Taken: A Christopher Lance Thriller Read online

  “Lance, look left.” I heard the now familiar digitized voice of Angel behind some brush across from the row of shops, but couldn’t see him. “I know the police are here. Now that’s just not part of our agreement.”

  “You know how things work. I’m under constant supervision nowadays.” I answered.

  “Perhaps not close enough,” Angel said with a slight chuckle. He slid from the security of the brush into the open. He held a gray box in his gigantic hands. Angel had to be, at least, six feet two inches tall with the body of an agile athlete. A Red Sox cap and shades obscured his face. The kidnapper was only a few feet from me but I doubted that I’d be able to run him down. I knew no police officer would; they’d have to shoot him and, if they killed him, it would be over. The police and FBI would probably need to search for months before they found the children.

  “The directions in this box will tell you how and where to find little Alfred.” Angel sat the box on bench and then stepped away from it. “To the police who are listening, if you don’t play this straight, you are endangering the life of another child. I have no problem with sacrificing the lives of a few children for the salvation of the many. So watch out pigmen!”

  “Hold on, Angel, don’t do anything rash. They’re just doing their jobs, please,” I said, but it was too late.

  Vanishing with the swiftness of a panther, Angel was gone and on the run. I dashed toward the box and opened it. Before I could grab the note, Pettis placed one hand on my shoulder, while the other snatched the paper from the box.

  “Read this.” Pettis passed the note to young, freckled face officer.

  The note revealed that the boy would be sitting just outside the park. To reach the boy, explicit directions were given for the officers to follow. When the officer had finished reading, Pettis ordered four officers to rescue the boy, while he and one other detective waited to hear from the police pursuing Angel.

  Pettis’ radio sprang to life with the gruff voice of Milan on the other end. “We spotted the suspect, and he’s running toward the waterfall. My group is taking the northern route, Carcetta is taking the southern. The sonafabitch is as good as trapped.”

  “Let’s go,” Pettis said to the other detective and then to me, “Stay here.”

  Ignoring the command, I ran behind the detectives toward the waterfall, making sure to stay a few strides behind. The quickest way there was through small trees and heavy brush, which were toppled as the three us barreled our way to the impending confrontation. As we ran to daylight through the brush, the spattering of the waterfall was faint in the background but more clearly heard were the shouts of ‘stop — don’t move.’

  Clearing the brush, I instantly saw Angel standing, seemingly surrounded and frightened like a caged, wild animal. And I knew wild animals didn’t take well to being threaten, especially with big guns. ‘Stop you bastard or we’ll blow your head off’, and variations of this sentiment were what the officers yelled. And they meant it, but I couldn’t let it happen. I dashed into the open toward Angel — his back to the waterfall, staring at me as if wondering who I was. Waving my hands overhead like a desperate man stranded on a deserted island, attempting, in vain, to get the attention of a passing prop plane, I yelled, “Don’t shoot him, please!” In my haste, I had forgotten about the sewage drain behind Angel, although I knew it was there and had told Angel of its exact location. His deftness, coupled with my obstruction, kept the officers from opening fire in time to kill the man as he dropped down the drain, almost in one motion. The police rushed the black hole and sent officers down after Angel, but the chase was futile -- they would never find him.

  “I thought I told you to stay back there!” Pettis screamed, his skull moments from bursting.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Milan added.

  I felt like a kitten stranded atop a California Redwood. “You can’t kill him. We’ll never to find the children.”

  “You fuckin’ prick. Once we find out who this maniac is, we’ll find the kids whether he’s dead or alive,” Pettis said.

  “Listen, I know—”

  “No, you listen. Your ass is going to pay for this. You’re under arrest.”

  Part IV

  To Catch a Stealer

  I was in a less than pleasant mood when Mac arrived to bail me out of jail. I was tired and hungry and late for work. In addition to all this, the last thing I needed to hear was snickers and wise cracks from my best friend.

  Mac and I played college baseball together at Georgia Tech. After his All-Star career ended abruptly due to a bum shoulder, he neatly tucked away his millions, and started his own private investigation firm. I used his services often, and now he was going to have his hands full, as I turned up the heat on my search for Angel.

  “Next time you decide to take on the entire Atlanta police department, call for back-up. You hear, cowboy?” Mac said, as we both walked toward his racing green Jaguar.

  “Yeah. Whatever,” I answered, not slowing down a bit.

  As we sped down I-75, Mac started to get curious. “So what’s your plan, Mr. Renegade Reporter? You better have something good after that stunt earlier today.”

  “To access the information of the kids he’s abducted so far, he has to work with children. He’s got to have an inside track somewhere.”

  “Makes sense, I guess. So what’s the direction?”

  “Start checking out social services employees that specialize in abused children, daycares, begin on the fringes of the city and work your way in, and then go to teachers, probably K through sixth. We know we’re looking for a white guy about six feet two and two hundred pounds. From the police profiles I’ve seen, they—”

  “How’d you see those, Christopher? That stuff is pretty secretive,” Mac asked, interrupting my plan of attack. I ignored him and continued. He didn’t need to know how I knew. My sources always had the utmost protection.

  “They think he’s a single guy with only a few friends, if any, and probably has some mental problems. And from his vocabulary, he’s definitely not a city boy. He’s suburban and college educated.”

  *

  Mac dropped me off at the office and started his search for possible Angels. He had three P.I.’s working for him and all were adept at wading through mounds of shit to mine diamonds. If anyone could come up with a lead, it would Mac and his guys. So while I watched Mac speed away, my only thought was about how much trouble I had gotten myself in. God, I loved my job.

  It was fifteen minutes until midnight and, as I thought, there were a couple of hard asses still in the office, churning out old school style investigative reporting. Being a chronic insomniac with a natural affinity for the nocturnal, I often set up camp late at night. On a good night, I might get three hours worth of sleep – always choppy and always restless. I had my own demons to exorcise – the cause of my sleeplessness – but now wasn’t time.

  Angel, who the hell are you and why are you doing this?

  My head bursting, I rubbed my temple when the Grabber poked his head over my cubicle wall – the great divide. “Your ass is in deep shit, rookie.” The Grabber was actually Templeton Moore, a junior political reporter. We called him the Grabber because his fat little fingers would snatch any story he could get near, whether it was his or not.

  “Don’t you have some utterly sensational, inaccurate, and just plain bad article to finish.” I really didn’t despise the guy, but now was not the time for jokes.

  “So, I guess you’re not interested in Windham’s meeting with Roni. Okay, I’ll leave.” Jonathan Windham owned the Inquisitor and Roni Lewis was the editor and my boss.

  “Tell me, Templeton.”

  “Well, the APD, as you know is under tremendous pressure and, even though they got that kid back, they need a goat. Guess what? You’re it buddy boy, Mr. Rook. You’re all over the local telecasts, and even we’re running a story about what you did--”

  “Get on with it. What did Windham want?”


  “He was pressuring Roni to fire you. Our good ol’editor took up for you, of course. Windbag said he’d give you another chance, but that you better know that if this thing drags on much longer the only thing you’ll be writing is a resume and thank you notes.”

  “Damn them,” I yelled. Not only was my head about to burst, but now it was going to roll.

  *

  He had always overeaten and these weird midnight cravings seemed ritualistic. He was seventy pounds overweight, ten less than last month due to his new commitment to physical activity, but his late-night longings still got the better of him on occasion. Tonight was one of those nights. Deciding not to stray totally from his narrow path, he decided to walk to the QuickMart and shed a few calories.

  He had no idea that he was being watched from the moment he had left his home.

  The hollow thump of his Nike’s pounding the pavement gave his watcher cover — more than silence. As he plodded along in his purple sweat suit, some child might have mistaken him for Barney, that friendly dinosaur. His breathing was labored and he had absolutely no clue.

  His favorite flavor was double chocolate chip and two boxes of the ice cream were under his arms as his left the QuickMart. Two blocks down the road he had deftly opened one box and, using a spoon socked away in his pocket, began to eat. He still had no clue.

  The first shot to the side of the head pummeled him. Falling to his knees, blood seeped from his ear as he tried to turn to view his attacker but never had a chance. A boot to the midsection doubled him over. The poor slob rolled into the fetal position. The attacker grabbed the back of his head and, with a fist full of hair, pulled his neck back. Blood splattered on the purple Barney suit with a single slash across his throat. The knife gleamed under the pale street light. The fat man in the purple suit was dead.

  Angel never winced, as he slit his cousin’s throat. He picked up the unopened box of double chocolate chip and slowly walked away.

  *

  During regular working hours for the paper — if such a period existed — I tried to spend as little time as possible in the office. Even when the guillotine was not being prepared, the streets of Atlanta were preferable to the thirteenth floor. No children had been taken in the past couple of days and none found dead since my incarceration, but now it was time to get on the offensive. The sands of the hourglass had quickened. That’s why I was excited when Mac called and said he may have found something. A lead.

  I entered Mac’s rented office suite, which was much too plush for a mere private investigator but, on top of the pro bono stuff he did for me, lots of rich married people who didn’t trust their spouses enlisted the help of Crawford Investigations Services. I gave a warm hello to Amila, Mac’s personal secretary and etcetera, as she ushered me through to see her boss and etcetera. Entering the office, I could see that he was busy using crumpled pieces of paper and his wastebasket to shoot hoops. Ping. The paper bounced off the lip of the metal can and fell to the floor. Stick to baseball, I thought to myself.

  “Christopher, welcome as always. Could you pick that up for me?” he asked, pointing to a balled up piece of paper by my feet.

  “Sure thing, Coach.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? I’m the star player — point guard. Now pass it here.....five..four..three...”

  I dropped the paper into the wastebasket on my way to his visitor’s chair. I was here for business — no time to play.

  Mac filled me in on the preliminaries before he got to the meat of his investigative work. He had come across this guy, Bryan Franks, who seemed to be a real possibility. He had worked at social services, dealing specifically with cases of suspected child abuse. Franks had recently been fired for what his former supervisor called recklessly and overzealous behavior. The guy had been falsifying all kinds of evidence; every one under suspicion was guilty as far as Franks was concerned. At least two of his cases that had been prosecuted were later thrown out due to erroneous evidence and the city was being sued. In addition, it seemed that old Bryan Franks was a nutcase. As a juvenile, he had gone through extensive psychotherapy, but that information had been sealed and not made available to the city, who had hired him. Mac and his boys, it seemed, could get there sticky palms on almost any information. I was impressed except for one fact.

  “This son of a bitch is only five-eight, Mac.”

  “Details.” Mac’s grin was as wide as the Panama Canal. “I’ve got feeling about this one.”

  “Okay, let’s check it out.”

  When Mac and I pulled up to 147 Hockingbird Lane, it was apparent that some kind of hell had broken loose. Two brand new Ford Charger police cars and two unmarked vehicles were flanked outside the home of Bryan Franks. A detective, whom I didn’t recognize, interviewed a neighbor, while another swabbed the front door jamb for fingerprints. “Don’t tell me we’re late and these clowns finally got one right?” Mac said with a nervous laugh.

  I didn’t say anything. I usually trusted wholly in my feelings, and I had a terrible one about what we were about to walk into. I crossed my fingers.

  We entered the house without being asked inside. The first person we saw was a young freckled-face detective taking notes. Looking up from his pad, he didn’t seem to mind being bothered. I flashed my credentials. He seemed to know me, with my name being defiled all over the television and other media outlets.

  “My name is Hatcher,” he stated. “What are you guys looking for on this bright and sunny day?”

  “Bryan Franks. He lives here, right?” I asked after we introduced ourselves to Opie Taylor.

  “Yeah, sure does — both parts of him. Somebody separated his head from his body early this morning. Happened right down the road. We found his body in a puddle of ice cream. Can you believe that shit?”

  Opie never cursed in Mayberry, I thought to myself.

  “Do you guys have any clue?” Mac asked.

  I knew the answer before Mac finished the question. They couldn’t answer and, even though I had helped out the police immensely, only Milan and Pettis were to provide me with any case details. Finally, Hatcher, in the nicest way possible, directed us to step outside of the premises. We left the house a few minutes later, leaving the police to find their clue, and I wished them luck.

  I drove toward the city with abandon, swerving in and out of traffic. I think Mac closed his eyes a couple of times. Once he had calmed his nerves, he asked where we were going.

  “We’re not going to be able to look through that house, at least not until APD is finished in there. When was Franks fired from social services?”

  “A couple of days ago, Mr Andretti. Why?”

  Quesions, Questions.

  “That would be Willy T. Ribbs to you, and we’re going to Franks’ office. If my guess is correct, it’s still intact.”

  *

  Angel was a strict disciplinarian. He had been raised that way, which was why he made the children rise at six-thirty every morning, even on Sundays, to say the pledge of allegiance to the flag and begin studying.

  “Shh, not another word children. Absolutely, positively no talking. Read.” Angel, though strict, was always light and reassuring with the children — as much as a kidnapper and killer could be.

  The six children sat in a small but well lit room. The old log cabin in the country that he had inherited was barely adequate to care for the children. He dare not take many more. Children prospered in healthy, comfortable environments, he thought to himself over and over again. Now that the children were silent, he could relax. He closed his eyes and started the vow, “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic—”

  Then he heard something. Someone was talking after he precisely told them not to. He had to rectify this immediately. The teacher can never lose control of his classroom. He reached behind a rotting wood desk and brought forth a long, thin stick that had belonged to his father. It was made of wood and had tiny holes drilled through
it.

  “James Tate, get up from that seat.” Angel grabbed the boy by the arm and led him out of the room. Whack. And then silence. Whack again. James cried out this time. And whack again. Healthy, comfortable environments, Angel thought.

  *

  I sat in the lobby of child protective services, pretending to be swept away by the Angry Birds app on my phone instead of enjoying the superb acting job that Mac was putting on display.

  “Listen, miss, my wife’s brother has just been murdered,” he said. “Did you hear that? Murdered. Now he’s got some things from their parents that she finds very sentimental....”

  “No, you listen.” The young lady didn’t give in easily. “I don’t know who you are and you really shouldn’t be in that office. I mean, I’m sorry to hear about Bryan and all but--”

  “But my ass. Penelope, my wife, is at home crying her eyes out and, when she cries, all five of our children cry, and I’m about to lose my mind. Now if all she wants is a few pictures and mementos that he has in that goddamned office, I’m going in. Now, I want you to tell me it’s all right to go in there.” Mac said the last sentence with a self-serving smile on his face. A masterpiece.

  “Let me call a supervisor,” she said, leaning over the phone at her desk. Mac, placing his body just so, obscured her vision of the lobby and allowed me to slink down the hall and into Bryan Franks’ office.

  When I stepped inside, I could tell why no one had touched the room. It appeared that a paper blizzard had befallen the tiny and stale smelling office. I felt something soft under my feet, but whatever it was lay hidden from my sight because of the papers. I didn’t want to know, so I didn’t look. Moments later, Mac with a con man’s smile entered the room. We searched the office for half an hour, throwing and tossing papers about, before we hit the jackpot — the three of a kind variety. Stacked neatly inside a box, marked ‘federal’ in black ink, were folders stamped confidential.