Appalachian Abduction

What the heck was a ’senger? Whatever they were, she was grateful they provided another plausible explanation for a person roaming the woods in camouflage attire.

Her breathing slowed at the sound of receding footsteps. Today had almost been disastrous, and she wasn’t in the clear yet.

If those men were smart, they’d linger a bit, hoping that their prey would be cocky enough, or stupid enough, to reemerge on the trail, mistakenly believing the danger had passed. But six years on the force had honed her methods and instincts. Never believe your opponent isn’t as smart, or smarter, than yourself, she’d been warned.

And so she waited. As shock and adrenaline faded, the pain in her knee and temple increased. As soon as she got to the cabin, she’d clean the wound and patch it up with the first aid kit she’d brought along. She also had Ace bandages to wrap her knee. It had to be a superficial injury, since she’d been able to put weight on her leg and run. The air chilled her skin, although not enough to counteract the burn of ripped flesh. Were the men still lying in wait? She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay. Every moment the wound went unattended increased the likelihood of infection, and she desperately wanted to take something for the building headache.

Gingerly Charlotte rose and tested putting weight on her right leg. A bolt of pain traveled up from her knee, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Hurt or not, she had to leave. Those men might return with a larger force. And even if her damn cell phone worked out here in the boonies, who could she call? Right now, she was a pariah to her coworkers, and if she called the local authorities, they’d pepper her with questions.

She gripped her pistol more tightly and set off toward the main trail. Once she got there, she’d walk along the outskirts until she was sure the men were truly gone.

The trail looked as forlorn and barren as when she’d first hiked it that morning. Charlotte ran a hand through her hair and then stopped cold. At some point, her hat had been blown away by the wind. Good thing the men were gone. Now she needed to push through the pain and walk. She could do that. There was no choice.

It appeared she’d survived this encounter. Sometimes the best option was to hide and live to fight another day. Justice delayed beat justice denied. Besides, it wasn’t as if she harbored a death wish, though death would be preferable to what these men were capable of doing.

They might have succeeded in running her off for the day, but she wasn’t giving up. She couldn’t give up. Not today, not ever. She was the last, best hope for Jenny and the other lost girls.

* * *

THE NEAR-DESERTED roads suited James just fine. October, while beautiful in the Appalachians, had drawn crowds of tourists flocking to view the scenic foliage. But November’s gray skies and biting wind meant that Lavender Mountain was back to its usual calmness—and he could sure use some peace and quiet. Returning from Afghanistan hadn’t exactly led to the grand family homecoming he’d once envisioned. Instead, murder had wiped out half his family before he’d even set foot in Elmore County. That tragedy, combined with what the doctors deemed a mild case of PTSD, had left him edgy and filled with uncertainty about the future.

With no conscious plan, James meandered the deputy sheriff’s cruiser up the mountain road, and he startled at the sudden sight of his father’s old cabin. How often had he done this very thing on routine patrols? Ended up driving right here, precisely at the place he’d rather not be?

He shook his head in disgust and hit the accelerator. Memory Lane had zip appeal.

Twenty yards down the road, a flash of beige slashed through his peripheral vision. What was that? He did a U-turn and craned his neck, searching the brown-and-gray woods. There, he spotted it again. Curious, he pulled onto his father’s old property and exited the cruiser, shrugging into his jacket. He strode along the tree line until he solved the riddle: someone had parked their truck toward the back of the property behind a couple of large trees. He retrieved his cell phone and hurried over on the off chance that someone might be injured or stranded.

It was locked, but he peered in the tinted windows. No clues there. The interior was practically empty and spotlessly clean. He headed to the back of the truck and took a photo of the license plate. He’d call in the numbers shortly.

No damn reason it should be here. No good reason, anyway. Frowning, he went to the cabin and pulled out his keys. Better make sure some squatter hadn’t decided to take up free residence.

He inserted the key in the lock, but it wouldn’t turn. James withdrew it and checked—yes, this was the correct key. Someone had changed the locks. He felt a prickle of unease mixed with anger, and the twin emotions churned in his gut. Anger won.

“Open up,” he bellowed, rapping his knuckles on the old wooden door. “Sheriff’s department.”

Silence.

He stepped back on the porch and noticed for the first time that every window was taped up with plain brown wrapping paper. This was his place, damn it. He’d chosen not to live in the cabin he’d inherited, but that didn’t mean just anyone could help themselves to it and move in. James rapped on the door again, louder. “Open up now, or I’ll break down the door.”

Still no answer.

With a quick burst of energy, he kicked the door. Splinters flew, and the frame rattled. He kicked again, and it burst open. James shuffled to the side and removed his sidearm, then proceeded cautiously inside with his gun raised. The room was abnormally dark from the taped windows, and only the light from the open doorway illuminated the den. At least his sister had gotten rid of most of the furniture. In this room, only an old couch remained. No place to hide.

James flicked the light switch, grateful he’d kept the power on. The Realtor had insisted on it so she could show the place to potential buyers. That was a laugh—the place had sat empty for months. Seemed fixer-upper cabins in remote Appalachia weren’t a hot commodity. Hardly a shocker.

He made his way to the kitchen, gun still drawn. Like the truck and the den, it was pristine, and mostly empty. No signs of forced entry or habitation. Three more rooms to check. He padded down the short hallway, gun at the ready. The guest bedroom and bathroom doors stood open, but the main bedroom door was shut.

Gotcha, he almost whispered aloud. He spared a cursory glance in the guest room that housed only a bed. Nothing was underneath the tucked comforter, so he eased toward the closed door. Spots of spilled liquid, still wet, stained the pine flooring leading from the bedroom into the bathroom. He flipped on the bathroom switch, careful to keep his gun aimed at the closed bedroom door.

Smeared blood and dirt formed a drag pattern on the floor and basin and continued their path to the side of the tub. A wet towel lay beside the tub, as well as strips of gauze and a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Someone had been hurt—and recently.

A grating metal sound came from behind the closed bedroom door, and James barreled into the room. A mattress lay on the floor, and food provisions and clothes were neatly stacked in plastic containers along the side wall. But it was the open window that drew his immediate focus. Oh, hell no, they weren’t slipping away. He was going to get answers. James rushed to the window and stuck his head out.

Red hair whipped in the breeze. A petite woman wearing a camouflage shirt and black panties—no pants, no shoes—ran through the yard. Blood oozed from ripped flesh on her right leg, and she limped as she headed toward the truck.

Okay, that was far from the thug or drugged-out squatter he’d expected. “Halt,” he ordered.

She didn’t even bother looking back at him as she continued a gimpy run to the tree line.

“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered, tucking his sidearm back into its holster and rushing through the cabin. He exited the busted front door and stormed down the porch steps to the side yard. “Stop right now,” he called out.

Again she ignored his command. Stubborn, foolish woman. He couldn’t let her get in that truck. But as he ran toward her, she spun around, raising a pistol in both hands and aiming it straight at his heart.

James threw up his hands and cautiously walked forward before pointing at his badge. “Lady, you don’t want to shoot an officer of the law.” He nodded at her leg. “Looks like you need medical attention.”

“You’re a cop? Let me take a look at that badge.” She approached and examined the badge on his uniform. The harsh glint in her eyes softened, and she lowered the gun. “Sorry. I didn’t stop to see who broke in when I ran.”

“I identified myself as from the Sheriff’s department,” he said grimly. She might be pretty as all get-out and pretend compliance, but people weren’t always what they seemed. This job and his tour of duty had taught him those lessons well. “Now gently lay down the gun and step away from it,” he ordered.

She kept her eyes on him as she bent her knees and placed her weapon on the ground. “No problem, Officer. I always—”

Her right leg gave out from underneath, and she swooned forward—which put her hands right by her gun, he couldn’t help noticing. Quickly he crossed the distance between them and kicked it several yards away.

“Suspicious much?” she drawled.

“I’ll call for an ambulance or drive you to the hospital in my vehicle. Do you have a preference?”

“Neither. I’m fine. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“There’s blood on the right side of your scalp. Not to mention your mangled leg. Might need stitches, at the very least. Antibiotics, too.”

“I said no.” She struggled to stand and then limped past him. “Just let me get dressed.”

“Not until you explain how you got hurt and what you were doing in my cabin.”

That got through to the woman, and she whirled around. “Your cabin?” She bit her lip and mumbled, “Of all the damn luck.”

“You can explain on the way to the hospital.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

She hobbled to the door, and he scrambled to retrieve the fallen weapon before following her, trying to deduce this stranger’s game. “You hiding from an abusive husband?” he guessed.

“No,” she said flatly, grabbing onto the porch rail and wincing as she climbed the steps.

“There are shelters that can help, you know. In fact, there’s one less than thirty miles—”

“I don’t need a shelter. I can protect myself.”