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Flora shook her head. “He blindfolded me so I couldn’t see much. Just narrow gaps above and below the fold. I had an impression of towering trees. And the air was cool against my cheeks. The mountains. I was definitely in the mountains. It reminded me of home.”
“Niche is known for hiking trails lined with wild mountain laurel. It can also have some snow in the winter. All in all, that’s not so dissimilar to the wilds of Maine.”
Flora didn’t say anything.
“When he was driving out, did you notice any town signs, road markers, anything?” Keith pressed.
Flora finally twisted around to look at him. “I was in a box. Even in his rig, he’d built a custom pine box just for me.”
“He had his rig,” D.D. spoke up, focusing the conversation. “That’s good to know. It’s been seven years since your rescue, but Jacob Ness was big news, especially around here. I’m sure many people still remember him, and might be reluctant to speak up when showed his photo. It seems to be human nature not to want to get involved. On the other hand, flashing around a photo of a big rig—that’s much more innocuous and might get us somewhere.”
Still sitting forward, with his shoulders nearly between the two front seats of the rental car, Keith nodded.
D.D. slowed as civilization appeared ahead. She made out an open square, lined with pretty trees, park benches, and squat redbrick buildings with crisp white trim. Very scenic, very quaint.
“Dahlonega,” Keith announced from between the seats.
No kidding, D.D. thought. She made a right-hand turn, braked for a pedestrian in the crosswalk, then further scrutinized their surroundings.
“We take the road to the left, which is north to Niche.” Keith again, while Flora continued her intense window-staring.
“Wrong. We stop. Eat lunch. There. Diner!” D.D. pulled into a parking space with renewed enthusiasm, while Flora finally roused herself.
“No! We have to get to Niche, meet up with the sheriff, start the search.” The girl sounded slightly wild.
“What time is it?” D.D. asked.
“Just after two,” Keith provided.
“How many more hours before sunset?”
Keith studied his phone. “Five hours, forty-seven minutes, give or take.”
“Grid set up? Volunteers logged in? Canine team delivered?”
Now both Keith and Flora stared at her.
“Today is prep,” she explained to them, one hand on the door handle. “Debriefing in Atlanta this morning, now setting up mobile HQ and getting organized in Niche. In other words, the action starts tomorrow. In the meantime, we spent half the night flying, slept only a handful of hours, and—speaking for myself—had only a banana and four donuts for breakfast. Feed me now, or I’ll kill you both.”
Flora and Keith climbed obediently out of the car.
“Besides,” D.D. said as she led them into the diner. “We have our own plans to make.”
—
SHE LET THEM GET SETTLED. Coffee and water all the way around. Keith inquired about some weird egg-white omelet with spinach and feta; total waste of a diner, if you asked D.D. Flora said she wasn’t hungry. D.D. planted the menu back in front of her.
“You will order. You will eat. You are part of a taskforce now, and you owe it to the rest of us to pull your shit together and keep functional. Got it?”
Another wide-eyed stare. “I’ll take oatmeal,” Flora told the waitress standing at attention.
“Honey, it’s Georgia. How ’bout some grits?”
“Sure.”
“She’ll take fresh fruit and yogurt with that,” D.D. spoke up. “As for me, I’ll have the Hungry Man special, two eggs over easy, sliced ham, buttered biscuits, and anything else you can squeeze on the plate.”
The waitress beamed in approval. D.D. knew how to do diners right.
