Dead Giveaway

down, I breathed a sigh of relief.

This little scare, however, reminded me to take my .38 from the glove compartment. I was in a strange place about to meet with someone who probably wouldn't be too happy to know I'd followed her home.

The house was a one-story log cabin—though not really a cabin. It was big, at least a couple thousand square feet. Could a nurse's aide afford a place like this? Then it dawned on me that this might be a shutin parishioner's home. Awkward to knock on the door and say, 'Hi. I'm a PI who's been hanging around the church asking annoying questions. You want to talk to me?'

The house had a porch along the front with a wheelchair ramp, so I figured I was right, this wasn't Olive's house. Now what?

Light flowed from a side window, illuminating a small garden. No drapes pulled yet. Maybe I could take a peek inside before I knocked on the door.

I slipped from behind the wheel and eased my door shut so as not to alert anyone in the house. Gun at my side, I quietly made my way toward the garden. The little plot was bordered by stones and I had to step over them. My feet sank into newly laid pinebark mulch and the smell wafted up around me. I nearly sneezed but held it in. Flattening against the logs, I looked in the window.

It was a living room, but very open, sparsely furnished, with wood floors. I moved closer to get a better look after I spotted Olive talking to a woman standing with the aid of a walker—one of those kind with a basket and wheels. The woman was tall and thin, with dishwater blond hair drawn back in a ponytail. She was looking down. I spied a wheelchair in a corner.

Olive was visiting a handicapped parishioner after all. Maybe I should wait until—

But then Olive walked away, out of my sight, and that's when the woman with the walker looked straight at the window.

I gasped. Not a quiet gasp, either.

24

Still blinking in disbelief, I heard a sound behind me—heard too late. Someone grabbed my wrist and twisted the gun from my hand. It fell with a thud near my right foot.

I felt steel against my temple.

'Very bad move coming here,' the man whispered. I recognized the voice from the storage unit. 'You say one word and you're dead.'

I nodded my agreement, my thoughts leaving the woman I'd just recognized as I shifted into survival mode. I wasn't sure I'd be spared again, but this guy didn't want the women in the house to hear, so I at least had a few minutes left. If he was going to kill me, it wouldn't happen near the house.

This time he snapped regular cuffs on my wrists and said, 'Where are your car keys?'

'In the ignition,' I said.

'Perfect. Now move.'

But he didn't shove or push, just laid a hand on my shoulder to steer me around the garden. When I stumbled once on the stones, he caught me before I fell. I looked at the man.

B.J.

He said, 'Keep going,' his hand resting on my back as we moved forward into the woods. We weren't going to my car as I expected.

His touch on my back reminded me of the caress when he'd left me in that storage unit, the way he stared at me in the church. His obvious attraction made me sick right now, but it had served me well to this point and I'd use it if I had to.

I thought about running—for about a tenth of a second. Unfortunately for me, he obviously knew this place. I didn't. Added to that, my heart was thumping and I was wearing bracelets. Escape would be about as easy as digging a ditch in the ocean.

I risked a glance back at the house after intentionally tripping to get that look.

B.J. said, 'You're a klutz, just like her.'

Her? Sara Rankin? The woman with the walker? The woman I'd recognized?

'Yeah, that's me. Klutzy kidnap victim,' I said as he helped me up.

'Real funny,' he mumbled.

Would Sara help me? Could she help me? Not a promising prospect.

Turned out, the road leading to the cabin looped around after it passed the house. A short trek through the woods on a well-worn path and we reached B.J.'s car parked on a curve. This was the car that had sped by after I came along behind the van. Oh, yeah. I'd been followed again. Jeez. I could probably screw up a two-car funeral.

Funeral. Don't think about that, Abby.

He'd chosen black for his newest Lexus—and it was brand-new, paper still on the floorboards and thin plastic covering the leather seats. After he'd cuffed me to the seat belt and activated the child safety locks, he took out his cell phone.

After a few seconds he said, 'Olive? There's a car in your driveway. The keys are in the ignition. You need to put that car in the garage. Now.'

A short pause, then he said, 'Because Pastor Rankin would—'

Olive interrupted, speaking loudly—though I couldn't catch the words, just her frantic tone.

'Olive, shut up. Give her some pills or one of those shots. Anything. Then hide that car.'

He didn't wait for a reply, just snapped the phone shut and started the engine.

B.J.'s gun was in his shoulder holster now, far from my very encumbered hands. He pressed his foot on the accelerator and we took off.

This had all happened so fast and I was still stunned to have seen Sara Rankin in that log cabin. I kept silent for a minute or two, thinking things through. I felt calmer then, as calm as a girl could get, handcuffed next to a murderer. Still, B.J. could have gotten rid of me and he hadn't. He needed me alive for some reason.

He made his next phone call when we reached the church parking lot. He'd pulled behind the main buildings near a row of garages. Not well lit. And deserted. He speed-dialed a number and said, 'She went to the cabin. I nabbed her before she got inside. Get everyone out, janitors included, and call me back. Then I'll bring her in.'

I heard another agitated voice. Female, too.

B.J. said, 'If you don't do this, I'll splatter her blood all over your church. See how well you fix that problem, Noreen.'

My gut tightened. So much for my belief he had some odd attraction to me and would spare my life again. I was no more than a tool. And if Noreen didn't cooperate...

But when I heard B.J. say, 'Good thinking,' I knew I was safe for a few more precious minutes.

I quietly released my breath.

He took the gun out, held it across his lap, but said nothing. Just stared straight ahead.

I had a little time, and knowing words were my only weapon, I said, 'What's wrong with Sara?'

He didn't respond, just kept looking straight ahead.

'Her face, her mouth, the way they sag on one side. Did she have a stroke?' I asked.

Again nothing.

'Has she been in that house all these years? With no one but Olive?'

The rise and fall of his chest picked up speed, his lips tightened. He wanted me to be quiet. But he still needed me, so I could keep hammering at him. Keep picking away. He might make a mistake.

'This Olive, she was Verna Mae's friend, right? Did the Rankins use Olive to sign Verna Mae up for motherhood?'

'Shut up,' he snapped. This time he looked at me, but then quickly turned away.

'What I don't understand is why the Rankins have been keeping their daughter a prisoner. She can hardly walk, but she's still young, she's—'