by Toni Leland
Twenty minutes later, he sat in the middle of hundreds of cars at a dead stop on the freeway. He groaned and shook his head, then turned on the radio. A newscaster’s voice floated through the speakers and Dillon’s gut knotted.
“…missing Seattle woman. We’ll have more on that story at the top of the hour.”
He punched the buttons, searching for another news report, but it was too late. Nothing would be available again until eight. Was this a coincidence? Certainly other Seattle women went missing, didn’t they? But how many would make the national news? A horrible weight pressed against his chest. The fucking ID had surfaced, no doubt about it.
He craned his neck, looking in all directions at the traffic now moving two miles an hour. He had to get out of this mess and find a television. The numbers on the dashboard clock seemed frozen, as though in tune with the traffic jam. As the ramp for the St. Louis Arch came up on the right, whatever had been holding things up disappeared and Dillon was able to get off the road within five minutes. He headed straight for the closest hotel.
A television in the reception area was tuned to CNN and he sat down to wait through several international stories. After a commercial break, the newscaster continued.
“Moving on to news here in the U.S., astonishing new information has surfaced in the disappearance of Seattle socialite Julia Dorsey. Mrs. Dorsey disappeared from a horse show in Oklahoma City in 2008 and it was believed that she’d been abducted by a serial killer operating in that region. No leads or body were ever found.
Several days ago, a man contacted Seattle police, demanding the hundred-thousand dollar reward for information. We don’t have all the details yet, but the man related that he has proof that Mrs. Dorsey is alive. The FBI is reopening the case and we’ll keep you updated as we receive more information.”
Dillon had been holding his breath, and now he let it out slowly as he sank back into the chair. This was the last straw. After all she’d been through, why did this have to happen right now?
Back in the car, he called a cab company to meet him at the rental agency. After he picked up his truck, he’d go to Bud’s. Maybe by then he’d have some idea of a plan.
Chapter 37
Julia busied herself in the stock room, organizing the shelves and checking each bin for parts that didn’t belong. Bud had done the inventory before Christmas, so she didn’t have a whole lot to do since there weren’t any customers yet this morning. Country music floated in from the garage and she peeked through the glass partition. Bud was halfway into the engine compartment of a sleek red muscle car that was usually covered with a tarp. Nice to be able to work on a hobby between customers. She turned back to the parts bins and her shoulders sagged. Nice to have a hobby. This was not how she’d envisioned her life after Stephen. There had to be something more interesting she could do to earn a living. This whole disappearance thing hadn’t gone the way she’d expected. Even though she now had superficial ID, without a taxpayer number, she was limited to jobs like this. Thank God Bud wasn’t a slime-ball on top of it.
Her phone rang and she eagerly pulled it out, then her smile faded. It wasn’t Dillon.
Before she could speak, Casey’s faltering voice came through. “Ginger, can you come home? I’ve had a little accident.”
Julia was striding toward the office. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Casey’s voice sounded weak. “No…”
“Casey? Casey, I’m on my way.”
Julia shrugged into her jacket and hollered through the garage door. “Bud, I need to leave, but I’ll be back.”
Without waiting for his response, she raced out the door and jumped into her car. What had happened? Her heart thundered against her ribs. What kind of accident would force that tenacious woman to ask for help? She had to be hurt pretty badly. Julia swallowed the lump in her throat. She’d worried before about the old gal there at the farm, all by herself, with no one to call in an emergency. Julia’s car sped up the road toward Lakeville, and her brain was in high gear. Maybe she should call an ambulance right now to meet her at the farm. No, that was premature. She had no idea what had happened. If Casey needed to go to a hospital, Julia could make the call after she got there. The snow plows had been at work and Stagecoach Road was clear, but slippery. Temperatures still hovered just below freezing, and Julia eased off the gas pedal as she approached the driveway. A minute later, she was out of the car and racing toward the barn, the terriers well ahead of her. She pushed the heavy door aside and entered.
“Oh my God!”
At the other end of the barn, Casey lay in a crumpled heap on the concrete floor. Julia sprinted toward her. One of the dogs nosed Casey’s face and she stirred, sending a wave of relief crashing through Julia’s body.
“Casey, I’m here. Talk to me.”
Casey’s eyes fluttered open and she looked confused, then looked away. “I’m waiting for my friend to get here.”
Julia leaned closer and looked at Casey’s eyes. Her pupils were tiny, and the right side of her face was starting to swell. Julia scanned the rest of Casey’s body, then shrank back in horror. The woman’s left arm was flung out in a grotesque position, snapped just above the elbow, a splinter of bone poking through the thin fabric of her sleeve. A small pool of blood was congealing on the cold floor. Julia grabbed her phone, cursing herself for not making the emergency call when she’d first considered it.
As she gave directions to the dispatcher, she watched Casey’s eyelids drift closed again.
“Please hurry! She’s lost consciousness again!”
One of the terriers began to whimper and Julia patted the dog’s head. “It’s okay, girl. She’ll be okay.” Please let her be okay.
Julia hurried into the tack room and pulled a couple of horse blankets off the racks, then returned to cover Casey against the frigid air. There wasn’t much to be done about the cold floor. It would be a mistake to move her without knowing the full extent of her injuries. Julia stepped back and gazed around the immediate area. The floor was littered with hay. She looked up the length of the wooden ladder bolted to the barn wall, a ladder that climbed fifteen feet to the hayloft opening. Nausea churned through her stomach. If Casey had fallen from that height, she could have serious internal injuries. Julia closed her eyes, unable to imagine what it would be like to plunge from up there.
One of the dogs jumped to his feet and faced the barn door with intense concentration. A small growl rumbled through his chest, then the other terriers joined in. Julia strained her ears, then heard the siren in the distance. The dogs all raced through the crack in the door, Julia close on their heels.
Julia sat inside the warm ambulance, watching the medic monitor Casey’s vital signs. She was bundled in blankets and they’d placed an oxygen mask over her face. Her left eye had swollen closed, and an ugly dark purple splotch with bright red edges spread down the side of her face, almost to her chin.
“Is she going to be okay?”
The medic shook his head. “Can’t tell this soon with a head injury. I suspect they’ll airlift her to St. Louis.”
The stress of the experience finally caught up with Julia and she began to tremble violently. The medic stood up and wrapped a warm blanket around her, then peered into her eyes.
“Do you feel dizzy?”
She shook her head. “No, just cold.”
“Excess adrenaline will do that. Just breathe deeply and focus your thoughts on something else, something pleasant.”
Julia’s ragged thoughts taunted her. And what would that be? My life is a disaster and I have no one to blame but myself. Dillon’s face appeared in her thoughts. If anything could make her feel better, it would be talking to him. She dug into her pocket, then swore. She’d left the phone in the tack room when she’d gotten the blankets. She exhaled sharply and the medic turned quickly.
“You okay?” He reached out and took her wrist, feeling for the pulse.
She managed a weak smile. “I’m fine, I j
ust realized I forgot my phone.”
The ambulance pulled into the emergency entrance of the regional hospital and someone helped Julia down. Casey’s stretcher was unloaded and the EMTs hurried through the automatic doors and disappeared down a hallway. Julia sank into a chair in the waiting area, feeling despair like she’d never experienced—the fear of losing a friend.
Dillon climbed out of the taxi and handed the driver some money. “Your company needs to pay closer attention to customers when they want a cab immediately. No way should I have waited over a half hour.”
He turned and walked toward his truck, his thoughts turning to the lame plan he’d come up with for talking to Ginger. He didn’t want to have the conversation in front of Bud, but time was critical. Maybe she could take an early lunch, or go for coffee or something. One way or the other, he had to impress on her the urgency of leaving the area. When the FBI traced the stolen documents back to wherever they’d surfaced, it would be only a matter of hours before Stephen or his henchmen showed up.
The truck engine grumbled to life, cold and cranky after a week of sleep in the bitter cold. Dillon shivered, waiting for his butt to warm the cold vinyl seat. His mental timeline for the journey of the stolen ID made some sense. Thieves would want to sell electronic stuff for quick money, but they would check the items to ensure they worked. If they opened the case to see what was wrong, anyone worth half his salt would be curious about finding legal identification hidden in a video player. A quick search on the Internet would bring up all the news about Julia Dorsey’s disappearance. And the reward information. Dillon shook his head. Poor Ginger. Nothing had gone right for her since the day she’d disappeared—including her relationship with him. He slid the gear shift forward and eased out of the parking lot. But that was going to change right now.
He pulled up next to Bud’s and left the engine running. The empty office was warm and smelled of coffee. He tapped the counter bell and, a minute later, Bud appeared from the garage.
“Hey Dillon, how the hell are ya?”
They shook hands and Dillon tried to act normal. “Real good. And you?”
“Can’t complain, although I could get over winter real fast.”
Dillon chuckled and glanced around. “So where’s that girl who works here?”
“Ginger? Well, she raced outta here this morning, no explanation. Said she’d be back, but so far…”
Dillon didn’t know what to say next, but Bud took hold of the conversation, a sly smile creeping across his ruddy face.
“You need something I can’t get for ya?”
What the hell.
Dillon smiled sheepishly. “Well, yeah, sorta. I was hopin’ she might have lunch with me.”
“Good for you. She’s a real nice gal, but I think she’s pretty lonely. I don’t know much about her—she made sure of that.”
Dillon shifted his weight, wondering what to do next. Where had she gone? He’d try her cell phone when he went back to the truck.
Bud glanced at the front window. “Huh, this guy doesn’t look like a trucker.”
The door opened and a tall man with dark eyes stepped into the office. He wore a good overcoat and his shoes were protected by old-fashioned rubbers. He was clean-shaven, but his longish hair looked greasy. Dillon’s radar came on and he moved slowly toward the door behind the man.
Bud cleared his throat. “Can I help you?”
“Is Ginger Green here?”
Bud flicked a quick glance at Dillon, whose eyes had widened with concern.
“No, she’s out on a parts run. You wanna leave a message for her to call you?”
“I can wait.”
“I don’t expect her back until late this afternoon. You have a business card or somethin’?”
“I’ll come back tomorrow.” The man turned and gave Dillon a cursory glance, then went outside and climbed into a late model sedan.
Bud scowled. “I didn’t like the way that felt.”
Dillon stepped over to the counter and lowered his voice. “Bud, do you have any idea where she went? It’s important.”
“I don’t, but give me your number and I’ll call you as soon as she gets back.”
After Dillon returned to his truck, he pulled out a notebook and scribbled down the license number of the stranger’s car. A photographic memory was one of Dillon’s talents that had been very useful during his life as an agent. Details were so important. A minute later, he connected with his friend at the agency. They exchanged pleasantries, then Dillon gave him the plate number and waited, a sinking feeling seeping into his gut.
“License is registered to Albert Fredricks Investigations, LLC in Olympia, Washington.”
Ginger’s phone rang and rang, and Dillon’s fear grew. She didn’t have voice mail, but she always had the phone with her. Calm down, maybe she’s in the shower, or on the toilet. He took a deep breath. Or in trouble.
He pulled onto the road and headed toward Lakeville. The rescue farm was the most logical place to look for her. After that, he had no clue. Twenty minutes later, he pulled up the driveway and relief washed over him. Ginger’s car was parked by the barn. Maybe there was no phone signal out here. He climbed down and trudged through the sloppy, melting snow, the terriers following.
He pushed the barn door open and called out, “Ginger? Casey?”
Silence. A couple of horses nickered and he moved to one of the stalls. The water bucket was full. It seemed strange that the horses were all still inside. Ginger had told him the morning routine, and cleaning stalls was usually done after the horses were fed and turned out. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen more than a half-dozen in the pasture as he drove in. An uneasy feeling began in the pit of his stomach.
“Anybody here? Ginger?”
Maybe they were at the house.
He turned back to the middle of the aisle, then stopped, staring at the floor. A series of wet streaks made a narrow track for the length of the aisle. He frowned. Wheelbarrows had only one tire. What had made these prints? He followed the tracks toward the far end of the barn.
“Oh no.”
Several horse blankets lay in a heap near a dark pool of what could only be blood. Calm down, Dillon. Maybe a horse was injured. That would explain the women’s absence. Maybe.
A phone rang somewhere and Dillon rose to his feet to follow the sound. The ring became louder and Dillon stepped into the tack room. Ginger’s cell phone lay on a shelf and he picked it up. Bud’s Truck Parts & Service showed on the screen. The ringing stopped and Dillon pocketed the phone. Before he panicked, he’d better check the house. As he hurried out the barn door, he noticed a set of wide tire tracks in the snow, showing a turn and a back-up, then leading away from directly in front of the barn door. A large, heavy vehicle, but no tow vehicle. Worry returned as he climbed the steps to Casey’s front door. No one answered his knock and he opened the door and called out, but no one answered. Taking a deep breath, he entered the quiet house. Should he take out his gun? Not yet. He moved slowly through the rooms, his worry subsiding. Nothing indicated there’d been a problem here. If anything bad had happened, it had taken place in the barn.
He let himself out and climbed into his truck to decide what to do next. Ginger’s phone might give a clue. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked through her recent calls. There it was—a call to 911 an hour earlier. The tire tracks were most likely an ambulance. Something must have happened to Casey.
Julia sat across the desk from the admission clerk, trying to control her emotions. The woman asking the questions had the personality of a rock, and Julia was having a hard time remaining civil. Her thoughts were with Casey, not this red-tape.
“I told you, I just work there. I only know her name, address and phone number. I don’t have any idea what insurance she has.”
“Well, someone has to be responsible. Does she have any family?”
Julia’s throat tightened and she thought for a moment. It was the least she could do. Casey h
ad taken her in, asked no questions, been her friend.
“No, but I can do that. What do you need?”
The woman slid a sheet of paper across the desk. “Just sign that you’ll take responsibility for the bill if the patient doesn’t have insurance.”
Julia signed as Ginger Green, feeling a little guilty because, technically, she didn’t exist, so technically, she couldn’t pay. But she would, if it came to that.
The clerk handed her a copy of the document. “We’re all done. You can go.”
Julia stepped out into the waiting room again. Go where? She had no car and no phone to call a cab. She turned back toward the admission office, but it was now empty. At the end of the waiting room, she saw a bank of payphones and she reached into her bag to search for change.
“Ginger!”
She whirled around at the voice she’d longed to hear for the past two hours. Dillon strode toward her, a parade of emotions moving over his features. He swept her into his arms and hugged so hard she couldn’t breathe. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks and she burrowed into his embrace, sobs fracturing her words.
“Oh God, Dillon, she’s hurt real bad!”
He held her fast, his voice husky with his own torment. “Thank God, you’re okay.” He hugged her again, then stepped back and searched her face. “What happened?”
Julia wiped away the tears. “It looks like she fell from the loft, or off the ladder from up high.” Her voice began to quiver again. “Possible skull fracture, broken arm, internal injuries. They took her on a helicopter to some special hospital in St. Louis.”
Julia could not hold up any longer and she began to sob again.
Dillon cradled her in his arms. What the hell was he going to do now? This wasn’t the time to tell her about the private investigator, but the news couldn’t wait too long.
A few minutes later, he held the truck door while Ginger climbed up into the seat. His thoughts intensified as he considered one plan after another. The immediate emergency would be on the forefront of her mind, so he’d better help her with whatever needed to be done. Time was of the essence.
