Lance taped up an aerial photo of the place where Chelsea had disappeared. “How did her car get here?”
“Either she drove it or someone else did.” Morgan leaned on her desk and sipped her coffee. It was past lunchtime, and her stomach gurgled audibly.
“Or someone forced her to,” Sharp added. “One thing we know, if Chelsea had walked away from the car, the dog would have picked up a scent.”
“Agreed. It’s all but impossible to fool a K-9.” Lance made a note on the board with a dry erase marker. “So she left the area in another vehicle.”
“She wasn’t alone,” Morgan said. “Either Chelsea asked someone to leave a car for her, or she was abducted and the kidnapper had a car waiting.”
Sharp crossed his arms over his chest. “We need to find out what the sheriff has discovered.”
“I doubt he’ll talk to either one of us.” Lance gestured between him and Sharp. “We both worked for his arch enemy, Horner.”
Scarlet Falls Police Chief Dave Horner was a controversial figure. More politician than policeman, Horner had alienated other branches of local law enforcement with his quests to stay in the limelight and to kiss up to the mayor. His focus on good publicity over good policing had angered many of the officers who worked for him.
“I’ll go talk to the sheriff,” Morgan volunteered. “He might still feel grateful he isn’t facing a civil suit for the injuries our previous client sustained on his watch. Besides, I need to put him on notice that I’m representing Tim now.”
The sheriff was in charge of the county jail, where their last client had been injured.
Sharp snorted. “The sheriff isn’t the grateful type. He’s more likely to be suspicious of you for being an attorney.”
“Even though we proved the charges were bogus?” Morgan drained her coffee, then shook the cup as if it hadn’t been enough.
“Even then,” Sharp said.
“She still has a better chance than either of us,” Lance pointed out. “She isn’t tainted by an association with Horner.”
“True,” Sharp agreed. “And she’s pretty.”
Morgan shot him an exasperated look, and he held up a hand. “I know that’s a sexist thing to say, but the sheriff is a Neanderthal.”
“Wonderful. Is there anything I need to know about him?” Morgan asked. “I’ve never met him in person. I don’t have a good read on him.”
“He’s hardheaded and short-tempered.” Sharp rubbed his chin. “He’s a smart cop but a terrible politician, hence the constant head-butting with Horner. My best advice is to avoid a direct confrontation. I’ve never seen that work for anyone. Sheriff King will just dig in his heels.”
“All right.” Morgan nodded.
“A missing person’s case can require a ton of man-hours. His entire department is overworked and overextended,” Lance said. “You might commiserate with him, then try and convince him our help will be an asset.”
His dad had disappeared from Scarlet Falls, a town with its own small police force. Even with Sharp working diligently on Lance’s dad’s case, Victor Kruger had never been found. But twenty-three years ago, the world had been less monitored. Nowadays, it was much more difficult to stay off the radar. Between surveillance cameras and financial records, there had to be a lead if one looked hard enough.
“Good idea,” Sharp continued. “If Morgan takes the sheriff, we can dig in to Chelsea’s social media accounts and phone and financial records. We also need to scrounge through the recent local news and see if there have been any stories on other missing women.”
Lance nodded. “And follow up with Tim about his wife’s laptop and phone. I’ll let my mom know that we need her help again.”
His mother’s anxiety issues made her a shut-in. She lived online and was brilliant with computers.
“We need to investigate Tim as well.” Sharp drained his mug. “The sheriff isn’t wrong. If Chelsea is dead, Tim is the most likely suspect.”
“If he killed his wife, why would he come to us to find her?” Morgan asked.
Sharp tossed his glasses onto his desk blotter. “Just because he engaged us doesn’t mean he is innocent. He might think hiring a PI firm makes him look innocent. Some criminals are one hundred percent convinced that they are smarter than everyone else. He might think he can play us.”
“What would be his motive?” Lance asked.
Morgan pondered his question with a tilt of her head. “What if their marital troubles ran deeper than Tim suggested? Maybe Chelsea was going to leave him. Maybe she wanted to take her kids back to Colorado. Tim is obviously attached to his kids.”
“No offense,” Sharp said. “But you’re supposed to concentrate on proving your client is innocent.”
Morgan looked away, her jaw tight. “You’re right.”
Sharp sighed. “I know you aren’t completely accustomed to working in the private sector yet, but making sure everyone accused of a crime gets adequate defense is a cornerstone of our legal system.”
“Yes.” But she didn’t look comfortable with her new role.
Lance considered their client. “Did Tim seem cunning enough to kill his wife, cover it up, and keep his cool during our meeting?”
“Criminals are very good liars,” Morgan said.
She had a point.
“Let’s keep our eyes on the prize. Our job is to find Chelsea Clark. It’s already been five days. The case gets colder by the hour, so let’s get busy.” Sharp nodded at Lance. “Make it so, Number One.”
Sharp was right. They had to focus on the missing woman.
Lance wouldn’t wish living with the uncertainty of a long-time missing family member on anyone. Because not knowing was a whole different kind of pain. Every time a body turned up, every time a skeleton was unearthed, or a hiker ran across some bones in the woods, the family of a missing person had their wounds ripped wide-open.
Chapter Six
Chelsea woke to the smell of rust and steel in her nostrils and a thumping pain in her temples. Her vision blurred, and she squeezed her eyelids closed for a few seconds to try to clear it. Confusion fogged her mind. Something was wrong.
She should be hearing William cry. Her overfull breasts ached. Where was the baby? It was past time to nurse. He never went more than a few hours between feedings. He was practically attached to her. Was he sick?
She rolled to the side, coming up against a metal bar. The bed was not familiar. Neither was the silence.
Where am I?
She opened her eyes. For a few seconds, she blinked in the dim light. As she took in her hazy surroundings, bewilderment gave way to fear. It wrapped icy tendrils around her heart, forcing it to beat faster.
Not a nightmare.
The room came into focus in an instant, the truth clicking into place like a key turning in a lock until all the pins lined up.
Reality flooded her consciousness—along with horror as cold and clear as an autumn night. The shock and the sheer unbelievable nature of her predicament passed through her with a shudder.
She’d been abducted.
A vague sense of déjà vu lingered. How many times had she woken, confused and groggy? A memory surfaced.
She stares at her rearview mirror. A streetlight shines on a knife. The blade touches her throat, a sharp, biting pain that vanishes immediately under the numbing onslaught of rushing adrenaline.
“Drink or die,” he says.
Her hands shake as she lifts the fast-food cup he hands her. She sucks on the straw. Though initially sweet, the cola has a bitter aftertaste.
Darkness. A clear night sky. Cold air on her face. Wood smoke in her nose. The waving silhouettes of dead cornstalks in the moonlight.
The flash of memory faded, but not before Chelsea gagged.
She ran her tongue over her teeth. Her tongue was dry enough to stick to the roof of her mouth, and she could taste the lingering sweetness of the drugged cola. Vaguely, her brain registered that this was the first time her
head had been this clear since she’d been kidnapped. She knew without a distinct memory that the previous times she’d woken, he’d forced more of the cola mixture into her mouth before she was strong enough to object.
How long had she been here?
It felt as if several days had passed.
What else had he done to her while she was unconscious?
Her brain rejected that line of thought and turned to her family instead.
William! Was he eating? He wouldn’t actually starve himself, would he? No. Surely hunger would force him to accept a bottle. Right?
There was nothing she could do about it from here. Tim might have his faults, but he loved his children. Bella adored him right back. Tim hadn’t quite bonded with the baby yet. In his defense, William had wanted no one except Chelsea since the day he was born. A sliver of guilt wormed its way past her fear. She had to accept part of the blame for that. Bella and Tim were so close that Chelsea had felt jealous at times. When the baby had come along and preferred her, she’d enjoyed it.
She’d been selfish and stupid, and William and Tim were no doubt paying the price.
Forgive me.
She took comfort in the fact that her husband was smart, and he would do whatever it took to take care of their baby. William wouldn’t starve.
Chelsea closed her eyes for a few seconds, replaying their brief argument Friday night before she’d left. Sure, he’d been late. Tim had no sense of time, and she’d been cranky. She’d wanted to have time to do her hair and put on some makeup. She’d wanted a break. But she regretted her snub of his goodbye kiss. When was the last time she’d told him she loved him?
Tim, I love you. I’m sorry I’ve been such a lunatic. Sleep deprivation was used as a form of torture for a reason. If only she could get a do-over of the last few months.
Too late now. He couldn’t hear her. Would that be their last goodbye? Would she ever get a chance to make it up to him? To tell him that despite her recent exhausted insanity, she loved him.
And there was only one way she was ever going to get back to him.
Putting a hand to her forehead, she lifted her shoulders from the narrow cot. Her head swam with the change in position. She slowed her movements, slowly rising until she was sitting up.
She took stock of her physical condition first. Her body was stiff and cold. A wool blanket was draped over her, but her shoes and coat were gone. She stretched her legs, testing their strength. Something clinked and metal bit into her ankle.
She was chained to an upright barrel that stood next to the cot she lay on.
Her mind reeled.
Chained!
Like a dog.
Terror constricted her throat, the weight of the manacle on her ankle a solid manifestation of the horror of her situation, and the potential that it would get much worse.
This is not helping.
She took two deep breaths and then scanned her body. She was still dressed in the jeans and sweater she’d worn for her evening out with Fiona. Her sweater was damp. Her breasts had leaked, and she smelled of sour milk.
But other than being filthy and uncomfortable, she didn’t feel any major injuries. She moved her arms and legs. No broken bones.
Moving on to her prison . . .
The cot was a simple folding type common for camping. A single camp lantern shone weakly from the barrel she was chained to. Her room was about eight feet long and maybe ten feet wide. Corrugated metal walls formed a rectangular box.
Keeping one hand on the cot for balance, she eased to standing. Her feet landed on a plywood floor. When the initial dizziness had passed, she stretched her arms overhead, but couldn’t reach the ceiling, which was made of the same corrugated metal as the walls.
Cold, strong steel.
A shudder raced through her.
A shipping container?
She’d never been inside one, but it felt right.
No way to dig or burrow or force her way out. There were no windows, and the space held a persistent chill, a dampness that suggested the container was outside or underground.
Please let it not be underground.
The thought of being buried alive made every inch of her skin itch. Panic hovered around her, buzzing like a swarm of insects.
She pushed it back and felt it fade into the background, lurking, waiting to pounce.
Another flashback slammed into her.
It felt almost like a hallucination, but she knew it was a hazy memory, real in a physical way that a dream couldn’t be.
His shoulder jams into her stomach. She can barely control the muscles in her neck, and her head flops against his back. The smell of his sweat clogs her nostrils. He carries her, fireman style, through the darkness.
The second flash ended as quickly as it began, and with the same rush of nausea. She still had no recollection of exactly how he’d abducted her or when he’d brought her into this room.
Maybe the rest of her memories would come back. Maybe they wouldn’t. What mattered now was trying to escape. Her family needed her.
The night she’d left her house, she’d been excited about a few hours of adult conversation with Fiona. At the time, an evening free of wiping chins, changing diapers, and explaining to a three-year-old girl why her little brother had a penis and she didn’t had seemed glorious.
But now all she wanted was to see her family.
She yearned to walk the floors with William pressed to her shoulder. To inhale the scent of baby shampoo. To snuggle in Bella’s bed at nap time and read a picture book while her sleepy daughter’s eyelids sagged. To watch her daughter race through a pile of raked leaves or practice awkward, crooked somersaults in the backyard.
To tell her husband she loved him.
Images of her children brought tears to her eyes. She had to get back to them. As long as she drew breath, she would do everything possible to return to her babies. She wiped her face and sniffed. No wasting energy on crying.
Picking up the battery-operated lantern, she walked to the end of her chain. She lifted the light and inspected the far walls and corners of her prison, just out of reach.
A gallon-size plastic jug sat in one corner. A bucket occupied the other.
She dragged the chain behind her as she crossed the space. She picked up the jug, removed the lid, and sniffed. Water?
She was suddenly incredibly thirsty, as if her body had come alive at the scent of the water. She shouldn’t dare drink anything he gave her. It was likely drugged. But dehydration would kill her.
She set down the jug and continued her search, moving the light to carefully examine each wall.
On a positive note, she didn’t see any obvious cameras.
As terrifying as the situation was, she had to think. She had to find a way out. No one was coming for her. She was on her own.
It was her only chance.
The interior brightened suddenly, and a beam of light shone from the ceiling. Sunlight. Chelsea walked under it and stared up. Rust had eaten a hole in the roof the size of a bowling ball. Through it, she could see the sun, patches of blue sky, and a canopy of branches. Clouds drifted in front of the sun, dimming the light.
The knowledge that it was daytime grounded her.
A door stood at the opposite end of the room from the barrel. It was the only way in or out. She reached for the door, but the chain on her ankle wasn’t quite long enough, and her fingers fell six inches short of touching the door. Was it even locked? Probably. He’d gone to too much effort to imprison her. There would be a sturdy lock to keep her inside.
She needed to get closer. She needed to free her foot. She tested the manacle around her ankle. It was tight enough to rub her skin when she moved it, far too tight to wiggle her foot free. She followed it to the connection with the barrel. The bolt that secured the chain went right through the metal.
She took the chain in both hands and pulled. The barrel didn’t budge, neither did the bolt. She put her weight into the effor
t, but it was no use. There was zero give. What was inside it? Maybe if she could somehow empty it, she could drag it closer to the door. But then how would she run away with a steel drum attached to her foot?
Maybe if she emptied the barrel, she would be able to disconnect the chain from the inside.
She returned to the barrel. It was an industrial-size metal drum. Rust grew in patches on the sides and coated the seams. On the top was a cap the size of her open hand. A recessed shape in the cap was shaped like a four-leaf clover with flattened leaves. Obviously, there was a specific tool designed to fit into the impression to open the barrel, like the head of a screw was designed for a screwdriver.
Chelsea tried to turn the cap manually. The fit was tight and the edges were rusted. No matter how hard she turned it, the cap didn’t budge. Her hand slipped, her fingernail catching on a metal edge.
Maybe if she had other tools—a screwdriver or wrench.
She almost laughed, the hysterical snort of hopelessness. Tools? Why not wish for a whole toolbox? She lowered her hand and clenched her fingers. Blood seeped out from under her torn, dirty nail.
Wait. She looked down at the chain. The links were thick, metal, strong. She gathered up a length of it in her hands. The chain was short. In order to reach the top of the barrel, she had to put her attached foot on the cot. Then she inserted two links into the opposite sides of the clover leaf and tried to use them as levers, but the cap still wouldn’t budge. The links were too small.
What did she do when she couldn’t open a tightly sealed jar?
She began to strike the side of the cap with a link. She missed. Her fist struck the edge of the cap, and pain shot up her arm. She shook her hand and pressed her stinging knuckles to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes.
Don’t give up!
Desperation fueled a second attempt. The cap shifted slightly. She tried to open it. Not loose enough. Praying no one was close enough to hear, she struck it again and again, until she could turn it with her bare hands. She unscrewed it all the way, lifted it, and peered inside, holding the lantern over the opening.
Pea gravel.
She almost fell backward with disappointment. No wonder it was so heavy. What was the volume of a drum? Fifty-five gallons? How much did fifty-five gallons of stone weigh?
Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Page 6
