No Way Home

by Annette Dashofy

  “We could walk.”

  “How far?”

  Allison squinted into the distance. “I dunno. A mile? Maybe two.”

  Doable. Except Zoe had spent enough time on the horse trails with Allison to know the kid lacked any ability to judge distance. It might be a mile or two. It could also be ten. “I don’t think so.”

  Allison peered ahead at the ditch. “We can make it. No problem.” She looked more doubtful than she attempted to sound. “Just go real slow.”

  “Why didn’t I talk your mother into forking out the extra money for an SUV?” Zoe tightened her grip on the wheel.

  She eased forward at an angle, figuring the direct route would simply ram the front bumper into the dirt. The car lurched as one front tire dropped into the gully. And stopped.

  Zoe pressed harder on the gas feed. The engine revved. The front tires whined and spat sand into the wheel wells.

  “Go, go, go,” Allison shouted.

  But the car didn’t budge.

  “Crap.” Zoe shifted into reverse and hit the gas. There was more whirring and splatting, and the car shuddered, but remained firm. She glanced at the wide-eyed teen beside her and refrained from muttering more potent swear words.

  Throwing the shifter into park, she turned off the ignition and stepped out to inspect their situation.

  The passenger side of the front bumper was rammed into the ditch. Thanks to the gas she’d given the car, the front tire was buried to its axle.

  The undercarriage on Allison’s side rested solidly on the ground. As if to emphasize the direness of their predicament, she attempted to open her door, which immediately hit rock.

  “Uh-oh,” she said. The kid had a way with words.

  “Use my side,” Zoe told her. Did AAA respond way out there? Was there even cell service for her to call them?

  Allison slammed the driver’s door and joined Zoe in staring at the sorry little car. “We should have gotten out and walked.”

  This time, kid or no kid, Zoe swore.

  Allison wisely kept quiet and wandered over to the edge of the road.

  “Give me my phone. And the battery.” Might as well give AAA a shot.

  “It’s still in the car. Come look at this.”

  “Then give me your phone.”

  “Come here and look at this.”

  With a growl, Zoe turned away from the car and moved next to the girl. Below them, the rocky ground dropped off sharply into a deep canyon. Instinctively, Zoe stepped back.

  Allison laughed. “You’re not gonna fall.”

  “Yeah. And you’re the one who said we could make it through the ditch.” But Zoe stepped closer to the edge for another look down. Far below, massive boulders were scattered on the canyon floor. Scrub trees sprouted from what appeared to be solid rock. The wind rustled through the sage green growth, whispering to ancient spirits.

  “Wow.” Zoe winced. How many times had she said that since arriving two days ago?

  “Yeah. Wow.” Allison closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky.

  The air was chilly. Zoe inhaled. Chilly and dry.

  “I love it out here,” Allison said.

  Zoe had to admit, if Logan had been with them, safe, she could easily spend an hour in this quiet spot.

  But he wasn’t. “We’re never gonna meet up with your friend if we don’t get this car out of here.” She held a hand out to Allison. “Give me your phone.”

  “A phone will not be necessary,” a low voice said from behind them.

  Zoe wheeled. Billy Yellowhorse stood next to the driver’s door, a hand resting easily on the car’s roof. “Where’d you come from?” she demanded.

  “When you did not show up on time I came looking for you. I fear your small car isn’t suitable for these roads.”

  No kidding. “I don’t think you’re gonna be able to push us out of this.”

  He gazed toward the distant hills. “I had no intentions of trying.”

  Allison clapped Zoe on the shoulder. “Come on.” The girl ambled toward Yellowhorse.

  Once again, Zoe felt like the outsider, omitted from some unspoken conversation. “Come on where?” She looked around. If the Navajo had a vehicle, she didn’t see it. Nor had she heard it. And with only the sound of the wind, she would have heard it. Wouldn’t she?

  Neither Yellowhorse nor Allison answered. The teen reached into her pocket and removed her cell phone. With the Navajo watching, she snapped off the back and removed the battery. He gave a nod of approval, and she tucked the phone in one pocket, the battery in another. At least Yellowhorse allowed her to keep both. Allison could reassemble the thing if needed.

  Zoe pointed at the car. “What about my phone?”

  “I took the battery out,” Allison told her friend. “The phone’s inside.”

  “Good. Leave it.” He turned, took one nimble leap across the ditch, and strode away with Allison on his heels.

  Zoe watched them go. Good sense told her to stay with the car. But she had no clue where she was. The mysterious Navajo was leaving with Allison. And he might—might know where Logan was.

  Zoe opened the rear door on the driver side.

  Without turning or slowing, Yellowhorse called back to her, “I said to leave the phone.”

  “I am,” she shouted. “I’m getting my purse.”

  He didn’t say anything, but kept going. She snatched her handbag. Spotted the battery. Considered grabbing it. But without the phone, the battery was useless.

  She left the battery, slung the purse over her shoulder, and slammed the door. After stumbling through the deep rut, she jogged to catch up.

  Twenty

  Pete drained the last of the coffee Mrs. Froats had brought him. “Do either of you know Dale’s son?” he asked the two retired chiefs.

  “Heard he had one,” Warren Froats said. “Never met him.”

  Yancy rose from his seat with a grunt and started gathering the empty cups. “I haven’t met him either. He lives out west somewhere, doesn’t he?”

  Froats waved a hand at the former fire chief. “Leave that stuff. Sally Jo’ll clean up.”

  Yancy snorted. “I don’t know why that woman stays with you, you worthless son of a bitch. I can put a few cups and plates in the sink.”

  “I got her trained. You’re gonna undo all my hard work, coddlin’ her like that.”

  Yancy glared at him. “Good.”

  Pete cleared his throat. “The son’s name is Scott, and yes, he lives in Texas. But he’s been in this area recently.”

  “Probably came home for his old man’s funeral,” Froats said.

  “He was here before that.” Pete turned his chair so he could see both of the other men. “He works for Federated Petroleum.”

  Yancy’s load of dirty dishes crashed to the sink. “Dammit.”

  Froats leaned toward Pete. “Are you pullin’ my leg?”

  “No. He’s listed on their website as a member of the board. According to his social media pages, he’s been in the surrounding counties for the last month or so. And he’s looking forward to bringing the gas industry to Monongahela County.”

  Yancy continued to clink dishes and mugs in the sink. “Dale’s son is working against us. I never would’ve imagined.”

  “You break anything?” Froats called to him.

  “No.” Yancy finished cleaning up his mess and shuffled back to the table. “I wonder if the kid made contact with his father.”

  Exactly what Pete wanted to know. He stood. “If either of you hear of anything or think of something—”

  “Yeah, yeah. We’ll call you.” Froats heaved his bulky frame up from his seat. “I’ll walk you out.” The old chief shook a finger at Yancy. “And you. Don’t you go washin’ those dishes or nothin’ like that.”

  He h
eld up both hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  Froats followed Pete out onto the deck. “So Dale’s son is really working against us, huh?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Froats grunted.

  Pete had a feeling his predecessor had more on his mind.

  He was right.

  “This father and son thing made me think of somethin’ else. You might want to take a good look at Jake Moore. Leroy’s boy.”

  Now it was Pete’s turn to be surprised. “I didn’t know Leroy had any family around here.”

  “He don’t. The kid hates farming. Moved to Philadelphia. Came back a few months ago.” Froats blew a raspberry. “The idiot latches on to a new cause couple times a year. I think he just likes to stand up and make noise at public meetings.” Froats’ voice climbed into a mimicking falsetto. “‘Look at me. Look at me. I’m somebody important.’” His voice returned to its normally gruff timbre. “Blowhard.”

  Pete ran through all the players in his mind and came up blank. “No one’s mentioned him as one of the drilling supporters yet. Is he staying with his father?”

  “Supporter? Hell no. His old man wouldn’t let the kid set foot on his farm. Jake’s on our side. Heaven help us.”

  “He’s on your side. Against his father?”

  “Yep. What is it with fathers and sons these days?”

  Pete rubbed his forehead, which was threatening to explode. “If Jake Moore supported Dale Springfield, he doesn’t have motive.”

  “Don’t count on it. Jake’s gotten power hungry in recent years. He’s been looking to make a name for himself. I think he wants to be the spokesman against big money, and he wasn’t happy that Dale—a natural-born leader, mind you—had our respect and our backing.”

  “So why am I just now hearing about him?”

  “You’ve heard him. Hell, you’ve seen him in action.”

  He had?

  “At the supervisors’ meeting.” Froats poked at Pete’s shoulder with one stubby finger. “Jake was the loudmouth in the crowd wearing that glow-in-the-dark green sweatshirt.”

  The snow flurries stopped and a few patches of blue sky poked holes in the gray blanket of clouds as Pete drove up the long lane to Leroy Moore’s farm. Unlike Pete’s previous visit, Leroy’s dented and faded pickup sat next to the house.

  As Pete climbed out of his SUV, he spotted the farmer, attired in denim bibbed coveralls and a filthy navy-blue coat, shuffling toward him from the barn.

  “What can I do for you?” Leroy asked after they’d shaken hands.

  “I have some questions for you, if you have a minute.”

  “I was just about to feed my chickens. Mind tagging along?”

  “Not at all.”

  The farmer trudged away. Pete followed him to the rear of the house. Leroy unlatched the door of an outbuilding in desperate need of paint and stepped inside. Over his shoulder he said, “What’d you want to ask me?”

  Pete rested one foot inside the building and breathed in the aroma of dried corn and other grains. “I’ve been in Vance Township nine years now and I never knew you had a son.”

  Leroy flipped the lids off a series of three steel drums. “That’s not a question, Chief.”

  Pete chuckled. “True. All right. Why have I only now heard you had kids?”

  “Kid. Not kids. Only got one. And you probably never heard of him because he hasn’t lived around these parts for more than fifteen years.” The farmer used an old aluminum kitchen pot to scoop chicken feed from the first barrel into a black bucket. “He went east after his mother passed away. Never had any use for farm life.”

  “Yet he’s back now.”

  Leroy straightened and gestured with the pot. “Not around here. Hasn’t so much as dropped in to say hello.” Pain etched the man’s face, and he turned back to the barrels. “I wouldn’t have even known he was in the area if I hadn’t seen him at the meeting Monday night.”

  “He was the one trying to shut up Cody Bodine.”

  “Yep.” Leroy scooped some white shell-like stuff from the second barrel. “That was him all right.” The man’s voice didn’t exactly exude fatherly pride.

  “And yet I understand you’ve been pretty vocal about your support for bringing gas drilling to the township.”

  He dumped the pot’s contents into the bucket and gave Pete a sour face. “For a man who said he had questions, you sure are doing a fine job of stating what we both already know.”

  “Okay. Here’s one. How did your son get along with Dale Springfield?”

  Leroy didn’t seem prepared for that one. Still holding the pot, he crossed his arms. “I couldn’t honestly tell you. I imagine they got along fine, being on the same side of the debate and all.”

  “Your son never mentioned Springfield to you?”

  “I told you. Jake doesn’t confide in me. Hell, the boy hasn’t said boo to me in years.”

  First Dale and his estranged son, Scott. Now Leroy and Jake. Pete clearly wasn’t going to learn anything about the younger Moore here, but he’d given himself a nice segue. “Okay. How about you and Springfield?”

  Leroy’s jaw tightened. He turned to the third barrel. “I got along with him just fine on most things. But he was being downright unreasonable about the gas drilling issue. Stubborn as a jackass. Wouldn’t so much as listen to Bodine or the rest of us.” He came up with a scoop of some kind of pellets and flung the contents into the bucket before facing Pete once more. “Look around. My house is falling down around my ears. My barn needs paint. So do all the rest of the buildings on this farm. My tractor could qualify as an antique, and my livestock eats way better than I do. And I work a good sixteen hours a day. Sometimes twenty. Seven days a week. I’m going under, Pete. Leasing my gas rights to Federated would give me a new start. New hope. I’m no fool. I’ve read the reports from other counties. Sure, there are accidents from time to time. But what business doesn’t have accidents? You do the best you can to prevent them, and Federated has the best safety record of the lot. Not that County Commissioner Dale Springfield would know about any of that. He just sees this as a hot issue that he can hang his hat on and use to climb his political ladder to Harrisburg.”

  The rant seemed to drain the farmer. His shoulders sagged, and he gazed downward at his bucket of chicken chow.

  Pete sympathized with the man. But nothing Leroy had said made him any less of a suspect. “Where were you Sunday morning?”

  He huffed a sad laugh. “Church.” He started replacing lids on the three barrels. “Pine Creek Methodist. Ask the minister. I even got there early to help with some maintenance problems.” He lifted the bucket onto one of the drums and dipped a hand into it, stirring the mixture.

  Pete made a note. He’d do his duty and check the alibi, but he didn’t believe Leroy was lying.

  The farmer headed off to feed his hens. Pete returned to his SUV and thumbed through his notes. He needed to track down Jake Moore and Scott Springfield. Two sons in direct opposition to their fathers. This battle over gas drilling was turning into another Civil War, splitting families down the middle.

  Pete’s thoughts drifted to Zoe. They were supposed to work this case together. She had good instincts, and even though they didn’t see eye to eye on some things, he had to admit she often caught the odd detail he’d miss. Their call last night felt like days ago.

  He pulled out his phone and tapped the thumbnail of her photo. Instead of ringing, an automated voice told him to leave a message after the tone.

  Did she have her phone shut off? Or maybe she was simply in a dead zone.

  “Hey, call me as soon as you get a chance.”

  Pete started to pocket the phone, but it buzzed in his hand. That was fast. But the number on the screen wasn’t Zoe’s.

  “Chief Adams,” the caller drawled, “this is Cody B
odine returning your call.”

  “I have a couple more questions for you. When can we meet?”

  “Meet? Let me see. I’m in Phillipsburg right now, but I have to be in Brunswick for a meeting in an hour. How about tomorrow?”

  “How about now.” Pete didn’t pose it as a question. “My station is right on your way.”

  “I can’t be late for this meeting.”

  “I’ll see to it you’re not. We’ll keep it short.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Bodine replied, “Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Baronick wasn’t at his usual spot in the conference room. Nancy said the detective had been out most of the day. He’d left his computer and files spread out on the table, so Pete escorted Bodine into his cramped office. The gas company land man dropped into the chair nearest the door. He crossed an ankle over his knee.

  Pete took his seat behind his desk. “Scott Springfield,” he said bluntly.

  Bodine blinked. “Pardon me?”

  “Scott Springfield. Tell me about him.”

  Bodine’s foot started bouncing. “Uh. I believe he’s one of the executives with Federated Petroleum. Why?”

  “He’s also Dale Springfield’s son.”

  “Son? Really?” He uncrossed his legs, and the chair squeaked as he shifted in it. “I had no idea.”

  “Dale Springfield? Scott Springfield? You never noticed they share a last name?”

  “Well, sure. But it’s not that odd of a name. And one of them’s in Pennsylvania, the other in Texas. I never made the connection.”

  Pete fell silent, but fixed Bodine with a hard and steady glare.

  “I know of several families back home by the name of Adams too. Are they related to you?”

  What the land man said made perfect sense, except Pete had a feeling the man knew more about the Springfield family ties than he was admitting.

  “The last time we spoke, you gave me the impression you know all about Federated’s muckety mucks, as you called them.”

  “Not the way you mean. They’re my bosses. They’re the ones who get paid the big bucks.”