The Slave World Abductions Ch. 01

A Fanfiction

Based upon characters and concepts created by Roxy Rex

The Author wishes to convey his thanks to Roxy Rex for his permission in writing this story.

Case #32

Maria Torres was a woman used to getting what she wanted. She expected the best, demanded the best, and if some poor soul couldn't deliver, God help him... or her.

Maria's high standards came from her parents. "You deserve the best this great country has to offer," her father said with his Latino-Filipino grit. "And if they try to keep it from you, grab it from them and never let go," added her mother, with her Seoul-raised lilt.

Lessons Maria took to heart, through Harvard, and up the ladder to CFO, Barker and Bernstein Capital.

At the time of her disappearance, Maria was in the underground garage of BBC, set to undertake a business trip. Little did Maria realize her trip would take a very wide detour.

"You better hope I'm on a different planet if that report isn't done by Monday!" she yelled on her iPhone.

Maria's displeasure stemmed from a lowly minion neglecting to write the investment report for the previous quarter.

"Goddammit!" her purse dropped. She knelt to pick it up, too busy cussing out her minion to notice the lights dim. When she heard the footsteps, she turned. Someone was coming from the dark; more than someone. "Who the fuck are you?" she asked. They were the last words she spoke on this world.

From the personal files of Maxwell Grant:

Chicago, April 30, 20...

I enjoy the fallow periods. They occur often in my profession, especially my area of expertise. Sure I'm not making any money. I have enough to get by. These down times let me focus on my research. Sometimes my main job gives me something to do.

The one big thing I learned from the profession was to expect overlap. Usually it was brief: someone from The Life interacting with the mundane, or some object causing mischief. That April day, I didn't expect to snag a case with a big overlap, the trouble it would cause, and the trouble it would give me to fix it. I'm not a seer.

It was one of those April mornings where the storms came off the lakes like God's own tsunami. I was in my office, sipping Earl Grey, researching Northwest cryptid stories, looking for matches with recent drug seizures in that area.

I thought it a good distraction from a looming problem regarding my secretary. He'd turned in his notice, sadly, the first of the month. He was set to leave in a couple of weeks.

Not surprising. He'd finished graduate school, gotten his masters, and was set to marry his boyfriend end of summer.

Yeah, I know. P.I.'s don't have gay secretaries. They have secretaries named Shirley or Mabel, who speak with Brooklyn accents, chew gum, and spend half their time painting their nails. Secretaries are not aspiring sociologists and Boston Brahmins named Charles Cedric, and they don't work for black P.I.'s named Max.

Charles Cedric Adams (from the Adams family that included two presidents) was more than a secretary. He was a good friend, a great sideman, and an excellent backup. We had some adventures. Plus, his organizational skills were masterworks. If not for him my business would be chaos.

I was happy for him, don't be mistaken, but he'd be greatly missed.

My intercom buzzed. "Yellow," I answered.

"Max, we got a couple of walk ins. They want to see you."

"How's the schedule?"

"Clear. We can take them."

"They legit?"

"Looks that way. They're married and middle aged. Their daughters are missing."

"Sigh! Show them in."

A good P.I has to be careful. A reputation like mine draws customers. Some of them are crackpots. I have to be more careful than most. My specific expertise draws more peculiars than the others.

I keep a very discreet and low profile, and people usually choose me as a last resort, the last resort. My reputation, unfortunately, got out awhile back. I have to deal with the fallout: religious nuts who think I'm some kind of demon worshiper, and either need to be converted, exorcised, or burned at the stake (really, the guy in question's in the state hospital, classified as a schizophrenic. Plus, I've dealt with demons, just not the way people think).

Devil worshipers who think I'm one of them and try to recruit me into whatever coven they have going at the moment (if they'd ever seen a real demon, I'd be surprised, but then, if they'd seen one, they wouldn't be talking to me 'cause they'd be dead... or wishing they were... or not, given what those things do to their souls afterwards).

Fanboys and/or girls who either want me to take them on as apprentices, or join me in "My crusade to take on the forces of darkness," (their words, not mine).

Pranksters, who think they can embarrass the "World Famous Psychic Detective" (I don't advertise psychic abilities).

It's not just crackpots. I get Weekly World News types clamoring for interviews, and inventing them when I don't cooperate. The debunkers, professional or reporters, trying to expose my "scam", taking advantage of desperate families with claims of psychic abilities (once again, I never make such claims. I advertise myself as an investigator of unusual cases).

Finally, there's the CPD, who think the same as the reporters but are never able to find anything criminal (doesn't stop them trying though, or bringing me in as a consultant [discreetly] when they run into something their methods can't handle).

A lot of these types ( the "clever" ones anyway) use various ploys to gain access. The couple in my office wouldn't be the first to pose as married and desperate parents.

They were middle-aged and didn't seem the usual batch I get: well fed suburbanites with Dad bods and Mama hips, or stocky working class types, or the occasional redneck.

The man was slender, dark-haired, graying on the temples, with glasses, and dressed in a tweed jacket. The look on his face was intense skepticism, and maybe a little contempt. The aura he emitted was not racial hostility, probably aimed more at my profession.

The woman was also slim and dressed in tweeds, with dark brown hair and blue eyes. Her look was more desperate than her husband, but skeptical.

I knew from the suits the couple were academics, on the high end, not just teachers. I also figured this visit was probably her idea; a desperate Hail Mary for a couple used to logical, rational approaches to coping with the world's surprises.

Their vibes were not crackpots or fans, debunkers maybe. I got to the introductions.

"Hello, I'm Maxwell Grant and you are...?" I held out my hand. The man didn't take it. His wife did.

"Saul Rosenberg, PhD, Physics, um, Twin Cities."

"Martha Rosenberg, PhD, Literature, same University."

So I had two professors, both doctorate holders, from one of the powerhouse universities, requesting my services. They must really be desperate. I sat down at my desk.

"Look Mr. Grant. I'm only here because of my wife. She's more open to people like you. I think you're a scam artist and a charlatan. Martha thinks you might be otherwise. Personally I'd rather the cops handle this."

"That's good sense, Mr. Rosenberg. Mrs. Rosenberg, may I ask why you picked my agency?"

"I'd heard of your success in recovering kidnap victims, Mr. Grant, and rescuing people from strange situations."

"Rumors and tabloid embellishments, Mrs. Rosenberg. I've had a few successes but just a few. You don't seem the type to take stock in such stories."

"I would not but I'm desperate. The police have all but stopped looking, and I keep my mind open for any kind of help."

"Which opens the door for any damn con artist and scammer to walk in and steal our money," Saul growled. "Five different 'psychics', dozens of 'witnesses' and sleazeball P.I.'s all offered their 'help' for a substantial fee, and my wife drags us to Chicago. What makes you different from the others?"

"That's a good question, Mr. Rosenberg. I make no boasts or promises."

"You rescued that poor girl from the demonic cult," Martha said, "She claimed they were going to sacrifice her to a demon. She swore she saw it herself."

"Hallucinogenic mushrooms, drugs, and costumes Mrs. Rosenberg (plus concealment spells, and it wasn't a demon but an Elder god, the Rosenbergs didn't have to know that). Half the cult's in jail, the ones who survived the fire at least. The girl's fully recovered and acknowledges her delusions."

Martha Rosenberg nodded, "But what about the woman kidnapped by the Sasquatch?"

"A mountain man with hirsutism and gigantism. It was all a misunderstanding, more tabloid embellishments. Both parties were highly embarrassed by the matter and prefer privacy (besides, the 'Squatch still needed lessons in human etiquette, and the woman in question wanted to continue their relationship in relative peace)."

"What's this story about psychic abilities?" asked Saul.

"More tabloid trash. I'm a detective who specializes in unusual cases, nothing more. I like to keep a low profile. People like to embellish."

Saul's skepticism relaxed a little. His hard expression softened.

"So, you want me to investigate your daughters' disappearance. How long ago did it happen? What about the event made it unusual?"

"It was six months ago," Saul said, "Halloween. Our daughters were attending a concert at the (Minneapolis) Armory. Pale Anna (a very famous, overrated popstar), one of the few things they both agree on. People saw them at the concert. No one saw them leave."

"Do you have a picture?"

Saul produced a small photo and handed it to me. A casual shot; two girls in school uniforms; short brown skirt, high white socks, red sweaters over white blouses. "Academy of St. Paul, a top ten."

"Jill and Jane are among the top in their class," Martha's voice mingled pride, worry, and grief in equal measure.

Jill and Jane Rosenberg, both lovely young women, mirror images of each other with subtle differences to set them apart. The twins both had wide, clear blue eyes. Jill's hair was dyed a dark magenta, Jane retained a natural glossy black. The twins' contrasting demeanor illustrated their differences.

Jill's face was bright, cheerful, open, and full of optimism. Jane's annoyed scowl conveyed the opposite.

"I see the difference here."

"Like night and day," Saul beamed, the proud father, "Jill's the brain and Jane's the athlete. Jill takes after her mother," he squeezed Martha's hand, "Bright, inquisitive, open, maybe a little too trusting. Jane's like me, serious and skeptical, and a fighter too. She's very protective of her sister."

Saul stopped, his face in turmoil. I handed the photo back to Martha and waited for Saul to regain composure.

"So people saw them at the concert. How long before they were reported missing?"

"Just over an hour after the concert finished," Saul answered. "They were with their school friends. They got separated in the parking area during the outgoing rush."

"Any security cameras at the venue?"

"Plenty, and the police went through all of them. Some showed our daughters in the parking area, none showed them leaving."

"When did the police get involved?"

"When the girls didn't show up at the van," Saul said, "their friends tried calling them. When the girls didn't answer, they used a phone tracker. They found Jane's phone with a homeless guy, who swore he picked it from the parking lot. Jill's phone, they found in a corner, just out of camera sight."

"The homeless guy, was he a suspect?"

"The police arrested him. He had outstanding warrants but the cameras confirmed his story."

"What's his name?"

"Colin Harris," Martha replied.

I wrote down the name. In cases like this, I leave nothing to chance.

"Any troubles at home? School? Any bullying problems? Questionable friends? Boyfriends? Associates?"

"No, nothing like that," answered Saul.

"We're open-minded but fairly strict," Martha added. "We let our daughters associate with many different people, so long as they have good character. Jill is dating this really nice boy. Tim? Terry? What is his name dear?"

"Taj, Taj Russell. Yeah, he's a good kid, not Jewish but good, from a good family. He's devastated by her disappearance."

"Do you have a picture? I might need to question him."

"I have him on my phone." Martha handed me hers.

The picture showed the twins, uniformed, with two others. The young man next to Jill was Taj. A tall, lanky, geeky, African-American, dark-skinned and dreadlocked, with glasses. A young woman behind Jane; Asian-American, with short, straight, glossy black hair in a pixie cut.

Taj and Jill were holding hands. The way they looked at each other showed their relationship was deeper than casual. The other girl's arms were wrapped around Jane's waist, both smiling at the camera. The look on Jane's face was pure joy.

"The other girl is Diane, Diane Nguyen. She and Jane are close," Martha said.

"Very close?"

"Yes," Martha answered, with the uncertainty of a woman, however open-minded, still adjusting to a truth about her daughter, previously unnoticed. Saul reflected her look. They weren't the first parents with problematic relationships to their children.

"The others were questioned?"

"The police asked them all," Saul answered. "They were cleared."

"Right, so your daughters disappeared mysteriously. I still don't see the unusual aspect. What makes it stand out?"

The Rosenbergs looked at each other. Saul nodded; Martha took her phone back and tapped it. "This," she said.

"I got an email at my office a week ago. It said it was related to our daughters. I was ready to delete it immediately. We received so many of them since... Some of them scammers, others... People are so beyond the pale in cruelty..." Martha drifted off, her eyes wet and uncomprehending.

"How did you know it wasn't one of them?"

"It had a picture that could only come from Jill's phone. We went to the police. They traced the email to someplace in Russia. Yes, it was suspicious, but the film in the email showed our daughters from an angle not captured by the cameras."

"Yes, I can see the interest from the police."

I hooked the phone to my laptop and watched the video. The video was clear and detailed, showing the crowd in the performance hall, many in costume. Not surprising; Pale Anna fans (Annabelles or Annabeaus they called themselves) tended to dress up a bit, and it was Halloween. That's why the twins and their friends stood out.

"Still in their school uniforms?"

"They went right to the concert from school," Saul said, "Taj said they wanted to beat the crowds."

Some of the friends had painted their faces. "Closest thing to a costume I guess."

The next scene showed the crowd swarming out after the concert. The video showed the twins in the parking area. They'd obviously been separated from the others, expected in these crowd rushes. The angle was slightly above the mob, less than the cameras on the ceiling. A balcony maybe.

The girls were amongst a group of concert goers. I noticed most of this group were tall, somewhat muscular, dressed like a horde out of Dungeons and Dragons. They looked older than the usual late teens to early twenties Pale Anna fans. Alarm bells were beginning to ring.

I discerned the top of the sisters' heads among that crowd, which swarmed towards a door in the opposite wall. The phone captured the mob clambering through the door, the sisters carried along as if caught in the rush.

"The police investigated that section?"

"Yes they did, and that's the problem," Saul said. "There's no door."

"No door."

"None at all. No door, no room behind the wall. The other cameras didn't capture it. The police went over the video with their best. They sent it to the FBI. The feds put their best forensic team on it. They sent agents over to the Armory. Couldn't find a single damn thing. The lead agent told me the forensics team thought the video was the best damn work of visual effects they'd ever seen. They couldn't find anything fake about it."

"And then a detective recommended you," said Martha, "He said unusual cases like this were your specialty."

"Ah, hmmm," I said looking at the laptop. A chill raced up my spine, accompanied by no little anger. I had a very, very nasty feeling what I was seeing here, and what group it really represented, but I had to be absolutely sure. There were people I knew who took very dim views of false alarms. That meant taking a look at the scene.

"Okay, I'll take the case," I said closing the laptop. "My rate is $80 per hour plus per diem. Any more information on your daughters, not discussed here, will be greatly appreciated. I try to work as fast and efficiently as possible."

Saul frowned but nodded.

"I make no promises. I try my best, and I warn you, sometimes it's not good enough. If I manage to find your daughters, I also warn you, they will not be the same as before."

"I'm... smart enough to know that Mr. Grant. I just want my daughters back," Saul's voice broke. Martha sobbed. I handed them both tissues.

"If I can ask the name of the detective who recommended me?"

"Uh... Rowland. Detective Bill Rowland," Martha answered.

"Ah." I'd dealt with Rowland in the past. We weren't friends but not enemies either. He's a good point of contact. "I'll start tomorrow."

The contract was signed and I escorted the Rosenbergs to the door.

"So they were the real deal, huh?" Chas asked later.

"Yep, and it looks to be a bad one. I'm going to Minneapolis for a couple of days. I need you to do something while I'm gone."

"Shoot."

"I need a list of disappearances, focus on women, young and attractive, wide age range, the past twelve months."

"That's a really big list."

"Weed out probable murders, accidents, runaways. Cross reference tabloid stories, fringe theories, crime scenes with limited egress, viewpoints, or enclosed."

"This is one of the really weird ones, isn't it?"

"The weirdest, and I suspect the nastiest."

Case #46

Sara Sundstrom worked hard to achieve the pinnacle of her art. She wasn't quite there yet, but close. She'd been one of Juilliard's best students. What she lacked in raw talent was more than made up by her grit and determination. Her aspirations were not without disappointments. Chief among them, failing to make the New York City Ballet. They praised her six foot frame, curvy but athletic body, strength and stamina, but the precision and technique just weren't there.

"You're excellent for the Broadway stage," they said, "but not for ballet."

The rejection hurt but also spurred her on. She worked her ass off, acquiring a growing rep in music videos, advertisements, stage musicals. Not yet a star but important people were noticing. Not bad for a working class girl from Bethlehem Pennsylvania, who'd scraped and clawed her way into Juilliard.

Now a possible role in a major Broadway musical loomed. She'd killed it in audition. Her agent said they'd narrowed the prospects to a small group, and she was near the top.

"My big break finally?" Sara mused, practicing in the studio.

Little did she know, other people had plans for her big break. When she felt the touch on her shoulder, Sara turned, startled. There was supposed to be nothing behind her except a mirror. They didn't give her time to gasp.

I hate flying. The food's bad and they treat the passengers like sardines. I don't like trains either, so I drive. I like to cruise the highways from time to time. If I can mix in a little work, so much the better.