On a warm July afternoon in 2014, four girls—Khloe Moore, Clare Thompson, Emily Nguyen, and Sarah Carter—set out on a hike through the towering redwoods near Camp Sierra Pines in Northern California. Aged 12 to 14, they were inseparable, giggling over campfire stories and friendship bracelets. They were supposed to be back by dinner. When they didn’t return, the camp buzzed with panic. Search parties scoured the trails, helicopters swept the canopy, but no shoeprints, no dropped water bottles, nothing. For two years, their families lived in a fog of grief, clinging to posters and prayers. Then, in August 2016, a trembling voice on a burner phone shattered the silence, leading police to a hidden bunker and a chilling truth that would test their courage and unravel a nightmare.
The call came just after 2 a.m. on August 12, 2016, to the El Dorado County Sheriff’s dispatch. A woman’s voice, low and unsteady, spilled out words that froze the operator: “My husband… he’s involved in the disappearance of the camp girls. He has a bunker close to where they went missing.” The line cut mid-breath, leaving only the echo of her fear. The operator tried to call back—nothing. The number was untraceable, a burner phone. Sergeant Tom Heler, a 15-year veteran leading the cold case, felt a jolt reading the transcript. Two years of dead ends—crank calls, false sightings—had worn him thin, but this was different. A bunker. A specific claim from someone close to the suspect. It was the first real lead since the girls vanished.
Heler pulled the case binder from his desk, its pages worn from countless nights of review. Maps of the campgrounds, marked with search grids, showed every trail around the Parson Jones redwood where the girls were last seen. Volunteers had combed those woods six times, finding nothing. But a concealed bunker could explain why. By noon, Heler, Deputy Carla Mendoza, and a small team were headed north in an unmarked SUV, joined by Lena Moore, Khloe’s 20-year-old sister. Lena wasn’t supposed to be there—civilians don’t join active searches—but her relentless presence at every briefing had earned her a seat. Her eyes, shadowed by two years of loss, scanned the passing pines as they neared the abandoned Camp Sierra Pines.
The camp was a ghost of its former self. Cabins sagged, their windows clouded with dust, and the cheerful “Welcome to Camp Sierra Pines” sign peeled under the weight of neglect. The team followed a dirt lane to the trailhead, where the forest swallowed sound, leaving only the crunch of pine needles underfoot. Lena trailed behind, her backpack heavy with water and guilt. She’d been 14 when Khloe, her younger sister, went to camp. A stomach virus kept Lena home, sparing her from the hike that stole four lives. Now, every step toward the redwood felt like a chance to rewrite that summer.
Half a mile in, Lena spotted a patch of earth too smooth, too flat. Crouching, she found broken glass buried in the soil—odd for a remote trail. Heler marked it on his GPS, but Mendoza froze, pointing to a metallic glint beneath a pile of leaves. It was a steel hatch, four feet square, its edges clean, used recently. The air shifted, carrying a faint chemical tang. Heler knelt, feeling the cool metal, hearing a low hum from below—a generator. “Dispatch, we’ve got a concealed structure,” he radioed. “Request backup and forensics.” The forest buzzed with arriving deputies, yellow crime scene tape threading through trees. Detective Ruiz, a burly major crimes specialist, pried open the hatch. Cold, stale air spilled out, laced with a sweet, rotten odor.
A metal ladder descended into a concrete chamber, just tall enough to stand in. Shelves held canned goods, water jugs, and boxes. A steel door led to a second room, lit by a flickering bulb. Four cots lined the wall, their sheets mismatched—cartoon animals, florals, stripes. Each had a pillow with an indentation, as if recently used. At the foot of each cot, pairs of shoes were neatly arranged: sneakers, sandals, canvas slip-ons. Lena’s breath caught—Khloe’s blue sneakers with frayed laces sat among them. On a chair, Camp Sierra Pines T-shirts were folded, their green lettering pristine. Mendoza whispered, “These belong to the girls.”
Under one cot, Mendoza found a scrap of paper in looping handwriting: “We can’t see the sky. Please tell my mom I’m sorry.” Lena recognized Khloe’s script, her knees buckling. A calendar on the wall, marked with Xs, stopped three days ago. A second door revealed a narrower room with three plastic bins, duct-taped shut. The first held children’s clothes; the second, blankets and worn stuffed animals; the third made Ruiz pause, his jaw tight. “Forensics will handle it,” he said, not elaborating. A notebook on a desk logged chilling details: “Day 702. Food delivery late. Girls upset. Told them they’ll go outside soon.” The entries began days after the disappearance, written with cold precision.
A locked cabinet held bleach, lime, peroxide, plastic sheeting, and zip ties—tools for disposal. A monitor showed grainy camera feeds: the hatch, the trail, a road shoulder. Someone had been watching. Lena clutched Khloe’s note, the bunker’s airless walls closing in. Heler radioed: “Concealed structure outfitted for long-term holding. Personal effects confirm Sierra Pines connection.” The caller’s tip was real, but the girls weren’t here. The question was where they’d been moved—and who was behind it.
Fresh tire tracks near the service road led to a clearing with a weathered shed and a mud-spattered pickup. Inside, a Polaroid showed a man in his late 40s, Mark Callaway, beside a younger woman, Aaron, her smile strained. A notebook listed supplies and a cryptic note: “August 14th, move her before the frost.” Her. Singular. Dated three months ago. An engine’s rumble broke the silence—a dark green truck speeding toward them. The driver, matching Mark’s description, floored it when spotted. A high-speed chase through narrow trails ended in a clearing. Mark bolted into the woods, dragging a girl with blonde hair.
Heler, Mendoza, and Ruiz pursued, dodging branches and mud. The girl, Clare Thompson, stumbled, slowing Mark. Mendoza grabbed her, wrapping her in a jacket. “You’re safe,” she said. Mark fought, knife in hand, but Heler and Ruiz subdued him, cuffs snapping shut. Clare, shivering, whispered her name, confirming she was one of the four. When Lena arrived, Clare recognized her: “You’re Khloe’s sister.” But Khloe, Clare said, had been moved months ago. Mark’s chilling words as he was cuffed: “You don’t have all of them, and maybe you never will.”
At the sheriff’s office, Mark smirked through questioning, admitting nothing. But Aaron, found in a motel 30 miles away, broke down. She’d heard crying from their basement, found a sneaker in Mark’s truck, and fled after he threatened her. She revealed a second site—a hunting cabin near Miller’s Creek, rigged with traps. A search team found it, discovering a pink sweater, warm and recently worn, and fresh footprints leading west. A tense chase through rain-soaked woods ended with Heler tackling Mark, Khloe Moore at his side. Lena’s reunion with her sister was tearful, but Khloe’s question—“Are the others okay?”—hung unanswered.
Mark faced charges of kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, and assault. He refused to reveal Emily and Sarah’s locations. Aaron’s testimony and the bunker’s evidence painted a picture of a calculated predator, a local who used his knowledge of the terrain to evade searches. Search teams scoured the hills, but the other two girls remained missing. Lena sat by Khloe’s hospital bed, holding the pink sweater. Khloe whispered, “Not all the way,” a reminder that their fight wasn’t over. The case, sparked by a wife’s courage, exposed a hidden horror but left an open wound—two girls still lost in the redwoods’ shadows.
