Sister Where Are You (Patterson Blake FBI Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) Read online

  SISTER WHERE ARE YOU

  ANTHONY M. STRONG

  West Street Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to events or places, or real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by A. M. Strong

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art and interior design by Bad Dog Media, LLC.

  For Tiki and Gidget, who will always be here in spirit. Also, Izzy and Hayden, who make sure I don’t write too for too many hours by demanding their walks!

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Family Statement

  Police Statement

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Ready for more Patterson Blake?

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

  She surfaced to a sensation of motion and a world of darkness. At first her thoughts were disjointed, as if she were coming around from a night of heavy drinking. Her throat was dry too, and it hurt when she swallowed. But she hadn’t touched any alcohol. This was different. She had been drugged. It was probably the glass of iced tea she’d drank to stave off the terrible thirst that had become her constant companion.

  She was dressed now, but not in her own clothes. Those were long gone. The garments she currently wore felt baggy on her size six frame—at least three sizes too big. She couldn’t remember getting dressed, which meant he put them on her after she passed out. That she wore no underwear was further proof she had not dressed herself.

  “Where are we?” she asked in a croaky voice, as the realization dawned that she was being carried over her captor’s shoulder like a sack with her arms pulled behind her back, wrists tightly bound. “What’s going on?”

  Silence was her only answer. He rarely responded to her questions, no matter how many times she asked. He had spoken little during her months of captivity, and when he did, it was to issue terse commands like take your clothes off, stop crying, or look into my eyes. He said that last one the most, forcing her to gaze at him while he abused her. Now, though, something had changed. Instead of leading her from the block building to his cabin, nestled among densely packed elm and cedar trees, he had knocked her out.

  This frightened her more than anything. She knew there had been others before because she’d found a name scratched into a floorboard under the metal frame bed with the stained mattress.

  Helen.

  She’d tried to add her own name but hadn’t succeeded. There was nothing inside the room with which to make a mark except her fingernails, and all she’d managed to do was break two of them. Afterward, she’d cried for a long time, not because of the pain, but because writing her name alongside that of a previous captive made her feel less alone, even though she suspected Helen was long since dead. Now she wondered if her predecessor had awoken one night, groggy and afraid, being carried half-naked through the woods, just as she currently was.

  “I’m uncomfortable,” she said, trying again. “Can you please let me walk?”

  “We’re almost there,” her captor responded, hitching her further over his shoulder and gripping the back of her leg with a powerful hand.

  “Almost where?” She tried not to let the fear show in her voice. From somewhere behind them, she could hear the distant sound of lapping water. Was there a stream nearby? A lake?

  “You’ll see.”

  She lapsed into silence, realizing the futility of her questions. Besides, the answer might be worse than not knowing. She suppressed a sob, swallowing hard to contain her terror. The filthy outbuilding he’d kept her in for so long didn’t seem so bad now she was faced with the unknown. She almost begged to go back there but knew it wouldn’t work, just like all the begging that preceded it hadn’t.

  Not that it mattered. He was slowing up now, coming to a halt. He pitched her forward off his shoulder and let her slide to the ground. Leaves crunched underfoot as she struggled to maintain balance. Then he shoved her forward toward a black shape looming up out of the earth.

  She realized it was an old automobile with sweeping lines and chrome hubcaps surrounded by whitewall tires, the air inside them long since escaped. Leaves and other decaying matter covered the hood and roof in a thick vegetative carpet. The car was reminiscent of the one her grandfather kept in a garage at the back of his house and only drove when he was going to auto shows, except his vehicle didn’t have vines growing up over the wheel arches and dirt caking the windshield.

  He steered her toward the derelict vehicle and tugged at the rear door, pulling it open on protesting hinges.

  An odor wafted out, pungent and ripe.

  Ignoring the smell, her captor lifted a foot and put it behind her knee, applying enough pressure that she buckled, even as he placed a steering hand atop her head and pushed her forward with the other. She felt herself pitching into the car, and found the will to fight back, digging her heels into the soft earth next to the vehicle. She twisted and bucked, overcome with a sudden sense of her own mortality. But her captor was too strong, and she was soon bundled inside, hands still restrained behind her back. The stench was worse now. Like rotting cabbage tinged with garlic. She gagged and tried to hold her breath.

  A flashlight clicked on, bathing the car’s interior with a dull yellow glow. Then she saw the chain, one end draped over the front seat. The other disappeared underneath.

  The man reached in and took the chain. He looped the free end around her neck a couple of time
s, tight enough that she gasped for air. A padlock appeared from his pocket, which he inserted between the loops and clicked shut. He tugged on the chain to make sure it was secure, then stepped back, dangling an item between two fingers for her to see. A pair of small silver padlock keys. He dropped them into the leafy detritus on the hood too far for her to reach. Then he leaned in close, his mouth inches from her ear, and spoke in a soft voice. “I’ll never stop thinking about you.”

  With those parting words, he slammed the car door and stepped back. He watched for a moment as if admiring his handiwork. Then he turned and retreated through the forest, the beam from his flashlight getting fainter until she was left alone.

  Except she wasn’t totally alone.

  As the moon emerged from behind scudding clouds, a ray of silvery light spilled through the back window, illuminating the chained corpse sitting next to her in the back seat. In the front was a second body reduced to little more than skeletal remains with patches of dark, mottled skin attached. She knew it was female only by its clothes. A rotten sweatshirt and a stained yellow skirt. The corpse sat bent slightly forward, giving the grimy windshield a dead stare, one bony hand shackled to the steering wheel with a set of rusty handcuffs.

  She screamed and flinched away from her long-dead companions, tugging at her restraints in a desperate attempt to escape. But it was no use. The chain was too tight, and there was no one around to hear. Except for the man who had brought her here, assuming he was still within earshot. Which was why she cried out for his help, even though she knew it was useless.

  Her captor did hear the girl’s terrified pleas. He turned off the flashlight and stood in the darkness, soaking up her terror as she shrieked and begged for him to return. Then, after the screams had given way to exhausted whimpers, he continued down the overgrown woodland trail with a satisfied smile on his face. And as he went, he wondered how long it would take her to die.

  FAMILY STATEMENT

  IN THE DISAPPEARANCE OF JULIE BLAKE — SEPTEMBER 20, 2005

  On September 20 of this year, our 19-year-old daughter, Julie Blake, was reported missing to the Los Angeles Police Department after she did not return home from a summer cross-country trip. All attempts to contact her have failed.

  Julie is a wonderful and vivacious person. Her love for adventure and passion for life have inspired her family and friends in so many ways. We do not believe she would voluntarily break off contact.

  If anyone knows where Julie is, or they have information regarding what happened to her, we urge them to contact the LAPD or their local police. Callers may remain anonymous if they so desire.

  Julie, if you are out there and see this, please call. We are worried and want to know that you are safe, regardless of whether you wish to return home. We love you, always.

  — Mom, Dad, and Sis.

  POLICE STATEMENT

  IN THE DISAPPEARANCE OF JULIE BLAKE — NOVEMBER 14, 2005

  The Los Angeles Police Department has concluded its missing persons search for Julie Blake, a 19YO student attending college in Chicago, Illinois. Julie was reported missing by her family after she failed to return from a summer road trip, however we have uncovered no evidence that she disappeared under suspicious circumstances. We are no longer actively looking for Julie. We would like to thank all those involved in the investigation. Out of respect for the family, we will make no further statements at this time.

  ONE

  NOW

  FBI Special Agent Patterson Blake weaved her way through the mess of rusting farm machinery clogging the barn she had entered moments before. She moved forward on high alert, gripping her Glock 19M service weapon with both hands, trigger finger pressed to the frame. Although it was pointed downward, Patterson was ready to bring the gun up at a moment’s notice, but she hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.

  From somewhere outside the barn, in the direction of the dilapidated farmhouse, she heard shouts—other agents identifying themselves prior to entering the structure. More agents would be fanning out across the property, fifteen of them in total, all with the same objective. To locate the man who lived here and any victims that might still be alive.

  Patterson slowed her step, searching the gloom between the pieces of equipment. To her left was a tractor, the back wheels almost as tall as she was. Next to this was a plow attachment with three large blades. Further away she could make out what looked like a tiller. The other side of the barn was crammed with oil drums, an old truck with the hood missing, and a riding mower. It was clear that none of it had moved in years.

  She reached the middle of the aging structure. Ahead of her another set of double doors just like the ones she’d entered stood open, spilling an oblong patch of sunlight across the barn floor. She took one more look around before moving faster again, deciding she was alone. But as she neared the exit, a faint noise somewhere behind the tractor drew her attention.

  Patterson swiveled, raising the gun.

  The sound came again. A faint scrabbling that sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

  She aimed toward the movement and spoke with all the authority she could muster. “Armed federal agent. Keep your hands where I can see them and show yourself.”

  Her command went unheeded.

  Patterson stood listening to the stirring air within the barn, waiting for something to happen. When it didn’t, she repeated her warning and edged forward, stepping between the tractor and a multi-bladed attachment that looked as much like an ancient torture device as it did a piece of farm equipment. But when she reached the other side of the tractor, nothing was there.

  She felt her thumping heart ease up, just a little. She turned to make her way back toward the barn doors, lowering the gun once more, just as the sound came again. This time though, she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Bringing the service weapon back up, Patterson curled a finger around the trigger ready to fire. But she didn’t need to. Instead of the suspect, she saw a furry gray body hightail it in the opposite direction, ringed tail scraping the ground.

  A big fat raccoon.

  Patterson felt a rush of relief, but at the same time, she’d had enough of the barn. She circled back around the tractor and hurried to the doors, stepping out into the bright June sunshine. To her right was the farmhouse, a two-story shingle-clad structure with a wraparound porch. It had once been painted white but was now weathered to a silvery gray with only the barest hint of paint remaining. One of the porch’s corner posts had rotted causing the roof above to sag. She saw a figure standing near the front door, wearing a baseball cap above a blue nylon raid jacket with the letters FBI written across the back in blocky gold lettering.

  Behind the house, across what had once been an open farmyard ringed by a decaying picket fence, stood a second barn, smaller than the one she just searched. It was to this that she now set off, determined to complete her sweep of the outbuildings. She was three quarters of the way across the open area when something caught her eye near the fence line. An oblong spot of disturbed earth that looked darker than the soil surrounding it. It was barely noticeable. In fact, she would have walked right past had the sun not been slanting down at the right angle to cast a shadow across the unusual depression.

  Patterson changed course and approached the anomaly. Now that she was closer, it looked less like a depression in the ground and more like something buried. She holstered her gun and kneeled down, then brushed the loose soil away to reveal a sheet of pockmarked and eroded metal. It extended way beyond the area she’d first noticed. A pair of hinges were attached at the far end. Closer, near her knees, a piece of rope was tied through a roughly hewn hole.

  This was no sheet of metal. It was a trap door.

  Patterson stood and brushed herself off, then gripped the rope and pulled. The makeshift trapdoor swung upward to reveal a dark space beneath. Fetid air belched out. She heaved the door all the way up, then let it fall open with a thud. Pulling a flashlight from her pocket, she dropped
to her knees again and leaned over the gaping chasm, turning the light on at the same time.

  She aimed the beam down through the hole and was shocked to find an oblong room with corrugated metal walls. With a jolt, she realized it was a shipping container, buried deep in the earth and covered over again to conceal it. Several inches of stagnant water sat on the container’s floor. A noxious odor of decay wafted up.

  Patterson leaned in further, sweeping her flashlight beam around the concealed space until it picked out a small figure huddled in one corner. A thin young woman wearing a stained and torn blouse, and not much else. She sat with her knees drawn up to her chest, arms folded around her breasts, and head bent low. She wasn’t moving, but the barely perceptible whimpering sounds escaping her lips proved the woman was alive. Then, as if sensing the FBI agent’s eyes upon her, the girl lifted her head and looked up.