Lindsay slipped on the shirt, leaving the top four buttons open. The shirt fit her very tightly around the waist and chest.
“What do you think?”
Rainhorse looked at Lindsay. She was stunning and looked more like his daughter than ever.
“You look… fine,” he said.
“Fine? Just fine?”
“No, of course not. Whatever. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” she said.
“Thank god. You go in first,” he said. “I’ll follow in five minutes.”
“Lindsay walked into the drug store. There was one forty-ish year-old black woman behind the front counter, looking bored, reading a fashion magazine.
“Which way to the pharmacy?” she asked.
The woman never bothered to look up, “All the way in the back. We close in five minutes.”
“Thank you,” she said, walking to the back.
There were no customers at the pharmacy counter—good news. The young man behind the counter was, as Jackson had told her, about thirty, tall, skinny with horn-rimmed glasses and an unfortunate complexion.
She walked up to the counter. The young man, whose name-badge read ‘Aaron,’ glanced up at her, looked down and then perked up again, smiling, “If you have a refill, I can take care of it, but we’re closing in a few minutes, so I can’t fill a brand-new prescription.”
Lindsay leaned over the counter, popping her gum. She pushed her breasts together slightly with her arms as she leaned, “Actually,” she said, “I just need a little information, you know, from an… expert, you know, a pharmacist.”
Aaron’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped open. He used his index finger to push his glasses up, “What kind of information?”
“Well,” she said, looking around, “it’s, you know, personal stuff. Could you help me out in the… feminine hygiene section? I have a couple of questions.”
She smiled at him.
“Oh, yeah, certainly,” he replied. He left the counter and followed her. “By the way, how old are you?”
“I’m eighteen,” she lied.
He looked at her suspiciously, then smiled.
“I have to ask, in case you want to know about… never mind. You’re eighteen.”
They were now forty feet away from the drug counter. She saw Jackson moving toward it. She positioned herself so that Aaron’s back was to the pharmacy.
“So, what can I help you with?” he asked.
Lindsay pulled three packages off the shelf, a package of feminine wipes, a vaginal deodorant spray and a tube of cleansing wash, “Could you tell me the difference between these three products. I can’t decide.”
Aaron’s face reddened a little, “What do you want to know?”
Over his shoulder, Lindsay could see Jackson moving around, in and out of the prescription drug aisles.
“Whatever you can tell me,” she replied, finally.
She smiled brightly at Aaron. The pharmacist returned the smile.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Find them!” Barnabas screamed. “I want them found and I want them dead… now!”
“We’re working on it, boss,” replied Henson. Now that Jingles was dead, Henson was Barnabas’s top lieutenant. Henson had been with him for more than ten years.
“We have a read on the girl’s phone. We’re closing in, now. It shouldn’t be long.”
“I just don’t understand it,” Barnabas said. “Rainhorse is a pro.”
“Meaning?”
“He knows better than to take the girl’s cell phone with him. He’s seen us triangulate cell signals many times.”
Henson nodded, “Maybe the girl hid the phone somewhere and he doesn’t know about it.”
“That might be it,” Barnabas admitted. “Regardless, we have to get to them, and soon.”
“I don’t understand why he did it, boss,” Henson said. “Do you really think he’s trying to ransom the girl on his own?”
Barnabas sighed, “I don’t know. I thought so at first, but now I’m not so sure.”
“His reputation is that of a cold-blooded killer.”
“Rainhorse is an assassin, and damn good at what he does,” Barnabas said, “He’s methodical and thorough, but I’m learning he doesn’t really have a taste for it.”
“I don’t follow.”
“I mean he doesn’t enjoy it. He doesn’t take pleasure in killing. It’s a job. He’s damn good at it—maybe the best even. I’ve always admired him for it, to be honest. He’s never failed me, but…”
“But what?”
“I’ve never asked him to kill a girl—someone innocent.”
“You think he drew a line in the sand?”
“Perhaps. I never gave that any thought until now. I just assumed he’d do whatever I asked. I may have made a mistake.”
“You think what? That he’s… taking the girl home?”
“The thought crossed my mind. I didn’t want to believe it, but yeah, I do.”
“He’s crazy. He knows you’ll track him down and kill him, no matter how long it takes.”
Barnabas nodded, “And that makes him more dangerous than ever. He’s all in. He won’t be concerned about his personal safety.”
Henson’s phone rang. He answered the call. He listened for thirty seconds and then said, “Hold on.”
He turned to Barnabas, “They found the girl’s phone; it was hidden on the trailer of a Peterbilt truck. There is no sign of Rainhorse or the girl.”
“Dammit!” Barnabas screamed. “Where was the phone found?”
“Near Rochester.”
“In Minnesota?”
Henson nodded, “There’s more. The truck driver told our man that he met a big Indian at a truck stop a few miles northwest of Peotone.”
“Rainhorse found the phone on the girl and planted it on the truck driver,” Barnabas said. “The son-of-a-bitch tricked us.”
“That has to be it,” Henson replied.
“A diversion,” Barnabas noted. “He wanted us to follow the truck north, away from wherever the hell he is at.”
“Sounds like it.”
“And it worked. We’ve wasted hours chasing our tails. Dammit, I knew he was too smart to lead us right to him. He’s not planning on ransoming the girl. He’s trying to save her. He is driving her home.”
Henson nodded, “I’ll get a map. We’ll chart out all the possible roads to Livingston, Montana. We know when the trucker saw him at the diner. We know how long he’s been on the road. Now that we know where he’s going, we’ll get him... and her.”
“Good. Get on it.”
“What do we do about the driver?”
“No witnesses,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The stolen Toyota RAV4 sat idling in the parking lot of a Winco supermarket. The big Cheyenne had his shirt off, allowing Lindsay to clean and dress his wound. He winced as she applied the antibiotic flush.
“Ouch,” Rainhorse called out, wincing.
“Don’t be such a baby,” she scolded.
“It hurts, dammit,” he scoffed.
She snickered.
“You’re enjoying this,” he said.
“Maybe just a little,” she admitted.
“You did good back there,” he said. “You can be my partner in crime any time.”
“I might just take you up on that,” she replied. “To tell you the truth, it’s kind of exciting.”
“Don’t get too excited,” he said. “I think the guy caught sight of me at the end.”
“Do you think he’ll call the police?”
“Sure, he will, but I’m not too worried.”
“Why?”
“It’s late and since there was no weapon involved, it will look like simple shoplifting by a small-time druggie. The police will likely respond very slowly, and even then, they’ll look locally first. It’s a small town with an undermanned police force. It will take a while to file the report. We didn’t steal any money, and th
e pharmacist will likely have a tough time even identifying what I stole without taking an inventory. I don’t think the police will treat it as a priority.”
“Good. What is this tattoo on your arm, anyway?”
“I got it in the army,” he said.
“You were in the army?”
“Don’t act so surprised,” he spouted. “I was a Ranger.”
“My mother’s boyfriend was a Ranger, too,” she said.
“I like him already. Hurry up, we’ve got to get back on the road,” he said.
“What’s the rush?” she asked. “We’re home free. My mom doesn’t suspect anything. My phone is going to lead Barnaby in a different direction, right?”
“It’s Barnabas, not Barnaby,” he said, “and with that guy, you’re never home free. Sooner or later, he’ll figure out my little ruse. I just hope it’s later rather than sooner. Are you done, yet? Ouch!”
He winced again.
“There,” she said. “All done. You can get your shirt on. You know, for a big tough guy, you’re kind of a soft-hearted guy.”
“I’m used to delivering pain,” he replied, “not taking it.”
“I don’t mean that,” she said. “I mean the whole thing. Saving me; taking care of me; getting me back home. I know what you’re sacrificing to do this. I know the risks you’re taking.”
“Well, let’s not count our chickens,” he said. “We aren’t there yet.”
“I’m trying to thank you, you big stupid Indian,” she boomed.
“Say Cheyenne, not Indian,” he reminded her. “And you’re welcome.”
Sam slipped his shirt back on, put the RAV4 into gear and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Another twelve hours or so, and we’re there,” he said.
“When we do get to Livingston, how are we gonna play this?” she asked. “I mean, won’t they take you away?”
“We do need to talk about that,” he said. “I’m going to need your help, if you’re willing.”
She nodded, “Anything. Name it.”
“Back at the safe house, when I was driving back for you, I made a call to a business associate of mine.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Never mind,” he replied. “It’s just someone I know. At any rate, this business associate is working on an exit strategy for me: money; passport; transportation; the whole nine yards. But when I get you to Livingston, I’ll need a little head start.”
“How much time?”
He shrugged, “A few hours—maybe five or six. I know you’re a pretty good actress. Maybe you could fake exhaustion, refuse to talk for a little bit. Tell them you’re sleep deprived. Act catatonic. Anything to avoid telling them about all this…”
“For six hours or so?” she finished for him.
He nodded.
“And then you’ll be able to get away?”
“I have a good shot, yes.”
“Jackson, all this begs the question, what do I tell them about all of this?”
“The truth,” he said. “If we get you home safe I don’t think Barnabas will try again this again, but you can’t be too careful. He does have a long memory. The FBI need to know about the kidnapping attempt. If you buy me six hours, it will no longer matter.”
“What about you?”
He shrugged, “Maybe you could avoid giving them my name. It may buy me a little more time.”
“My life will change forever, though, won’t it?”
He nodded, “You will need much stronger safety measures for the future.”
“You mean, like body guards?”
“You mom will hire a security consultant after this, I’m almost certain. They’ll know what to do. Things need to change in the future. No offense, but this was way too easy. Barnabas would have very easily gotten away with this if...”
“If not for you,” she finished for him.
“Yeah. I’m going to give you details on Barnabas. Details you can give to the FBI.”
“You want him caught?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Forgetting for the moment that he’s a murdering scumbag, because if he gets caught or has to run from the FBI, that will mean he has less time to look for me.”
“Won’t the FBI come after you, too?”
“They will, but if all goes well, I’ll have a new identity and be out of the country.”
“This friend of yours, he’s that good?”
“It’s a she, and yes, she is.”
“A she?” she repeated, smiling. “Now the truth begins to emerge. I want details.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sam’s phone rang. It was Hank. He answered.
“Sam, there’s been a couple of developments I thought you should know about.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve had a few of the Brotherhood Protectors listening to the scanners for police chatter all throughout the area where your girl was last seen, just in case something interesting came up.”
“And?”
“A couple of things,” he said. “Separate, but perhaps connected.”
“Tell me.”
“To begin, a short while ago the GPS signal from Lindsay’s phone abruptly ended.”
“Where?”
“Just south of Rochester, Minnesota.”
“Minnesota? What the hell would she be doing in Minnesota? That’s way out of the way.”
“There’s more. Shortly after the signal ended, there was police chatter about a homicide in that same area.”
“Oh, dear god,” Sam gasped.
“No, it’s not what you think. Police found a sixty-year-old trucker, shot in the head, close range, execution style. It was a professional hit. Sam, the murder took place at the exact same GPS coordinates the cell phone was at when the signal ended, and at approximately the same time.”
“The trucker had her cell phone?”
“Unclear, but it looks that way.”
“It has to be related.”
“I thought so, too, but how?”
“No idea.”
“Well, add this to your thought process,” Hank continued. “I also received a report that a tall, ruggedly built dark-haired Native American man, fiftyish, was reported shoplifting in a drug store in Sioux City.”
“I don’t get the relevance,” Sam said.
“I haven’t finished,” Hank replied. “The pharmacist said the shoplifter had an accomplice, a tall, thin, beautiful teenaged girl with long blondish-brown hair. She told the pharmacist she was eighteen, but he thought she may have been younger.”
“That description fits Lindsay alright,” Sam said, “but hell, that description could fit a lot of girls. I’ve never met this boyfriend of hers she is supposed to be traveling with, but I can’t imagine it would be a fifty-year old man.”
“My thought as well,” Hank said. “It seemed odd.”
“What did they steal? Money?”
“Nope, no money. The pharmacist didn’t know what was stolen. He did say the big man was coming from the direction of the drug shelves. Does Lindsay have any kind of drug habit?”
“Not that I know of, and I know her mother doesn’t think anything like that.”
“I don’t know what to tell you then. Maybe the man she was with had a drug habit.”
“So, if we follow the train of thought, Lindsay’s phone was in Rochester, hundreds of miles away from where she was when the trucker was murdered?”
“If the girl in the drug store was indeed her.”
“Sioux City makes more sense,” Sam said. “That would be on the way to Montana from Chicago. What the hell is going on?”
“Whatever it is, it has escalated to murder,” Hank said.
“Follow this theory,” Sam said. “Lindsay gets kidnapped in Chicago. Somehow, she finds a benefactor, and they run. The kidnapper’s follow. The benefactor finds a trucker headed north and they hide her phone on the truck to throw off the people trying to find her. T
he kidnappers find the trucker and kill him to eliminate a witness.”
“Sounds wild, Sam.”
“But it fits.”
“Yes, but…”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“No, but why wouldn’t they just go to the police? Or call Vandy?”
“No idea. Maybe the benefactor has a record. Maybe he wants to help her and get away. Hell, I don’t know.”
“It’s a crazy idea, Sam, but maybe just crazy enough to be true.”
“If they are on the road and my crazy theory is true, they may need help.”
“I have alerted more than a dozen of the Brotherhood Protectors who live somewhere between Sioux City and Bozeman. We are all on standby if you need help.”
“I appreciate that, Hank. Keep listening to chatter for me,” Sam responded.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m calling the FBI,” he said.
He hung up.
“Vandy!” he called out. “We have to talk.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Vandy and Sam were near the end of their rope. For over forty-five minutes Sam had been explaining the situation to FBI Agent Elijah ‘EJ’ Johnson. He was getting nowhere.
Vandy’s eyes were red and dry. She had all but cried herself into a state of dehydration.
“And you think she was kidnapped against her will?” Agent Johnson asked.
“For the fifth time, yes,” Sam exclaimed. “Look, we can’t reach her and her mother is worried sick, and all we’re doing is rehashing the same information over and over.”
“That is one crazy story, Mr. Steele.”
“But the timeline fits.”
“Ok,” Johnson said. “Look at this from my point of view, for just a minute. Let me recap. Ms. Vanderbilt said she had a phone conversation with Lindsay ten hours ago. She described the conversation as ‘pleasant and upbeat.’ Lindsay seemed fine at the time. She claimed to be driving home with her boyfriend, Steve, last name, age and address, unknown.”
Sam sighed. He knew where this was headed.
“Her phone was illegally pinged in Minnesota, but even so, you think she was knocking over a drug store with a fifty-year-old man in Sioux City, several hundred miles away?”
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