Missing in Blue Mesa

by Cindi Myers

  “I tried to reach Michelle, but she’s not answering the phone,” Ethan said. “Maybe she’s asleep.”

  Ellison clapped Ethan on the back. “Go give her the good news in person. Then you can bring her to the hospital to be reunited with her baby.”

  “What about Metwater?” Ethan asked.

  “Marco and I are on our way to his camp now to arrest him,” Ellison said. “His lawyers aren’t going to get him off the hook on this one, I promise.”

  Ethan left, forcing himself to keep close to the speed limit. Sometimes in his job he got the opportunity to do something really good. This was one of those times. He couldn’t wait to see Michelle’s face when he told her they had found Hunter safe and sound. After so much in her life going wrong for her, this time things had gone right.

  The setting sun painted the graying sky with streaks of pink and orange behind Ethan’s duplex. Purple thunderclouds loomed in the distance, and the air was heavy with the promise of a storm. Ethan parked in the drive and strode up the walk, grinning in anticipation of sharing the good news about Hunter. But the damaged front door stopped him in his tracks. “Michelle!” he called.

  When she didn’t answer, he drew his weapon and approached cautiously. He nudged open the damaged door and stepped inside. Only dark, still air greeted him. Maybe Michelle was taking a nap, though he couldn’t imagine she would sleep until she knew her son was safe.

  He flipped on the light and started for the bedroom, but was only a few feet into the room when he stopped and stared at the overturned bar stool, shattered cup and scattered bits of plastic on the floor. Heart hammering, he knelt and put a fingertip to the coffee pooled among the shards of china. Cold. Then he spotted another dark puddle a foot from the coffee, and icy fear gripped him. He took the flashlight from his utility belt and played it across the stain, noting the syrupy burgundy-brown shimmer of blood.

  “Michelle!” he shouted, and ran toward the bedroom. Empty. He checked the bathroom and the guest room, and looked into the tiny fenced backyard. Nothing. But he found her purse on the sofa, and her sweater on the peg by the door. Keys in one hand, cell phone in the other, he jogged back to the cruiser.

  “Ellison.” The commander’s voice was crisp, warning the caller not to waste his time.

  “Michelle’s gone. The house is empty and there’s sign of a struggle and blood on the floor.”

  “Stay there,” Ellison ordered. “I’ll send someone. Stay put until they get there.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ethan slumped against the cruiser and stared toward the house. Where was he going to go, anyway? He had no idea where Michelle might be, or what had happened to her.

  He stayed outside until a Ranger Brigade cruiser pulled over to the curb. Simon and Randall got out, along with Randall’s police dog, Lotte. “The commander said something happened with Michelle,” Randall said.

  “I came home to tell her we’d found Hunter, and the house was empty,” Ethan said. “There’s an overturned chair, a broken coffee cup and a little bit of blood on the floor. Her purse is still there, and her sweater. I don’t think she would have left without them if she had had the choice.” He was surprised at how calm he sounded, how detached and businesslike, when inside his emotions were in turmoil.

  “Let’s take a look,” Simon said, and led the way up the walk.

  They took pictures and measurements, and searched the duplex for anything Ethan might have missed. Lotte sniffed Michelle’s handbag and sweater and on the command “Find” trailed the scent to the end of the driveway. Simon found another spot of blood on the curb and took a sample for the lab.

  “I’d say someone came in a car and she left with them,” Simon said. “Either voluntarily or involuntarily.”

  “The blood tells me it was involuntary,” Randall said.

  “Who have we got watching Metwater?” Ethan asked.

  Simon and Randall exchanged looks. “When the call came in about the hostage situation, the commander pulled me off that duty,” Randall said. “Metwater didn’t show any signs of going anywhere.”

  “Somebody should check if he’s still in camp,” Simon said.

  “I’ll do it,” Ethan said.

  “We’ll run these samples to the lab and put out an APB for Michelle,” Simon said. “And one for Metwater, too, in case he’s done a runner.”

  “Hang in there,” Randall said. “We’ll find her.”

  Ethan nodded and climbed into his cruiser. He only hoped they found Michelle before it was too late. There hadn’t been a lot of blood, but any at all was too much when it was someone you cared about.

  Someone you loved. This was a heck of a time to realize he was in love with Michelle, but a crisis brought everything into clearer focus. Maybe there were more than a few reasons why the two of them shouldn’t be together, but right now the only one that mattered was that it was tearing his heart out to think of her hurt or in need. He would do anything to save her—anything to be with her again. That was the kind of glue that kept people together in spite of their differences and difficulties, he thought. If only he had the chance to prove that theory to her.

  He watched for signs of Michelle along the road as he drove toward Metwater’s camp, scrutinizing every car and truck and camper that passed. When he turned off the paved road, he pushed the cruiser as fast as he dared, rattling over washboarded sections and bouncing over potholes with a force that threatened to shake parts of the vehicle—or parts of him—loose.

  At last, he screeched to a halt at Metwater’s compound and jogged up the trail to the camp. He bounded up the steps to Metwater’s motor home and pounded hard on the door. “Open up, police!” he shouted.

  “He’s not there.”

  Ethan turned to see a shirtless young man with a shaved head and a torso full of colorful tattoos. “What did you say?” he asked.

  “He’s not there,” the man said. “He left about an hour ago—maybe a little more.”

  “Where did he go?”

  The man shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Was he by himself?”

  The man considered the question. “Yeah. I think he was.”

  That was probably the best answer Ethan was going to get. “How did he leave?” he asked. “Did someone drive him?” That was Metwater’s usual habit—to have someone else drive him on his errands.

  “Nah. He was driving that old car of Starfall’s.”

  “What’s your name?” Ethan asked.

  “Roscoe.”

  He didn’t offer a last name, but Ethan didn’t need to know it. “You’re the mechanic, right?” he asked. “The guy who salvages junk cars?”

  Roscoe looked wary. “How do you know that?”

  “Starfall mentioned that you’d worked on her car for her.”

  “Yeah. It’s old, but it’s in pretty good shape.”

  “You ever work on other cars—for people other than Family members?” Ethan asked.

  “I could. Why? You got one that needs fixing?”

  “I’m wondering if you ever crossed paths with guys who were bringing in cars from town,” Ethan said. “Stripping them for parts, or maybe altering them before moving them on to other locations.”

  Roscoe took a step back. “You’re talking about stolen cars.” He shook his head. “Nuh-uh. I don’t mess with that.”

  “But you might know someone who does? Someone else here in camp?” Ethan looked around—the few people who had been out and about when he arrived had vanished, though he suspected more than one pair of eyes watched him from the cover of tents and trailers.

  “Nobody here in camp,” Roscoe said. “The Prophet wouldn’t allow it. He’s always talking to us about being honest and respecting other people’s property.”

  “Fine. Nobody here in camp. But somebody has been boosting cars in town and stripping them down out here
on public land.” He gave Roscoe a hard look. “If I find out you know who it is and you don’t tell me, I’ll have to assume it’s because you’re involved. A guy like you, with mechanical ability, would be a real asset to an operation like that. And if you already have a record...” The last point was a guess on Ethan’s part, but an educated one, since some of Roscoe’s artwork looked like jailhouse tats.

  Roscoe paled. “All I know is a couple of guys named Smith asked me if I’d be interested in working for them.”

  Smith again. “Describe them.”

  “Young. Brown hair, kind of long. Brothers, I think, but the younger one takes the lead, does most of the talking.”

  “Any first names?” Ethan asked.

  Roscoe shook his head. “I never heard any.”

  “How did you meet them?” Ethan asked.

  “They came up to me at the salvage yard about a month ago. I had a load of scrap I’d hauled in to sell. Not cars, but a couple of old washing machines, some couch springs—you wouldn’t believe the trash people dump out here.”

  “And this Smith guy just walked up to you?”

  “Yeah. He said he’d heard I was good with cars and he needed someone like me to do some work for him.”

  “Did he say who recommended you?”

  Roscoe frowned. “I didn’t ask. I figure it was somebody I knew on the inside. I told him I didn’t do that stuff anymore—that I was straight and going to stay that way.”

  “What did he say to that?” Ethan asked.

  “He laughed.” Roscoe scowled. “Made me mad. I told him where to go and got in my truck and left.”

  “So he never actually said he was stealing cars?” Ethan tried not to show his disappointment.

  “He didn’t have to. I know the types. Not too long after that, the guy who runs the salvage yard, Frankie, told me the cops were on the lookout for a car theft ring.”

  “You ever see the Smith brothers again?” Ethan asked. “They ever come by to visit the Prophet?”

  “No way! I’m pretty sure that’s why they laughed at me. When I told them I’d gone straight, I told them I was following the Prophet and he didn’t hold with stealing. When people don’t understand religion, the easiest way to put it down is to laugh at it.”

  Or maybe they had been laughing because they knew how wrong Roscoe was to believe the Prophet was so lily-white and honest. “Any idea where they’re operating?” Ethan asked.

  Roscoe shook his head. “I don’t know and I don’t want to know.”

  “They boosted my mother’s car yesterday,” Ethan said. “Brand-new Accord. She’s pretty upset about it.”

  “Aw, dude, I’m sorry,” Roscoe said. “I hope she had good insurance. These guys will have it stripped down or driven off to Mexico within twenty-four hours. I mean, I never saw their operation, but they struck me as pros. The name of the game in that business is speed—get the evidence off the street so you can’t be linked with it and caught.”

  “Except you were caught,” Ethan guessed.

  Roscoe surprised him with a grin. “Yeah, but only because I got greedy. I boosted a sweet Corvette and thought I could give it a new paint job and hang on to it. Stupid. But for the best, too. Otherwise, I might never have seen the light, you know?”

  Ethan nodded. “Thanks for telling me what you know about the Smiths.”

  “Sorry about your mom’s car,” he said. “If you see Starfall, tell her I said hi. And I hope they find her kid.”

  “We found Hunter,” Ethan said. “But now Michelle—Starfall—is missing.”

  “No!” Roscoe shook his head. “Some people sure have bad luck.”

  “Luck didn’t have anything to do with it,” Ethan said. “We think she might be with Daniel Metwater.” He was careful not to say he thought she had been abducted. He didn’t want anyone to think their Prophet was being accused of anything and needed protecting.

  “Maybe she’s trying to talk him into taking her back,” Roscoe said. “I bet he will, if she has the right attitude. He only kicked her out because she needed a little tough love. We all do, sometimes.”

  Ethan didn’t bother correcting the young man. He handed Roscoe one of his cards. “Call me if you hear anything more about the car thieves—or if you see Starfall.”

  “She in some kind of trouble with the cops?” Roscoe asked, studying the business card.

  “We just want to make sure she’s okay,” Ethan said.

  He debated questioning others but decided not to waste any more time. He raced back to his cruiser. As soon as he was in cell coverage again, he called in to Ranger Brigade Headquarters. Simon answered the phone. “What have you got?” he asked.

  “Metwater left camp more than an hour ago. He was driving Michelle’s old car. The maroon Chevy.”

  “Yeah, I know it,” Simon said. “We’ll put out a bulletin to watch for it. Anything else?”

  “I talked to a guy named Roscoe. He’s the group’s mechanic, makes extra money selling salvage metal. He said a couple of guys named Smith—brothers—approached him about working for them parting out stolen cars.”

  “Another side project for Metwater, or their own idea?” Simon asked.

  “Roscoe thought Metwater didn’t know anything about it, but he comes across as a true believer in the Prophet.”

  “I’ll see what I can get out of the Smiths,” Simon said. “See if they knew anything about Metwater’s plans for Michelle. Where are you now?”

  “About fifteen miles from headquarters. I’m going to patrol around here for a while, see what I can spot.”

  “Good idea,” Simon said. “Keep an eye on the weather. We’re supposed to have a storm coming in—could bring flash flooding.”

  Ethan looked out at the dark clouds massed in the dusky sky. Wind bent the trees along the side of the road. “I’ll be careful,” he said, and ended the call.

  He headed toward the lake, away from Ranger Headquarters. Where was Metwater most likely to go? He had no idea. For all he had studied and observed the phony Prophet, he knew very little about how the man thought. He called the commander. “Simon updated me about the situation,” Ellison said. “Have you learned anything new?”

  “No, sir. Are you still with the Smith brothers?”

  “I am.”

  “Ask them if they know of anyone else who was helping Metwater—anyone not in his family,” Ethan said. “Ask them if he ever talked about what he would do to Michelle. I’m trying to figure out what he’s up to.”

  “Will do. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything.”

  “Yes, sir.” He ended the call and gripped the steering wheel tighter. All he needed was a clue—some little lead that would send him in the right direction. Metwater could be halfway to Denver by now—or very nearby, down one of the countless side roads that wound through the wilderness area. Ethan was tempted to turn off onto one of those roads, but he needed to stay in cell phone range in order to wait for the commander’s return call.

  Michelle was a survivor. He needed to remember that. She had been through so much already—more than most people could endure. Yet she had kept going. She would do everything in her power to stay alive for her son.

  His phone rang and he snatched it up. “Hello?”

  “The Smiths aren’t talking,” Commander Ellison said. “They’re waiting for their attorney to show up, but he’s already advised them not to speak with us.”

  “I’m going to take a look in the country around the camp,” Ethan said. “Metwater knows that area best, so he might stick to familiar ground.” What he didn’t say—what he knew the commander was also thinking—was that if Metwater planned to kill Michelle, he would know places to hide the body where it would never be found.

  Ethan ended the call and turned the cruiser around, headed for the turnoff to Metwater’s camp
at the base of Mystic Mesa. As he passed a dirt turnoff that led down toward the lake, he thought he saw a burgundy-colored sedan shrouded in a cloud of dust.

  He braked hard, mind racing. Had the car really been Michelle’s old beater, or was his imagination playing tricks on him? He swung onto the narrow road and gunned the cruiser, fishtailing wildly as he struggled to keep up with the vehicle ahead. All he could see now was the occasional glow of brake lights and the dust rising like mist in the glow of his headlights.

  He cut the lights, relying on the dim remnants of daylight to guide him. He didn’t want whoever was in that car to realize he was following. Light flashed on water, and he braked as he realized they were almost to the lake. He pulled to the side of the road and parked, letting the other car drive on down to the shore. He took out his phone to call in his location and suppressed a groan at the message that he had no service.

  Wind buffeted him as he stepped out of the cruiser, bringing with it the scent of rain and damp sage. Jagged lightning tore the sky on the far side of the lake, and the headlights from the first car showed whitecaps on the dark water.

  Ethan crept toward the parked car, shrinking back into the shadows when the driver’s door opened. Metwater climbed out, then opened the back door and pulled someone out. Michelle fell to her knees, her hands tied behind her back, and Metwater hauled her up roughly. Ethan couldn’t see her that well in the growing darkness, but he recognized the tangle of brown curls around her face, and the defiant posture with which she faced her captor.

  He debated going back to the cruiser for his rifle, but taking the time to retrieve it might mean the difference between life and death for Michelle. He didn’t think Metwater had brought her here at this time of evening to go swimming. Ethan moved forward down the slope toward the pair by the water.

  A rock shifted beneath him and he fell, skidding down the slope. He rolled, drawing his weapon as bullets thudded into the dirt where a fraction of a second before he had lain. Michelle screamed and Ethan peered from behind a log where he had sought cover in time to see Metwater grab her by the hair and pull her in front of him. Now Ethan couldn’t fire on Metwater without endangering her.