by Tanya Stowe
Her heart stopped. Will Austin make it back up to me? Am I stranded?
Blood pounded in her temples. Dulcie tried her cell phone. Nothing. The fact that she was all alone in this blizzard filled her with dread. Suddenly, the sound of a car engine made her pause.
A black SUV she didn’t recognize pulled to a stop in front of the house. Two men in dark clothing stepped out.
Panic surged through her and she ran back downstairs. There was no knock on the door or calling out. Instead, gunfire exploded and hit the door. The solid wood splintered, sending pieces across the room. Dulcie screamed and dove for the couch.
They had to be members of the gang and they were here to get her. They concentrated their shots around the dead bolt. They were shooting out the lock! Any minute they’d be inside. She looked around, desperately searching for somewhere to hide. There was no place. No nook or cranny. Just Austin’s wide-open home, the place she’d loved from the minute she saw it. Now it would be her trap.
Tanya Stowe is a Christian fiction author with an unexpected edge. She is married to the love of her life, her high school sweetheart. They have four children and twenty-one grandchildren, a true adventure. She fills her books with the unusual—mysteries and exotic travel, even a murder or two. No matter where Tanya takes you—on a trip to foreign lands or a suspenseful journey packed with danger—be prepared for the extraordinary.
Books by Tanya Stowe
Love Inspired Suspense
Mojave Rescue
Fatal Memories
Killer Harvest
Vanished in the Mountains
Vanished in the Mountains
Tanya Stowe
And that he might make known the riches of his glory on the vessels of mercy, which he had afore prepared unto glory.
—Romans 9:23
For my husband, Gary, and one of the trips of our lifetime.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Dear Reader
Excerpt from Trailing a Killer by Carol J. Post
ONE
Dulcie Parker wound her long curls into a tight bun on top of her head and gave it one last pat. Messy, soft buns were the “in” look right now but for her, the tighter the better. First off, her super-curly hair was messy enough and second, she’d found that the sterner, harsher look worked best for her job. In fact, she considered it part of her work uniform: a tight bun, black pants, a crisp white button-front shirt and a black jacket. As a fairly young domestic violence counselor, she needed to be taken seriously, not only by the men she often met but also by her coworkers who considered her too young and inexperienced.
As if anyone is too young to know that words and fists hurt. Her cultured university-professor father taught her that lesson.
She closed her eyes and forced those thoughts from her mind. Going down that path was not the way to start out her workday...one that would end up with her being late to the shelter if she didn’t get a move on. With one last push to a misbehaving curl, she flipped off the bathroom light.
As she entered the small living room of her apartment, she frowned. An envelope lay on the floor by the door.
Puzzled, she picked up the plain white envelope, ripped open the seal and removed a single piece of paper folded neatly into thirds. A message was printed vertically down the middle of the sheet.
Mind your own business or you’ll become a Missing One.
Dulcie’s fingers trembled as she read the words.
A missing one...the exact words her client Doris Begay had used.
In Dulcie’s line of work, threats came with the job. She’d been yelled at and threatened by angry husbands, boyfriends and family members of women seeking help, but this...this was different. This was specific and was not about her clients at the shelter. Or at least only a fine thread connected them.
One of her clients, a Navajo woman named Doris Begay, had been living with an Anglo man, Matt Kutchner. Recently they’d left the Navajo reservation in New Mexico and moved to Durango, Colorado. Once there, Kutchner’s violence escalated and Doris’s daughter, Judy, had talked her mother into attending group therapy sessions at the shelter where Dulcie worked.
Dulcie had almost convinced Doris to leave the man when sixteen-year-old Judy went missing. The police questioned Dulcie about the violence she had witnessed against Judy Begay. When the young woman’s battered body was found at the bottom of a mountain canyon, Dulcie’s statements led to Kutchner’s arrest.
But the message in her hand wasn’t about the Kutchner case. It was about the questions Dulcie started asking after his arrest.
Even before her daughter’s body was found, Doris had referred to her as one of the Missing Ones...almost as if she knew her daughter was dead. Since moving to Durango a year ago, Dulcie had learned about the Navajo reluctance to refer to the dead by their names. Still, the mother’s use of the phrase Missing Ones puzzled Dulcie. How many girls were missing? When she questioned Doris, the woman grew uncomfortable and mumbled something about many reservation girls disappearing.
Dulcie’s business was domestic violence. She knew the national statistics. Native American women experienced violence and exploitation at a rate ten times higher than any other ethnic group. But Dulcie did a little digging. To her shock, she discovered the number of missing girls from their area was even greater. The city’s close location to multiple Native American reservations, including the massive Navajo reservation, could account for the higher numbers. But to Dulcie, the frequency of the kidnappings indicated something more...something deadly, superefficient and, so far, undetected. Could a trafficking ring be operating in the Four Corners area?
Dulcie had barely started asking questions and someone was already trying to silence her...someone who could still be outside her door.
The paper slipped through her fingers and floated to the floor. She dashed across the room and squinted through the peephole. As far as she could see, the hallway was empty, but someone could be beyond the narrow vision of the small sight.
Threats weren’t much good without force. Was someone waiting for her to step out of her apartment?
Halfway to the kitchen counter for her cell phone she remembered something important. She’d only discussed her concerns with two people—her boss, Vonetta Lauder, and a municipal policeman. Officer Shaw had been the original investigator on the Begay/Kutchner case until they realized the victim lived outside the city limits. From that point on, jurisdiction lay with the county sheriff’s office and their detective. Still, when Dulcie needed local statistics, she’d approached Shaw for help. He was the only one besides her boss who knew what she was investigating.
One of them had definitely shared the info. That proof lay on the floor at her feet.
Vonetta was the visible representative of the domestic violence center for women, the voice of those who couldn’t speak for themselves. She sat on multiple boards, was always in the news and earned lots of recognition and donations for the privately funded women’s center.
But Dulcie had a sense about people, a feel for their hidden motives and agendas. She could thank her dad for that deeply ingrained mistrust. She couldn’t quite pin down the reason she’d never trusted Vonetta, but she’d had the same feeling about Officer Shaw. When the Kutchner case moved to th
e La Plata County Sheriff’s Office and Deputy Austin Turner, she’d felt a sense of relief.
Deputy Turner! That’s who she would call. She searched her list of phone contacts for his name. She’d liked the man from the minute they met. Not just because of his appealing, boy-next-door good looks. Something about him inspired positive feelings, maybe his deep, confident voice or the lingering pain she glimpsed behind his gaze. Whatever it was, the man understood...had the same sense about people that she possessed.
During the investigation he had given her his cell number. His phone rang and rang until his message clicked on.
Dulcie licked dry lips and tried to find the right words. “Umm, Deputy Turner, this is Dulcie Parker. Can you call me as soon as possible? Something...something has happened.” Her voice broke and trembled as she recited her number.
Now she would have to wait. She stared at the paper on the floor, anxiety building with each passing minute.
Don’t wait. Call the sheriff’s office and hunt him down.
She dialed again. The receptionist sounded busy and a little more than irritated when Dulcie asked if Deputy Turner was in.
“I don’t have the answer to that, ma’am, but I can connect you to his line so you can leave a message.”
“Yes. Yes please.” The fear must have come through in her voice because the receptionist paused.
“Hang on. Let me see if I can find him.”
The line went silent and Dulcie took several deep breaths. Now was not the time to lose her hard-won control.
The receptionist clicked back on. “I’m sorry. He doesn’t seem to be at his desk. Is there someone else I can connect you with?”
Dulcie paused. Someone else? No...she couldn’t trust anyone else.
“No, thank you. I’ll leave him a message.”
“All right. I’ll connect you.”
After a short pause, Deputy Turner’s deep, reassuring voice echoed in her ear again. Hearing it gave her a jolt of comfort that almost brought her to tears. “Deputy, this is Dulcie Parker. Please call me as soon as you can. It’s important.”
She ended the phone call, slid onto a bar stool at the counter and rested her forehead on the heels of her palms. How had she come to this again? Was she a magnet for trouble? Was her fear of being a victim creating conspiracies in her head? She looked at the paper resting on the floor.
No. This wasn’t her imagination. She’d stumbled upon something deep and dark and someone was determined to keep her from exposing it.
She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. “Please, Lord, help me.”
Over and over again, she repeated the words, until the darkness threatening to overwhelm her subsided. Then she took a deep breath.
Fear was the tactic all bullies used. The only way to combat fear was to face it head-on. These people—whoever they were—wanted her to stop asking questions. That’s the one thing she couldn’t do. She had to move forward, had to do something.
She slid off the bar stool and walked to the door. The hallway still appeared empty. She took a deep breath and placed her ear against the door. She heard nothing. Not even another apartment door opening or the deep hum of the elevator.
No door opening. The thought stuck in her mind.
What time is it?
She glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes before eight. Every day precisely at 7:45 a.m. her neighbor across the hall left for work. Joey Delacroix worked for the city and was precise in everything he did. In five minutes on the dot, he would leave. Dulcie could leave with him.
Taking a deep breath, she swooped the paper off the ground, folded it back into the envelope and shoved it and her phone into her purse. Grabbing her coat, she slipped it on and tugged the strap of her purse over her shoulder. Then she hurried back to the door. Easing the chain out of the lock, she released the dead bolt and pressed her ear to the wooden portal again, listening for any sound.
A minute passed and her heart pounded. What if whoever left this message was waiting near the elevator? What if there were more than one? What if they weren’t afraid to attack her and Joey together?
Stop it. You’re letting fear overwhelm you again.
Still she needed...wanted...some way to defend herself. She looked around the room. A small can of scented aerosol spray rested on the nearby end table. Sprayed directly in an assailant’s eyes, it would make a great weapon. She popped the lid off, let it fall to the ground and gripped the can in her left hand. Then she pulled her door key out of her purse and clasped it between her fingers, pointed edge facing out.
Now she was ready. She placed her ear against the door and waited. One minute passed. Another.
Where was Joey? Had she missed him? Did he call in sick? Her pulse pounded faster with each question.
And then, the door across the hall opened. It was so loud, she shook her head and stepped back. Of course, she didn’t need to press her ear against the door. Every morning she heard Joey leave while standing eight feet away in her kitchen. Fear was stealing her common sense. She needed to get control.
Straightening her spine, she tucked the aerosol can just inside her large, open purse and twisted the doorknob with fingers still clutching the key. With the door wide, she paused and glanced both directions.
All clear. She looked her neighbor’s way. Joey stood motionless, his key poised just above the knob and a frown on his face.
“Hey, Dulcie. Is something wrong?”
She swallowed and stepped outside her door to lock it. “No, no. Nothing. I just... I thought I heard someone at my door earlier. Did you see anyone?”
“Nope. But I’m running a little late so I was rushing around. Might not have heard someone in the hall.”
She nodded and swallowed. They locked their doors simultaneously, then walked down the hall side by side. Dulcie hesitated, waiting to see if Joey would take the elevator or the stairs. Since he was running late, maybe he’d depart from his usual choice and use the elevator. Either way, she was going the way he went.
He punched the buttons outside the elevator and turned to face her. “You sure you’re okay?”
She tried to smile. “Just a lot on my mind. A busy day today.”
The elevator dinged. Joey motioned for her to step in ahead of him. “Yeah, me too. We’re getting close to month’s end and I’ve got to finish a project before that.”
End of October. Fall was sliding by. Cooler temperatures. Falling leaves. The golden aspens. All the russet shades and burnt oranges on the mountainsides. The colors she loved and had barely noticed this year. Life was slipping past her at the speed of light. She glanced at Joey, his pressed shirt, neat tie and overcoat. His daily “uniform.” They were a lot alike. Caught up in their work, too focused to see the world around them. Maybe when all of this was over...
Dulcie looked away. Probably wouldn’t happen. She had a hard time getting close to people, especially men. But one thing was certain—she was very thankful for his presence this morning. She started to tell him so when the elevator door slid open. Joey gestured for her to move ahead of him again and the moment was lost.
She paused at the front door of the apartment building, her gaze scouring the parking lot. It seemed empty, but still she hesitated. Joey reached in front of her to push the handlebar of the door.
Shaking her head, she said, “Sorry. I guess I’m not all here today.”
“No problem. It’s just that I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
That was her cue to get moving.
The cold, brisk air made her catch her breath.
Joey moved across the lot but stood outside his car door, watching her, waiting. She hurried to her own vehicle, released the can she’d been clenching into her purse and punched the fob to unlock her door. Dulcie slid in and locked it again. Joey already had his car backed out and she watched him pull away. Then she sat in
her car in the near-empty parking lot and wondered what to do next.
She couldn’t go to work and face Vonetta or go to the municipal police station where Officer Shaw worked. Only one place remained where she could find help. She backed out and headed to the county sheriff’s office.
* * *
Austin Turner dropped his Stetson on his desk, ran a hand through his short hair and sighed. This was one of those days when he was especially glad that as a detective, he didn’t have to wear the typical county sheriff uniform. Not that he wasn’t proud of the uniform. He loved the job, the work he did and most of his fellow deputies with few exceptions.
No. The job wasn’t the problem. He was. For a long time now, he hadn’t been able to wear the uniform with pride. Ever since the death of his Navajo wife, Abey, and their unborn child in a car accident, he hadn’t felt worthy of the badge or the uniform he’d so proudly donned twelve years ago.
Again, he ran his hand through hair too short to move out of place...a nervous gesture and a sure sign that the bad feeling he’d had since waking this morning was here to stay. He’d had lots of those days in the three years since he’d lost his family. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should have done more. Could have prevented their deaths.
He thought he was on the mend but the brutal beating and death of a young Navajo girl had fired up all his old resentments and everything else he’d tried so hard to suppress. Many a night he’d lain awake, seeing that poor girl’s body at the bottom of a mountain ravine. Those long nights ended only after he arrested the girl’s stepfather.
Truth be told, the social worker involved in the case, Dulcie Parker, had contributed to his unrest. Something about the woman stuck with him. It had to be because she was so worked up...not for any other reason. There was no room in his life for another woman. Abey and his baby still filled every corner.
No, Dulcie Parker bothered him because she pushed relentlessly for answers and action. He’d only interviewed her a few times, but he never lost the feeling that she’d be following the investigation from afar, watching, waiting for results.
