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Bellisario had trouble believing the story Anderson was peddling, but there was a ring of truth in there somewhere, she just wasn't sure what was fact and what was fiction. The trouble was, if Roger Anderson wasn't in cahoots with Hardy Jones, then who the hell was?

 

Things were unraveling fast.

Sweating, he parked in an empty lot near the center of town. He knew he had to keep calm, force a smooth exterior, not alert anyone around him about his secret life.

He'd heard that Dodds was in lockup and Hardy Jones was already at the station house, being interrogated. Both men knew the drill, if they stuck to the plan. Dodds was solid, Hardy Jones a bit of a wild card. He rued bringing Jones to his first serious meeting with the “mountain men,” as they called themselves, a handful of rogues who lived in Idaho, lived by their own rules, and defied the government. Their homes were fortresses, complete with underground shelters, stashes of food, water, and weapons, and booby traps if a trespasser, the “enemy,” should ever dare step onto their properties.

They liked their women strong, beautiful, maybe a little sassy, but in the end, obedient to their “husbands.”

Fortunately, they were willing to pay. Munitions sales were lucrative, and they weren't afraid to pay a high price for the right “wives,” as they called them, married by their own ministers, in their own small fundamentalist sect.

The deal was dangerous, but oh so lucrative.

So he had to play it cool for a few more hours.

He made one quick call, heard it ring, then a distinctive click as the phone on the other end was connected. Before the mountain man could utter a word, he said, “We're moving the operation up. Twenty-four hours. Midnight tonight. There won't be seven girls, only five, but we have to move them. Now.”

There was hesitation on the other end, and he wanted to scream at the man,
It's now or never, cocksucker,
but apparently the guy understood. “All right, then. We'll be there,” he said with finality.

“With the cash,” he reminded his client.

“Of course,” the man responded, then hung up.

He let out his breath, lit a cigarette, rolled down his window, and drove through town to a house on a high point above the city where Dr. Bigelow and his wife lived. As if thumbing its nose at the little town below with its rustic, Western decor, this home was sleek and modern, with walls of glass and an “open-concept interior,” which seemed to be all the rage these days. Built on one level, it boasted commanding views of the river and the Washington shore, as upscale a Stewart's Crossing address as one could pay for. Dr. Bigelow and his gossip of a wife and all their damned money, a lot of it inherited . . . such a fucking travesty.

From the number of vehicles lining the winding driveway and parked on the street, the party looked to be in full swing.

Good. He hadn't worn a costume, wanted everyone at the party to see that he was there, in attendance, though it wouldn't matter in twenty-four hours. But for now, he needed a little breathing room, a bit of an alibi that would at least pass at a cursory level. Also, he wanted to be certain that the dirt from his operation was sloughed onto someone the police would more likely suspect; then he'd be on his way.

Tossing his half-smoked filter tip through the window, he grabbed a bottle of Merlot from the front seat and walked up a slate walkway to the huge glass door. He rapped lightly on the panels, and Dee Linn, herself, dressed as Marie Antoinette, a white wig piled high, answered. “Oh, dear,” she said, deflated. “Another one in street clothes. I suppose you didn't get the memo that this was to be a costume party.”

“Sorry,” he said and handed her the bottle of wine. “Been busy.”

“Hmmm.” She eyed the label, one eyebrow rising. “Nice. Thank you.” Walter Bigelow, DDS, deigned to join his wife at the door. Despite “the memo,” he was dressed in the uniform he wore at the office: scrubs, lab coat, and superior expression. “Glad you could come. Your mother and sister are already here. You know how Marge is. Always punctual.”

“That she is,” he agreed, holding up his hand, spying Joseph, in jeans and an open-collared shirt, drink in hand, surveying a table laden with appetizers and decorated with pumpkins, black cats, and a witch's hat. The caterers were in the kitchen, all dressed in white shirts, black slacks, and long, orange aprons. He mingled with those dressed in street clothes, along with three women who were supposed to be kittens, a witch or two, a husband and wife who were ancient Egyptians, Rambo, and Indiana Jones.

He refused to look at his watch, hoped he appeared relaxed, felt the seconds click by in slow motion.

Just a few more hours, he reminded himself as he snagged a beer from a passing waiter, and then, finally, freedom.

 

Jade's hands were bleeding and raw. She couldn't see them, it was much too dark, but she felt them throbbing, knew her fingernails had split, the flesh beneath her fingertips and palms exposed.

She heard the other girls, shuffling in their stalls, lying on a creaking cot, gurgling down water, or occasionally peeing, the sound of urine hitting the bottom of a bucket.

God, this was miserable.

In-fucking-humane!

She'd spent all the daylight hours trying to climb the damned wall of the stall and get over it, to find a way to escape, but she'd failed. Over and over, she'd scaled the rough siding, forcing her toes into knot holes or spots where the boards didn't quite fit together, but each time she'd neared the top, she'd lost her balance or couldn't find a foothold and had ended up sliding down to land on the floor again. Her only triumph had been knocking the horseshoe down and catching it deftly.

The other girls hadn't fared any better. Dana, who claimed to be a gymnast, hadn't been able to vault over the doors (no big surprise there, the girl was a braggart), and Mary-A, still a pain in the butt, proclaimed that she'd found a tool stuck in the corner of her stall, something she thought was used to clean a horse's hoof. Jade didn't trust the girl, not even now. She was probably lying. Candice had no weapon, but Rosalie said she'd found something that might cause damage, part of a nail clipper or something that sounded incredibly small and useless. No, her horseshoe was the only weapon she'd trust.

She only hoped that, with another day before this supposed slave auction or whatever it was, the police or some of the parents or the damned FBI would locate them. Jade had checked; no one had their phones on them, nor had the jerkwads kept them. Nothing electronic, no ID, to help.

She felt her insides shredding at the thought of what her abductors planned to do to her, but she knew she wouldn't go down without a fight. Rosalie's plan wasn't brilliant, but it was all they had, if Candice, the whiner, could play her part. Only then, if she could lull the dirtbags into thinking she was ill and letting down their guard, would they have any chance at all.

Jade didn't like the odds. She paced the stall, where odors of horseflesh and urine still lingered, and wished she had just one nail, something she could step on, to lift her up a little higher, a bit of wood or metal that she could wedge between the boards and that was strong enough to bear her weight long enough that she could push herself up, pull herself over, and drop onto the other side. She'd open all the stalls and they could run, ever westward, to the house and her mother.

Her heart cracked a little at the thought of Sarah and Gracie, so near, but so damned far. Would she ever see them again? And what about the father she'd just met? Would she even get the chance to get to know him?

Not if you let these sickos determine your fate!

She plopped down on the edge of her cot.

Someone would come for them, surely. They weren't that far off the grid. Weren't there FBI helicopters or something reserved just for the purpose of saving hostages? On television there were always battalions of ace sharpshooters, all dressed in black, with helmets and assault rifles.

But that was in the city.

No, she reminded herself, that was in Hollywood.

“Hey!” Rosalie shouted. “Listen up! Hear that? Someone's coming.”

The barn went silent. Jade hardly dared breathe, and sure enough, the sound of a engine whining as it climbed a hill reached her ears. Her muscles tensed. Did he have another girl? More than one? Was he coming just to check on them?

“Just remember the plan,” Rosalie shouted as the engine—a truck, Jade thought—rumbled closer. “If we can get him tonight, before there are others, even if it's both of them, we need to go for it. Candice? Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” was the dispirited reply, and Jade's heart sank. Having their whole plan resting on the shoulders of a girl who was obviously the weakest link seemed ridiculous. But at least Candice had quit crying and sobbing and moaning. That was something. Could she pull it off? Jade doubted it. She couldn't allow her fate to be in Candice Fowler's hands.

“Let me do it!” Jade shouted. “I'll pretend to be sick. I can do it, I know I can.”

“No. Stick to the plan,” Rosalie hissed.

“Yeah, Jade, don't screw things up.” Mary-Alice, of course.

“But she can't . . .” she stopped, not wanting to denigrate the girl, then thought, oh, to hell with Candice's feelings. This was Jade's life they were playing with! “She's too wimpy. She'll never be able to dupe them. I can make it work!”

“He won't believe you. He'll expect a trick.” Rosalie was desperate. “You defied him earlier and he hit you, right? He won't fall for it. What we've got going will work. So. Everyone. Stick to the plan.” Usually calm Rosalie was definitely losing it, her voice rising an octave. “We might not get the chance, but we have to try. No matter who walks through the door, Candice, you're on!”

Frustrated, Jade banged a fist against the wall and swore. “Okay, fine,” she said, then shut up and held tight to the horseshoe.

“I'll do it,” Candice, in her little Minnie Mouse voice, insisted.

Jade closed her eyes.
God help us
.

H
ardy Jones, with his mop of shaggy, thin hair and perpetual sneer, was defiant, almost cocky, as he sat in the interrogation room. Bellisario didn't like him.
A worm,
she thought,
that's what he is,
A useless piece of human flesh in a beat-up jean jacket and worn Levis.

She was tired, getting nowhere fast, and the clock on the wall said it was eleven-thirty. They'd been at this for hours.

“I don't know what you're talkin' about,” he insisted, having taken the chair so recently vacated by Roger Anderson.

“I'm talking about your life and your freedom,” Bellisario said succinctly. “Either you tell us what you know, where the girls are, or you're going away for a long, long time.”

“I don't know nothing about any girls.” But there was a spark in his eye, as if he had something on her.

“That's not what Roger Anderson says.”

“He's a liar. Ex-con.”

“So are you.”

“But I never did nothin' to no women. That's his deal. Not mine.”

Hardy had a point. And yet... “Well, then, let's look at it this way,” she said calmly, hoping to somehow get the worm to turn. “It's not what Dodds is saying either.”

“Who?”

“Joss Dodds. You know him.”

“Nah.” Jones's Adam's apple wobbled, and a sweat began forming above his sideburns.

“Sure you do. He's the guy who lives in the mountains of Idaho, just across the border in the panhandle. Antigovernment type. Always gettin' into trouble. You met him a couple of times down at The Cavern.” She was bluffing here, but pushed it a little, realizing that finally the smug grin on his grizzled face was slipping a bit. “We're just waiting on the security tapes to confirm, but Dodds says he knows you.”

“Lyin' son of a bitch!” Jones leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his scrawny chest. “I'm tellin' ya, I don't know him. And I'm not into dealin' guns, er ammo—” He shut up. Real quick.

“I didn't say he dealt weapons.”

“You said he was antigovernment. What else do they do?”

“A lot, Hardy. Most of it illegal,” she said, with a knowing smile. “And some of them, they're not very nice to their women, always looking for someone who might want to be a servant. Or a slave.” She pushed a little harder, remembering something she'd read. “Or maybe even a wife. Or two.”

Hardy Jones snorted. But Bellisario knew he was thinking, trying to figure a way out of this. In the past, he was quick to point fingers, to shuffle off blame.

“Roger Anderson says he thinks you keep the girls nearby, that way you could scoop one up and take her to a hiding spot until you got the next. Now, it's not your apartment, we checked, so I'm thinking it might be somewhere in the hills. A secluded spot. So if your captives yelled—”

“I ain't got no captives! No girls!”

“No one could hear them.”

The Adam's apple was really rocking now, but Hardy had shut up, and that was the problem. She'd hit a nerve talking about hiding the girls nearby, but that didn't help a lot. The town was small, but the area around Stewart's Crossing was vast, a steep wilderness abutting the river.

She figured there was another culprit involved. Jones wasn't smart enough to be the brains of the operation, so it had to be someone a little slicker. Someone who knew the area. Someone girls might trust. Someone, she thought, that Rosalie Jamison, at the very least, had known. And if Bellisario was reading this right, Hardy was trying to pin the crime on his old cell mate, Roger Anderson.

Was making Anderson the fall guy Hardy's idea? She stared at him hard. Probably not. The man was a soldier, not a leader, and a weak soldier at that.

Then who was behind it all?

She thought about anyone close enough to Roger Anderson to know how to paint him as a criminal. Someone who knew him? Maybe someone he trusted and had hung out with? A few names sprang to mind, those who had visited Anderson, in particular. Was it possible that the man she was thinking of had visited not only Roger Anderson, but our boy Hardy Jones as well?

She was about to spring the guy's name on Hardy, when, as luck would have it, he saved her the trouble.

“Look, I've got an alibi,” he said hurriedly, obviously trying to think on his feet and stumbling badly. “Anytime one of those girls was taken, you know I got an alibi. And . . . and if you don't believe me, call Clark Valente, he'll tell you. I was with him. He'll tell you! I think he was goin' to that party the dentist and his wife are throwin'. You know, Dr. Bigelow.”

“Roger's brother-in-law?” she asked, the thrum of knowing she'd hit on something valuable propelling her on. “You know, I think I will.”
And fast,
she silently added as she left the room.

“Hey!” Hardy cried. “You can't just leave me here!”

Sure she could. She saw a deputy in the hallway. “Hold him,” she pointed to the interrogation room. “Don't let him near a phone.” And then she was running.

 

Sarah paced the living room. As tired as she was after enduring her ordeal in the tomb and then giving a statement to the police, she was too keyed up to sleep. A blanket wrapped around her, Clint stoking the fire, Gracie and the dogs huddled on the couch, Sarah was heartsick and anxious and wished to high heaven she knew what to do. She and Clint had talked, and she'd even told him about the Madonna statue and the damned ghost, but all the while, no matter what the conversation was, they thought about Jade, where she was, who she was with, and if . . . if . . . Oh, God, if she were still alive.

“We'll find her,” Clint said, but his words sounded hollow rather than reassuring.

“How?”

“The police. Bellisario.”

She shook her head in despair.

“FBI.”

“We need to do something,” she said, and he nodded, feeling it too. She saw the restless energy in him, knew that he was staying calm for her. “Okay, I can't stand this a second more.” She felt trapped in the house, as if the ancient walls were closing in. “I'm going to the roof.”

“Why?”

“Because these walls are closing in on me.”

He glanced at his watch but didn't tell her it was almost midnight. She knew. She knew every second that Jade had been missing. “I'll come with you.”

“Me too.” Gracie said, and for that, she was grateful. She didn't want her youngest child out of her sight for an instant and was still blaming herself for letting Jade drive home on her own. That had been her mistake, one that Clint hadn't called her on. He was too busy feeling guilty himself to blame her.

Needing to get out, to breathe, to think and clear her mind, she headed for the stairs.

As she climbed, she held onto the rail, but she didn't falter. The knowledge that she now had, the truth she'd heard from Roger Anderson, pushed her ever upward. She wanted to settle an old score, one she had with her father. She'd step out onto that widow's walk and never again fear the darkness and fear of that night so long ago. With Clint and Gracie at her heels, she climbed two flights and passed by the room on the third floor where her parents had slept and fought. Now she understood why.
Not your parents,
she reminded herself,
your father and your grandmother.

Her head ached from all she'd learned, all the secrets that Roger had kept. He'd sworn to protect his mother too, despite the fact that Arlene was a murderess. As she passed Theresa's room, she forced herself not to look inside, not to even glance at the broken statuette or the shattered mirror. Through the attic door they filed, up the stairs and across the floor to the final staircase that curved upward through the cupola. She felt that same clamminess cover her skin, the same fear toy with her mind, but now she remembered the source of it, and, at least she could try to banish it forever.

Once on the widow's walk, she sucked in deep lungfuls of air. Finally the fog had lifted, the full moon without its shroud a bright disk casting a silvery glow over the land. The night was quiet, even the river hushed, no sounds of trains rolling on distant tracks or owls hooting in the surrounding woods.

She shivered, and Clint draped a strong arm over her shoulders, holding her tight, while she wrapped her arms around her daughter's slim frame, and Gracie leaned back against her, a family of three staring into the night and thinking of Jade.

“We will find her,” Clint promised, leaning a comforting cheek against the top of her head.

“God, I hope so.” She tried to feel secure, but as she stared to the east, upriver, she wondered if she'd ever see her daughter again.

Clint squeezed her just as she caught the glimmer of something in the distance. Headlights, she realized, and started to look away. Until she saw more headlights, a string of them. Not a big deal, generally, but it seemed the vehicles were closer than they should be, inside the county road, snaking through the trees . . . where? In her mind's eye she saw the plot map for the property, remembering landmarks, and the old logging road . . .

“Clint?” she said, her insides tightening. “Why would anyone be going up to the old logging cabin?”

“Don't know,” he said, turning his attention in that direction.

“All that's up there is what?”

“The cabin, if it still stands. And a stable, if I remember right.”

“No one's been up there in years,” she said.
Until now,
“Trespassers?”

“Don't know.” They looked at each other, and Clint said grimly, “Let's find out.”

 

The door of the stable banged open, and the lights snapped on.

Here we go,
Jade thought nervously.

“Okay, girls. Tonight's the night,” he announced.

“Tonight?” Rosalie asked, sounding alarmed.

So far he was alone. The little man who was his partner in crime, the one the others had talked about, wasn't with him, or at least wasn't in the barn. Maybe he was guarding the perimeter, Jade thought, and tucked the horseshoe under her sweatshirt.

“Your new husbands are coming, and I want you all to behave,” their abductor told them.

“Husbands?” Mary-Alice repeated.

“That's right, Princess. Husbands. Men who are looking for obedient wives.”

“What?” Mary-Alice again. Horrified.

Stop it, stick to the script!
Jade thought.
You're the one who wanted to go along with depending on Candice,

Shaken, Mary-Alice murmured, “Jesus, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Do not use His name in vain!” He was snapping, his voice rising. “And yes, you'll be obedient!”

“You're selling us to be wives?” Now Dana was chipping in, showing her disgust. “I think that's illegal!” and then caught herself as she belatedly realized that everything the scumbag did was outside of the law.

“But I thought it was tomorrow night.” Rosalie again.

“Things have changed, so pull yourselves together.”

Oh, shit!

“Trust me, it will go better for all of you if you behave. The boys, they like a little fire, but they want wives who will serve them. The nicer you are to them, the more you do what they want, the better your lives will be.”

No effin' way,
Jade thought, wishing she could kick this pervert in his balls just as she heard another engine, a second vehicle, fast approaching. They were coming—the men who planned to buy them. There was no more time. None!

Come on, Candice,
she silently thought.
Now's the time,

But the girl in Lucky's stall didn't do anything.

Jade was sweating, pacing, trying not to panic and failing badly. Didn't the twit of a girl hear them? Dear God, there was a second engine and maybe a third.

From down the line, Rosalie cleared her throat, an obvious attempt to signal Candice to get the ball rolling.

Still nothing.

Come on!

Frantic, Jade decided she should just take the bull by the horns and pretend to be sick herself. Candice wasn't coming through; she wasn't doing anything. Jade opened her mouth, ready to moan, when she heard the first whimper, a soft, low moan.

“Ooohhh.” Then coughing. “I—I think I'm going to be sick,” Candice groaned as if in agony, and she was so effective Jade was certain it wasn't an act.

The kidnapper said, “You're fine.”

“No . . . No . . . I'm so sorry,” she said in that little mouse of a voice. “Ooooh. Oh, God,” Candice said and began making retching noises so loud that Jade was sure she was losing the contents of her stomach.

“Stop it!” he snarled, losing control.

More retching, and then the sound of upchucking, liquid hitting the bottom of the pail.

“Oh, for fuck's sake. Not now!” he declared furiously. Then, as if he heard the sound of the approaching vehicles, he added quickly, “Listen up, Lucky, you need to clean yourself up. You too . . . you other girls.”

“Ooooohhhh.” Candice wasn't giving up. Her moan was louder, reaching the rafters, and Jade held her breath, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

“Crap!” A lock clicked and a door squeaked open. “Okay, Lucky,” he said, angrily. “What's the prob—”

Bam!

The sound of a pail cracking against a skull, and the slosh of liquid as the bucket spilled. He cried out at the same time frantic footsteps peppered the floor.

“You little bitch!” he roared, but it sounded as if Candice had escaped.

She dashed to the next stall and threw the bolt.

Thud,

Another hit, probably from Dana, hitting him with the stall door. He let out a strangled yell, but he kept coming, his heavy tread hard on the floorboards. Dana squealed, and then there was the sound of a scuffle, Dana screaming, him swearing. “Get back in there, cunt!” he cried, and the stall door slammed shut, the bolt thrown.