J.M.J.
Author's note: Thank you for reading and reviewing! The next chapter will be up tomorrow. God bless!
July 17 – Monday
Callie hid a yawn behind her hand as she glanced at the clock in the dashboard. It was just after midnight. Callie's shift driving had just ended, and now Iola was at the wheel while Callie was in the front passenger seat. Nancy and Jerry were in the back, both at least trying to sleep. The system that they had worked out was that each would drive for one hour, and then for the next hour, would be in the passenger seat, making sure that the driver didn't get sleepy. After that, they would sit in the back and try to sleep for two hours. That way, they could keep driving through the night. Of course, none of them got much sleep, and the sleep they got wasn't very deep, and besides that, Callie had never been on such a long drive before and she hadn't realized how miserable sitting in a car for hours with only a stop now and again to stretch her legs would be.
"What's the longest car ride you've ever been on, Iola?" Callie asked to try to make conversation.
"We drove down the coast to North Carolina once," Iola said. "I was, like, eight at the time. I think that was farther than we've driven so far, but obviously we'll have that one beat. And I thought that was an impossibly long drive." She chuckled slightly.
Callie also chuckled. "I don't think I'll want to do another cross-country drive after this. What were you doing in North Carolina?"
"Just a vacation. We meant to drive all the way to Florida, but by the time we reached North Carolina, we were all going so stir-crazy, we didn't think we would make it to Florida. We decided we'd just find a beach in North Carolina and vacation right there. It ended up being a lot of fun."
"It probably was," Callie said. "My parents tend to get so uptight on vacations if everything doesn't go exactly according to plan. I always thought it sounded more fun to not even have a plan and just go somewhere and see what you see. But I get it that you'll probably wind up missing stuff and paying way more than you need to for hotel and food and everything."
"True, but it's more of an adventure that way, at least if you're flexible with your plans, even if you do still have plans." Iola paused. "Of course, you can be too flexible. There does come a time when you have to say you're going to do something and then just do it."
"Sounds like you're speaking from experience."
"Yeah. Between Chet and Joe, I don't know which one's worse for changing plans at the last minute." Iola paused, realizing that Callie probably wouldn't be pleased by the reminder of why they were making this trip.
Callie glanced out the window, resisting the urge to shake her head at Iola's use of the present tense. "We must be crazy," she muttered.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, who are we trying to fool? We're not going to find anything. We don't even really have any leads to go on. We're just making this long trip for nothing."
Iola gripped the steering wheel. "It's not for nothing. Even if we don't learn anything, it will get us a little closer to some answers."
HBNDHBNDHB
Carson had been lying still on a musty floor while he recovered from the effects of being chloroformed. When he had first woken up, he had moved his head just enough to check whether Don was there. He had seen the young man lying on the floor a yard or two away from him, but even that amount of movement had made Carson's stomach protest, so he had closed his eyes and kept still ever since. It must have been an hour or so by now, and Carson was beginning to be able to think through what must be happening.
Since he had awakened, no one had entered the room or bothered them. That was much appreciated, considering their current condition. At the same time, it meant that they still had no more idea what they were doing here than when they had first woken up. Not that Carson hadn't had any idea from the beginning. The only explanation that made any sense at all was that this had something to do with the case that was the entire reason Carson had come here. The biggest question was why the criminals had resorted to such strong-arm tactics. Not that they hadn't used even worse tactics than this before. Carson grimaced. If these were the same people who had been behind the boys' disappearance, he and Don likely didn't stand much of a chance.
"Mr. Drew?" Don asked, speaking for the first time.
"Yeah?" Carson replied. "Are you okay, Don?"
"I think so," Don replied. "Do you have any ideas to get out of this?"
Carson sighed. "Not yet."
"We are going to get out, right?"
Carson didn't reply immediately. Then he said, "I would definitely prefer that."
There was silence for a few more seconds, and then Don sat up. "Why do you think they grabbed us and just locked us up in this little room?"
Seeing that the movement didn't seem to bother Don, Carson also dared to sit up. This vantage point made it much easier to see what kind of a room their prison was. It was about ten or twelve feet long and not quite as wide. The floor was old, cracked boards, while the walls had faded, peeling paper on them. Judging from the unappealing shade of green, Carson guessed that the walls had been papered in the 1960s or '70s. There was a musty rug on the floor that was discolored from dirt and water-damage. There were no actual windows, but there was a vent high up in the wall that was letting in the light that they had. There was a door in the wall. A chair was sitting next to the door and there was a floor lamp in one corner, but otherwise there was no furniture.
"I'm guessing they're going to come back at some point, probably to ask some questions," Carson said, leaving off the part where there would be no other reason for their captors to keep them alive.
"But we don't know anything," Don protested. "At least, I don't."
Carson rubbed his temple. "You might not want to let them know that if they come back in here. I'm guessing they're not the sort to just let us go if they don't think we'd be useful to them."
Don groaned. "Then we'd better try to escape. Looks like the only way out is the door. I'm sure it's locked, but I'd feel really dumb if it turned out it wasn't."
He got up and strode to the door, grabbing the knob and trying to turn it. The door rattled, but it refused to open.
"I wonder if we could break it down," Don mused. "It doesn't seem like an especially sturdy door."
He immediately put his speculation into action and attempted to kick the door down. Just before his foot connected with the door, it opened without his help. All Carson could see was that it opened into another room, but their escape was blocked by four men. Don had nearly lost his balance and it took him a moment to regain it. In that moment, none of the men said a word. Don nervously backed up until he was standing next to Carson, who had now stood.
"Carson Drew?" asked the man in the lead.
Carson nodded so slightly that it was barely discernable.
The men came into the room, and the one that had spoken sat in the chair by the door. The others stood about him, watching the prisoners as if they expected them to try rushing their leader.
"There's no need to make this complicated," the man said. "You can call me Weston. We know that you have a lead on Reese's whereabouts. We need him back."
"Reese?" Carson repeated with unfeigned confusion. "I thought you—or someone, at least—had killed him."
"Playing dumb's not going to help you here, Drew," Weston replied without the slightest change of expression. "The proposition is simple: you know where Reese is, we know where your daughter is. I'll use one or the other piece of information. I'm more interested in Reese, so if I knew where he was, I would use that piece of information and leave your daughter alone. However, if you refuse to tell me, I'll have no choice."
Carson tightened his jaw. This was a strange predicament. At least there was no agonizing moral choice to make, since he really had no idea where Reese was. If he convinced Weston and the others of this, they would no doubt waste no time in killing both him and Don, but that was the only way to protect Nancy. Besides, they probably didn't intend to release him and Don in any case.
Don glanced nervously at Carson and then back at the captors. "What makes you think we know anything about Reese?"
Weston paid him no attention and continued gazing steadily at Carson.
Carson crossed his arms. "It's not a bad bluff. You had me going for a second, but I don't think you know where my daughter is. I don't even know where she is."
"And you are willing to risk your daughter's life by calling this bluff, as you assume it to be, simply to protect Reese?" Weston raised an eyebrow.
"I can neither protect nor harm Reese if I want to," Carson retorted. "I have no idea where he is or even who he is or what he looks like. Until this minute, I was convinced he wasn't even alive anymore. I'm starting to doubt that a little."
Weston shook his head. "There are ways to persuade you, you know."
Carson resisted the urge to give even a hint of a smile. Weston had switched tactics quickly. It looked like it was a bluff about Nancy. Yet this still didn't bode well for himself or Don.
HBNDHBNDHB
One benefit of living on an island without a dining room or even a door on their one-room cabin was that there wasn't any distinction between dining room, kitchen, and a meeting space. Joe and Phil were scrubbing the breakfast dishes next to the pot of water that they had heated over the fire while the others sat around the area and they discussed the elephant in the room that they had been too distracted to attend to.
"I don't think she's really dangerous," Frank was saying about the mysterious girl.
"Oh, yeah," Chet retorted. "She only tried to kill you. How dangerous can she be?"
"I'm sure that was an accident," Frank said.
"I think so, too," Joe agreed. "But I don't think we should just ignore that she's here. She might know something that could help us get rescued or continue to survive here. Or even if she can't help us, she might need help."
"I agree that we should try to find her, but it's fairly obvious she's afraid of us," Tony pointed. "Going out and looking for her might scare her even more."
"But if we just sit around and wait for her to contact us, maybe she never will," Biff pointed out. "I mean, if she's scared of us."
Joe paused in scrubbing a dish. "You know, it's funny, but she doesn't seem to have much for survival skills. She had a chance to get away from Frank and me or at least hide, but she didn't. Then when she ran away, she ran straight for Frank without paying attention where she was going. It probably wouldn't be too hard to find her."
"That's silly," Chet protested. "She must know how to survive. She's obviously been doing it as long as she's been on the island."
"Maybe she hasn't actually been here all that long," Phil suggested. "Or else there aren't any predators on the island, and so she's never had to learn how to hide and avoid getting caught."
"Either way, it would be good news," Frank said. "If she's not been here very long, it might mean that people still come near this island occasionally, and if there are no predators on the island, that's a good thing."
"Let's try to find her anyway," Joe insisted. "Just, nobody stand on any cliffs while we're out looking."
HBNDHBNDHB
It looked like a peaceful mountain lake, its deep waters sparkling in the sun every time a ripple disturbed them. There was nothing that appeared sinister about it here in the light of the sun. Yet Fenton knew that that meant nothing. Criminals seldom cared to find places that fit the aesthetics of their crimes.
"It's deserted enough that you could probably count on not being seen here," Sam said, setting his heavy pack on the ground. "But it's accessible enough that it wouldn't be too difficult to use as a dumping place. It makes sense."
Jack also pulled his pack from his shoulders. "But we already know that they use this lake as a dumping place, or at least that they have in the past. What difference is it going to make if we find further evidence of it?"
"That further evidence might tell us who's responsible for all this," Fenton said with grim determination. He glanced at his two companions, reminding himself that neither of them had worked as homicide detectives to the extent he had. "I'll make the underwater search."
Sam shook his head. "I'm up-to-date on my diving certification, and I'm the youngest one here, so it makes the most sense for me to do it."
Fenton surveyed the size of the lake. It wasn't very big, but it was big enough to be classified as a lake rather than a pond. Searching it would take a while. "We'll probably both get to take a turn, if you want to. Let's search the banks first."
"Should we split up?" Jack asked. "We could cover the ground more quickly that way. Otherwise, it's going to take a week to search the banks thoroughly."
Fenton bit his lip as he considered the suggestion. Jack had a good point, and there was no evidence that anyone else was in the area. On the other hand, there was a somewhat larger than normal chance of them encountering the gang who used this place to conceal their crimes, and meeting them alone would be disastrous.
"No," he finally said. "I think we'd better stick together. If we have to take several days to search, so be it. We're here to get answers, no matter how long it takes."
"Well, then, let's not make it take any longer than it needs to." Sam glanced at the packs that each of them had set down. "We won't need all of this. We might as well leave everything we don't need here and pick it up later, rather than haul it around the lake."
The others agreed, and so they found a place where they could hide the scuba and camping gear, and then they set out around the lake. It was slow progress. Searching for evidence outside added extra difficulties beyond those involved in searching a man-made location. Plants and the high probability of the area having been disturbed by both natural and human causes meant that anything out of place would be harder to spot and evidence could be at least partially destroyed or moved to a different location. Jack had thought that he was being thorough in searching, but after fifteen minutes of watching Fenton's and Sam's painstaking investigation, he reflected once again that he didn't have the patience necessary to be a detective. They had fanned out and were covering the ground in a zigzag pattern. Anything that could be concealing a clue was checked. Because of this, by the time several hours had passed, Jack felt like they had barely moved.
Jack chuckled wryly. "I think this is going to take more than a week after all."
Sam stood up from where he had been crouching to examine the ground and stretched his back. "It's going to take some time," he agreed.
"Here, I think I've found something!" Fenton called from where he was kneeling on the ground.
The other two men rushed over to see what Fenton had found. He had just picked up a rusty keyring with several keys and a pocket flashlight attached to it. That is, the remains of several keys and a pocket flashlight. The flashlight had been smashed and part of it was missing. The keys were rusted together. Several of them appeared to be keys to a building, but two of them looked like car keys from before fobs were automatically attached to car keys.
"Anyone could have dropped it," Fenton noted before anyone else felt the need to point that fact out. "On the other hand, if those mobsters—or their hirelings—come here from time to time, there's a good chance it might have been one of them."
"Does it make much difference?" Jack asked. "I mean, how much can you learn from some rusty keys?"
"At the very least, we might be able to learn the make and model of the car these keys belonged to," Fenton replied. "That won't necessarily tell us whose they were, but if the rest of the investigation turns up that a car of that make and model is or was involved, it could help."
He looked up at the lake and the trees and brush around it. What were the odds that they would actually find something more helpful than this?
HBNDHBNDHB
"I'm sorry about this, Don," Carson murmured as he examined the abrasions on the young man's face. He didn't look as bad as he could have, considering. Carson had been afraid that these criminals would kill him when they realized that their prisoners really didn't know the information they were seeking, but when their "persuasion tactics" produced only vehement protestations of ignorance, they had abruptly stopped and gone off in a corner to talk in low tones. Carson kept a wary eye on them even as he checked over Don's injuries.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, too," Don replied with better humor than Carson expected. Carson smiled ruefully. He'd always liked this fellow.
Weston and his cohorts finished their consultation and they came back to their prisoners. They didn't say a word as they pulled Carson to his feet and bound his hands behind his back. Then they tied Don's hands. It chilled Carson how professional and business-like they were, even in the midst of their "persuasion." There was no sense that they were enjoying it or not. It was simply a job to them, and it bothered them neither more nor less to dispose of two humans than to do the same to some damaged merchandise. Even if they had been gloating over their prisoners, that would be some human emotion. As it was, it was like falling into the hands of some alien species.
Two of the men roughly hoisted Don to his feet, while the third grabbed Carson's arm and directed him toward the door. For the first time, Carson saw the adjoining room, which was clearly a basement. It was full of empty boxes and other trash. A staircase led up to the next floor, and the men headed toward it. They led to a kitchen with dirty dishes and half-eaten food everywhere. The windows showed that it was dark outside.
However, it was the man sitting at the table that arrested Carson's attention. A month ago, he would have had no idea who the man was, but in researching the case, he had made sure to memorize this face: Brock Garret.
Weston and his men seemed equally surprised to see the actor. They froze and stared at him for several seconds. Then Weston strode forward.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You're supposed to stay away from here."
"I can see why," Brock retorted. "Where are you taking them?"
Weston made a growling sound in his throat. "You're not in charge here. Why don't you go admire yourself in the mirror?"
Brock glared at him. "If I would have known…"
"You would have done the exact same thing," Weston retorted. "You must have known there was something going on."
Brock stood up. "Of course, I did. I just didn't know how bad it was." He clenched his fists at his side and then unclenched them. "You know, I still mean something to her, a whole lot more than you do. I could make a lot of trouble for you, Weston."
"You sniveling, little…" Weston stopped himself there. "All right, you can play your ace for now, but you won't always have the same privilege. She'll get tired of you, and then you'll have to watch your back."
"So what are you going to do to them?" Brock demanded, ignoring the threat.
"They don't know…" Weston stopped himself. "How much do you know about what's going on?"
"Enough. You're trying to find out about Reese. Do they know where he is or not?"
"They don't. They're no use to us, so we'll dispose of them."
Brock shook his head. "No. There have been enough murders already. The FBI and the cops are crawling all over this, and somehow my name has already gotten dragged into it."
"Sounds like a you-problem," Weston retorted.
"It's going to be your problem, too, if we don't cool things down quick," Brock warned him. "And don't think I need to talk for that to happen." He scoffed. "For that matter, if I turn up murdered or even just vanished, that's going to be bigger trouble than if I wind up arrested. So you put those two back in the basement. They're safe enough there for the moment. I'll talk to her and see what she wants us to do."
"You must be stupid. She wants you to keep out of it."
Brock swallowed. "Then she shouldn't have dragged me in."
