Stolen Lives: A Detective Mystery Series SuperBoxset (2 page)

Phillip lunged forward, wrapped his thick arm around Freddy’s forehead, and yanked him back into her chest. Freddy’s arms flailed in the air as he screamed out in panic—his cries cut short by the deep slice of the blade across his throat. Blood spurted from the gash right below his Adam’s apple.

Phillip squeezed Freddy’s head back more, holding him as he choked with blood as it sprayed on the kitchen counter, running down Freddy’s chest and soaking his robe. Phillip released his grip and tossed Freddy aside like a rag doll. Blood continued to gush from his wound, forming a thick pool as he smacked face-first onto the tile floor.

Phillip held the bloodstained blade, standing over Freddy and watching as he gasped for his few last breaths. Blood had gotten all over Phillip’s dress. He went to the sink and washed the knife under the faucet. He then wiped the knife clean with a paper towel ripped from the countertop dispense. As he turned the faucet off, he heard the shower cease in the bathroom down the hall.

“Ana…” he said under his breath with a smile.

Freddy’s motionless body lay on the floor. His mouth was open. His eyes were wide and dilated. Phillip stepped over him and went to the table, where he put the knife back in his purse. He stepped around Freddy, knelt down, and lifted him up.

With a grunt, he dragged Freddy’s body to the kitchen table, pushing a chair out with his leg. The TV continued on about the ongoing manhunt and so-called “underground dungeon” discovered on one of the Anderson properties. It was strange for Phillip to hear about himself in the third person; a new kind of fame he hadn’t counted on or desired.

He sat Freddy upright on the chair and patted his hair. Freddy’s head slumped down as fluid leaked from his eyes, nose, and ears. Phillip grabbed the purse and went toward the living room, where he took the remote and muted the TV. Following the silence, a hair-dryer turned on in the bathroom, blowing loudly.

Phillip casually dug into his purse and pulled out a rag and a twenty-ounce bottle of chloroform. He then held the rag to the opening and tilted the bottle, holding it there. The hairdryer stopped. Phillip crept to the bathroom, bottle and rag in hand, and knocked on the door.

“I’m almost ready. Chill!” Ana said from inside.

Phillip knocked again.

“What?” Ana asked, annoyed.

Another knock. Ana swung the door open, angered. “I said—” she began, freezing up in her pink T-shirt and blue jeans. Her eyes widened as she looked up at the stranger before her.

Phillip lunged forward, grabbed the back of Ana’s head, and shoved the rag into her face. Ana’s arms flailed and punched air. She tried to kick. She tried to scream, but she didn’t have a chance. Her cries were muffled. The rag covered her nose and mouth. Her eyes watered. Phillip shoved her face deeper into the rag.

“There, there,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

Ana’s arms fell, and her body went limp. Phillip scooped her up with one arm and left the bathroom. He grabbed his purse from the couch and rushed Ana out of the house, closing the door behind them.

Discovery

Miriam arrived on her street, ready to collapse once she got home. It had been a whirlwind past couple of days, thrust back into a case she never thought she’d re-visit. Lou, a friendly detective who always insisted that she call him by his first name, dropped her off at her house after a long night at the hospital, where two girls, rescued from abduction, had been taken for treatment.

Their suspect, Phillip Anderson, had fled the scene, but Miriam was confident the police would find him. His face was all over TV and the Internet. The case had all the makings of a national crime story: a tight-knit crime family in a small Florida town who dealt in drugs, kidnapping, and murder—Anderson could run, she believed, but he’d turn up somewhere.

Miriam took comfort in that fact as Lou pulled up into her driveway to drop her off.

“Thanks, Lou,” she said smiling.

“You got it. Call me after you get some rest, and we’ll go over the case,” he said as the car idled.

“Sure thing,” she said, opening the door.

“Miriam…” he said as her foot hit the pavement. She stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“Don’t worry about Anderson. He’s on the run, he’s scared, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes a mistake.”

She nodded in understanding, bid him farewell, and stepped out of the car, closing the door. As he backed out, she walked up the driveway with a gym bag over her shoulder—her standard travel bag. She’d been away from home for three days—shorter than planned. The case had been solved, and she could go back to her normal life. There was nothing she wanted more.

Her Tahoe sat in the driveway next to Freddy’s truck. She passed both vehicles, feeling a little better about herself and how everything turned out. She approached the front door and gave it a try. It was unlocked.

She opened the door and walked in. Something immediately seemed off-kilter. The television was on with the sound muted. The air was still—the house silent. The blinds were drawn, and the lights off. It was a little past ten in the morning, and she assumed that Ana was already at school. But it was strange not to see Freddy anywhere.

“Freddy?” she called out, scanning the darkened living room.

She nearly jumped to see him sitting at the kitchen table with his back to her. She set her gym bag down and went into the kitchen.

“Freddy?”

Her eyes glanced past him to a thick puddle of blood, extending from one end of the tile floor to the other. She called out to Freddy again. He didn’t move. She felt her body shaking, crept around to face him and then covered her mouth, stifling a horrified gasp.

His throat was slashed. Blood soaked his T-shirt and bathrobe. His head was tilted down, his eyes wide, pupils dilated and lifeless. Trembling, she stepped back with the urge to run, but then noticed a note on the table.

You took my playmates, Miriam. Now you and your daughter are all I have left to play with. Love Phyllis.

Her legs shook as a cold chill consumed her body. The connection was clear. Anderson had found her. Her heart raced; she felt light-headed from her rapid breathing. She dropped the note and turned away. The sight of Freddy’s corpse filled her with grief. She tripped and fell back against the counter as one elbow rammed against the microwave.

She felt vulnerable and afraid. Anderson could still be in the house, watching her. She fell to her knees. The shaking had traveled to her hands.

“Ana,”
she thought.
“Oh my God, Ana!”

She reached into her purse and pulled her 9mm Beretta and cell phone out, ready to call 9-1-1. A missed call was displayed on the screen from an unavailable number. Before she could even investigate, the phone buzzed with a call from the same unknown number.

“Hello?” she said in a frantic voice, rising back up. She held the pistol out, crouched down, and moved slowly out of the kitchen, toward the bedrooms. There was breathing on the other end, but nothing else.

“Who is this?” she shouted.

Down the hall, the bathroom door was open. Miriam approached it slowly and looked inside. There were clothes piled on the floor but no sign of Ana. The person on the phone remained silent, but the breathing continued.

Miriam rushed to Ana’s darkened room and saw her school bag on the floor next to her shoes. Ana’s cell phone sat atop her nightstand. She never went anywhere without her phone. Miriam felt a gripping pain in her stomach at the realization of what was happening. Tears welled in her eyes as she kept her phone pressed tightly against her ear.

“Miriam?”
a metallic, robotic voice said from the other end of the line.

“What do you want?” she asked, frantic.

The caller laughed.
“Did you get my note?”

Miriam left Ana’s room and raced to her own. The bed was made. Nothing appeared to have been touched.

“Where is she? You son of a—” She paused and tried to contain her rage. “Please let her go. We can work this out.”

“What’s done can’t be undone.”
The voice was distorted through some kind of voice box.
“You know that as well as I.”

She ran down the hall, past the kitchen, and to the front door, yanking the door open as sunlight hit her face. “Where are you?” she asked in a demanding tone.

“You just missed me,”
he said.

She circled the front yard, desperately searching for any sign of Anderson within range.

“I saw you get home,”
he continued.
“Figured it wouldn’t be long before you saw my little surprise.”

Miriam stopped in the middle of her yard. The neighborhood was quiet. The other homes and vehicles on her cul-de-sac were all a blur. Anderson was nowhere in sight.

“Phyllis?”
she said.

“Yes?”

Miriam paused, biting her lower lip. “Mr. Anderson, I know it’s you. I don’t see the need to disguise your voice.”

“Call me cautious,”
he answered.

The most important thing for Miriam was keeping him on the line. She assured him that she hadn’t called the cops, and that she had no interest in finding him, and that all she wanted was her daughter back. She pleaded with him as she had never done with anyone before. He listened without interruption, and once she finished, he spoke.

“Are you done?”

“Yes. Do we have a deal?” she said, tears streaming down her cheek.

“Deal?”
He seemed flummoxed.

“Anything you want. Every penny I have, I don’t care.”

“Save your breath. There’s no deal.”

“Take me, then! I’m the one you want. Leave Ana out of this. She’s only a child!”

An elderly neighbor, Reba Henderson, was looking out from behind her blinds, startled by Miriam’s yelling.

He continued
: “And because she’s only a child, that makes her perfect,”
he said.

The desire to reach through the phone and rip his eyes out hit Miriam like a rushing current. “If you touch her, I’ll kill you. You hear me? One hair on her head and you’re dead!”

He responded, pleased and amused.
“Now
this
is the Sergeant Castillo I want to hear.”
He laughed again.

Miriam simmered with rage. She wiped her tears and continued pacing her lawn in a distraught circle.

“Tell me something, Sergeant Castillo—are you still a cop? I thought you left the force after I shot your partner.”

She ignored his efforts to push her buttons. “Bring Ana back and take me. I’m begging you.”

“You call the police and do what you gotta do. I’ll call back soon with my demands.”

“No, wait—”

He hung up without another word. Miriam kept the phone at her ear, begging him to answer. There was no response. She searched the street again for any sign of him. When she reached the end of her yard, her knees locked as her legs went numb, causing her to fall onto the hard pavement of the road.

Reba Henderson opened her screen door and came plodding outside in a flowery nightgown and flip-flops. “Goodness, Miriam. What happened?” she asked, approaching with a cup of coffee in hand.

With both hands on the ground, Miriam pushed herself up, of still clutching her pistol. Though about half her size, Reba tried her best to help Miriam back on her feet.

Miriam began sobbing uncontrollably. “Ana…” She wiped her eyes again and looked directly into Reba’s eyes. “Did you see anyone here?”

Reba paused, blinking behind the thick lenses of her glasses. “I don’t know. Like who?”

Miriam grabbed Reba’s arm, pulling her closer. “A vehicle. Someone pulling into the driveway or across the street. Anything!”

Reba looked startled and confused. “I’m sorry, Miriam. I didn’t see anything. Only just looked out the window because I heard you out here.”

Miriam knelt down and picked up her cell phone. “It’s Ana,” she said. “She’s missing.”

Reba gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh no!”

Miriam didn’t yet have the heart to tell her about Freddy. A gruesome revelation like that would be too much for someone her age. But it seemed that Reba’s suspicions were already there. She squinted ahead, examining the pickup truck in the driveway as Miriam punched some numbers into her phone. Detective Lou couldn’t have gotten too far, and he was the best person Miriam could think of to call. Time was not on their side.

Another neighbor from across the street now looked as if he were leaving. His blue Toyota Corolla was backing out of the garage and down the driveway. Miriam ran past Reba and toward the other neighbor’s car as it backed onto the street.

“Wait!” she shouted, phone and pistol in hand. The driver, Brice Holland, a middle-aged banker, slammed his brakes and jerked his head to the side in surprise.

“Brice, my daughter has been abducted,” Miriam said as he rolled down his window. “Did you see anything earlier? Maybe ten, twenty minutes ago?”

He looked up, dumbfounded. He kept both hands on the steering wheel, the cuffs of his white dress shirt showing a quarter-inch at his wrist. “You call the police yet?”

Miriam’s tone rose in anger. “She was taken right out of the house.
Did you see anything
?”

“I don’t think so.” Suddenly, his eyes lit up. “Come to think of it… I did see a van drive by earlier when I went to get the paper.”

Miriam felt hopeful. “What did it look like? Did you get a license plate?” Her gray eyes were wild and fiery. Brice flashed a nervous glance, looking at the pistol she was holding. “It was an old Dodge van. Ummm. White. A little rusty.” He held a finger up. “Couldn’t see the driver through the tinted windows, but they circled the street at least twice.”

Concerned, Brice watched her as she walked away from his car with a cell phone pressed against her ear. “Are you calling the police?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, turning to face him. “And thank you!”

Reba stood awkwardly in Miriam’s yard sipping her coffee as Brice drove away. “Where’s your husband?” she asked her flat out. “Thought I saw him with her.”