Without a Whisper

Yvonne gets frustrated with the men and reminds everyone who the agent in charge is, which is herself. The salvage crew has the best plan, so she delegates the operational leadership to the civilian, and orders the others to give them the resources. This doesn't go over well with the FBI leader or the Chief, but they grumble and do as told.

The plan is fairly simple: balloons. Bring uninflated big ass balloons underwater, fill them up, and the car floats to the top. The Coast Guard ship tugs it to shore, and we tow it to land. It takes several hours, but we get the car to shore just before noon. It is without a doubt, a 1964 Buick Skylark. I still haven't slept. Yvonne tells the leftover FBI guys to make a coffee run. Bring the women coffee. I love watching her go full bitch.

A CSI team was on standby for when the car got to shore and gets to work as soon as the salvage equipment is removed. Pictures. So many pictures. I keep my distance and let them work. One of them is trying to pry the trunk open while others work the rest of the car. Items are pulled from the car, but one gives me pause.

"There's a leg in here," says a technician. "Prosthetic."

"Got it," a technician says, and pulls the trunk up. It slams back down, so he pulls it back up and props it open. "The hell?" he says, leaning down to look closer.

I walk over, look in the trunk, and laugh. The only thing in the trunk is a half cut rope. Son of a bitch Chase. Where are you?

--

Friday -- April 10, 2020: The Day Of

-Chase Kramner-

The only thing worse than getting knocked out by a chokehold, is not getting knocked out when you're trapped in the trunk of a car careening off a cliff into a lake. My body feels like a gang just wailed on me with baseball bats. I somehow managed to not hit my head, but everything else was steamrolled.

My ears make me believe I'm in a washing machine. The water streaming through the less sealed parts of the car sounds like it's flowing in pipes all around me. I still feel like I'm falling, and then the pressure starts to feel like a migraine. I rotate my jaw to pop my ears, but it doesn't help.

Water is starting to fill up the trunk, and I know I have minutes before I'm completely submerged. I need to free my hands, but I panic trying to pull my wrist through to no avail. Do I have anything to cut rope? Nothing comes to mind, and even if I had it, I likely couldn't reach it. I thrash about while merely pulling again, until something jabs me leg through my pocket. What the hell was that? I roll to my side, extending my hands around my front the furthest I can go, trying to get to my pocket. It felt like metal, or something hard.

I need whatever it is. I press my shoulders against the floor and lift my waist until my crotch is against the top of the trunk. My fingertips curl around my belt loop, and I twist so my right pocket is more accessible. I flatten out my body and try again, managing to fish out the item. It's my hotel room key. Thank you, Lance, and your desire to keep a certain level of charm.

I intentionally drop the key to the ground and grab the best I can muster. The trunk feels a quarter full, and I roll to my belly and face first into a puddle. I hold my breath and get to work sawing at the rope. After thirty seconds I stop for air, and resume for another thirty seconds. When I surface after the third round, I can't get high enough for air and get a lung full of water.

Rolling to my shoulder, I cough it out, gasping for air, and stay at my shoulder. The trunk is so low I essentially wedge myself between the top and bottom. I have to keep my neck twisted unnaturally to stay above the water. My thumb traces the saw line, and I feel like it's over halfway, so I give it a good tug in opposite directions. The rope frays apart but stays in one piece. That's all I needed. The gap is big enough, and my hands are free.

The back of the rear seats are not flush with the trunk. There is a lip I'd have to crawl over, and I know this car doesn't have a trunk release. I have little space to adjust my right leg to align with the back of the seat, and a narrow path to kick through.

I contort myself into position and deliver the first kick. The back isn't firm, so it absorbs my foot. I also do not I have the space to put all my strength into it. I remove my prosthetic to help with space, and kick again. It worked on the rope, so why not a seat? I start frantically cutting at it with the key, as the trunk is nearly underwater. I stab it into the back of the seat again and again until it punctures the fabric. I reach over and pull out all the cushion, leaving only the frame. With that removed, I can focus more energy straight to the frame of the seat. I can feel it doing damage.

"Come on," I say between strikes. The back seat begins to push over. This time I hold my breath, put my hands to the back of the trunk, and push against it. The seat folds over and collides with the front seats. Something is blocking it from going all the way down, likely the saxophone case. It's narrow, but it's enough.

I try to go in face down, but the water is already too high. I go face up, and start clawing out. My chest is caught, but my hands get through. My head is out of the trunk and in the back. I reach out for the headrest of both seats and pull. I'm stuck. I press my left hand against the top, pull with my right hand, and push up with my foot. It gives the fraction of an inch I need to get my chest through. Grabbing both headrests again, I pull myself out of the trunk.

Phase one complete, now what?

Water is waist high in the car. They didn't open the windows. Lucky break. That bought me minutes. Maybe they don't roll anymore, I don't care. Only thing left to do is get out.

Opening a door will be insanely heavy, so I have one choice; break a window. I have one shot at this. Fuck it up, and I die. No pressure. The only problem is, what can I use? I've exhausted the usefulness of the key. Nothing in my immediate reach can do it. The saxophone case is too bulky to swing at it, and the case is plastic. The water reaches my chest and I'm almost ready to give up.

No one will ever find me. They'll make me disappear. Just like Katie. Maybe we're about to be neighbors. My son will grow up thinking I abandoned him. I don't even know if he has a sister or brother yet. I feel in my pockets, but they took my phone and my gun. I want to call Jenn. Tell her I tried. Tell her that my hobby is the reason our next baby doesn't know me.

No.

I will not die in the trunk of a car! Think, smartass! You need a tool, but you don't have one. Something hard you can break a window with. Preferably narrow that can be swung in a tight space. Something like a pipe or...I have a fake leg made of titanium.

I damn near swim to the trunk and reach inside. I can barely see an inch in front of me. My hand fishes around the trunk until I feel it and pull it into the car with me. I quickly separate the pylon from the ankle joint and socket. When I finish, I have a head and a half of car left.

"Do it, do it, do it, do it," I chant, and then finally smash the window in one swing. The water pours in like a broken dam, and I wait. It passes my neck and then my chin. I tilt my head for that last second of air, take the biggest breath I can, and dive. The car is full, and the torrent is gone. The lake has claimed the car. It will not claim me.

I maneuver out of the car, look up, and kick off the seal of the window. I pump my arms and kick my leg like a fish with a broken fin. I climb, but the darkness is so profound, I don't know if I'm even going up. Don't panic, panic kills people. Trust you're going the right way. I break the surface of the lake and breathe air.

"Oh fuck, oh shit, goddamn," I cough out, and look around. I see a cliff and crane my neck upwards. "Motherfuckers."

I swim to the rocks, just to have something to hold onto. I find a piece of cliff to grab on to and catch up on my breathing. I follow the cliff, hoping at one point the elevation comes back down, giving me a place to beach. My body is held up as I drag myself along the rocks. I lose my grip, falling under again, but I manage to resecure a handhold. Time is abstract, and I don't know how long it takes me to arrive to shore.

I'm cold, I'm wet, I'm tired, I'm battered and beaten, but I'm alive. Every fiber of my body strains as I pull myself further from the water. I finally arrive on dry land and lay on my back on the rocky shore. My chest rises and falls, and I start laughing like a maniac. I'm just happy to be alive.

Still, I don't have the luxury to relish in it. I need to get to civilization. I force myself to get up and find something to use as a crutch. My leg is still down there. I've gotten talented at standing with one leg for extended periods of time, but I've never tried to get anywhere of consequential distance. I scour the ground for anything, but only find rocks and shrubs. I see trees nearby and start hobbling.

There is nothing to support myself with and I occasionally fall to my knee and hands to regather my strength. I shake it off and keep going. Just a little further. At the trees I search around for a fallen branch, but I'm coming up short. At least I have something to help keep myself upright. It feels like an hour before I found something suitable to my needs. A thin stick as tall as me. I test its flexibility, and it is sturdy. Good enough.

With that problem solved, I look around for unnatural light. In the distance I see what could be a porch, and start pole vaulting my way toward it. I stab the stick into the ground and swing. Rinse repeat until I can see a house. I'm approaching from the side, and start to swing my way to the front, when I hear a conversation.

"...it's likely just teenagers again ma'am," a man says.

"Could be Randall, but I'm telling you, that splash was not normal," a woman says. I poke my head around the side, and flinch back. It's a deputy for the town. I remember him briefly, but we never spoke for long.

"It echoes here. Could just sound loud, but I'll check it out," he says. The woman thanks him and closes her door. I press my back to the wall when he comes close to crossing into my field of vision. The last person I remember was the Sheriff before I was in the car. I don't trust any of these people. I can't go to them. Anyone here would just call the Sheriff because they wouldn't know any better.

The deputy starts his car and drives away, and I lower myself down to hide. The lights of his vehicle shine right over me, but he doesn't catch me. He pulls away and starts down the road.

Who can I go to, who wouldn't immediately call the police? Stephanie. How the hell do I get there from here? I don't even know where I am right now. I stand up, and my arm hits an object which makes some noise, but thankfully not enough. I hold my breath, but the woman doesn't return. It was a bike. I'll give it back later.

Balance is a bitch with one leg, but it's possible. Sure as hell beats walking. I stay close to the shoulder of the road. If a police car comes by, I can quickly duck into the vegetation for concealment. I ride down to the first intersection, and see I was on Lac. This is the stretch that goes down to the lodge. I'm not far from main street. I think I can find my way from here.

When Stephanie drove me, I tried to remember the path. I counted streetlights and remembered turns. Dawn is nearing, but the lights are still on. How many lights and what direction? Three lights, left? I'm so tired, I don't trust my own memory. I hear an engine and steer the bike into the brush. It passes, and I resume. Three lights, left. Just do it.

Four lights, right. Seven lights, left. There it is, the red neon sign I remember. I actually found it. It took me over an hour, because the town is waking up and I kept diving into cover. I ride the bike over the gravel drive and look for Stephanie's trailer. What number was she? I don't remember. I bothered to take note of everything else, but not that?

I hear music playing from one of the trailers. Eighties pop music. A morning routine of playing music while getting ready for work. I use the bike as my crutch, drop it at the stairs, and climb up using the banister. I hammer on the door and wait. Please be right. I see the curtain move on the window, and see Stephanie peering out. A chain slides, a deadbolt snaps, and Stephanie opens the door.

Stephanie is at a loss for words for how I look. She knows something bad just happened, but she doesn't even ask about it before letting me inside.

--

Wednesday -- April 15, 2020: Five Days Gone

~Midge Appletree~

Where the fuck is Chase? He's still simultaneously the luckiest and unluckiest man in the world. The only reason he's alive is that he's calm under pressure. You can throw the man in the trunk of a car and push him off a cliff, but he'll find a way out. The questions are, where did he go, and why hasn't he revealed himself yet? I trust he has a good reason; I just don't know what it is.

The CSI team had the Buick shipped off for analysis in a controlled environment. While it was here, we received a base line inventory including music records, a few digital cameras, and digital tape. Also found was a saxophone with Katie's name on it. Not to mention Chase's leg.

Sheriff Knight is pacing like an expecting father in the waiting room in classic movies. He'd be chain smoking if that was his thing. He seems more surprised by what wasn't in the trunk. Yvonne and I telepathically tell each other to watch him.

Another team is combing the cliffside for clues, but I want a team over at that boathouse. I will bet my pension that's where the car was stored all these years. Chase found it and got himself a one-way ticket to the bottom of the Whisper Lake.

Yvonne is ordering the teams around, and while I watch her work, I look over at the small crowd forming behind the police tape. The Deputies are keeping them back and answering questions with simple answers. Small town, nothing better to do on a Wednesday afternoon.

In the crowd I see Stephanie. When our eyes meet, she tilts her head, as if summoning me over. I excuse myself from Yvonne and make my way to her. The Deputy lifts the tape for me, and Stephanie is already walking toward the road. A line of cars are present, a mixture of police, FBI, and civilian. Mostly civilian. She leans against her own and looks both ways.

"Where's Chase? I know you know," I say quietly. This girl's caution is rubbing off on me, and I even peer over my shoulder looking for a local badge.

"Whisker, half hour," she says, and steps into her car.

"What?" I ask and knock on her window.

"Whisker, half hour" she repeats. Without another word she starts her car and drives off. I sigh while shaking my head. Can this girl please stop with the cryptic clues and just tell me something directly? Am I ever going to get some sleep today?

My phone rings, and I pull it from my pocket. Will is calling. I press answer and place it to my ear.

"You guys find him?" Will asks.

"Not quite. I found where he wasn't, if that makes any sense," I say. "Anything on your side?"

"I got Katie's Grossman's stepfather Tom Hollinger under a microscope right now. You ever have a bunch of circumstantial shit that looks really bad, but nothing to tie it all into an arrest warrant that would hold water?"

"I'm listening."

"I was reading Chase's notes when he interviewed him recently. Tom mentioned Katie also stole filming equipment when Chase spoke to him. Here's the thing, his original claim from ten years back, makes no mention of filming equipment. He never reported that to the police. One pawn broker remembered Tom, because he exploded when they didn't have that equipment. He omits filming equipment he later attempted to recover, has a stepdaughter who according to her friends was scared shitless of him, who runs away after becoming pregnant."

"I don't like what that adds up to either," I say. It all sounds like Tom was molesting his stepdaughter. And the sick fuck filmed it. "For what it's worth, we may have just found that filming equipment, tapes and all. We just found the Buick."

"No shit. Where?"

"Bottom of a lake out here. Techs told me it couldn't have been there longer than a week. Curve ball was we also found Chase's leg in the car, but no Chase. I think he's alive but is lying low for some reason. Locals here, are, let's just say shady."

"That's not all I got. A few years before Katie ran away, Tom shot someone in self-defense during a home invasion. A guy named Michael Travers. Registered sex offender, who according to Tom was attacking Katie when he opened fired. Two shots to the chest. He was cleared, but I dove into that case, and it's unusual to say the least."

"How's that?"

"Tom was already home, claiming he was taking a nap when Katie screaming woke him up. His wife came home, and almost immediately was when the shooting started. She didn't recall screaming or anything like that, just the gun shots. No signs of forced entry, and they matched a print on the front doorknob to Michael Travers. The guy walked in through the front door."

"Jesus," I say, already forming a nauseating theory. "Rape kit?"

"One was done," Will says, flipping pages. "Guy wore a condom, had lube on hand, but penetrative vaginal intercourse was identified. Strangely prepared rapist."

"You think Tom was pimping her?"

"Wife in her statement said, she came home early."

"Came home to something she wasn't supposed to find out, Tom had to improvise," I say, and he agrees with me. "Anything else on Katie herself?"

"Actually yes," he says, and I hear him turning pages again to find what he wanted to say. "Katie might have had a reason to go to Whisper, outside of a car repair."

"Really?"

"Katie Grossman has a sister. A half-sister to be accurate. Same dad, different moms. The sister is the reason Katie's parents are divorced if you catch my meaning. As far as I've looked, she still lives there, and lived there ten years ago."

"What's her name?" I ask, preparing to write it down.

"Stephanie Pierce," William says. I put the pen down and tell him to keep it up out there. We need to see if those tapes survived. But first, I need to talk to Stephanie again.

--

I'm well past twenty-four hours without sleep, but I power through and let Yvonne know I'm going to the Careless Whisker. Yvonne tells me they should have the warrant for the boathouse within a few hours. I also discretely tell her to let me know if the local law starts leaving to come find me.

Parking is available across the street, and I walk across to the opposite sidewalk. A few pedestrians are around, shopping local, and I push my way through the door of the café. Stephanie is behind the counter, facing away, and working on a drink for a customer in line. The song playing inside changes as I step in, and Michael Jackson's Billie Jean starts. I get it Yvonne. You walk into a place and that track starts, it feels like it started playing solely because you walked in.

Stephanie turns toward the customer with the coffee, and nearly fumbles it when she sees me. She recovers, successfully placing it on the counter for the customer.

"I'm here. We need to talk," I say.

"Yes, we do," a voice says from the bakery in the back. Evie had stepped out and was now hanging her apron. "Steph, flip the sign, we're closed." The one customer leaves, and Stephanie follows him to the door. She turns the deadbolt, flips the sign over, and looks both ways before dropping the blinds. "Have a seat detective."

"Thank you," I say, and find the nearest table. Evie drags a chair with her from another table and sits on the opposite side. Stephanie takes the middle between us.