Dalton had caught me. He knew those woods. I didn’t.
Then he’d beaten the shit out of me no matter how hard I tried to fight back, he bested me and dragged me back to his truck. He cuffed my wrist to the door and then he’d driven me here.
Here.
I closed my eyes and turned my head away because, in a line, their hair was in plastic baggies nailed to the walls.
I saw Tonia’s gleaming black locks, Sunny’s shorn, frizzy, ash blonde hair.
And Neeta’s thick, lush dark brown.
I felt the sick slide up the back of my throat.
“He lives up there Laurie… bet my f**kin’ life on it, he lives up there. He knows that spot. He knows those woods. Bet my f**kin’ life he lives up there. He hunts up there. That’s his space. It’s his.”
Tate knew where I was, he had to know. He’d find me, he could do anything for me, he’d find me.
Please, God, let him find me.
“I didn’t want it to be you,” Dalton told me. “I didn’t. Fought it Laurie. But you should have married him before you moved in. Good girls get married, Laurie. They get married before they move in and let men touch them. I could handle it but then you let Jonas live with you. You and Tate, f**kin’ each other constantly, right when his boy was there. His boy. I see it. See the way you two are together. Barely able to keep your hands off each other. Your tongues down each other’s throats every chance you get. And I heard about it. You goin’ down on him in the mornin’.” He sucked in breath. “Jonas could see you, he could hear you. And I know he did. He did. Hedidhedidhedid.”
I swallowed back the bile then yelped behind my gag as I heard the fabric tearing and my head snapped around to look at him.
I was on a dirty mattress on the floor, the mattress covered in brown stains. Blood. Old blood. Tonia all but died here. Neeta did die there. And God knew who else.
I was bound and I was gagged, my hands tied over my head to an old, rusty radiator, my legs, opened wide, tied to huge, wide screws fixed to the floor.
“You shouldn’t have let him hear you, Laurie,” Dalton whispered and then the blade sunk into my side and my cry of pain was muted by the gag.
His mouth came to my ear as the blade slid out.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
* * * * *
Tate
“I’m gettin’ nothin’,” Tate said to Bubba who was standing at his back.
Bubba and Krystal had shown up five minutes ago. Bubba had had to drive like a wild man to get up there as fast as he did, all the while talking to Tate on his phone, giving Tate the info he had.
Dalton was off for two days when Neeta was done, he was off when Sunny was attacked and he was off when the girl in Chantelle was brutalized.
Krys had brought the application with them but Bubba had given him the details on his way up the hill, Krystal reading the data to him in the truck and Tate had been running the info through his databases for the last fifteen minutes.
Dalton Caulfield McIntyre didn’t exist. His address was in town but it was a f**king warehouse. He didn’t own a car. He didn’t own property. He didn’t have a record. He didn’t pay taxes. He didn’t have a f**king driver’s license. He didn’t even have any credit history.
Tate knew Dalton had a truck and a bike and Tate knew Krys, and now Laurie, withheld taxes on Dalton’s wages but for some f**king reason none of this showed anywhere.
Dalton McIntyre was a black hole.
He only had a bank account into which they transferred his pay and how the f**k he got that without any apparent ID was anyone’s f**king guess.
Except it had a second name on the account, not McIntyre, first name Michael, last name Simpson, middle name, eerily, Caulfield.
So Tate ran Simpson and got shit. Same thing all around. No taxes, no license, no credit, no car, no property. Nothing. Not one f**king thing. Except a birth date, born in County Hospital, the same hospital where Tate was born, a hospital twenty minutes away, Simpson’s birth date nearly thirty years ago. His birthday July eighth and Dalton’s birth date on his application stated August seventh.
Transposed.
So who the f**k was Michael Simpson?
No wonder the Feds never got close. Both of them, Dalton and Simpson, totally off the grid.
Tate swiveled in his chair and leaned forward, putting his elbows to his knees and his head in his hands.
“Think, Jackson,” he muttered to himself, “think.”
He felt movement and looked up to see that Deke’s mammoth frame was filling the door. Then Tate’s eyes went to Bubba.
“I made some calls,” Bubba mumbled.
“Came by to see if we had to lock you down,” Deke announced.
“No one’s f**kin’ lockin’ me down,” Tate returned.
“You holdin’ your shit?” Deke asked.
“Yes, I’m f**kin’ holdin’ my shit,” Tate clipped in answer.
This was true. The part he didn’t share was that he was barely f**king holding his shit.
Deke surveyed Tate then looked at Bubba. “Wood’s organizing search parties at the garage. You comin’?”
Bubba glanced at Tate then he looked to Deke and said, “Yeah.”
Deke’s eyes moved to Tate. “You?”
Tate stood up. “We’re combin’ the hills where Sunny was attacked.”
Deke nodded. “Wood’s already got boys headin’ that way. They even got f**kin’ quadrants. He’s all over it.”
“Feds didn’t find anything up there,” Bubba noted.
“That don’t mean there’s nothin’ to be found,” Deke replied.
“Krys got Jonas?” Tate asked Bubba and Bubba nodded.
“Stella’s on her way up,” Deke added.
“Let’s go,” Tate muttered and headed out the door.
Krys and Jonas were in the living room when they arrived. Both sets of eyes flew to the three men as they hit the dining area.
Jonas shot off his chair and ran to Tate, slamming into him headlong and throwing his arms around Tate’s middle.
Jonas was holding his shit too, but that hold was slipping.
“Dad,” Jonas whispered, his voice small and scared and Tate allowed himself in that instant to acknowledge what he’d known since he’d heard Frank’s voice on the phone and that was the fact that tonight someone was going to die and Tatum Jackson was going to f**king kill him.
“Goin’ out, Bub, lookin’ for Laurie,” Tate muttered, his hand moving along his son’s hair and down to curl around his neck.