By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. ~ Benjamin Franklin
No taxis, no skyscrapers, no people. And now that she was off the Sterling Highway, there weren’t even paved roads.
Welcome to Rescue, Alaska, huh?
Admittedly, the scenery on the drive from Anchorage had been spectacular with stark, snow-covered mountains and foothills, deep river valleys, and miles of lush forests. Every time the road curved, another view had taken her breath away.
As Frankie turned off Dall Road and onto a muddy dirt road, branches from the dense forest on each side clawed at her rented sedan. She winced at the harsh scraping noises. Sorry, car.
Was the Patriot Zealot property around here? The teenaged gas station attendant in Rescue had given her directions, but there were an awful lot of small roads that branched off of Dall.
She drove around another corner, and there it was. The home of the Patriot Zealots.
Six-foot fencing topped with razor wire—seriously? Talk about unfriendly. A gate barred the way, and inside the fence, a small shack stood next to the road. Somehow, she doubted it was a bus stop, more like a guard hut.
Up the slope, the cleared forest still lay under snow. High tunnel greenhouses dotted the fields. Farther away, log houses mixed with prefabs in an unsightly mess. The buildings were too distant to see the people. Are you there, Kit? Is Aric?
At the gate, Frankie turned off her car and stepped out, avoiding a patch of ice. Brrr. The cold, damp air smelled like evergreens and snow with a hint of wood smoke—and was so clean her city lungs might go into shock.
As she approached the gate, she heard barking. Two dogs jumped out of the hut, followed by a man who held a rifle. Frankie knew Obadiah was a Christian fundamentalist fanatic, but this place felt like a third-world prison camp.
Her plan to loudly demand to see Kit was a bust. The isolation here and the guard’s rifle wiped out that strategy. In fact, telling these people she knew Kit would be a mistake. She needed more information first.
Wearing a black winter jacket, jeans, and black boots, the scruffy-bearded guard scowled at the big black dogs. “Shut up. Sit.” After the dogs obeyed, he turned his attention to Frankie in a long, leering study. When his gaze lingered on her mouth, she was glad her coat covered her curves.
To her relief, he angled the rifle so it didn’t point directly at her. “Are you lost?”
“I don’t think so.” Frankie gave him a wide smile—something she rarely had to force, but everything about this place was creepy. “Is this where the Patriot Zealots live?”
His face went cold. “Yeah, who wants to know?”
“Uh, I do.” Duh. Am I not standing right here in front of you? “I heard my aunt joined and was here, and I thought I’d pop in for a visit. She’s getting old and—”
“No visitors allowed.” He moved the rifle to cover her again. Cavolo, that was a big gun. Didn’t they have any laws in this state?
She widened her eyes, all girly shock. “No visitors? Like, at all? How am I going to say hi?”
He shook his head. “If yer aunt wanted to be around the modern world, she’d be out there. She wants to be here with no contact with the outside. No contamination, just peace.”
“Huh. But what if she gets sick? She’s not young anymore.”
“We care for our own.”
“Can I leave a messa—”
“You can fuckin’ leave.” He gestured with the rifle—such an unsafe move.
“Okay, right.” She huffed out a breath and lifted her lips into another brainless smile. “Sorry I bothered you. You have a good day.”
Followed by the dogs, he swaggered back to the guard shack.
Turning the car, she drove back down the road, suppressing the urge to peel out and splatter mud and rocks over the hut and stupid guard.
So much for her idea that she could just make noise and get Kit and Aric out.
Once around the bend of the road and out of sight, she pounded her fist on the steering wheel hard enough to hurt her hand. “Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!”
Her Italian grandmother would’ve had a fit at such swearing. Women didn’t use the f-word—no matter what language. Then again, there had been that summer when the nasty rooster spurred Nonna, and Frankie’d learned a whole bunch of new Italian swear words.
The rooster had made an excellent escarole soup, and the experience taught Frankie a valuable lesson—a sweet personality could exist side-by-side with a steely core.
With a grunt, Frankie sat back. The swearing might relieve stress but didn’t offer any solutions.
She pulled out onto Dall Road and headed back to Rescue. Contacting Kit would be difficult with that no visitors rule and no way to get a message into the place. For all Frankie knew, Kit might not even be in that—that compound. The cult compound.
However, those Zealot members must visit town, sooner or later. For groceries, mail, gas. Or…maybe to go to a bar?
She tapped her fingers on the wheel. Being discreet would be essential while making inquiries about the cult.
Obtaining information and coming up with a safer plan might take a while. So…how to keep from sticking out like a sore thumb in the tiny town? The gas station owner had said this was the dead month for tourism. Ski season was over, and the fishing was just starting to pick up.
Not that I resemble a fisherman, anyway. Cooking fish? She was a pro. Catching? No. Absolutely not. Pretending to be a tourist would be her last resort.
She might need to find a job to blend in. If the summer season was starting soon, they’d be hiring, right?
Even weird cult types had to buy food. They’d talk to clerks and salespeople. Being all self-sufficient and stuff, they probably didn’t go to restaurants. Did religious conservative types go to bars? Kit had told her that Obadiah didn’t drink.
She’d better try for salesclerk jobs.
Hmm. What if she ran into Obadiah? Would he recognize her?
She pulled on her lip. Nah, probably not. The only time she’d met him was a moment in the reception line after his and Kit’s wedding ceremony. He’d already been swamped with introductions to all of Kit’s co-workers at the garden nursery. Honestly, why hadn’t Kit seen that as a big red flag—that the guy hadn’t made the effort to meet any of her friends?
No way would Obadiah remember her face.
So, first step, find a place to stay. Tomorrow, get a job. She rolled her eyes. Mannaggia. Damn me, for sure. This so wouldn’t go over well with Mama, who’d thrown a fit about Frankie taking vacation time. “You’re needed to be the liaison with the runway show next week. Some of our girls need your handholding. And who will deal with the fighting backstage? And that new photographer has everyone in tears. How can you just walk off and leave me saddled with all these problems?”
Frankie’s jaw firmed. All those problems could be handled by a perfectly capable staff. No one was indispensable.
And I haven’t had a vacation…well, ever.
It hurt that her mother thought she was being selfish.
Of course, she didn’t know that Frankie was here to help Kit. That Kit was in trouble. She wouldn’t understand. Over the years, Mama had cut Kit to the quick with valid, but tactless comments about her poor taste in men. Kit was sensitive to criticism—and when this was over, she wouldn’t need Mama’s “helpful” remarks reminding her of another mistake.
At least Papà had been supportive of Frankie taking time off and had chided Mama about treating Frankie more like an employee than a daughter. But that was Papà; he had a soft heart. When she was little, she’d wished he’d been home more. But famous photographers traveled.
And took pictures of gorgeous Norwegian models and fell in love. The thought still made Frankie laugh. Two more unsuited people could never be found, yet, somehow, they were still married.
Frankie sighed. It’d be nice to have someone she could talk to about this mess. Someone to cuddle with at night. Someone who might even reassure her that everything would be all right.
Because right now, she was feeling really alone—and drowning in doubt.
What might those people do to Kit if Frankie made too many waves?