Secrets Boxset: A Riveting Kidnapping Mystery Collection

by J. S. Donovan

  “I’d like to visit her more,” Richard said as he looked over the fourteen-year-old headstone. He held his hat against his chest. His curly grey hair danced in the wind and the setting sun revealed the old scar on the side of his skull. “I don’t want to forget her.” His eyes watered.

  “You won’t, Dad.” Anna said. “You never will.”

  She dropped him off at home and drove to her office on 7th Street. She walked through the short hallway and stepped into her domain. There was a weird stigma to the place now after she watched Edger Strife’s videotapes here. Before, the stained rugs and faded orange blinds seemed to add to the seedy private investigator facade that she had unintentionally built. Tonight, it reminded her of Strife’s basement where he held the underage girls and filmed his movies. She shuttered at the thought and searched her desk for a bottle of whiskey. The last one she had left at her father’s house, but there was a backup in the bottom drawer. To take the edge off, she said and poured a glass. Leaning against the desk, she took a sip. It didn’t go down easy, but the aching in her body seemed to lessen. Placebo effect or not, it helped, and that’s why she put it back in the desk. A few of her friends in Miami got the taste for booze after a rough case and never beat it. If she were to take Mathis’s word to heart, she needed to let go of the crutch.

  She opened a cardboard box tucked against the side of the wall and unpacked it. It contained a framed photo of her and her friend Allen, who worked in forensics and always wore a Hawaiian shirt. It was at a bar that ran along the boardwalk. He had a drunken smile on his face while Anna grinned widely. She smirked at the memory and set it on her desk. That was before the Dade County Human trafficking case, before Anna was famous and had blood on her hands. Suddenly, she lost the will to keep on unpacking. She pulled out the flip phone her father had loaned her and called the number.

  Forty-five minutes passed before the silhouettes appeared in the murky glass on her door. One male and one female. Anna opened her office to the Rines and let them step inside. Trisha was a short woman around five foot and four inches tall, with delicate features and alluring almond eyes. She wore an indigo dress and her hair was silky and short, styled with classic elegance that accompanied her pearl earrings. Avery wore a suit the color of dark silver and frameless rectangular glasses instead of his usual clear contacts. He stood a head above his wife and had a well-structured face with high cheekbones and an intense gaze. Though they out-dressed Anna in her purple blouse and black slacks, they did not do well to hide their gloom. Their movement was slow and lifeless and their eyes had a glossy sheen and tiny red veins that reached for their irises.

  “Thank you for coming,” Anna said and pulled out two chairs in front of her desk.

  Without a word, the downtrodden couple took their seats, averting their gazes from one another. Anna sat down on the side of the desk. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I thought the apology would sound disingenuous over the phone. I know you’ve been kept in protective custody since… for a long time, and I thought I could answer any questions you had about the investigation.”

  Avery turned his eyes from his lap and glared at her.

  “My daughter’s not dead,” he replied like he hadn’t heard a word Anna said.

  “She’s out there,” Trisha added. “I know my baby is out there. Why are the police giving up? I’ve donated thousands of dollars to them and the best can they offer is the FBI will handle it. Does that monster get to get away with everything he’s done? With tearing my family apart? With mutilating my daughter?”

  The woman wailed while her husband shook in his chair, like a gasket about to blow. Anna struggled to find the right words. “I want to find Keisha. I want to put Cain behind bars, believe me. But I don’t know how. The man who took your daughter has years of experience under his belt. God knows how many times he’s bugged out. I know that doesn’t give you comfort, but it's the truth. I’ve spent the last five days thinking about this. Whether Keisha is alive or dead, Cain is gone and the knowledge of your daughter’s whereabouts is gone with him. I know I’m doing a crap job of expressing my condolences, but I’m trying to be as straight with you as I can.”

  Avery burst from his chair and shouted. “Do you know what it's like to lose a child? Every morning I get up and check the front door, expecting to find her or a piece of her, and every morning there’s nothing. The police do nothing. The FBI has nothing to show for their progress. A day ago a filmmaker called, asking to feature me in a documentary, if you can believe that. My daughter ain’t dead and he wants to do the Memoriam of Keisha Rines! Be honest or lie to me, Dedrick, I don’t care. I just want someone to find my daughter.”

  Trisha hid her face in her hand while Avery hiked out the door, letting slam in his wake. Anna took a breath, wishing she’d drunk more than a glass of whiskey.

  “She can’t be gone,” Trisha mumbled, disbelieving.

  The air in the room felt stale and suddenly the AC seemed to be failing at its job. “Mrs. Rines--Trisha, I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve done more.”

  The woman sniffled. “Y-you did what you could.”

  “I can reimburse you, if you’d--”

  “No,” Trisha looked up at her, tears streaking the mascara down her cheeks. “Keep it. If you stay on the case, I’ll double the amount.”

  Anna smiled sadly. “I can’t take any more of your money.”

  “Why?” the woman asked innocently.

  “We need closure, and right now...” she dreaded the words she was about to speak. “This is all we might get.”

  Trisha didn’t cry for she had no more tears to give. Her eyes pierced Anna’s soul as her husband stepped into the room. “Then find the bastard who did this.”

  Resting his back against the wall, Avery crossed his arms and waited for Anna’s response.

  Richard scribbled a passage into the journal his daughter had got him. It was a big step up from a composition notebook, with its nice leather binding and custom engraving: memory journal. In a world of technology and texting, he thought his daughter would expect him to make all his notes on the computer, but he was glad she didn’t. He’d forgotten the password so many times that he shunned the gosh darn thing. His large, calloused hands gently put the pen aside and read over the night’s events, making sure not to neglect the slightest detail. From the clothes they wore to the road they took, everything was crammed on the page. It made Richard feel like he was back on the job again, doing the after-case summary. Back when him and Greenbell worked together before their falling out. Richard had tried to explain that Sherry kissed him, not the other way around, but the sheriff’s mind was set and so was his fist. Richard felt his stubbled jaw, remembering the purple bruise he wore for weeks after. He turned to another page and wrote down that story before the details were gone.

  Setting the notebook on the stand beside his favorite recliner, Richard got up with an oof and walked a few laps around the living room as per his doctor’s request. I’ve been in this house a long time. He knew, but couldn’t recall the exact amount of years. He took his first turn around the couch and came up to the right side of the TV. The walls were painted white with a band of floral wallpaper that traveled across the den, ending at the threshold to the kitchen. It was one of the few things Ashley saved when they moved in. The rest of the house had been repainted and re-floored decades ago.

  Richard passed by the TV that showcased a classic Western he’d seen a hundred times and stopped at the fireplace. Family photos lined the wood shelf above it. He ceased his recommended exercise and grabbed one of the propped-up picture frames. He smiled widely as his finger brushed away a paper-thin sheet of dust from the glass. He looked at himself: a dashing young man at the height of his career. He had thick brown hair that his wife loved and a bushy mustache common among law enforcement. Beside him was his youngest, Evan, dressed in the cowboy outfit he got one Halloween and wore every day during the following year. He must’ve been six or seven when the picture was taken
. With one eye shut, he pointed his little silver revolver at the camera. Anna stood beside him, wearing a casual tee and capris. The twelve-year-old girl had a little mischievous grin and long brunette hair.

  Richard brushed his finger over the last person in the photo. Ashley. His soulmate, his everything that he’d lost fourteen years ago.

  He felt himself about to cry and turned away from the photo. Old age had made him soft, he felt. Like he’d become a child again. But gosh did he miss Ashley. She was such a free spirit and funny, too. He was reminded of the time they picked the lock to Old Man Garner’s house and dressed up in his oversized clothes. “We’re thirty years old. We can’t be doing this!” Richard exclaimed as he laughed. “I’m an officer for Pete’s sake!”

  “And I’m your wife,” Ashley replied, as if that justified everything. Richard chased after her until they fell on top of one another, unable to breathe because of all the fun they were having. With the memory strong in his mind, he headed for the journal when suddenly there was a faint scratching sound down the hall.

  He stopped and turned around. The hallway was dark and ominous, seemingly endless when the lights weren’t on.

  “Anna?” he asked and put down the framed photograph. Behind the fake potted plant beside the front door, he drew out an old wooden slugger that felt weighty in his hands. He would’ve preferred his pistol, but that was in his room attached to the dark hall.

  Treading lightly, he flipped on the light switch and looked at the open door to his daughter’s room. Faintly, he could hear the whispers of wind seeping through the open doorway. “Anna, is that you?”

  His voice garnered no reply and shivers tickled his spine. He straightened his back up and made his resolve that of tested steel and passed through the hallway, decorated with family photos and inspirational quotes his wife had bought. He stopped a foot away from the door and peered inside. The light was on. Anna’s bed was unmade and untouched. Above her desk, the magazine cutouts fought against their tacks as the wind pooled inside. The window was wide open and night was black on the other side. There was another creaking sound, but this time from behind him. Richard steadied his breath and tightened his fingers around the choke of the hefty baseball bat.

  Remembering his time with the force, he glanced at a nearby photo. Reflected in the fogged glass was a figure in all black and wearing a ski mask, just like Anna had described.

  3

  Con Fuoco

  Giving the ski-mask wearing stranger not a single second more, Richard twisted around at cyclone speed and sent the body of the baseball toward the man’s jaw. The stranger ducked and weaved like a boxer, narrowly avoiding the deadly kiss of the club. Glass and wood exploded into the hall as the slugger smashed into a family photo and punched a hole in the wall. Richard felt the force of the hit reverberate up his arm and into his shoulder. He locked eyes with the stranger, who, with the flick of the wrist, extended a two-foot onyx black baton.

  Richard had milliseconds to evaluate the situation, and then he swung the bat again. The stranger ducked below the slugger and sent the neck of his baton against the side of Richard’s knee. A bloodcurdling howl escaped Richard’s mouth. His leg bowed and his shoulder smashed into another picture. Glass shattered. The stranger cocked his head, seemingly amused at Richard’s pain. Not giving the bastard another second of satisfaction, the old man flung the bat like a tomahawk. It twirled in the air and punched the stranger across the chest. He grunted and staggered, giving Richard enough time to twist and make for Anna’s room. Dead with pain, his injured leg dragged behind him, while the vigor of the fight pulsed through his veins in a way it hadn’t in twenty years. A curse and rapid footsteps approached from the rear.

  Richard got inside his daughter's room and slammed the door shut. It met resistance at the stranger’s forearm, and a shout of agony sounded on the other end.

  “Got you now!” Richard shouted and slammed the bulk of his being against the door that clamped on the man’s writhing arm. The man’s gloved fingers contorted into a fist. Richard let up his weight for a quick moment and then slammed back into the door. The stranger’s arm slipped away out of sight and the door shut with a loud thud.

  The pain from Richard’s knee pulsed. He rolled his back against the door’s face as the stranger slammed against it on the other side like a hammer on an anvil. With every ram, Richard’s teeth clacked. His hand frantically searched the inner workings of his pants pockets and pulled out white puff balls of lint and paper hardened in the dryer process. He patted the small pockets on his vest as the banging grew more vicious. Where is it? His eyes went wide in terror. Where’s my phone? I swear I had it!

  The world seemed to spin. His breath quickened. Every hit against the door weakened Richard’s hold. He spread his arms out and curled his fingers around the frame, but that just seemed to amplify every thump that battered his spine. He needed something. A weapon. Anything! There was an old lamp beside Anna’s unkempt bed, tacks holding together the magazine collage, a desk with a computer monitor, a stack of aged CDs, and books from Anna’s middle school days. Across from that was a closet with a folding door. Perhaps his daughter had a weapon inside, but it was too risky to abandon his post on a wavering hunch. His fingertips slipped from the frame. He rediscovered the grip an inch lower. Sweat coated his body and glistened his wrinkly forehead. The cool wind brushed against him. He saw the open window. His salvation.

  When the stranger reeled back from his last hit against the door, Richard timed his escape. He pushed off his door and hurriedly limped toward the window. Smash! The door behind him burst open. Just a few more seconds! he begged as he grabbed ahold of the outer window’s gaping hole. He pulled with all his might to squeeze his torso through and got one knee in the sill when suddenly he was yanked back. The collar of his shirt cut into his neck. He gasped for air as he lost his balance. He thought he would hit the ground, but the stranger’s grip stopped a few feet above the wood floor and dragged him.

  Richard clawed his nails into where the shirt noosed around his throat. His other arm reached over his head and raked across the stranger’s arm. However, the long sleeve jacket shielded the man’s flesh from Richard’s fingernails. Richard kicked his legs out in all directions as he fought for breath. He gagged as the window and Anna’s room got farther away.

  His hand groped desperately at the walls in the hallways, but nothing stopped his advancement. Glass crunched between the stranger’s boot and soon they were in the living room. The stranger released his grip and Richard slammed against the floor. His face was as red as cherry and tears poured down his bristly cheek. Rolling to the side, he took a breath. He tried to yell for help. An airless squeal escaped his lips.

  The stranger paced around Richard, pointing his baton at the old man fighting for breath. Without a word, the stranger brought down the club on Richard’s belly. The air left the old man and he curled up on the floor as more swipes hit his arm, chest, legs, and gut.

  Richard commanded his body to get up and fight. Instead, he rolled on his back. He demanded that his arms to crawl out the front door, but they fell motionless at his side. He looked up at the ceiling and the white paint, the way he did when him and the kids used play on the floor. Ashley would join them too and when they were all tuckered out, they’d look up at the ceiling and then to each other. She had such a wonderful wide smile, Ashley. Richard needed to write that down before he forgot. He forced himself to look over, to find his wife lying beside him, but instead he saw the stranger, clad in black, walk into the hall and return with a canister of gasoline. Liquid swished around the inside of the metal can as he popped the cap. The potent stench filled Richard’s nose, the only part of his body that didn’t feel like tenderized steak.

  With long, fluid motions, the stranger marched around the room and splashed the walls and floors like he was an interpretive painter. He walked around Richard and to the kitchen, pouring a line of gasoline on the floor. Upon his return, he dosed the couch,
TV stand, and finally Richard’s favorite recliner before stopping above the fireplace. He placed the depleted gas canister on the floor beside him.

  Richard tried to crawl, but the pain was too harsh on his old bones. Who knew how many he had broken? I’m not dying here. I can’t. I haven’t seen my Anna marry. I hadn’t seen my grandchildren grow. He bucked as he sat up and found he’d only lifted an inch. Just below his raging heart, a rib screamed in agony. He grasped his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t help the pain.

  The stranger turned away from the fireplace and dropped a framed photograph on Richard’s chest. The old man grunted in response. He couldn’t see the content of picture, but he knew the one. The stranger stood over him empathically and pointed the extendable baton at the image.

  “Blame her,” the stranger said coldly.

  Richard opened his mouth and forced the words from his gullet. “Go to hell.”

  He braced himself for another whack, but the stranger drew out a match box instead.

  Anna packed up her laptop for the evening and took a final look at her dingy office before locking the door. She had to rattle the key a few times to get the lock to take and, after testing the knob, she sighed. Another thing to fix. She left the single-story office building and climbed into her father’s old Chevy truck. The yellow street light bounced off the maroon paint and the engine grumbled when she turned the ignition.

  The drive through downtown was quiet. Most of the shops were closed on Sunday and only a few teenage stragglers took to the sidewalks. As she cruised between the Victorian-style buildings that trapped the town in the cowboy era, Anna’s mind drifted to the Rines and their request. Tracking a little girl was one thing, tracking her dangerous abductor was another. Though she had been doing it all this time, to make Cain’s capture or his demise her mission felt off. She wasn’t a detective anymore. She was a private investigator, and this seemed like a good a time as any to start living like it. Nonetheless, Trisha’s request nagged at her. Anna doubted her decision. Was it wrong to promise them something impossible? To take another check? She looked at the sealed envelope resting beside her. With every street light Anna passed, it blinked in and out of sight. Her gut tightened with guilt. I’ll return it, she told herself, but deep down she questioned if she really would.