“This is J. W. Keeley,” Joe said. “He’s an ex-con who supposedly murdered a man in Wyoming and a couple of others down in Mississippi. The FBI is looking for him. But he has another name, Marybeth: Bill Monroe.”
Marybeth couldn’t get past the name Keeley.
The name of her foster daughter who had died tragically. This man had the same name? And was from the same place?
It all became horribly clear.
28
JOE JAMMED THE MUG SHOT OF J. W. KEELEY INTO HIS back pocket and violently rubbed his face with his hands, trying to think of what to do next. Marybeth stood in the doorway of the office with her arms wrapped around herself, swaying a little, her eyes wide.
“Okay,” Joe said, forcing himself to be calm while his mind swirled with anger and fear of the worst kind. “I need to find the bus. A school bus can’t be hard to find.”
“Should I call the sheriff?” Marybeth asked.
“Yes, call him. Call the school too. Call the FBI in Cheyenne—the number’s right here on this sheet,” he said, handing her the remaining pages of the fax that outlined the allegations against J. W. Keeley. “My God . . .” he moaned.
“Joe, are you going to be all right? Does this man have our daughters?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But he might. I’m going to go find him.”
“I can’t think of anything worse,” she said, tears bursting from her eyes, streaming down her face.
“Stay calm,” he said. “We’ve got to stay calm and think.” He paced the room. “If he took the bus into town, it’ll be easy to find. The sheriff can find it. Ask for Deputy Reed, he’s competent. But if the bus turned around, it would be headed back here or to the Thunderhead Ranch. Or to the mountains. I’d guess he’s going that way.”
Joe plunged into the closet and grabbed his belt and holster and buckled them on. Then he pulled out his shotgun.
“I’ve got my cell phone,” Joe said, clamping on his hat. “Call me and tell me what’s going on since I don’t have a radio. If you hear something—anything—call me right away.”
Marybeth breathed deeply, hugged herself tighter.
“The sheriff, the FBI, the school. Anybody else?” she asked.
Joe looked up. “Nate. Tell him I’ll be on Bighorn Road headed toward the mountains. If he can get there to meet me, I can use the help. If he isn’t there in fifteen minutes, I’ll leave him. I can’t wait for him to do his hair.”
Marybeth nodded furiously.
“Tell him to bring his gun,” Joe said.
Missy came into the room, said, “What is going on?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Marybeth said, shouldering past her. “I need to use the phone.”
JOE ROARED OUT of the ranch yard with his shotgun on the bench seat, muzzle pointed toward the floor. The sky buckled with a thunder boom that rolled through the meadows, sucking the sound from the world for a moment. He drove fast, nearly overshooting the turn from the ranch onto the highway access road and he fishtailed in the mud, nearly losing control of the truck. He cursed himself, slowed down, and felt the tires bite into the slop. If he got stuck now, he thought, he would never forgive himself.
The ditches had filled even more than when he took the girls to the bus that morning, and the water was spilling over the road. He drove through it, spraying fantails of brown-yellow water.
The highway was in sight, and he made it and didn’t slow down as he turned onto the wet blacktop.
JOE TRIED TO put things together as he drove. He couldn’t. He hoped like hell Marybeth had overreacted to the phone call, but he doubted it. Her intuition was always right on, especially when it came to their girls. The thing about the cell phone, that Sheridan was calling from
If that bastard J. W. Keeley had his girls he would kill him, Joe vowed. Simple as that.
God, how sometimes he hated the distances. Everything out here was just so far from the next. Thirty miles to Saddlestring. Twenty-two miles from his old house. Fifteen miles to Nate’s. And thirty miles in the other direction to the first entrance to Thunderhead Ranch. Joe knew enough about Thunderhead and its proximity to the flooding river to realize that there would be only one road still passable, the road to the lower ranch, Arlen’s. The other roads would be flooded. Would Keeley take the girls to Arlen’s place? And if so, why Arlen?
No, Joe thought. He wouldn’t even try to figure out Keeley’s motivation and loyalties. That would come later. Now, he just needed to find the bus.
Even if Marybeth was able to get the sheriff on the first call and the department scrambled, it would be a half hour before they could traverse the length of Bighorn Road in search of the bus. The helicopter was grounded because of the weather.
It was up to him.
NATE STOOD ON the shoulder of the highway wearing a long yellow slicker. His shoulder holster was buckled on over the top, and he stepped out into the road as Joe slowed and stopped.
Nate jumped in and slammed the door. Joe floored it to get back up to speed.
“So we’re looking for a bus,” Nate said.
“Yup.”
