Page 22 of Her Wild Coast Promise

“That’s messed up,” I say on a sigh.

“I wish we had the name of the shipping company Terrilynn supposedly worked for,” Hunter says. “What if there’s more to it than her working some desk job?”

“Like the shipping company is a front?” I ask.

“Or another link in the chain,” I reply. “Let’s get employment records from all the shipping companies operating in mainland Alaska.”

“Shit, that’ll take time,” Madison says. “And a judge’s signature if any of these companies don’t cooperate.”

“I can help with that,” Agent Snow says, already typing.

“Let’s also run a missing persons report,” I say. “Terrilynn and Jane Doe might not be their first victims.”

“Damn,” Brian says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like this.”

“Agreed.” I stand and make eye contact with each team member. “That’s why we’re going to end it.”

ChapterSix

SETH

With unanswered questionssnaking through my thoughts like a lit fuse, I drive to Susitna on the slim chance I can get Mrs. Hayes to reveal something about Zach’s whereabouts. The journey takes me past the strip mall that used to host Doc Hayes’ vet clinic to the valley populated mostly by farms. It would be a picturesque drive if my mind wasn’t so preoccupied by the purpose.

Vera Hayes inherited everything when her husband passed away from lung cancer a few years ago. When the clinic burned, the insurance payout made her a wealthy woman. But when I turn up their long drive, I don’t get the sense that money is being put to good use.

The single-story house, the wood siding a handsome contrast to the metal green roof, looks the same, but the grass has grown past the porch railing. The detached garage is empty—no International Harvester 200, no Skidoos waiting for winter. In fact, the rusty horse trailer is missing too.

Doc Hayes was a large animal vet, and often ended up boarding horses who needed long term care. He also had a soft spot for wild animals, and would take in and rehabilitate raccoons, owls, waterbirds, or pretty much anything that could be healed up and returned to the wild.

The fenced pasture behind the house is empty, and the hay grown in the adjoining lot is past its harvest, which means it’ll rot through winter and prevent anything from growing there in the spring.

The long gravel drive ends in a circle twenty yards from the porch. When I step from my vehicle, the quiet assaults me like a force. It takes me a minute to realize—it’s quiet because there are no animals left here.

Standing still, I wait for my pulse to soften and the tension in my quads to ease. Something besides the quiet is bugging me. With one hand on my weapon, I scan the area, starting with the empty garage, then the house. Nothing is visibly suspicious, yet my instincts refuse to back down.

On the far edge of the property, against the tall forest, the mews where Doc Hayes kept rehabilitating raptors is boarded up. That makes sense. Mrs. Hayes is unlikely capable of continuing her husband’s work single handedly.

Closer to the house, across the overgrown yard, the henhouse is bare. I don’t know why this adds to my conviction that something is off, but I can’t shake it.

From inside the house, a faint, high-pitched hum breaks the silence—a water heater maybe, or heating system. It’s the only signal of habitation.

The pavers leading to the porch are slick with moss. When I reach for the railing adjoined to the steps, I’m surprised it doesn’t collapse, even though there’s no sign of rot or disrepair. My boots are loud on the stoop, and the rap of my knuckles on the screen might as well be a crack of thunder.

When I step back to wait, a curtain from the side window shifts, as if I was being watched.

“Mrs. Hayes?” I call out. “It’s Deputy Dalton, McKenzie Valley Sheriff’s Department.”

The sound of shuffling feet is so faint it could be mistaken for the rustling of mice beneath the floorboards. I wait, my hands loose at my sides and my heart ticking like a juiced-up metronome.

I knock again, harder. “Mrs. Hayes.”

After another several long minutes, finally the shuffling nears the other side of the door. “What’s this about?” a woman asks.

Officially I’m here for a welfare check, but there’s another purpose, one I can’t complete unless she lets me inside. “I need to make sure you’re all right.”

Still behind the door, Mrs. Hayes sighs. She must be standing close.

“Are you alone?” I ask.

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