PART 4: The Nightly Walk to the Tracks
The clock on the police station wall ticked on mercilessly. 11:10 PM. Against the explicit instructions of the detectives—who wanted to deploy a squad of officers—I had decided not to take the risk. They could position themselves at a distance, but I had to make the first move. Mr. Van Dijk had tried to stop me at the exit, his eyes full of genuine despair.
"This is madness, you're walking into an ambush," he had pleaded. But I knew I had no choice; every second was ticking away against my child's life. Now I walked entirely alone through the deserted streets of the suburb, where the fog crept like cold fingers along the brick walls. The old freight depot sat on the edge of town, a gloomy terrain full of rusting train cars and dismantled sheds where trains no longer ran.
Streetlamps flickered weakly, casting long, terrifying shadows onto the wet asphalt. My boots made a hollow, lonely sound with every step I took. In my bag I carried a small flashlight and the note, but my hands were empty and clammy with fear. In the distance, the outlines of the abandoned main building loomed, its broken windows staring like dead eyes into the darkness. Suddenly, I heard a sound. The soft crunch of gravel, somewhere behind one of the rusting freight cars to my left. I stopped abruptly, my breath catching in my throat, and slowly turned around in the pitch-black light.
