Buried Alive | Taken | 1
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Barbara Mackle presses her palms into the cold Georgia dirt and tries to get to her feet. But she's woozy and weak. She's been drugged. She remembers that much. She was asleep in an Atlanta motel room when two people burst in and forced her into a waiting car. Then...

They drove her here. But where is here? She looks up and sees the dark silhouettes of pine trees. In the east, the December sky reveals the palest hint of the coming day. The beam from her kidnapper's flashlight illuminates her breath.

God, she's freezing and so afraid. Barbara is a 20-year-old college student, a junior at Emory University. She should be in bed, resting up for her last exam of the semester. Instead, she's out here, shivering in her nightgown, socks, and a sweatshirt, which one of the kidnappers gave to her.

Her ankles are bound with a cord, and so are her wrists. She can feel the cold ground beneath her thighs, but her feet are dangling. She's sitting on the edge of something, some kind of hole in the ground. But what is down there? The man who kidnapped her is standing behind her. She can hear him breathing. He's panting after carrying her through the woods from his car. Finally, he speaks.

I want you to slide down in there. She looks again into the hole. It's so dark. She shakes her head, confused. Then, she feels him pressing down on her shoulders. He's pushing her into the hole.

Her feet touch the bottom, but it's not dirt. It's wood. In the corner of the hole, a tiny bulb glows faintly. And for the first time, she sees what this is. A box. Earlier, the kidnapper had said he was going to bury her in some kind of underground room. At first, she hadn't believed him. It sounded too crazy. But now, she realizes he wasn't kidding.

And this isn't a room. It's more like a coffin. Barbara starts to shake, her breath coming in panicked bursts. No! No! You can't do this! She looks up at the man, pleading. His face is eerie in the glow of the flashlight. Don't be such a baby. This capsule has everything you need to stay alive while we wait for your father to deliver the ransom. You won't suffocate.

The kidnapper turns to his accomplice, a small woman in a ski mask. She's the one who gave Barbara her sweatshirt. She slides down into the box next to Barbara to adjust something, then quickly climbs back out. As she does, she hands Barbara something: a slim rubber hose. This is your water tube, in case you get thirsty. Then the accomplice is gone, and Barbara is alone in the box.

She tries to sit back up, but a lid comes down on top of her. She reaches her arms up, her wrists hobbled by the cord knotted around them. "Please! No! You can't do this! I'll be good, I promise!" She pushes up against the lid, trying to keep it from closing.

but it's no use. It slams shut with a dull thud. She presses her palms up against the lid, straining with all the might her 120-pound body can muster. But it won't budge. The male kidnapper must be kneeling on top of it.

This is a dream, she thinks. A fever dream from the flu she's been fighting for the past few days. In a moment, she'll wake up in her bed. But then, she hears the sound of screws being tightened. Is he sealing her in? Her mind races. She's never felt so desperate, so afraid. She needs to think of something, anything, that will get her out of here. She takes a breath and calls out again.

You've got to let me out. I have to tell you something very important. The screwing stops, and she hears his voice, muffled through the plywood. Listen to me. You won't suffocate. There's a switch near your head. Reach back and flip it on. It will let in air so you can breathe.

In the faint light of the tiny bulb, Barbara reaches her arms back behind her head. Her bound hands fumble against the wood, feeling around until she finds a switch. She flicks it on.

She feels cold air moving across her skin, but she can't let him know that. She has to get him to open the box. They can't leave her here. "It's not working!" There's a pause. It's like he's deciding whether to believe her, but then she hears his voice again. "No, it's working." She keeps protesting, hounding against the lid of her wooden box. And then she hears it.

Dirt raining down on the lid above her. Barbara Mackle is being buried alive. In our fast-paced, screen-filled world, it can be all too easy to lose that sense of imagination and wonder. If you're looking for new ways to ignite your creativity and open your mind to fresh perspectives, then let Audible be your guide. Whether you listen to stories, motivation, or any genre you love, Audible is the place for you.

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Progressive Casualty Insurance Company & Affiliates. Price and coverage match limited by state law. From Wondery, I'm Cassie DePeckel, and this is Against the Odds. In the early morning hours of December 17, 1968, Barbara Mackle was kidnapped from an Atlanta motel room she was sharing with her mother.

Mackle was the daughter of a wealthy real estate developer in Florida, and her kidnappers had devised an elaborate plot to keep her hostage in a coffin-like box while allowing them time to collect a ransom and get away. Within hours of the kidnapping, more than 100 FBI agents would be on the case, trying to catch the kidnappers and reach Barbara Mackle before she ran out of air. This is Episode 1, Taken. ♪

Jane Mackle walks along the row of rooms that face the parking lot of the roadway and motel, her heels clacking on the concrete.

In her left hand, she carries the suitcase she packed this morning in Miami to catch the first flight to Atlanta. In her right hand, she grips the key to room 137. It's 10 in the morning on Friday, December 13th, 1968, and there's a damp chill in the air. Jane shivers. No wonder her daughter Barbara is so sick.

Last night, Jane was relaxing at home when Barbara called, almost in tears. She was so sick with the flu, she could barely talk and panicked about missing her end-of-the-semester finals. She said she had tried going to the campus infirmary, but it was completely full. Hearing how miserable her daughter sounded...

Jane didn't hesitate. She decided to fly to Atlanta herself, check into a motel close to campus, and nurse Barbara through the illness. Hopefully with enough cold medicine and hot soup, she'll be well enough to take her finals. Then Barbara and Jane can fly back to Miami together and enjoy the Christmas holidays in the warm Florida sun.

Jane unlocks the door to her room and steps inside. She plunks her suitcase down on the bed nearest the window and begins to unpack.

Jane is 51 years old and dark-haired like her daughter. For 25 years, she's been married to Robert Mackle, one of the most prominent real estate developers in Florida. She finds talk of money distasteful, but as she looks around the room, she wonders if maybe she should have booked nicer accommodations. But it's clean, at least.

She places a thermometer and a bottle of aspirin on the nightstand between the two beds. Then she picks up the phone and dials the number of Barbara's dormitory. She asks the woman who answers to give Barbara a message. Her mother is at the Roadway Inn, room 137.

Within an hour, Jane hears a car pulling up outside. She glances out the window and sees Barbara stepping out of her green Pontiac Firebird. Jane opens the door and smiles at Barbara. "Hello, honey!" She hurries toward her daughter to hug her, but Barbara's arms are loaded with books. She looks terrible. Her eyes are red, her skin pale, and she seems exhausted. She's clearly agitated,

and doesn't even say hello. I don't know what I'm going to do about my economics exam. I lent my notes to a boy in my class and he hasn't returned them. How could anyone be so selfish? Jane takes some of the textbooks from Barbara and the two women head inside the room.

Barbara plops down on the far bed. Jane fetches the thermometer and takes her temperature. 101 degrees. Barbara, you need to rest. It's the only way you'll get better. I don't have time. I have to find those notes and study. The exam is this afternoon. Maybe Stuart can track them down for you. Barbara shakes her head. He's got his own exam right now.

Stuart Woodward is a senior at Emory and Barbara's boyfriend. Well, that's not what Barbara calls him, but they're always doing things together, even if Barbara makes a face when her mother calls them dates. Barbara has even brought him home to Miami to meet the rest of the Mackle family.

Jane watches as Barbara stands up, steadying herself against the nightstand. I've got to get back to campus, mother. I'll come back after my exam and rest, I promise. Jane sighs. When her daughter sets her mind to something, there's no stopping her. But she worries that if Barbara doesn't slow down, she could end up in the hospital.

Barbara Mackel trudges up the stone steps to the Rich Building on the Emory campus. It's 2.50 p.m. on Friday, December 13th, 10 minutes before her economics exam. She spent the last few hours trying to track down her notes, but no luck.

At the building's entrance, a student holds the door for her. It's Peter, one of her classmates. His eyes narrow in concern when he sees her. You look terrible. Thanks a lot. The truth is, she feels worse than ever. She's either freezing cold or soaked in sweat.

And she's so congested, she can't even breathe through her nose. And now she has a three-hour exam on the history of economics, a test she's not prepared for.

Barbara walks down the hall and into the classroom. She sees Professor Cass leaning on a lectern, drumming his fingers on a stack of blank exam books. She finds her usual seat, two rows from the front, and practically collapses into her chair. She glances up and sees the professor staring at her with the same look Peter gave her just minutes ago. He walks over to her. "'Barbara, are you okay?' "'I know, I know, I look terrible.'

I have the flu, but I didn't want to miss the exam. Professor Cass shakes his head. He's one of Barbara's favorite teachers, only in his late 20s, with bushy, mutton-chop sideburns. He looks at her sympathetically. You shouldn't be here. Don't worry. You can make up the test another time. Go get some rest.

Part of her is embarrassed. She's an economics major, and this is probably the most important course of the whole semester. But she has to admit, it's a relief. She's so sick, she can hardly focus. She thanks the professor, then gets up and shuffles out of the exam room. All she wants now is to be in bed at the motel with her mother taking care of her.

Yana Shobol crumples up her McDonald's hamburger wrapper and tosses it into the trash can. She's in the office of her father's Texaco station doing some bookkeeping. Shobol is a 23-year-old college student and helps out at the station when she's not in class. It's a quiet Saturday afternoon in suburban Atlanta, and Shobol just needs to tally a few more days' worth of receipts before she can meet up with friends and enjoy the rest of the weekend.

The service bell dings. She glances out the window and sees a customer pulling in. Her father is in the repair shop working on a car, so she gets up from her desk and walks out to the cashier's counter. Showbull doesn't usually pay much attention to customers, but this one catches her eye. He's kind of unusual for these parts. For one thing, he has a beard. Up here in the suburbs, most of the men are pretty clean cut. The bearded men are

The beards are usually found on the hippies who congregate in town. The man's car is also distinctive, a blue Volvo station wagon. She doesn't see many foreign cars around here. Plus, the tailgate is down. There's something so large in the rear of the station wagon that it's poking out the back.

She can't tell what it is. It looks like a box of some sort, but it's covered with a tarp. She watches as the man strolls toward the door of the gas station. He's a big guy, about six feet tall and way north of 200 pounds. But he has a kind face, she thinks. The man smiles as he enters the station. Hi, do you sell roadmaps of Atlanta? Schoble shakes her head. Sorry, but we're sold out. They're hard to keep in stock.

The man looks out the window at his car. Shobol follows his gaze. There's someone in the front passenger seat. From here, it looks like a young boy, but she can't tell for sure. The man turns back to Shobol, still smiling. Well, perhaps you can help me then. I'm looking for a remote area, someplace I can conduct some geological experiments. She glances out at the Volvo. Is that what all that stuff in your car is for? Exactly. That's what I'm looking for.

That's all very sensitive equipment for the work I'm conducting. I'm a geologist for the Gulf Oil Company. He points to the Texaco sign outside and chuckles. I suppose that makes me your competition. In any case, I'm looking for a remote area where I can detonate some underground explosives. The tremors will be undetectable to humans, but they'll allow me to map the subsurface geology and look for oil deposits.

Schubel isn't sure she understands all this. And how can I help you? The man seems like he's growing impatient now. His smile is gone. Like I said, I need to find a remote area. Do you know of one? Schubel thinks. You could try Norcross, I guess. It's a few miles up the road, just past the county line. There's still plenty of farmland and woods up that way. She gives the man directions, and he thanks her and walks back to his car.

She watches him pull away. Then a thought crosses her mind. Oil? There's no oil in Georgia. But a moment later, another customer pulls into the station, and she puts the bearded man and the blue Volvo out of her mind.

Professor Marshall Cass walks down the stairs from his third-floor office on the Emory University campus. It's late afternoon on Saturday, December 14th, and he's just finished grading papers from yesterday's economics exam. Now he's headed to his car. He's eager to get home and pack for a long drive to Chapel Hill, North Carolina, where he's doing research over the break.

On the landing between the first and second floors, he stops. He's noticed two unusual people standing at the payphone on the first floor. A large bearded man wearing a gold colored cardigan and dark pants,

and a petite woman with a very short haircut. It's the second time he's seen them today. A few hours ago, they had stopped Cass outside the business school office and asked him if he had a list of the students enrolled at the school. He told them they'd have to get that from the school secretary, but that she was gone for the weekend. The bearded man asked if school was still in session, and Cass had told him classes were over for the semester. But it

But exams were still going on. The man had turned to the woman and said, then we can't find her in class. The whole exchange was so odd that he decided to watch them leave the building and took note of the car they got into, a blue Volvo station wagon. Now they're back, using the payphone near the bottom of the staircase. Cass can hear the man's voice. He sounds annoyed. Operator, please just patch me through to the dormitory number.

I'm looking for Barbara Mackle. It's an emergency. She's at the roadway, yeah.

What's she doing there?

What did they want with Barbara? She was so sick yesterday that he had agreed to reschedule her exam. Is this couple friends with her? It's all very strange. He gets into his car and starts the engine. He has to get home and pack for the long drive to Chapel Hill. But whatever is going on with Barbara, he hopes that poor girl is feeling better. And who knows? Maybe that couple are friends of hers and a visit from them will help.

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Robert Mackle unlocks the front door of his sprawling mid-century home in Coral Gables, Florida. He's about to call out to his wife, Jane, to tell her he's home. But then he remembers. Jane flew to Atlanta yesterday morning to nurse their daughter, Barbara, through the flu. Part of him wishes he'd gone as well. With Jane gone and both their kids off at school, the house feels empty.

He strides through the marble-floored foyer to the living room, where a Christmas tree stands trimmed and tinseled. Wrapped gifts are piled beneath it. He bends down and reads the tag on one. "'To Daddy. Love, Barbara.'" "'What a sweetheart,' he thinks. "'She must have had it shipped to them from Atlanta.'"

He looks out the tall back windows at the pool they installed eight years ago and remembers when Barbara and her older brother Bobby would invite their high school friends over for a swim.

Now it's quiet, just still water shimmering beneath the patio lights. Beyond the pool, he can see the manicured fairways of the Riviera Country Club growing dark as the sun sets. He turns around and catches sight of himself in the mirror. His 57 years are starting to show. He runs a hand through his slicked back hair.

The gray near his temples seems to be getting whiter by the day. That's it, he thinks. No reason to spend the night home alone. He'll head over to the Key Biscayne Hotel, just across the causeway, and check into one of the villas. He can have dinner in the hotel restaurant and fall asleep to the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach.

Mackle doesn't call ahead to the hotel. He doesn't need to. He owns it. Well, he and his brothers. The three Mackle brothers are among the biggest real estate developers in South Florida. They've built thousands of homes, including 500 on the barrier island of Key Biscayne.

That development has been one of their greatest success stories. Rumor has it that Richard Nixon, who just won the 1968 presidential election, wants to buy property there. Mackel likes Nixon. He's contributed to his campaign. And the president-elect even stopped by the Mackel house for a cold beer when he was playing a round of golf at the country club. ♪

Now, Mackle whistles along to the car radio as he steers his new Lincoln Continental over the causeway. He knows the hotel staff will be sure he's treated right. Maybe he can walk around the grounds and chat with the guests. He likes knowing everyone is happy, and it'll be nice not to be alone. Jane Mackle listens to her daughter Barbara's labored breathing in the bed next to hers. It's the early morning hours of Tuesday, December 17th.

Light from the street lamps outside filters through the motel room curtains. She turns her head toward Barbara. Her daughter is propped up against several pillows, but Jane can't tell if she's asleep. Just in case, though, she forces herself to be still. These beds are very squeaky. This is their fourth night cooped up in a motel, and Jane is past ready to return home.

But Barbara has one last final to take, the economics exam she was excused from a few days ago. And she's finally gotten her notes back. Stewart had gone by Barbara's dorm room and saw that the boy who borrowed them had returned them. Jane likes Stewart. She can see how much he cares for her daughter. He's brought food for them so Barbara could stay in the room and sleep. And when Barbara asked him to put off driving home to North Carolina to help her study,

He agreed without hesitation. Barbara has been pretty down the past few days, but her mood always brightens when she hears Stuart pull up outside their motel room in his white Ford, like he did earlier this evening. Barbara stirs, and Jane glances over at her. Honey, are you awake? Yes, I can't sleep.

I'm too congested. I'm sorry, darling. Just close your eyes. You'll fall asleep. Barbara finally dozes off, but Jane is still unable to sleep. She slips out of bed and walks to the window so the light can illuminate her watch. Three in the morning, she looks back toward Barbara. This flu is no joke.

She's seen the news on television. There's a flu pandemic going on, and it's already killed thousands. Jane shivers, suddenly overcome with dread. But no, she thinks. My Barbara is strong. She'll be okay. Jane returns to her bed and listens once again to the congested breathing of her daughter, willing her to get better soon.

Jane Mackle sits bolt upright in bed at the sound of a knock on the door. She's confused. Did she doze off? What time is it? She looks toward the curtains. It's still dark outside. Who's there? She hears a man's voice respond through the locked door. Police. A young man driving a white Ford has been in an accident. He's in the hospital, and he's asking for you.

Jane is suddenly wide awake. Stuart's been in an accident? He was just here a few hours ago. What could have happened? She gets out of bed and goes to the window, pulling aside a curtain. The sidewalk outside is dark, but she can see a man at the door, silhouetted by the streetlights. He's wearing a police cap.

"'Officer, is his name Stuart Woodward?' The response is quick. "'Yes, ma'am. That's his name.' Jane feels sick with worry. "'The poor boy!' She hears Barbara stirring behind her. She turns around. "'Stuart's been in an accident!' She goes to unhook the chain on the door and hears Barbara's voice behind her just as she slides the lock free. "'No, mother, don't open the door!'

Jane glances back to see Barbara getting out of bed, but it's too late. The door flies open and Jane stumbles backward. The man rushes in. He's brandishing a long-barreled gun. Maybe a shotgun, Jane thinks. She doesn't know much about guns.

Behind him, a second person, no bigger than a teenage boy, and wearing a ski mask, darts into the room. A robbery, Jane thinks. How could she have been so stupid? Take our money and our jewelry and leave. Get out. Get out.

Almost reflexively, she spins the three and a half carat diamond ring on her finger so that only the band is showing. She looks more closely at the man. He's wearing a dark leather jacket over a gold sweater. He's big, well over 200 pounds. He's clean shaven and kind of moon faced. He's very calm.

Be quiet and turn around. Get on the bed. No, no! Jane lies face down on the bed. The person in the ski mask begins tying her ankles and then her wrists behind her back. Jane squirms. She hears the man again. Chloroform her! Jane struggles as the man's accomplice climbs on top of her and forces a wet rag over her mouth.

She pivots her head from side to side, trying to avoid it. "Give her more! Give her more!" As Jane jerks her head back and forth, struggling against breathing in the fumes, she sees something that terrifies her: Barbara, sitting up on the edge of her bed, staring at the wall. The big man is standing over her, and he's pointing the barrel of the shotgun directly at her daughter's head.

Barbara Mackle turns her head toward her mother, but then feels the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against her left temple. The man in the police cap speaks. Don't look. She turns back toward the wall. The TV is right in front of her. There's a slight reflection in the dark screen, and she can see figures behind her struggling on the bed.

Someone is holding down her mother and pressing something against her face. Barbara steals a glance at the man with the gun. He looks calm, almost reassuring, but he doesn't lower the gun. Barbara knows she should be scared, but she's more astonished than anything. Is this real? The man calls out to her mother. There's no need to struggle. It's a harmless anesthetic. It won't hurt you. For some reason...

Barbara believes him. Mother, do what they say. Don't fight them. Why are they doing this? Barbara wonders. Maybe they want her and her mother tied up so they can make a getaway after the robbery.

She hears tape ripping. Her mother's cries grow muffled. They must have taped her mouth shut. Barbara puts her hands together, thinking she'll be next to be tied up. But instead, the man grabs her upper arm and pulls her to her feet. You're coming with us. He pushes her toward the open door. The man's accomplice dashes out ahead of her. Barbara catches a glimpse of her mother on the bed. She's tied up, face down.

but she's moving at least. Whatever they gave her didn't knock her out completely. Barbara feels the cold air on her skin as they step out the door and onto the pavement. She becomes acutely aware that she's wearing only a red and white checkered nightgown, underwear, and a pair of blue knee-high socks. The concrete feels like gritty ice through the thin fabric of the socks. She looks up at the man,

He doesn't look much older than she is. Don't hurt me! The man is guiding her toward a dark-colored car. Its engine is running. Its headlight's off. Do as you're told, and you won't be hurt. But remember, I've got the gun, and I'm not afraid to use it.

Then he shoves her into the back seat, where his accomplice is already sitting. The accomplice, still wearing the ski mask, pushes Barbara down so her head is below the window. The man gets in the front and they pull away. The shock Barbara felt moments earlier has now given way to something else. Terror. They didn't want money or jewelry. They want her.

Jane Mackle hears a car door slam outside, then a screech of tires as it pulls away. They've taken Barbara! She feels her heart pounding in her chest. She has to get help. Fortunately, the kidnapper who tied her up didn't do a very good job. The tape over her mouth is so loose it's practically hanging off. She looks around for the phone and finally sees it lying on the floor. It must have fallen in the struggle.

Ignoring the pain in her bound ankles and wrists, she rolls herself across the bed and drops with a thud onto the floor. She edges her face close to the receiver and starts screaming into it. Help!

But there's not even a dial tone. She'll have to find help some other way. She draws her knees up, braces her back against the side of the bed, and uses her legs as leverage to slide up into a standing position. That's it. She's vertical.

Then she remembers something. There are scissors in her medicine kit. If she can get a hand on them, maybe she can cut the cord binding her wrists. She hops to the table, finds the medicine kit, and turns around so her hands can unzip the bag. She's got it.

Feeling behind her, she manages to grab the scissors. Now, she just has to maneuver them under the cord and snip. But then, she bobbles the scissors and drops them onto the floor. She's starting to sob now, with panic, with worry, with pain. Every second she spends fumbling around in this room, Barbara is getting farther and farther away.

Help! Please help me!

Not a single light goes on. Not a single door opens. What is wrong with people? They must have heard her. In the glow of the street lamps, she sees Barbara's green Firebird. She hops toward it and lands the six-inch drop from the sidewalk onto the parking lot without falling. But when she reaches the driver's side door, she tumbles over. Help!

For the love of God, will someone help me? She sits up, her back against the car door, and tries to stand, but falls again. Now she feels something warm and wet running down her shin. It's blood. She's exhausted, but she has to keep trying. Once again, she leans against the door of the Firebird, scooches her feet back towards her, and pushes herself up.

The muscles in her legs burn, but she's up. With her hands still bound, she feels behind her for the door handle, presses the button to unlatch it, and pulls. When she's swung the door open and wide enough, she hops around and falls backward into the front seat. She presses her chin into the car horn. In the stillness of the pre-dawn, it echoes off the exterior walls of the motel.

The car seems to vibrate with the sound, but she doesn't let up. She can't. Not until help finally comes. Barbara Mackle shakes with cold. She's lying down in the backseat of her kidnapper's car. The man who burst into her motel room, the man with the long-barreled gun, is driving. Barbara's head is in the lap of the man's accomplice, the boy in the ski mask.

♪♪

Maybe she's Cuban, Barbara thinks. There are a lot of Cubans in Miami, and her father is a real estate developer there. This must have something to do with her father. Maybe he's made an enemy. Barbara tries to sit up, but the woman pushes her back down. The man barks out a command. Keep her down! Pluriform her! In her gloved hand, the woman clutches a rag.

She moves it toward Barbara's face. The smell cuts through Barbara's terrible congestion, and she feels a burning in the back of her throat. Her eyes water. She tries to push it away.

Please don't. I'll be good. She fights every urge to keep struggling and quiets herself, her head lying docile in the woman's lap. Her strategy seems to work. The woman moves the rag away. Barbara shifts her gaze to look up through the rear seat window. From this angle, all she sees are the passing gleams of streetlights. They're headed away from Atlantis.

She knows that because they took a left out of the parking lot, which takes them north. The man is driving fast. Maybe a police car will see them and pull him over for speeding. The man seems to read her mind. She hears him chuckle. I hope we don't get stopped by one of those redneck Georgia cops. Barbara's toes are numb from the cold. Despite her fever, she can't stop shivering. The woman starts rubbing her bare arm as if to warm her up.

The kidnapper peers over the dashboard at the dark highway as he steers his blue Volvo north out of Atlanta.

As the miles pass, the ranch homes and gas stations give way to stretches of pine trees and patches of farmland. Thanks to the tip from that gas station employee the other day, he found the perfect spot. He just needs to not miss the turn onto the dirt road. So far, everything has gone according to plan.

He glances in the rearview mirror at his accomplice. Ruth is still wearing the black ski mask. He knows she's nervous. She's been nervous from the beginning. He calls back to her. This is going well. This is going extremely well. He grins at her in the rearview mirror. From the backseat, he hears Ruth's voice through the mask. She's being good. Ruth is not an ideal accomplice, that's for sure.

She's tiny for one thing, even smaller than the Mackle girl. But the real problem is that Ruth is no criminal. She doesn't think like one. She's soft. Maybe that's one of the reasons he fell in love with her. He's never met anyone like her. Ruth is so different, so exotic. Not long after he met her, he decided he'd leave his wife, Carmen, and their two little boys and start a new life with Ruth.

But he can't cut ties with his wife and kids that easily because Carmen knows about his past, that he's an escaped felon, that for the past two years, he's been living under a fake name. So he needs money, money to buy Carmen's silence and provide a life for his boys with enough left over so that he and Ruth can flee the country.

He glances into the rearview mirror again. Ruth is right. This girl is behaving, just as he predicted. He spent weeks researching potential victims. Obviously, the victim would need to come from money, but they would also need to be compliant. And this Mackle girl, so far anyway, is just that, cooperative. She's his ticket to freedom.

to a new life. Kidnapping is such a tricky crime, he thinks, as he turns onto the dirt road. There are so many variables, so many opportunities for it to all go wrong. Delivering the ransom note, proving the hostage is alive, collecting the ransom, getting away. He has to congratulate himself. It takes a clever person, a person like him, to figure out all the variables.

The trickiest part of all is how to keep a hostage secure and confined without monitoring them. But he's found the answer to that, too. It's simple, really. He's going to bury her alive. This is the first episode of our four-part series, Buried Alive. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research.

If you'd like to learn more about this event, we recommend the book 83 Hours Till Dawn by Jean Miller with Barbara Jane Mackle. I'm your host, Cassie DePeckel. Steve Fennessy wrote this episode. Our editor is Alyssa Adams. Sound design and Dolby Atmos mix by Joe Richardson. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Coordinating producer is Desi Blaylock. Produced by Alita Rozanski and Emily Frost.

Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior producers are Andy Herman and Rachel Matlow. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marsha Louis. For Wondering. Wondering.

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