Page 2 of Shelter for Martina

“You got it,” another deputy answered, and he turned to see Brett Farley standing there. “Mama called this morning and said he didn’t come home the other day.”

“I ran into TrooperBridges yesterday, so I knew she’d called in. How long has it been?”

“Two days now.”

“Well, shit.” Bud folded his arms across his chest. “You know he’s holed up in some girl’s house, drinking beer, shooting up, and watching porn on TV.”

“Yeah, we know, but his mother thinks he’s a saint,” Arlen answered.

“Okay. Got something for me?”

Eldred shrugged. “Just wanted you to walk into the woods and see if there’s anything we didn’t catch.”

“Lemme get my boots and I’ll stomp around out there a bit.” As soon as he’d slipped the big rubber knee-high boots on, Bud headed into the brush and walked around for a while.

Nothing. There was nothing there, no signs of Marty, no signs that anyone had been through there, nothing. “I’m going back to the post. Think I’ll take that back road up there,” Bud said, pointing up the hill at the side of the lot where they’d entered. “Anybody been up there?”

“Dunno,” Arlen answered. “But if you see him, let us know.”

“Oh, I’ll most certainly do that,” Bud said with a chuckle, and the other men laughed too. Marty would turn up. He always did.

Back in his cruiser, he thought about that road. Where did it connect? He was pretty sure he knew, and then he’d have to go down and take a left, and that would take him to… Yeah, he could get back to the post that way. As soon as he started up the car, he turned it that direction and meandered out on the little road.

It was barely wide enough to navigate when meeting another car, and it rolled along past a few houses, their large properties separating them a good distance from each other. Then the road turned and wound back alongside the woods again. There was a house here or there, but for the most part, it was lonely and unpopulated.

The curve in the road he’d seen coming up was deep, almost a turn, and when he came out the other side, there was a small pull-off at the edge of the woods. A little green car sat there. It seemed to Bud to be a funny place for a car to be left. As he went past it, he looked into it. No one was in it. Something felt wrong, and he backed up even with it. When he couldn’t justify the crawling sensation up his spine, he backed down until he was behind the car and pulled in behind it. Once he was parked, he picked up his mic. “Central dispatch, unit seven twenty-three. Need registration info on a light green ChevyCruse, OhioCounty plate number…” He read the numbers to the dispatcher and waited.

“Unit seven twenty-three, unit seven twenty-three, respond.”

“Unit seven twenty-three responding.”

“Unit seven twenty-three, vehicle is registered to a RenitaAnderson of Hartford. Address of record is…” He jotted down the address as she read it to him.

“Copy, central dispatch.” Address in hand, Bud headed that direction. It was about five miles from the site where the car was parked, and he found that odd.Oh, probably just ran out of gas or something, he told himself.

The house at the address was a modest home, just a small brick ranch style that had seen better days. A burgundy ChevyMalibu sat in the driveway, and he hoped someone was home. He radioed his position and that he was leaving his car, then made his way to the front door.

He very nearly hit her with his upraised fist—she opened the door before he had a chance to knock. “Oh! I’m sorry!” he almost shouted.

“Oh! Oh, it’s okay. I’m sorry too. So you have some news for me?” The woman standing in the doorway looked frazzled. Her hair was a mess, and she was wearing a robe that didn’t really fit.

“Uh, no, ma’am. I just saw…”

“Nobody has any information for me! What do I have to do to get somebody to help me?” she yelled and stomped a foot.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry. I have no idea what—”

“Oh, you have no idea? How is it that my daughter has been missing for two days andnobodyhas even bothered to come by here?”

Her daughter had been missing for two days? That would be some coincidence. “Mrs.…”

“Anderson. MartinaAnderson. I called and reported—”

“Renita?”

The woman stopped. “You know?”

“No, ma’am, but I found her car up on WaterwayRoad, parked in a pull-off by the woods.”

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