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Chapter 63: You Want to Kill Me? Are You a Fool?
Bernie comforted his wife for a few brief moments, then broke away and ran to catch up with Theodore.
A detective beside him tried to intervene, but Bernie shoved him aside without a second thought.
At this moment, he trusted only himself.
Theodore had the patrol officers establish a perimeter, then walked through the crime scene inch by inch.
School regulations required a parent's signature to remove any student from campus, but judging from today's events, this rule was treated as a mere formality.
Paul Anderson had swaggered onto the school grounds, signed Donald Moore's name, and walked out with the boy.
Little Sullivan had followed them from the school gate for nearly 40 yards, then been dragged another 13 yards before a teacher finally noticed something was wrong.
Paul Anderson had run an additional 4-5 yards with both boys tucked under his arms before being picked up by a red pickup truck.
Unfortunately, no one had managed to see the license plate, only that it appeared to be a Ford F-1.
The police had issued an APB for the red pickup, but had yet to receive any results.
After completing two thorough circuits of the scene, Theodore immediately sprinted toward their car.
Though Bernie didn't understand what was happening, he chose to trust Theodore and followed without question.
Running, Theodore called out, "Blue Parrot Motel, now!"
Bernie said nothing, executed a sharp U-turn, and floored the accelerator.
Theodore grabbed the radio. "Kidnapper Paul Anderson works at the Blue Parrot Motel. He may have taken the hostages there."
A chorus of acknowledgements immediately crackled through the radio as patrol cars began forming a convoy behind them.
Bernie's eyes were bloodshot as he kept accelerating, driving like a man possessed.
Theodore held the radio, considered for a moment, then continued: "All units, suspect is Paul Anderson, bald, approximately 74 inches tall, weighing around 220 pounds, extensive tattoos covering both arms."
Both the elderly resident and the teacher had described Paul Anderson as having a similar build to Bernie; Theodore was essentially broadcasting Bernie's physical specifications.
"Target is a professional kidnapper with known accomplices and suspected gang affiliations. Considering the possibility of someone directing operations from behind the scenes, he must be taken alive."
"He may be our only lead. He must survive this."
Blue Parrot Motel, Room 208.
Paul Anderson and his accomplice were enduring a vicious tongue-lashing.
The one screaming at them was their boss, Johnson.
Carl Sullivan clutched his stomach, his face contorted with pain as he huddled in the corner, straining to eavesdrop on their conversation while gently patting his friend's cheek.
Beside him, Donald Moore lay unconscious on the floor, unresponsive to his attempts at revival.
Little Sullivan surveyed the room and quickly spotted an ashtray positioned on the bed. He fixed his gaze on Johnson's back, then began carefully inching toward the bed.
"He's Bernie Sullivan's son!" Johnson was nearly apoplectic with rage, jabbing his finger at Paul Anderson. "Bernie Sullivan! You know exactly who that is!"
"Do you want to kill me? Are you a complete fool?"
He glanced back and saw Little Sullivan, face pale, forehead drenched in sweat, clothes filthy, and blood covering his thigh. The boy was half-sprawled on the bed, reaching desperately for the ashtray.
The moment Johnson's eyes met his, Little Sullivan's mind went completely blank. Intense terror froze his small body.
It was pure instinct; he seized the ashtray and hurled it at the window with all his strength.
The ashtray shattered the glass with a sharp crash.
Before he could cry for help, Johnson approached with a malevolent grin and clamped a hand over his mouth.
Little Sullivan fought desperately, but his small frame was no match for an adult's grip. He twisted his body, opened his mouth as wide as possible, and sank his teeth into Johnson's palm.
"Help, crack"
Johnson howled in pain and raised his hand, delivering a vicious slap.
Little Sullivan's head struck the corner of the table, and consciousness fled.
Johnson grabbed a bedsheet and roughly wiped his bleeding hand. The throbbing pain in his palm ignited his savage instincts, and he raised his foot to kick the unconscious boy several times before restraining himself.
He bent down and scooped up Little Sullivan, a murderous gleam in his eyes.
"You two get rid of this little brat immediately. Find an abandoned oil well and dump him in."
"After that's done, go hide out in Mexico for a while."
"I'll handle this one."
"We can't stay here. Move, leave now!"
With that, Johnson departed with Little Sullivan in his arms.
These two subordinates would serve as a distraction, buying him precious time. He needed to rush home, pack his valuables, and prepare his escape.
Paul Anderson and his accomplice exchanged uncertain glances. After a moment's hesitation, they began to move.
His accomplice went to retrieve their vehicle while Paul Anderson lifted the unconscious Donald Moore and headed downstairs.
The moment they left the room, they spotted a massive convoy of police cars racing toward them, rapidly surrounding the Blue Parrot Motel.
Bernie's car led the charge. He spotted Donald Moore in Paul Anderson's arms and was so electrified that he leapt from the vehicle before it had fully stopped.
Theodore, however, wore a grave expression.
There were two kidnappers present. If Little Sullivan were still here and they were transferring hostages, shouldn't each man be carrying a child?
Paul Anderson and his accomplice found themselves staring down the barrels of dozens of weapons and didn't dare move.
Bernie stepped forward, took Donald Moore from the kidnapper's arms, handed him to a detective behind him, then impatiently charged into the building.
After a brief moment of stunned paralysis, he advanced two steps, then stopped.
He fought against every instinct screaming at him to tear the place apart.
Theodore held back the other detectives, donned gloves and shoe covers, and entered the room.
The window glass lay shattered; upon examining the fracture pattern, it appeared to have been broken recently.
The bedsheets were dishevelled, marked with large patches of sweat and unidentifiable fluid stains. Ashes and cigarette butts were scattered across the headboard.
An overturned bottle of amphetamines sat on the nightstand. Blood stained one corner of the table, and the sheets bore evidence of hasty cleanup attempts.
Several used condoms, underwear, pants, and bras littered the floor.
Theodore rapidly reconstructed the scene in his mind.
"Good news," he announced, approaching Bernie. "Little Sullivan is still alive."
He gestured toward the broken window. "He was incredibly brave; he broke that window with an ashtray to signal for help. Bernie, your son is alive."
Bernie clenched his fists, staring at the shattered glass, his voice thick with emotion.
"I taught him that."
"I taught him to do that!"
During his days off, Bernie would sometimes teach Little Sullivan basic police survival techniques. They'd even been scolded by Mrs. Sullivan for breaking a window during one of their practice sessions.
Theodore placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, though he felt far less optimistic than Bernie.
Little Sullivan's attempt at self-rescue had clearly enraged the kidnappers.
Combined with the drug residue on the nightstand, the kidnappers' emotional state was extremely volatile now.
The situation was like a bomb, and any action by Little Sullivan could trigger an explosion.
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