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ONE HUNDRED THREE
SOMEWHERE ON THE AT
Beverly roused from unconsciousness, weak and disoriented. For a moment she thought she’d had a nightmare where she’d been abducted and attacked.
She blinked, forcing her heavy eyelids open, and squinted to focus. Reality returned with sickening clarity as she realized the nightmare was real. She and Janie… at the reunion… Janie going outside, crying for help… someone jumping her from behind.
She surveyed the dark room. Concrete walls. No windows. One door, which was locked—she’d heard him turn the key when he’d left.
She yanked at the ropes around her wrists. She couldn’t get up anyway. He’d untied her from the ceiling but tied her to the wall now. Dear God, what was he going to do to her? Did anyone even know she and Janie were missing? Was someone looking for them?
“Janie?” she said in a raw whisper. “Janie, are you here?”
But her friend didn’t answer. “Janie?” she cried.
Nothing but silence. And the sound of her own ragged breathing.
Please, God, help me. I don’t want to die.
ONE HUNDRED FOUR
WIDOW LAKE
Ellie and Derrick approached the Jones’ cabin with caution, the afternoon heat burning Ellie’s neck. Brittle twigs snapped and crackled as they walked over them, the hum of a boat on the lake puttering in the silence.
They grew quiet as they reached the front door. The heat was cloying. The sense that something bad had happened here permeated the air.
Ellie gripped her gun at the ready and eased open the front door. The wood floors squeaked as they eased inside. The air conditioner whirred, a clock ticking in the silence.
The curtains fluttered from the air blowing through the vent. Dust motes danced in the dim light slanting through the living room window. The furniture was non-descript. Plain dark-green sofa. A rocking chair. Basket of knitting yarn and needles beside it.
She glanced at the kitchen but it was empty. A half full pot of coffee sat on the counter. A mug on the wood table.
Where was the grandmother?
Derrick checked the hall closet and end tables for a phone. Ellie noted another room to the right. She paused to listen at the door. Silence.
Instincts on alert, she eased the door open. Her heart stuttered. The grandmother lay on the floor, her graying hair torn loose from her bun, her eyes wide, blood pooling beneath her head.
Chest tight, Ellie stooped and checked for a pulse. The woman was dead.
ONE HUNDRED FIVE
“Derrick, in here,” Ellie shouted.
Derrick came running, then cursed at the sight of the poor woman. “Lowlife,” he muttered. “Bad enough to take a child but to kill a little grandmother, too.”
Ellie fought her own anger and revulsion. “Look around in here while I call it in.” Derrick knelt to examine the doorway and floor while she phoned Captain Hale.
“We definitely have a kidnapping. Grandmother was murdered,” Ellie said. “Girl’s father is not on the premises but we need to find him. He goes by the name Dwight Jones, although we have reason to believe he’s actually Frank Wahlburg. Run a background check on the name Dwight Jones. See if he has other family or a permanent residence.”
“Will do.”
“Send Dr. Whitefeather and a forensic team,” Ellie said. “Ranger McClain is searching outside. Agent Fox and I will look for a photograph of the girl to text you.”
After hanging up, she took pictures of the dead grandmother and the crime scene. A scenario formed in her head as she noted the woman’s fingernails had broken off, probably in a scuffle when she’d tried to save her granddaughter. The kidnapper must have shoved her, then she’d fallen and hit her head. Poor woman.
If she’d made physical contact with him or scratched him, hopefully she’d gotten some DNA.
