Page 70 of Afraid to Hope

Natasha’s eyes moved from studying the grainy black-and-white photos to looking out at the beautiful scenery while Bane drove toward Imouzzer du Kandar, another small town at a higher elevation. Nothing remotely similar jumped out at her. “I’ll resume my photo reconnaissance after we are on the outskirts.”

The Jeep passed through Imouzzer du Kandar and continued to climb upward. Soon they were surrounded by thick cedar. Natasha was quiet, lost in the lush scenery.

“Nat?”

“Hmm?”

“Okay if I open the windows?”

“Sure. I’m glad we’re trying to find the farm. I need to see it, see if it sparks any memories. The photos don’t. There’re no dates on the photos.”

Bane grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t know. All the clues we’ve come across indicate the farm might be significant.”

Cool air and the scent of cedar wafted into the car. Natasha grabbed her jacket from the back seat and slipped it over her head. “Do you think the farm is totally gone or built over? That’s common.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” Bane began to roll the windows back up.

Natasha waggled her head. “No, don’t.” She inhaled audibly. “It smells wonderful. The cook told me there’s a pretty waterfall on the outskirts of Azrou, in the Cèdre Gouraud Forest, which begins at the junction of 8 and 13. He gave me directions. Want to stop there? Or we could eat while you drive. He packed us lunch.”

“I’m up for it after we check out the abandoned farm.”

“Slow down! I think that might have been it,” she said, waving the photos at him.

Bane pulled the Jeep onto the narrow shoulder and glanced over at the photos. His brow furrowed. “How in the hell did you spot that?” he asked, shifting into reverse, then entering the overgrown road.

She pointed at the decrepit sign hanging by its corner from a tall post barely visible in the tall brush. “You were focused on driving. I was focused on the photos.”

The Jeep bumped along the deeply rutted dirt drive, torqueing Natasha and Bane in their seats. In the distance were a farmhouse and outbuildings made from local stone and mortar that had seen better days.

“Over there.” Natasha pointed to the building farthest from them.

There were no vehicles or evidence of occupation. Natasha pulled their guns and extra mags from the glove compartment anyway and checked the safeties before handing Bane his. She concealed her SIG in her waistband and got her small flashlight from the bag behind her seat, then pulled the camera from the bag behind Bane’s seat.

Bane snapped the Glock into the holster he had added to his webbed belt and pulled his shirt down to conceal it, then reached into the glove compartment again and retrieved a small black pouch and slipped it into the largest pocket of his field vest.

“Keep an eye out,” he ordered before getting out and slinging the camera strap over his shoulder.

She exited the Jeep and walked next to him, her eyes sweeping all around them. They stopped at the structure that had been featured in two of the photos. Bane took off the lens cap, and then the camera whirred as he took a series of pictures. Though empty, the building still reeked of musk and urine.

“It smells like fucking piss on steroids.” Bane blocked his nose and mouth with his forearm and kept walking. “They must have kept their bucks in here and never cleaned the floor.”

Natasha’s mouth and nose stung, and she wiped at her watery eyes. “What’s a buck?”

“Cover your nose and mouth with your shirt or with your arm like I’m doing. It’ll help,” he said, his words muffled. “A buck is a male goat. They piss all over themselves and on everything during rut. The sexy scent you’re picking up sends the does into heat. That’s why goat cheese stinks.”

“Jesus. I may never eat goat cheese again. Why the built-in benches?” Natasha asked, looking around. “Hey.” She nodded at the dark, recessed area to their left. “Nine o’clock. I didn’t notice anything on the exterior of that side of the barn when we walked up.”

“I see it.” He moved toward it. “Me either.” A thin plank door sagged on its hinges even though it was padlocked. He raised the lock to pick it, but something had been shoved into it to prevent it from being opened. “The benches are for the goats. They’re loafing benches, helps to keep them relaxed and productive.” He raised the camera and took more photos.

No light showed through the visible space where it had pulled away from the jamb. He took photos of the interior before seizing the pitchfork leaning against the far wall and trying to pry the door open. Unsuccessful, he struck the door repeatedly, splintering the planks until the door was in pieces. Bane pulled the flashlight from his belt and turned it on, its light arcing over a darkened area beneath the structure. Dusty, uneven earthen steps led downward, disappearing into a black void.

“Hmm. What do we have here? I don’t see a switch. Or a rail. Hold on to me.”

Natasha turned on her flashlight, its beam moving between her and Bane’s feet, enabling her to see before she stepped through the broken door. “Do you have goats on the farm? You seem to know an awful lot about them.”

“My sister had some for 4-H.”

“4-H?”

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