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Riley checked Charles’ pulse. “He’s dead.”
She raised her hands and stood as two FBI agents, guns drawn, charged through the door almost knocking over Nancy and Pearl.
“We’re fine.” The senator sounded calm. “It’s over. My aide shot himself. Before he pulled the trigger, he claimed John Hunter had turned my sister into a bomb. Check Pearl’s belongings. If Charles wasn’t raving mad, her oxygen concentrator may be rigged. It’s the only thing Hunter could be certain she’d take to Jennie’s graduation.”
Pearl gasped and staggered back from the concentrator at her side. Attached to a light-weight cart similar to a flight attendant’s, the compact machine looked harmless. The design allowed it to be hand-carried or wheeled. Since carrying its ten-pound weight tired her, Pearl wheeled the unit around the house.
The senator hurried toward the women. It looked as if Pearl would collapse if his wife loosened the grip on her arm. “Let me get the ladies settled. I’ll be right back.”
Riley’s cell vibrated. She checked the screen. Wolf. “I need to take this.”
She unlocked the French doors and stepped onto a bricked patio.
Wolf dropped his verbal bomb about Jennie, and she staggered to a lounge chair.
“Will you bring in the FBI?” Wolf asked.
“It’s not my call. She’s Uncle Ed’s daughter. Hunter may be telling the truth about a mole. It’s a risk.”
Her voice lowered a notch. “You’ve done what you can, Wolf. Stay out of this now.”
“Like hell I will. I’ll be at your house by five. That gives us plenty of time to reach the gate where Cane Brake Road ends. Hunter’s right. A Hummer will have no problems with the fire road.”
“Listen, please. The sheriff doesn’t know if he’s corralled all the deputies Monson corrupted. Even if he has, some may believe you framed Monson for murder, not the other way around. I can take care of myself. Wherever you are, sit tight and stay out of sight.”
“Not a chance,” Wolf said. “I’m coming.”
The line went dead.
Fifteen minutes passed before Riley could separate her uncle from the FBI.
He immediately ripped into her. “How dare you! You think I don’t know who Wolf Valdes is? How could you hide the fact you’ve been helping that pornographer and his lying uncle. Hank Youngblood killed my boy. But that wasn’t enough. Ray Youngblood destroyed Will’s reputation at the trial.”
Spittle flew from his lips. Riley let the waves of hatred wash over her. No time for this stupidity now. “Stop. Listen to me. Hunter has Jennie.”
Instant silence. Taking advantage of the shocked lull, she rushed to finish the story. Her uncle collapsed into a chair, battered by images no father can bear.
“Oh, my God, not Jennie.” His face seemed to age a decade, feverish eyes burning in a papier-mâché mask. “Jennie’s cell was off. I left messages, told her to hurry. I should have ordered the FBI to collect her.”
He raked his hands through his hair. “Jesus, it’s my fault. I never dreamed Hunter would go to her apartment.”
“We’ll get her back, unharmed.” Riley willed herself to sound calm. “I know about hostage situations. But you must decide—do we tell Gary, bring in the FBI? I wish I could say Hunter’s claim of an FBI mole is bogus. I can’t. Given what we know about his reach, I’d put the odds at fifty-fifty.”
* * * *
Wolf knew where Tim hid the spare key to his cabin. He unlocked the park ranger’s house, walked to his gun cabinet, and helped himself to Tim’s Winchester lever action 30-06, and ammo. He zipped the Winchester into a padded case with a shoulder strap. Using a salt shaker, he propped a note on the kitchen table before heading to collect his buddy’s Harley.
Would Tim keep quiet until morning? He hoped so. By then, someone would be dead. Whatever happened, it would end.
He had to stay out of sight until he met Riley. A hiding place, one ideal for a motorcycle, popped into his mind. The bridle path connecting the Yates and Hunter estates was too narrow for cars. No curious passersby. Who’d look for him there?
He kept the bike just under the fifty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit. Only a short patch of highway before he reached a field that offered a cut through to the path.
He estimated he was two miles from Hunter’s property when he stopped. Middle of nowhere. A great place to hide. But, with two hours to kill before he met Riley, curiosity gripped him. How much damage had his dynamite caused? Maybe he’d take a quick look-see. What could it hurt? The firemen should be gone. He fired up the Harley.
His mind kept circling back to Hunter’s demands. The Foothills area selected by the kidnapper offered certain advantages. Once he radioed Riley with instructions, she’d be unable to tell anyone. No cell phone reception. That’s why Hunter provided the radio. But the radio also provided a clue. The mountains made radios as useless as cell phones at any distance. At seven o’clock, the monster would be within a few miles of the Cane Brake terminus.
What orders would Hunter radio? The Foothills Trail swung both north and south where it crossed Cane Brake Road. Or he could tell Riley to climb in the Hummer and drive to the intersection with Jackie’s Ridge Road. Too damn many options. Regardless, the final destination for the ransom exchange couldn’t be too far away if he stayed in radio range.
Wolf stashed his borrowed bike behind five-foot-tall azaleas just short of Hunter’s property line. He’d sneak in, stay out of sight. Someone might still be there. An arson investigator. FBI agents.
The place looked deserted. What the...? A tan Camry sat in the front drive. Riley said Hunter was driving a tan Camry when last seen by the sheriff. Could he be so lucky? Have the chance to take the bastard by surprise before he harmed Jennie or Riley?
A half hour of searching convinced him the owner wasn’t on the grounds. Neither was Jennie. But the firefighters had turned the rear lawn into a sea of mud, making the telltale car tracks coming from the old barn as distinct as Armstrong’s footprints on the moon.
Wolf peered into the drafty, canted structure. While the barn hadn’t received any TLC, it had been used. Recently. Tools littered a workbench. Fresh oil puddled on the dirt floor. Had the bastard tinkered with cars? Didn’t seem his style.
He studied the work bench. Bits of electrical wire. He noticed some discarded packaging on the floor, stooped to examine it. He pieced a torn label together. It touted the virtues of a remote firing ignition system. Crap. He rose and examined the bench again. A wrench rested atop a map folded to the Laurel Fork section of the Foothills Trail. He’d hiked that section from Laurel Fork Falls to the Cane Brake gate. At most, the distance was two miles.
Wolf stared at the map dominated by the blue of Lake Jocassee. An idea clicked. The lake’s serpentine shoreline allowed boats to swing close to both the Cane Brake gate and Laurel Fork Falls.
He phoned Riley. Didn’t let her say more than “Hello” before he peppered her with questions. “Does Hunter have a boat?... Lake Jocassee, right?...Where’s his dock?”
The more Wolf thought about the gamble, the more certain he became. Hunter would want a fast escape. Hoofing it over mountain trails didn’t compute.
There was a high cliff just south of Laurel Fork Falls. Boats could anchor nearby. If Hunter came by boat and Riley walked to the cliff, something like one hundred vertical feet would separate them. If she tossed the cooler into the water below, he’d have a nice head start on a getaway. He could be a mile away before Riley could scramble down the embankment.
He shared his theory. “I’ll find a boat, stake out the area. Hope to hell I’m not wrong.”
“Whatever you do, keep him alive,” Riley pleaded. “We have to find out where he’s holding Jennie. He won’t kill her. He gains nothing if he murders her. He told that part straight.”
“I’ll wait. But you’re wrong. The bastard does have something to gain from killing Jennie. He knows what her death would do to you and the senator. I heard it in his voice. It’s personal. You and Senator Yates ruined his plans. He wants revenge.”