“Nothing,” he says. “He’s not here.” He pulls back and lunges forward, slamming himself against the side of the car. “Fuck!”
The car rocks to the side, and both of us take a step back. It shouldn’t have moved that much. Sam is strong, but not powerful enough to shift a massive vehicle that easily. I run to the front and yank up on the hood.
The engine of a car weighs just over three hundred pounds. The weight of a broken, balled-up eleven-year-old boy doesn’t anchor it in the same way.
Kendra should have listened to Sam. She shouldn’t have broken away from Samantha’s grip and run to join the group gathered around the car. Her primal, soul-tearing scream will stay with me for a long, long time.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Call 911!” someone screams as Sam climbs over the hood of a car wedged up beside the front corner of this one.
I scramble after him and look down under the hood. The car has been gutted, and where the engine should be sitting is a cage that hangs almost like a basket from hooks attached to either side of the car. The cage is so shallow the metal grate of the top sits down on Caleb’s side, pressing into the skin of his arm and leg, and crushing against his hip. A row of zip ties set at intervals of only a few centimeters around the entire perimeter secures the cage closed.
“Does anyone have strong scissors or small wire cutters?” I ask.
“I have a knife,” the man beside me offers.
“That will do. Thank you.”
I take the knife from him and tuck the blade under one of the zip ties. It strains against the plastic, but eventually cracks through and pops it open. Sam takes pictures of the area and the cage as I continue around the edge. When he steps back, someone else from the crowd rushes up with a pair of bolt cutters.
“Emma, step back,” Sam says, taking the tool.
“You have to be careful,” I tell him. “The metal is right against his skin. You can’t just cut the links.”
“Hold it up,” he instructs.
I tuck my fingers into the gaps of the chain link and pull up with as much strength as I can. Grateful for my height and the leverage it gives me, I manage to create a small gap between the metal and Caleb. It’s not much room, but it’s enough to provide some protection as Sam uses the blades to cut through several of the zip ties at one time.
Kendra forces her way through the crowd again and comes up beside me. I feel her body shaking as she stares blankly at her son like her mind has closed down, and she’s no longer processing what she’s seeing.
The top of the cage finally opens, and Sam pushes it back. He and another man reach in to take hold of Caleb and start lifting him out. The limited space makes the movement awkward, and they struggle with his dead weight. I reach forward and open my arms, encouraging Sam to drape the boy in them. Glancing over my shoulder, I meet eyes with Kendra.
“I need you to help me,” I tell her. The wail of the ambulance siren finally sounds in the distance, and I look at her more intensely. “Hear that? They’re coming. They’re on their way. But we need to get him out. Take your son.”
She finally seems to hear me and steps up closer so I can maneuver Caleb from Sam’s arms across the corner of the car and into his mother’s arms. She holds him to her chest and sinks down onto the ground, cradling him like a baby and sobbing into his shoulder.
“Is he alive?” I ask Sam softly.
“I don’t know.”
* * *
I don’t remember getting back to my house last night. Or very early this morning, depending on how you look at it. We were at the scrapyard for hours after finding Caleb, then had to go back to the station for interviews, paperwork, and processing more evidence. At some point in the predawn darkness Sam brought me back to the house. I only made it as far as the living room couch. I’m still in my clothes, and the gritty feeling of dried sweat and dirt clings to my skin. A hot shower cuts through the feeling and the fog, so by the time I get out, I’m human again.
Sam is at my door before I’m finished with my first cup of coffee, but he has a travel cup for me, and I gulp it gratefully as we head out in silence. Neither of us are looking forward to where we’re going, but it’s what has to be done. I’m doing my best to control my anger, and I can tell he is as well, though I think he has a better chance of doing it than I do. He’s always been more even, better able to take hold of his emotions and manage them even in the most difficult situations. Last night on our way to the station when we made the plan for this morning, we promised each other and ourselves, we’d keep it together.
The car behind us follows at just enough distance to give us time to get inside a short time before they pull up. It will hopefully make this smoother.
When we get to Vincent’s house, my first instinct is to check the driveway and see how many cars are sitting there. The fact that there’s two takes the thought of this going at all smoothly out of my mind.
“Valerie’s here,” I tell Sam.
“She’s going to be fine,” he says.
“She’s going to pitch a fucking fit,” I mutter.
“She’s going to have to deal with this. She doesn’t have a choice.”
Vincent doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door to us standing on his porch.
“Sheriff, Emma. I thought you’d be coming this morning.”
“Since you ran away from us before we could talk to you at the scrapyard last night, I think it was a pretty safe bet,” Sam says.
“I was there in an official capacity. I had my press pass,” he defends himself.
“Your press pass means absolutely nothing in a situation like this,” I say.
“Vincent, you are too close to this to be reporting on it. The clues are coming to you and... “
“And that means I have a responsibility to report what’s happening,” he says.
“You have a responsibility to keep people as safe as possible and support the department in the investigation,” I point out.
“What if that’s what I’m doing? Whoever this is chose me to send the envelopes to. You’re the one who said that. He chose me.”
“Vincent, we need an explanation. Something we can go on,” Sam says.
“What do you mean?” Vincent asks.
“Twice now you’ve claimed to have found anonymous packages on your front porch with strange messages inside. And both times, those messages have led directly to one of the missing children. There has to be more to it than that,” Sam tells him.
Vincent looks back and forth between us, his eyes growing wider and more desperate.
“You think it was me? I swear, I didn’t have anything to do with those kids. I could never hurt a child.”
The other car pulls up in front of the house, and an investigative team steps out with their equipment.
“I’m sorry, Vincent,” Sam sighs. “I don’t like this, and I don’t want to do it, but I would be failing in my duties if I didn’t. As of right now, you are under investigation. A search warrant for your house is on its way. Are you going to make us wait for it to get here to let us in?”
Vincent shakes his head. “No. Do whatever you need to do.”
“Thank you.”
We follow him into the house, and he stands in the middle of the entryway while the other officers come inside. Sam gives instructions in a quiet voice, trying to keep the situation as calm as possible. The control lasts only a few seconds. Valerie’s footsteps coming down the stairs are enough to shake the house. Her eyes alight with fury when she sees us.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. “How many times do I have to tell you not to come onto my property and harass my family?”