If she was in her own BMW, someone must have carried her down the stairs into the garage. That same person must have dressed her. Her fingertips were pressed against her waist; she could feel the fabric of a sweatshirt. Her legs were covered. Blue jeans?
Kelsie was surprised at herself, how calmly she was taking this. For twenty-three years this was the situation she had dreaded, anticipated, expected. For twenty-three years, it had been a sword hanging above her, twisting on a thread. Now that the thread had snapped, it was almost a relief.
Who had taken her? The question sprang into her mind as if she were observing another person.
That answer would almost be a relief. When the trunk opened, she would look into his face and finally discover the answer to a question she had taken to sleep every night since the summer of her sixteenth birthday. Who was the man who watched her? What would he do?
Kelsie began to imagine the worst. She told herself to stop. She told herself there was no sense in going through horror twice. The one time, when it actually happened, would be bad enough. She made up her mind to fight him with all her strength, to die fighting. When that trunk opened, she would...
The briefcase! It held her cell phone.
She twisted more, grunting with effort.
The car accelerated and rocked from one side, then to the other. The driver – her kidnapper – must have passed a car. Where were they going? More importantly, were they still in the valley’s cellular zone?
It took a few minutes of effort in the cramped quarters of the trunk, but Kelsie finally got the briefcase free from beneath her body.
Fortunately, her abductor had bound her wrists in front of her, not behind her back. She flexed and bent her fingers, trying to get the circulation going. It took more minutes of fumbling to snap open the briefcase locks.
The car rocked over a few bumps. She froze, hoping the briefcase didn’t turn over. If the cell phone fell out, it might land out of reach.
Gingerly, balancing herself by pushing against the interior of the trunk, she reached into the briefcase and felt around. She let out a deep sigh as her hands closed on the familiar shape of her cell phone.
She pulled it up in front of her face and hit the power button with her thumb. The key pad lit up. Her eyes, though, were on the display. What kind of reception strength remained?
Seconds later, she got her answer. The blinking display meant she was on the fringes of the cell zone. It was fifty-fifty whether her call would ring through. If it did, she might get nothing but crackle. The car might reach the top of a hill and give her a clear call, or it might hit a valley and disconnect. She might get thirty seconds, she might get five minutes.
One call, Lord, she prayed. Just one call.
With her forefinger, she punched in the number to the ranch house. Then she hit the send button.
For too many heartbeats, the phone remained dead. Then it crackled slightly before the blessed relief of the pulsating ring filled her ear.
Oh Lord, she prayed. One other favor. Please let Clay be home.
One ring. Two rings. Three...
The answering machine kicked in. Clay’s rounded, drawling syllables greeted her. She wanted to smash the phone in anger and frustration. The reception began to crackle. Had they reached the end of cellular coverage? Or just a dip in the road?
Hurry, hurry, hurry, Kelsie pleaded as she listened to the familiar taped message. At least let me leave a message.
The crackling eased slightly and the answering machine finally beeped.
“Clay,” she said, conscious that she might lose contact at any second. “He’s taken me. The one from the beginning. He’s finally taken me. In my car. Watch he doesn’t kill you. Like the others before. Pray for me, Clay. Save me.”
She took a breath. If you only had ten seconds to say something to the person you loved, what would it be? “The dancer has the notes. Look there. Then you’ll know.” The crackling intensified.
“I love you, Clay.” She felt herself begin to sob. “I love you.”
Dead air. She’d been speaking into dead air, How much had gotten through?
She pulled the phone away. When she was finally able to see through her tears, the display confirmed what she already knew: no signal strength. She was out of the cell zone and getting farther away every minute.
The tires continued to whine. The wind continued to rush.
Slowly, as if swimming through a dream, she managed to tuck the cell phone into the front of her jeans and pulled her sweatshirt down to cover it. Then she closed her eyes.
Eventually, the tires would stop whining, the wind rush would die, and the rocking of springs would cease. At that point, when the car stopped and the driver stepped out from behind the steering wheel, she could expect the trunk to open – and the worst to happen.
8:31 a.m.
James answered the front doorbell. It took him a few moments to remember the man standing outside, an Indian in blue jeans and vest. Fat, layered like slabs of Plasticine, had thickened the man’s face. But the eyes were the same, as was the braided hair, except for strands of gray. Behind the man was a black Chevy four-by-four pickup.
“You worked at the ranch, right?” James said as greeting. “I’m sorry I can’t recall your name.”
When the man went to pull off his vest, James invited him in. The man ignored James and set the vest on the railing of the porch. The action puzzled James, especially when the man began to unbutton his shirt.
“I guess you want to play games,” the man said. “Take a look, I’m not wired.”
“Wired?” James wondered if wired was a term younger people used instead of drunk and if so, figured the man was indeed wired, especially as he took his shirt off and set it over the vest. The man’s huge belly was a solid ball sprinkled with gray hairs.
“Wired. For sound. You don’t need. to pretend you don’t know me.” The man unbuckled his belt. “Bottom half’s clean, too. Hope you don’t have any shy women around.”
“Hang on, mister,” James said, grabbing the man’s shirt and shoving it at him. “You and me have a serious miscommunication going here. You leave them pants in place and explain to me exactly what you’re trying to say.”
The man shrugged. “We’ll waste a lot of time if you want to keep playing dumb.”
James had had enough. “Don’t stand on my porch and insult me. Speak clear or leave. What’s your name?”
“Sonny Cutknife. I’m in administration on the Flathead reservation. You might recall when you guys put me there and why.”
James felt like he’d stepped onto a stage without a script. “Put you there?”
“Put me there. Look, you can dance around all you want, McNeill, but I won’t. I’ll get straight to it. I’ve been feeding all of you through Emerald Canyon long enough. But I can see the writing on the wall. Anderson tells me to burn down the office to get rid of the files, I do it. All you got to do is listen to the news this morning, you’ll know it’s all been torched.”
“Anderson?” James repeated. None of this made the slightest sense to him.
Sonny Cutknife shook his head in exaggerated disgust. “Wayne Anderson.” He raised his voice. “Wayne Anderson. And twenty years of kickback fees from the casino to Emerald. Canyon corporations for use of recreational facilities and certain permits from county council. Would I be talking this loud and this clear if there were recording devices? This is not a sting operation, McNeill. This is me coming to collect.”
Sonny crossed his arms. “I don’t want much. At least percentage-wise. I’m not greedy. Give me a million, and I’m on my way. Not only that, but I’m out of the country.”
“You have me at a loss, Mr. Cutknife.”
“A big loss, McNeill. I’ve got enough of a paper trail to nail you and your friends to the cross of my choice. Thought you were dealing with a stupid Indian, didn’t you? Well, you were all wrong. Now’s the time to pay for that mistake.”
“You misunderstoo
d me,” James said.
“I don’t think so. And don’t try anything stupid like getting rid of me the way you did Hairy Mocassin. If that happens, you’ll have attorneys swarming all over you.”
James grabbed Sonny by the elbow and escorted him down the steps, off the front porch. “I have little idea of what you mean, and even less interest in pursuing it further,” he said firmly. “You get in that truck of yours and off my property. Come back again making threats, and you’ll find yourself facing a shotgun.”
9:01 a.m.
“You stupid, ungrateful brat.” The voice thundered at the boy from across the kitchen table. “You eat the food l buy. You wear the clothes I give you. And how do you repay me? How?”
The boy ducked his head. He truly was sorry. Not for what he had done to the cat, but because he’d been stupid afterward. He should have buried the body in the woods where no one would find it.
Instead, he’d dropped it into the trash can and covered it with newspapers and rocks. The trash man had noticed the cat while emptying the can. He had noticed the missing limbs and the empty eye sockets. Now the boy was paying the price for his stupidity.
“Jed, hold your temper,” his mother said. “Please. You know what happens when you fly off the handle.”
"What!” he shouted. “What! Do you have any idea what he did to that cat? He’s a sick kid. And he’s going to get a taste of his own medicine.”
The man stood and yanked his belt out from his pants. He folded the belt in half and held both ends in one hand. The looped belt gave him a solid strip of double leather. “Strip your pants, kid. Get your butt over here.”
"Jed, he –”
“Your son’s going to be lucky if? leave him any skin.”
“Jed, you can’t. He’s just –”
“Shut your mouth, woman. Or you’ll get the same. I’m the man in this house.”
“No.” It was a rare flash of defiance from her.
“No?” He grinned. “No? Then you make your choice, woman. Him or me.”
“Jed...”
“Make your choice. Him or me. I do it my way, or I walk.”
The boy’s mother looked back and forth between the two of them. She licked her upper lip nervously, Then she got up from her chair and went to the kitchen sink. She kept her back turned on the two and busied herself doing dishes.
Smiling, the man crooked his anger at the boy.
The boy walked around the table over to his stepfather. He was determined not to give the man the satisfaction of seeing any fear.
The first lash of the belt cracked across his skin. It stung so badly that the boy gasped despite his determination to be stoic.
The belt came down a second time, then a third. The boy bit his lip. Tears ran down his face, but he didn’t make a sound.
The lack of reaction enraged the man. He brought the belt down again and again, trying to get the boy to cry out.
Soon, the boy lost track of how many times the belt whipped his bare buttocks. Soon, it didn’t matter. The cold, sullen hate that grew and fed on the pain was more than worth the price.
The Watcher drove slowly beneath the low branches of a spruce tree. The needles screeched against the rooftop. He put the car in park and cut the ignition. From beneath the tree, he could see parts of the small lake ahead. Large splats of rain brought rings to the lake’s surface as if hundreds of trout were rising.
For several minutes, the Watcher remained in the car. He enjoyed the smell of the leather of the BMW’s interior. It smelled of her perfume, Good perfume, not like the rose perfume of his nightmares.
When he finally pushed the door open, he had to duck against the sweeping branches. Accumulated rainwater ran from the spruce needles down the collar of his jacket and onto the skin of his neck and shoulders.
He stepped out from the tree, shrugged, and smiled. The discomfort of the cold rain was nothing compared to all the pleasure ahead of him.
For a moment, he fought the temptation to return beneath the branches and open the trunk of the BMW. She was there waiting for him. After all these years.
He came so close to yielding that he actually checked his wrist-watch to see if he indeed had extra time. No, he told himself, patience. Don’t add risk to the equation. His careful plans did not include immediate satisfaction. The infinite rewards would come later with the clock-work smoothness of the events falling into place as long anticipated.
With a sigh of regret and joy, he began to work. Earlier, he had cut branches from other spruce trees and left them piled near the tree. Now, he placed them strategically until the branches hid from view what little of the BMW had been visible in the first place. Chances were extremely small that a hiker or fisherman would walk within a half-mile of the car, let alone five feet; now a passerby would actually have to crawl beneath the tree to see the BMW.
When he finished, the Watcher released another sigh. With so much done and so close to the end, he still had many details remaining.
After a final look back, he walked away. He had parked his own vehicle a mile away, reducing the chance anybody could link him to the BMW if, by freak coincidence, someone actually found it before his return.
His footsteps were muffled by the soft, wet ground. Within minutes, the lake and trees were out of sight.
Rain dripped across his face. He smiled as he walked.
9:14 a.m.
The house seemed empty, cold, and gray when Clay returned. Even with Johnny and George again in the kitchen, settling down with fresh coffee, the house seemed empty.
The rain had been building steadily until it was now at a full downpour. More reason for Clay to be depressed. Rain wiped away footprints, debris. There hadn’t been much chance of finding Taylor anyway. The rain brought it down to zero.
If that wasn’t enough, the Kalispell sheriff, Matt Brody, wanted to delay bringing in FBI help for a day or two. Clay had been part of the territorial squabbles before and had hated it then as much as now, except now he felt he was paying a personal price for it.
Back at the house, Clay’s first move, after pointing Johnny to the coffeepot, was to head for the answering machine near the hallway phone. He had been gone at least two hours at the Evans ranch, enough for Clay to discover along with the sheriff that, aside from the bloody footprint, there was little to discover.
Maybe in the two hours someone had called with news about Taylor, he thought. Even a threatening phone call or a ransom phone call was better than nothing.
Clay hit rewind. The first message was an apology from Lawson; the weather made it difficult for an aerial search, but he would be checking every hour to see when he could take his plane up. Then came the endless messages from neighbors offering help or sympathy. After a while, the voices became no more than a jumbled chorus, Clay was tired and gritty from lack of sleep and from worry and stress. All that kept him listening was the hope that there would be news about Taylor. Then, finally, came Kelsie.
Her voice – clearly hers despite the static hissing with it – brought Clay to full alert.
“Clay, he’s taken me. The one from the beginning. He’s finally taken me. In my car. Watch he doesn’t kill you. Like the others before. Pray for me, Clay. Save me.”
Ironically, the static fell away just as she drew her breath, and he heard the edge of panic in it. As she began to speak again, the crackling intensified. “The dancer has the notes. Look” – a white wave of crackling static blurred her words – “then you’ll know.”
Her voice faded as the hissing rose. “– you Clay.” Sobbing. “I –”
Galvanized, he rewound and replayed her message. He replayed it three more times, copying it word for word into a notebook he’d had ready near the answering machine in case there had been a ransom call. He guessed at the amount of words lost to the static.
Clay, he’s taken me. The one from the beginning. He’s finally taken me. In my car. Watch he doesn’t kill you. Like the others before. Pray for me, Clay. Save me.
The dancer has the notes. Look – then you’ll know – – you Clay. I – – – ???
Clay sat heavily on the chair beside the phone, hardly able to comprehend the message he’d put on paper.
The one from the beginning. What beginning? Finally. What did finally imply? He’d tried before?
In her car. If she was in her car with him, why was he allowing her to speak?
Killed like the others before. What others? Why would he kill Clay?
Save me. The terror in her plea ripped at his stomach like shards of swallowed glass.
The dancer has the notes. Dancer. Someone she knew? Trusted enough to keep notes? When she didn’t trust Clay? A man? In the arts? Jealousy darkened Clay’s thoughts.
I – – – ??? Clay underlined the question marks at the end of the final sentence, He had no idea how long she had spoken after beginning the sentence, no clue to its direction.
He stared fiercely at the notes, as if the intensity of his thoughts would bring sense to the words. It wasn’t until Johnny lightly nudged Clay with a cup of coffee that Clay realized anyone had joined him.
“Bad news?” Johnny asked.
Clay didn’t answer. He reached for the phone and dialed a number he knew by heart.
“McNeill, McNeill & Madigan. How may I help you?”
“Julie, it’s Clay. May I speak to Kelsie?”
“Mr. Garner, I’m afraid she’s not in.”
“Did she leave a message explaining why?”
“Funny you should ask,” Julie replied. “It’s very unusual. She never keeps clients waiting, and two of them have already been here a half-hour.”
Clay took the phone away from his ear and slammed it against his other palm. He was about to hang up when a thought struck him. Lawson. Maybe he could help.
Blood Ties Page 24
