The Depths
THE
Depths
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Chapter 1
"HELLO?" JEN ANSWERED THE PHONE in an agitated, yet confused tone. Who was calling at this hour? It was past ten o'clock on a Wednesday night, and Jen normally would have been pouring herself a glass of red wine before bed.
No response.
Again, she spoke into the cellphone. Louder and more direct this time. "Hello?" She heard shuffling on the other end; fumbling. Then a breathy sound.
It sounded like breathing, but no words were spoken. She frowned, taking her phone from her ear and pressing "End." The number flashed once—an unknown caller—and then was replaced by the home screen.
Weird, she thought. It must have been a wrong number or an accidental dial. Her son, twelve-year-old Reese, would have called it a "butt dial" or something like that. She laughed to herself, placing the phone back into her coat pocket.
A gust of brisk February air forced Jen to walk faster. Her car was on the other end of the commuter lot, a five-minute walk from the campus. After tonight's lecture, she'd stayed late answering questions and grading some papers before leaving the darkened halls of the Massachusetts Maritime Academy.
Mark Adams, her husband, hadn't called, meaning everything with Reese was going well. She expected Mark to be dropping their son off at her place tomorrow after work, though she knew he'd be about an hour late, as usual.
The lot was dark. Only a few dim streetlights bathed the black asphalt in a drab yellow glow. She could hear her heels—an unfortunate necessity for tonight's formal lecture—clicking on the hard pavement, but no other sounds interrupted her thoughts.
She was tired.
She'd been awake for almost thirty-six hours researching, planning, teaching, and finally delivering the lecture she'd spent months on. It had been received well, to thundering applause from scientists, professors, and a few higher-level graduate students. She was proud of herself, but it was time to sleep.
The small Honda Accord appeared out of the darkness as she approached. Man, how long have I been here? she thought, noticing the water streaks of a long-gone mist dried on her windshield. The top of the silver sedan was covered in a shining glitter of frozen specks, remnants of the brief snowfall they'd had earlier that day.
She reached into her other coat pocket, looking for her keys. Her cellphone chirped again and began vibrating.
Again? Who is it this time? she thought as she saw another unknown number flash on the screen.
"Hello?" she called into the phone, this time her annoyance coming through in her voice.
"Jen? Hey. It's Mark."
She reached her car door and frowned. A shadow danced behind her, and its reflection on the window caused her to jump. She whipped around, not knowing what to expect.
The lights were playing tricks on her. A cat, bounding across the parking lot chasing some unknown prey, disappeared behind an SUV. She let out a sigh and spoke again into the phone.
"Mark? Hi — sorry... it came up as an unknown number. What's up? Everything okay?"
"Well, no, Jen. You need to come over here. Hurry. It's Reese."
Her heart immediately began to rise in her throat. Of all the calls she hoped she'd never get... She grabbed at her keys, hands shaking, this time clicking the unlock button before they were even out of her pocket.
The car clicked as it unlocked, and the headlights flashed twice in sequence. She reached for the door, preoccupied with the phone call, her mind racing in terror. "Mark, what happened?" She tried not to panic, telling herself that his asthma must just be flaring up again, or that he had a bad scrape.
But her motherly instincts knew better.
“I—I came home, after I went to grab ice cream. He just wanted ice cream." Mark's voice was shaky, almost in a panic. "I mean, I was only gone for ten minutes. I should have made him come with me," he stammered.
Jen listened intently as she pulled the handle. The creak of the door was accompanied by the dome light flicking on as the door opened.
The interior of the car was immediately illuminated, and her eyes had to adjust to the sudden change in light. As they did, they noticed something that caused her to stumble backwards, tripping in her heels.
On the other end of the phone, Mark continued talking. "Jen, I'm so sorry. Reese's gone. I came home, and he wasn't here."
But the words didn't register in her mind, at least not yet. Jen was staring, horrified, at the man in the driver's seat of her car.
A man she worked with: Dr. Elias Storm.
He was motionless; not breathing. Jen began to hyperventilate, a tightening scream working its way up her throat. She dropped the phone and let it bounce away.
Then she noticed the blood. Deep crimson covered his body and the rest of the seat, as well as most of the dashboard and windows. It also covered his face, dripping from his eyes.
His eyes.
Protruding from Dr. Storm's eyes, partially embedded in the man's skull, were two long metal rods. The kind of support rods they often used in the lab to prop up fossilized test subjects. They glistened in the dim lamplight, and the horrific scene finally took its toll on Jennifer.
She collapsed onto the pavement, blacking out on the hard ground.
Chapter 2
“JEN. JEN? ARE YOU OKAY?”
The voice was melodic, floating somewhere in front of her eyelids.
“Jen, wake up. They need to ask you some more questions,” the voice said.
She nudged her eyes open. Blinking, she saw Mark standing in front of her with a cup of coffee.
He handed her the cup. “Hey, there you are. Sorry to wake you. I know you need to rest, but Officer Rodriguez needs to verify a few things with us. Is that okay?” They were separated, but she and Mark were still legally married.
She nodded in response to the question, sipping from the coffee. Its acidic burn as it slid down her throat didn’t phase her. How did I fall asleep? she wondered. After the events of that night, it was amazing she had calmed down at all.
She was curled up on the couch in Mark’s apartment. A blanket had appeared over her feet, and now Mark and the two police officers—Rodriguez and Sanderson, she remembered—were seated across from her on kitchen chairs.
“Thanks, Ms. Adams. I understand it’s been a rough night for you both. I just need to make sure we haven’t forgotten anything.”
Again, she nodded. Breathing deeply, she forced herself to recollect the events that had transpired four hours ago.
The parking lot. First, the strange unknown caller.
Then Mark’s frantic call.
Walking to her car.
Dropping the phone as she saw her colleague.
And Reese was gone.
It didn’t make any sense; any of it. Who would take our son? And why? Did it have anything to do with Dr. Storm’s death? These were questions for the police, to be sure, but they had not left her mind since she woke up during the car ride to Mark’s apartment.
“Ms. Adams,” the Officer Rodriguez said. “About that unknown caller — you said you answered the phone, correct? And that no one was on the other end?”
She thought for a moment before responding. “Right, I guess. I mean, I thought I could hear breathing.”
“And when Mark called, that number, too, came up as ‘unknown?’”
“Yes.”
He jotted down some notes, the other cop just staring straight ahead.
She knew they were doing their job, trying to help, but it was still uncanny how calm and collected they seemed. Though there were no mirrors in sight, she could sense how frazzl
ed she must look. Her dark brown hair, normally trained and collected conservatively into a bun or single ponytail, was sticking out in every direction, even drooping down into her eyes.
The officers asked a few more questions, ones she knew she’d answered at least twice before. They checked their notes, comparing them, and then stood to leave. Mark stood up as well and walked the cops to the front door.
“Mr. Adams, Ms. Adams—” Officer Rodriguez looked at each of them individually, “we’re going to maintain surveillance on your block, just to be safe. As you know, there’s already at least three patrol units out searching for your son.
“I know it’s extremely difficult for you right now, but with the possible connection to the murder, we can’t allow either of you to search on your own.”
The pair nodded in unison at the officer’s masked order. Where would they look, anyway?
“Also, we feel it would be safer for you both if you were in one place. Is—is that going to be a problem?”
Jen glanced at her husband. “It should be fine. Thank you, officers. For everything.”
“Very good. You have our number. If you need us, don’t hesitate to call.”
The door clicked closed behind them, and Mark returned to the small living room. Without saying a word, he fell into the old couch next to Jen.
Both of them silently stared down for a moment, and Jen could sense her tears beginning to well up again.
Before they fell, Mark wrapped his long arms around her. Their past was their past, and now she needed him; needed anything. She let herself be consoled for the first time in years. Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable.
She heard Mark draw a quick breath in, about to speak. “Jen—”
He paused.
“There’s something else. Something I didn’t show the police.”
Chapter 3
DETECTIVE CRAIG LARSON CLENCHED HIS teeth in frustration at the unbelievable amount of people that had converged on the downtown department store. He was in one of the many toy aisles at the back of the store, searching for that perfect gift for his only grandson’s birthday.
Unfortunately, it seemed everyone else in the Georgetown area was as well.
This is ridiculous. It’s not even close to Christmas.
He should have stayed home and done the shopping online, like he did for most things. At 57, an age his colleagues claimed was “esteemed,” he sometimes had a hard time with the idea of online shopping. It felt impersonal, or at least too easy.
He was part of a generation that still believed in the value of personal relationships, communication, and taking the time to truly get to know a friend. Online shopping—as well as a slew of other similar activities like texting, online dating, and social media—felt like a violation of that belief system. It felt wrong somehow.
Yet Larson was slowly getting indoctrinated into the culture of an interconnected world. At his daughter’s prodding, he’d finally set up a Facebook account and was soon hooked. He’d even sprung for an iPhone when his contract upgrade had come up for renewal.
Still, he had promised himself that today he would actually get up, get in his car, and go out and shop for his grandson. Hhe was turning six, and as his only grandchild, he was also his favorite.
He dodged a younger couple standing smack-dab in the middle of the aisle, apparently oblivious to his presence. Two screaming kids playing tag nearly collided with him as they raced around the next corner.
He felt his phone start to vibrate before he heard his ringtone—a throwback rotary-style sounding ring—and reached into his pocket to grab it.
“Larson.”
It took him a second to place the voice on the other end of the phone—familiar enough for the speaker to not introduce himself, yet the man’s name didn’t come immediately to mind.
Finally Larson recognized the accent and realized who it was. Gregory Durand from London.
“Shit, Greg, how are you?”
“Fine. Listen, Craig—I’ve got something for you. A kidnapping case.”
Detective Larson frowned. “Kidnapping?”
“Right. A child; twelve-year-old from somewhere outside of New Bedford, Massachusetts. I have a friend of a friend who’s a cop there, and he called it up.”
“And it got all the way to you?” Larson asked.
“It did, but not because of the kidnapping. He was taken, but the mother found out about it at the same time she found a dead guy in her car.”
“What do you mean, a dead guy? And who was this kid?”
As he listened, Larson snapped his head up and peered out through a store window.
“Yeah, a homicide. And it was the kid who was taken,” Gregory Durand said on the other end of the line. “Not by force, we don’t think, and we have no reason to suspect that the kid’s in any real immediate danger. The guy who was killed was her boss, some old professor at the university where she worked. But he had a brother, another scientist who fell off the grid years ago. We think he might have had something to do with it, and so by extension she might as well. Don’t worry about the mom or husband, though. I was hoping you could help with this kid; see if you can dig anything up about the people who took him.”
“Right, but do you know who took him?”
“Not yet, but it’s a bit odd. The whole thing was orchestrated well, and aside from the brutality of the murder, it’s very much like they targeted this lady, Jennifer Adams. My boss isn’t taking any chances, and he wants to make sure it stays out of the media.”
“Of course.”
“Of course. So I’m asking for your help.”
“I see. Why me?” He sighed. He’d been a member of the Washington police force for almost forty years, and his political connections had stacked up nicely in his favor over the course of his distinguished career.
It seemed, though, that the older he got, the more inane the requests became. Kidnappings, car thefts, mall heists—things that in his field, at least, were considered to be the private inspector’s version of “rescuing a cat from a tree”—worthless.
What had happened to his golden years? Car bombings, tracking terrorist infiltrations, hijacked airplanes? He was the best at what he did, and age had nothing to do with it.
“Look, Larson, I know you’re the guy we need. Like I said, my boss told me to call you. He said this was something that fell within your ‘jurisdiction.’ It didn’t seem like he meant just your geographic area, either.”
Detective Larson knew he didn’t. He was usually told things were in his ‘jurisdiction’ when they were political favors. Situations that required more thinking on his feet, problem-solving, and espionage activities that were not exactly considered kosher in the law-enforcement business.
He frowned, then responded. “Okay, right. A kidnapping.” He hung on the word a bit longer. “A kidnapping that falls into my jurisdiction. Gotcha.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re on board. I’ll email the details to you as soon as I can. I’m on my way back to London now.”
Chapter 4
“THEY WHAT? THEY LEFT A ransom note?” Jen’s voice was shaky, strained from the stresses of the previous few hours.
“I know. I panicked. I didn’t know what to do, and I thought the cops would put Reese in more danger. The note says—”
“Of course the note says no cops, Mark. They always do!” Jen was standing in the kitchen, pacing in nervous anxiety as Mark sat at the kitchen table. The kidnappers’ ransom note rested in front of him, the only clue to their son’s whereabouts.
Mark was characteristically calm, even under the present circumstances. “Jen, calm down—”
“I’m not going to calm down!” she almost yelled, turning to face him. “Reese is gone, and you didn’t think it was important to mention that whoever took him left a ransom note?”
He sighed, trying to explain. “No, I just thought that we should try to talk to someone else, maybe someone they won’t be able to track.”
“I know, I know,” Mark said. “Look, let’s just see if there’s anything we can piece together. They’re obviously looking for something. Was there anything at work you were doing, something—”
“No, I already told you it was routine stuff.” Jen couldn’t help but interrupt. Her nerves were starting to get the best of her. It was hard enough to try to forget the brutal murder that had taken place earlier that night; now it seemed possible—likely even—that her son could somehow be caught up in all of it too.
She walked back over to the table, sliding the ransom note around in front of her and read the chilling words aloud.
“We have your son. No police.
Find Dr. Storm’s answer. You have four days.”
There was no byline.
Unlike most ransom notes she’d seen on television, this was simple copy paper that had been through a typewriter. Other than its message, it was almost indistinguishable from a normal office memo printout.
But the importance of the note was not lost on Jen and Mark. They knew it was real. Their son had been taken almost precisely when Dr. Storm had been murdered.
They had searched on both sides of the paper for a mark of some sort, any type of anomaly that might lead them toward an identity, but there was nothing to be found. Even the typed words were without fault, a difficult feat for even the best typewriters still in existence.
“We need to go to my office,” Jen said, abruptly glancing up from the paper.
“What? Jen, we can’t,” Mark said.
“We need to. There’s obviously something that I’m missing; something that Dr. Storm was working on.” She frowned, brainstorming out loud. “Maybe it has something to do with our last project, the studies we were running out of Pennsylvania.”
“Jen, they’re going to be watching. Even if they aren’t keeping an eye on the university, the police will be searching Dr. Storm’s office. And the cops…” Mark’s voice still sounded steady, but Jen could hear the hidden pangs of distress. He was certainly struggling as well.