Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  Upon reaching her 4Runner, Ella sighed again. Although plenty of empty slots on her level still remained, a careless student had parked a van right next to her car, leaving little space between them.

  Probably some frat guy late for a Friday night beer-bust, she thought irritably.

  Ella hesitated. Then, after glancing around and seeing no one present, she unslung her backpack. Removing her keys from a side pouch, she began squeezing between her Toyota and the van, deciding there was still enough room to slip into her driver’s side door.

  As she inched forward, the van’s cargo door suddenly slid open.

  “Sorry, did I park too close?” said a tall, dark-haired man, stepping out behind her.

  Startled, Ella dropped her backpack, feeling the first tendrils of alarm. “A little,” she mumbled, bending to retrieve it. “But I think I can manage.”

  “Here, let me help,” the man offered, pushing something into her back.

  An excruciating shock coursed through Ella’s body.

  She screamed in pain. Her torso twisted, beginning to convulse.

  An instant later her legs gave out.

  A gloved hand clamped across her mouth, muffling her cries.

  And still the pain continued, wave upon wave of electrical current coursing through her limbs.

  Strong arms dragged her into the van.

  Seconds later she felt a needle stab, then a burning sensation in her arm.

  Her hands were forced behind her, her wrists quickly lashed. Her ankles were secured as well.

  It may have been only seconds; it may have been a minute. But by the time the pain finally eased, Ella was barely able to speak.

  This can’t be happening, she thought.

  Heart racing in terror, she gazed up at her abductor with horror-filled eyes. “Why?” she managed to sob.

  The man didn’t respond. Instead, he slapped a strip of tape across her mouth.

  She couldn’t get any air.

  Don’t panic. Breathe through your nose . . .

  Ella strained against her bonds, her eyes traveling the interior of the van, searching for a way out.

  An extension ladder was bungeed to the wall behind her.

  Below that, a metal container—the lid open, holes in the top.

  Something lay sprawled on the floor beside her, covered with a tarp.

  A body?

  Adding to Ella’s terror, a paralyzing lethargy had taken command of her limbs.

  She could barely hold up her head.

  The shot he’d given her?

  The hazy realization occurred that if she were ever to escape, that time was now.

  She had to fight.

  But by then it was too late.

  2

  Jacob’s Ladder

  Have you ever been somewhere and suddenly realized you were utterly out of your element?

  You’re at a party, say. Everyone there has a Ph.D., and they all want to discuss their dissertations. Or a friend has convinced you to attend one of his drum-circle “therapy sessions,” and now the presiding shaman wants you to share.

  Like that.

  In my case, I was at a world-class kayaking competition being held on some of the most dangerous whitewater in North America, and I didn’t know one end of a kayak from the other. Fortunately, I wasn’t competing.

  But a good friend of mine, Special Agent Sara Taylor, was.

  Considering that I owed her my life, I was there that afternoon to support Taylor in any way I could. Still, as I glanced around, I felt isolated, surrounded by strangers, and completely out of place.

  “When will Sara be taking her first run?” asked my youngest son, Nate, yelling to be heard over the roar of the river behind us.

  Turning, I was struck by how much my youngest had matured over the past several years. He would be turning seventeen the following day and now stood well over six feet tall. If he kept growing, I thought absently, he would wind up being as big as I am, maybe bigger.

  Unfortunately, the resemblance between us didn’t end there. Although Nate was street-smart, athletically gifted, and strong, he also had a dark side. Of all my children, Nate’s teenage years had been the hardest—not only for him, but for the rest of our family as well. Impulsive, loyal to a fault, quick to both laughter and anger, his moods as transparent as crystal, Nate, God help him, was the most like me.

  “That’s Agent Taylor to you, Nate,” I said. “And to answer your question, I’m not certain when she’ll be taking her first run. Soon, I would think. She placed second last year, so she’s seeded in the top five.”

  At FBI Special Agent Taylor’s request, Nate and I had accompanied my friend to Banks, Idaho, to watch her compete in the elite division of the North Fork Championship. Taylor’s race was an invitation-only event in which a field of twenty-five expert kayakers from around the world would compete on class-five whitewater that was beyond the ability of most, with Taylor being one of only two female entrants in a field primarily dominated by men. Making the competition especially dangerous, the previous winter had been an extreme snow season for Idaho, and the North Fork of the Payette River was running at record levels. The water had claimed lives earlier in the year, and several competitors had taken one look at the turbulent course and quickly resigned from the race.

  As near as I could estimate, about six or seven hundred kayaking enthusiasts were gathered there that sunny Saturday afternoon to watch the competition. Although barely 1:00 p.m., the temperature had already risen into the mid-eighties, with sandals, T-shirts, and swimsuits seeming the order of the day. Flanking a procession of parked cars, a fleet of kayaking kiosks, shade canopies, and food stands lined the roadside bank of the river, their colorful presence lending a festive atmosphere to the event, despite the obvious danger involved.

  “The lineup lists Taylor’s last name as Blackadar,” Nate observed. “Shouldn’t I be calling her Agent Blackadar?”

  “‘Taylor’ was her married name,” I explained. “She still uses that for work at the Bureau. Her granddad was a kayaking pioneer. There’s some history there, so she goes by ‘Blackadar’ when she competes.”

  “Well, whatever she calls herself, she’s awesome, huh?”

  I realized I was being tested. “She’s a friend, Nate. I’m not looking for anyone to replace your mom.”

  My wife, Catheryn, mother of our four children and the only woman I have ever truly loved, had been killed by a sniper’s bullet the previous year. Although eight months had passed in the interim, her loss was still as keen as if it had happened yesterday, wounding our entire family, every one of us, beyond repair.

  And her death was because of me.

  Nate lowered his gaze. “I know,” he said. Then, brightening, “Sara—I mean, Agent Taylor—said that after the race she would get me into a hard-shell kayak and teach me to paddle. We’re still sticking around, right?”

  I nodded. “All week, assuming you don’t drown,” I answered with a smile.

  Following the conclusion of a problematic murder investigation the previous spring, I had taken some time off from work to decide what to do with the rest of my life. Although I had recently resumed my position as the D-III supervising detective for the West Los Angeles LAPD homicide unit, I still had plenty of accumulated vacation days, and I intended to use them.

  “Are you going to join us on the river? Agent Taylor said there are lots of easy sections we could do.”

  “Maybe,” I answered uncertainly. “Although I’m not sure there’s a kayak out there that will fit me,” I added, being considerably larger than most of the boaters I had seen on the river.

  “C’mon, Dad.” Nate coaxed. “Agent Taylor said you could squeeze into a Zet Director or maybe a Jackson Nirvana, whatever they are.”

  “We’ll see,” I replied, realizing that like it or not, I would probably be joining my son on the river.

  In the wake of Catheryn’s death, Nate had experienced a deep depression that nearly ended in tra
gedy. Our family had come together in support, and although Nate was being treated with antidepressants and attending weekly therapy sessions, we were all still concerned about him. As kayaking was the first thing in which he had shown any interest in quite some time, I wanted to nurture that interest in any way I could, even if it meant cramming myself into a tippy kayak and heading down some cold, choppy river—probably upside down.

  Nate peered over my shoulder. “Hey, isn’t that Agent Taylor’s boat up there on the ramp?”

  I glanced behind me at the boat launch—a long, curving structure with a “Red Bull” banner hung on the side. The end of the ramp had been extended out over the river, about a hundred yards up-current from the first rapid. As Nate had noted, Taylor’s red kayak was now perched on top, second in line behind another competitor’s.

  “That’s her,” I said. “Let’s climb down the bank for a better look.”

  Together, Nate and I scrambled down a granite-strewn embankment to a boulder just feet above the swollen river. That close to the water, it was impossible to hear anything but the roar of the rapids, and Nate and I gave up on conversation and simply watched.

  Shortly afterward, the competition got underway.

  Downstream from the launch ramp, the race began in earnest at a rapid called Jacob’s Ladder—or to locals, simply Jake’s—continuing through a dangerous series of drops known as Golf Course. Increasing the course difficulties, tubular PVC gates had been hung above the water, their placement forcing boaters to take the most challenging lines, with significant penalties imposed for missing or even touching a gate.

  Taylor was the second competitor off the ramp. I held my breath as I watched her kayak fly off the end, splashing to the raging river ten feet below. She somehow managed to angle her boat in the air, landing on an edge that quickly turned her downstream, gaining a few precious seconds. Several strong strokes brought her to the initiation of Jacob’s Ladder, at which point she disappeared beneath the roiling water.

  My hands suddenly turned clammy.

  An instant later Taylor reappeared, her white helmet barely visible above the churning foam. She powered through a standing wave, flew off its crest, and paddled hard to make the initial series of gates. Again she edged, putting her craft on a seemingly impossible angle to complete the move.

  The crowd around us began cheering at her approach. Mouths agape, Nate and I watched as Taylor negotiated an unpredictable, chaotic feature that I later learned was called Taffy Puller—a curling, pencil-sharpener wave that proved the downfall of many contestants who followed.

  A quick series of strokes brought her to the second set of gates. Taylor ducked to avoid clipping one of the plastic tubes as she passed, braced with her paddle, slipped her boat sideways, and reentered the violent main current. Moments later she flashed around a bend and was gone, vanishing behind a copse of pines.

  Nate and I sat in stunned silence. Actually, even if my son had been able to hear me above the roar of the river, I don’t think I could have found words to express my surprise and admiration for the athleticism I had just witnessed.

  From the awed look on Nate’s face, I knew he felt the same.

  Forty-five minutes later, following the first round of competitors, a break was called in the race to give contestants a chance to rest before the commencement of the second half. So far there had been no serious injuries. No one had been forced to swim either, which despite the presence of safety boaters along the shoreline, was always a dangerous occurrence on the North Fork.

  While Nate and I were waiting for the second round to begin, we returned to the road to look for Taylor. Shuttle vehicles had been stationed downstream to ferry boats and contestants back to the starting ramp, but Taylor had yet to return. Upon reaching the top of the embankment, Nate turned to me, astonishment at the extraordinary event we had just watched still shining in his eyes. “Holy shit,” he said.

  “You can say that again,” I agreed.

  Nate grinned. “Holy shit.”

  Peering downstream, I spotted Taylor’s white helmet among a group of contestants, with grins and high-fives getting shared all around. Watching, I was struck by the support the boaters were showing for one another, and I could see why Nate wanted a piece of the sport—although I hoped that his kayaking involvement, were he to pursue his interest, would never take him onto the waters of the North Fork.

  I was about to suggest that we get something to eat when my cellphone rang. I glanced at the screen.

  It read: “No Caller ID.”

  I decided to take the call anyway. “Dan Kane,” I said, catching Nate’s attention and pointing toward a kiosk selling hotdogs.

  “Detective Kane?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Let’s play.”

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  But by then, the line had gone dead.

  “Everything okay?” asked Nate.

  “Crank call,” I said, repocketing my phone. “C’mon, let’s go grab some grub.”

  But despite my assurance to Nate, something about the call bothered me. I was almost certain that voice-changing software had been used.

  Why?

  Nate and I downed a couple hotdogs apiece, washing them down with a Coke. Afterward, still disturbed by the call, I decided to get a *57 Verizon trace. But as I withdrew my phone to do so, it rang again.

  “Listen, pal,” I said without checking the screen. “I don’t know how you got my cellphone number, but—”

  “Dan, this is Lieutenant Long.”

  Nelson Long was my boss at the West L.A. station, as well as being one of few members of the LAPD brass whom I trusted. “Sorry, Lieutenant. Thought you were someone else.”

  “I need you back here,” said Long, as usual cutting to the chase.

  “I’m on vacation.”

  “You’re a homicide investigator, Dan. You’re always on call.”

  “Tomorrow is Nate’s birthday.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry, but something’s come up. The body of a young woman was discovered on UCLA campus this morning. Deluca has taken lead on the investigation so far, but the press is already all over it, and it’s going to be a mess. An expedited postmortem exam is scheduled for tomorrow morning. We need you back here ASAP.”

  Glancing at Nate, I felt a sense of unease at the prospect of handling what would undoubtedly become another high-profile murder case. My job had endangered my family more than once, and I didn’t want a repeat. Nevertheless, I was also drawn by the possibility of losing myself, if only temporarily, in a new investigation. Deciding that if things got personal, as they had in the past, I could always back away.

  “I’ll catch a plane back this afternoon,” I said.

  Nate had been listening. He looked away as I disconnected. “You have to leave?” he said, unable to hide his disappointment.

  Days earlier, Taylor, Nate, and I had driven together to Idaho. With two of Taylor’s kayaks strapped to the roof of my Suburban, stopping only for food and gas, we had made it to the Payette River in record time. Currently, we were camped in a beautiful forested area overlooking the South Fork of the Payette. I was bunking on a foam pad in the back of the Suburban; Nate and Taylor were sleeping in tents. Despite our bucolic setup, our rustic camping was significantly improved by the presence of clean bathrooms and showers, a Subway franchise, and several excellent restaurants within few minutes’ drive. It was a kid’s paradise, and I knew Nate didn’t want to leave.

  In answer to his question, I nodded. “Sorry, Nate. If you want, you can stay up here with Taylor and come home later, as planned.”

  Nate looked doubtful. “Really?”

  “Really. No reason your vacation should be ruined because of me. I’ll regret missing your birthday tomorrow, though. Maybe we can do something special when you get back?”

  “I’d like that, Dad.”

  “Then consider it done.” I hesitated, wanting to say more. “I’m proud of you,” I finally ma
naged. “You know that, right?”

  Nate looked away. “With all that’s happened, I’m not sure why.”

  “None of what happened was your fault. That was entirely because of me. No one else.”

  “You can’t take all the blame, Dad—especially when it comes to me. You remember what Ali says about mental illness, right?”

  Nate was referring to his older sister, Allison, who usually had some smartass comment to make about nearly everything. “Yeah, she claims mental illness is hereditary,” I laughed. “You inherit it from your kids.” Then, in an effort to turn the conversation, “Speaking of which, your mom had something to say about children, too.”

  “Not to have them?”

  I smiled. “Some would agree with you on that. But no, your mother had other ideas on the subject.”

  “Okay, what did Mom say about kids?” Nate asked, returning my smile.

  “Your mom thought having children is a gift you give yourself.”

  Nate’s smile faded. “Huh,” he mused.

  “And the longer I’m around, the more I tend to agree with her.” Then, placing my hands on Nate’s shoulders and holding his gaze, I repeated, “I’m proud of you, Nate. Not only for being a great son, but also for the way you’ve handled some really hard things—things that would have devastated more than a few adults, let alone someone your age. Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is, happy birthday. I’m sorry I won’t be here tomorrow to help you celebrate, but I hope it’s a good one.”

  3

  It Goes to a Hundred

  Ella Snead woke to a pounding headache and the astringent smell of Lysol.

  For a moment she had no idea where she was. Adding to her confusion, something was fastened around her neck.

  Ella opened her eyes. With the exception of a dim glow coming from somewhere above her, she was immersed in total darkness.

  She lay for several seconds without moving, trying to clear her mind.

  Then the horror came flooding back.