Secrets Boxset: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery Collection

by J. S. Donovan

  Anna shot into the air. Glass rained down upon Cain’s head and back. Anna’s left hand pushed up against the man’s chin, forcing his head away. His left hand drew the knife from his belt. The blade glimmered in the light of the unmanned torch. Its deadly point stabbed down and opened the side of Anna’s vest and shirt. She removed her hand from his jaw and gripped his wrist, wrestling against the knife.

  He hunched his face down. She caught a whiff of his foul breath and locked on his bright green eyes. His slimy tongue flopped out of the mask’s mouth hole and worked its way up her cheek and over her eyebrow. She squirmed. The memories of Edger Strife’s basement triggered in her mind. Her muscles tightened. Her legs kicked out in every direction. She resisted Cain’s knife-wielding hand and won a few inches. The weight of the man’s body pressed against her. The pistol barrel wiggled under Cain’s armpit, getting lost between in his arm muscles and ribs. His gloved fingers folded around her pistol-wielding forearm, stopping the escape. Anna’s heart raced. She squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet hit another glass bulb, but not before ripping open the flesh on the side of his ribs. He contorted in pain and pushed himself off of her, scurrying to his feet. She aimed the pistol up at the ominous figure. The toe of his laced-high boots smacked the top of her hand, sending the firearm across the room. She rolled to her belly and swiftly crawled after it. A burst of pain shot up her back as Cain jammed his knee into her spine. He pinned her to the floor and raked the blade down her back in long stripes. His foot kicked the flashlight into the far wall.

  Anna reached into the dark. The blade point tore open her vest over and over again in a beastly fashion. Anna’s fingers found a cold handle. Cain grabbed a fist full of Anna’s hair and jerked back her head, exposing her throat that pulsated with every rapid breath. The whites of her eyes grew bright as cold metal kissed her soft skin.

  “Goodnight, Anna,” Cain whispered innocently.

  Anna swung her arms back over her head. The baton thumped against skull and Cain howled. He recoiled away, squeezing the crown of his head with clenched, crying eyes. Anna let the club fall from her fingers as she snatched the pistol from the smooth floor. She twisted back, shooting. Bullets pinged against the slamming metal door. She forced herself to her feet and grabbed the handle. Locked. She twisted and tried the other black door. Locked.

  “No no no no!” Anna pleaded and charged the door. Wham! She staggered back and shook off the pain. Getting another running start, she slammed against the riveted metal. Her vision blurred and her head and arm throbbed. I’m not dying in here, she promised herself and charged. Her body ricocheted to the floor. She found her footing and slammed into the unrelenting metal for the fourth time. She sank to the floor, aching, the wounds from earlier splitting open. One bullet remained in the pistol. With a click, she slid the magazine back inside. The flashlight rolled with the motion of hands.

  A weak moan escaped Lily’s chapped lips. On her hands and knees, Anna crawled across the floor and helped the little girl sit up.

  “Where…” Lily’s shy voice trailed off as she studied her bandaged hand, the room, and Anna in a dream-like state.

  Anna wrapped her arms around her and pulled her bony body close. “I’m here.”

  Lily turned her large eyes up to Anna. “Where’s my mom?”

  “She’s… she’s safe.”

  “I want to see her,” the little girl begged.

  “You will,” Anna smiled sadly. “I promise.”

  Lily reciprocated Anna’s embrace with a warm hug. “Is the bad man gone?”

  “Yes,” Anna replied.

  “Forever?” Lily asked with watery eyes.

  Anna pursed her lips for a moment. She squeezed Lily tightly as her flesh realized the room’s cold temperature. “No… but you’re safe. That’s all that matters now.”

  “He said that if I ran away,” Lily sniffled, “he’d hurt Keisha more. H-he said that he will never stop hurting little girls.”

  “We won’t let that happen,” Anna said with comfort and defiance.

  Lily nestled her head against Anna’s vest and shut her eyes. “Mom said that if I have a bad dream, to shut my eyes and think of a faraway place. A place special to me.”

  Anna let her own eyelids close and imagined a warm beach on a sunny day. Her father Richard running through the sand wearing beige swimming trunks and a khaki fishing hat, sitting beside a cooler of beers. She saw Grace and Evan lying on adjacent collapsible chairs, enjoying the sweet baking heat of the sun. Lily was there making sand castles. She waved to Keisha, Trisha, and Avery Rines, who were setting up their sun umbrella a few yards away. Anna sat and let the grains of warm sand slip through the cracks of her fingers. Soothing waves crashed in front of her. She waited for the tide to rise so she could feel the refreshing water on her toes. Agent Rennard plopped down next to her and lay on his back. He locked his fingers behind his head. Anna joined him. Together, they watched clouds drift overhead.

  “I’ve been closing my eyes for so long,” Lily admitted in her sheepish voice. “B-but the bad dream never ends.”

  Anna’s eyes shot open. She looked around the black, octagonal walls around her, her hand close to the gun, and wondered how long her flashlight would last.

  They found the hatch in the middle of the woods a half mile away from the rail yard. It had been masked by a camo net and an inch of dirt. Without the agent’s tip, the officers wouldn’t have bothered to search this far out, but here they stood, looking at the fruit of their labor. With a crowbar, they pried it open and shined light down the hole. One of the officers looked up at the sun, sighed, and climbed inside. The rest of the men in uniform followed.

  The corridor stretched far and straight. It seemed to trap the cold, and a rhythmic dripping resonated from some unknown crack in the ceiling. Alert, they followed the trail to the fork in the darkened corridor. One side directed to a distant pile of rubble while the other ended at a black door. Guns up, they separated and worked their way through both sides. The lead officer stopped before he reached the black door and touched the adjacent wall. It was cold like the rest of the corridor and the shade of paint was a hue brighter. He pushed it open, and it leaned into a small hidey hole of sorts that contained a breaker switch. He picked up on the odd wall, taking quick note of the texture, weight, and creases. Styrofoam, he knew. It had been carved out and measured to conceal the hideaway.

  The other officers tried the black door and cursed its existence. It took a good hour before the locksmith arrived and another thirty minutes before the lock was cracked. Finally, the door opened into an octagon room painted floor to ceiling with a coat of black paint. Exposed lights hung from the ceiling, but the switch was in the hidey hole. Below lay two bodies huddled together.

  The officer cautiously moved toward them. He reached out a hand, but before he could blink, the tan woman had a pistol aimed at his face. Ruffled brown hair spiked out in all directions. Her veiny eyes blazed with anger and her cheeks were gaunt from hunger. The other officers raised their weapons at the feral woman in retaliation. Suddenly, she lowered her handgun. The officer took it from her cold hands and passed it back to a colleague.

  Keeping her eyes on the officers, the woman shook the little sandy-haired girl beside her. The girl’s frail body wiggled with the movement, but she appeared to be lost in a great sleep. The officers traded harrowing glances with one another. One offered the woman a hand. She didn’t accept and waited for the little girl. The officer called over a friend and, together, got the woman to her feet. She turned her back to the little girl as they guided her through the black door. Then, like Lazarus from his tomb, the little girl sat up and turned her head between the officers. Strands of golden hair and tears streamed down her dirtied face. A female officer lifted her up and carried the weeping child through the long hall.

  The officers steered them down the corridor and up the metal rungs jutting from the cement walls, all the while perplexed by the markings carved
into the back of the woman’s Kevlar vest. Four lines with a slash it. Tallies, five in total, signifying a countdown or something worse…

  Kidnapped: Final Recital Book 2

  1

  Dolente

  Rain gushed from iron clouds and pattered on the tops of roofs, umbrellas, and Cain’s sickly green 1983 Mercury Marquis. He watched water cascade down the French-inspired fabric awnings of his favorite café, La Fleur, and puddle at the drab grey curbside. Like the rest of the shops running down Van Buren’s historical district, La Fleur was a part of a larger brick building that covered an entire block. At every lot, the roof jutted up and down like crooked teeth, and on stormy evenings like this one, its red brick exterior looked the color of crusted blood.

  Cain’s gloved hands held the steering wheel as he watched Rachel the barista wipe down a table with a wet rag. She was a short, shapely woman whom Cain had grown fond of over the years. Every morning, when he ordered his specialty latte, she’d serve his mug with a little napkin and a genuine smile. Some days she’d inquire about his readings, whether it be Tipitaka, King James, or the Yellow King. Other times, she’d slide into his window-side booth and vent about her boyfriend, Brad. Cain didn’t like Brad, but he decided against killing him. Despite the toxicity of their relationship, the boyfriend’s ill-timed demise would shatter the soft-spoken barista and prove to be a hollow victory for Cain. Brad was too old, male, and far from a prodigy. He didn’t fit the criteria.

  Rachel tossed the rag on the bus cart, rubbed her forehead with the top of her supple hand, and sighed. Brad problems, Cain concluded and felt an angry sickness in his core. He missed her drama, lattes, and body he never got the opportunity to explore.

  The commercial break ended and, following a three-second musical cue, the pompous talk show host returned. A frown sank Cain’s long face and his fingers twisted the radio dial.

  “It’s been a whirlwind of a week for our God-fearing country,” the host ranted. “Cain—the Butcher of Van Buren as some call him—has blighted this community with murder, kidnapping, mutilation, and honestly, talking about this little man makes me sick. If I had it my way, I wouldn’t even give him airtime. He’s not worth a breath, and when he’s found and—fingers crossed—executed, I’m petitioning that we erase all records of this slime from our history books and studio back logs. He’s doing this for fame, people, and I refuse to give it to him.”

  The corner of Cain’s lip twitched. Fist-clenching pain rattled his head from the cracked, pus-filled lump on his crown.

  “However,” the host continued. “It’s my obligation, my responsibility, to inform the people, to warn the people about this cesspit of a human being who takes little girls, like Keisha Rines, Lily Kendale, and countless others, and abuses them, cuts them, and uses them to taunt our community. I won’t stand for it and neither will my guest, the brave and courageous Sheriff Garrett Greenbell. Thank you, Sheriff, for being on the show and for working sleeplessly to keep our town safe.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” the sheriff replied. “I’ve been serving our community for thirty-two great years, and I can say in full confidence that the terror of Cain is coming to an end. The Van Buren PD and myself are working around the clock to find and detain this criminal. We’ve confiscated his properties, cancelled his credit cards, locked his bank account, and most importantly released his true identity to the public. The man has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and is living on borrowed time.”

  “Tell me, Sheriff, how did you uncover Cain’s identity?” the host asked.

  “We discovered that he’d been holding the captive girls in his late parents’ house, so we sought the offspring of Terrence and Rose Jenkins. Searching the foster care system between 1973-75, we found Wesley Jenkins and his sister, Sherry. Wesley’s blood type matched the type we procured from the Smithson’s Train Yard, and his face aligned with multiple of our suspect sketches. More damning, we found an automatic rifle in his home that was used in the train yard shootout.”

  Outside, umbrella-protected locals dashed down the sidewalk, laughing. Cain boiled and switched off the radio. He took the car out of idle and rolled down the slippery street, driving by King’s Opera House. I am Icarus, he thought as a warm tear of blood trickled out of his ball cap, through his thin hair and down his neck.

  In a developing neighborhood, Cain eased the four-door sedan to a stop and listened to the rain tap on the car’s roof. It was a gentle sound, but it did nothing to calm him. Groaning, he popped open the glove box and removed the dusty package. The tip of his gloved thumb brushed across its sealed crease, as if the cardboard was precious porcelain. He pinched the tab, peeled it open, and removed the fake ID and flip phone. He stowed them in the inner pocket of his saddle-colored field coat and discarded the box in the back seat. Before closing the glove box, he grabbed a cloth-wrapped object.

  The storm was dying down slowly but the all-encompassing clouds darkened with nightfall. Cain looked both ways on the street, eying the other suburban-style homes outside of Fort Smith, Van Buren’s sister city. He bounced up the curb and passed through the soaked lawn. The residence before him was a shell. The foundation had been laid, the roof placed and the walls erected, but it still lacked electricity, paint, and furnishings. The incomplete house had not been his first choice of sanctuary, but it was inconspicuous and, after the news broadcast his face, temporary. Cain used the garage to get inside the gloomy building.

  Large holes were open on kitchen countertops, waiting for cold granite slabs. All around, wind bowed in the plastic sheeting that sealed the windows. Rain droplets raced down the plastic’s opaque canvas, and a chilling breeze leaked through an invisible breach. The floor creaked under Cain’s tennis shoes. He held the cloth-wrapped object tightly and approached the basement door. Gently removing the chair from under the doorknob, he opened the door and peered down the rickety steps and into the black pit beyond.

  Something shuffled within, much larger than a rat.

  He walked with quiet steps, just like how he had when he escaped his foster father’s notched belt. As he descended deeper into the abyss, he reflected on how odd it was that his cravings began so many years go. It took him a long time to realize it started with his little sister Sherry. She was so perfect, Cain thought jealously. Both of his foster parents knew it and even after his gifted sister was found strangled in the woods, Cain’s new parents still loved her more.

  The scurrying grew louder, followed by muffled cries that he’d heard countless times. Cain reached the bottom of the steps. Faint light streamed down on him from the open door above. Through the void, he could see the outline of the little black girl strapped to a chair. She was a doll with frizzy hair, big almond eyes, and a little button nose. Like a squirrel in the middle of the road, she froze when Cain neared. Her bandaged hands painfully clenched the chair’s arms. Cain knelt before her and opened the folds of cloth on the cement floor. One flap at a time, the knife within revealed itself. Its handle was made of an elk’s antler, and the blade had dark liquid waves in the metal.

  The girl struggled, teetering her chair. The white of her fear-filled eyes beamed in the darkness. A rag muffled her cries.

  “Shh…” Cain comforted as he gripped the blade’s hilt and thought of his sister.

  The child pianist pulled back her head as far as she could from the knife’s point. The abductor frowned as he recalled how far he had fallen. He reminded himself why he chose his name. For my gifts are not pleasing unto God.

  With a mountain of paperwork on his desk and his head in the clouds, Sheriff Garrett Greenbell swiveled in his rolling chair. Decades of hard work were finally paying off. Law enforcement is a thankless job, his father told him once. It felt good to prove the dog-faced drunk wrong. He twisted the ring on his finger and smiled inconspicuously. To continue his streak, all he had to do was catch the bastard and save the girl, and then Greenbell would go national. Students in law enforcement and criminal psychology would study this
case for years to come, and there, right next to the picture of Cain, legally known as Wesley Jenkins, would be Sheriff Garrett Greenbell with his white, spade-shaped beard, silky hair the color of snow and a fierce expression on his face.

  Too many times heroes are snuffed out by villains, he’d tell whatever talk show personality, live and in front of millions of viewers. I aim to give those unsung heroes the recognition they desire. People would admire, love, and respect him, and those would only be the initial perks of immortality. Unlike Anna Dedrick, he wouldn’t waste his fame becoming some washed-out private investigator. No no no, he’d use it to raise awareness for the environment or some other hot button issue in today’s media.

  Thinking about how Dedrick detested her fame made Greenbell scoff in frustration. He returned his attention back to the desk and fished a pen out of a pen-filled mug. He brainstormed as he pulled out a form from the crooked pile. Cain’s properties were clean, but he has to be hiding the Rines girl somewhere else. He remembered Keisha’s wide smile from when they met at the King’s Opera House the night of her abduction. A friend’s house? Can’t be, they would turn him in. How about abandoned properties? Greenbell recalled a few seedy places around town.

  The phone rang. He picked it up and pressed the cold plastic against his ear. “This is the Van Buren Sheriff’s department, Greenbell speaking.”

  The voice on the other side was quiet and angry. “Keisha Rines is dead. You and Dedrick failed. The girl’s blood is on your hands.”

  The sheriff jolted up in his seat. “Who is this?”

  The line went dead.

  “Hello?”

  He could feel his heart beating and his mouth dry. It took him a moment to process, and then he ran out of the office and into the hall, too preoccupied to hang up the phone.