Page 42 of River Justice

“Oh, for crying out loud. You want the money? Then get over here and do it.”

The wordmoneymade the woman look up. “But you said—”

“I’ve changed my mind. You’re right. After everything we’ve had to go through, I should be reimbursed. But I want a whole lot more than some ten-thousand-dollar reward. Now do it.” He pinned down Holly Jo’s arms and forced her into a sitting position.

The woman came over and knelt beside them. “Once we do this, we get the money, let her go and leave, right?”

“Just do it,” he ordered.

Holly Jo tried to pull away, but the man snapped, “You want her to cut your throat? Hold still or you’re going to bleed.” She stopped fighting, closed her eyes and held her breath, not knowing what the woman planned to do with the scissors. Her heart raced. The man’s grip was painful, and he was sweaty and gross.

When the woman took hold of her hair, Holly Jo opened her eyes. She heard the snip and saw a lock of her hair flutter downward. That was all they had planned to do? Take a little of her hair? She felt so relieved that her eyes burned with tears. She took a shaky breath, her chest aching.

“What is wrong with you?” the man demanded. “You aren’t giving her a trim. I said cut off a chunk. A big chunk, right in front. I want it for the photo.”

The woman grabbed hold of her hair again as the man held her too tightly. She watched the woman grab a handful of hair at the front and begin sawing through it only inches from her scalp.

“No!” she cried as she thought of all the nights her mother used to brush her hair, saying how beautiful it was. Then her mother had gotten sick and died. Heartbroken, Holly Jo had chopped her hair off one day in her grief. In all the months she’d been at the ranch, it had finally grown out. It had become beautiful again, the memory of her mother brushing it no longer breaking her heart. “No!”

“There,” the woman said, holding out the thick hunk of hair to him as he let go of his grip on her. Holly Jo struck out at him and tried to kick the woman.

“Stop it!” he ordered her, grabbing her hair and hauling her up to shove her against the wall. “We aren’t finished. You have to help,” he said to the woman.

The woman took hold of Holly Jo like he had, pressing her against the wall and at the same time trying to stand back as much as she could. All Holly Jo could do was glare at the phone as the man took photos of her. She swore that she would never drink the juice again no matter how thirsty she got. She would find a way to escape. After she got away, HH would find these two. Then they would be sorry for what they’d done.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THEDISPATCHERPUTthe call through to the sheriff’s cell phone. “It’s Penny, the waitress at the café. I found an envelope on a table here after the evening rush with a note that says,Give this to Holden McKenna.”

“Did you see who left it?”

“No, but the cook said he thought it was a woman. Didn’t see her, but he said she didn’t seem familiar. Probably not from around here.”

“Don’t let anyone else touch the envelope, please,” Stuart said. “I’ll be right there.”

Five minutes later, he was bagging the envelope with a large chunk of dark hair inside. He didn’t need to wait for the DNA report to know it was Holly Jo’s or question why it had been left at the café. He was only thankful that it hadn’t been a finger or a toe. The fact that it was a thick chunk of her hair made his stomach roil. He feared what might come next. He swore he would find this kidnapper if it was the last thing he ever did.

Once they had proof of life—the hair didn’t prove that Holly Jo was still alive. He needed a photo. As he left the café, he got the call from Holden that a photograph had been received. The FBI lab already had it.

He would make arrangements to send the hair on to the lab so it could be matched with the hair from Holly Jo’s brush. He saw no reason to show it to Holden, who was already furious over the photo and what had been done to the girl’s hair.

Stuart was anxious to hear about the cardboard box of Robert “Bobby” Robinson’s ashes from the funeral home that were also now at the FBI lab and asked that a DNA sample be compared to Holly Jo’s DNA. He knew he was spitballing as he drove out to the McKenna Ranch. It was late. He’d grabbed a sandwich and ate it as he drive.

His mind whirred. What wife didn’t pick up her husband’s ashes? She’d paid the bill but hadn’t wanted an urn. The ashes had never been picked up? Maybe she’d been too angry at him for dying—especially since alcohol had been involved after the rodeo. Or maybe, his gut told him, something was wrong.

Stuart was anxious to talk to Holden about what he’d found out. He was positive now that the rancher knew a whole lot more than he was telling him—starting with Holly Jo’s father.

BIRDIEWASOUTSIDEthe Wild Horse Bar, visiting with some locals who had known her father, when she saw the pickup. The men, mostly ones who were regulars at the bar, had been confirming what she already knew. Her father and Charlotte had not gotten along. One of them was saying that if he had to bet on who’d killed Dixon, he’d put all his money on the matriarch of Stafford Ranch.

Nothing new there. It was how to prove it. Something had made Birdie look up as a white pickup slowly passed the bar, catching her eye. The driver, though, was a woman—not a man. That made her hesitate—until she saw that the truck was missing its tailgate. The tailgate would have had to be removed to slide a camper shell on and off. It was enough to make her apologize for running off as she quickly left. She still wasn’t sure it was the right truck. But then she noticed the back license plate. It was covered with mud as if someone had purposely tried to make the identifying numbers and letters unreadable.

Decision made, she quickly climbed behind the wheel of her SUV and went after the pickup. The woman had been driving slowly through town, obeying the speed limit, but once she hit the edge of town, she sped up and headed northeast toward Broadus instead of taking the road toward Miles City.

Birdie had thought about calling the sheriff but wanted to make sure this was the right pickup first. She hurriedly called Brand, who said he was in town at the general store picking up supplies.

“Do not go after the truck by yourself,” he said.

“You’re right. I’ll come get you. She’s headed on the road toward Broadus. We’re going to follow her.”

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