"Save it," Kerry said. He jabbed a thick finger at the rotunda atop the converted restaurant. "Upstairs."
The lot of them marched up to the top floor. Nerve turned from the window, gaze ticking between them. "What am I looking at?"
"The gal who sold you out," Lucy said.
"Bullshit!" Zoe lunged at her. Kerry grabbed Zoe from behind and locked his elbow around her throat. She grabbed his thick forearm with both hands.
"After the attack, me and Kerry went to where I saw the Kono planning." Lucy paced the fancy hardwood floor, hands folded behind her back. "Found a few cigarette butts. Hadn't been there more than a few days. Now I find out Zoe Goodwin smokes the same brand."
Crushed in Kerry's sleeper hold, Zoe made a choked noise. Nerve made a small gesture and Kerry relaxed enough for the woman to catch her wind.
"These are lies and poison," Zoe coughed. "I don't know what the hell her problem is, but she's playing you for a fool."
"Check her house," Lucy said.
Nerve tipped his head to the side. "What will I find there?"
"Thirty pieces of silver." She watched Zoe's face. "Or is it solar?"
Zoe gaped, eyes receding. "That has nothing to do with this!"
"Pretty sweet deal. No need to pay for heat or juice. You might even be able to sell the extra to the Feds."
"Nerve," the woman said, voice gone fluttery. "How long have I worked for you?"
"I think we're all rats at heart," Nerve said. "You seen a rat when it's hungry? They'll chew off your lips in your sleep."
He made another gesture to Kerry. Zoe was a well-built woman, hefty-hipped and bulky in the shoulders from hauling crates, but Kerry lifted her clear of the ground, elbow crooked around her throat. Zoe choked and whaled her heels against his knees and shins. He didn't flinch. She drew her head forward, but he pressed the side of his head against hers before she could bash him. When she reached to claw his face, he gnawed her knuckles.
Zoe shuddered, arms flapping, heels jerking, and went limp. Kerry breathed out and held tight as her face crossed from bright red to hurt purple. He hung onto her for what felt like forever, forearm bulging, elbow projecting like the figurehead of a galleon. Zoe's gummy eyes bulged dumbly, bright red with popped vessels.
He let go. Her tongue flopped from her teeth. She thumped the hardwood, arm flopping straight at Lucy.
"Day of surprises." Nerve extended his hand. "Welcome to Distro."
10
They searched the house twice, including the closets and bathtubs and basement, then opened the barn doors and swept flashlights through the dark corners while Dee stood in the fields with the dogs and called Quinn's name. Ellie trusted logic and numbers, not her gut, but her gut was telling her they could yell Quinn's name for a year and not get an answer.
Because he'd been taken.
George reached the same conclusion. "It was Mort Franklin. They kidnapped him."
"In the middle of the night?" Ellie said.
Wind blew dead leaves across the cut stalks of wheat. "Sure. They come prowling around, make a bit of noise to lure Quinn outside, then sock him on the head and drag him off. No doubt they got wind of the sheriff's plans. Decided to preempt us with a hostage."
"Or he could be hurt somewhere. Broke his ankle in the woods and can't get back. Fell in the lake."
George turned to her, face twisted with anguish. "How can you say a thing like that?"
Her cheeks went hot. "I'm not trying to upset you. Just identifying other possibilities. Which means we shouldn't ride in guns blazing."
"The Franklins took him. Mark my words."
"Could be. So first thing we do is confirm that—or rule it out." She motioned toward the treeline, where Dee called into the woods, a golden retriever snuffling through the brush. "I don't want to leave her alone. I'm going to see the sheriff and find someone to stay with Dee. Then we'll head to the Franklins'."
"What if they took him, Ellie?" George's face was pinched and his eyes were as bright as the lake under a July noon. "What if they hurt him?"
"They won't. Not if their goal is to use him as leverage." She put her hand on his shoulder. "Keep looking. I'll be back soon."
He smiled and sniffed and walked across the field, brittle wheat stalks crunching under his shoes. Ellie grabbed a bike and rode straight to Lake Placid. November had arrived and brought the cold with it. She knew it might not turn warm for a long time.
In town, she hit Main Street and prepared to swing north toward the sheriff's, but she spotted the wool-suited official speaking with a knot of people on the patio of what used to be Bozer's Grill. She squeaked to a stop and climbed off her bike and strode toward the sheriff.
"Quinn Tolbert's gone missing," she said. "George thinks it was the Franklins. If we don't act fast, he'll charge in by himself."
Hobson brushed his palms down the front of his suit and nodded to the four men and two women around him. "I was just gathering our deputies."
"Can you leave one at the Tolberts' with my daughter?"
"Wouldn't she best be overseen by George?"
"Sheriff, he thinks Mort Franklin has Quinn tied up in a dungeon. He's not going to sit on his rocking chair sipping lemonade while we go ask about his son."
"I would hope not, now that I think about it." Hobson stroked his mustache and considered his people. "Harold, you know Miss Colson? Could I impinge on you to stay with her daughter at the farm?"
Harold Dunston shrugged his bearish shoulders. "I dunno, sheriff. I might rather get my crown shot off at some fanatic's compound."
"What rustic wit," the sheriff said. "Miss Colson, as soon as you're ready, we're at your service."
Harold borrowed a bike and followed Ellie back to the lake, pedaling awkwardly, his heavy knees jutting to each side, bike squeaking rhythmically from the strain.
"Think there's gonna be a shootout?" he said.
"Considering the Franklins have already proven willing and able to open fire?" Ellie squinted against the eye-watering cold wind. "It's more likely than I'd prefer."
That satisfied Harold, who was one of those stolid farmer types who'd give the same nod of acknowledgment to anything that passed before his eyes, be it a casual acquaintance or a fire burning down his barn. Good man to leave with Dee. As they approached the farm, Dee and George's voices filtered from the woods. Ellie called them in.
"George tell you the plan?" she asked Dee.
Dee nodded and hugged her elbows in front of her body. "You won't get hurt, will you?"
"We'll have the law with us. A posse, too. Mort won't want to endanger his own family."
That seemed to console her, although Ellie didn't believe it herself. Fanatics wanted to be persecuted. To prove the rest of the world was as base and evil as their prophets claimed. Dee and Harold returned to the woods to search as Ellie and George departed for town. George had a rifle slung over his shoulder and a far-off look on his face.
"I think we should let the sheriff take the lead," Ellie said.
The highway whisked along beneath their bikes. "The sheriff is nothing but an empty suit."
"You were perfectly willing to defer to him when you thought Sam Chase was the villain."
"With a badge, even a fool can frighten a child. A true believer respects no law but God's."
Her rifle weighed on her shoulder. In Lake Placid, the sheriff was still on the patio of Bozer's, but he'd found another deputy to replace Harold. Sheriff Hobson approached and shook George's hand with both of his own.
"I respect your role as father," Hobson said. "At the Franklins', please respect my role as sheriff."
"What I respect most is results," George said.
Hobson frowned but said nothing. He turned to his deputies, who were mostly middle-aged and overweight, although in the way of farmers and tradesmen who have as much muscle under their skin as fat.
"For most of you, this will be your first time on the front lines of the law. I value you as volunteers but value your safety
most of all. Don't draw weapons unless and until you intend to use them. With any luck, we shall effect a peaceful resolution."
They nodded their agreement. William Mooring had brought his horse-drawn wagon and most of the deputies rode in it, seated on the boards, rifles sticking up beside them. As they rode down the highway, Hobson asked George the usual questions about when he'd last seen Quinn and when the boy went missing, but drew nothing from George's answers.
The posse reached the path to the Franklins' by late morning. The deputies dismounted from the wagon, feet thudding into the gravel on the shoulder of the main road. The sheriff raised his eyebrows and led the way into the woods.
Ellie watched the trees. Songbirds trilled. Leaves crumpled underfoot. The posse was silent. And so, when they reached the clearing, was the compound on the edge of the pond. Halfway across the wild-grown grass, Hobson gestured the others to a stop, then continued toward the house.
"Mort Franklin!" the sheriff called. "My name is Sheriff Hobson. I serve the order of the lakes and surrounding lands. Step outside to speak with me, and I assure you as a gentlemen that words will be the only thing exchanged on this day."
Movement in the windows. Ellie's hand twitched. A crow cawed from the pines by the shore. The front door opened and Mort Franklin emerged into the overcast day. His hair grew like white kudzu. A shotgun dangled from the crook of his elbow.
"Quite a host you have gathered for this reckoning, sheriff. A distrustful man might think you aim to use it as a bludgeon."
"I can see you are a canny man, so I will confess it is a sad truth that the velvet glove of justice must be fitted around an iron fist." Hobson smiled, self-deprecating. "I won't waste words. George's boy Quinn has gone missing."
The old doomsayer narrowed his eyes, wrinkles spiderwebbing his skin. "Don't know a thing about that."
"The hell you don't!" George strode forward. Ellie cursed and followed. George stopped six feet from the Franklin patriarch and jabbed a finger toward the old man. "This crime has your stink all over it. You stole my wheat, and when I got ready to take it back, you stole my son to get me to back off."
Mort let his shotgun droop further. A deep frown etched his mouth. "Sir, I am a family man. I would no more hurt your son than I would my own."
"Your lordly morals didn't stop you from taking what's mine!"
"I sought compensation for the fraud you perpetrated against me. Took you long enough to come up with something worth taking." He swept a hand toward his home and fields. "I will grant the Lord blessed me with a bumper crop this season. But I don't have your son."
"Then you won't mind if I have a look around," Ellie said.
"This is private property."
Hobson stepped forward. "Then perhaps I, a disinterested third party, representative of the law, may do the looking."
Mort snorted. "You're no more 'disinterested' than I am the devil. But if you won't take my word, then have a look at whatever you want. Perhaps that will convince you my prayers for Quinn are sincere."
Hobson raised his eyebrows at George. "Agreed?"
George folded his arms. "We'll be right here."
Hobson nodded and strode after Mort Franklin. They disappeared inside the house. Upstairs, a curtain riffled.
Hobson's search was thorough. The house. The outbuildings. The fields and the boathouse. By the time he finished, more than one member of the posse was sitting in the grass. Behind the clouds, the sun marched to its peak. At last, the sheriff returned across the fields side by side with Mort.
"I didn't see any sign of captivity," Hobson said.
George's lips curled. He pointed at Mort. "So he's got him locked in a box! Or they saw us coming and took Quinn away. I want him arrested until his family gives up my boy!"
Mort stalked forward until his breastbone bumped into George's outstretched finger. The old man's blue eyes blazed like polished gems. "I did not take your son, sir. If I lie, may God burn the flesh from my bones."
"I looked everywhere," Hobson said. "Perhaps our efforts would be best spent combing the woods. Canvassing your neighbors."
Tears brimmed from George's eyelids. He took a ragged breath and stared down Mort, unashamed. "If I find you've hurt him, I'll come back for your head."
"And I would do the same." Mort bowed his head, climbed his steps, and closed the door.
"I believe him," Hobson said. "And that he purloined your wheat."
George shook his head vaguely. "All I want is to find Quinn safe and sound."
"I understand." He turned to the posse. "I consider your duties honorably discharged, but would welcome any further aid you'd like to give the search."
To Ellie's mild surprise, when they got back to Lake Placid, only one member of Hobson's ad hoc crew peeled off. Three said they'd ask around town while two others volunteered to help search the wilderness around George's farm. Ellie intended to ask around Lake Placid, but she wanted to break the news of their mission to Dee herself.
Back at the farm, Dee took one look at the arrivals and her face crumpled. "How could you leave without him? Who knows what that old son of a bitch—"
Ellie grabbed her arm. "Hey. I don't think the Franklins took him. Mort didn't try to use him. He even confessed to taking George's wheat. If Mort does have him, the game he's playing is so dark we'll wish we found him in the lake instead."
Dee's jaw hung open. "Mom!"
"I thought you were tough. That you'd rather swallow bitter medicine than sugary placebos. Was I wrong?"
The outrage faded from Dee's eyes. She stood straight. "What do we have to do to find him?"
Ellie smiled inwardly. "Do you remember anything more from last night? Anything unusual?"
"When my shift was over, I shook Quinn awake. He swatted at me like you do when you're so sleepy you'll hit anyone who tries to wake you. But he finally got up and I went to bed. That was the last time I saw him."
Ellie gestured at the woods and hills. "Try looking anywhere you two go together. Maybe he went there and got hurt and can't get back."
"Why would he run off to Mulehead Rock at one in the morning?"
"Why would he go missing at all? A search is the ruling out of possibilities, starting with the most likely." She gazed down the shore. "Speaking of, I've got other avenues to explore. I'll be back by dinner."
She was thirty feet toward the shore before she thought she should have hugged Dee. She considered turning back, but it was too late.
Pine needles brushed her jacket. She imagined the previous night. Quinn sitting by the window in the darkness with binoculars and a rifle. And then what? The bark of a dog? The shifting of a silhouette by the trees? Quinn was young, still had a lot of bad brains. He'd pick up the rifle and go outside. Verbally challenge whatever stranger had stepped onto his land. And then—
But that's where the story broke down. Did he take a shot at the figure? Get shot? No one had heard a gun go off. There had been no sign of blood spatter or dragging. It was as if he'd walked off. Followed someone. Vanished.
Been abducted by aliens.
A man stepped onto the trail ten feet away. Ellie hissed air through her teeth, lunging for her pistol. The man smiled and raised his hands to show they were empty.
She swore and folded her arms. "Hey Sam."
"Heard Quinn went missing," he said. "Thought I'd come see you and save you the trip."
She laughed wryly. "Just ruling out possibilities."
"Believe me, you've taught me how it is."
"So you won't be offended when I ask whether you had anything to do with this."
"Depends. If I don't yell at you, will that make me look guilty?"
"Did you see anything unusual last night? Hear any gunshots?"
"Last night? No." He spit in the grass. "But you might want to ask George about the men in the black fedoras."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Which men?"
"The ones who've been coming by the house. I got the sense he knew them. And
they weren't friends."
She tipped her head. "Have you been watching the house?"
He drew back his shoulders. "Just since this started going down. To make sure Dee's safe. You want me to stop?"
"No." She sighed. "Thanks, Sam."
She strode back to the farm. Hobson's newly minted bodyguard Harold stood on the porch, watching the fields. He informed her George was up in the woods with the dogs. Ellie jogged across the cut wheat and entered the scraggly, bare-leafed branches. The forest stretched all the way into the mountains, but after a couple minutes she heard George calling Quinn's name. She homed in on him, letting the leaves crunch beneath her feet so she wouldn't take him by surprise.
"Who are the men in the black fedoras, George?"
He stopped cold. His golden retriever plunked its butt next to him and licked his hand. He ignored it. "What are you talking about?"
"The men you only bring to your house when I'm not around."
"That's just business."
"What kind of business?"
He met her eyes with a hard glare. "The kind I was reduced to when I needed a combine."
She planted her feet. "I let you borrow the tractor. Who are these people? What have you gotten yourself into?"
"Wait just a minute. They've got nothing to do with this."
"How did you pay for the combine?"
"The only things they were interested in taking are things I need to run the farm."
"You mortgaged the harvest. Which was patchy to begin with. And then it went missing."
"Hold on." George closed on her, glancing to the sides, as if afraid someone else might hear his shame. "They can't think I tried to hide it from them, to back out of the deal. That's crazy."
"Why is that?"
"Because those are the type of men..."
"Who would take your firstborn son if you screwed them over?" Ellie said. "Where can I find them?"
He swung his jaw to the side. "Ellie, I've had enough of you meddling in my affairs. He's my boy. This is my business."
"And your bone-deep investment in it means you're probably not the best choice to handle it. I used to be an agent for the federal government. I was the one they sent to the frontlines. Sometimes to regions no more civilized than what we live with now. That's why I've been throwing myself into this thing: I'm the best person for the job."
Reapers (Breakers, Book 4) Page 12
