The Lonely Mile(67)
After spending hours trapped down here with nothing to do but saw those metal handcuffs back and forth against the cement wall behind her headboard, Carli had committed the entire basement and its contents to memory. She knew exactly what she wanted and where to find it.
She picked up a roll of electrical wire and a wire cutter and returned to the FBI traitor, who was still alive but prone on the floor, very much unconscious. Bending down next to her, Carli tied the agent’s wrists and ankles together with the stiff wiring, twisting the strands around and around to form her own set of impromptu handcuffs. Then, she tossed the roll back onto the workbench, finally confident she could check on her dad without worrying about being taken by surprise from behind.
Her dad’s pulse was much stronger than the woman’s. In fact, his eyelids blinked, and he moaned and almost seemed to be trying to wake up as she knelt over him. He had a pair of bullet wounds that were sluggishly oozing blood—one in his right arm and one in his left thigh—and it was obvious he needed medical attention, but Carli guessed he wasn’t in any immediate danger; at least not danger of the life-threatening kind. He had probably been knocked out when his head hit the wall and was going to have a massive headache when he woke up. Maybe he had even suffered a concussion.
She realized she had been holding her breath as she checked out her dad’s injuries, and she let out a ragged chuckle. Thanks, God, she thought to herself, I owe you one. Then she warily passed the woman’s unmoving body and climbed the stairs to look for a telephone. The FBI chick probably had a cell phone somewhere on her body, but Carli couldn’t bring herself to touch her to check for one. There had to be a phone in the house, probably in the kitchen, and that would be just fine with Carli.
As she climbed the stairs, she wondered how she was managing to keep herself together and when she would start crying—she could tell it would be soon—and if she would ever stop once she started. Then, she spotted the telephone and got to work.
CHAPTER 60
May 28, 4:51 p.m.
AT FIRST, SPECIAL AGENT Mike Miller thought the call was some kind of joke. Some yokel claiming to be Sergeant Carter from the Town of Mason Police Department had told Mike that his partner, Special Agent Angela Canfield, was currently hovering near death in the basement of a crumbling home located out in the boonies at the westernmost edge of his town.
“It’s a bloodbath here,” the cop told Miller, “and I think you’re going to want to see this. There are two witnesses to what went down, and they’re both claiming your agent was involved in the I-90 Killer kidnappings.”
Miller responded with one word: “Impossible.”
Then he hung up and pulled everyone off the search of Leona Bengston’s property—they were getting nowhere anyway—and the team piled into their Bureau cars for the thirty-minute drive to the address Carter had given him for the home in Mason. On the way, Miller called the SAC at the FBI’s Albany Field Office, filling in Special Agent in Charge, Hamilton Granger, on the information he had, which was very little.
“I’m told by this Mason Police officer that they suspect Canfield was somehow involved in the kidnappings,” he told Granger as he navigated the lonely backcountry roads at high speed with three, identical Chevrolet Caprices in tow. A long silence greeted his statement as the Special Agent in Charge digested the news.
He finally replied, tersely. “Where is that coming from?”
“The Mason Police claim to have two eyewitnesses telling exactly the same story.”
“Oh, man. Keep me informed. I want to know the minute you have any information. If it’s bad, you can plan on seeing me on-scene, A-S-A-P.”
“Roger that, boss.” Miller terminated the call and shook his head. What in the world had Canfield been up to?
The four-car caravan nearly missed the unmarked entrance to Turner Road, just as Bill Ferguson had almost driven past it less than an hour before. Miller screeched to a halt, cutting his wheel sharply to the right, and then accelerated again onto the glorified cart path. The storm had finally departed the area, but branches hung low, burdened with accumulated moisture, and the road’s sandy shoulder resembled a mud pit from the effects of the heavy rains.
It took the team nearly ten minutes of fighting their way through the mile of jungle-like terrain to arrive at the remote address they had been given. As the lead driver, Miller said a silent thanks for the wonders of GPS navigation, knowing there was no way he would ever have found the place, otherwise.
He rounded a turn, slipping and sliding in a more or less successful attempt to keep at least two of his car’s wheels on the paved portion of the road, and then nearly collided with a bulky red ambulance. The vehicle shot out of a weed-strewn gravel driveway, lights flashing and siren blaring, and turned toward civilization, nearly sideswiping all four Bureau cars, one after the other, before continuing on the narrow road. It looked like a gigantic, rushing beetle.
This is obviously the house, Miller thought, and the GPS confirmed what he already knew. It was the only residence he had seen since turning off Route 37. Another ambulance sat, blocking the driveway, its skillful driver somehow having managed a three-point turn without getting stuck in the mud. The vehicle sat empty, hazard lights flashing, engine idling, waiting for another victim to exit the house. Miller eyed the positioning of the big ambulance and wondered how the driver had accomplished the turnaround. Smoke and mirrors, he decided.