She moved to the window and saw it had a rusty latch on it. She tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge. She could break the window and push on the boards covering the space, but if she couldn’t get out, the man would notice the broken glass on the floor.
In her mind, she saw the shards of glass on the floor. She could use one as a weapon. The thought of gripping a piece of sharp glass in her hand made her sick to her stomach. Even if she didn’t cut off her hand, could she really stab someone? Or would she freeze? Would the man take the glass from her and cut her throat?
She shook her head. Getting the window open would be better. She heard him coming and quickly lay down on the mat, pulling the blanket over her and squeezing her eyes shut. She had to pretend she was still drinking the juice, still tired and confused.
The door opened. She kept her eyes closed, but she could hear him standing there. “I brought you more juice,” he said. She didn’t respond. With fear, she heard him walk across the concrete floor toward her and stop. “I said I brought you juice.” He nudged her leg with his toe, and when she sat up and rubbed her eyes as if dragged from a deep sleep, he took a step back before he held out the juice bottle. “You should drink it. You must be thirsty with all that crying.”
So he hadn’t left earlier. He’d listened outside the door. Or the woman had.
She didn’t reach for the juice. “I’m not thirsty right now.”
“I need you to drink it.”
Holly Jo could see his light-colored eyes behind the mask. He wanted to watch her drink it. Would he force her if she refused? “I have to pee. I can’t drink it until I pee.” She glanced at the bucket, then at him, and didn’t move.
He sighed and put down the juice on the concrete floor. “I’ll check on you later to make sure you drank it. You want to stay alive, don’t you? So you can go home?”
She nodded and squirmed as if she would wet herself if she didn’t pee soon.
She got up, picking up the juice bottle as she moved to the bucket. She hadn’t heard him leave. If he was waiting outside the door, he was waiting to hear her pee. She opened the juice as quietly as possible and began to pour a little of it into the bucket. Then she listened until she heard him limp away before she walked over to the drain and poured out the juice, her mouth watering as she did.
Then, taking the plastic bottle, she went back over to the window and began to scrub the rust off the window latch. The plastic at the mouth of the bottle wasn’t quite sharp enough, but if she scraped long enough...
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
STUART HADN’T BEEN surprised that the kidnapper wanted two million dollars. He’d listened to the recording. “I’ll call back to let you know where to bring it. Come alone. Or the girl dies.”
After that, Holden had erupted, going off script, but it hadn’t mattered. The caller had hung up.
The sheriff had hoped to question the rancher further about Holly Jo’s father, but Holden had been so upset that he’d stormed off toward the stables.
Stuart watched him go before Brand Stafford called. “Brand, if this is—”
“Birdie thinks she saw the pickup from the night before the kidnapping. We’re following it, even though the camper wasn’t on the back and the driver was a woman, but the tailgate is missing. We’re headed northeast on the road to Broadus.”
Stuart groaned. “Neither of you have any idea what you’re doing,” the sheriff argued. “Where are you now?” Brand told him. “Do not, I repeat, do not approach this person.” He groaned as he headed for his patrol SUV. Arguing with these two was a waste of breath. He just hoped they didn’t get themselves killed, and Holly Jo as well.
But Birdie was the only one who’d seen the pickup and camper the night before Holly Jo was taken. She just might be on to something. It was a chance he had to take. Also, what neither Brand nor Birdie knew was that the kidnapper had an accomplice—a woman.
The missing tailgate also sounded like this might be the pickup. The kidnapper and accomplice must have taken off the camper and were staying in it, possibly somewhere near where they were keeping Holly Jo.
He thought about pulling off a deputy for backup but couldn’t spare one. Brand said the woman had been alone in the pickup. That meant the kidnapper was still out there somewhere, maybe stranded back wherever they were keeping Holly Jo. Or they could have a second vehicle, but then why go to the trouble of removing the camper to drive into town? Of course, there could be more people involved in this than he knew. Not to mention Birdie and Brand could be following some woman who had nothing at all to do with Holly Jo’s kidnapping—and now Stuart was also following them.
Either way, he knew he couldn’t pass up a possible lead. There was little traffic this time of day on the highway. He passed a farm truck full of hay, then a car, all the time looking ahead for Birdie’s pale green SUV.
As he came around a corner, he saw a road off to his right that turned down by the river. He was hit with a shitstorm of blood-drenched memories. That was the road Abigail Creed had pulled down minutes before she’d started stabbing him. He realized he hadn’t been up this way since the incident, as it was being called. He’d been such a fool. He hadn’t known why she’d pulled off the road. He’d thought she’d done it to talk—until she pulled the knife—but he should have known.
He whizzed past the road and didn’t look back, but he was sweating and had to turn up the air conditioner. He kept telling the psychiatrist he was required to see that he was fine. But right now, he was anything but.
Brand called. “The woman just turned off on Cache Creek Road.”
“Keep the pickup in sight, but don’t approach. Wait for me.” Stuart was a good ten miles away. He pushed the patrol SUV up to over a hundred, afraid of what kind of trouble Birdie Malone was driving into and taking Brand Stafford with her.
BIRDIE HAD DRIVEN fast until she sighted the pickup. She had backed way off, afraid that the woman would realize she was tailing her. From a good distance, she’d seen the pickup turn onto Cache Creek Road. Then she’d taken her time reaching the turnoff.
“The sheriff said not to approach her,” Brand repeated. “Birdie? This is not the time to do anything impulsive. If you’re right, this woman is dangerous.”
She seldom had doubts about the seemingly impetuous things she did—even though she was aware that she should more often consider her actions before leaping in. “The thing is, if I hadn’t skulked around the Stafford Ranch the night before the kidnapping, I wouldn’t have been able to provide you with an alibi. You could still be locked up in jail.”
“If only,” he said under his breath.
“Also, I wouldn’t have seen the pickup and camper near the McKenna Ranch that night and later down the road from your ranch,” she continued, as if she hadn’t heard him. “So it must be fate, wouldn’t you say? Fate that we met and are now following the possible kidnapper.”
“Fate?” he demanded as she made the turn onto Cache Creek Road. “It wasn’t fate that you followed me home from the bar that night.”
“We can’t lose sight of her,” Birdie argued. “I’ll just go up the road a little way until we find out where she’s going.”
She couldn’t see the truck ahead and sped up, determined not to lose her. She was mentally kicking herself for dropping back so far, thinking she’d already lost her, when she came up over a rise in the road and saw that the driver of the white pickup had stopped in the middle of the road.
Birdie hit her brakes and skidded to a stop as the driver’s-side door opened and the woman climbed out and headed back toward them. She heard Brand let out a curse.
At a glance, the woman looked to be in her late forties or early fifties. Her bleached-blond hair was pulled up into a ponytail, and she wore jeans, a blouse, boots and a leather jacket. She didn’t look like a kidnapper. Then again, Birdie had no idea what one looked like.
“I don’t like this,” Brand said under his breath as the woman approached the SUV. “I think we should get out of here now.”
Birdie couldn’t help noticing the rock on the woman’s ring finger. If it was real, it must have cost a bunch. The woman’s other hand was buried deep in her jacket pocket. She tapped on the window with her free hand, the ring catching the light, her nails appearing to have been professionally done recently, except that one of the blue-painted nails had been broken.
Birdie hesitated, caught between throwing her SUV into Reverse and needing to hear what this possible kidnapper was going to say.
