by Lisa Jackson
“She’s upset because Brandy is trying to steal her boyfriend.”
“Yeah? Well, any boy that can be stolen isn’t yours in the first place,” Shiloh said, surprised at the words of wisdom slipping from her mouth. This responsibility thing was really getting into her psyche. “Come on, let’s move. Turn this thing off and take the horses out.” Without waiting for a response, she snapped off the TV and put the remote on a high shelf. “Get dressed, and don’t forget sunscreen and a hat. You don’t want to get burned.”
“I don’t know why we’re going out when it’s even hotter out there,” Morgan muttered.
“The breeze sure beats this hot box.”
Half an hour later, they left the ranch atop two horses that seemed just as eager as Shiloh to get away. Morgan didn’t seem relieved at all by the change in venue, but at least she hadn’t fought it.
“I’m not going near those hills again,” Morgan said, lifting her chin toward the direction where they’d discovered the body.
“Fine by me. There’s plenty of land to roam out here. And here’s the thing about riding. You never go out without either Beau or me, you hear me? Never. And don’t let any strangers in the house, either.”
“You know I won’t.”
“Good.”
“Do you think the person who did that to Courtney is going to kill Addie too?”
The raw fear in Morgan’s voice made Shiloh’s jaw clench. Fear was a terrible thing for a kid; she knew that firsthand. “I sure hope not. Maybe Addie went off on her own.”
“Everyone is saying there’s a kidnapper out there.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“All my friends have been texting me.”
“Look, it’s good to be cautious in the world. We need to live smart. Watch over each other and be responsible. That’s all.”
They rode in silence for a while, and Shiloh felt herself lulled into the clear communication between woman and horse, a bond as solid as the tumbling prairie that stretched from here to the purple rock and black shale of the Wind River Mountains. It was her bliss, to be in step with these big animals. Horses had gotten her through terrible times; they were always there to carry her away from the pain, and she wanted a chance to show her sister just what a magical relief that could be, even if just for a short time.
Suddenly, Morgan broke the silence. “I can’t get that disgusting thing out of my head.”
Shiloh grimaced. “It’s awful all around. I’m sorry you went through that. My fault. One of us should have stayed back at the house with you.”
“Why do you and Beau keep saying that? I’m not a baby.”
“It’s our job to take care of you now.”
“Yeah. That means making dinner. But it doesn’t mean you can boss me around.”
Shiloh felt a chuckle at the back of her throat. It was good to have the old Morgan back again. “Beau and I are gonna steer you right, and that might involve a lot of bossing around. And as for dinner?” She held a hand up against the amber sun, low in the sky. “You’re going to have to help.”
“That’s so unfair. Who do I get to boss around?”
“I’m sure Rambo would let you teach him a few new tricks.”
As they headed back to the house, Morgan’s snort of annoyance was somehow reassuring. Maybe Shiloh and Beau had a shot at doing this right. She hoped so. With their little sister’s future in their hands, they couldn’t afford another screwup. That meant keeping her safe from whatever bastard was out there torturing women like Courtney Pearson and making young girls like Addie Donovan disappear.
Back at the barn, they tended to the horses and decided on hamburger hash for dinner. Shiloh set Morgan up at the kitchen counter, chopping onions and tomatoes as she sat down to sort through the mail. A farrier’s bill for two hundred and ten dollars for shoeing two horses and a gas bill for eighty dollars. Not too bad.
A slim golden envelope caught her attention, mostly because it had no address or postmark on it, though her name was printed on it in block letters. It must have been hand-delivered.
She opened the flap and found a single sheet inside—a black-and-white photo of…
Three naked girls.
What the hell? Biting back a curse, she snatched up the photo and strode into the next room before Morgan noticed.
It had been taken at night, eerily lit by an old-fashioned flash camera. There she stood in all her sixteen-year-old glory, breasts perky, arms lifted as if trying to capture the balmy night air. Her eyes were narrowed in suspicion, and for a moment she tasted that same fear that had rippled up her spine that night.
The photographer had caught her alongside Ruth and Kat, standing on the dock that hot summer night fifteen years ago.
The night Ruth had been raped.
And now—fifteen years later—the monster had hand-delivered this photo to her mailbox? A shudder ran through her at the knowledge of nearby danger. Like the adrenaline that shot through you when you realized you’d escaped death by a mere fraction of an inch.
The bastard was out there, watching, and he wanted something from her. Fifteen years she’d been away—fifteen!—and he was still trying to get a piece of her? The man was a pure psycho.
Shoving the photo back into the envelope, Shiloh grabbed her cell phone from her back pocket to call the sheriff and then paused. Crap. Anything she told them would give up Ruth’s secret.
She was stuck—a walking target. And he was out there, a predator waiting to pounce. Setting her teeth, she marched out to the porch and shoved the photo under a stack of her clothes. Nothing she could do about it right now but stay safe and keep an eye on Morgan.
Kat, she thought. She could give the photo to Kat … may-be … but later …
But for now she would watch out for her little sister like a mother bear. And if this psycho came anywhere near them, her claws would emerge. She would rip his head off.
*
The air-conditioner in the window of Ruth’s office made a churning noise as it struggled to cool off the room. The bright blue Wyoming sky and hundred-degree temperatures outside did nothing to brighten the sad conversation taking place within. Debra explained that her husband, a stoic, refused to come along because he didn’t go in for counseling. “He’s one of those who thinks you suck it up and handle your own problems.”
Ruth assured her that she understood. “People work through a crisis in different ways. But you’re here, and I give you credit for taking steps to help yourself. Let’s talk about what you’ve been going through.”
“The first few days, everything was about the urgency of finding her.” Addie Donovan’s mother, Debra, stared at the floor as she wrung her hands, picking at her cuticles and squeezing her fingers until they turned white. “The search consumed us, day and night. I kept thinking we would find her huddled by some boulders on the ridge or at the edge of a stream. Addie’s an excellent rider, but anyone can get thrown, and I couldn’t stop picturing my little girl unconscious and”—her voice cracked with despair—“bleeding somewhere. All alone.”
Ruth nodded sympathetically, following Debra’s every word but giving her space to tell her story.
“It was as if I could see her looking at the sunset and calling for us to come rescue her.” Debra pressed her eyes closed for a moment. “It was horrible. Three days of constant panic as we searched. And then, when the sheriff widened the search, Jeremy asked me to stay back at the ranch in case … just in case, somehow, she came home to us. That’s when the panic gave way to the sickening realization that someone had kidnapped our girl. She’s out there—I know she is—but he’s got her.”
“Who do you think has her?”
“Some depraved man. Addie is adorable, and she has a very mature body. God blessed her with ample bosoms that—well, you probably know how men can be.”
“Is there someone you suspect of taking her? Someone with a grudge?”
Debra shook her head. “I spent a lot of time crying at th
e house, trying to think of anyone who’d feel wronged by her. I thought of her teachers and friends. Maybe someone she babysat for, or one of our workers at the feed store. She’s worked there part-time for years, so lots of people in town know her from seeing her behind the register. But the truth is, Addie is a good kid. She’s not in the popular crowd at school, but she does have friends. And none of them can think of anyone who had it out for her. So now it’s just a waiting game to see if—if someone comes forward and asks for ransom or—” She pressed a fist to her mouth, but a sob escaped, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I thought I was all cried out.”
“It takes a lot of crying. Tears are a normal part of the trauma you’re going through.”
“I’m trying to stay strong, but sometimes I can’t hold them back,” Debra said, reaching for some tissues.
“They’re not a sign of weakness. They’re an important part of the process.”
“I just want this to be over,” Debra cried. “I want Addie back. If only I hadn’t worked late that night. I would have been at the house, at least. I would have been closer. Maybe … maybe if he saw my car at the house, he would have stayed away …” She talked more about the past few days, the endless rides over their property and bordering lands. The repeated interviews her husband and son had sat through with people from the Sheriff’s Department and the county and state police. Deputies and detectives traipsing through the house, sipping coffee and using the phone because their cell service failed out on the range.
Ruth steeled herself to counsel Debra, but inside she wanted to cry. Losing Penny would be her worst nightmare. All things considered, Debra was holding up well.
Debra didn’t understand how Ruth could help her. “No offense, but I’m not going to pop any pills,” Debra said. “Those prescription medications, that’s a slippery slope.”
“I can’t dispense drugs.” Although Ruth sometimes worked in tandem with a medical doctor who prescribed, she was glad that Debra did not want to go that route. “My job is to give you the tools to cope with this crisis, and the best way to do that would be to meet two or three times a week right now. Bring Jeremy if he wants to come. I can help you develop a vocabulary to describe your feelings. We can make a short-term plan to help you endure this period.”
“What would that do?”
“Maybe you would plan to avoid someone at work who asks too many questions. Or you might add more rigorous exercise to your daily schedule to help you sleep at night.”
“Things like that might help.” Debra nodded.
“And we need to talk about the guilt and blame,” Ruth said.
“We got plenty of that going around at our house.”
“It’s natural to blame yourself, but self-hatred is a destructive behavior. You need to stay strong for your girl, and your family,” Ruth said. “Food and rest are important. And hope.”
“I’ll never give up hope,” Debra vowed. “I won’t give up on my girl.”
Ruth gave a nod of encouragement, hoping that Debra’s steadfast faith would be rewarded. She prayed that the deputies would find her daughter and bring her home soon.
*
Addie was baking in a huge oven, about to explode in a fireball, as he stoked the flames and tossed more wood onto the fire. Addie whimpered, wanting to give up, but knowing she had to try and stay alive for the people she loved: her mother and father and Dean. Even Gil—what she wouldn’t give to see him again …
Her head lolled to one side, and her eyes slid open. The rough cot and the bare shack showed her that it was a dream.
Except for the heat.
It was hotter than hell in here. Suffocating. She pushed up with an effort, handcuffed to a chain and tethered inside a shack like a rabid dog, waiting to die. He’d brought her two buckets, one for water and one for waste.
She went to the water bucket and splashed her face, neck, and breasts. No worries about getting her clothes wet since he had taken her clothes away.
“You girls are so modest,” he’d told her, staring at her breasts. “You’re not gonna run off while you’re naked.”
Ya think? Just watch me, dickhead.
Addie worked at the cheesy handcuffs lined with pink acetate fur, twisting and tugging, trying to imagine a way to slip out of them. He disappeared for long blocks of time. He must have some kind of job that kept him busy, which she was grateful for, because otherwise she knew he’d spend even more time with her. She shuddered and looked down at her cuffs. They were causing blisters on the skin of her wrists. He’d bragged about them, saying she was the lucky one, that the other girls hadn’t had it so good. The idea that she should be grateful for having fancy new handcuffs while the other girls hadn’t just showed how crazy he was.
And what other girls? As far as she could tell, she was the only person stuck here.
Which could only mean two things: either the other girls had escaped, or they were dead.
Maybe they died in these very chains, their eyes on those windows up above, clinging to the light as hope drained from their bodies.
A whimper escaped her throat. Mom and Dad, where are you?
She sputtered and swiped water from her face with her forearm. These cuffs weren’t going to slip off anytime soon, but maybe she could wear down the chains. She would have to find something hard to file them down, and it would take years.
She sniffed, and then bit her bottom lip.
Might as well get started now.
Chapter 17
“I’ve done some very bad things,” he said in a voice laced with regret. “I hurt some women, real bad.”
Ruth shifted in her chair, frowning. This didn’t sound good at all.
It had been a relief when her client, fifty-three-year-old Hank Eames, finally agreed to face away from her on the sofa and remove his black Stetson. Straight on, the man was intimidating. This was his sixth session, and even facing away, he still made her feel uncomfortable, partly because of his constant cold glare, and partly because he fit the profile of her rapist with his wide, thick-fingered hands, large build, and arms covered by dense, dark hair.
Normally, Hank would not be someone she was interested in taking on as a client. In the past, he’d been a surly man, too much of a handful for Ruth, or so she thought. But Doc Farley had appealed to her desire to help. Since the tractor accident, Hank had lost the ability to drive himself long distances, and Ruth was the only therapist in town, and he needed help to get the basic functions of his life back on track. Furthermore, despite Hank’s cold scowl, his injury had affected the aggressive tendencies he once had. He was not quite a lamb, but he was no longer a lion.
They had been working on coming up with varied menus that Hank could prepare, as well as a list of places he could go to get him out of the Prairie Dog Saloon at night. So far, he hadn’t had great success with the second part, but some behaviors were difficult to alter.
“What do you mean, Hank? How did you hurt women?” she asked.
“Bad things. Like, maybe I tortured them. Maybe I came on too strong.”
Ruth swallowed and called on her courage. “How did you torture them?”
His stubby fingers tapped nervously on the arm of the sofa. “You know … like tie ’em up and have at it.”
“Sexually? Do you mean you raped women?”
“Wasn’t really rape.”
“You’re saying it was consensual?”
Silence. Hank didn’t have an answer.
The air in the room was suddenly icy cold, sending a chill down her spine as the air-conditioner rattled on, a constant racket that would cover up the sound if she were to scream. Moving silently behind him, Ruth shut the unit off and forced herself to take a breath in the subsequent stillness.
She worked to keep her voice steady, not wanting him to know that her heart was pounding in her chest. “What was it, Hank? When did this happen?”
“That’s the thing I’m kind of foggy about. I mean, I’m not completely sur
e. Maybe I just saw it in a movie, or maybe I just thought about it. You know how that is, darlin’. Like fantasies.”
“Stick to the rules, Hank. You can call me Ruth or Dr. Baker.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry ’bout that, but you know what I mean, right? Sometimes there’s a fuzzy line between what you’ve done and what you wanted to do, and when you add in the accident for me, a lot of things before that time just don’t make sense. This head of mine is like a dark, abandoned well. No telling what’s been shoved down there.”
Was he telling the truth, or toying with her? It wasn’t the first time she sensed that Hank had retained more of his long-term memory than he was letting on, though it was hard to tell what he remembered and what he was fabricating from television shows or stories he’d heard. But damn it, she wanted to know if his guilt was based on reality.
“You know,” she said, “there are treatments that might help unlock the memories. If they’ve been suppressed because of post-traumatic stress, memories may be retrieved through hypnosis or guided imagery.”
“Really?” He shifted on the couch, casting his ravening gaze on her. “Can you do that for me?”
She angled her body away from him, trying not to feel pinned down by his stare. “It’s not my specialty,” she said, “but I’ll look for someone in Jackson.”
“I can’t go that far. Can’t drive anymore.”
“I’ll find a specialist who’s willing to come here,” Ruth said. She would pay the fees herself if it meant coming closer to unlocking the mystery of that night long ago.
Was she crossing a line of professionalism, now that she felt she might have a personal stake? Maybe. But the fact remained that she was the only therapist in town. Hank Eames needed help, and for now she was committed to helping him discover the truth.
*
Late Thursday night, Ruth was reading in bed when her cell phone rang—another call from the hotline. She was pleased to hear Lily’s voice again.
“I was hoping you would call back,” Ruth said. “Our conversation was so short. I didn’t get a chance to tell you the different ways I could help you.”
