Tami Hoag - Down the Darkest Road

“If Houston went onto Mrs. Lawton’s property and planted that photograph, we can pick him up on the trespassing charge,” Hicks said.

“If we can find him,” Mendez said. “We need to find out what he’s driving, where he’s staying. Let’s get Trammell and Hamilton on that.”

If they could find Michael Craig Houston and question him, maybe they could pluck loose a thread to connect Ballencoa—although Tanner was right: Having Houston’s print on the photograph only served to distance Ballencoa from a stalking charge—which brought him right back to the idea that Ballencoa was playing a game. And Michael Craig Houston was his ringer.

52

Lauren looked at her watch, nervous at the time. She needed to call Maria Gracida and ask her to keep Leah, make up some kind of plausible excuse for being late to pick her up.

What would she say? I’m on my way to confront the man who stole Leslie. I might be a little late ? There was the very real possibility she might not come back at all.

She told herself she couldn’t think that way. For once, she had the upper hand. She was the one with the leverage—and the gun.

She went back to the 7-Eleven and used the same pay phone Ballencoa had used to make his mystery phone call, wiping the receiver off with the tail of her T-shirt, grimacing at the idea that he had held it in his hand and put it to his face.

The phone at the Gracida stables rang and rang. Lauren listened impatiently. She’d spent enough time in working barns to know there was no receptionist to take calls. The priority of the staff was the horses. If someone who spoke English happened to be near the phone, it would get answered. If Maria was teaching or riding, or there was no English-speaking groom, or a client kind enough to pick up nearby, the call would eventually be picked up by the answering machine in the office.

“Rancho Gracida, Maria speaking.”

“Maria, it’s Lauren Lawton.”

“Oh, Lauren, you’re home. I’m so glad.”

“I’m not home, actually,” Lauren said. “I was just calling to let you know—to let Leah know—I might be late.”

“Oh . . . well . . . I took Leah home a while ago,” Maria said. “She wasn’t feeling well. I told her I would wait with her until you got back, but she just wanted to go to bed. I made sure she locked the door behind me.”

A strange, cold sensation went through Lauren. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t been so hasty in turning down Greg Hewitt’s suggestion that he keep an eye on Leah. She felt her daughter was safe at the Gracidas’s; there were so many people around that nothing could happen and go unnoticed. And Ballencoa wouldn’t know to go there, anyway. Home alone was another matter.

“I tried to call you before I took her home,” Maria said.

“I wish you hadn’t left her,” Lauren said with an edge in her voice as fear seeped through the chill within her.

“I asked her if she wanted me to stay. She said she would be fine.”

“She’s fifteen .”

“We thought you’d probably just run downtown for something. With the doors locked and the gate, she should be fine—”

“Her sister was abducted , Maria. What the hell were you thinking?” Now came the anger from the deepest part of her. A mother needing to protect her young—and doing a piss-poor job of it.

“I was thinking she would be fine inside a locked house behind a gate—”

Lauren hung up on her, dug another quarter out of her pocket, fed the phone, and dialed home.

The phone rang . . . and rang . . . and rang . . .

53

Leah could see the man through the glass in the door. He looked like a detective, she thought. He had broad, square shoulders and a broad, square jaw. He was dressed like Don Johnson on Miami Vice in a T-shirt with a linen jacket over it. A pair of aviator-style sunglasses hid his eyes.

She pressed the intercom button beside the door. “I’m supposed to ask to see your badge,” she said nervously, afraid that she was just wasting valuable time. Of course the man was a detective.

In the back of her mind she thought he looked familiar, but she didn’t know any detectives here, so that didn’t make sense to her. It didn’t matter anyway. The only thing that mattered was getting to her mom.

Please, God, don’t let her die. I have to tell her I’m sorry.

“Good girl,” the detective said with a nod. He lifted a badge and showed it to her through the glass. “I’m Detective Houston. You can open the door now.”

Relief flooded through Leah and she opened the door.

The second Detective Houston stepped inside, Leah had a bad feeling. Why would he come inside if he was supposed to take her someplace?

Immediately, she tried to dismiss the bad feeling. She was nervous because something had happened to her mom. And she was always uneasy around men she didn’t know. She chided herself for being stupid. He was a detective. He’d shown her his badge. Not every man on the planet was a kidnapper.

Instinct made her take a step back from him, just the same.

Behind her the telephone began to ring.

Leah took another step back and started to turn to go to it.

The detective grabbed hold of her arm.

“Let it ring,” he said.

Leah thought he would draw her toward the door. They had to leave. Her mother was hurt. She had been taken to the hospital. They had to get to her.

But the detective didn’t move toward the door, and fear burst into flame inside Leah.

She tried to pull away from him. He held tight. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

The phone rang again. The answering machine would pick up soon. Why would he not want her to answer the phone?

Leah twisted and jerked her arm free, her hand swinging up and knocking the sunglasses off his face.

It struck her then why he looked familiar. He had come to the barn. He had been dressed differently. He hadn’t been wearing sunglasses. He had smiled at her like she was supposed know him and be glad to see him. He hadn’t said anything about being a detective. He hadn’t used the name Houston.

Leah bolted for the phone on the kitchen counter. The answering machine had kicked on, but the caller would still be able to hear her if she could only get to the phone. She could scream. She could yell to call 911.

Houston grabbed hold of her ponytail with his left hand and jerked her backward off her feet. She fell back into him, arms swinging, flailing. She hit him in the mouth. She hit him in the chest with her elbow.

“Stop it!” he snapped at her.

Leah scrambled to get her feet back under her. Tears spilled from her eyes as he pulled her hair.

“Let me go!” she screamed. She kicked him in the shin as hard as she could, the heavy toe of her clog hitting like a baseball bat against the bone.

“Fuck!” he yelled. “You fucking little bitch!”

He slapped her hard across the face, then a second time and a third.

Leah felt like her head would explode. The ringing in her ear was as loud as a gong. Her field of vision turned to black lace. The coppery taste of blood burst into her mouth.

She was sobbing now, though she could barely hear herself. The sound seemed to be coming from someone else. She felt dizzy and weak. And then she was falling, backward and down. He had let go of her hair and shoved her away from him.

She hit the floor and the back of her head banged hard against a thick table leg. She struggled to sit up, her fingernails digging for purchase against the floor. Her hand brushed against the steel hoof pick that hung from the belt loop of her breeches. Instinctively she pulled the tail of her polo shirt down over it to hide it.

Houston’s big hand grabbed her by the shoulder, fingers digging in as he hauled her to her feet. He backhanded her across the other side of her face, then grabbed one small breast and squeezed as hard as he could.