroom door was closed, along with the door to the bathroom and the closet across from her. Any opening made her feel as afraid as a child. She couldn’t even bring herself to turn the lamp off.

  Then a distant rustling in the bushes made her bolt upright. Her eyes shot toward the window. The curtains were closed, but she couldn’t help but see the shape of an approaching figure silhouetted against the street light. Her hand quickly reached for the revolver as the figure disappeared. She rubbed her eyes frantically and stared at the curtains, waiting, but there was nothing there.

  Against the Grain

  Leesburg, South Carolina

  Dobson moved swiftly through the station lobby, determined to lay low. He avoided Homicide and took the stairs to the second floor, where the Forensics lab was located.

  “Another toothpick?” asked Detective Sally LaRue. She was standing at the lab’s front desk as Dobson presented the evidence bag with his latest find. “Is this some kind of calling card?” She held the bag up in her gloved hands, examining it as Dobson looked around for anyone else who might be listening.

  “I just need it tested against the last one. See if the DNA matches,” he said.

  “No problem,” she said, reaching for a clipboard sitting on a shelf behind her. She slid it across the counter as he studied the many papers attached. “Just fill out the attached forms and I’ll get started.”

  “I need to know as soon as possible,” he said, looking for a pen.

  “You tell me that every time, Mike. You and every detective in this building,” she said. “We’ll do our best.”

  Dobson leaned in closer, arms folded. “Nothing at the Bailey estate so far? Not a single hair?”

  Sally shook her head. “No. But we did recover some footprints in the dirt outside. Size twelve boots. Timberlands. Jack didn’t call you?”

  Dobson’s eyes widened. “I need pictures and whatever else you have.”

  Sally turned around and procured another clipboard of forms for him to fill out, sliding it next to the other one. “You know the drill. Complete the required request forms, and I’ll see what we have on file.”

  “You’re as hard as they come, Sally,” he said as she walked off and left him at the counter with a handful of forms. He glanced at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling and then began writing quickly.

  After his visit to the Forensics lab, Dobson hurried down the steps to the first floor where the Records department was located, busy as always with several civilians in line and in chairs, waiting. He nonchalantly walked to the front of t
he line and tapped on the glass of the middle of three booths where Janet, a frumpy redhead, looked up in surprise.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, Mike.”

  Dobson pushed his way closer, much to the annoyance of an irritated bald man who stood aside. “Sorry to barge in like this. I need the information for a license plate I requested thirty minutes ago.”

  Janet nodded and then turned around to face the desks behind her with typists busy at their work. “Just one moment, please,” she said, holding up a finger.

  She walked off as Dobson reached into his pocket and pulled out a chocolate candy bar, pushing it below the glass partition, a small token of thanks. Then he turned to the bald man, shrugging. “Emergency,” he explained. He then turned around and leaned against the counter, observing the people waiting in their chairs against the wall.

  Someone familiar-looking caught his eye: a man sitting in the middle chair reading a newspaper, his face concealed by the paper. Dobson recognized the same dark trench coat, fedora, and black boots from earlier. He had run into the same man on his way out to tail Evelyn Bailey. He remembered the voice, the burn scars, and what looked like a press pass. There was something strange about him beyond all that, unsettling even. Perhaps he could have a friendly word and find out what he was doing at the police station again. Anyone dressed like that would have to expect to bring attention to themselves.

  Dobson moved from the counter and approached the man, prepared to say a few words. He walked past a line of people and stopped inches from the man’s boots.

  “Excuse me, sir. Might I have a word with you?”

  The man remained still, the newspaper blocking Dobson’s view.

  “Sir?” Dobson said, inching forward.

  The man suddenly lowered his newspaper, revealing a clean-shaven face free of scars and no hat on his head. Instead, his trim blond hair was brushed neatly to the side. He glanced up at Dobson, surprised, and then smiled with bright white teeth.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked with inquisitive blue eyes.

  Dobson stepped back, surprised. “No… I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” He examined the man’s attire and saw a white dress-shirt and tie underneath the trench coat. He then noticed that the man was reading the Maine Morning Sentinel.

  “Are you from around here?” Dobson asked.

  “Not originally,” the man said in a raspy voice. His smile twitched, and it appeared that he was having trouble maintaining an air of friendliness. “Looking to move here soon, though. Hoping to get some information about the area from here. Requirements, property taxes… things like that.”

  Dobson studied the man and couldn’t find anything glaringly unusual beyond his trench coat. The face he remembered was not the face of the man before him, but someone else.

  “Mike!” Janet called from her booth.

  Dobson turned around and saw that she had returned with a manila envelope in hand. If he was lucky, the license plate information he hoped for would be inside. He approached as Janet looked down and noticed the chocolate bar with a smile.

  “Oh, Mike. You’re too much.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” he said, taking the envelope.

  “You’ll find the individual’s address and information in here,” she said.

  “Thanks so much, Janet. You’re the best.”

  He tapped the envelope against his forehead and offered a salute. Dobson apologized to the unamused bald man behind and left in a hurry, glancing at the trench-coat man one more time, the newspaper again concealing his face.

  Dobson left Records and headed to the lobby with his head down in thought. Moving against Fitzpatrick was dangerous, foolish even, for a detective in his position, so close to retirement. The truth, despite that, he decided, was more important than his career. Besides, hadn’t he always been able to get out of a jam?

  Dobson hurried to his Chevy Impala, glancing at his watch, and ducked inside, taking a chance of being spotted. It was already 4 p.m. Once inside, he opened a small bag of chips and ate a handful as he backed out and raced out of the parking lot. At the first traffic light, he opened the manila envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper with information typed in the top left-hand corner.

  The man in question was a local resident named Ruben Salazar, a forty-five-year-old plumber, who lived at 2681 Worthington Street, Apartment 201.

  He had no criminal record, which would have explained his DNA absence in the database. His connections to Evelyn Bailey were spotty. Dobson didn’t know if he was a friend, a lover, or someone she had hired to do her dirty work. He had pictures of her talking with Salazar, but no evidence that they were involved in any kind of conspiracy together. He hardly seemed the type to be within Evelyn Bailey’s inner circle. That much was obvious.

  Putting Salazar at the scene required two important factors: the DNA results from the toothpicks and the footprint outside Mrs. Bailey’s mansion, both currently unverified. Dobson felt hopeful, nonetheless.

  Dobson drove through town carefully, two hands on the wheel, but his thoughts racing with excitement. The address wasn’t far from the station. A ten-minute drive, and he’d be on Salazar’s doorstep. He ignored an incoming call and pushed on, with Worthington Street in his sights. He turned and drove across the cracked, faded pavement of a two-lane road, seeing just ahead the address numbers he was looking for displayed on a small, two-story building with several apartment units.

  The parking lot was moderately full and he saw a few men quickly walk away from a bench as he pulled in. Although he was driving his own vehicle and not the department’s, they still seemed to know the drill. Dobson circled the building, reading the unit numbers and then came across 207 upstairs, toward the back of the building.

  There was a small propane grill chained to the railing in front of the door, blinds drawn, and no appearance of anyone home. He pulled to the side of the complex near a stairwell and immediately saw a van parked in the corner that resembled the same one he’d seen before. It had heavy tint on the windows and rust around the edges of its painted white exterior. From behind the wheel, Dobson glanced up at 207.

  A courtesy visit, Dobson thought. Just ask him a few questions and see how nervous he gets.

  He got out and closed his door, keeping one hand on the pistol at his waist, observing the quiet complex. No one was outside and everything seemed quiet. Muffled music played from one of the apartments with bass notes carrying across the parking lot. He moved quickly toward the building and to the side where he climbed a flight of stairs and stood five doors down from 207. Sunlight shined on the row of apartments ahead, glancing off the windows. He walked along the railing as he steadily closed in on apartment 207.

  A car honked in the distance at some children riding across the road on their bicycles. Dobson stopped at Salazar’s window and attempted to see beyond the closed curtains, but there was no looking inside. He then walked to the door and pressed his ear against it, listening. There was not a sound to be heard. He backed away from the door and took a deep breath. His arms went limp at his sides as he rotated his neck and prepared himself.

  Dobson stepped to the door and pounded against it, making it rattle on the hinges. He lowered his fist and waited, listening for footsteps or a rude warning, but heard nothing. Salazar was in there. He had to be. “Mr. Salazar?” he said, knocking again. “I need to speak with you.”

  He watched the windows on both sides of the door for movement. Salazar wasn’t making any moves. Dobson backed up from the door, ready to kick it in, but then hesitated. No one knew if Salazar was there, he had no warrant, and Evelyn Bailey apparently had enough money to buy his entire police department if necessary.

  He knocked again. “Mr. Salazar, I know that you’re in there. I saw your van in the parking lot. You can either talk to me, or I’ll get the entire Summerville Police Department out here in five minutes.”

  He suddenly heard a chain rattling inside, followed by the unlocking o
f a deadbolt. The door opened slightly, with one of the bearded man’s eyes glaring through the crack.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Dobson kept a careful hand on his holstered pistol, though concealed under his coat. “Come on out into the light so we can talk.”

  Salazar narrowed his one visible eye. “You’re police?”

  “I’m a detective,” Dobson said, displaying his badge. “Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble. No one else is here. It’s just me, with a couple questions.”

  Salazar opened the door halfway, exposing a round, tired face and a protruding gut under his extra-large T-shirt. He was wearing gym pants with stripes on the side and tennis shoes. Dobson noticed some earbuds dangling around his neck.

  “Bout to go for a run?” he asked.

  “What business is it of yours?” Salazar said.

  “Just curious.”

  Salazar looked outside, scanning the balcony left and right. “What the hell do you want?”

  “I want to talk about Evelyn Bailey,” Dobson said, taking the risk of being upfront.

  His head jerked back with wild blinking. “Who?”

  “Evelyn Bailey,” he repeated “What can you tell me about her?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he said, backing into his apartment. “Now, why don’t you fuck off back home?”

  Dobson moved forward, stopping the door halfway with his foot as Salazar attempted to close it.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Salazar,” he said, defiant.

  Salazar’s face went pale with shock. He thrust his large arms against the door and pushed it as Dobson lunged forward to push back, both men struggling against each other as the door shook.

  “Fuck you!” Salazar shouted with his teeth bared.

  He suddenly jumped back and let the door fly open, sending Dobson tumbling forward and onto the floor in one quick thud. He pushed himself up immediately as Salazar backed up and bounced around like a boxer in the ring. He then swung his leg back and kicked Dobson in the side, knocking the wind out of him and sending him back to the floor. Dobson clutched his ribs, gasping as he watched Salazar run into the darkness of his living room and reemerge with a backpack.