Page 139 of Long Gone

“There’s one thing about Skeeter Malcolm you need to know right away—he’s loyal and protective, and sure, he’ll try to boss you around, but here’s the clincher—he’s a reasonable man. And if you give him good reasons for what you’re doing, he’ll come around.”

“So you’re saying if I’d told him I was meeting Detective Jones, he would have been okay with me going?”

“Hell no, not alone,” he barked out with a laugh. “But he would have gone as backup. He recognizes your talent, Harper. He’s not going to squelch it.”

“This sounds an awful lot like we’re talking about a relationship, and he and I aren’t like that. At. All.”

“There are many different kinds of relationships,” Carter said. “But all are important. Especially to a man like Skeeter.”

“I can’t turn around and go back,” I said. “I’m almost to Jackson Creek.”

“Call him. He might have someone around to play backup.”

Headlights of a fast-approaching car appeared in my rearview mirror. “Hang on, Carter. Someone’s speeding up behind me.”

“Like they’re about to run you off the road?”

“I love how you just jump to worst-case scenario.” But he was right. I hadn’t hung up for that very reason.

Speed up or slow down and see if they passed? I had a bad feeling about the whole thing, so I pressed my gas pedal to the floor. Especially since Tim Heaton had been run off the road.

“How far are you away from Jackson Creek?” Carter asked.

“About five minutes,” I said. “So five or six miles.”

“Dammit,” he said under his breath. “Try to make it into town. If you do, I can get a sheriff’s car to intercept you.”

I knew what he was really asking. Did I want to involve the sheriff? The car behind me was closer than before, even though I was pushing eighty. “Yeah. Do that.”

“Done.” I heard him making a call, probably on his landline, telling the dispatcher that I was being pursued on the highway into Jackson Creek.

“Can you tell what they’re driving?” Carter asked.

“A truck,” I said, shooting a quick glance up to my rearview mirror, then back to the road as I approached the back of a car in front of me. “A pickup. But I don’t know what make or model. I’m about to pass a car. I hope to God the truck doesn’t hit them.”

Carter passed on the information to the sheriff’s department as I passed the car with the truck in hot pursuit. But I’d slowed down to switch lanes, and the truck seemed to have accelerated. The beams of its headlights filled my car and then suddenly I felt a hard jolt.

“It’s ramming into my bumper,” I said, jerking the car to the left lane, thankful there wasn’t any oncoming traffic.

“They say help is on the way,” he said, sounding distracted. “And so is Skeeter.”

The news that Malcolm was on the way was more comforting than that the sheriff’s department was sending someone. But I didn’t have time to be too relieved, because the truck rammed me again, this time harder. My car lost control, spinning around several times before I saw trees rushing toward me. Metal crunched and the airbag exploded in front of me, and the last thing I heard before I faded into darkness was Carter calling my name.

Chapter 32

When I woke, I was in a dark room with cinderblock walls, sitting upright in a hard chair. Moonlight streamed in through a small rectangular window close to the ceiling. My head was pounding, my eyesight fuzzy, so it took me a while to piece things together: I’d been run off the road, and whoever had done it had kidnapped me and put me in what looked like an old cellar. I’d been tied to a wooden chair with spindles at the back. My arms were secured behind me, and pain radiated from my stitches. A quick glance down at my shirt revealed multiple dark spots, which were likely blood. My legs were tied snugly to the chair legs.

Whoever had taken me had done so for a reason. They could have just killed me, but instead they’d tied me up. Did they want to question me about what I’d found? Probably. But if Carter was right, they might be holding me hostage to lure Malcolm here.

Would he come for me? Before my chat with Carter, I would have been fifty/fifty. But now, I was sure he would, if for no other reason than to mete out the justice he seemed set on doling out. Perhaps saving me would be a bonus.

If it had been anyone other than Malcolm, I would have been worried for their safety. But from what I knew about him, I figured the people who’d taken me should be worried for theirs.

I only hoped I’d have a front row seat to witness the retribution.

A few minutes later, I heard the sound of squeaky hinges and then a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling came on, casting most of the cellar in shadow. Footsteps landed on the staircase, and soon a pair of boots and jeans appeared, followed by the rest of the man.

Skip Martin.

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