"What kind of a man—?"
His eyes flashed. "You have no idea how many people I've helped over the years. People like him. Like you, Amanda. Do you remember how you were when you first came into my office? A scared, guilty girl. You could barely function. I gave you the tools to live, gave you the confidence to do all you've done. And how do you repay me?" He smashed his fist down on her laptop. "With this!" He squeezed his eyes shut and forced his fists to relax. When he opened his eyes, his face transformed into a sad smile. "I never wanted it to end this way. You've given me no choice."
Gabriel turned the computer over and powered it on. It displayed nothing but a black screen. "Success," he said.
He tossed the computer onto the back seat and dug in her bag until he found her flash drive. "I'll keep this," he said, pocketing it. "It'll be fun to see what else you have stored on here."
Gabriel stepped out of the car and made his way to the driver's side. This was it. He'd kill her now, leave her body to rot beside Alan's. Oh God, oh God . . . She didn't know how to pray, wished she'd listened to Mark's prayers more closely. If God didn't intervene, she was going to die.
Gabriel opened her door. "Come on."
"Please let me go. I promise I won't tell anyone."
Gabriel bent over, grabbed her chin, and turned her face until it was inches from his. "You've made that promise before, Amanda. I believed you once. I won't be duped again."
He unfastened the cuff attached to the door and yanked her from the car. He dragged her, stumbling down the narrow lane until they reached a silver, snow-covered sedan. He looked at her with a grin and then tossed her keys into the woods. "They'll find them eventually."
Then he pushed a button on a keyless remote, and the trunk of the sedan popped open. "I hope you don't still suffer from claustrophobia."
Panicked, she yanked against his grip, kicked him in the shin.
Gabriel threw her against the open trunk and backhanded her. She crumpled, dizzy, unable to fight back when he lifted her and shoved her into the trunk. A moment later, he slammed the door on top of her, leaving her in cold blackness.
Mark leaned against his car, staring at his smartphone as if it might have the answer, knowing as the pit in his stomach grew that Amanda would die tonight. She would die, and there was nothing he could do to protect her.
He couldn't leave, couldn't move. This is where she'd been seen last. Where could he go now? Back to his mother's house to wait for a call? We've found your wife's body . . .
But they wouldn't call, because there wouldn't be a body to find. Like the teenage girl who'd had the courage to turn in Sheppard, Amanda's body would never be discovered.
The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he rubbed the skin. There was something there—something that bothered him. It was like he'd just revealed a piece to a jigsaw puzzle, and he couldn't figure out how to fit it in. But it mattered. What it was, he didn't know, but it lingered in his thoughts like the snow clinging to his coat. Just when he tried to grab the thought, like the snow, it melted away.
He went back to where his mind had been a moment before. The teenager who had accused Sheppard had disappeared. Though foul play was suspected, the girl was never found. It wasn't that easy to hide a body and keep it hidden forever. Surely Sheppard's property had been searched after the girl disappeared. But what if . . . what if she wasn't on Sheppard's property? Nobody had ever put Sheppard together with Morass before. Maybe they needed to search Morass's property.
He looked up the white pages on his smartphone, typed Morass into the bar, and searched New Hampshire.
A name popped up. Harlan Morass. He jumped in his car and dialed Chris at the same time.
"Do you know Alan's father's name?"
Chris hesitated. "Uh, let's see." Mark could hear the clicking of the keyboard through the phone. "Here it is. Harlan."
"That's it! Harlan Morass owns a house near Lake Winnipesaukee. It must be a vacation home."
"You're thinking that's where the girl is buried?"
"Yeah. And if I'm right, I bet Amanda's on her way there right now."
The car was moving. With each turn, Amanda rolled and lurched. How long had it been? It felt like ten hours, but it was probably more like ten minutes. She wore no watch, usually relying on her cell phone to tell her the time. No cell phone now, no clock to tick away the final moments of her life.
The trunk was her coffin, smaller than a coffin. Panic rose from deep within her, a surge of adrenaline combined with fear, growing until she couldn't hold it in any longer. She screamed, kicked, punched at the metal surrounding her. It was no use. She'd never get out, but she couldn't give up, not yet. She pounded her feet into the trunk's door over and over, not making a single dent. In frustration she smashed her hand into the hard metal of the trunk lid, and pain shot up her arm.
The pain brought her back to reality. She couldn't panic. She couldn't hyperventilate—with the limited air, she'd pass out for sure. She needed to think.
She took three deep breaths, forcing herself to exhale completely, and then thought about the air supply again. Would there be enough, or would she suffocate? She concentrated on her breathing. In and out. Slowly. No rush. No panic. No fear.
Right. She was terrified.
In retrospect, it seemed obvious that Sheppard was dangerous. She'd known, yet she hadn't been afraid. Why? Because she'd trusted Mark to protect her. After all, wasn't that why she'd been attracted to him in the first place? If any man could protect her from Gabriel Sheppard, it was Mark Johnson. Being married to him, Amanda had allowed herself to slip into the fantasy that Gabriel Sheppard wouldn't hurt her. Now, as the bruise on her cheek throbbed, the lies she'd told herself faded away. Sheppard was going to kill her.
From the look in his eyes, he was looking forward to it.
And Mark . . . Mark was gone. When Chris had told her Mark's nickname—the prophet—it hadn't surprised her. Mark always knew more than anyone else. And she'd always trusted him.
For almost ten years, Mark had been her rock, the solid ground she'd built her life on. When he seemed to despise her for her past, she was crushed. And when she'd learned about his affair with Annalise, she'd lost faith in him. He wasn't the man she'd thought he was. He wasn't trustworthy. He wasn't her savior. He was just a flawed man, like the rest. That was why she'd gone against his advice this weekend, because she no longer trusted him.
And now she had nobody she could trust.
The swaying of the car, the fear enveloping her, reminded her of the terrible accident that had killed her best friend and sent her to therapy. Amanda and Lisa were making plans to ditch her little brother as soon as they got to the beach. And then suddenly, shrieking tires, a short scream, and the deafening sound of metal against metal. It happened so fast. One minute they were planning a trip to the arcade, the next . . .
Amanda never lost consciousness. Trapped between two bodies and unable to even flinch, let alone get herself out, she stared at the only thing visible outside of the car—the dark green side of the overturned tractor-trailer—and prayed.
Please save them. Please send someone to rescue us. She'd said it over and over, trusting God even as she felt her friends slip away.
By the time the ambulance arrived, Lisa, her brother, and her mother were dead. Lisa's father clung to life but died a few hours later from complications during surgery.
Amanda walked away from the accident with minor injuries.
It was Dr. Sheppard who'd suggested it was human instinct to want to believe in a higher power when feeling powerless. Believe in yourself—that's what he'd encouraged her to do. But how could she? He'd said it himself—she'd been powerless. She never believed in herself, she had no idea how. So she'd believed in Gabriel. And when he'd proved to be less than perfect, she looked for someone else to place her faith in. And she found what she was looking for in Mark. And she'd discarded the God who'd let her down.
Amanda hadn't really prayed since th
e car accident, years ago.
Dear God, she thought, and with that, a small sob escaped. Dear God, have You been there all along? I have no right to ask You for anything now, and if You're there . . . Oh, God, please be there. I need You to be there now.
I don't want to die like this. I want to go home. I want to kiss my daughters and raise them and take care of them.
She thought of Mark, and tears burned her eyes. She loved him. She'd always loved him, but she'd been so foolish. How could she have thrown away their marriage so callously? And now . . . now all she wanted was to feel Mark's arms around her again.
God, give me the chance to tell Mark I love him, to tell him how sorry I am for everything. If he rejects me, at least he'll know how I feel.
She imagined Mark's rejection, remembered his instructions. File the papers. But even if it meant facing rejection, she had to tell him the truth. She loved him, and she couldn't stand the thought that he might live the rest of his life and never know the truth.
Please, God, don't let it be too late. Help me. If You're there, please help me.
But why would God help her now? For some reason, she'd been spared in that car accident. And what had she done? She'd become involved with a married man. She'd almost broken up a family. She should have died—that's what she deserved.
She couldn't think about that. She didn't want what she deserved.
The car made a sharp turn, and Amanda's head smashed into the metal behind her. She rubbed the tender spot as the road became rougher. Her right side was almost numb from the pressure of her body against the metal plate of the trunk's floor. It took some maneuvering, but she managed to turn herself over. Something jabbed into her hip. She reached her hand underneath her and found nothing there. Whatever it was, it was in her coat.
She gasped. Could it be? She twisted onto her back and reached her right hand into the inside pocket on the left side of her coat. It closed around a small, round can, which she tugged out. Though she couldn't see it, she knew exactly what it was. Pepper spray. Thank you, God.
The car slowed down as the road became rough and bumpy. And then the car slowed to a stop. She felt it settle as Gabriel parked.
She was out of time. Should she spray it as soon as he opened the trunk? No, because then she'd be stuck inside, and he could close the trunk until his eyes recovered. How long would that take? Why hadn't she asked Mark more questions about how it worked?
She'd have to wait for an opportunity. She stuck the pepper spray in the right pocket of her coat. It was her only chance.
Twenty-Nine
Rolling through a stop sign, Mark checked the screen of his cell phone against the road signs. He was on Route 28 headed north, looking for Route 11, but this wasn't it. He accelerated, careful not to slide in the snow. He'd been driving as fast as possible on the narrow roads leading from Concord to Alton, but with the traffic and the weather, that wasn't very fast. Whoever had his wife was fighting the same obstacles.
Slow them down, Lord. Speed me up.
He'd been praying since he'd left the bookstore a half an hour earlier. Protect Amanda. Give her peace. Guide her. Give her wisdom. Draw her to Yourself. Let her call out to You. Oh God, make her Yours! If she dies tonight, let her find You first.
That last prayer brought tears, which he brushed away to focus on the treacherous road.
He'd let Amanda go because he'd believed it was what God wanted him to do. He'd thought that by letting her go, he might somehow win her back, or at least have the opportunity to share his faith with her. But if she died tonight, she would die not only without knowing Christ, but also believing Mark didn't want her anymore. Angry with God for allowing Amanda to be kidnapped, trying to trust God to protect her, and desperate for God's help, all at the same time. It was too much.
With a quick shake of his head, he forced himself to focus on his mission. He had to find her and save her. He couldn't let his emotions get in the way.
His phone rang just as he spotted the sign for Route 11.
He flipped on his turn signal and grabbed the phone. "Chris?"
"I've pulled up the satellite image of the property. It looks like the house sits on about twenty acres. It was built in the sixties, and it's been in their family ever since."
"What can you tell me about it?"
"Well, I think it's safe to assume they won't go inside the house. They're probably—"
"I doubt Alan is with them. If he wanted to kill her, he'd have done it long before now. He probably just delivered her to Sheppard." His voice cracked. "It was her biggest fear."
"You're going to find her, Mark."
He wanted to argue, to demand to know how Chris could be so confident. He shook his head. "What can you tell me about the property?"
"It looks like the house sits a couple hundred yards from the road. Beside the house, there's some sort of storage building or detached garage. I don't see any other structures."
"Roads going in?"
"There's only the long driveway. But . . . I can't tell from here, Mark. It looks like there are other paths that may be wide enough for a car to travel. Not roads really, nothing paved. I just don't know."
"Okay. If you were going to . . ." Mark swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. "If you had to bury a body, is there any obvious—?"
"Not that I can see. On the satellite, it looks like thick forest. You'll have to find them when you get there."
Despair seeped in through the cracks of his demeanor. "And how am I supposed to do that?"
"I don't know, but you will. It's what you do. Remember Afghanistan? You were always able to sniff out the targets. It's your gift. This is why you have it."
"You really believe that?"
Chris paused. "Yeah, I do. I believe God gave you those instincts because He knew someday you'd need them to rescue your wife."
Mark felt tears burn the back of his eyes and blinked them back. "I hope you're right."
"What else can I do?"
"I don't know. Nothing. Pray. Just . . . just pray."
The trunk popped open, and Amanda blinked in the sudden light, focusing on the giant silhouette of Gabriel Sheppard.
"Here we are." His face was cast in shadow, her eyes adjusting to the light, but she could hear the smile in his voice. "Climb out."
Stiff and sore, she sat up and tried to work the kinks out of her muscles while Gabriel watched, a look of amusement and anticipation on his face. Had she ever considered this monster handsome? Right now, she saw only evil.
In his left hand he held the long handle of something resting on the ground, and when she sat up in the trunk, she saw the wooden shaft led to a shovel—the shovel that would dig her grave.
"Let's go."
She jumped to the snow-covered ground. He grabbed her upper arm as she steadied herself, giving her no opportunity to run.
Trees towered over them as though prepared to swallow up the tiny path. How had the car maneuvered along this narrow lane? Once her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized it wasn't bright after all, not with the heavy clouds hiding the setting sun. It was late afternoon, which meant they hadn't driven far from the bookstore in Concord. Not that it mattered. Nobody would ever find her out here.
The air, thick with drifting snowflakes, carried the slightest scent of a wood-burning fire from somewhere, but when Amanda scanned the forest, she saw no signs of a house.
"Come on," he said, yanking her arm and heading into the forest.
No wind, no birds, no rustle of leaves. Nothing interrupted the eerie silence except the rhythmic sound of the shovel hitting the ground, Sheppard using it as a walking stick. Step, step. Thunk. Step, step. Thunk.
"I'm supposed to just walk to my grave?" she said, stumbling along beside him.
"I'm afraid that's what we've come to."
"The shovel is optimistic, don't you think? The ground must be frozen solid."
"By now, perhaps, but I dug your grave last week. You'll be buried rig
ht beside sweet Maryanne. I'll use the shovel to fill the hole."
Her stomach seized. She stopped, bent at the waist, and hugged herself. "Why? Why are you doing this to me?"
"Now that's an interesting question, my dear." He yanked on her arm, forcing her forward. She stumbled, righted herself, and walked beside him as they entered the forest on a very narrow, overgrown path. He pushed her in front of him and squeezed her arm in his fist. "I suppose I could ask you the same thing. Why did you decide, all of a sudden, to plot to ruin me?"
She took a deep breath and pushed down the panic. Ignoring the ache in her arm, she grabbed a nearby twig and snapped it. "I wasn't trying to ruin you, Gabriel. I was just . . . I guess I needed healing."
He uttered an evil chuckle. "Healing through vengeance? Interesting concept, but I doubt I'll find any evidence that it works in my psychology textbooks."
They kept walking. She snapped another twig. "I didn't even mention your name in the memoir."
"You said enough. And isn't it interesting how, in retrospect, you could find me so reprehensible when, at the time, you were quite fond of me."
She bent a branch as they walked by. "You used me, Gabriel. You seduced me, and—"
"I seduced you? Fascinating. I wish I had more time to study this phenomenon on selective memory."
"I remember I was sixteen, and you were a grown man who was supposed to be helping me."
The path widened, and he shifted to walk beside her, his hand never loosening its grip. "Ah. Well, that's true. I've always had a weakness for teenage girls. But we can't let that information get out, now can we?"
"So you're just going to kill me? I thought you cared for me."
He shrugged. "You made your choices. If you'd kept your mouth shut, none of this would be happening."
She grabbed a branch and tried to bend it, but it was too thick.
"What are you doing, my dear?" he asked.
She slid her hand into her pocket, felt the cold steel of the pepper spray.
Finding Amanda Page 26