Brenda Novak

by Home to Whiskey Creek

  She offered her hand to let him know what she preferred, and he acted as if that was the most he’d expected.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said.

  She conjured up a pleasant expression as they shook. “So am I.”

  Once she sat down, he sobered in apparent concern. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Sure. Although there isn’t a lot to tell.”

  He returned to his seat but didn’t pick up his cake or coffee. He took out a pad and pen. Whiskey Creek was pretty uneventful. A true abduction would be the case of a lifetime for a backwoods cop like Stacy—could make or break his career.

  Too bad she wasn’t about to give him anything that might help him solve the crime. Even if, as a victim, she could be completely honest about what she knew and remembered, Adelaide wouldn’t pit him against a very wily kidnapper. He seemed long on confidence but short on experience. As far as she could remember, the most he’d ever had to find was a runaway horse or dog. A big day for a cop in Whiskey Creek was handling security for the annual Fourth of July parade or the Victorian Days festival every Christmas.

  “Just start from the beginning,” he said.

  Lacing her fingers together, she stared down at the fingernails she’d broken. “Before I went to bed, I opened the door in my bedroom—”

  “The one that leads out to the street?”

  “To the porch. Yes.”

  “Because...”

  “I needed some fresh air.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “It’s fall,” he said.

  Not wanting to blame Gran for her heavy hand with the thermostat, she glossed over that. “My room hasn’t been used much since I left. It was sort of...stuffy.”

  “So you opened the door to air it out.”

  “Yes. There was the screen door, of course, which was locked.”

  “A screen provides little protection....”

  As if she didn’t feel foolish enough. “I wasn’t too worried about protection. Not here at home.” It wasn’t until she’d disobeyed her grandmother, back in high school, and ventured to the mine that she’d gotten into trouble. And pointing out that she should feel secure in a town he was supposed to keep safe shifted the blame back on to him.

  “Nothing like this has ever happened before,” he told her, backpedaling.

  “Which is why I didn’t worry about it. But someone, a—a man, cut the screen, dragged me from my bed and drove me up to the old mine.”

  “The Jepson mine, where Cody Rackham was killed?”

  The fear that, at long last, she’d be implicated in Cody’s death, tied her stomach in knots. But she’d expected the immediate association. They’d had their tragedies in Whiskey Creek—when Dylan Amos’s father got into a bar fight and stabbed his opponent and when Phoenix Fuller used her mother’s Buick to run down her rival, to name two—but the popular, wealthy and handsome Rackham family had always generated a great deal of interest. “Where Cody...died. Yes,” she said.

  “Did your abductor...” The way Stacy lowered his voice and shot a warning glance at Gran told Adelaide what he was about to ask.

  She jumped in to save him the effort of formulating the rest of the question. “He didn’t rape me, no.”

  His chest rose as if her answer allowed him to draw a deep breath for the first time since he’d arrived. He even left his pad and pen in his lap and reclaimed his coffee and cake. “I’m happy to hear that.” He took a big bite, then paused to give her a searching look. “You’d tell me if he did,” he said while chewing. “I realize there’s a certain...stigma that goes with that word, with the act itself, but I can’t help you if you’re not honest with me.”

  Her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak. “He didn’t rape me.” But she could clearly remember the time before, when he had....

  “So you were awakened in your bed and then what? Let’s go over it detail by detail.”

  She cleared her throat. “He whispered that he’d hurt me and Gran if I screamed. Then he tied my hands, blindfolded me and forced me to walk out to his truck or SUV.”

  “You’re sure it was a truck or SUV.”

  “By the sound of the engine and how high off the ground it was...yes.” That was true, but she hardly saw it as revealing. Practically everyone in these parts owned a truck.

  “Did you get the color, or the make and model?”

  “No. The blindfold was too tight.” And when she’d tried to remove it, he’d panicked and struck her. That was the first time he’d hit her, but it wasn’t the most painful, just a glancing blow on the cheek.

  “What about before the blindfold? Were you able to see him or any part of him?”

  She wished she could tell the police chief to forget about the incident, but she knew that would only make him wonder at her reaction. She had to act as if she wanted her kidnapper caught. “Just that first glimpse.”

  “And...”

  She swallowed. “I’m afraid I can’t give you a description. It was so dark, and he was wearing a ski mask.”

  Stacy frowned as he formulated another question. “Did he have any exposed skin? Any tattoos or birthmarks?”

  “He was completely covered.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Black pants and a black sweatshirt.” That much was true, but the sweatshirt had a strange logo on it, a bright yellow logo with a website URL that was easy to remember. Thanks to the light of a full moon streaming through that screen door, she’d spotted www.SkintightEntertainment.com before he’d managed to blindfold her. But she was giving Stacy only generic information, information she felt safe providing. As far as she knew, that URL could be connected to where the culprit worked, could lead police right to him.

  “Were his clothes particularly expensive or cheap?” Stacy asked. “I mean—” he leaned forward, beseeching her with his body language “—did you notice anything that might help identify him? What kind of guy was this?”

  A guy who wore a brand of cologne she normally would’ve liked. She remembered that, too—but it was another detail she planned to keep to herself. “They were just your basic cargo pants and a plain sweatshirt. They could’ve come from any department store.”

  He put his coffee down again so he could make a few notes. “Can you tell me how tall he was?”

  She’d known instantly what the encounter was about, which had evoked immediate terror. And the abduction happened so fast. She doubted she could answer all of Chief Stacy’s questions even if she really wanted the man apprehended.

  “About my height.” She had no idea if that was true. He could’ve been an inch or two taller, or an inch or two shorter, but six feet sounded average. She was embellishing, changing this or that, describing a person who didn’t exist, so what did it matter?

  “And his build?”

  This time she didn’t have to make anything up. The truth described a large proportion of the male population, so she could speak honestly. “He was...fairly muscular, I guess. But not overly so.”

  “Can you guess at his weight?”

  She went for what would be likely, given the height and body build she’d stated. “About two hundred. I can’t recall, to be honest.”

  Stacy took another bite of cake. “What about age?”

  “Middle-aged?” She certainly didn’t want to say close to her age, which was what she believed. Anyway, age wasn’t easy to determine in a situation like that.

  “Did he speak with a lisp or an accent or...use foul language? Was there anything distinctive about his voice?”

  Her kidnapper had spoken in a hoarse whisper. That hadn’t evoked the memory of any particular boy, but it had brought back what she’d experienced fifteen years ago, deluging her with the kinds of images that plagued her worst nightmares. Hold her still, damn it!

  In retrospect, however, when she examined the details of this most recent attack, she felt he hadn’t been taking any pleasure in what he was doing. Especially once she started shaking and c
rying and pleading with him not to rape her again. He’d muttered—and she’d only now remembered this—“Stop it! I—that’s not who I am!”

  “Adelaide?” Chief Stacy’s voice intruded on her thoughts.

  She glanced up. “Yes?”

  “I asked if there was anything distinctive about his voice.”

  “Oh.” She wiped her palms on her thighs. “No.”

  His cup clinked on the china saucer. “Do you know any reason someone would want to harm you? If he didn’t...rape you, what did he want? Did he ask for anything? Demand money?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “At first, I—I thought he was intent on rape, but...”

  “Looks like you fought tooth and nail. I’m sorry about your injuries.”

  His sympathy made her feel guilty for shading the truth, but she had to do what she could to make this go away. “I’m fine now, thank you. It’s all...minor stuff, really. I’ll recover.”

  “You forced him to reconsider. I’m proud of you for that.”

  Her kidnapper was the one who’d made it possible for her to fight by tying her hands in front of her instead of behind her back. She couldn’t get them loose until she was alone in the mine, but she could use them—like when she’d attempted to remove her blindfold. Such a tactical error gave her the impression that he wasn’t used to abducting people. He’d gone for what was quick and convenient because he was in a hurry and was afraid of getting caught, possibly by Gran. Maybe he figured his threats and the knife he’d brought would keep her cowed.

  Anyway, she felt even more uncomfortable at Stacy’s compliment than she’d already been. She wasn’t out to elicit praise. She was hoping to present a degree of believability, to put together a coherent story, so that his curiosity would be satisfied and she could get out of the spotlight as soon as possible. “At one point, he mumbled that he couldn’t go through with it and just...tossed me into the mine.”

  She’d fabricated his change of heart. He hadn’t even attempted to rape her. She’d been fighting because she’d been afraid he might. She was so convinced that she was in for more of what she’d endured at sixteen that, once she was away from the house and he couldn’t hurt Gran, she’d let loose with everything she had and nearly caused them to crash. The sound of scraping metal told her his vehicle had sustained some damage. That was when he’d slugged her—hard. Other than that, and when she’d nearly managed to remove her blindfold, he hadn’t hit her.

  “Doesn’t mean he won’t try to rape someone else,” Stacy said. “I’ll find this guy, I promise.”

  She hoped not. That was all she needed—a string that would unravel the past. Even an overzealous search could spook the man who’d appeared in her bedroom. Then there was no telling what he might do. Fear could push him into taking risks he wouldn’t otherwise take. That was what it had done to her when she’d tried to crash his car.

  “Is there anything else you remember?”

  She shook her head, but she could probably describe Tom Gibby, Kevin Colbert or any of the others in great detail and Stacy would never suspect them. They’d been athletic, popular, good students—and were apparently successful adults. Tom Gibby was a postal clerk, a steady, devoted family man. And Coach Colbert was married to his high school sweetheart and had three kids. She hadn’t asked about Derek Rodriguez or Stephen Selby. She hadn’t wanted to string those four names together. But she doubted Derek and Stephen would be at the top of Chief Stacy’s suspect list, any more than Kevin or Tom. They certainly hadn’t acted out since high school. Or, if they had, no one knew about it. Gran had visited her regularly all the years she’d been gone, and they talked on the phone every few days when they weren’t together. She would’ve heard if any of the people she’d known had been charged with a crime. She also received the Gold Country Gazette, Whiskey Creek’s weekly paper, at her apartment in Davis. So even if Gran didn’t mention an arrest, the newspaper would. She’d subscribed for that very reason.

  For the thirteen years she’d been gone, all had been quiet.

  “That’s okay,” Stacy said. “I’ll still get him.”

  “I’m praying you will.” This came from Gran, who’d been listening silently but intently.

  Chief Stacy scooted forward in his seat. He’d been handed the worst crime to be perpetrated in Whiskey Creek in at least a decade and had just promised her he’d find the man responsible, but he had nothing to go on. “So why you?”

  Wishing this could be over, Addy threaded her fingers more tightly together and searched for an explanation he’d find plausible. “I’ve heard...on various forensic shows that most crimes are crimes of opportunity. I guess...I guess I made it too easy when I left my door open.” Essentially, she was taking the blame. She deserved some of it—not for leaving her door open, but for sneaking out and attending that stupid party in the first place. Gran had told her she couldn’t go.

  If only she’d listened...

  “There’s got to be a detail, some evidence we’re missing,” Stacy said.

  “Nothing I can think of right now,” Adelaide told him. “But...if I remember anything, I’ll give you a call.”

  He put his notepad and pen in his pocket. “I did find an interesting object that might help.”

  Adelaide’s chest constricted. “What did you say?”

  “The man who attacked you must’ve dropped his knife when he was wrestling you out to his truck, because I found this—” he straightened one leg so he could take something from his pocket “—in the flower bed outside the door to your bedroom.”

  If it had been a plain pocketknife, Adelaide wouldn’t have paid it much heed. But it had a wolf carved into the handle, which wasn’t something one saw every day.

  Her mind raced. “Couldn’t that have been dropped by someone else?”

  “I doubt it. With all the watering in the summer and the rain we get in the winter—” he flipped out the blade “—there’d be some rust if it’d been exposed to the elements for any length of time.” He pointed to the shiny steel. “Look at that. It’s perfect. Someone loved this knife.”

  Palms sweaty, heart pounding, she sat in silence.

  “So you didn’t see him with it?” he asked.

  “He—he said he had a knife. But...I didn’t see it, no. And...I—I assumed he had it with him the whole time.”

  Stacy studied the carving. “Okay, I’ll keep asking around. See if anyone can identify its owner.”

  “He must’ve used that to cut the screen,” Gran said. “Were there any fingerprints on it?”

  Adelaide held her breath. Please, no.

  “Unfortunately not. I’m guessing he wiped it clean before he came here.”

  “He—he was wearing gloves,” Adelaide said. “I remember that from when...from when he was tying my hands. The gloves made it difficult.”

  “Gloves.” Chief Stacy sighed in a way that indicated he found this expected but disappointing. Then he lifted the knife. “But...this is very hopeful. We’ll see what turns up.”

  The police chief and Gran moved on to other subjects while he finished his coffee and cake. Adelaide learned that he was recently divorced, that he was suing his wife for custody of their two kids, that his ex was “crazy” if she thought she was going to tell their son he couldn’t play football.

  At last Stacy got up to leave—with a final promise to see that her attacker was apprehended.

  Closing her eyes, Adelaide stayed where she was while Gran showed him out. She was embracing the silence, wishing her return to Whiskey Creek could’ve gone smoothly and wondering what she should do now.

  “I sure hope he can catch the man who did this to you,” Gran said as she returned.

  “So do I.” Adelaide twisted around to smile up at her, but the prospect of a police capture scared her more than anything—because she knew where it would lead if Kevin, Tom, Derek or Stephen decided to point a finger in her direction.

  6

  Baxter stood at Noah’s door, looking at h
im with that odd sort of expression Noah had noticed before, the one that made him so uncomfortable. He wanted to say something about it—had wanted to address the issue for some time because whatever was going on seemed to be getting worse instead of better. But he didn’t know how to broach such a taboo subject without busting up a friendship that had lasted almost since birth. What could he say: “Dude, sometimes you look at me like you’re dying to get in my pants”?

  If Baxter wasn’t gay, Noah knew how much that would offend him. He’d be offended if a buddy accused him of sexual interest. That kind of talk was out of bounds between two guys. But Baxter’s look... It was so damn hungry.

  “Why are you staring at me like that?” he snapped.

  Baxter seemed taken aback. “Like what?”

  Shit. Maybe he’d imagined it. That was another thing Noah hated—how he’d begun to second-guess his best friend’s thoughts and reactions. It seemed as if he was always reading more into what Baxter said and did. Suspicion affected people that way; it messed with their minds. “Forget it.”

  Baxter seemed more than willing to let the subject go. “Do you know it’s almost noon?”

  With a yawn, he scratched his head. “Haven’t looked at a clock. Just rolled out of bed.”

  “So Amy opened the shop for you?”

  “She was supposed to. She’s there now, isn’t she?” For a moment, he was afraid that his employee hadn’t shown up.

  “She’s there. But...I thought she had school.”

  When Baxter’s gaze once again strayed to Noah’s bare chest, Noah grabbed the football jersey he’d left on the couch sometime in the past few days and put it on. It wasn’t as if he’d answered the door nude. He’d donned a pair of basketball shorts, but his state of undress seemed to be a distraction, which added to the creeping sensation that all was not as he’d believed with the kid who’d grown up next door. “She graduated in June, remember?”