J. Black - The Survivors Club

“And don’t you think I don’t know what I’m doing,” he added. “Just ask Chad.”

Tess called Cheryl Tedesco, who was about to leave for the day. Asked if there was anything new on the Barkman case. Her friend at TPD sounded harried. The case remained open, but Cheryl had been discouraged from pursuing it further. There was no evidence that Barkman’s death was anything but a freak accident. “There’s just not enough there , there. Anyway, we’re keeping it open but we’re directing our resources elsewhere.”

Tess knew the directive came from above, and there was no point arguing about it. Move on . “We think we know who killed George Hanley.”

“Remind me again who that is?”

“The older guy in Credo. The one that looked like a drug hit.”

“Oh, yeah, my bad. Sorry.” She sounded like she’d had very little sleep. The new case must be a bear.

Tess described Wade Poole. “He’s former homicide. We think he killed his wife and made it look like a robbery—this is a really bad guy. I just wanted to give you a heads-up—he may be after the DeKoven clan.”

Cheryl knew about Tess’s theory that the family was targeting people like Alec Sheppard, people who survived accidents.

Tess realized it required a leap of faith to believe that. Half the time she didn’t believe it herself.

So crazy, on its face.

Cheryl said, “So you still think it’s true? They’re still playing that game?”

“I think right now the shoe’s on the other foot. I think they’re running scared. We have an Attempt to Locate out on Wade Poole.”

“Guy sounds like a phantom.”

“The main thing. I wanted to go up to Michael DeKoven’s and warn him about Poole. I didn’t want to step on any toes.”

“No toes stepped on,” Cheryl said. “Be my guest—I wish I could help but I’m inundated here. We have another shooting in midtown—and this time it’s one of ours who got shot.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. Didn’t know him, but he had a wife and two kids.”

They talked a little about it until Cheryl drifted off. Nothing more to say. She’d just disconnected when a call came in from Will Fallon, a deputy out of Patagonia. “Something’s happened I think you’ll be interested in.”

“Oh?”

“There was an accident out on Harshaw Road, up near Mowry. Somebody driving by spotted a truck that crashed into the woods. It belongs to Jaimie Wolfe.”

Tess drove out to see Jaimie’s truck. It was scratched up but possibly still operable. The driver’s-side door was open. She peered in, careful not to touch anything. The airbags had been deployed, but Tess could see a dog leash and a pile of bridles and halters on the passenger-side floor.

Other vehicles had been on the road, so it was hard to see the tracks because the graded dirt road was hard ground, like a washboard. But she could see where the truck left the road and plunged down the embankment. She also saw a spot where a vehicle had stopped, slewed, and scattered gravel and rocks. And a place where the tires had dug in the dirt, two divots, as a vehicle laid scratch.

Jaimie Wolfe was gone.

Tess was worried that Jaimie might be disoriented from the crash. She could have tried to walk home or hitched a ride. Or she could be wandering in the forest. Tess drove in the direction of Jaimie’s place. On the way she called the sheriff’s office and asked for them to pull together a search team. There was a sheriff’s substation in Patagonia, and they were already looking. But they might need to send a search and rescue team. “I’m on my way to Jaimie’s,” Tess added.

“Walt’s there. No sign of Mrs. Wolfe.”

Tess was almost there, so she pulled in anyway.

Walt Aronow was driving out. He rolled down his window. “She’s not home,” he said. “We’ve got a search and rescue team on the way out to the crash site.”

Tess decided to look at the farm anyway.

Everything was quiet. She went to the house—just as Walt had told her, everything was buttoned up. Next, she walked to the barn. The barn was typical of a horse farm: two rows of stalls fronting an aisle wide enough to drive a pickup through. The barn could be closed on both ends—two sets of double doors. She walked into the cool shade, and horses put their heads over their stalls and one nickered at her. They had hay and water, so they were all right.

She walked back outside and scanned the property. The only vehicle here was the ranch truck, a sun-blistered 1970s GMC.

This time, she walked around to the back of the farm truck and took note of the license number.

When she called in, her detective sergeant, Joe Messina, confirmed they were mobilizing search and rescue. “If she’s up in those mountains and disoriented, she’s going to be in trouble. It’ll get cold up there tonight. We can’t wait.”

Tess couldn’t imagine even a disoriented Jaimie Wolfe climbing uphill, but if she was frightened by something. Or someone…

It had been sitting right in front of her all this time.

What if she’d been run off the road?

What if Wade Poole was after her? What if he had her?

They could be anywhere by now.

Joe seemed to read her mind. “You think it was Wade Poole?”

Tess had filed her most recent report earlier in the day by e-mail. Joe and Bonny knew about Wade Poole.

“You saw photos of the scene.”

“Yeah, those boot prints. There was a scuffle.”

It had been hard to see, because the surface of the road had been baked hard. But you could draw that conclusion.

“Okay, I’ll get Danny on it, too. You stay out in the field, if you think that’s where you need to be.”

Michael awoke from his nap to the ringing of the phone. He was entangled in Martin’s arms. Someone had been calling him at intervals all last night, but they never left a message, and he didn’t recognize the number.

The last rays of the sun streamed in through the blinds, striping Martin’s magnificent body. Michael smiled down on him. Martin was his possession. He knew that not only did he possess Martin’s body, but his soul. Martin’s love for him was absolute, but sometimes he played games—withholding his affection, like that argument about his audition. He could be annoying sometimes. Michael didn’t want to be trapped—ever again. His marriage to Nicole taught him that. But it was flattering. And there was no more beautiful man on the planet than Martin.

And he was good. Very good.

I own you , Michael thought with satisfaction. You beautiful, beautiful boy. You’re mine.

He picked up the phone and answered.

First there was nothing. Then, Jaimie started babbling. Babbling and crying. It took a while for him to figure out what she was telling him. And when he realized what had happened, his blood froze.

She was a hostage.

Michael decided to pretend that nothing had happened. This was way too big for him to assimilate all at once. So they went out on to the terrace and they had dinner as usual. He said nothing, of course, to Martin. He stared out at the pool and let it sink in. He had to understand it first.

Martin was prattling on about New York, his new timepiece, and some New York designer. Wondered aloud about the Les Mis production he would be attending tonight. Michael stared into the lighted pool as if the answer could be found there.