by Lisa Jackson
Neither had overheard what the two losers had planned for them, but they’d both known about Rosalie going missing; it had been all over the news. Candice’s name hadn’t been mentioned, as far as they knew, probably because she’d been captured more recently, and neither girl had caught the news or heard about it on Facebook or Twitter. That bit of information, of course, caused Candice to start sobbing again.
Perfect, Rosalie thought, but didn’t reprimand her as she was crying quietly.
As both girls had been forced out of the truck, they’d seen the barn and a lean-to with a car parked in it and a little cabin, but it had been foggy. There had been some fields, maybe, but no animals that they’d seen, and they each said they’d driven through the forests.
“It’s in the hills, above the river,” Mary-Alice said. “I think we passed that old tavern. The Elbow Room.”
Rosalie had missed that when she’d been hauled up here.
“I didn’t see it,” Dana said, “but I was so freaked.”
Mary-Alice hesitated. “Me too, but . . . but my uncle used to go there years ago, when my grandpa was alive. They both worked in the woods, and my mom said they hung out there after work. It’s not too far from that old wreck of a house, you know the famous one, Blue Peacock Manor, or whatever it is. Where that new girl lives.” The sneer in her voice returned. “Jade McAdams.”
“We’re close to her house?” Dana said, and Rosalie was at a bit of a loss. These new girls had lived here most of their lives, it seemed, and that would help. Rosalie was a newcomer, didn’t know the old landmarks.
“Yeah. It’s around here.” Mary-Alice seemed sure.
“How far from town?” Rosalie asked. “Or the tavern, or another farmhouse, or something?”
Neither girl was certain, but their impressions helped. At least they had some idea of where they were and the direction of the nearest road. That was something. For a few seconds Rosalie felt a sliver of hope. Until she reminded herself that the only reason the captives would be allowed to view their surroundings, as well as the faces of their kidnappers, was that this barn was temporary. Either they were going to be taken to another location, probably far away, or they were going to be killed.
An icy dread stole through her, but she tried like hell to keep it at bay. She had to fight whatever sick fate the kidnappers had planned.
Once she’d learned as much as she could, and the girls were starting to repeat themselves or worry aloud, she said, “We have to work fast,” and took heart that both Mary-Alice and Dana seemed to have more backbone than Candice. As she had with Candice, Rosalie instructed the new girls to search their stalls inch by inch and look for anything that could be used as a weapon. Surprisingly Mary-Alice came up with the buckets that were used for their toilets and said, “I’ll swing mine at his ugly head.”
“Me too, but I’m gonna make sure it’s full first,” Dana added bitterly, clearing her throat. Though she was obviously scared spitless and sniffed back tears, she was willing to get on board with the escape plan. Dana said that she’d been a gymnast until last year, when she’d suffered an ankle injury. Now, she admitted, she’d gained weight and was really out of practice, but she was willing to try scaling the walls. Better yet, Mary-Alice claimed she was a cheerleader, used to doing human pyramids and being thrown into the air to land on her feet and was, she informed Rosalie, in great shape. The snooty girl at least seemed game.
“Then go for it,” Rosalie said. “But listen up. I’m not kidding when I say we’re out of time. Don’t freak out, but tomorrow night, things are gonna get worse.”
“How?” Dana asked, and Rosalie launched into what she’d overheard, leaving out nothing.
“An auction?” Mary-Alice whispered, horrified.
“I’m not sure. But whatever it is, it isn’t good.”
“Fuckers!” Dana declared over Candice’s sniffling.
Mary-Alice’s snooty tone disintegrated. “Let’s get out of here. Now!”
Finally, Rosalie thought, someone who understood. Felt the urgency. Was willing to help in trying to get free.
Now, maybe, just maybe, they had a real chance to escape.
He drove past the diner, still not believing his good luck.
Twenty minutes earlier, he’d parked in an alley near Hal’s Auto Repair. Knowing it was about closing time, he’d decided to wait until the last grease monkey left, and then he’d hop the fence and return the magnetic sign he’d “borrowed” to its rightful place on the Longstreet van. Hal was an old-school businessman, a guy who’d lived and worked in Stewart’s Crossing for all of his near-eighty years, a man whose word was as good as his handshake, and a man who had avoided computers and everything he considered high-tech. Including security cameras.
So he’d felt safe in his plan to jump the fence and return the sign.
But, as it had turned out, his course of action had changed the second he’d spied a Honda Civic pull out of the lot with none other than Jade McAdams at the wheel.
He’d fired up his truck and followed her at a safe distance as she’d driven around town to finally land here, at the Columbia Diner, where he’d first met Star and later abducted her. It was amazing, he thought, how easily the girls’ new names had stuck. Once he had them rounded up and locked in their stalls, he immediately made the transition, and they’d literally lost their identities, become nothing more than flesh to be traded. He smiled at that, thinking about how much money they would fetch. The bidding, if he played it right, would go well into the tens of thousands for each ripe, young woman. That’s why he hadn’t touched them himself, hadn’t so much as run a finger down their soft cheeks, or stripped off their bras to feel a tit. He didn’t want to damage the goods, though he’d love to experience at least one of those tight little pussies around his cock. Or force one to give him head. That would be nice. A hot wet mouth, slick tongue and . . . shit, he felt his damned body respond to his fantasies, his cock growing rock-hard.
That wouldn’t do.
Not yet.
As he watched Jade enter the restaurant, he’d considered going inside himself but hadn’t wanted to press his luck. He’d driven to a wide spot in the road and kept his eye on the rearview mirror. The fog made it tricky, but with few vehicles on the road, he could wait, his truck idling.
Now, after smoking two cigarettes, he was getting impatient. What the hell was she doing? He figured Jade’s mother wouldn’t let her daughter out of her sight for long, so he told himself to be patient. But the fog was getting thicker, and he could no longer distinguish her car from the others in the diner’s lot.
That worried him.
He couldn’t blow this God-given opportunity.
Reaching for a third smoke, he saw taillights glow red through the growing darkness as a vehicle backed out of a parking slot.
The car turned around, headlights heading his direction, reflecting in the side-view mirror.
He waited to put his truck into drive, not wanting to alert the driver by flashing his tail or backup lights until the car had passed.
But it was a lumbering old Cadillac that drove by slowly, an older man in a hat at the wheel.
Damn, He watched the old guy roll past, red taillights glowing brightly as he stopped to enter the side street leading into town.
“Son of a bitch.” He couldn’t wait much longer. People were expecting him. If he didn’t show, it would raise suspicion, and he couldn’t afford that, any more than he could afford not to grab Jade McAdams. He had to remind himself that in about thirty hours his mission would be over, the transaction complete, and he would be gone, away from this small town with its small-minded citizens, away from the claws of Stewart’s Crossing. Just the name of the town curdled his stomach. But he wouldn’t have to be here long. He had his escape plan plotted, a new ID tucked away, a new life just hours away. He planned to drive into Canada to begin with, using his current ID; then in Vancouver he’d get on a plane bound for Mexico, but he would stop there fo
r only a couple of days, pay a local fisherman to boat him from Cabo to Mazatlan and then fly south to San Paulo. He’d get lost in Brazil, find a small village where, he hoped, he could live like a king.
And never think of Stewart’s Fucking Crossing again.
Another glance in the rearview mirror as a set of headlights blazed toward him. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, and this time, he got lucky. He recognized Jade’s Honda. Ramming his truck into gear as she passed, he left his headlights off and hit the gas. The trouble was that she flew by, doing nearly forty in a twenty-five. What was she thinking? Didn’t she notice the damned fog? If she drew a cop’s attention for speeding, he’d be shit out of luck.
“Slow down,” he warned aloud as he watched her take a corner much too fast. The Civic slid a bit. He hit the gas. Once she’d turned onto a busier street, he switched on his lights and tried to gain on her, but that proved impossible when she barely paused at a stop sign, then hit the gas, shooting across the intersection and forcing him to run the stop. A Volkswagen van nearly clipped the rear end of his truck, but the driver swerved at the last second, honking loudly and, he saw in his rearview, flipping him off.
“Fuck you too!”
What was wrong with her, driving like a maniac?
For a second he thought she’d seen him. That’s why she was speeding; she was trying to outrun him. But a moment later he decided that was giving her too much credit.
Nope, she was just a teenager in a hurry.
He had to keep up with her without getting a ticket.
Fortunately, Stewart’s Crossing was a small town, and it wasn’t three more minutes before he was out of the city limits, the traffic thin as he kept her taillights in his field of vision. He followed her as she drove upward, into the hills, not knowing that she was heading right where he wanted her to go, closer and closer to the spot where he’d hidden the others, a barn that would become her new, temporary home, a place, ironically, very close to the damned Blue Peacock Manor.
Bellisario had gotten hung up at the station.
First, her sister had called with another report on Mom, then the security tape from the mall where Dana Rickert had last been seen had arrived, so she had taken the time to view it. As she watched, she felt sick. Sure enough, two men had approached Dana as she was getting into her car, her hands full of packages; while one had distracted her, the other had urged her forward, no doubt with some kind of small, hidden weapon, probably a pistol or knife, though it wasn’t visible on the tape. The men’s faces were obscured by the fog, but the camera had caught a clear shot of the vehicle and its Washington license plates. The out-of-state plates weren’t a big deal. Every day, thousands of Washington residents drove across the bridges into Oregon, where they worked and/or shopped. Since Washington had a state sales tax and Oregon didn’t, shopping centers and malls had sprung up on the south side of the Columbia to lure the out-of-staters and their shopping dollars.
A check with the Washington DMV and Bellisario discovered that the truck captured in the security camera’s lens was registered to Evan Tolliver, the same guy whose cell phone was used to text Mary-Alice Eklund.
To top it all off, she’d discovered that Tolliver too was MIA.
His father had filed a Missing Persons report in Vancouver. The Vancouver PD had interviewed him, and he’d said his son had told him he was going to their vacation home in Sun River, Oregon. But according to the management service that maintained the home, he had never arrived. Nor had Evan Tolliver shown up for an appointment with a client who lived in The Dalles.
The other kink in the story was that Tolliver’s old man had told the Washington cops who interviewed him that his son had been infatuated with Sarah McAdams, but that the relationship had died before it got started. He’d even speculated that Sarah’s departure from Tolliver Construction, and ultimately Vancouver, had been sparked because of Evan’s advances. “That boy is like a dog with a bone,” the father had said, “won’t give something up until he’s damned well ready.”
“We’ll see about that,” Bellisario said to herself after she’d talked to the cops who had interviewed the old man. Was Evan Tolliver the abductor? Had he flipped out and started taking girls off the streets of the town where the woman who had rejected him had taken up residence? That didn’t make any sense whatsoever, not that people couldn’t be strange. The images from the camera weren’t clear, but they were being compared to pictures of Evan Tolliver and other known criminals. Bellisario wasn’t certain, of course, but the smaller guy looked familiar, a lot like Hardy Jones. She’d already put out a call to bring Jones back in because she wanted to see what he had to say, find out if he knew Tolliver, and rattle his goddamned cage.
Stuffing her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, she marched through the station to the back exit and shouldered open the door. Outside, feeling a sense of urgency, she jogged to her Jeep.
What did Evan Tolliver, a man who’d never been arrested in his life, have to do with the girls who’d disappeared from Stewart’s Crossing?
She damned well was going to find out, and she knew where to start—back at Blue Peacock Manor.
The house was cold.
Outside, night threatened, the fog still hanging low.
And something pulled at Sarah’s mind, irritating her, something she should now remember. She dropped her keys onto the dining room table, where they clattered onto an open, coffee-ringed copy of the architectural plans for the house; she spent the next five minutes feeding the fire, trying to warm up the first floor. With a poker she prodded the charred logs, exposing glowing embers, then placed a chunk of mossy wood in the firebox. As the coals touched the dry wood, the fire began to crackle hungrily, throwing off the beginnings of heat and casting flickering shadows against the far wall.
What was it?
Rocking back on her heels, she studied the flames, but her thoughts were turned inward. Beyond Clint Walsh and what to do with him, and the continual worry over her daughters, there was something else toying with her, teasing at the corners of her brain.
Try as she might, she couldn’t urge whatever it was from its hiding spot.
Straightening, she dropped the poker into its stand, then walked back to the dining room, where Gracie, her iPad at hand, was once again poring over the pages of Helen’s journal. The tablet was propped against the family Bible, once again open to the mess that was the Stewart family history.
In her mind’s eye Sarah envisioned a skeletal tree with naked branches all tangled and twisted by the intricate lies of generations.
“I just don’t get why Grandma left you out,” Gracie said.
“Me neither.”
“It’s as if you don’t exist. Me or Jade either.”
“I know.” No more lying. No more excuses. Maybe Arlene had been busy when Sarah had been born, maybe her hands had been full, but sometime in the last thirty-odd years, she could have taken the time to write down the name and birth date of her daughter and her granddaughters . . . unless . . .
Unless you’re not Arlene and Franklin’s child,
“No,” she said aloud.
“No what?” Gracie asked.
“Nothing,” Sarah said, her mind spinning. That wasn’t right. She’d been raised by her mother and father, and she looked like her siblings and . . .
And she confused you with Theresa when you visited her, didn’t she? What if you’ve been living a lie all your life, Sarah? What if you’re not who you think you are?
“Mom?” Gracie was staring up at her with wide, worried eyes.
“I’m fine, honey. It’s all just a little weird.”
“I know.”
Anxious inside, she tried to concentrate. To calm down, she took the time to reheat a cup of coffee in the microwave and carried it into the dining room, where she promptly left it, untouched, on the table. How could she find out the truth, whatever it was, and really, did she even want to know? She glanced at the house plans, the reason she’d come
here in the first place. Of course, there was no answer in the old drawings; there couldn’t be. But she shoved her keys away from the scrolls of the plans and flattened the wide pages, her gaze skimming each one, searching for something, but not quite knowing what. Pages were labeled with different dates, showing the additions she’d displayed for her brothers the last time they’d come by. Drawings of roof lines and footings, walls and plumbing lines, rooms and walls, and finally, the last page, a map of the original homestead that included all the surrounding acres, including the legal description and the lot lines denoting ownership.
A creek wandered through the property, and a pond was located on Stewart land, near where it abutted the Walsh property. Somewhere along the line, someone had penciled in the existing buildings and landmarks, including the house, pump house, machine shed, and barns. There were notes elsewhere on the property where an old bunkhouse had once existed, complete with a stable; close to the Walsh property line, near the creek, was the old cemetery.
For the love of God, what was she doing? Searching house plans for a secret to her identity? Frowning, she walked to the window and looked out. Where the hell was Jade? She’d texted half an hour ago. Her teeth on edge, she decided to call. If they were going to make the party, they’d have to get going soon and—
Thud!
The sound echoed in Sarah’s ears. Echoed through her heart. She looked upward, to the ceiling; the noise had come from an upper story.
Theresa’s room,
Gracie didn’t look up.
The dog, lying on the floor at Gracie’s feet, didn’t so much as move.
“Did you hear that?” Sarah asked, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. No one else was in the house. At least no one was supposed to be.
Gracie placed a finger on the open page of Helen’s journal, marking the place she’d been reading and shook her head. “No.”
“Probably nothing,” Sarah said, to keep her child calm, though she couldn’t imagine how Gracie and the dog hadn’t reacted. “But I’ll check anyway.”