by Sharon Sala
“That’s a crock!” Jake yelled. “If the law won’t help us, then I’m saying there’s those among us who are ready to go in on our own and take the consequences.”
Marlow threw up his hands. “Well, hell yeah, why don’t you go right ahead and do that. On the off chance Walker is in there and still alive, that will pretty much seal his death warrant.”
And just like that, all the fight went out of Jake. “I can’t stand to see Dolly Walker cry.”
Marlow sighed. “Yesterday I saw a woman lose her mind. Sue Colvin is in the mental ward in Mount Sterling General, and I’d bet a year of my life that she don’t never come out alive.”
Jake shuddered. “This is one fucked-up mess, and all because Lonnie-damn-Farrell decided to come back to Rebel Ridge.”
Before Jake could press his case further, the dispatcher poked his head in the door.
“Sheriff, there are two DEA agents up front who want to talk to you.”
“Why not?” Marlow muttered. “Everyone else does, too. Send them back.”
“We’re already here,” Lancaster said, flashing his badge. “I’m Agent Mike Lancaster. This is my partner, Agent Louis Townsend.” He eyed Jake curiously. “I know you from somewhere.”
Jake shrugged. “Jake Doolen. I’ve been known to work for the law now and then.”
Mike Lancaster smiled. “I remember you now. Saw you and your dogs work about two years ago upriver. We had an agent go missing. You found him. Not alive, but you found him just the same.”
Jake nodded. “Yeah, sometimes the searches don’t always work out the way we want.”
Mike shifted focus. “Sheriff Marlow, we’re here about a man named Lonnie Farrell. Would you happen to know him?”
Marlow rolled his eyes. “Yes, although I wish I’d never laid eyes on the man. I’ve got three family members dead and a park ranger missing. He’s at the top of my guilty list, but I don’t have enough evidence to nail him.”
“That park ranger wouldn’t happen to be Quinn Walker, would it?”
Marlow was startled. “Yes, but how did you know?”
Lancaster took a paper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the sheriff.
“This is a DEA search warrant for the property once known as the Foley Brothers Mine, now known as Mountain Mushrooms. It covers the land around the mine, the mine itself, the mushroom business and any other businesses and buildings on the property.”
“How on earth…?”
“Just paying back a favor to a friend,” Mike said. “And we’re part of the package.”
“I can always use a couple more hands,” Marlow admitted.
Mike pointed out the window. “There are more than two of us,” he said. “Three vans—eleven armed agents. We’re just waiting for you to show us the way.”
“We’re coming, too,” Jake said.
Marlow shook his head. “You three stay away from the mess until we’ve secured the area. If we can’t find Walker, we’ll set the dogs on the trail again. How’s that suit you?”
“Just fine,” Jake said, and headed back to his truck on the run to tell his boys what was going on.
Twenty-Three
Buell Smith cried all the way home. Today was the end of his life as he’d known it. If he lived through to tomorrow, he would likely be behind bars. But his first duty was to his family. The kids were in school, but he had to warn Portia and Gertie. There was no telling what Lonnie Farrell would do next.
He saw Portia sweeping the front porch as he drove into the yard, then skidded to a halt just outside the fence. She started to wave and then stopped. He watched her expression shift as she saw the crumpled front end of the truck where he’d gone through the gate. She dropped the broom and came running as he practically fell out, leaving the keys hanging in the ignition.
When she saw his face she started screaming for Gertie.
“Mama! Mama! Come quick! Buell’s had a wreck!” She slid an arm around his waist. “Lean on me, honey. I’ll help you into the house.”
“It wasn’t a wreck,” Buell said. “It was Lonnie.”
Portia’s screams got louder. “Mama! Mama!”
Gertie appeared in the doorway as Portia was helping Buell up the steps and into the house.
“Lord’a mercy!” she cried. “What happened?”
Portia spat the bitter words out of her mouth. “Lonnie did it! Like everything else that’s ever gone wrong with this family, Lonnie caused it.”
Gertie moaned. “He ain’t all bad. He gave us this home.”
“With blood money,” Buell muttered, staggering into the house. “And you don’t know the half of it.”
“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” Portia said, and ran off down the hall as Buell dropped into his recliner.
“What happened?” Gertie asked. “Is Lonnie hurt, too?”
Buell sneered, then winced because even that small movement was agony. “Hell no, Lonnie’s not hurt. I didn’t fight him. He caught me off guard, and when I went down he kicked the holy shit out of me. Most of this is from his boots.”
Portia returned and shoved Gertie aside.
“Damn it, Mama, Buell comes in looking like this and all you can ask is if Lonnie is hurt? Get out of my way!” She knelt by the chair to begin cleaning Buell’s face, but he needed to get this said.
“There’s more, and you need to know it now. I’m the one who shot an arrow into that bear and drove it crazy. It wasn’t on purpose. I was just trying to get some extra money for my family by hunting trophy heads for a taxidermist down in Mount Sterling. I never meant for anyone to get hurt, but there’s one hiker dead and another crippled because of what I did. I’ll probably go to jail for it, but that’s okay. Gertie, you need to know that your son is a mean, crazy man. He tricked all of us up at Mountain Mushrooms. We signed on to raise mushrooms, not work in no drug business, but as soon as he had the one going, he started the other one up. He pretty much told us that we either work for him or our families would suffer. He said he knew where we lived. None of us signed on to do that, but there we were.”
Portia was horrified and began crying, telling Buell how sorry she was for what Lonnie had done, but Gertie had gone quiet.
“I’ll go talk to him,” she said at last. “I’ll make him let them go.”
Buell shook his head. “You don’t understand. The Colvins are dead because the drug Willis got high on came from your son. Syd probably smuggled it out. The cops are gonna know it’s not meth or pills that killed him. I watch TV. I know how that works. They’ll figure it out. And that’s not all. Quinn Walker is being held prisoner inside the mine. Lonnie told me to grab him and tie him up, and God help me, I did. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”
Portia stood up and stepped back, staring at Buell as if she was looking at a stranger. “I can’t believe you did that,” she gasped.
He shrugged. “I can’t believe it, either. Worst part was that Walker wasn’t there about the drugs. He was looking for the poacher. He was looking for me. I’m going to jail, Portia. I’m sorry for the shame I’ve brought on you and our kids, but there’s nothing I can do to take it back.”
Gertie left the room mumbling to herself, and then came back moments later carrying her purse and walked out the door.
Portia was sobbing so hard she never saw her mother leave, and Buell was on the phone calling the sheriff’s office to turn himself in.
Buell had parked behind Gertie’s car, so instead of moving it so she could drive hers, she just got in his truck and drove away. It was her fault Lonnie was like this. It was her fault he’d turned out all wrong. She had to tell him she was sorry. He needed to understand how much she’d loved him, even though that love had come out all wrong.
Her mind was set as she drove up the mountain. She knew what she would say and how she would say it. He would be angry. He had a right to be. But he was a man full-grown, and there was a price to pay for sinning.
* * *
It w
as nearing sundown as Lonnie stood outside the office watching the darkening sky. He had just made contact with the first chopper, which would be arriving shortly. All he had to do was stay focused, and he would soon be out of this and on to new and bigger things. Looking back, he realized he’d been too greedy too soon. He should have started off smaller and grown the business rather than starting at the top and watching it crumble beneath him.
As if this day couldn’t get any worse, he’d been watching the gate for the men on the night shift to arrive, but they were suspiciously absent. He could only guess what rumors were flying, but it didn’t matter anymore. He was done with this place. He and the guards who were coming would load the goods. All he needed was three more hours, and this place and these people would be nothing but a bad memory.
Suddenly he saw headlights as someone paused for a moment at what was left of the gates. When he realized it was coming onto the property his heart skipped a beat, and then he recognized the truck.
It was Buell. The sorry son of a bitch was back. Good. Lonnie had a point to make, and he no longer cared if it made his sister sad. It was her own damn fault for marrying such a loser. The headlights were blinding, but he walked straight toward them anyway. With little more than twenty yards between them he pulled his gun and started firing—sending three shots into the windshield right above where the steering wheel was. Glass shattered. The engine slowed as the driver’s foot slipped off the accelerator. When the truck began to veer slowly to the right and then slammed into a stand of trees, he felt a surge of satisfaction.
Fat bastard played me once, but never again.
He jogged toward the truck to make sure Buell was well and truly dead, ready to deliver the kill shot if he wasn’t.
He opened the door and then froze. The body was slumped all the way over onto the passenger side of the seat, but it was plain to see that Buell Smith had not been driving.
Bile rose in his throat like vomit after a binge.
“Mama?”
A wave of panic swept through him. It felt like the same panic he’d felt the night she’d first come to his room. A smothering, weightless kind of feeling that he was leaving his body and watching the debacle play out from across the room.
“I didn’t mean to. I thought you were Buell.” He pulled the hem of her dress down to cover her exposed leg.
He turned off the key, and closed the door. His gorge was rising as he absorbed the shock of what he’d done. Then he glanced up. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear the first chopper approaching. As he went back toward the mine, it occurred to him it might be coming too late. He’d created a hell that was going to take him with it.
* * *
Ryal was in a panic. He’d tried to call Sheriff Marlow and gotten a vague response from the dispatcher about him being out of the office and unreachable. From the moment Mariah had told him where she was going, he’d known he couldn’t get there in time to stop her. He’d tried to call James, but the call wouldn’t go through. Wherever James was on his route, there was no service.
The update he got from Dolly about Jake Doolen’s search wasn’t good. In her words, as far as Jake was concerned, Quinn had never made it into the park. He was either dead or being held captive somewhere else, most likely inside the mine. It was the scenario no one but Mariah had wanted to accept. He couldn’t sit by any longer. Mariah was the smart one. Right or wrong, she had made her move and he was going to follow. He needed to find James, wherever he was. He would call Uncle John and Uncle Fagan. They would round up as many kin as they could muster and meet him up at the cave. He didn’t hold much hope of Mariah finding Quinn, but he owed it to his brother to save Mariah before she got herself killed.
* * *
Mariah had to rest. Her arms were shaking from the exertion of pulling Quinn’s deadweight, but they were far enough away from the drug room to feel safe, if only for a moment.
Quinn’s pulse was still steady, but the fact that he hadn’t come to was a huge concern. She kept thinking brain damage and wondered if she was saving him, or dooming him to life as a vegetable.
She stood, sweeping the flashlight around the tunnel until she located the pack she’d left earlier and brought it back to where she’d left Quinn. She sat the flashlight on end so that the beam of light was pointing upward, and began digging through the pack for water and the first-aid kit.
The first thing she did was remove the duct tape from his mouth. Then she used a wet wipe on the dried blood sealing his right eye. It was slow going, but if they had a chance of getting out, she was going to need every break she could get. If he ever regained consciousness, it would be helpful if he could see.
In the end, it was his groan of pain that gave her the first ray of hope. Already aware of how sound carried through the tunnel, she kept her voice low.
“Quinn, can you hear me? It’s Mariah.”
He inhaled slowly, his nostrils flaring slightly.
She leaned closer to his ear.
“Quinn. It’s Mariah. Follow the sound of my voice. You can do this. I need you to do this. I need you to come back to me.”
He moaned again. This time she took his hand and put it to her cheek.
“Feel me, Quinn. It’s me, Mariah. Your hands are free. Your feet are free. All you have to do is wake up and come with me.”
His lips parted. She poured water on another wet wipe and mopped the blood away from his mouth.
“You want a drink? I have water. Open your mouth, sweetheart, and I’ll give you a drink.”
* * *
Quinn was hearing voices. Someone wanted him to open his mouth. The last time he’d done that they’d nearly drowned him. He wasn’t playing that game again. What pissed him off most was that he was still alive. Why couldn’t he just give up and die?
Someone was beside him, running their fingers on his face. He waited for the pain to increase, but it didn’t happen. A sharp astringent wafted under his nose. He came to with a jerk, his throat burning, his lips too swollen to form words.
“Quinn, it’s Mariah. Can you hear me?” she asked as she dropped the smelling salts back into the first-aid kit.
A quick wave of longing swept through him that was so real it was as if he could actually hear her voice.
Mariah poured a thin trickle of water at the corner of his lips.
“It’s water, sweetheart. Open your mouth. I won’t let you choke.”
When the water hit his lips and slid into his mouth, he swallowed instinctively.
“Good job,” she whispered. “A little more?” She tilted the bottle again. She was about to put it aside when he suddenly grabbed her wrist.
“It’s all right. It’s me, Quinn. Mariah.”
“Am…dead?”
Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks. “No, baby, no. You’re not dead. I found you. But we’re not safe. We’re in the tunnel in the mountain, and I need to get you back to the cave. Remember the cave above your house? We need to get back there. Can you help me?”
Quinn was pretty sure this was another episode of PTSD, but it was an improvement over most of them, and he knew better than to fight it. He squeezed her wrist in answer.
“I’m going to wash the rest of this blood off your left eye. Your right eye is too swollen to open, but this one might if I can get it clean. Don’t move. Don’t fight me. I need you to be able to see to help me do this. Okay?”
He squeezed her wrist again.
She began wiping dirt and picking bits of crusted blood from his lashes until the lid was free. She had no way of knowing whether he would be able to open it, or if it was too injured to see, but it was the best she could do.
“Okay, that’s as much as I can manage,” she whispered. “Try to open your eye.”
Quinn heard her but couldn’t figure out what he had to do to obey.
Mariah groaned. “Honey. Open your eye. All you have to do is blink. You remember how to blink, right?”
It was an involuntary res
ponse to a specific command, but the moment he did it, a seed of cognizance came with it. At first all he could see were shadows and the silhouette of someone sitting beside him. Was that her?
Mariah felt like cheering. She watched his eye open and saw him trying to focus. She leaned into his line of vision.
“It’s me, honey. Mariah. I love you, Quinn. I love you so much.”
His heart skipped a beat. Mariah? This wasn’t a dream?
He squeezed her wrist again. She took his hand and laid it against her cheek. He felt the softness of her skin, the warmth of her flesh, and knew that by some stroke of fate that she had found him.
“Help?”
She smiled through her tears. “Yes. I need you to help me. If I get you to your feet, do you think you can walk?”
He ran a hand over his ribs and winced.
“Oh, God, are they broken?”
He blinked once and quietly passed out.
Mariah shuddered as she laid her head against his shoulder.
“I understand. They hurt you, didn’t they? So after I get you home and get you well, if the people who did this aren’t already dead, I will find them and kill them myself.”
She sorted through the backpack, stuffing the most necessary supplies into her pockets, then took off her jacket and stuffed it inside the pack to make it softer for him.
Now that she could stand up, it would be easier to drag him, but not on his back—not without protection. As she’d looked at the backpack, a thought had occurred to her. It had a sturdy internal frame and wide shoulder straps. What if it was on his back instead of hers? It was long enough to pillow his head, and the internal frame could act as a body brace for his broken bones and keep the entire upper half of his body from being dragged against the tunnel floor. All she had to do was get it over his shoulders and strap him into it.
* * *
The first helicopter was loaded and ready to go. The second one was inbound, ETA five minutes. Lonnie waved off the pilot and the two armed guards, then looked at his watch. There were two pallets of street-ready coke yet to load. Thirty minutes tops and they would be gone.
