Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

“All right,” Jenna said. “Take the exit, Blake.”

He shook his head as he consulted the GPS.

“It’s at least sixty miles each way,” he said. “We’re going to lose two hours if it turns out to be Anton all along.”

“Do it, Blake,” Jenna said.

“Why?”

“Because I trust her. Kate found Caleb’s blanket…she found the house in Fate. She got us this close. I trust her.” Jenna cupped her hand to his face. “Do it, please, Blake.”

They left U.S. Route 84 at Post for Afton.

It rained off and on as they took a number of connecting state county roads with Blake driving as fast as he could wherever he could.

As they traveled farther, the area became sparse; the land was flecked with tired-looking farms and ranches. They followed the weatherworn signs to Afton, which was little more than a collection of a few lonely homes, an old school and a store: L. T. Smith’s Store and Gas.

“Stop at the store,” Kate said. “We’ll ask for directions to Vickson’s Farm.”

Blake parked in front by the gas pumps. Gusting winds blew dust down the deserted street and a heavy blanket of clouds churned above them when they entered the store.

No one seemed to be around.

A radio somewhere was broadcasting storm updates.

“Hello,” Kate called.

A man in his sixties came from the back with a cat in his arms.

“Hello, folks,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m closing up now because of the coming storm. They say there could be a bad twister headed our way.”

“We’re hoping you can give us some directions?” Kate said.

“For shelter? Because you’re welcome to come to my storm cellar. It’s in the backyard of my house across the street. Buttons and I won’t mind.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” Kate said. “But we’re looking for a Vickson’s Farm, or Vickson’s Ranch? Would that be near here?”

The man stroked the cat and looked at the ceiling for an answer then shook his head. “No, there’s no place called Vickson’s. I’m sorry.”

Blake shook his head and cursed under his breath. His keys jingled. “Let’s get going to Lubbock,” he said.

At a loss, Kate searched the store. “Okay, thank you,” she said, joining Blake and Jenna at the door.

“There’s Dixon’s, though,” the older man said.

Everyone froze at the door and turned back.

“Dixon’s Ranch,” he said. “It’s an old abandoned place about a mile down that way,” he nodded.

“Thank you!” Kate said.

“Funny,” the man said, “but not too long ago a young woman was in here, and I think she was headed that way, too.”

Kate exchanged excited looks with Blake and Jenna. “Did she have a baby with her?”

“No, but there was red pickup truck out front and I think people inside it waiting for her.”

“Was there a baby in the truck?”

“I couldn’t see.”

“A man with tattoos? I’m sorry, but this is important.”

“Goodness, no, I couldn’t see.”

Jenna pulled an FBI poster from her bag, showing sketches of a woman with short spiky red hair and with shorter dark hair and dark-framed glasses.

“Did she look like this?”

“Oh my, are you with the FBI?”

“No,” Kate said. “Please help us. Did she look like this?”

The man shook his head. “She had long blond hair.”

“Long blond hair?”

“Yes.”

“It’s her,” Kate said to Blake and Jenna. “It has to be her.”

Near Afton, Texas

Stars swam around Mason.

His head lolled as he floated to consciousness.

His skull throbbed, and tears mingled with the blood and snot laced on his swollen face. He tried to reconnect with his thoughts and memory while working to register reality.

He’d been looking for Remy and the baby when everything stopped.

What happened?

He felt air on his body.

He was sitting upright in a kitchen chair, stripped to his underwear. His ankle holster was gone. He strained to move but it was futile. His legs, arms and hands were bound with electrical cords torn from the toaster, the coffeepot, the clock and several lamps that had all been smashed on the kitchen floor. Blood was webbed down his chest.

“You are Mr. Mason Varno?” said an accented voice.

Mason’s eyes flicked to a man leaning against the kitchen counter casually studying something in his hands. He was in his sixties and had a muscular build.

How did he miss this guy coming up on the cabin?

Mason’s gaze went through the window to the distant line of trees and glimpsed a green car parked there. This guy was good, coming up to the cabin unseen. He must’ve been watching us. Mason searched in vain for any sign of Remy and the baby. Did he have them? Who was this guy? He couldn’t be a cop, not with that weird accent. Be cool, he told himself. He could find a way out of this. Mason worked his jaw to speak but something was grinding in his mouth. A tooth. He spat it out.

“Did DOA send you because of Lamont and Arlen?” Mason managed.

The man kept searching through whatever it was he was holding in his hands. Mason couldn’t tell because he was still woozy.

“Tell him I have the money. It’s coming. It’ll be here tomorrow.”

The man tossed what he was holding into Mason’s lap. It was Mason’s wallet. The man positioned a chair before him, his small eyes burning with rage.

“Where’s your girlfriend, Remy Toxton, and the baby, Mr. Varno?”

Mason thought fast. He couldn’t risk losing the baby. Not after all they’d been through, not when he was this close.

“There’s no baby here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The stranger offered the hint of a smile.

“Yanna!” he called, then let out a stream of Russian and a young woman appeared holding up a soiled diaper. She must’ve been searching the place. The man sighed, stood, looked out at the darkening sky. There was a metallic jingle as he opened the kitchen drawer containing spoons, forks and knives. He selected a bird’s beak paring knife. Good for precise carving. He ran the tip of his finger over the edge.

“Where is the baby?”

“I don’t know.”

The man lowered himself, swiftly seized Mason’s head, inserted the blade’s tip into Mason’s left nostril then sliced up, then did the same with the right nostril. As Mason cried out, blood splattered down his mouth, chin and neck.

“Jesus! I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know.”

A tree branch struck the house, followed by a peppering of dirt and brush as the clouds bubbled in black and purple across the sky.

“Again, Mr. Varno, where is the baby?”

Blood droplets splashed as Mason shook his head.

The man seized Mason’s right ear. Mason screamed as the man sliced half of it off and showed him the bloodied piece.

“The truth, please, Mr. Varno.”

The woman turned her head. “You must tell him,” she pleaded to Mason. “Or he’ll kill you.”

“Remy left with the baby! I don’t know where she is!”

“Tell me about the baby,” the man said.

“She took it from the flea market. We’re the people police are looking for.”

The man and woman turned to each other momentarily, puzzled looks on their faces.

“But she conceived a baby through a clinic in Moscow,” the man said. “Where’s that baby?”

“Moscow?” Breathing hard in pain, Mason realized that his situation had now taken a turn. “That baby died.”

“Died?” the man repeated.

“Stillborn. It’s buried in a cemetery in Shreveport, Louisiana.”

The man blinked at what Mason had said. “How can I know this is true?”

“Remy has a death certificate in her bag and some baby items the hospital let her keep. She went crazy after it happened. She was afraid she’d lose her deal with the agency-that’s why she took the other kid.”