Deadly Stillwater

Mac read the sign: watch the negativity and stay cool. The chief was in the hallway, and he didn’t need to see his boys with their heads down. Sooner or later, the kidnappers would make a mistake and then the boys would capitalize, but only if they kept their minds open to the possibility. Mac exhaled, nodded lightly, and spoke more calmly.

“We might, we might. If we can figure out when the laptop was bought and where,” he added. “Maybe we can get something. They wouldn’t pay with a credit card, or at least one in their real names or names we could trace. But…”

“But what?” Riles asked.

“If they bought it at a Best Buy, Target, Costco, Wal-Mart, someplace like that,” Mac added, “we could figure out which register it was bought at and what time. Maybe we could get surveillance camera footage from the checkout.”

“Think we can catch one of the men on the surveillance video?” Duffy asked.

“Or the woman,” Lich added. “Let’s not forget about her.”

“Depends. They might have had someone purchase it for them. But let’s check and see. Do you guys have access to that facial-recognition software?” Mac asked.

“If need be,” a member of Burton’s crew answered.

“Get on that,” Burton said, “Let’s track that computer down.”

“So what’s on the computer?” Lich asked, pushing to get back on task.

“Let’s take a look,” the FBI tech replied. He powered up the laptop, waiting for the screen to come to life. When it did, there was a video icon on the screen. The tech double clicked on the icon, and a video program opened up.

The video began soundlessly with a view out the windshield of a vehicle, either a truck or a van, driving down a rough dirt road with knee-high grass and weeds between the tire tracks. There was taller grass, bushes, and scraggly trees in the background. The picture vibrated as the vehicle jostled into potholes or rocks.

The time in upper right corner showed 9:09 PM, the date July 2, the night before. It was dusk.

After a minute of elapsed time, the dirt road wound its way toward a straight line of tall trees. The road then turned left to run parallel with the thick tree line. The area was vacant with no activity.

At 9:15 by the video clock, the vehicle abruptly turned right onto an overgrown path, its long grass matted down by what must have been only a couple of previous trips. The vehicle pulled up to a tree with orange tape tied around its massive trunk.

The video went dark, and someone groaned in dismay.

The picture came back to life ten seconds later, the time now reading 9:23.

Lying motionless on the floor of the van was Carrie Flanagan on the left and Shannon Hisle on the right. Shovels and PVC piping surrounded them. Black ties bound the girls’ wrists and ankles. Both were blindfolded and gagged. They did not appear harmed or beaten, simply sweaty and disheveled. Hisle, still dressed in her cafe golf shirt and khaki shorts, looked pale. Flanagan still wore her jean shorts and a smudged white tank top.

A too-familiar voice finally broke the deathly quiet of the conference room.

“The girls are alive,” it said. The camera zoomed in on Flanagan and then Hisle for long enough to show that the girls’ chests were moving. “They have been drugged. They will probably awaken around the time you are watching this video.”

Mac looked at his watch: 1:22 PM.

“Now let’s go see where they will wake up,” the voice continued, and the camera panned to the right to a black-clad man wearing gloves and a ski mask. He pulled a piece of PVC piping out from the right side of the van. The camera followed him as he turned his back on the camera and walked away, off to the right of the screen.

The video went dark.

It came alive again, the time now 9:47 PM.

“This is where the girls will be when they wake up.” The girls were lying motionless in a sturdy reinforced plywood box, side-by-side, their arms and feet no longer bound.

“What’s that box, maybe two feet high, four across, and six feet long?” Mac asked quietly.

“Looks about right,” Burton answered softly.

The camera zoomed, showing what looked like a Dictaphone and a flashlight lying between the girls.

“You’ll note the absence of food and water,” the voice said, as if reading everyone’s mind.

“Ah shit,” Rock uttered quietly.

“Mother fuckers,” Mac muttered, knowing where this was going.

The camera pulled back to show the box lying in a large hole, four to five feet deep. Portable lights provided just enough illumination to film, but not enough to identify the location. The video showed the arms of two men laying a piece of reinforced plywood over the box, then using electric screwdrivers to set it in place. There was no hole in the top for ventilation.

“How are they going to breathe?” Rock asked.

“The PVC piping,” Mac answered as he pointed to the lower right side of the screen. “If you look, there are holes on the right side of the box.”

The video went dark.

It came back to life, five minutes later, now 10:01 PM.