Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

“I don’t see it.”

“Go to the N tab for New Jersey.”

Ellie snapped through pages while Kate checked online for updates and the minutes and seconds ticked down on Vanessa.

“Okay, got it!”

“Good, program them in like I showed you, then go online and get the frequency for Mercer County. You should get local paramedics, fire, everybody.”

Fear had numbed Kate’s fingertips as she watched her messages for news of a location. She took some comfort that she was with Perez and Ridder. Sal and Ellie both had reported in Iraq and Afghanistan, while at home they’d covered tornadoes, floods, wildfires and major shootings.

As they put miles behind them, the scanners crackled to life with dispatches of cross talk from emergency responders in and surrounding Hopewell. Sal pushed his SUV hard, weaving through traffic to pass news vans from New York.

“Looks like everybody’s headed to Hopewell,” Sal said after he’d passed the third one.

“It’s déjà vu,” Ellie said.

“What’d you mean?”

“Hopewell. You don’t know about Hopewell, New Jersey, Sal?”

“I’m drawing a blank.”

“You remember Charles Lindbergh, the first person to fly solo across the Atlantic?”

“Yeah.”

“Well in 1932, his baby boy was kidnapped from his home in Hopewell, New Jersey, for ransom. After Lindbergh paid fifty thousand, the baby’s body was found in a wooded area south of Hopewell. At that time, it was the biggest story in the world.”

“Oh, right. They executed the guy who did it.”

Ellie touched Kate’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry to bring this up, Kate.”

“It’s history. It’s true. I know that and I was thinking maybe Zurrn was trying to emulate the Lindbergh case. But none of this seems real to me right now-I’m sorry. Please go faster, Sal.”

The scanner’s transmissions concerned the positioning of work crews around the town. As Kate turned to the window to search the night, a loud ringing sounded in the SUV and Sal answered his hands-free phone, boosting the volume.

“It’s Chuck, how far are you from Hopewell, Sal?”

He glanced at his GPS.

“Twenty, twenty-five minutes, Chuck. What’ve you got?”

“Here’s the latest. They haven’t pinpointed the site but they believe they’re close to locking in. What they’re doing is using every local government crew, and every available contractor to trailer backhoes to the compass points surrounding Hopewell, to get ready to move. They’ve got a medical helicopter standing by and the trauma team at Viola Memorial in Newark is on alert. The medical experts said her signs are deteriorating and she’s down to thirty minutes.”

As the highway markers streaked under them and the miles passed, Kate clenched her eyes shut and whispered a prayer. It might’ve been five minutes, maybe longer, before Ellie shouted.

“They’ve got something!” She cranked the crackling dispatches.

“Yes,” Chuck said, “the FBI here are nodding! They’ve got a crew there and they’ve started digging!”

“Its north, about one and a half miles on Wertsville Road!” Ellie said.

Sal entered the information into his GPS and accelerated. Kate’s knuckles whitened as she clasped her hands together. Within ten minutes they were cutting through town. Sal threaded around other work crews, their lights flashing as they hauled equipment. Overhead the air vibrated with the thump of police and news helicopters.

“Oh, no!” Ellie held out a scanner. “Listen!”

“…got down about four feet-found an opened metal toolbox-he left some kind of transmission device inside and a note that says-‘Ha-ha! Try again! Ticktock!’…”

Kate’s heart sank. Oh, God, oh, God, no!

The phone line to Chuck and the scanners crackled with a somber silence. Then there was soft background noise from Chuck’s end.

“They’re baffled here. They’ve just got a call from Detective Brennan in Rampart strongly suggesting the site could be in Montana.”

“Montana! What the-how does Brennan know that?” Kate was losing it. “What’s going on, Chuck?”

“No wait, Kate!” Chuck was optimistic. “Others here are still insisting that the signal’s coming from Hopewell.”

Kate’s cell phone rang.

“It’s Erich. My friends are following this online, Kate.”

“Where is she?”

“Hopewell-it’s Hopewell!”

Two New Jersey State Trooper cars shot by their SUV in the opposite direction, sirens wailing, lights wig-wagging.

“Did you see that?” Sal’s head whipped around. “Something’s up!”

“Another signal!” Ellie said. “South!”

“Yes!” Chuck said. “We’ve got it here! They’re saying the Hopewell-Princeton Road!”

Sal wheeled the SUV around. Above them the choppers banked south, as well. As the SUV’s motor growled Ellie relayed the radio dispatches.

“They’re pinpointing it, Sal. The area is one mile south from the road’s junction with 518. Old Mount Rose Road comes into play. I don’t believe this!”

“What?” Kate turned to Ellie. “What is it?”

“It’s the same spot where they found the Lindbergh baby!”

Backhoe contractor “Big Ben” Pickett, got his Case 590 into position at a patch of disturbed earth they’d identified as the site in the woods some forty yards from the road.

Pickett had moved fast when he got the call at home from the township and the background nearly two hours ago. Posting him on the south side was smart. They were practically on the site when they confirmed the location.

With some twenty-five years in the business, Pickett lived on his machine. He could open this hole up in about four minutes, “like digging into mashed potatoes,” he told the troopers. They were working with the FBI agent and firefighter waving him into position, while a state police K-9 unit barked at the ground.

Portable light towers were rolled in to illuminate the scene.

As he worked, Pickett was deaf to helicopters overhead, the sirens of arriving emergency vehicles and the growing stream of news media. Troopers stretched crime scene tape at the road to keep the press back.

Lights from the cameras glowed and flashed on Pickett.

His engine roared as his bucket bit into the soft earth, scooping out over a foot of dirt. Firefighters used ground-penetrating locators and probe poles, feeling for a container, before waving Pickett to remove another layer. The process was completed again and again, quickly, efficiently until the poles hit a solid object at the depth of nearly six feet.

Firefighters waved for Pickett to stop. Ladders were lowered and crews cleared off the dirt, revealing a casket with chains sealing the lid. Industrial bolt cutters and other high-powered rescue tools were passed to the firefighters, who immediately opened the lid and looked down.

Vanessa Page was inside, barely conscious.

She offered a weak smile.

Firefighters transferred her to a spine board, secured an oxygen mask to her face and initiated a flow stream before they hefted her from her grave to hurry her toward the open clamshell doors of the waiting medical helicopter.

Kate jumped from Sal’s SUV before he brought it to a stop and flew to the police line where other news people were gathered, recording events as they unfolded. News camera operators zoomed in tight on Vanessa’s rescue.

“She’s alive!” one of them shouted.

Unable to bear it, Kate lifted the tape and, before state troopers and deputies could react, ran to Vanessa.

Kate’s heart was nearly bursting as she ran over the rugged terrain to the clearing as rescuers carrying Vanessa neared the helicopter. The deafening beating of the rotors made it impossible to hear but couldn’t stop her from screaming Vanessa’s name.