Shelter Mountain (34 page)

Preacher went to Mel, who stood nervously jiggling the baby against her shoulder. “Mel, Chris is gonna be up
from his nap pretty soon. You can keep him from getting worried, can’t you?”

“Sure,” she said. She put her small hand against his face and said, “It’s going to be okay.”

His eyes closed briefly. “It’s already not okay, Mel.”

“John?” came a small voice. There, standing in the doorway from the kitchen, was Chris with his favorite snugly toy, the one with the blue-and-gray plaid flannel leg. “What’cha doing, John?”

Preacher’s face melted into a soft smile and he went to the boy. He lifted him into his arms. “Huntin’,” he said. “Just a little huntin.’”

“Where’s Mom?”

Preacher kissed his pink cheek. “She’ll be back pretty soon. She’s off on errands. And you’re going to stay with Mel and Brie while we’re huntin’.”

While Wes drove, he talked. He didn’t look at Paige—his eyes were roving a little wildly, as though looking for something he’d misplaced. She wondered if it was drugs or if he was lost back in these hills, for he often seemed to be driving in circles. He’d start up a road, then either turn around or back out. But while this was going on, she listened.

She learned how much he hated his life in L.A.; the woman was just a means to an end—she had a place he could stay. There was no way he was going to check in with some state flunky every week, go to those stupid meetings every day, but he knew how to play the game. And they had random drug tests, he said. “Did you know that? They want my pee on a regular basis.” Then he laughed. “There’re a lot of places to get good pee.” And that’s when she knew—he’d managed to stay one step ahead of them for at least two months. He was using something, and if he wasn’t already just plain crazy, the drugs were helping it along.

Paige didn’t respond. She listened and watched. Not only was it dark back here in the trees on these winding roads, but the sun was lowering. Although it was May, it was cold in the forest at night and she shivered. She had no idea where they were.

“You have any idea what it’s like in jail?” He turned his face sharply toward her. “Ever see a prison movie, Paige? It’s worse than the worst prison movie you ever saw.”

She lifted her chin, thinking, Do they
beat
you, Wes? What’s that like? Huh? But she said nothing.

“Still can’t believe you did that to me. I just fucking can’t believe it! Like you didn’t know how much I loved you! Jesus, I gave you everything. Ever think you’d live in a house like the one I built you? Ever think so? I took you out of that dump you were in and put you in a decent place, a place with some class. What did you ever need that I didn’t give you?” And on and on he ranted. While she listened, the first thought that came was that he was so delusional, it was as shocking as frightening. He really believed that a nice house, some material things, could make the abuse tolerable.

She thought about John—kind, loving John. She remembered what he’d said about being afraid.
They teach you to fake brave.
Every muscle in her body seemed to tremble with her rising anger. She would be damned if she’d let this delusional maniac take that sweet man away from her, away from Chris.

And the next thing that occurred to her—he never mentioned Christopher. Not since earlier, as he was abducting her—and that was only to leverage her, not because he wanted his son. He’d never wanted a son, never wanted children at all. He hadn’t touched her sexually while she was expecting; it was as if a baby coming disrupted his focus. It was always supposed to be just the two of them.

She should have known those fierce beatings had been intended so that she’d lose the baby. It was a miracle she had Chris.

He drove up a spiraling road that ended at the top of a small rise with only a few trees. Looking down, she could see not only the road that wound its way upward, but the connecting road below. She noted a truck down there, whizzing past and disappearing around the mountain.

“This should be fine,” he said, putting the truck in Park and killing the engine.

“Fine for what?” she asked.

He looked over at her, and while his expression was mean, he put his hand against her cheek. Gently. She shuddered at his touch. He hadn’t hit her yet, and that’s what he did best.

“Why didn’t you just run?” she asked in a whisper. “If you didn’t want to face court again, or the possibility of prison, why didn’t you run? You have money, Wes. You might’ve gotten away.”

He gave a huff of laughter. “You don’t understand much about probation, do you, Paige? My passport was confiscated. Besides, the more I thought about it, about you and me, I decided it would go better like this. We’ll just end it like this.” He gave her a half smile, then reached under the seat and grabbed on to a roll of heavy duct tape. “Come on, Paige. We’re getting out here.”

Jack, Preacher, Jim Post, Mike and Rick lit out at about four, an hour after Paige went missing. They left a rough map behind showing the same rendezvous points as the ones on the map Jack carried. They’d cut widening circles around Virgin River. If they didn’t find anything right away, they planned to swing back through town by eight, and again by midnight, to see if Paige had turned up or been recovered by police. But none of them planned to
quit before she was found. They left in two trucks, drove first north of town into the hills. They parked along a wide curve in the road and, with flashlights, went into the trees on foot, looking for any kind of trail to track.

Whenever they came across a home or vehicle, they stopped and showed a picture of Paige and gave descriptions of the stolen truck and Wes Lassiter.

When they went back to Virgin River at eight, they found Buck Anderson and his three grown sons, Doug Carpenter and Fish Bristol, Ron and Bruce, and a few other men. Everyone took a glance at the map and this time they headed toward Highway 36, winding up into the mountains of Trinity County. Brie was able to tell them that the sheriff’s department and CHP had nothing new to report.

While the majority of the trucks of men pressed on, Jack, Preacher and Jim stopped in Clear River. While Preacher and Jim talked to people on the street, Jack went into an old, familiar haunt of his—a little bar served by a waitress he’d been seeing before Mel came into his life. He viewed sentimentally the way her eyes lit up when she saw him enter. Charmaine was a handsome woman, older than Jack by about ten years, and one of the most kindhearted women he knew.

“Hiya, Bub. It’s been a long time.”

“Charmaine,” he said with a nod. “I’m not here on a social call. Woman from our town has gone missing,” he said, flashing a picture. “We suspect an abusive ex-husband, recently released from jail. The woman, her name is Paige, is my cook’s girl.”

“Aw Jesus, Jack, that’s awful.”

“Everyone’s out looking. Can I get you to spread the word to anyone who happens in here for a drink?”

“You bet I will.”

So Jack described the missing truck, the ex-husband,
and explained they weren’t positive of the connection, but it was likely he had her—Paige was afraid of him and wouldn’t have gone off. Her car and purse were left behind.

“I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen,” she promised.

“Thanks.” He turned to go and then turned back. “I’m married now.”

She gave a nod. “I heard that. Congratulations.”

“We have a new baby. A son. About six weeks ago.”

She smiled. “It worked out, then.”

He gave a nod.

“You wouldn’t have been worth a damn if it hadn’t.”

“That’s the God’s truth. Anything you can do about this, Charmaine, I’d consider it a personal favor.”

“I wouldn’t be doing it for you, Jack. We all help one another out in times like this. Bet it’s cold out there, even though it’s almost summer. I hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”

When he left, a man in a denim jacket who wore a shady brady on his head slid down from the other end of the bar, sidling closer to Charmaine. “What was that?”

“You want to talk now?” she asked with a smile, giving the bar a wipe. “You probably heard—a woman from Virgin River’s gone missing. They suspect her ex-husband, just out of jail, maybe driving a stolen ’83 Ford truck. Tan.”

“That a fact?” He finished his beer, put down a ten dollar bill, touched his hat and quit the bar.

Paige understood what was happening now. Wes sat her on the ground, her back up against a tree, and with duct tape, bound her hands in front of her, her ankles together, and put a strip across her lips. “That looks good on you, Paige,” he said. “You can’t talk back for once.”

He positioned a couple of flashlights on her to bring her into sight in the dark. Then for the better part of an
hour, sat on the ground not far from her and talked about the disappointments of his life, from the unhappy childhood he’d suffered to the short jail term, which to hear him describe it could’ve been years. He had many complaints about their marriage—apparently in his mind, the strife had been entirely her fault. She drove him to abuse with her needling, her dissidence. But he spoke slowly. He had the calm and stoic composure of a suicidal man.

He had decided that Paige would draw John in search, and perhaps Jack, as well; they weren’t far away from the town, which was why it had seemed he was driving in circles. Up here, he would see their vehicles approach. When Wes was done talking, he left the truck on the top of the hill in plain view, close to where she sat, flipped on the flashlights and went into the trees from where he could watch the approach of any rescuers. He planned to shoot John, then Paige and himself. “I’m done with this charade,” he said. “You win.” He smiled. “Sort of.”

Though Paige, tape across her lips, couldn’t respond, he couldn’t stop her from thinking. And what she thought was, you have no idea about John. John and his friends. They’re not only stronger than you, they’re smarter. And then she closed her eyes and prayed,
Please let them be the most clever they’ve ever been.

By the time the moon was rising, the search party was up to more than twenty men, some of whom were grumbling about the wisdom of searching the dense wood for Paige at night when she could already be in San Francisco or even headed for Los Angeles. And if she were being held in the wood, it could be impossible—she might be lost in the vast acreage and never found.

“Are you worried about not finding her, Preach?” Rick asked him.

“I’m worried about finding her too late,” he said.

They had traversed mountain roads, old logging roads, paths and trails, shone strong flashlights into ravines and gullies, but there was nothing. In the back of Jack’s truck were harnesses and ropes in case they saw something down a hill and had to rapell down the steep glide to get close, but so far that had not been necessary. Most of them were fighting exhaustion, but Preacher was driven, and as long as he was driven his friends hung in there with him.

A man who had no name other than Dan had been having a drink at a bar in Clear River when he overheard the details of the search in the area and he thought he’d seen the truck earlier. There was probably more than one old tan Ford around these hills, but there had been a man and woman inside; the man was gripping the wheel pretty intensely, glaring through the windshield, driving nervously. Dan was a trained observer and he had taken note of that before even hearing of the suspected abduction.

Dan was a known illegal grower in the area. He’d gotten a little friendly with other growers over time; they were a real tight-knit group. Slow to trust. They could sniff one another out easily—they bought the stuff growers bought, they carried chicken manure to their grow sites in the back of trucks, pulled wads of stinky bills out of their pockets, but they
never
showed one another their sites or plants. After about three years, he’d gotten into their circle.

Most of them lived with their grow, but Dan preferred hired help. That gave him the freedom to move around at will, rather than being stuck in one place. It also allowed him to set up a lot of grow sites all around the three counties. And live somewhere else, away from all those folks he’d worked so hard to get tight with.

Dan didn’t offer to join the search—they might have a problem with that. Nor did he mention he’d poke around
on his own. But he’d been in that Virgin River bar a few times and had seen the woman, the cook’s girl. The owner’s wife, the local midwife, had done him a favor a while back; a woman who worked for him had surprised him with a baby coming and he thought he’d better get some help. Turned out to be a damned good thing he had. Without Mel Sheridan’s help, that baby wouldn’t have made it. That was not to mention that he’d rear-ended the midwife not so long ago and they’d been real civilized about it.

He’d spent a lot of time roaming back here in these mountains and knew his way around. He decided to have a look in places maybe no one else would think of. If anything turned up, maybe he could return a favor. Anonymously.

He knew exactly where to hide his truck off the roads, exactly where the abandoned logging roads and hidden trails were. He didn’t always wear a sidearm, but on this mission he did. If the woman had indeed been taken by a dangerous ex, it could get ugly. The night was dark, but he knew where he was going and kept the flashlight on dim, pointed down. From time to time he’d see that search convoy whir by in a fleet of trucks, so he knew they weren’t looking where he was looking and that alone kept him going.

That young woman, the cook’s girl, she seemed a nice young woman, about the same age and size as Dan’s own wife. Ex-wife now, but he really couldn’t imagine what he’d have done if she’d been taken from him like that. He’d probably go crazy.

The moon was rising when he came upon the truck and the woman. One look told him something bad was going down. What was the point in leaving a woman tied up against a tree, flashlights illuminating her, the vehicle in sight, unless it was some kind of trap. He thought maybe she was dead and booby-trapped, but then he saw her
move. She lifted her head, shivered and leaned her head back against the tree. Maybe she was alive and booby-trapped, and that made him sick to even think about it. As far as he could see, there was no one else there. He peered into the truck windows and bed—no one.