Lost Girls

CHAPTER FIVE

The first thing Emily noticed was that the van was not moving. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but she thought she had been given another shot sometime during the drive. Everything from the bar parking lot to this moment was a blur. She knew there were things she had wanted to remember, but her mind seemed to be a muddled canvas of sounds and smells and bumps. The only consistent feeling was the fear and she did not like that all. The fear was making her weak and she couldn’t afford to be weak.

She wondered how long the van had been stopped. As if in answer to her thought, the door began to slide open. She could see nothing. Rough hands grabbed her and started pulling her toward the door. She had planned to fight, but her limbs felt useless, and beyond her control. She could do nothing, but allow herself to be lifted like a baby, out of the van.

She immediately felt the cooler air. She had worn only a short skirt and sleeveless top since she had only planned for a night of sweaty dancing. She couldn’t tell if her thin denim shirt was still tied around her waist. She remembered knotting it when the bar had become impossibly warm. She thought it must be daylight because even though the air was cool, she could feel heat on her bare skin.

The man was very strong. He seemed to have no difficulty carrying her. At first she thought he would set her down as soon as he took her from the van. Instead he seemed to be walking somewhere with her.

Emily suddenly became terrified that he was carrying her to the edge of a cliff. What if he just extended her over space and let go? Tied as she was she could do nothing, but squirm in his arms. Then she began to scream. The screaming must have affected him, because suddenly she felt him bend down and dump her to the ground. She fell painfully onto her tied wrists and began to cry. She was thirsty and exhausted. She was ready to face whatever this freak had in mind. She just wanted to be left alone.

He pushed her head toward her chest and began to fiddle with the blindfold. Suddenly it was off, and she clamped her eyes shut as the sunlight painfully hit her sensitive eyes. It took a few moments for her to tentatively try to lift her eyelids. When she did, she looked around. She was in a forest; a thick forest, by the look of it. Her abductor had dumped her in a little clearing made by the collapse of a couple of the older trees. He was standing behind her, and she almost couldn’t turn her head to look. She knew enough about men like him to guess that her death was probably immanent.

When she did turn, she was surprised. He was wearing a baklava. His entire head was covered in black, except his eyes and a cruel-looking slit for his mouth. He looked huge and terrifying, but Emily suddenly felt a flash of hope. He was keeping his face covered; that must mean something.

“What are you going to do to me?” Her voice surprised her. It was a harsh rasp.

He said nothing. He merely pulled a short lead that you would use to train a dog from his pocket, and fastened it around her neck. Silently, he began pulling, indicating she should follow. Emily tried to get up. She had been drugged for hours, if not days. She felt dizzy with panic and dehydration. He tried to pull her to her feet again, but she simply couldn’t move. He kept pulling.

“I can’t. I can’t get up. I need something to drink. I’m going to be sick if you don’t stop pulling me.” She felt the lead go slack. Relieved, she let her body drop back to the ground.

He was carrying a large backpack, which Emily had tried to ignore. She hated to think what it contained. Now, he bent to pull it off. She watched powerful muscles move under his shirt and as he crouched over the pack she noticed the same strength in his legs. He bent over and began rummaging.

Her jacket was still tied around her waist. For some reason that made her happy. Then she remembered the ID in her pocket. She hated carrying a purse into a bar, so she kept it minimal with ID and a lipstick. The lipstick and ID should be in the pocket of her skirt. She reached behind her as if to push herself up. She knew it was risky, but she had to take the chance. Emily slowly pulled her driver’s license from her back pocket and dropped it. She scooted back and hoped it was hidden.

He was holding a bottle of water and motioned for her to take some. She was desperate to drink. He let her have only a little and when she seemed all right he gave her some more. Evidently her capturer didn’t want her sick.

She sat for a few minutes, and when the lead again grew tight around her neck she attempted to stand up. She was wobbly, but she managed to get to her feet. As soon as she was up he pulled and she began to follow. “You know it’s going to be really hard for me to walk with my hands tied around my back, if you’re going to pull me. I can’t keep my balance.”

There was no answer and no change, so she started walking. At first she tripped a lot and she tried to fall to her knees. They were on a narrow trail that was relatively flat. The first couple of times she fell, it was jarring and irritating but she didn’t hurt herself. As the trail became rockier, it became more difficult because she knew any fall here could really hurt her. She followed along like this for a long time before she realized that he wasn’t stupid. She had been concentrating so intently on not falling that she had paid no attention to her surroundings. She thought they had changed direction a few times but she wasn’t sure. She could have kicked herself.

They walked for hours, and Emily was so exhausted she no longer cared about her feet or her surroundings. She fell hard a couple of times; once cutting her leg on a sharp rock. The blood had dried on her shin but she ignored it along with the gnats that hovered around the wound as she focused on trying to stay upright. The trees formed a canopy above them, but even with that thick covering she could feel the strength of the sun slipping as the day grew late.

Emily couldn’t understand what was happening to her. Why was he dragging her into these godforsaken woods? Surely if it were about rape and murder, she would be dead by now. She couldn’t believe that the torture of this forced march could just end with a simple bullet. There was something else going on. She forced herself to abandon those thoughts, and focus instead on remembering any details of her abduction. It didn’t make her feel any better, but it certainly felt more productive.

Suddenly they walked into a clearing. The sun, though brighter, was waning in the late afternoon. There was a single, large oak tree in the center of the open meadow. Emily’s first thought was that it was pretty.

In continued silence he walked her to the solitary tree and pushed her down to a sitting position on the ground. She closed her eyes and thought of her parents. She didn’t want to die. Strangely, she wasn’t afraid now. She just hoped it would be quick. Nothing happened and when she heard him rustling around in the backpack she opened her eyes just in time to see him drag out a heavy chain.

She wanted to cry, but her eyes refused to tear. They had long ago dried past the point of tears. He stood up with the chain in one hand, and a bottle of water in the other. He dropped the bottle in her lap and Emily stared at it with true lust. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small knife. Before she could react, he had leaned behind her, and cut her hands free. The feeling of release was wonderful and painful, as the circulation kicked in to her numb arms. She grabbed the bottle and drank greedily. She paid little attention to the man as she drank. She let the water run over her lips and down the front of her torn and dirty t-shirt. She drank too fast and as the cramps tore through her stomach she had to twist quickly to her side and vomit. There was little for her stomach to give up and she lay on her side panting until the nausea passed. When she sat up he was closing a lock on the chain, which he had wound round the base of the tree. She stared at the lock for a moment and then followed the other end of the chain. With growing horror she saw that it ended at a shackle. The shackle encircled her ankle.

He was staring at her when she looked up at him. The sound of his voice was almost as terrifying as her chained ankle. “I’m not going to kill you. I promise.” His voice was soft for such a large man and Emily thought she heard a soothing tone.

She took a breath trying to relax. Maybe she did have some chance.

As if she had spoken her thought aloud, he squatted in front her and reached behind his head. Slowly he pulled the balaclava off.

Emily began to sob. She knew then she had no chance at all.

Nero waited in almost complete darkness but not alone. He was used to the former, having lost his eyes during World War II, but the latter disconcerted him as it was a novel experience. Over the decades he had only tolerated brief visitors to his sanctum three hundred feet below the National Security Agency, but never a long-term presence. The woman had been here for ten days, leaving only in the evenings to sleep in her room above.

He could hear her breathing. She had turned her light off about ten minutes ago and not said a word after reading the very thin file they had accumulated so far on the Emily Cranston situation. She was sitting behind what had been his desk for over six decades. He was lying on what appeared to an analyst’s couch next to the desk, a pillow behind his head, an IV drip stuck in his left arm.

Nero wearily raised the metal wand that amplified and transformed the air coming out of the hole in his neck. “Any thoughts, Mrs. Masterson?”

“Ms.,” she corrected him.

Nero sighed, the sound a metallic wheeze. “I apologize once more for my antiquated ways. Any thoughts, please, Ms. Masterson?”

“There’s not enough data,” she said.

Nero nodded. It was good she did not jump to conclusions. Over the course of the past ten days, Ms. Masterson had repeatedly impressed Nero and confirmed his decades of efforts to prepare her for recruitment to sit behind that very desk. It had not been an easy process and the fall-out from recent events involved in the recruiting was something they were still dealing with.

“Have you heard from Ms. Neeley?” Nero asked. That was one loose end to the affair that he wasn’t satisfied with.

“I talked to her last night.”

There were times when Nero knew Ms. Masterson was punishing him. This was one of them. “Did you discuss the weather? Sports? Or might it have been shoes? I understand that is a topic of much interest between women. I once listened to that show on the television — Sex and Shoes.”

“Sex and the City. No. We didn’t discuss shoes. We talked about you. And Gant.”

“Tony Gant?

“Yes. We never met his brother Jack. Which I’ll be rectifying in a few minutes.”

“And where is Ms. Neeley?”

“She was visiting in West Virginia.”

“The family?” Nero knew Neeley’s history.

“Gant’s family.”

“Yes, Jesse and the boy.”

“She’s—“

“Very special,” Nero said. “As is the boy.”

“Yes. And they almost got killed because you put them in harm’s way.”

Nero sighed. Masterson had not been helpful in this matter. “We could use Ms. Neeley’s talents.”

“I’m sure you could.”

“No, we could,” Nero pressed. “Since you retired Mister Racine, there is a need—“

Masterson’s voice was harsh. “Do not tell me you expect Neeley to do what Racine did.”

“No. I believe the days of Racine’s specialty are past as it seems the days of my own. Even before we lost Racine, the true loss was that of Tony Gant. His brother Jack has picked up some of the slack. As you are the wave of the future, so is Ms. Neeley.”

“She’s not so sure of that,” Masterson said.

“You are going to need a field agent you can trust,” Nero said. “Particularly in the matter of Sanctions or else it might weigh heavily on you. Also, since Ms. Neeley is in West Virginia, she is obviously interested in Gant’s legacy. His brother is certainly part of that.”

“I have some questions about that,” Masterson said.

“I’m sure you do,” Nero said, glad to have finally drawn her interest.

“Tony and Jack were twins, right?”

“Correct.”

“And they had a falling out over Jesse?”

“You could call it that. We were never really able to get to the truth of that matter as the three principals involved — Jack, Tony and Jesse, never discussed it. Jesse had taken Tony’s son, Bobbie, and left Berlin years before. As a matter of fact, just before Tony had his most fortuitous meeting with Neeley. Beyond that, I know little. Perhaps you could find out more.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to. Jesse and Bobbie are out of the game.”

“You think it’s a game?” Nero asked.

“It’s a figure of—“ Masterson was interrupted as the intercom beeped lightly and Mrs. Smith’s voice echoed out of the speaker. “They’re here.”

“Send them in,” Nero ordered.

Mrs. Smith sported a thick gray bun resembling hair, reading glasses perched on the edge of her nose, and wore a formless sweater covering the bulk of her body. She was not a Ms. Moneypenny in any regards. She was efficient and she could keep secrets. She nodded to the three people who had just walked in. “Mister Nero will see you now.”

Mrs. Smith pressed a positive access button as Bailey punched his entry code on the keypad next to the door. The door automatically swung open and Bailey, Gant and Golden entered the hallway beyond. The door swung shut as the floor sensors picked up the intrusion.

A computer’s voice came forth from speakers in the ceiling. "Identify please. Name, number and code. You have ten seconds."

Bailey identified himself and gave his number and code, stopping the portals in the walls from filling the room with incapacitating gas.

A drawer slid open from the wall. "Deposit all weapons please."

Bailey deposited a large caliber pistol that had been resting in a shoulder holster, what Gant considered an old man’s gun, in the drawer. Gant put the Glock, knife and belt into the tray while the other two waited.

Gant glanced at Golden. “No weapons, Doctor?”

Golden pointed toward her head. “Mine’s here.” She nodded toward the weapons. “Expecting trouble?”

“Always,” Gant replied. “Better to expect it than be surprised by it.”

“Is that a rule?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact it is,” Gant said.

“You live by rules?”

Gant could see Bailey watching them, as amused as Nero’s right hand man could be. “I survive by a few of them. I break others when needed.”

A red light flashed and a magnetic sensor swept over the three of them. The light turned green then went red again.

Golden gave a startled sound as a strong puff of wind came out of grates below their feet. Chemical, biological and explosives sensors in the ceiling sniffed the air. The light turned green for the second time.

"Proceed, please."

The far door slid apart and they entered Nero's office. Three lights were now on above the desk oriented toward the three chairs lined up in front of his desk. Gant paused for a second, taking in the woman seated behind the desk. He’d never seen her before. He’d never seen anyone in here before other than Nero and occasionally Bailey standing in the shadows. The old man was lying on a couch to the side, looking very ill. Gant knew that Nero’s condition had been deteriorating but he had not expected such a radical change behind the desk. He had always assumed that when the time came it would be Bailey who took the old man’s place.

The woman was small, that was his first impression. She had thick blond hair that cascaded to her shoulders in a way that didn’t seem contrived to Gant. Her eyes, what he could see of them, were dark and steady as they gazed back at him. She was young, too young in Gant’s opinion, to be sitting behind Nero’s desk although there were deep lines etched around her eyes, not too much different from the spider webs around Golden’s eyes. Women who’d seen too much, Gant thought. Welcome to the real world.

“Mister Gant,” Nero said, “I am sorry about your brother.”

Gant believed the old man not in the slightest so he didn’t acknowledge the words although he sensed both women in the room looking at him curiously, particularly the woman behind the desk.

“Is this a Sanction?” Gant asked.

“Always to the point, Mister Gant,” Nero said. “We don’t know yet, but we fear it might be.” The blind man adjusted his head slightly, facing Doctor Golden. “Ordinarily Mister Gant would be operating solo, but I — we—“ he indicated the woman at the desk—“think it’s time to adjust the ways of the Cellar. So you, Doctor Golden, have been brought in to add your expertise to the problem.”

“And who exactly is we?” Gant asked.

Nero raised his free hand and pointed at the woman who was in his place. “Meet Ms. Masterson. My protégé, so to speak. I’ve brought her in to add some perspective to my thinking and decision-making. Eventually, Mister Gant, she will be completely in charge of the Cellar.”

That brought silence to the room as the implications sunk in.

“I think someone needs to explain to me exactly what is going on and what is expected of me,” Golden said, her voice tight and clipped. She sat in the chair ramrod straight, her face even tighter if that were possible.

Nero rested the hand holding the voice wand on his chest. “There are those who operate beyond the bounds of what most in this country consider the law. Those whose skills and attributes are also beyond the capabilities of normal law enforcement agencies to cope with. When these people conduct a transgression, a Sanction is initiated by this office. At this moment we are gathering data to see if recent events indicate the need for a Sanction.”

“And a Sanction is?” Golden pressed.

“Potential transgressors are identified by this office,” Nero said. “Then a field operative such as Mister Gant is sent out. His is the final determining authority based on what he discovers, on whether the Sanction is valid and whether to implement it.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Golden said.

Gant spoke up, tired of it all. “A Sanction is implemented when I kill the guilty party. After, of course, I validate their guilt.”

“And how exactly do you do that?”

“Once I find them, it’s usually not difficult,” Gant said.

Golden considered that for a few seconds before speaking again. “And my role?”

“Good question,” Gant threw in.

Nero spoke up. “Because of your background and expertise, I’ve brought you in to complement Mister Gant. The times are changing and it is time for the Cellar to change with them.”

“What background and expertise?” Gant asked.

Bailey spoke for the first time from his position standing by the door. “Doctor Golden was the psychological screener for Special Operations Command for the past four years.”

That explained her knowing Colonel Cranston, Gant thought, although it didn’t explain her seeing the daughter’s photo on a nightstand. “Was?”

“Doctor Golden resigned her position three months ago,” Bailey said, as usual not explaining a damn thing. Gant noted that Golden’s hands were gripping the arms of her chair and at Bailey’s last words her knuckles had gone white.

“And what expertise does Ms. Masterson bring?” Gant asked.

Nero’s head turned slightly and there was no obvious difference in the metallic voice, but nonetheless, Gant picked up the tone as the old man spoke. “I hand-picked Ms. Masterson and she underwent a rather strenuous screening process. If you question her, Mister Gant, you are questioning my judgment.”

The room was silent once more for several moments. Then, surprisingly, Golden cut in. “You believe that whoever kidnapped Emily Cranston is a government employee?”

“Given the circumstances, it is probable,” Nero said. “There’s not enough data yet.”

“You mean not enough bodies,” Gant said.

Nero held up a copy of the second cache report. “Ms. Masterson believes we will receive the rest of this report shortly.”

“That won’t be good,” Gant said. He wondered who Masterson really was and why she had been glancing at him so strangely ever since he entered. He’d known Nero was getting on in years and his health was failing, but Masterson truly seemed a strange choice to replace him.

“Rarely do we receive good news here,” Nero said.

Golden nodded at the partial report. “It would make sense to send the rest of it. To make the point about Emily.”

“And that point would be?” Gant asked.

Golden shrugged. “We’ll find that out when we find the first cache that he wants us to find.”

“He?” Masterson asked.

“My data almost insures it would be a man,” Golden answered. She looked at Masterson. “You said first cache?”

Masterson nodded. “There are two cache reports. One most likely refers to wherever the target is locating Emily Cranston. The other, though, probably refers to a cache already in place. These partial reports were left with more than just a taunt in mind. I suspect we will get the rest of the first report shortly and find what Emily’s fate will be.”

Gant wanted to ask the old man about his brother, but he didn’t want to do it in front of the others in the room. Also, he doubted Nero would tell him anything more than he’d been told by Bailey, which was little. Gant closed his eyes, blocking out the three lights shining down on him. He thought briefly of his brother’s ex-wife, Jesse, but the woman behind the desk interrupted his thoughts.

“Barring new information,” Masterson said, “it might be good to review Colonel Cranston’s background.”

“You think it’s an act of revenge?” Golden asked.

“It is possible,” Nero said.

The psychologist leaned forward, her voice harsh. “Did you do this for Jimmy when he was kidnapped?”

Gant was surprised at the sudden outburst from Golden.

A beeping noise cut off any reply Nero was going to make. The old man picked up his phone and listened for several moments, then put it down without a word.

“There’s been a killing,” he finally said. “This morning.” He tilted his head toward Masterson. “All available data is being transferred by Mrs. Smith on-line. Please bring it up.”

Hannah Masterson studied the scant data scrolling up on the screen built into the desktop. “Enterprise, Alabama. Twenty-four year old female, named Cathy Svoboda. Throat slashed at approximately zero-nine-ten. Dead at the site, which was the day care facility where she was working. Crime scene is sterile, no suspects, and the cut was smooth and clean, not a butcher job. Sterile except for one thing.”

“The rest of the first cache report,” Golden said.

“Yes,” Masterson said. “Given to a young boy at the scene. All he can recall given his shock is that the man’s face was scarred.”

“In what way?” Gant asked.

“That data is not available yet,” Masterson said. She held up a hand as she typed into the computer. “She was engaged. Her fiancée, Chief Warrant Office Mark Lankin, is a helicopter pilot in the reserves. When he is on active duty he flies for the Night Stalkers, the Army’s classified helicopter unit.”

“The timing isn’t coincidence,” Gant said, remembering what Golden had said about the taunting. “This girl was killed so that we’d get this report now. Today.” He stood. “Do you have a copy of the rest of the report?”

Masterson nodded. “Yes. The lake in the partial is Reelfoot Lake in Kentucky.”

“We’re on our way,” Gant turned for the door.

Nero nodded, even though Gant was already moving. “Mrs. Masterson, please start running background on Lankin and Cranston. We need to find the link.”

Gant paused at the door. “It won’t be in the computer.” He glanced at Golden, who was still in her seat. “You coming?”