Shelter Mountain (Virgin River #2)(112)

“We have a new baby. A son. About six weeks ago.”

She smiled. “It worked out, then.”

He gave a nod.

“You wouldn’t have been worth a damn if it hadn’t.”

“That’s the God’s truth. Anything you can do about this, Charmaine, I’d consider it a personal favor.”

“I wouldn’t be doing it for you, Jack. We all help one another out in times like this. Bet it’s cold out there, even though it’s almost summer. I hope she’s okay.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”

When he left, a man in a denim jacket who wore a shady brady on his head slid down from the other end of the bar, sidling closer to Charmaine. “What was that?”

“You want to talk now?” she asked with a smile, giving the bar a wipe. “You probably heard—a woman from Virgin River’s gone missing. They suspect her ex-husband, just out of jail, maybe driving a stolen ’83 Ford truck. Tan.”

“That a fact?” He finished his beer, put down a ten dollar bill, touched his hat and quit the bar.

Paige understood what was happening now. Wes sat her on the ground, her back up against a tree, and with duct tape, bound her hands in front of her, her ankles together, and put a strip across her lips. “That looks good on you, Paige,” he said. “You can’t talk back for once.”

He positioned a couple of flashlights on her to bring her into sight in the dark. Then for the better part of an hour, sat on the ground not far from her and talked about the disappointments of his life, from the unhappy childhood he’d suffered to the short jail term, which to hear him describe it could’ve been years. He had many complaints about their marriage—apparently in his mind, the strife had been entirely her fault. She drove him to abuse with her needling, her dissidence. But he spoke slowly. He had the calm and stoic composure of a suicidal man.

He had decided that Paige would draw John in search, and perhaps Jack, as well; they weren’t far away from the town, which was why it had seemed he was driving in circles. Up here, he would see their vehicles approach. When Wes was done talking, he left the truck on the top of the hill in plain view, close to where she sat, flipped on the flashlights and went into the trees from where he could watch the approach of any rescuers. He planned to shoot John, then Paige and himself. “I’m done with this charade,” he said. “You win.” He smiled. “Sort of.”

Though Paige, tape across her lips, couldn’t respond, he couldn’t stop her from thinking. And what she thought was, you have no idea about John. John and his friends. They’re not only stronger than you, they’re smarter. And then she closed her eyes and prayed, Please let them be the most clever they’ve ever been.

By the time the moon was rising, the search party was up to more than twenty men, some of whom were grumbling about the wisdom of searching the dense wood for Paige at night when she could already be in San Francisco or even headed for Los Angeles. And if she were being held in the wood, it could be impossible—she might be lost in the vast acreage and never found.

“Are you worried about not finding her, Preach?” Rick asked him.

“I’m worried about finding her too late,” he said.

They had traversed mountain roads, old logging roads, paths and trails, shone strong flashlights into ravines and gullies, but there was nothing. In the back of Jack’s truck were harnesses and ropes in case they saw something down a hill and had to rapell down the steep glide to get close, but so far that had not been necessary. Most of them were fighting exhaustion, but Preacher was driven, and as long as he was driven his friends hung in there with him.

A man who had no name other than Dan had been having a drink at a bar in Clear River when he overheard the details of the search in the area and he thought he’d seen the truck earlier. There was probably more than one old tan Ford around these hills, but there had been a man and woman inside; the man was gripping the wheel pretty intensely, glaring through the windshield, driving nervously. Dan was a trained observer and he had taken note of that before even hearing of the suspected abduction.

Dan was a known illegal grower in the area. He’d gotten a little friendly with other growers over time; they were a real tight-knit group. Slow to trust. They could sniff one another out easily—they bought the stuff growers bought, they carried chicken manure to their grow sites in the back of trucks, pulled wads of stinky bills out of their pockets, but they never showed one another their sites or plants. After about three years, he’d gotten into their circle.

Most of them lived with their grow, but Dan preferred hired help. That gave him the freedom to move around at will, rather than being stuck in one place. It also allowed him to set up a lot of grow sites all around the three counties. And live somewhere else, away from all those folks he’d worked so hard to get tight with.

Dan didn’t offer to join the search—they might have a problem with that. Nor did he mention he’d poke around on his own. But he’d been in that Virgin River bar a few times and had seen the woman, the cook’s girl. The owner’s wife, the local midwife, had done him a favor a while back; a woman who worked for him had surprised him with a baby coming and he thought he’d better get some help. Turned out to be a damned good thing he had. Without Mel Sheridan’s help, that baby wouldn’t have made it. That was not to mention that he’d rear-ended the midwife not so long ago and they’d been real civilized about it.