Authors: Karen Harper
“How do, Mr. Rowan. Can’t believe you’re up here in this storm. Good thing no school today,” Henry told him and invited him in.
Henry was dressed to go outside, or—no, he’d been there already. His coat was wet from the precipitation, and he still had what might be a knitted cap in his hands. “Something wrong?”
“I hope not, Henry. Hello, ma’am,” he said to the thin woman with a baby in her arms. “I understand you saw Charlene at the gas station before the storm started this afternoon. I thought you might know where she is. She’s not answering her phone and she should be.”
“Why, she said she was going to talk to Mandy Lee McKitrick, over at the Fencers’ place, you know, on Valley View.”
Matt sighed. That was a good sign. “I do know the place.”
“Right ’cross from that big fracking site,” Henry put in, obviously concerned and trying to be more helpful. Clearly nervous, he kept turning his knitted cap in his hands.
“Thanks,” Matt said, refusing to “set a spell” as he knew mountain visitors should do. “I’ll check with Mandy Lee. I’m hoping Charlene’s truck didn’t run off the road in this weather. There are scattered houses along Valley View on one side but the ridge over the river valley on the other.”
“And I can see why you’d worry for that, Mr. Rowan, but she’s got her those new tires. You know, Mr. Flemming told me the first day I drove the bus to take good care of Miss Charlene, and I done that, so I hope she’s okay.”
“Thanks,” Matt said again. “I appreciate your help.”
Now, he thought, as he headed back to the truck, this would be a replay of his almost-fatal drive down the mountain, except this weather was worse. He had to do it, and without Char to help him this time.
It hit him then that he’d seen, hanging on the wall inside Henry’s house, next to a hunting rifle, a beat-up leather quiver with some arrows. But then Char had said Henry had admitted he hunted that way and had even taken some of Ginger’s arrows out of the trash.
He almost went back to question Henry about that, but he had to find Char.
28
I
t didn’t take Char long to realize that there was another way out of this old mine shaft from the way they came in. Her captor went out there occasionally and came back in breathing clouds of cold air. A route outside must not be far. The bend in the left-hand part of the shaft seemed to have a light source and cold drafts, though no snow swept in from it. Sometimes the wind whistled but not now.
Time seemed a big blur. Was it still daylight? She felt she’d been held captive for days, months, years. The next time he went out, the low tones of his voice drifted in, but it wasn’t clear enough that she could try to place it. Was he singing out there? Praying? Maybe Bright Star was in hiding up here in these old mines and he was talking to him.
When he returned again, she tipped her head way back against the hard wall, because she could see out of a skinny space along one cheekbone next to her nose. When he came in view, still wearing his ski mask, she saw he had a cell phone. It didn’t look like hers, because she had a bright blue case. But he was using a cell phone up here? Nothing like that worked on Pinecrest! She watched him slide it in his sleeping bag. She couldn’t let him know she’d been able to peek. It could mean everything to help her identify him, to get to Matt, or escape.
She pretended to be asleep, her head tipped back against the wall, but she knew she needed to establish a relationship with him. That’s what a victim was supposed to do, become a person to the abductor, not a thing—an easily disposable thing.
She stirred as if she was just waking up. Her head still hurt. “Please,” she said, “I’m cold. I really appreciate your giving me some water, but do you have another blanket?”
She heard him shuffling around. His footsteps scuffed closer through the coal grit on the floor. He tossed another blanket over her.
“Thank you—again. Should I write a ransom note? My family doesn’t have money but—”
“Shut up.”
There—he’d spoken, though those muttered words gave her no clue who he could be.
“All right. Sorry. I’m just scared, and my ties are so tight I feel like they’re shutting off my blood flow. Just a typical woman I guess, talking too much, feeling helpless, but I’m sure you’ve felt that way, too.”
He loosened her wrist ties—slightly. She was making progress. But toward what? And surely she was running out of time. What was his plan or that of whomever he was talking to on a phone nearly at the top of Pinecrest?
* * *
Despite the cold, Matt was sweating when he got out of the truck at Joe Fencer’s place. He’d called him on the cell phone he’d just given him. Joe said he’d keep an eye out for Char around Lake Azure. He’d tried not to sound panicked, but Joe had picked up on that, asked him if he could do anything else.
“Not right now,” Matt had told him. “I hear that Char dropped by to see Mandy Lee, so I’m going to your place to see her. Thanks.”
He didn’t want to call Gabe quite yet. He must be nearly there, getting Tess to Grace. Why upset them right now, because he just knew he’d find Char, going off on her own for something, being helpful, being stubborn, being Char. But if Mandy Lee didn’t provide answers, he’d call Gabe’s deputy, Jace Miller, and fill him in, get his help, however busy he was, covering for Gabe.
When the thin, pale woman came to the door, he saw she’d been crying. That upset him even more, but Char had said Mandy Lee had big problems with her husband. He could see the living room behind her was empty of furniture.
“Mrs. McKitrick, we met at your father-in-law’s funeral. I’m Matt Rowan, Charlene Lockwood’s friend. She hasn’t been answering her phone for over two hours, and I wonder if you know where she is.”
“Oh. Why no, sorry. She was here ’bout that long ago. We had us a nice talk, and she’s my friend, too, been helpin’ my boy, Jemmie, get to school. But it was spittin’ ice pellets when she headed back toward town.”
“She drove toward town? You saw her drive that direction?” he asked, pointing.
“For sure, I did. Drivin’ careful she was, too, not fast. She’s been a godsend to me, for sure, so hope she didn’t get stuck on the road.”
“No—I just came that way. Thanks, Mrs. McKitrick. She’s been a godsend to me, too,” he said and sprinted back toward his car.
* * *
“I work with kids,” Char told her captor as he untied her from the beam, though he left her hands bound together. “Do you have kids?” she asked.
“Yeah. Shut up and eat. Baked beans,” he muttered and put a soup-sized can between her hands. When he walked away she tipped her head back. A spoon protruded from the open can and the top of it was still attached—and sharp. Maybe he’d made his first mistake.
“One more thing,” she told him after she gobbled some down. Her stomach was cramping and she didn’t want the beans, but if she got a chance to bolt, she’d need her strength. He should have told her the jagged tin top was still on the can. “Please, sir, I really need to urinate. Please let me do that with some privacy.”
“Later. Eat up,” he said in a voice so gruff she knew he was disguising it.
“Not tied like this. Please, can’t you loosen my bonds? I’m obviously not going anywhere.” He didn’t respond so she decided to continue with her small talk. “So how many kids do you have?”
She heard him smack what sounded like a can down on the rough, rocky floor. She tipped her head back and saw him shine a flashlight on his watch. He zipped up his jacket, pulled his cell phone out of his sleeping bag and walked in the opposite direction from where they came in.
It had to be an exit. It must be high enough and positioned just right to pick up a cell phone tower in the valley. This had been well planned. But was it by this guy or was he someone’s henchman? What was the plan and was she the bait or the prize?
Her eyes skimmed the area where he’d made a nest for himself in here. Behind the bottles of water and the cans of food, she saw what looked like a quiver of arrows and a crossbow! Whoever this was, he must be the one who had shot at her and Matt and left the messages in Matt’s burned truck and at his house.
But why?
She could hear his voice, carried in by the wind. She couldn’t place it, too distant, gruff, sporadic. But then she caught some words. “Yeah, I got the goods. What time you gonna get here?”
So there was a mastermind! Bright Star? Ginger? Surely not Royce.
Being certain his voice stayed distant, Char wedged her can of beans next to the support beam and tried to saw through her bonds by pulling them back and forth against the jagged top of the can.
* * *
Matt drove slowly along Valley View Road. He reviewed what he knew aloud, just to hear his own voice, to try to comfort himself. “She left this way, driving carefully. It was icing up—maybe the snow had started, too. But she had those new tires, knows this area from her early days, from coming out here lately, too.”
He scanned both sides of the road looking for tire tracks, skid marks—anything. The fresh snow didn’t help. In a couple of hundred yards he’d be at the old Lockwood house that Tess had sold. Maybe on a whim, Char had stopped there, wanted to see the old place, meet whoever lived there now.
Suddenly he saw something, not from his lane but on the other side of the road. His stomach twisted. There were tire tracks, partly muted by new snow, but going off toward the ridge over the valley below. No big trees here to stop anything, but some saplings had been snapped off.
Terror slammed into him. He pulled over and ran across the road to look down.
There, below, not in the frozen river, but near it was a truck that looked like Char’s, crumpled and overturned.
He almost screamed her name, but he got back in his car. His hands were shaking so hard, he struggled to move the gearshift. He blinked back tears, then sped to the spot where he knew he could get down into the valley.
Please, dear God, don’t let her be in that truck.
He had to get down there, get down fast—if she was there. Then he’d call 9-1-1. He parked his car, then slipped and slid down the path he’d taken twice before.
* * *
Char had not been able to cut through her bonds, but she’d made a start. She stopped when she heard her captor returning. He took the can away from her, then untied the ropes that yoked her bound hands to the support beam and hauled her to her feet.
She stiffened, pulled back, but he yanked her blindfold down around her neck so she could see. “You said you need to go to the can,” he said, his voice gruff.
He untied her feet and pulled her around the corner where the shaft went upward toward where he’d been going. There was an empty plastic bucket. He fumbled with her wrist ties, swore under his breath, but loosened and slid them off her wrists. She was grateful he hadn’t noticed she’d tried to saw at them.
“I’m turning my back,” he said, his voice still unnaturally gruff. “Counting to twenty, then that’s it.”
Her numb hands were starting to tingle as the blood rushed back into them. “My hands went to sleep,” she told him over his slow counting. “I can’t be that fast. Don’t you know women need some privacy? If I’m here talking to you, I’m not going anywhere.”
She lowered her jeans and squatted, with one hand on the wall to steady herself. But she also managed to look past him where a shaft went slightly upward, toward a gray late-afternoon sky as the sun sank behind clouds. At least the snow had stopped. She knew it was going to be a long, hard night. But he hadn’t hurt her, hadn’t assaulted her—hadn’t killed her. Someone wanted her alive, at least for now.
She hurried to put herself back together. “All right. I’m done. Thank you, I appreciate it.”
He snorted and turned back to look at her. Blue eyes. Plain, pale blue eyes like so many around here.
“If you’re one of Bright Star’s men, you know you’re not to harm others,” she blurted. “‘Do unto others.’ Please, in God’s name—”
He grabbed her arm hard and dragged her upward, over rough rock and the slippery shreds of coal. She almost fell, but he hauled her on. Had she overstepped about Bright Star? Was this man going to kill her after he’d fed her, let her use the bucket?
She gasped. Cold air slammed into them. It was a cliff.
This must be an old air supply shaft for the mine.
There was a ledge, going both ways around the rock. It was wet, icy, slippery. He was going to throw her off.
“Please, I won’t talk anymore.”
“Good. Especially not about that cheating devil.”
He pointed down and pushed her toward the edge. The entire panorama of the mountain and the hazy, white, distant valley below seemed to tilt, then leap at her. She was going to die. Images flashed in her head. The faces of her parents, her sisters. Maria Whitehorse, kids crying, then smiling. And Matt. Matt!
But he did not push her. He held her hard and gave her a little shake, still pointing straight down with his free hand.
Sucking in icy air, she dared to look down.
The sprawled and broken body of Bright Star Monson lay in a crag twenty feet below. And the snow around his head was stained crimson like a bloody halo.
29
C
har went limp as the man dragged her away from the ledge and thrust her into the mine shaft ahead of him. She’d detested Brice Monson, but she’d never wanted that. Had he fallen? Been killed by this man? Would that be her fate? Bodies might never be found there.
She realized this man still could be one of Bright Star’s followers, maybe one who planned to take over the cult. But how did he dare to kill “the master”? Grace had said they were all afraid of him.
Terrified into silence, she tried to remain calm. She watched carefully as her captor sat her down and retied her hands and feet.
“He tried to fly. The two-timing bastard said he was going to cast himself off the peak of the Temple and angels would catch him. He was evil and nuts,” the man said.
She wasn’t quite sure why, but a turn of his head, the tone of the falsely gruff voice or maybe his accusing someone of being nuts—suddenly she realized who he was.
“Get some shut-eye,” he ordered.
Yes, she knew that voice, though things just didn’t fit.
He did not blindfold or gag her, but her bonds were tight, and she was tethered to the support beam on a rope leash, this time with enough slack that she could lie down. She tried not to cry. But she was so scared. Scared to death.
* * *
Once he got down to Char’s truck, Matt inched his way on his stomach through snow, ice and shattered glass into the smashed wreck. He’d fallen twice on the way, had to cling to trees to keep from sliding. He wasn’t sure he could get back up to the road where he’d left the truck. At least there was no fire this time. Thank God, no Char in the truck, either.
When he crawled back out, the afternoon shadows leaned long in the valley. Still panicked, he stood and trudged around the site. On a whim, he made his way down to the hut with the waterboarding table. He saw someone had wrenched the metal rings off the table and carved away the words. Shuddering, he hurried back out. He saw another dead beaver, but at least Char hadn’t been thrown free, or wandered off, or he’d see her footsteps—see her body—somewhere down here. Could she have been ejected on the way down and was snagged in the trees? He blinked back tears and walked along the obvious path the truck had taken, scarred by snapped limbs and saplings, even tire marks partway down before it tumbled, taking everything out with its weight.
He had to get back up on the road before it got dark, look for footprints near where her truck went over. Maybe, like him, she had made it out, been picked up by someone. He’d have to ask at the old Lockwood place to see if anyone saw or heard anything, see if she’d been there. But she would have called him. He had to move fast because the early winter twilight was setting in.
He’d call Deputy Miller and Gabe as soon as he made it back up to the road and looked along it. He struggled upward, grabbing at saplings, crawling, clawing his way. Finally, he made it to his truck. If there had been footprints along the road, the snow and wind had obscured them. He fought hard against the fear this wreck was related to his, that it had not been an accident but deliberate. But why and who? He drove toward the old Lockwood place.
* * *
Though she was physically and emotionally exhausted, Char only pretended to sleep. Her brain was in overdrive, and the floor was not only bumpy but prickly, evidently from coal being hacked out years ago. She remembered there was a soft kind and a hard kind, so which was this? Maybe she could rub a ridge of it against her wrist ties. Somewhere on the triple-tied ropes, one had already been weakened by the edge of the tin can.
She found a place that seemed sharp. Though he had a lantern near himself, the shaft was dark enough where she was that she could try sawing her bonds under the two blankets he’d thrown over her. Slowly, carefully, she turned her back to him and moved her wrists back and forth against the ridge. He’d see what she’d done if he untied her again, so she knew she had one chance to try this.
Could she be right about her captor’s identity? It really made no more sense than if it were Brad Mason, Orlando, Henry Hanson or Matt himself. Still, instinct and observation told her it was Sam McKitrick.
Her captor did not limp or hunch over or act crazy like Sam. If he’d faked all that, he was some actor. If he really had PTSD and thought she was a spy for the Taliban, or a suicide bomber, as he’d implied the other day, he would have said so. What could he possibly want with her and who did he call when he left her alone?
She recalled what she’d learned from Sam’s mother earlier today. Royce and Orlando had tried to bribe Woody to stop his picketing. Were they behind this? When he refused, had they used Sam’s anger at his father to get him to eliminate Woody by shoving him off the cliff above Lake Azure—just as Bright Star lay sprawled below, as she might soon be disposed of, too?
Or was this all to silence Matt? When Royce saw Matt had fallen for her, maybe he also saw a new way to keep him in line. If Royce paid the ransom for her safe return, Matt would owe him more than he did now—owe him gratitude, loyalty and silence on the pollution, as she would, too. That wild theory made her feel better, that she would at least be returned alive. Unless, that is, her captor had a double cross in mind and wouldn’t free her however much was paid.
She had to stop asking questions. She had to break her bonds and get away.
* * *
Matt talked to the owner of the old Lockwood house, who knew nothing and hadn’t seen anything strange, though he hadn’t been home long, and his wife was sleeping while their toddler took a nap.
More frightened than ever, Matt called Jace Miller.
“The way you describe the scene makes it sound like she slid on the ice, but got out in time, because it’s doubtful she could have survived the wreck,” Jace said. “Possibly bumped her head, got disoriented, and someone came along and picked her up, took her to a doctor or clear to the hospital in Chillicothe. If that doesn’t pan out, I’ll organize a volunteer search for tomorrow morning, so—”
“Tomorrow morning? It’s freezing out there!”
“Matt, calm down. I’ll also see if we can get a heat imaging chopper to fly over the rough or forested terrain at first light if she doesn’t turn up. Legally, adults have to be missing longer than this before we can get a full force search or even declare them missing, but with all that’s gone on, I’ll move on things now. I’ll call Gabe and have our dispatcher check with the hospital and local doctors.”
“I’m calling Gabe. Listen, Jace, the incident was so much like mine it scares me.”
Gabe told him Grace was still in labor and Tess was with her, but he’d come back to Cold Creek right away. “I’m tempted not to leave a note for Tess about exactly why,” he admitted. “She still has flashbacks to her childhood abduction, so I hate to drop this on her. See you soon.”
Abduction?
That possibility had been lurking in the back of Matt’s mind. His pulse pounded even harder.
He couldn’t reach Royce, so he tried Orlando, explained that Char was missing and he needed to talk to Royce. “He’s unreachable right now,” Orlando told him. “Said he was turning off his cell for twenty-four hours to be alone with Veronica. Sorry, but he’s acting like he’s on his honeymoon and he hasn’t even proposed to her yet. But listen, I’m on the road, almost to Cold Creek since Royce had a list of things for me to do before he comes back Monday. I’ll put them all aside to help you. Hang in there. We’ll find her. See you at the sheriff’s office instead of the lodge. Ten to one, it’s tied to that megalomaniac Bright Star.”
Megalomaniac?
Hell, that was a big word for Orlando. The guy must be smarter than he thought, but he appreciated the support.
Matt raced back to Lake Azure. He’d have Orlando, Henry Hanson, Joe Fencer and others of his staff meet at the sheriff’s office at first light for a search of the area around Valley View Road, then they’d branch out from there. Clint was scheduled to take water samples, but he’d have to put him off, not get him here right now.
But first, he was going back to the Mannings’ house and let himself in with the key he had in his office, check the place top to bottom for Char or more clues. Next, he had to call Kate, though he hated to get her upset. Still, Char could have gone there if she’d hit her head or someone had given her a ride.
He only prayed that whoever had picked her up had helped and not hurt her.
* * *
The ropes hurt Char’s wrists, but she kept sawing, stretching them as she did. One cord had popped free but the others still held. Still, it gave her hope.
When her right wrist came free, she could have cheered. She flexed her fingers, then unwound several coils of rope from her left wrist and untied herself from the tether. Carefully, hoping her captor wouldn’t check on her, she pulled her legs up in a fetal position and worked at untying her ankle bonds. It took her numb fingers a while but not as long as sawing the others free.
She lay, breathing as softly as she could, straining to hear his breathing. Was he asleep? When he moved, she froze. He got up with a groan. Was he going to check on her? If so, she was doomed.
She heard him fumble for something and go out. To use the bucket? No, she heard his booted footsteps go farther than that. His voice floated to her again, no doubt out on that narrow cliff. It must be long dark outside.
Now or never!
She got up, stiff and sore, and tiptoed in the opposite direction, wishing she dared to take the lantern with her.
The passage he’d brought her in was pitch-dark, but she fumbled her way along, skimming her hand along the wall, hoping he kept talking outside. She prayed she wouldn’t take a wrong turn or fall. When he’d carried her in, she’d seen some black holes where the old coal cars used to go on tracks down into darkness.
When she stumbled her way outside, the brightness of the snow, even under the night sky, was almost blinding. Stars glittered coldly overhead. Even without a lantern, he might be able to follow her footsteps in the snow. If she did the expected, ran downhill along the road, following his tire tracks, he’d find her. She needed to walk on a stone ridge where the wind had swept the snow away, as it had where he’d gone to make his calls. She was determined to leave no prints, or at least leave confusing ones.
She forced herself to cling to the old entrance to the mine, then edge around the side of it, walking on rock. At least her eyes adjusted well to the darkness. But grit and little pebbles as well as ice made the footing slippery. Her stomach went into free fall. But she’d go a little farther. Then, if he ran or drove downhill looking for her, she’d go into the woods, around the mountain, not straight down. If she could only get a head start on him before he started tracking her...
She was around the edge of the mine entrance, pressed against cold rock when she heard his fast footsteps spitting stones. “Get back in here, Charlene Lockwood!” he shouted. His voice echoed off the shoulders of the mountain.
“You’ll freeze or fall! You’ll be free tomorrow! Ransom paid! Get back here, you little idiot!”
When he’d yelled, she knew his voice for sure. Sam McKitrick was hardly the veteran with PTSD. It was such a shameful thing to lie about that. The man would honor nothing, including his own promises about the ransom. She’d be an idiot for going back. She’s gotten Grace and her kids out of captivity, and she was going to do the same for herself.
From what she heard, Sam evidently climbed into his truck, started it. Balancing carefully, she edged back around the curve of rock. She saw him turn on his headlights and slowly head down the road.
She inched around to the mine entrance, went to the fringe of trees, making tracks in the snow that resembled playing fox and geese. Then, following one of her own trails, she ran for those trees. She was tempted to go back inside for a blanket, some food, but no. It would take time and he could come back. When he didn’t find her on the road, he’d return and look around here. Sam, more than most mountain men, especially since he’d been in the army, was a tracker, hunter and a good shot—even with a bow and arrow. No matter what he said, he might have thrown Bright Star off that ledge and his own father off a cliff.
And she’d just made herself his prey.