Sapphic Voices Mystery

The Ross/Fletcher Case

Part Six

I immediately ran for the largest and nearest pile, a veritable mountain of gravel. The idea quickly became less credible as the small rocks surrounding it began digging into my bare feet. I veered slightly to the right and made my way toward a smaller dune of sand instead. The journey seemed to take decades. While admittedly fewer hunks of gravel cluttered my path, they were much harder to recognize beneath the half sand/ half dirt around the hill. I found myself hopping in pain.

I didn't stop moving until I felt safe. My kidnapper couldn't have hidden a rifle or shotgun on their person. The enclosure had been dark, but not so dark as to hide something that big. A handgun, however, would have been easily concealed. It was a possibility I couldn't ignore. When I reached the bottom of the sand hill, I estimated I had run sixty or seventy yards. I hadn't heard pursuing footsteps. When I was reasonably certain only an expert shot could have hit me, I stopped.

The sprint had seemed long, but must have been rather brief. My breath came in gasps. Throbbing pain in the soles of my feet was compounded by the cold. I was shivering again. I turned to look back in the direction from which I'd come.

Nothing moved between myself and the small building. The door still clung to the side of the structure, wide open. It had been partially lit and, while inside, my eyes were adjusted to the dim light. From my current vantage point it was filled with ink. I could see no movement or shapes of any kind through the open doorway. My assailant could have been standing just a few feet inside the void, taking aim at my skull, and I would have been none the wiser. This thought pushed me farther around the hill of sand, out of the door's view and eventually to the backside of the mound. There, I took a moment to take in my surroundings.

Facing away from the sand I saw between the other mounds. I made out a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence were a few scattered buildings and just beyond those, water. A large ship carrying more cargo containers than I cared to count came slowly into my view. To my right, the chain-link fence was closer but an empty lot stood on the other side. I would have nowhere to hide if that became my escape route. Gravel obscured the view to my left but above that gravel, standing tall, was a sign. I was in a cement mixing lot.

The sound of an engine startled me. I heard wheels on gravel. I inched my way around the sand just in time to see a large van, painted gray primer. It sped through the open gate behind the shack, made a right turn onto pavement, and accelerated. Duct tape covered the license plate.

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Ian and Sweetheart picked me up at a phone booth three blocks away. They wrapped me in a blanket and prodded me for information. I answered their immediate questions, then recounted the entire incident. I finished the tale as we arrived at the motel. They swept my room with firearms in hand before I entered. Everything seemed as I had left it. Ian stayed as I showered and dressed in the tiny bathroom. He was on the phone when I emerged, surrounded in steam.

I overheard a few quick remarks before he hung up. He turned to me with a smile. "I have some interesting news." He said, "I'm willing to bet you remember Angus Wright."

I shook my head, tied the thin laces of my comfortable, black shoes, and stood. What a luxury they seemed. "Not by name." I replied, staring at my feet.

"Alyssa Bradshaw?" Ian inquired.

My gaze snapped to Ian's face. The shoes were forgotten. "The boyfriend?" I asked.

Ian nodded. "The Washington State DOL tells us he is the proud owner of a gray, late model Chevy van." He said with a grin, "I was betting your kidnapper was Fletcher's niece, but it doesn't look that way at the moment. Either way, I'm happy to have a suspect. Would you like to join us in a search of Ms. Bradshaw's estate?"

"Court order?" I asked. The sound of a car pulling into a parking space floated in through the open front door and nearly distracted me.

"Just off the phone with the judge. Andrew, the team's legal expert, is picking it up as we speak. If you'd be so kind as to join us..."

"I'll get my gun."

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Agent Jefferson and two other team members crept toward the house from the rear. Ian, the other members of the team, and I approached the front. The screen door was shut. The front door was open. The smell of cooked meat wafted onto the porch.

"FBI!" Andrew yelled into the house while banging on the screen door, "We have a warrant to search the premises." No reply came. He repeated his announcement with the same result. He folded the paper and stuck it in his back pocket. "Your call chief." He directed Ian.

"Draw your weapons people." I heard Ian's voice simultaneously from my radio headset and the man himself, beside me, "Premises has been notified. Breech... now!"

Andrew flung the screen door open as the rest of us filed in. We spread out with weapons raised. Ian directed us quietly with hand motions. The first two agents climbed the stairs. Andrew was sent to the right through what appeared to be a den. I was directed left through a room with a large, dark stained table with matching chairs. Ian stayed to cover the front door. The smell of burned meat was overpowering. My stomach churned.

"One down." Andrew reported, "Front room, right. Female. Looks to have been stabbed or shot in the back. Body is still warm."

"Confirmed." Ian responded, "Move on. Rendezvous with Beta team in rear room, center."

"There's something else chief." Andrew said with a queasy voice.

"Unless it's human continue the sweep." Ian replied, "We'll come back to it once the premises is secure."

I combed through the dining room and made my way into the adjoining room toward the rear of the house. "Left front room secure, continuing into left rear room." I dutifully noted into the radio.

"Confirmed Ross." Came Ian's reply, "Continue to rendezvous in rear center."

I entered a room with a crib, children's toys, and a desk in the corner. A doorway to the right led into a kitchen. Another door on the same wall was closed. "Possible children." I said into the microphone.

"Got that people?" Ian asked, "Possible children on premises."

The team chimed in their confirmations as I reached for the closed door. It opened with a click. A stairway led down. "Stairs down to what looks like a basement," I whispered and reached for the light switch, "Left rear room." Reports began coming in from the upper floor. I made out Ian's order to wait for Agent Jefferson and proceed down the stairs.

Sweetheart rounded the corner silently. He nodded toward my hand perched upon the switch. I flipped it, covered my headset's microphone with one hand, pointed my gun down the stairs with the other, and yelled, "FBI, we have a warrant." I counted to ten and began my descent.

"Got your back." Agent Jefferson's voice whispered to me through the headset.

I maintained my forward focus, tuned the radio reports out of my thoughts, and nodded. The stairs were wooden and led into an open dusty basement. Their squeaks screamed my exact location. I hurried down them to a point I could see into the basement. I sent my vision out to the left and right, following it with the barrel of my pistol. Finding nothing that represented a threat, I descended the rest of the stairs. Sweetheart followed. I waved him to the left and turned right.

I was nearly satisfied the basement was safe when I stepped in something. I looked down to see a pool of thick dark liquid. I gasped and followed the pool under the stairs. The boyfriend, Angus Wright, lay there in a pile. Blood seeped from wounds in his back. His neck showed signs of strangulation. A large bandage was wrapped around his thigh exactly where I stabbed my kidnapper earlier this morning. I reported it via radio, then declared the basement threat free. The house was clear. We all turned our radios off and were ordered to the main floor.

I grabbed a plastic grocery bag from atop a washing machine, took off my shoe, and dropped it in. So much for my comfortable shoes. One was soaked in blood. I sighed and followed Agent Jefferson up the stairs. Once there, we all gathered in the living room. Andrew was pointing out a burned, severed hand smoldering in the fireplace.

If you have enjoyed Tara Chen's "The Ross/Fletcher Case, Chapter Six", then please be certain to e-mail her at  tara[at]dementedkitty.com  and thank her for posting this Story.

Click here to continue on to "The Ross/Fletcher Case, Conclusion"

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