Helen Myers - Lost

Quickly locking the door, Michaele dialed the phone with trembling fingers.

On the fourth ring, he answered. “Yeah?”

“Jared, thank God.” His strong though irritated voice had her instantly forgiving what had transpired between them earlier. “I know I should have called the station, but I—”

“Michaele? What’s wrong?”

“I think Faith is missing.”

He was silent for several seconds. “Come again?”

“She never got home, and I just got this awful call—”

“Stay put,” he snapped. “I mean it. Don’t go outside. Do nothing until I get there.”

“But I haven’t told you—”

He hung up.

As soon as she replaced the phone receiver and looked out the parted kitchen-door curtains, out beyond the moths circling dizzily in the porch light to the indecipherable darkness beyond, the skin along her arms and at the back of her neck began tingling and her heart beat wildly.

Someone could be standing just beyond, maybe hiding as close as beyond the wrecker, watching her….

“Ms. Myers never fails to give the reader an entertaining story with fresh characterizations and dialogue that sparkles.”

—Rendezvous

COME SUNDOWN

MORE THAN YOU KNOW

DEAD END

www.mirabooks.co.uk

With every book a writer’s list of indebtedness grows. I would like to thank the following…

Ethan Ellenberg, not only for his input into this story, but for all the support, wisdom and perseverance from day one of our association.

Robert and Lacy Cooper, and Linda Varner Palmer for getting me through that ill-timed computer crash.

Betty and Cindy Meece for bunches, but most of all the Linda Vachon print. You did, indeed, inspire.

For answering questions and sharing anecdotes…

Wayne Bryant

Bobby Cole

Carol and C. F. David

Brad Taylor

RCR

And to Burt, whose real “Precious” inspired Michaele into taking on that Cameo restoration in the first place. I can only hope that hers would have come out half as good as yours did.

Just in ratio as knowledge increases, faith diminishes.

—Thomas Carlyle

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Split Creek, Texas

Wednesday, May 13

4:30 p.m.

“Where’s Faith?”

Her father’s slurred question warned Michaele Ramey of two things: first, that despite her attempts to keep an eye on him, the son of a bugger had gotten hold of some hooch again; and second, that, as usual, her sister Faith’s word wasn’t worth squat.

Too annoyed to risk answering right away, she rolled out from under the ’56 Chevy Cameo, and used her cleanest knuckle to carefully rub at the rust particles in her eyes. “There’s a hole the size of an egg in her muffler,” she told Pete Fite, the watchful owner of the old vehicle. “But I can’t patch metal that’s turning into confetti. You’ll need a new one.”

The chicken farmer bowed his head, which had Michaele thinking that the fifty-nine-year-old was beginning to bear a strong resemblance to the poultry he raised on the forty-acre farm on the south side of town. He had the same wide-spaced, blank eyes, the same sharp, beaklike nose, and damned if he wasn’t scratching his boot at the concrete floor of the garage the way those razorial critters did when searching for food.

He slowly shook his head. “Can’t afford that. Just wrap something around it to get me through inspection. I’ll look into buying a new one as soon as I send off the next truckload of hens.”

This time Michaele used the back of her left wrist to wipe at the sweat trickling down her throat. “Why not the next egg shipment? I saw that batch of tired hens being hauled out of your place last week. You won’t have another load for a while, and I’m not a magician. Make it the next egg check, Pete.”

Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of overalls that all but swallowed his skinny frame, he gaped. “You’d leave a man with nothing to live on!”

“Oh, stop.” Michaele pulled off the baseball cap she’d been wearing backward while under the truck and slapped it against her jeans to shake off any lingering debris, replaced it, and tugged the bill low over her narrowed eyes. “Just sell me the damn thing, already. You’ll only let it sit and rust until it’s nothing more than a weed-covered snake den—”

“Where’s my baby?”

The new whine from her father drew Pete’s attention, but when Michaele continued to act as though she hadn’t heard anything, he tugged at his earlobe and shrugged. “How much did you say you’d give me for her?”

They went through this every time he came in, which was becoming more frequent thanks to the increasing number of potholes on his lengthy, unpaved driveway. What’s more, he knew what he had in the Cameo, as did Michaele. Chevrolet hadn’t made over 5,000 of them in ’55, and fewer than 1,500 in ’56. Considering the growing love affair going on with the American pickup truck, this one would be worth a tidy bundle if sold for parts; a small fortune if restored properly, something Pete had neither the skill nor finances to do. Michaele wanted a chance to try.

“A thousand,” she replied. “Less the cost of a new muffler.”

Although that was a couple of hundred dollars more than she’d offered last time, he managed to look offended. “Can’t replace her for that!”

“You want to pay liability insurance and the registration fee on something that’ll be illegal to drive in a few days, go ahead. I suppose once you get tired of collecting tickets, you can always use your ’73 Ford.”

“Not likely. It’s got two flats.”

“Mike!” Buck snapped, his bloodshot eyes finally focusing on her. “You hear me, girl? Where’s Faithy?”

Michaele shot her father a cold look. Despite his grip on the door frame, he wobbled dangerously, and she found herself half wishing he would topple face first onto the garage floor and knock himself out.

“I’m with a customer,” she said sharply.

Buck squinted. “Well, shoot, that’s just ol’—” he hiccuped “—Pete. Pete, you seen my little girl? Got a call for her inside. She’s u-usually back from school by now.”

Yeah, right, Michaele thought sourly as she pushed herself to her feet. Only if the sneak couldn’t find somewhere to hide until closing. More often than not, her younger sibling didn’t show until Michaele was home putting dinner on the table.