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She shook her head slowly. “It was too dark and foggy.” Swallowing hard, she said in a small voice, “Is Mommy in trouble?”
“I don’t know, Samantha. But I want to find her. Let’s call someone to stay with you.”
“But I want to come.”
“I think it would be best if you would stay here.” He heard the sound of a car approaching, saw headlights through the fog. “Let’s get inside,” he suggested, edging her over the threshold just as the car rounded a final corner.
Gravel crunched as the Volvo stopped. Miranda, wearing a long black dress, flew from behind the wheel. “Where’s Claire?”
“Missing,” Kane said.
“What do you mean, ‘missing’?” she demanded as she climbed the steps to the porch.
“She left with someone. Samantha can tell you the story. I’m going after them.”
“Who’s them?” Miranda demanded.
“I’m not sure.”
“Wait a minute. What’s going on?”
“Samantha will fill you in. I think Claire and Sean could be with Weston Taggert.”
“Taggert—why?” she asked.
“He’s into this—whatever it is—up to his eyeballs,” Kane said, not elaborating because of Samantha.
“But Claire called me, I think, something about Sean.”
“I think Taggert’s been behind all of it. From the beginning,” he said so that she would understand that the situation was grave. “I think he’s been systematically getting rid of anyone who is a threat to the Taggert fortune.”
“But Paige—”
“I don’t understand about her. Yet. But we don’t have time to sit and conjecture. Take Samantha inside and lock all the doors. Then call whoever it is you deal with at the police department and have them look for a black, or dark blue or dark green, pickup. Do you have any idea what kind, honey?” he asked, looking back at Samantha. “Did you see the license plates?”
She was standing next to Miranda and her eyes were round with fear. She shook her head. “It was dark and foggy.”
“Shh. It’s okay,” Miranda said, obviously grasping the severity of the situation. “I’ll see to Samantha and I’ll call the station. I’ve got a friend, Petrillo. He’ll see that this is handled right.”
“Good. Go inside. Lock the doors. You can call my cell,” he said and rattled off the number as he made his way to his Jeep. The thought of Weston and Claire together made his heart nearly stop. Weston the rapist. Weston the murderer. Weston who wouldn’t think twice about killing Claire or Sean.
Kane jammed the Jeep into gear and cut a tight circle. Accelerating down the lane, he decided to drive to Taggert Industries. The murders had started with men who were employed by Neal Taggert and now Weston was at the helm of the corporation.
“That’s right,” Miranda said as she cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder. Cooped up here at the old lodge, she was climbing the walls as she talked to Petrillo. Fortunately Samantha was in the den, wrapped in a blanket and watching television. Still, Miranda kept her voice low. “I don’t care that Sean hasn’t been gone for twenty-four hours, this is serious. Kane Moran thinks Weston Taggert killed Jack Songbird and Hunter Riley.”
“What about his brother? Harlan?”
Miranda steeled herself. “I don’t think Weston was involved in that one.” Dear God, how long would she have to lie? Could she protect Tessa? And where the devil was she now? Hadn’t Claire said something about Sean and Tessa being together? The phone connection had been spotty, but that’s what it had sounded like. “But I want Weston Taggert brought in for questioning. Now.”
“You got it,” Petrillo said as he hung up. Miranda tried Claire’s cell . . . again . . . got her voice mail. The damned phone wasn’t turned on. So where was she? Where would Weston take her? If she’s really with Weston. Samantha hadn’t seen the man who lured Claire away. Had she gone willingly—no, certainly she wouldn’t have left her daughter without saying where she was going. It seemed more likely th
at Claire had left quickly so that Samantha wouldn’t be involved.
Absurdly, she thought of Denver Styles and quickly dialed the only number she had for him, a cell phone that beeped at her. Damn this part of Oregon with its high cliffs, mountains, deep chasms, and patchy cellular service. Like it or not, she’d have to wait.
She walked to the den and saw that Samantha was huddled on the couch, her overly shadowed eyes closed as if she had fallen asleep. Miranda walked into the room and the girl stirred. Battling tears, she said, “You don’t know where Mom is, do you?”
“Not yet.”
