Chris Mooney - The Missing

Darby thought about the listening devices and felt a flicker of hope spark inside her. It was small, but it would do. She shut off the Walkman, wrapped the blanket around her and waited for sleep.

Carol Cranmore lay curled on her side on the hard floor underneath the cot, the wool blanket wrapped around her for warmth. She had stopped shaking, but her rapid heartbeat wouldn't slow down.

The man with the mask hadn't hurt her. He had pulled her up by her hair and told her to stop fighting and shut up or he wouldn't let her talk to her mother.

He stepped up behind her and pressed something sharp against her throat. It was a knife, he said. He told her what to say and then had her repeat it back to him. She did. Then he told her to repeat the words again, this time into a tape recorder.

Carol was still speaking when the tape clicked off. He removed the knife and told her to lie down on the floor, on her stomach. She did. He told her to close her eyes. She did. The door slid open and slammed shut, the loud sound vibrating through her chest. Locks clicked back and then she was alone again, trapped in the awful darkness.

At some point, she dozed off. Her head felt foggy, and her blanket was wet with drool.

She thought about the sandwich she had eaten earlier. The sandwich had left a funny taste in her mouth. Was it drugged? Why would the man with the mask want to drug her and make her sleep?

And why did he take those pictures? Was he planning on sending them to her mother along with the tape and ask for a reward? It didn't make sense. In the movies and on TV, they kidnapped rich people. One look at her neighborhood and you could tell nobody rich was living there. So why did he take those pictures?

Carol didn't know, but she was sure of one thing: the man with the mask was going to come for her again, and the next time he might hurt her. He might kill her. How was she going to defend herself?

Was there something in the room she could use?

Moving her fingers along the cot's edge, Carol felt the rough polyester fabric wrapped around the aluminum tubing. Was there a way to get a piece of that tubing out? She gave the cot a good shake, but it wouldn't budge. Why wouldn't it move?

Her fingers found the brackets and screws pinning the cot's legs to the floor. The cot was bolted to the floor.

Carol spent the next half hour struggling to break off a piece of metal tubing. No luck.

Her heart was pumping hard from the exertion and brought on new waves of fear, making her skin tingle. She pushed her fear aside. She had to keep her mind clear. She had to think. Okay, what else is in here?

Carol mentally pictured the room: shower, sink, toilet and cot. What she needed was something sharp, something she could use to stab him -

The toilet. She had helped one of her mother's boyfriends change some plastic thing inside the toilet tank, and she recalled the things inside there – the handle and the lever. They were both made of metal. Attached to the handle was a long piece of metal with a pointed end. She could use it to puncture skin. She could stab him with it, but it wouldn't do any serious damage.

She could use it on his eyes. Let him try to find her without his eyesight.

Carol navigated her way to the corner. Her shin bumped up against the edge of the toilet. She reached down and felt the toilet seat. She moved her fingers toward the tank. There was no toilet tank, just cold metal pipes dripping with moisture.

Panic set in. The voice inside her head, the one that sounded a lot like her mother's voice, urged her to push these thoughts aside, to calm down and think.

Carol didn't want to think. She stumbled through the dark until she found the steel door.

'Tony, can you hear me?' She banged her fists against the door. 'Tony! Where are you? ANSWER ME.'

A piercing sound, like the ringing of a school bell, made her jump.

The door was opening, clank-clank-clank.

Carol ran back to the cot and scrambled underneath it, grabbing the blanket and twisting it into a rope, hoping she could use it to defend herself if he came at her with something sharp.

The man with the mask didn't come inside.

Carol stared into the hallway of dim light. Lying on the floor, about ten or so feet away from her cell door, was a bottle of water and a sandwich wrapped in plastic.

Was he hiding around the corner?

Carol didn't see a shadow on the floor. Maybe he was standing far away from the door, waiting for her to come out. Was he waiting for her to come out there and grab the food? If she stepped out there, would the man with the mask attack her?

'Hello?'

Not Tony's voice – this was a woman's voice, faint but clear.

'Can anyone hear me?' the woman asked.

'I can hear you,' Carol said. She wiped the tears from her eyes and watched the door, listening, getting ready to fight. 'My name is Carol. Carol Cranmore. Where are you? Who are you?'

'My name is Marci Wade. I'm standing inside my room.'

'Don't come out here,' another woman yelled.

How many people were down here with her?

The ringing alarm sounded again. Her door was closing.

And then the screaming started.

Darby's morning started at the Belham police station. It was six a.m. She stood with Coop in the back of the crowded conference room. Copies of today's Herald were visible everywhere she looked.

Carol Cranmore was the lead story: 'Where Is She? Police on the Trail of a Possible Crazed Killer.'

Darby had already read the article. There wasn't much meat in it, just speculation wedged in between lots of pictures. A photographer had captured a picture of Dianne Cranmore collapsed on the bottom of her porch stairs, hands in her hair as she wailed.

The last paragraph contained the bait:

A source close to the investigation revealed that police have discovered a key piece of evidence that could potentially break the case wide open. Crime scene technicians, assisted by federal lab consultants and Special Agent Evan Manning, from the FBI's Investigative Support Unit, will be going through the house today.

Now all Traveler had to do was to show up.

Banville took the podium. His hangdog face looked especially tired. Behind him, mounted on the wall, was a blown-up map of the streets surrounding Carol's house. Every possible escape route was marked offwith red pushpins.

After the noise died down, he started to speak.

'FBI technicians on loan from the Boston office entered the Cranmore house last night and determined that the listening devices are active and transmitting on the same frequency. They're remote-operated, meaning they can be turned on and off in order to save battery power. The maximum range these devices can transmit is roughly a half-mile radius. At the moment, these devices are off.

'We'll have officers stationed in unmarked cars at key points within a half-mile radius of the house. Other detectives and patrolmen, pretending to be volunteers, will be covering the area with leaflets containing Carol Cranmore's picture and taking down license plate numbers.

'We can't assume he's sitting inside the back of a van,' Banville said. 'He's not using sophisticated surveillance equipment. It could easily be stored underneath a car seat. I was told that the receiver could be a device disguised in something as simple as a radio Walkman. It's even possible he can plug this device into his car stereo system and listen over the speakers. We all need to be on the lookout for a white male wearing headphones or sitting alone inside a car. If you see someone, call it in – and remember to use the frequency I've given you. Stay off your cell phones.

'We'll have three delivery trucks roaming the area. In each, FBI technicians will be monitoring the bug's signal once they turn on. Let them track it down. When they lock on to the signal, they'll call SWAT into action. Under no circumstances are you to approach the suspect alone. SWAT will take him down. Special Agent Manning, is there anything you'd like to add?'