“Nothing on NCIC,” Charles said. “Guy doesn’t have a record.”
“Well, that’s something. So what do we do now?”
Charles tapped the keyboard a few times and brought up a new profile. This one was topped by the same image of the young Trevor Maines that Viv had found in Dora’s sketchbook.
“Match.com?” Abby shoved her way to the front of the crowd circling the computer. “Boy, you federal agents have access to everything.”
Charles ducked his head. “I’m not really performing in an official capacity right now.”
“What? You mean…”
Ed slapped his knee. “Looking for love on the Internet, hey? I’ve heard that works pretty well.”
Emma shoved an elbow in her husband’s ribs and he winced.
“I travel a lot,” Charles mumbled. “Hard to meet women.”
“That’s what vacations are for,” Abby said. She simpered, and Mack cringed—but Charles just smiled.
***
The crunch of tires on the driveway led them all to the door to see a dark blue cruiser with the logo of the State of Wyoming on the side. Just the sight of the officer’s neat uniform made Cat feel like things were under control. Charles was good. This was better.
The fact that the trooper was a manly six foot something and built like a beefcake model didn’t hurt. And she had to admit it was nice to see a man with a crease in his pants.
Mack and Viv had emerged from the barn with her, but the cop focused on Cat immediately. Resting one elbow on the roof of the car, he took off his mirrored sunglasses, revealing soulful brown eyes in a square, honest face.
“I understand you have a missing person.” He whipped a small notebook out of his shirt pocket, along with a pencil. The man exuded an air of competence, and Cat felt suddenly fluttery and weak.
“My niece.”
“There’s a good chance she was abducted or lured off.” Mack stepped up with a photo of Trevor that Charles had printed off the computer in the ranch office. “By this man.”
“And who is he?” The trooper lifted one brow toward Mack, and Cat finally recovered from her girlie state to feel the hostility simmering in the air.
“A guest on the ranch.”
“And you’re accusing your guest of kidnapping because…”
“Because I caught him in the girls’ room last night. And I’ve seen how he looked at Dora. Since the two of them are missing at the same time, it’s obvious.” Mack shifted impatiently. “We found a website where he posts pictures of teen girls. Trust me, he’s trouble.”
“He’s the driver on the Lexus you called in?”
Mack nodded. “A silver Lexus SUV. A rental.”
“And you say you…” The trooper looked down at his notes. “Caught him in the girls’ room?”
Mack nodded. “I chased him off, but he turned up again last night. Drunk.”
“And he left this morning?” The trooper frowned. “Was he sober enough to drive?”
“Wasn’t my day to watch him,” Mack said.
“Sounds like it should have been.”
Cat glanced from the trooper to the cowboy. She sensed something more than a cop/constituent relationship here. She sensed a pissing contest. It was masculine, petty, and probably not very productive.
“I can’t believe he managed to get out of the house,” Mack said. “He was drunk as a skunk.”
“Maybe he was faking it,” Cat said. “I’ll bet you anything he planned this. Came back for her.” She almost choked as the thought occurred to her. “Viv’s right. He’s probably getting revenge.”
“So this is my fault?”
“It’s not your fault Trevor’s got an ego the size of Texas.” She turned to the cop. “Do you need the picture?”
He took it from her hand, his fingers brushing hers. Was that deliberate? “Why don’t we go in the house?” Those big brown eyes seemed to speak of something way beyond reviewing the evidence. Could the guy possibly be trying to pick her up?
“You can tell me more about your niece,” he continued. “I need a detailed description, plus likes and dislikes, places she might go.”
She balked, unwilling to go in the house and talk about things they already knew. “Don’t you need to send out the picture? And wouldn’t it be better if you were out there looking for the Lexus?”
He didn’t look pleased. Ego again. Men didn’t like having their expertise questioned.
“We’ll get to all that,” he said. “Let’s go on in, and we’ll talk.”
***
Mack watched Stan Brownfield walk away with Cat. He needed the man’s help—or at least, he needed his radio and the cooperation of his coworkers. Brownfield himself he had no use for at all.
“Who is he?” Charles asked.
“State cop,” Mack said.
“I figured that out. But you know him, and you don’t like him. Who is he?”
“Local guy,” Mack said. “I went to school with him.”
“Let’s see.” Emma placed her index finger on her chin and looked thoughtfully skyward. “Quarterback, I’ll bet. Big man on campus. Got all the girls and wronged every one of ’em.”
Mack barked out a bitter laugh. “You must have gone to high school in Grady too.”
“No,” she said. “But I know the type. And we’re not going to let him take your girl.”
“She’s not my girl,” Mack said. “Not even close. Not after this.”
He strode out to the hitching post, where Rembrandt was waiting patiently.
Mules were better company than women anyway. He always thought better around animals, and he needed to find a way to help Dora.
“Sorry, buddy.” He lifted the headstall over the long ears, cupping his hand to take the bit as the animal released it. “Left you in the hot sun, didn’t I? We’ll get you back in the barn.”
It was obvious that his tracking skills weren’t going to help find Dora. And Brownfield had all the resources when it came to finding the Lexus.
But Mack knew Dora. The two of them had talked all day on the trail, hitting topics ranging from the nausea-inducing smarminess of Justin Bieber to the soul-numbing boredom brought on by the James Fenimore Cooper novel she had to read over the summer. Had Dora dropped any hints as to where she might go? They’d talked about food, music, trucks…
Trucks.
He felt his heart flutter with a surge of excitement. Slamming Rembrandt’s stall door with a bang that made the normally placid mule let out a startled honk, he headed for the back of the barn and checked a row of hooks that were screwed onto a two-by-four nailed to the inside wall. Bundles of keys hung on four of the five hooks. The fifth was empty.
Swearing under his breath, he exited the back door and jogged to the machine shop. Half of the rickety old building housed excess bales of hay, keeping them out of the weather. The other side housed the ranch pickup, a 1954 International held together with duct tape, barbed wire, and rust. Dora had caught sight of it when he’d sent her for extra bales and asked if it ran.
It did.
Sliding the wooden bolt aside, he swung open the wide shed door.
The truck was gone.
He never thought he’d be so happy to have a vehicle stolen. He didn’t know how Dora had managed to start the balky engine and take off without anyone noticing—especially Hank, whose bathroom window looked out over the shed.
But of course, Hank had been busy last night. Mack shuddered and shoved that thought aside. His own worries would have to wait. He needed to find Dora.
Hopefully she’d just gone joyriding, or taken off to get a break from the group. The thought of calling Brownfield flashed across his mind. The old pickup would be easy to spot, with its rattletrap tailgate and dented side door.
But she couldn’t have gone far.
The truck ran, but just barely. Once Dora hit the hills, she’d be lucky to make thirty miles an hour. If she headed west, there was no way she’d make it over the pass. And if she went east, there was a good chance the truck would break down on the way. It needed a new water pump, and he was pretty sure the fuel filter was clogged.
He headed back to the ranch office. Cat was sitting in the battered office chair with her arms crossed over her chest, staring at the phone.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get her.”
She gave him an annoyed glare and returned her gaze to the phone. “She’s been gone too long, Mack. I have to wait for the cops to call.”
“Mom’ll answer from the house. Trust me, she’ll be on that phone before you can so much as twitch. And I’ve got my cell.” He tossed the keys to his Ford in the air and caught them. “Meanwhile, we’re going to find Dora. She’s not with Trevor. Come on. I’ll fill you in on the way.”
Chapter 38
Cat sat stiffly in the passenger seat of Mack’s pickup, scanning the roadside, peering down turnoffs, searching for any sign of the old pickup. She’d called the police again, and a woman there had promised to relay a description of the pickup to Officer Brownfield. But Mack seemed determined to make his own search, and doing something—anything—felt better than sitting at the ranch waiting for the phone to ring.
She felt a little guilty about leaving her students behind. They’d paid a fortune for this trip, and today they hadn’t done a lick of painting. Everyone seemed to understand, but they were hardly getting their money’s worth.
But she was reordering her priorities, putting Dora on top. If she’d done that sooner, she wouldn’t have fooled around with Mack and none of this would have happened.
She listened to the throaty roar of the engine while she watched the fence posts flick past.
“She’d head for Casper,” Mack said. “She’s not stupid, and there’s nothing north of here but high plains.”
“There’s Yellowstone.”
“She’d have to cross three hundred miles of nothing before she even got close. Dora might love the outdoors, but she’s a city girl born and raised. Don’t you think she’ll head for town?”
“Probably,” Cat said. “She’d need breakfast, for one thing.”
They were entering a no-man’s-land of battered warehouses and galvanized Quonset huts that apparently marked the outskirts of Casper.
“What’s her favorite fast food?” Mack asked.
“She doesn’t eat that kind of thing. Edie wouldn’t let her.”
“Sometimes that just makes it taste better.”
“You’d think so. But that was one thing she and her mom agreed on. What they both loved was diner food. They used to try the meatloaf every time. Edie said they were taking the meatloaf tour of the world and they’d write a book someday.”
Mack shook his head. “I knew she was a weird kid.”
Mack slowed as they passed a fifties-style diner with red and chrome trim, scanning the cars and trucks in the lot. There were lots of pickups, but none as disreputable as the ranch truck.
“Looks like a meatloaf kind of place,” he observed.
“It’s almost eleven.” Cat scanned the parking lot. “She’s probably long gone.”
“Not if she stopped.” He grinned. “The truck vapor-locks. If she shut the engine down for any reason, it would be a good half hour before it would start up again. Most people would give up before that.” He nodded toward the map pocket in the door. “Grab that map and we’ll make a plan.”
Cat ignored him, hiking herself up in her seat and craning her neck to stare at the truck stop they’d just passed. “What color did you say the truck was?”
“Rust, mostly. But it used to be blue.”
“I think I saw it.”
He braked hard and crossed a lane of traffic, careening off the exit like a NASCAR driver heading into the final turn. Cat grabbed the door handle as they spun onto a service road, then slid into the dirt lot behind the truck stop. He eased past a line of Kenworths and Peterbilts. Sure enough, the old International was parked at the back of the lot.
Cat wouldn’t have guessed that the thing would even start, much less handle highway driving. It looked more suited to a junkyard than a parking lot. Dora was lucky it hadn’t shaken apart on her before she’d left the driveway.
Tumbling out of Mack’s pickup, she peered in the International’s side window and saw Dora’s backpack perched in the passenger seat. She jiggled the door. Locked. At least the kid had that much sense.
“Let’s try the mini-mart.” Mack grabbed her hand and hauled her toward the entrance to the small store, with signs in the plate glass windows advertising beer and soft drinks. The other side of the low concrete building was a restaurant.
“There’s no rush.” Cat tugged her hand away. “She’s not going anywhere without the truck.”
“Unless she hitches a ride.”
“Oh, shit.” She stepped up her pace. “She’s not that stupid. Is she? You don’t think she’s that stupid, do you?”
An electronic cuckoo-bell sounded as Mack opened the swinging glass door. Standing on the dirty black doormat, Cat scanned the racks and shelves, taking in a seemingly endless selection of trucker hats and tourist T-shirts.
After searching up and down aisles packed with cans of Chef Boyardee and Alpo Prime Cuts, bags of Doritos and cellophane-wrapped Twinkies, she followed Mack through a scuffed entryway into the attached restaurant, searching for that halo of blonde frizz.
The counter stools looked like a seated police lineup, with the suspects ranging from seedy to shady to downright disreputable. Some crouched over coffee, watching the reflections in the grill’s stainless steel backsplash as if they expected the cops to arrive at any moment and take their meth supply. Others hunched over blue plate specials, sawing at chicken fried steaks drowned in lumpy creamed gravy.
No Dora.
The booths hosted a more companionable lot—an overweight couple who probably divided the driving as well as the wide slice of pie they were working on; a group of bearded men who looked like they’d sworn off showering until the Cubs won the World Series; and a rowdy group of twenty-something boys scanning the crowd for babes. One of them shot Cat a wink and a leer, but Mack stepped up close behind her and the winker was suddenly engrossed in the scenery outside the glass window.
“She’s not here.” Cat hugged herself, staving off panic. “You don’t really think she’d hitch a ride, do you?”
“I think she’s smarter than that,” he said. “But who knows? I didn’t think she was unhappy enough to run off, either.”
A chubby young waitress with black curls cascading from a checkered headband reached behind Cat to snatch up two menus from a holder on the wall.
“Two?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just led them to a cracked vinyl booth.
“Special’s chicken fried steak,” she chattered. “Cream gravy, mashed, and peas. Pie’s extra.” She looked up at the ceiling as she recited the varieties. “Apple, banana cream, pecan…”
“I’m just looking for my niece.” Cat knew interrupting was rude, but who knew how long the list of pies might be? “Have you seen a teenaged girl in here? A little blonde, curly hair? Kind of frizzy?”
“Yeah. I saw her.” The waitress slapped the menus on a table still streaked with the damp tracks of a dirty dishcloth.
Cat remained standing, one hand on Mack’s arm. “You saw her?”
“Yeah.” She made an impatient gesture toward the booth. “Here you go.”
“I’m sorry. We’re not eating,” Cat said.
“Okay, then.” The waitress scooped up the menus and started for the kitchen.
“Wait. Sorry. I just need to know when you saw her.” Cat touched the waitress’s shoulder and the woman w
hirled to face her.
“Look, we get lots of girls coming through here, okay?” She jutted her chin as if daring Cat to question her further. “And I got lots of work to do.”
“Just tell me if she left. Who she went with.”
The waitress glanced right, then left, like a trapped animal. “I didn’t see anything.”
“But…” Cat was struggling with the urge to give the waitress a kick in the shins, but a strong hand gripped her arm and lowered her into the booth. Mack slid in beside her, blocking her escape.
“Two coffees.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Cat hissed. “We just need to know…”
“We’re taking the time.” He nodded toward the waitress, who was stalking around the side of the counter. “And try to treat her like a human being. Are you Chicago folks always this rude to the help?”
“No.” Cat looked down at her lap, suddenly ashamed. “I’m sorry. I’m just so worried.”
The waitress returned with two thick ceramic mugs and a glass coffee pot. Mack gave her a friendly grin.
“Thanks, Belle.”
Cat glanced from the waitress to the cowboy, wondering how they knew each other, but no sign of recognition passed between them. Then she caught sight of the girl’s plastic name tag.
“Belle, I’m sorry I was so abrupt,” she said. “It’s just that I’m worried about my niece.”
The woman gave her a quick nod, then turned her attention back to Mack. It figured. Throw that good-looking cowboy into a crowd and women glommed on like magnets. Maybe it was the hat. Or the jeans.
Maybe it was the ten-dollar bill he was sliding across the table.
“So that blonde…” He let the question trail off, as if he didn’t really care about the answer.
“She was in here almost an hour.” The suddenly smiling Belle poured their coffees, lifting the pot with a flourish as the dark liquid streamed into the cup. Steam rose in fragrant swirls, making Cat realize she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since her breakfast had been cut short. “She didn’t hardly eat a thing, so I kind of ran her out.” A slight defensiveness entered her tone. “Can’t hold a table with customers waiting, can I? We’re here to do business, not run a charity for runaways.”
Cowboy Tough Page 24
