Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

T HE DISPATCHER PUT the call through to the sheriff's cell phone. "It's Penny, the waitress at the café. I found an envelope on a table here after the evening rush with a note that says, Give this to Holden McKenna ."

"Did you see who left it?"

"No, but the cook said he thought it was a woman. Didn't see her, but he said she didn't seem familiar. Probably not from around here."

"Don't let anyone else touch the envelope, please," Stuart said. "I'll be right there."

Five minutes later, he was bagging the envelope with a large chunk of dark hair inside. He didn't need to wait for the DNA report to know it was Holly Jo's or question why it had been left at the café. He was only thankful that it hadn't been a finger or a toe. The fact that it was a thick chunk of her hair made his stomach roil. He feared what might come next. He swore he would find this kidnapper if it was the last thing he ever did.

Once they had proof of life—the hair didn't prove that Holly Jo was still alive. He needed a photo. As he left the café, he got the call from Holden that a photograph had been received. The FBI lab already had it.

He would make arrangements to send the hair on to the lab so it could be matched with the hair from Holly Jo's brush. He saw no reason to show it to Holden, who was already furious over the photo and what had been done to the girl's hair.

Stuart was anxious to hear about the cardboard box of Robert "Bobby" Robinson's ashes from the funeral home that were also now at the FBI lab and asked that a DNA sample be compared to Holly Jo's DNA. He knew he was spitballing as he drove out to the McKenna Ranch. It was late. He'd grabbed a sandwich and ate it as he drive.

His mind whirred. What wife didn't pick up her husband's ashes? She'd paid the bill but hadn't wanted an urn. The ashes had never been picked up? Maybe she'd been too angry at him for dying—especially since alcohol had been involved after the rodeo. Or maybe, his gut told him, something was wrong.

Stuart was anxious to talk to Holden about what he'd found out. He was positive now that the rancher knew a whole lot more than he was telling him—starting with Holly Jo's father.

B IRDIE WAS OUTSIDE the Wild Horse Bar, visiting with some locals who had known her father, when she saw the pickup. The men, mostly ones who were regulars at the bar, had been confirming what she already knew. Her father and Charlotte had not gotten along. One of them was saying that if he had to bet on who'd killed Dixon, he'd put all his money on the matriarch of Stafford Ranch.

Nothing new there. It was how to prove it. Something had made Birdie look up as a white pickup slowly passed the bar, catching her eye. The driver, though, was a woman—not a man. That made her hesitate—until she saw that the truck was missing its tailgate. The tailgate would have had to be removed to slide a camper shell on and off. It was enough to make her apologize for running off as she quickly left. She still wasn't sure it was the right truck. But then she noticed the back license plate. It was covered with mud as if someone had purposely tried to make the identifying numbers and letters unreadable.

Decision made, she quickly climbed behind the wheel of her SUV and went after the pickup. The woman had been driving slowly through town, obeying the speed limit, but once she hit the edge of town, she sped up and headed northeast toward Broadus instead of taking the road toward Miles City.

Birdie had thought about calling the sheriff but wanted to make sure this was the right pickup first. She hurriedly called Brand, who said he was in town at the general store picking up supplies.

"Do not go after the truck by yourself," he said.

"You're right. I'll come get you. She's headed on the road toward Broadus. We're going to follow her."

"What?"

"Wait outside the store. I'll be right there. We can't lose her."

He was standing on the curb as she roared up. She saw him hesitate, but only for a moment, before he opened the passenger door of her SUV and climbed in. "Why are you following this woman on your own?"

"I'm not on my own. I have you."

Brand groaned. "And now you're following the truck? Birdie, don't you realize how dangerous this could be? You need to call the sheriff."

"I want to make sure it's not a false alarm first," she argued.

"Birdie, I'm calling the sheriff," he said as he pulled out his phone. By then, they were racing out of town after the woman and the pickup.

A T THE M C K ENNA R ANCH , the sheriff was on the phone with the FBI technician, who was going over the proof-of-life photo, looking for clues to where the girl was being held as well as who might have taken her. Still, it didn't feel like enough. Stuart felt no closer to finding her.

"Did you see what they did to her?" Holden demanded.

Stuart had seen. He'd known the moment he looked in the envelope left at the café that a large chunk of Holly Jo's hair had been cut away. He just hadn't known it was in the front, close to her face. It would grow back in time.

He studied the photo the kidnapper had sent. The look on Holly Jo's face made his blood boil. She was a tough kid, smart, fairly mature for her age, he'd been told. She looked defiant as she glared at the person taking the photo, but it was easy to see the fear behind the expression. Stuart tried not to think about how she was holding up or what was being done to her.

"We know that he isn't working alone," the sheriff said. As badly as he wanted to nail this son of a bitch, he couldn't let emotion take over. Just do your job , he kept telling himself. You're going to bring her home.

Stuart pointed to the hand in the photo. A woman's left hand. Polish had been applied to the fake fingernails, a shimmery pale blue. But it was the ring on her finger that drew his attention. What appeared to be a large diamond wedding ring. She was married? To the kidnapper?

"This is good news," the sheriff said to Holden, who seemed to grow angrier with each passing hour. Stuart knew he was scared. They all were. "Holly Jo is alive. Judging from the look on her face, she's holding her own. On top of that, she should be safer with a woman in the picture, literally." He had no idea what the statistics were, but he took it as a good sign since women were often kinder than men. Just not always, he reminded himself, thinking of his mother.

"The bastard is asking for money now," Holden said. "Two million dollars, along with me admitting what I did and apologizing for it. How can I do that when I don't know what I did?"

Stuart wasn't that surprised money was now part of the ransom demand. He hoped that Charlotte Stafford's offer of a reward hadn't caused the change. He did wonder if the woman with the kidnapper had anything to do with asking for money or what part she was playing in all this. The pickup and camper Birdie Malone had described hadn't sounded like a newer model. He suspected the "diamond" on the woman's hand wasn't real.

Who were these people, and what exactly did they want? Was it possible that their first demand had been bogus, that they didn't even know Holden, didn't want acknowledgment at all, that it had always been about money? He shook his head, wondering, if true, why. There was so much he didn't know—just as he couldn't shake the feeling that Holden was keeping a whole lot from him.

He motioned for the rancher to join him back in the man's office. Once inside, he closed the door. Holden seemed to brace himself. "Holly Jo's mother never picked up Robert Robinson's ashes at the funeral home," Stuart said. He watched the other man's face. Not shock. Not even mild surprise. "Don't you think that's strange?"

Holden shrugged. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't help us find Holly Jo."

"Maybe not. But it certainly brings up more questions. Why wouldn't his wife pick up his ashes?"

The rancher moved to the window, his movements impatient, irritated. "They weren't getting along. She wanted him to settle down and quit rodeoing. ‘Grow up,' that's what she told him." Turning toward Stuart, he added, "It sounded to me like she was planning to leave him."

This was news, but the sheriff had to question whether it was important to Holly Jo's kidnapping. "The crime lab took a DNA sample from the ashes." True surprise this time from Holden.

"They can get DNA even after a cremation?"

"They can. I had the DNA checked against Holly Jo's." The DNA results weren't back yet, but Holden didn't know that. Shock registered before all the color bled from the rancher's face. Stuart went with his instincts. "You knew Bobby wasn't Holly Jo's father, didn't you?"

Holden said nothing. Stuart tried to check his anger but couldn't. "You didn't think that was important? Holly Jo's biological father could be behind the kidnapping. I need the truth and I need it now," Stuart said. "If Robert Robinson wasn't Holly Jo's father, then who was?"

The landline rang, making them both jump. The kidnapper was calling.

The sheriff swore. "We aren't finished."

Holden's jaw was set as the landline rang again. He stepped to the desk, took a breath, let it out and, without looking at Stuart, reached for the handset.

"Do exactly what I told you to do," the sheriff warned him, afraid the rancher had gone rogue long before now.

"Hello?"

H OLLY J O KEPT touching the place where her hair had been chopped off. It felt bristly and made her cry. Cutting it like this had been mean. The man had just wanted to make her look ugly in the photo he took. Did he send it to HH?

She'd cried for a while after they left her alone, but now her tears were angry ones. She was mad and determined to get back at them. She realized that she'd been waiting for someone to save her. Now she knew she would have to save herself. She couldn't trust either the man or the woman to let her go once they got what they wanted. She'd seen the woman's face when the man hadn't said what would happen once they got the money. Did she realize that Holly Jo could tell the cops what she looked like and they could find her? Had the man already figured that out?

Walking around the room, she felt stronger. She hadn't drunk the last three bottles of juice he'd brought. She was thirsty but had made herself pour some in the bucket and the rest down the drain. Her head felt better, too. She didn't feel as fuzzy. She didn't want to sleep as much.

What she wanted to do was escape. She thought of ways she could get loose. The next time the man came, she could rush him, knock him down and then run. But even as she thought it, she knew that if she succeeded, she had no idea where she was. If he came after her, he would probably be able to catch her.

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...