 
# **Contents**

Title page

Copyright

Your free book is waiting

Dedications

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-three

Epilogue
The Camp

Kit Crumb

Published by Lost lodge Press at Smashwords
TheCamp Copyright 2015 by Kit Crumb

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or used in any form

or by any means, graphic, electrical, or mechanical, including photo copying, recording

taping or information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the publisher

Smash words Edition

Lost Lodge Press

40 Water Street

Ashland, Oregon 97520

Kitkcrumb@gmail.com

Cover design by Chris Mole Design

Sign up for Kit's New Releases mailing list and get a free copy of:

Body Parts: A Rye and Claire Adventure Thriller:

Click here to get started:

**wwwkitcrumb.com**
To Chris who's spirit of creativity touches my soul.

**_Chapter One_**

The girls sat listlessly on the bench seats that ran down the middle of the van. Some leaned into the backrests, chins resting on their chests, while others hung their heads, swaying with the rhythm of the van, arms draped over their shoulder harnesses.

The pills hadn't worked on one of the girls. She kept her head down but snuck glances at the driver in the rear-view mirror.

She felt fuzzy, like the time she'd had a bad case of the flu: aware and awake, but dull.

The driver kept reaming out his ear with the little finger of his right hand, a nervous habit.

She'd unbuckled, but was holding her seat belt in place and waiting, for what she wasn't sure.

All she knew was that she had to get him to stop the van. She had to get out, get away.

The warm air from the heater and the droning of the tires on the road made her sleepy. She had to stay awake, and closed her eyes not to sleep, but to remember. To understand how she'd ended up like this.

Back behind the camp, in an old barn, she'd seen what happened when any of the girls refused to take the pills. One man stood at either end of the line of twelve girls who were made to stand single file, shoulder to shoulder, while a third man walked along, handing each girl two pills to take.

When the girl to her right refused to take the pills—she took them into her mouth and then spit them out—she'd been pulled out of line, shoved to the floor, and raped.

She'd clamped her eyes shut to forget the violence and wished she could also erase the memory of the screaming and grunting. Even now, she couldn't get the scene out of her head.

Then it was her turn. She'd held her hand out.

"That's a good girl."

He'd watched to be sure they went into her mouth. Then said, "Open wide. Lift your tongue."

She'd taken the pills. What choice did she have?

What was supposed to happen? Looking down the line, the other girls had begun to slump, their heads drooping. When they were led out of the barn to the van, they shuffled, so she shuffled.

She allowed herself to be manhandled into her seat. Watched how they moved. One man urging them on from behind, and one in the opening, pulling them up into the van. She'd wanted to scream, to punch and kick these men. From behind, it was push on the back, usually the hand to the butt went low. Oh god. The man inside latched onto hands and pulled, usually rubbing or grabbing a breast in the process. The girls did nothing, gave no reaction. Not a flinch, not a grimace. The verbal abuse was almost as unbearable. When the two men exchanged looks while passing a girl up, that's when it got bad.

For the first time in her life, she wished she were ugly and flat chested.

The van suddenly fishtailed and she was roused from her reverie. She opened her eyes. She wanted to throw her hands out, grab something, steady herself, but he might see. Instead, she pushed her butt further into the back of the seat and set her feet further apart. When she looked back at the driver, he was lifting his right hand toward his right ear. That's when it happened.

First she felt the shift, the girls all leaning in the same direction. The driver's right hand groped for the steering wheel, but missed. She could just see enough through the windshield to know that something was wrong. The van was climbing and as if she were on a carnival ride, her stomach lurched with the steep incline. She pressed back into her seat, then thrust forward, fingers white-knuckling the shoulder harness until they were torn away and she felt herself rocketing to the front.

Halfway up the embankment, the van slammed into a boulder and all the girls were pressed into their harnesses except one, who was tossed the length of the van where she slammed into the back of the driver like a rag doll tossed away by an angry child.

The van did three rolls down the embankment and then landed on its top before gently rocking back onto the driver's side.

The double back doors had sprung open when the van lost its shape, and the windshield had popped out. Inside, twelve sets of hands were searching for the seatbelt release button. One by one, the girls dropped to the side of the van and began to crawl toward the light that flooded in through the back.

**_Chapter Two_**

Rye Anderson couldn't find his wife. He leaned his six foot two inch frame on the stack of boxes directly in front of him and heaved a long loud sigh.

"Time for a break?"

He looked around and spotted her leaning against a row of boxes. Her petite figure was made smaller as she squatted, pulling her knees to her chest.

"How long you been resting over there?"

She stood as he turned, took two steps, and leaned her head on his chest. "Not long enough."

His hands drifted down to her waist and as though he was executing a ballet lift, he hefted her to the top of a stack of boxes so that she was at eye level with him.

"This measures out as more square footage than the old Victorian." He looked across the sea of boxes and then back at Claire. "But it sure doesn't look like it."

"Are you kidding? It already feels roomier and now the garage accommodates the ambulance, your sidecar rig, and the Fiat." She turned and scanned the rows of boxes. "It does look a little daunting, though. And we're definitely going to need some help moving the gym equipment."

They were silent for a moment as they looked around at what would eventually be the living room. Without knowing it, they were both remembering the final move from Snoop Drive. Following the moving van as it crossed Ashland and wound up Valley View Road, pulling into the driveway of the five-acre parcel, and parking in front of their new ranch house.

Rye stretched and flexed his arms; every muscle in his body reminded him of the boxes he'd moved. "The one thing I won't miss is the traffic we had to cross coming and going from every call."

Claire remained silent.

"The garage is set up, ambulance plugged in. I got the phone connected, too. Once we find them, we can hook up the computers. Boxes marked "K" are in the kitchen and my books are in the spare bedroom in the back. I'd say we're making progress."

When a Klaxon alarm went off, Claire gave Rye a serious look. "You've got to be kidding."

"Hey, I wanted to be sure we could hear a call from any room in the house."

She pushed off from her perch and landed lightly on the balls of her feet. Rye was already weaving his way through the maze of boxes. "I'll unplug and open the garage door, if you take the call."

Like she had a choice. He was already across the kitchen and on his way into the garage.

"Okay, sure. Fine."

She didn't really mind. He'd been the one to hook up the extension that plugged into the ambulance to keep the fluids to temperature and avoid a warm up. Dispatch had been her baby.

She scooted around half-unpacked boxes to the walk-in closet that she'd set up as Dispatch, complete with a red phone. She picked it up, not that she didn't trust her husband, and listened to the dial tone. "Yup."

Rye was just backing the ambulance out when Claire emerged from the house through the front double doors holding a clipboard.

When she climbed in, they both stared at the converted ranch house and attached barn. Their house and the new home for their business: Rogue Rescue and Ambulance Service.

She turned to Rye. "First call under the new name."

He reached over and gave her thigh a gentle squeeze. "Here's to no eviscerated bodies."

She smiled and patted his hand. "Yeah, and may all body parts remain with their original owners."

He guided the three-ton ambulance onto Valley View Road. "Wow, not a car in sight. What's the call?"

She frowned as she read. "Single vehicle accident, multiple victims. No other details. Called in by cell phone. Interstate 5, north. Should be just past the 28 mile marker."

Fifteen minutes and no sign of an accident. Claire took in the empty highway at a glance. "No traffic, no accident." Then she looked down to re-read the call sheet.

First there was an audible gasp from Rye and then she was pressed into her harness as he brought the ambulance to a quick stop.

She looked up at a scene that could only be described as a middle school recess gone bad. Children were scattered across two lanes, standing, sitting, or even just lying on the ground. Several were walking around. Interspersed were concerned motorists. Some had pulled to the shoulder of the road. Others had stopped, blocking traffic in the middle of a lane.

Rye had already assessed the scene. "There." He pointed at a van that lay on its driver's side on the shoulder at the base of a hill. It had lost its shape. Both rear double doors were open, as was the front passenger side door that stuck up and looked like a hatch.

Claire snagged the jump kit from between the seats and was out of the cab at a run.

Rye cautiously guided the ambulance off the shoulder, where he'd first stopped, and into the middle of the slow lane to create a traffic barrier . He turned off the siren but left the lights on.

He pulled the handle, put his shoulder to the door, and was rewarded with a honking horn when an SUV zipped by. Taking a calming breath, he checked the elephant ear mirror and then slipped out.

He pressed against the ambulance as another car careened past. Looking over the hood of the huge rescue vehicle, he watched Claire approach the van.

Like a man on a ledge, he made his way to the back of the ambulance, flung open both doors, and snapped up a jump kit. Then he shot his arms through the straps and pulled it tight to his back. He pulled a backboard from under the gurney, relieved when he turned around that traffic had slowed and cars were giving the emergency vehicle a wide birth.

The dilemma for any Emergency Medical Technician arriving at the scene of a multi-victim accident is where to start. The level of carnage, which indicates those most injured, often answers the question. But this was crazy. Rye counted eleven children across two lanes.

Claire set the jump kit at the rear of the van and ran to the front. The engine was off and there was no smoke. The windshield lay to one side. The driver hung from the shoulder harness, unconscious, suspended inches above the driver's side door. Draped over his inert form was a young girl. Reaching in through the hole made by the windshield, Claire came up short. She couldn't reach the keys.

As she ran the length of the van, a quick assessment assured her that it was stable.

Picking up the jump kit, she stood between the double doors and peered down the length of the interior, noted how it seemed to close in, swallowed hard, ducked her head, and crawled into the van until she was kneeling behind the drivers seat.

No keys.

Blood was splattered across the dashboard, enough to completely cover the speedometer.

Reaching over, she grasped the grab handle in the roof just above the passenger seat and leveraged herself so that she was just above the driver and the little girl. It was immediately apparent from the gash in the man's forehead that the blood hadn't come from the child. She reached around to find the carotid artery, but jerked her hand back as if she'd been struck by a snake when the girl opened her eyes. Her second surprise was that the pre-teen didn't attempt to move, in spite of her seemingly awkward position, stretched out over the driver.

"Don't be frightened. My name is Claire, I'm an EMT here to help you." No response. "Are you in pain?" No response. "Does anything hurt?" No response. "I'm going to lift you up and set you down behind the seat."

Claire had to reach around with her right hand and grasp the tiny right shoulder, effectively rolling her over and toward her into her waiting left arm. Then she released her grip and slid her right arm under the girl's spindly legs.

Her angle of lift and the fact that the victim weighted around 100 pounds put a strain on her back, so she was relieved when she could set her down.

The girl seemed to be taking it all in without making a sound or moving.

"Can you stand?"

Tiny hands grasped the back of the drivers seat and shifted her feet slightly, not blinking in the process.

"What's your name?"

Rye waited for traffic to stop and then, not trusting the other drivers, he made a dash for a girl that was staggering in ever-larger circles that would eventually lead her out into the fast lane.

He didn't expect a response, but followed protocol. "My name's Rye and I'm here to help you..." When he spotted an aging BMW bullying its way between cars and realized that he and the girl occupied the next available space, he snatched her into his arms and ran back to the ambulance.

Gasping from the exertion of carrying the girl at a run, he hastily placed her on the rear of the ambulance so that her feet were on the giant bumper. With hands on his knees, he bent over to catch his breath while he watched her for any response, any movement. Nothing. He waved his hand in front of her face. Nothing. When he reached up and sank the fingernail from his index finger and thumb into her ear lobe and she didn't react, he was puzzled. This wasn't shock. She was catatonic.

Claire retrieved the razor from her holster, and, one hand holding the driver in place against the steering wheel, sliced through the shoulder harness.

His hips sagged out of the seat belt and settled against the door.

Suddenly, he was awake and flailing the air.

"My name's Claire..." She didn't get a chance to finish.

His head turned side to side. "What about the girls. The girls—are they alright?"

An intermittent honking caught his attention. With a wave of his arm, he knocked Claire to the floor and began crawling over the dashboard and out of the hole made by the windshield. Claire pushed into a crouch, but suddenly the girl was fully awake. Not groggy or confused, and stronger then she looked, she pushed herself over backwards as she tried to rise. In an effort to stop the young victim Claire shot an arm out and grabbed her vest by the pocket. But in the scrabble it tore and released the girl, who ran out the back.

"Hey, come back!"

Lurching forward in an effort to stop the girl, Claire fell full length as the fabric tore and quickly threw her hand down.

Without losing a minute, she jumped to her feet and pulled herself up over the dashboard and out onto the hood.

"What the hell?"

The driver, blood covering one side of his face, was staggering like a drunken sailor across the shoulder, headed for a van in the fast lane that now had its side door open. There was a man in the van waving him on.

She looked over her shoulder and watched for a minute as the girl scampered toward the ambulance, then turned back to locate the driver.

It wouldn't be the first time she'd been forced to tackle an accident victim. During the first year when she'd teamed up with Rye, back when they were Mad Dash ambulance, they responded to a house fire. There were victims on the front lawn. Rye went directly to the children, while she sought out the mother, who she found sitting glassy-eyed, wrapped in a wool blanket. When Claire approached, the woman threw off the blanket and, totally naked, took off at a run across several neighbors' yards. In the report, Claire referred to it as 'running shock.'

Giving a quick look down the slow lane as she crossed the shoulder, she spotted a single vehicle next to the ambulance, not moving.

Claire broke into a sprint. Two steps on the asphalt and she knew that in another three, she'd have the driver. That's when a single chirp from the ambulance turned her head. Rye had used this as a signal before to get her attention: she felt like she was in a cartoon where the roadrunner sees the falling rock and has to stop in time.

The aging BMW cut within inches of her path and slammed into the driver, launching him twenty feet. Claire stopped and stared in disbelief, fully expecting the driver to skid to a stop. When he didn't even slow down, she looked for a license number, but the plate was gone. In another minute, so was the car.

Rye looked on in relief. This was the difficult part of operating an ambulance search and rescue service with his wife. He wanted to run to her side, express his concern, and swear her to caution. But there would be none of that. He waited until they locked eyes and then gave her a wave. When she returned the wave, he spun around and checked on the victim sitting in the back of the ambulance. She hadn't moved, so he ran to the next victim.

There had to be a faster way to gather them up, to get them out of the line of traffic, out of harm's way.

The van that had honked accelerated away, but not before Claire caught sight of the man that had been standing in the opened side door. He wore a ski mask.

When she reached the driver, he lay twisted on top of his right leg. One touch of the carotid artery and she knew he was dead. So she went running past the hulk of the crashed van, the same way the girl had gone.

For a moment, she was distracted watching Rye attempt to gather up the victims. It was all so overwhelming.

"Shit."

This was insane. They'd have to call in at least four ambulances to transport everyone.

Most victims of auto accidents lay as still as possible in an attempt to minimize pain. Some call out in delirium, others lay unconscious. Only the victim of a house fire had ever run. Claire nodded her head as she watched some of the girls walking in circles.

"Running shock. Yeah, has to be."

She watched as her husband walked, a girl on each arm, across the interstate. Four girls huddled near the rear of the ambulance, six remained to be rounded up. She headed for the ambulance at a run.

Rye greeted her with a lopsided smile. "You okay?"

"Fine."

He walked the two girls over to the others and stepped back. "They don't seem to wander."

He gave his wife a 'let's get to it' look, then tugged her arm, and headed back out onto the Interstate at a jog.

The problem was that none of the girls moved faster then a slow walk.

They had just rounded up the last two when Medford ambulance, several police cruisers, and a fire engine pulled up.

Claire watched the arrival with a smirk. "Better late then never."

Rye laughed. "Odd. How hard can it be to locate an accident on the I-5?"

**_Chapter Three_**

Ellen Stulov leaned against the tree at the corner of the parking lot across from Ashland High School, nervously rubbing her thumb along the edge of her cell phone. She was facing the school so she would see Steven step out of the crowd after the last bell.

Her breasts were high on her chest and made her look taller then she was. At five foot eight inches, she was tall for sixteen, for a junior. Auburn hair hung long to the middle of her back and nicely framed her oval face. Her arms were proportionate to her long legs and she looked athletic.

She turned heads when she entered a classroom or moved down the hall. The boys ogled her and stared when she walked past. Teachers, however, were perplexed. She always seemed to be waiting for a bell to ring, staring at the ground. Her head always down. On campus, her arms were always crossed over her chest. She rarely spoke.

Then it all changed.

One day while in a hurry, she was walking across the senior parking lot when Steven, the school's first-string senior quarterback, recognized her as a junior on senior turf.

On the field, Steven Huff was aggressive, fast, and sure of himself. On campus and off, however, he was mild-mannered, known for his even temper.

Ellen froze as he approached, realizing her transgression. Steven hustled her into his car with the excuse of getting her out of harm's way before the other seniors arrived. From that moment on, they seemed inseparable. She could be seen wearing his letterman jacket at every game.

She still had a couple minutes before the last bell, so she lifted her phone to read Steven's text for the tenth time.

**No FB prct must talk snr pk lt.**

Something was wrong.

No football practice. Must talk. Senior parking lot. He'd spelled out 'must talk.' Maybe he'd been kicked off the team. Or his parents were punishing him for some imaginary transgression that only they were aware of.

She squatted, dropped her cell in the big pocket of her pack, and checked her watch. She stared at the buildings that made up Ashland High School, knowing that at any minute, students would crowd out the doors and head off in a thousand directions. It always reminded her of bees leaving a hive.

The final bell brought her up and alert. She nervously checked her watch again

At six foot one, Steven was tall enough that she spotted him by his haystack of blonde hair before she could see his face.

Something was definitely wrong. His broad shoulders were slightly forward and there was no sign of swagger in his walk. When she waved, he didn't return the gesture with a smile as was his habit.

When he reached her side, he didn't touch her, take her arm, or embrace her. Instead, he looked around nervously.

"Let's go over here." He indicated the direction with a nod of his head.

She looked over at the lot. They were moving away from his old Subaru.

He finally stopped at the far corner of the senior lot by the hedge. He stepped around so her back was to the lot. He seemed to be waiting for something.

She could hear the distant chatter, slamming of doors, the starting of engines. Throughout all of the hubbub, Steven never looked up. Then, when the parking lot was quiet, he looked her squarely in the eye.

Oh god. She could feel her dread rising as he squirmed and shoved his hands in his pockets. She couldn't stand it any longer.

"Steven, what is it?"

It was as though he was waiting for the verbal cue. "I need to break it off."

He danced around like he had to go to the bathroom.

She couldn't believe what he was saying. Need to. I need to. He needs to?

She crossed her arms over her chest. He wasn't looking anyway, and she knew it was something he enjoyed. "Need to? Steven, what are you saying? What do you mean you 'need to?' Is this something to do with your parents?" She clutched her pack to her chest and could feel her heart pounding with adrenaline and fear.

"It's just that I'm a senior and have to focus on my football career."

Funny, last night in the car, he was focused on his dick. Oh my god.

He was dumping her because of last night. He enjoyed her breasts and she offered them freely. That wasn't enough and she knew it.

"Steven." She softened her voice, rolled the words the way he liked. "If it's about last night..." She dropped her eyes to his crotch.

"That's not it." He kept his hands in his pockets. "I need my jacket back."

This was it. He was dumping her. She dropped her pack and peeled off his jacket, thrusting it out at him.

"Why? I just need to know why."

He hooked the jacket over a thumb, tossed it over his shoulder, and walked straight past her to his car. She turned and was about to call his name when she spotted a teacher watching them from across the street and bit her tongue.

How could he do this to her?

The next day passed in a daze. Her route home would take her past all their old haunts, for the last time.

The miles whirred by as a litany of losses danced through her head. Holding hands, the feel of his closeness on the drive home, texting. Gone, gone, gone. Riding in cool cars, sharing senior talk, cuddling. All gone.

Ellen stopped. Sounds of the creek invaded. The musty scent of cattails carried by a gentle breeze brought her around. Images of kissing filled her with loss. She squatted by the running water and closed her eyes, felt his touch, sensed her passion. Sensed his passion.

She had to get him back. She shrugged out of her pack and fished around the big pocket until she felt the hard, rounded side of her cell phone. She couldn't read his text one more time but had to send him a message—maybe a picture. She had to get him back.

It slowly came to her, what she'd do, how she'd get him back. She stabbed at the icon for pictures then scrolled through to Bandon and the beach, among the rocks. She shaded the image on the screen with her hand. There he stood, bare chest firm, athletic legs ascending until they disappeared into the fringe of his cutoff jeans. Ellen clamped her eyes shut and brought up the image of them kissing and caressing each other to the rhythm of the rising tide as it crashed against the boulders. She actually thought she could feel the sand shift as she remembered.

She'd felt his passion, sensed his urgency, and done nothing. Broke from his embrace, laughing as she danced away among the logs and rocks and boulders. And now it had all come crashing down. She opened her eyes and looked at her phone. She knew what she had to do.

She grabbed a strap and slung the pack on her back, retaining the phone in her hand. A surge of adrenaline pumped through her body as she imagined the picture she'd send him. Her mantra of loss turned to one of hope.

Steven guided the aging Subaru out of the Pizza Plus parking lot, glancing at his watch in the process.

He let out a groan as he pulled into traffic. "Ah, shit."

David leaned forward from the back seat. "What's up?"

Boyd leaned back deeply into the front passenger seat, pressing into the headrest. He turned just his head until he could look David in the eye. "He just remembered ending it with Ellen." He laughed. "No more pussy."

Steven shot him a quick look. "Shut up, man."

He hit the blinker, checked the mirror, and changed lanes.

"I'm late. My parents set a curfew and they'll be all over me when I get home."

David turned his head, taking in his two friends. "My folks did away with a curfew for my senior year."

"Yeah, well, lucky you."

Steven dropped off his friends and it was another twenty minutes before he pulled into his own driveway.

Ellen entered her house like a ghost, but her mother noticed her anyway. Ellen she ignored her greeting, however, so as not to attract her attention. She visited the bathroom and then went immediately to her room, locked the door, and dropped her backpack next to the computer desk. Squatting down, she retrieved her cell phone from the big pocket then pursed her lips as she surveyed the room.

Pink, her mother's idea of feminine. Nothing had changed much since she was in the seventh grade except the addition of the computer and the desk that housed it. The walls were bare. She couldn't understand the obsession with singers like Justin Bieber or rock groups or actors. She was obsessed with Steven and would have posters of him on her wall if she had any.

When she stood, it was to face her computer. Reaching down, she propped her iPhone against the keyboard and tried to gauge the angle necessary to capture the center of the bed. Bending down, she tried to look through the tiny viewfinder. Finally frustrated, she stomped over and placed her pillow where she would sit on the edge of the bed, walked back to the camera, pressed the icon, waited for the simulated shutter click, and then snatched up the phone.

"Not bad." she carefully set the camera in place and moved to the center of the room.

She'd applied fresh makeup and ran a brush through her hair in the bathroom. Now, she carefully peeled off her sweatshirt, careful not to allow the material to brush her face, and letting her shorts puddle around her feet.

The air in the room seemed cool on her bare skin and she suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed by her nudity. She'd never seen herself naked. It was an in-between thing, like when she got into her pajamas or she changed into her gym clothes. But even then, she kept her underwear on.

She closed her eyes and imagined how Steven would take one look at the pictures and want her back, pictured him running to the phone. She opened her eyes, resolute and single-minded, moved to the bed, tossed her pillow to one side, struck a pose, and stared across the room at the little camera. Then she closed her eyes and pictured Steven again.

Her cell phone came with a seven second delay from the instant the picture icon was touched to the moment the simulated shutter signaled that the photo had been taken.

As if in a tennis match, Ellen went back and forth between desk and bed where she would pose and wait for the shutter to click before crossing the room to bring up the picture.

Finally, she sat in her computer chair and ran through the montage of bad pictures. Her turning around, legs crossed—that would never do. Lips kissing at the camera—that was stupid. Then she froze.

"Perfect."

Her breasts were accentuated, her head was just inside the frame. She was smiling. The tops of her thighs were at the bottom of the frame, slightly parted. Perfect, perfect, perfect.

She hooked the phone to the computer.

The rough material on her cheap office chair irritated her bare bottom, but she was totally engrossed by her nude image on the screen and how it would get Steven back.

Nothing left to do but compose an email.

David walked past the aisles of books, totally bored. Library science sucked. Then he saw Steven on one of the short couches, hunched over like a mad scientist, and decided to see if he could sneak up on him. When he was standing directly behind him, David was surprised that his friend hadn't heard him—he must be really engrossed in something.

He peeked over Steven's shoulder. "Holy shit," he blurted.

Steven whirled around at his friend's outburst, shot daggers at him with his eyes. "Shut up and sit down."

David practically sat on his friend's lap in order to get another look at the image on the cell's screen. He mouthed the name 'Ellen' and Steven nodded. David pulled out his cell and in a techno-moment was looking at the photo of Ellen on his own phone.

Neither boy noticed the figure standing behind them until a hand reached down and snatched Steven's phone. David instinctively let his phone drop between the cushions of the couch.

**_Chapter Four_**

In her small Craftsman home in South Medford, Oregon, Dorothy Stulov— fussing about in the kitchen and preparing her daughter's favorite desert—set the oven to preheat. Cooking was the only activity that set her at ease, made her feel comfortable, reminded her of better times.

When she first arrived in the United States from her native Ukraine, it was to work as a domestic cook. She was 28 and wanted more than anything to become a US citizen. Her boss sponsored her and after ten years she took the citizenship test and passed.

At 38, she was still a beauty, and at a dinner party she catered for her boss, she attracted the attention of a young CEO who swept her off her feet. They were married shortly after. It seemed like a fairytale for a peasant girl from the former USSR. But for CEO Alex Dormer, she was a trophy wife. Within a year, she was pregnant, and almost as quickly, divorced.

He moved her across the country to Medford, Oregon, bought her a house and told her never to use his name, or attempt to see him. That he wanted nothing to do with her or the child on the way.

She uncovered the dough for the baklava and began combining the ingredients she'd laid out.

She'd cooked for several restaurants but her culinary abilities were more suited to a household, and jobs never lasted.

It was while she was pregnant, during one of her visits to the free family planning clinic, that an orderly befriended her. He convinced her to attend night school and become an Emergency Medical Technician.

But it was not to be. Her thick accent and poor English reading skills dashed her chances at a passing score on the qualification exam. Luckily, one of her instructors referred her for a job working at a medical supply house.

She mixed the chopped walnuts with a tablespoon of sugar and a teaspoon of cinnamon, tasted it, and added a pinch of nutmeg and salt. Then she set the water to boil.

It took twelve years for Dorothy to become manager at the supply house. But it was worth the work and the wait. Medford Medical Supply catered to every ambulance and fire department in the Rogue Valley. They were established and now, so was she.

Little Ellen Stulov flourished under her mother's watchful eye. Dorothy made sure that her little darling was dressed in all the current fashions. When Ellen was ready for elementary school, Dorothy enrolled her in classes with a speech therapist so that she would have no trace of a Russian accent, like the one that Dorothy herself never lost. Ellen had a computer, a smart phone, and when the time came, she'd have her own car. Things were going so well until one day everything changed.

She turned the heat down on the water, added sugar and honey, and stirred. Then she brought the mixture up to a simmer, moved to the counter, and began to oil the pan with long, slow strokes, coating every inch of the surface. Turning, she stared at the syrup and lost herself again in her memories.

Dorothy had always been a sounding board for her daughter. Ellen turned to her with every thought, impression and tidbit of gossip from school. But that all stopped during her first year of high school. Ellen became sullen, quiet and never wanted to confide.

During a parent-teacher conference, she learned that her daughter had become an introvert. Her peers thought she was 'out of it,' plain and simple. But then she met Steven. One year ahead of Ellen in school, he was the star quarterback. Ellen's relations with this man-boy were always kept secret. All Dorothy knew was that her daughter was happy.

Ellen was a junior going with a senior and no longer 'out of it.' Instead, she became the envy of most of her classmates. She wore his jacket and a ring on a chain around her neck.

Dorothy broke the dough into four parts. Pressed each on the counter in turn, pulling it over her knuckles until it was translucent. Then she placed the first layer in the pan, and again brushed oil on it with long, slow brush strokes. Then another layer and more oil. She wondered about Ellen and Steven, how he had changed her daughter's life, how Ellen was now new and different. Dorothy sprinkled the walnut mixture with a flurry of cinnamon. How alive and open her daughter had become. Especially when she was mixing with her peers.

Dorothy was rocked out of her reverie by the ringing of the phone.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she crossed the kitchen, picked up the phone.

"Hello."

Her ruddy complexion paled and she pinned the phone between her head and shoulder as she untied her apron.

"You can't just tell me over the phone? I see. Yes, I'll be right over."

Dorothy pulled into faculty parking lot as she had been instructed. She was met at the main entrance to the office by a teacher and escorted into the vice principal's office.

A stern-looking woman rose as she entered. "Mrs. Stulov, thank you for coming so promptly. Please have a seat." The woman immediately launched into a speech before Dorothy could say a word.

"I have to tell you up front that the activities your daughter is involved in are not completely unknown to the school or staff."Dorothy was no shrinking violet, and had waited politely as long a she could.

"Miss Stafford, exactly what has Ellen done? And where is my daughter?"

Without a word, the counselor slid a cell phone across the desk, pressed the icon for camera, and then for photos. Up came the image of Ellen stretched out across her bed, totally naked.

Dorothy slid the camera back.

Miss Stafford picked it up. "This phone belongs to Steven Huff."

Without a word, Dorothy stood.

"I'd like to bring your daughter in at this time."

Ellen's mother inhaled deeply. "That will not be necessary."

The vice principal placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward. "It is the policy of..."

She was cut off by a sharp gesture. Dorothy's hand slashed through the air and she cut off the vice principal with an emphatic, "Enough!"

Miss Stafford came around the desk. "Fine. Then I need to inform you that Ellen is automatically suspended for nine days, due to her poor judgment. But until the two of you meet with me in this office so that I can be sure that she understands the seriousness of this stunt, she will not be allowed to return to school."

She softened her tone and touched Dorothy on the shoulder.

"Please, Mrs. Stulov. I think we should discuss this here and now with Ellen so it doesn't get out of hand."

"I believe that this matter is already, as you say, out of hand."

Miss Stafford leaned on the desk with one hand and pressed the intercom with the other. "Please bring Ellen Stulov to my outer-office."

Without a word, Dorothy, her back ramrod-straight, marched out the door.

Ellen was pulled out of class. Without having to be told, she knew that someone other than Steven had seen her picture.

She had never seen her mother like this before and followed her in silence as she walked out of the office and down the hall toward the parking lot.

They climbed in the Subaru Forrester without a word. When her mother didn't start the car, Ellen wasn't sure what was going to happen. Once home, she could lock herself in her room. This wasn't fair.

"Are we just going to sit here?"

Her mother swiveled her head without turning her shoulders to look directly at her daughter.

"You have not slept with Steven." It was a statement, not a question.

Ellen turned to face her mother and leaned against the passenger door.

"That is none of your business."

Dorothy started the car, still facing her daughter. "Everything about you is my business. And I know you have not."

Ellen's voice rose an octave as she decided to tempt fate. "How the fuck would you know?"

"Do not be impertinent and do not use that word when speaking to me."

Dorothy guided the Subaru out of the parking lot and down a side street, knuckles white as she gripped the steering wheel.

"What word?" Ellen spat out. "'Fuck?' You'd be an expert on that, I guess, knowing that Steven and I haven't fucked."

"Please, Ellen. I ask that you keep a civil tongue." Dorothy turned south on Siskiyou. "I know that you and Steven have not shared a bed because you sent him that picture."

**_Chapter Five_**

Rye guided the ambulance onto the paved drive that led into the barn, but pulled up short.

Claire released her harness, ready to climb out, and opened the door.

"We're just going to leave her outside. Paul is coming over to help move the last of the medical supplies."

Claire loved Rye. He was big and strong and knew how to remain calm under pressure, which is part of what made him a good Emergency Medical Tech. But didn't always have a lot of foresight, and because of this, his actions could be misguided.

"I think we need to get her inside and plugged in. We're still on call for another twenty-four hours."

He nodded. "Yeah, I guess so."

She hopped out, ran around, and slid the big door open. One of the modifications they'd made on the house was to replace the two huge barn doors with one that ran on a rail. They were still waiting for the special electronic opener.

She waved him forward, making a fist when he was in far enough. Rye climbed out and placed blocks behind the rear wheels. She handed him the two cords and watched as he plugged them in. Then he turned to face her.

"I was just thinking that she'd only be unplugged a little while, not long enough to really get cold."

Claire danced to the door leading to the breezeway that connected the barn to the house and turned. "Better safe than sorry. Chinese alright?"

Rye closed the distance, wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her in tight. "Actually, No. Paul and Amy are bringing over homemade pizza and garlic bread."

Claire smiled at the mention of Paul's daughter. A few years ago, they'd rescued her from a well. Amy had always referred to her as Aunt Claire, but now, at fifteen, Amy was also her student at the Kenpo Karate School.

"Great. I'll move some boxes and see if I can find the table."

Rye gave her a kiss.

Claire's five foot five inches made her nearly a foot shorter than him at six foot three and a half inches, and he liked that he outweighed her by over one hundred pounds. He knew it was up to him to take care of the small details, like tonight. He'd already thought of the evening meal as a way to save her from having to cook.

The table hadn't been assembled but she found the chairs and cleared the boxes off the kitchen island and set them up around it. Then began methodically carrying boxes out of the kitchen and into the living room.

She'd be glad to see Amy out of the confines of the Karate studio, but was equally glad she'd be coming with her father, rather than her boyfriend.

Paul and Rye had been friends since the third grade. Each had been the other's running partner before they went their separate ways in college. Paul studied criminal law on the East Coast, while Rye studied to become an EMT in the Rogue Valley. But when Paul returned to Oregon, it was as a Private Investigator. He and Rye started running together again, and were doing so regularly until a bullet to the hip stopped Paul from being able to run anymore. He didn't need a cane, but did walk with a limp.

Pounding at the front door brought Claire around with a start. Before she could respond, it burst open, revealing a smiling Ed Thomas, Amy's boyfriend. Claire stifled a groan.

"Hello, Sensei."

Claire detested his false respect. Ed had never studied martial arts and only used that greeting because of Amy.

He suddenly lurched forward, pushed from behind. She smiled at Amy's rebuff. "Hey, I told you about that." The teen squeezed between Ed and a stack of boxes, executed a short bow, then dashed forward to deliver a quick hug.

"Dad's in the barn with Uncle Rye. I said I'd call them when everything was set."

Rye had recognized the sound of the aging Volkswagen bus and turned to see the barn door slide open. He stepped up and greeted his friend with a slap on the shoulder.

"Amy took the message, said you guys responded to a strange call."

Rye nodded and turned back to the task of emptying the ambulance and wiping down the inside. Paul walked over and sat on the bumper.

"Hip bothering you?"

Paul stood and lifted his leg like he was marching. "March temperatures always make it ache. It's nothing."

"I think Claire will want to be in on any discussion of today's call. We both want your opinion on a couple things."

Ed was older than Amy by seven years and that bothered Claire. He had this recurrent line about a carpentry job waiting for him in Los Vegas. He claimed that he'd be revamping one of the casinos. But whenever Claire asked him about it, he always responded that they'd been in touch and were still gutting the place. He seemed phony to her, always trying to ingratiate himself.

The pizza was great. While Paul was on the East Coast, he had learned to make it Chicago-style. Amy had made the garlic bread.

Ed had driven Rye to distraction when they had first purchased the house. Amy, her father, and Ed had been over to help unpack. Ed had given out advice on rebuilding the barn to fit the ambulance. His suggestions ranged from pure fantasy to the ridiculous. At the end of the first week, when Amy was out of earshot, Rye confronted him with the fact that he hadn't unpacked a single box, but had been present for every meal.

Claire was pleased that Ed was quiet for a change, seemingly enjoying the pizza. She thought that maybe he was getting the hint. But when the conversation shifted to the strange call that they'd responded to he seemed to be paying close attention.

When Rye had devoured the last of the crust, they all vacated the kitchen and moved stacks of boxes so that they could sit on the living room floor.

Claire watched as Paul squirmed around. "Are you going to be alright sitting like this?" Before he could answer, Amy showed up with a beanbag chair she'd remembered seeing in one of the bedrooms. She was struggling to pull it between two towering stacks of boxes when Rye finally got up and lifted it over the top, handing it back down to her. Claire couldn't help but notice that he was shooting daggers at Ed, who had watched the entire process without offering to help

Paul arranged himself on the chair. "So. Rogue Rescue encountered the strange. What a surprise."

"Yeah, well, I'd certainly call it that," Rye said and looked around to make sure he had everyone's attention. "When we arrived, at least a dozen young girls were scattered across two lanes of the I-5...."

Amy interrupted. "A multiple victim accident. Ok."

Rye smiled and continued. "These weren't victims in the traditional sense. Several were curled up on the cold asphalt in a fetal position, but most were staggering around, wandering..."

Claire picked up the narrative. "They didn't seem to be in shock."

Paul held up a hand. "What do you mean, not in shock?"

Rye stood up and stretched. Standing straddle, he twisted first one way then the other, producing two audible pops, and then sat down. "Sorry, too many boxes."

Claire gave her husband the evil eye. "Like I was saying: they didn't respond like shock victims." She paused. "It was like they were catatonic, but not exactly. I mean, you could take them by the hand and lead, and they would follow. Stop, and they would stop." She shook her head in frustration at not being able to describe their condition. "I've just never seen anything like it."

The room was silent. Amy repositioned herself, sitting on her legs. Ed took the opportunity to wrap an arm around her waist.

Rye ran a hand through his hair. "Claire was nearly creamed by a car."

She cast a loving look at her husband then turned to face Paul.

"An Econo van was on its side and I'd just cut the driver out of his seat harness and he woke up, blood all over the side of his face. Suddenly, I notice a honking. Not like an alarm, but someone leaning on their horn. And just as suddenly, the driver swats me away and climbs out through the hole left when the windshield.popped out."

She looked around, pleased that she had everyone's rapt attention.

"I climbed out after him, but by the time I slid onto the front of the van, he was entering the slow lane. I was in hot pursuit when I heard Rye chirp one of the sirens. I turned to see why and just barley had time to step out of the way of an oncoming car. Seconds later, that same car struck the driver. Funny thing was, it didn't stop and the vehicle that had been honking, another van, slid its side door shut and took off."

She folded her arms to signify the end of the story.

Paul had rocked to the edge of the beanbag chair. "You get a license number?"

She shook her head. "Didn't have a plate and the other van was too far away to see."

"Get a look at the driver?"

She just shook her head.

"Honestly?" Rye said, almost apologetically. "I think the girls were drugged."

Paul scooted back on the beanbag chair and looked over at his daughter.

She brought her shoulders up to her ears and made a little squeak, then pushed out of Ed's arm to stand, before going over to snuggle with her father.

"A simple solution would be to get a look at the blood work."

"I already thought of that. Can't. I'm fairly sure they were all minors."

Amy sat up. "You know, they have all sorts of competitions between Rogue Valley and Portland schools." That said, she leaned back against her father again.

Claire pursed her lips. "Alright, Amy. Let's run with that idea. But the van was one of those huge extra-long ones. When I went inside through the rear doors, one of the first things I noticed was that there was no luggage, not inside or on top. And not a purse or handbag, either. And what about the driver running to a vehicle that I'm sure had just arrived on the scene?"

Amy bulged her eyes, shrugged her shoulders, and turned to look at her father. "Daddy?"

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

"Maybe there was a vehicle following with all the luggage." He looked over at his daughter. "What about it? Would you go on a school trip without a purse?"

"Not on your life."

"What about trafficking?" All eyes turned to Ed. "You know, sex trafficking of young girls."

All faces turned grim.

He held up both hands like he was defending himself. "Well, it seems obvious to me."

Paul leaned forward so that he could look at Ed. "Go on."

"Sure?"

Claire crossed her arms across her chest. "C'mon, we all want to hear what you think."

Realizing he'd stepped into dangerous waters, he looked over at Paul. "Hey, c'mon. You're the private investigator."

Amy repositioned herself so she could look directly at her boyfriend.

He just nodded. "Okay, so everybody knows that Interstate 5 from Portland to San Francisco is considered the underbelly of the beast. I think your non-victims were on pills—you know, like the kind they use for date rape, or something like that. The driver had spilled the goods, so to speak, and somebody didn't want him explaining why he was transporting twelve underage girls." He shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows at the same time.

The room went quiet until Amy broke the silence. "How do you know so much about this stuff?"

**_Chapter Six_**

Ellen bailed out of the Subaru before her mother had even set the brake and ran into the house. When Dorothy entered, Ellen was standing in the living room with her hands on her hips. Her mother had only done this once before.

"What happened to my door and the bathroom door?"

Her mother put her purse on the coffee table and sat on the couch, patting the cushion next to her. "Come, sit. Let's talk like two adults."

Ellen stomped over and sat across from her mother in the big wingback chair. "What?"

Whenever her mother was angry at a customer of the medical supply house where she worked, at her boss, or at her daughter, Ellen noticed that her clipped English and thick Russian accent surfaced.

She was definitely mad.

"You are right, of course. Your relations with Steven are none of my business." She paused as if searching for her next line. "What is my business is your education."

Ellen rolled her eyes. Here it came. Her mother had come to the United States with only a Ukrainian peasant's understanding of the world and no formal education. Her only talents had been in the kitchen.

"I arrived in New York City with only the ability to cook. I became a domestic. I want more for you." She paused, but continued when Ellen sat in silence. "Your Mrs. Stafford said that the school policy is that you and I must come to her office for counseling before you may return. We must speak of other things first."

Ellen folded her arms tightly across her chest. "She is not 'my' Mrs. Stafford and I'm not going back to school."

Her mother stood. Ellen could see the cords in her neck.

"You will go back to school because I say you will go."

Ellen stood, ignoring her tears. "I will not! And you can't make me."

Moving faster then Ellen had ever seen her move her mother crossed the floor. "You will go because I am your mother."

Ellen took a ragged breath and stomped her foot. "No."

In the next moment, her face was stinging and she was running out the front door.

One block away the park had always been a place of seclusion. She even had a secret haven, deep in the woods among the tall trees and the ferns. Now, she stumbled headlong off the trail, never feeling the branches that slapped at her, or hearing the birds or the creek in the distance.

All she heard echoing in her head were the imagined taunts and laughter of her classmates. The 'I told you so' from one girl who once told her that putting out was the only way to keep your boyfriend.

Ellen struggled with her fears as the scene with her mother played over and over in her mind. Overcome with the stress brought on by adrenaline-fueled emotions, she collapsed, exhausted, then sobbed and cried herself to sleep.

Dorothy Stulov ,moved mindlessly into the kitchen. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she saw her daughter for the first time as a young woman, not her little girl. Not a child who could be won over with sweets. Trance-like she picked up the pan of unbaked Baklava, walked out the side door to the garbage, lifted the lid, and dropped in the pastry, pan and all. There was a pause and a thud when the heavy pan struck the bottom of the can. She leaned over and looked, but did not see. Then she replaced the lid and returned to the kitchen.

She didn't know what to do. There was no one to call. Steven came to mind, but Dorothy didn't know his number, didn't know the name of any of her daughter's friends.

Walking down the hall into Ellen's room, she sat in front of the computer. After she skated the mouse back and forth across its little pad, Google appeared, front and center, on the screen. Hands on the keys, employing the hunt and peck system, Dorothy pounded out a dozen searches without getting a single satisfactory result. Until finally. The hardest words she'd ever known, spoken to no one, spilled into the search field. Troubled teen. Up came her solution, third from the top. Camp Hiouchi.

**_Chapter Seven_**

Jon Stew was sixty-one and had been running since grammar school. He'd always tried to match the length of the run to his level of training. Lately, he'd been reduced to five miles and with his busy work schedule, most of his running was at night.

He'd never been a morning person, so it was actually just as well. Besides, there was almost no traffic along his route in the evenings.

He'd leave his home on Scenic Avenue, running almost level above the boulevard until he reached Wimer Road, and then descend the steep downhill. When he came to South Main, he'd cross and take the bike lane to the light, just North of the Chevy dealer, and then cut up to Eagle Mill Road. Even though there was a paved bike trail that paralleled it, he liked running on the road itself. It was a straighter shot to Oak Street.

Tonight, when he turned onto Eagle Mill, he got his second wind and opened his stride.

Mary Beth Newman had had a bad day that wasn't ending. The night before, she'd bleached her hair, only to discover in the morning that under natural light, it looked uneven and streaked. Then, she checked her online dating profile and discovered that the man she'd been seeing for months was listed there. And the thing was, the talents and traits he listed didn't match any she'd encountered. When she got to work— early as usual—her boss was waiting. Smart Alarm and Security Systems couldn't afford a receptionist any longer, he said, but he'd give her 45 days. When she left at the end of the day, the battery in her aging Honda was dead, so she had to call Triple A. If it wouldn't take a charge, she would have to by a new one.

The one bright spot was when the car started.

She couldn't go home to her dingy apartment. Considering her mood, it would only make things worse. Instead, she decided to treat herself to a little comfort food at the Specialty Burger just off the Interstate. The Specialty Meal, her favorite, included the famous Specialty Double Burger, french fries, a large drink, a salad, and a cherry pie.

Sitting in their dining area, alone with all those plastic tables and chairs, would just add to her pain. She refused to sit and eat in the parking lot, so by the time her order was ready, she'd made up her mind. Climbing into the driver's seat, she placed the three bags of fast food on the passenger seat, followed the arrows out of the lot, and turned onto Eagle Mill Road. There was a turn out she had used before when she was in the clutches of a comfort food crisis.

Pulling into the turn out, she sat quietly for a moment then brought all three bags over onto her lap. She was wolfing down the burger when a sudden squirt of Specialty sauce shot onto her blouse. Chin on chest, she observed the drop as it slowly made its way toward her cleavage.

"Shit, shit, shit."

With the speed of a desperate woman, she looked around, using the rearview mirror to look behind her. Satisfied that the road was deserted and she was alone, she removed her blouse. Then, fishing under the seat, she found some bottled water.

She arranged the three bags on the passenger seat so they'd support her blouse, held one of the napkins under the errant drop, and with the other hand, dribbled on enough water to dilute the sauce. Water bottle down, she dabbed the spot with another napkin until the material was nearly dry and the spot was gone.

Under the yellow halo of the dome light she smiled. "No stain."

Thinking she heard something, she turned off the interior light, slouched low in the seat, and rolled down the window.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. She knew that sound. Her former boyfriend, the one before the lying sack of shit, was a runner. Before she could turn to reach for her blouse, a rapidly approaching set of headlights silhouetted him.

She watched, with a morbid fascination. Waiting for the runner to move further onto the shoulder. When the van began to swerve, a sense of alarm caused her heart to beat faster. If the runner didn't stop—or at least move off the shoulder to the fence that marked the boundary of the field—the van would hit him.

That was it: the van was going to hit the runner. She had to do something. She'd flashed her lights. He'd see them for sure. She fumbled with the key in the ignition, turned on her lights, and flicked them from high to low beam. No reaction from the van. Nothing Then it was too late.

She watched in horror as the runner arched through the air and the van kept on going, faster though. She wished she hadn't flashed her lights and slid down even lower in the seat. When the van approached, she heard two pops and a spider web spread across her windshield, one of the bags of food exploded sending Thousand Island dressing everywhere.

Reaching up, she adjusted her rearview mirror and from her position in the seat, watched as the van exited Eagle Mill without stopping and headed right, toward the freeway.

Suddenly all her frustration, all her anger, every emotion bubbled up and without thought, she dragged her purse from the floor and upended it in her lap, driving her hands into the contents until she found her cell phone. With a flick of the wrist, she snapped the clamshell open and pressed quick dial emergency—911.

"This is 911. What's your emergency?"

How could the operator be so calm? What the hell was the matter with her?

"Some fuckers in a van just shot at me."

"Are you injured?"

"The assholes hit a runner and just kept going."

"Ma'am, please calm down and answer me. Are you injured?

Then the words echoed in her head and she wondered what she was doing on the phone when the runner was laying hurt, maybe dying alone in the dark.

"I'm at the north end of Eagle Mill Road. Look for an old Honda Civic. I'll leave the lights on. Send an ambulance. Send the police."

The phone fell from her left hand and when she reached for it, something red dripped from her fingers. All that mattered was that she got to the runner. But her fingers couldn't grip the door handle, and she felt sick to her stomach.

**_Chapter Eight_**

This guy was full of crap and she knew it. Claire watched Ed squirm under Paul's scrutinizing stare. When he didn't answer, Amy repeated her question. "I said: How would you know?"

When Ed finally opened his mouth to speak, the only sound was a Klaxon alarm. Everyone was shocked and all heads looked around for the source of the irritating sound, except Rye and Claire, who stood as one.

"What is it?" Paul shouted.

Claire was already weaving her way around the boxes, headed for the makeshift dispatch room. Amy, Paul, and Ed followed Rye through the breezeway into the barn, but stood out of the way as he unplugged the huge vehicle and removed the blocks from the rear tires. The barn was suddenly engulfed in silence, a sign that the alarm had been turned off. Moments later, Claire dashed in and ran around to the passenger side of the ambulance, where she looked across the cab and gave her friends a wave.

Rye came around from sliding the door open, climbed in, and fastened his harness.

He hit both lights and sirens, rolled the window down, and shouted out for Paul to close up the barn.

"What's the call?"

Claire read directly from the sheet she'd attached to the clipboard. "Hit and run, possible shooting. Called in on a cell, north end of Eagle Mill Road."

From their new headquarters on Valley View Drive, it would just be a matter of minutes. He kept the lights and sirens running in case they encountered another vehicle.

They had just cleared the Exit 19 ramp when Claire spotted a police cruiser. Rye saw it at the same time.

"Got it."

They'd just turned onto Eagle Mill when the cruiser stopped behind a car with its headlights on. The officer turned the spot light on the Honda and was out in a crouch, right hand unsnapping the leather strap on his holster.

Rye angled the ambulance to block the road, aiming the headlights on the little car.

When the officer waved 'all clear,' Rye ran to his side to make the assessment. Claire ran to the back of the ambulance for the jump kit, slinging the medical pack on her back as she ran.

The officer moved around to the passenger side of the car.

"Ma'am, were you physically assaulted?"

Mary Beth stared at the officer like the question was in Greek.

He looked across at Rye. "Shock?"

"Hey, I'm right here. No, I wasn't assaulted and no, I'm not in shock."

"My apologies, Ma'am. It's just that you're not wearing a shirt."

Memory flooded back and she quickly crossed her arms over her chest and began scanning the front of the car for her blouse.

"Ma'am, did you call 911?"

She felt like screaming. "I sure did and I reported a hit and run."

Rye had spotted a slice across the top of her shoulder. But with two powerful lights illuminating the car, he was shocked to see the level of gore all over the passenger seat and the inside of the windshield.

"My name's Rye. What's yours?"

She looked around. "Why the hell isn't somebody looking for the runner?"

Rye touched her on the arm. "Mary Beth. My name is Mary Beth. What the hell is he doing?"

The officer was using a credit card to scrape something off the passenger side window.

"Mary Beth, I need your attention for a minute." She turned her head to face him. "My partner will be here any second. Where did you see the runner?"

She attempted to raise her arm to point and thought better of it. "About two hundred feet straight ahead. I know 'cause he was just entering my headlight beam."

"Mary Beth."

"Yes, right here. What's the matter with you people?"

Rye ignored the comment. "Do you have pain anywhere other than your shoulder?" She cut him off. "Salad dressing."

Rye ran the tip of his finger through a clump of the unknown substance on the dashboard.

Claire came up to the side of the Honda and swung the jump kit off her shoulder. One look at the windshield, the bullet hole in the side of the door and the gore on what she could see of the steering wheel and the dashboard, and she prepared herself for the worst.

When she came up on Rye's right side, he was just licking his finger. "What are you doing?"

He turned and smiled. "Thousand Island."

Claire just shook her head. "Tell me later. Where's the runner?"

"About two hundred feet down the shoulder of the road this side."

She was off at a run, calling out and waving the flood light back and forth. No one answered.

The reflector on the victim's back caught her attention, and she ran up, still calling out. When she was ten feet away, she stopped. His head was tucked under his left armpit. Otherwise, it looked like he was simply lying on his stomach with his arms and legs out stretched. She'd seen this before. He'd been knocked into the air and had landed on his head.

When she ran her light around the body to determine the point of impact and direction, something caught the light. Walking over, she saw that it was a hearing aid.

Mary Beth was chattering away, giving the officer her impression of the events leading up to the shooting. She stopped talking when she saw Claire walk up.

"He's dead, isn't he? I saw him fly through the air. It was as though he didn't hear the van coming. I mean, he must have seen my headlights, but he didn't do anything, didn't look around or anything."

Claire walked up next to Rye and squatted down. "I found a hearing aid next to the body. If he was running with it turned off, he wouldn't have had any reason to turn around."

The officer waved Claire to the front of the car. "I'll call it in. You can transport the woman, but leave the body. It looks like vehicular man slaughter and attempted murder."

Rye had finished dressing the wound and was just standing when Claire walked up.

"Officer says leave the body."

"Then we're done here, she says that if her battery isn't dead from leaving the lights on she's fine to drive home." The revving of the little Honda drowned out his last words.

Mary Beth gave them a thumbs up, followed with a loud 'thank you.'

Rye grabbed the jump kit by its strap. The two walked in silence to the ambulance. Claire climbed behind the wheel. He walked around to the back, climbed in far enough to secure the little medical pack, then lurched out, closing and securing the big double doors.

They drove back, each deep in their own thoughts. Claire guided the ambulance off Valley View and into the driveway. This was her first time driving home to the new location.

"Bus is gone. I'll get the doors." He'd just released his harness when the big barn door began to roll open. He hopped out and turned to face Claire. "Give me a second."

They hadn't met their neighbors and had no idea what to expect.

When the door was half open, the interior light came on and Paul was plainly illuminated. Rye jogged up and gave his friend a hand, then turned and gave Claire a wave. The two walked the ambulance forward until it crossed an imaginary line. She slid out of the cab.

"Ill plug her in and check all the fluids, if you'll block the wheels."

"Deal." He tossed a block to Paul and loped to the other side.

The three walked through the breezeway and gathered back in the space they'd made earlier in the living room.

Paul knew better than to comment on the short duration of the call. They both seemed somber and distracted.

"Amy should be at the house by now. I like to give her a few minutes before I show up."

Rye gave him a sad smile. "A runner was killed by a hit and run."

Paul waved a hand in the air. "God, I'm sorry. I can hang outside, really, wait for the taxi."

Claire sat cross-legged on the floor and waved Paul to the beanbag chair.

"Amy's boyfriend is what? Twenty-four? Shouldn't he have his own car? And what the hell is he doing with a 15 year old?

She instantly knew she had overstepped her bounds and held up both hands as if to fend him off. "I know. None of my business."

Paul shook his head and pursed his lips. "Wrong. None of _our_ business. I have no idea what she sees in that guy. But I can imagine all hell breaking loose if I even questioned her judgment, or his age."

He looked over at Rye, then back at Claire. "How is she in the Dojo? You know, when it's just the two of you training." Claire folded and then unfolded her arms. "She's a good student. Hard working. Self-motivated but tight-lipped. When we talk, it's just about training or you."

Paul looked over at his friend. "You're awfully quiet."

Rye looked back at Paul, then over at Claire. "You guys think there's any truth to what Ed said? You know, before that last call?"

**_Chapter Nine_**

Ellen was startled awake by a noise. She pushed up into a sitting position and shivered. It was dark. Really, it was only dusk, but the canopy made by the trees cut out the last remaining rays of the sun.

She ran a hand through her hair and it came away with twigs and a strand of moss. She pushed to her feet and leaned on a nearby tree until she got her bearings. Then the memory of her mother slapping her came back and she brought a hand to her face. When she ran a fingernail over a tiny bump, it came away damp and red. Then she remembered running through the woods.

Her life was a shipwreck. She gave a little chuckle at the expression. Nothing mattered anymore. Whatever happened, she could never go back to school. Stafford would be all over her for the picture she'd sent, and her friends would be all over her big time about how she lost Steven because she didn't put out.

Ellen stepped away from the tree. "Whatever."

The trail was easy to find, even in the dark. Before Steven, when she'd been so alone and lonely, she'd spent hours in these woods.

Dorothy was in the kitchen preparing dinner, she hadn't known what else to do. When she heard the front door open and close she pushed open the swinging kitchen door and peeked out.

"Are you okay? I have returned the doors and dinner is ready."

Her mother never ceased to amaze her. "I need to clean up. I'll just be a minute."

When she finally entered the kitchen, she began to cry, crossed the room and fell into her mothers waiting arms. "Oh, mama, I'm such a mess."

Dorothy pulled her daughter away and held her out at arm's length.

"Look at your mother." Ellen snuffled and raised her head. "You are young woman with young woman emotions. This I understand."

She suddenly found the familiar clipped English of her mother's accent comforting.

Without a response, Ellen walked to her place at the little kitchen table. It felt so comfortable, yet she knew that it would soon be a thing of the past. But for now, now she was her mother's daughter once again.

When the food was gone—Dorothy always made just enough for the two of them—neither stood to clear the table.

"Mama, what am I going to do? I can't go back to school."

"Hiouchi."

She looked at her quizzically. "What?"

Her mother stood and walked around the table, taking her hand the way she used to when Ellen was a little girl and she had a surprise for her.

Dorothy sat her in front of the computer. "Hiouchi. Not school. Wake computer."

Ellen ran the mouse around the pad until the screen came to life.

She looked at the screen in horror, and then looked over at her mother. "A camp for troubled teens?"

Her mother folded her arms. "Perhaps a camp for a teen not wanting to go back to school."

Ellen reached out and took her mother's hand, pulling her closer. "And perhaps for a troubled teen."

**_Chapter Ten_**

Ed pulled the Volkswagen bus in front of the only house on the block that looked like it needed to be torn down. The roof was missing slates, the siding needed a new coat of paint, and the spring that rolled up the garage door was broken, leaving it unevenly half-open. The windows were covered from the inside with yellowed and stained sheets.

"C'mon in for a minute."

Amy took one look at the dilapidated pickup in the driveway. "No way. Your perverted roommate is home and he's always hitting on me."

"Hey, no problem. I can handle Frank."

She folded her arms across her chest. "Yeah, well, you don't."

He moved in for a kiss, but she pushed him off.

"Hey, what do you really know about that shit?"

He pulled back and tried to hide that he was pissed at her.

"What shit?"

She opened the door and hung a leg out. Amy didn't really want to know anything about trafficking girls for sex. She just wanted him to get out so she could drive home.

She always told her father that Ed dropped her off and walked home. Whenever he used the bus to take her home she almost always ended up at his place. There was always beer and munchies, and sometimes they fooled around. She never went all the way and refused to do any of that mouth stuff. He always seemed satisfied with a handjob. It got her off the hook and usually out the door.

"You know, what you were saying back at the Andersons' about sex trafficking. How would you know anything about that stuff?"

Ed slipped out of the bus without answering and walked around to her side. "Just what I heard Frank talking about." Then he walked her around to the driver's side.

They didn't notice the figure lurking behind the hedge, listening, watching, and then quickly moving into the house when Amy climbed into the cab.

She was behind the wheel before he could try and kiss her again. "I knew he was a pervert." She started the engine, shoved it in first and took off.

Ed walked into the house. Frank was crossing the living room with a joint in one hand and a bag of chips in the other. He stopped and looked past him at the door. "What, no pussy again tonight?"

"You're really fucked up, you know that Franki?" For a minute, Ed thought he saw something in Frank's expression, maybe anger. He might just resent the comment, but no.

Frank took another hit off the joint, and held it in for just a minute before exhaling. "Probably. But I'm getting laid."

Ed gave him the finger and continued down the hall to his room.

Frank dropped the charade. He'd just made it back into the house before Ed came through the front door.

Amy drove the bus into the garage and then walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and closed it again without taking anything. She walked past her father's office and thought about calling him to say she was home, but didn't. She felt restless, at loose ends.

She walked into her room and shut the door, thought about Ed, and felt kind of dirty. They'd been fooling around more and more lately and she knew that soon he wouldn't be satisfied and would want her to do more. Maybe she should tell Aunt Claire. Tell her that she'd been giving Ed handjobs. Amy smiled. "She'd probably kill him." No. In her minds eye, she saw the daggers come out. There was no way she could confide in Claire. She went into the bathroom. She would have to do this herself. She and Ed were finished.

When Amy came out she was vilifying Ed one finger at a time. She held up her index finger. He smoked. Held up her middle finger. He drank. Held up her ring finger. He probably used pot. Plus, she knew for certain that he didn't have a job in construction waiting for him in Vegas. She thrashed her head back and forth and gave an involuntary shiver. Worst of all, he wanted a blowjob and to get down her pants. "Shit. Not going to happen." She couldn't even remember how she met him. Then gave a gasp. He'd picked her up after a basketball game.

She heard Uncle Rye's motorcycle with the sidecar drive up and knew he was dropping her father off. She walked from her room to the kitchen. The last thing her father did before going to bed was to set the coffee. He was an early bird, so ten was usually his witching hour. It was eleven. She figured he'd beeline it to the coffee maker.

Paul sauntered into the kitchen with a slight limp. The first half of the day it was hardly noticeable, but by afternoon and evening, it was definitely affecting his gait.

He stopped when he saw his daughter leaning against the counter.

"I set up morning coffee for you."

He walked over to the counter, turned around, and scuttled over until he was rubbing shoulders with her.

"Thanks for preparing my caffeine fix. You're up late. Everything okay?"

She paused, not sure how much to tell her father. "I've broken it off with Ed."

She pushed off from the counter and moved over to the kitchen table. She wasn't sure what response she'd get, but she wanted to be sitting down.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, fine. Thanks for asking."

"What about Ed?"

"He doesn't know yet."

She stood up and Paul moved to her side and hugged her.

"Good night, Daddy."

Though he hugged his little girl, a young woman walked from the room.

He ran a hand across the back of his neck and it came away sweaty. He blinked away moisture. Was she still a virgin? So much had been exchanged in so few words. Trust, respect. He could feel his blood pressure rising. If that—that shit-for-brains had abused her in any way, he'd kill him.

Paul sat in one of the kitchen chairs, dropped his head in his hands, drew a ragged breath, and then sat up. A robber, a mugger—he could confront any criminal on the street. Even walk away injured and still feel powerful, in control. But dealing with the raw emotions of a female adolescent and he came away exhausted, whipped, and confused. His role was unclear. She hadn't told Ed. At least now that the man-boy was on the outs, he wouldn't have to walk on eggshells every time his name was mentioned.

Maybe that was it. Ed had been Amy's decision and Paul had to bite his tongue, not question her judgment. Now, he could praise her new decision, though in such a way as not to condemn her earlier choice.

He'd have to let Claire in on the good news.

Rye gave a toot on the horn and Claire slid the big door open just enough for him to get the sidecar rig in.

It was a quiet night, though they were still on call until 6:00 am. In the last hours before their three days off, sleep was fleeting. Tonight was no different.

One of the first items they'd unpacked and assembled was the bed. It was imperative that they be able to sleep as much as possible between calls. It made all the difference in their level of alertness.

"Are you asleep?"

Claire rolled over and looked up at Rye who was propped up on one elbow, a sign that he wanted to talk.

"I was, but what's on your mind?" She smiled. "Never mind that."

Rye played along for a minute and dropped his gaze to her breasts, then caught himself. "Not what you think."

She pulled the covers up to her chin like a virgin on her honeymoon. "Okay?"

"I can't get the image of those girls walking around in a daze out of my head. Then Ed's comment about date rape pills, trafficking, and all that."

Claire couldn't stay up on an elbow like her husband. It bothered her shoulder, so she rolled onto her back.

"Speaking of Ed: I made a few phone calls, learned that there is no Casino in Vegas being gutted."

He rubbed his foot against hers. "I thought not."

She rubbed back until she got a reaction and he was pushing and she was resisting. Kind of an arm wrestling with the feet. She always lost.

Rye shook his head. "The guy's a predator. I don't know why Paul puts up with the relationship."

"I think Paul's right. If he questioned her choice of boyfriend, he'd be questioning her judgment. Hell, she's exploring her world."

Claire pulled her foot away and rolled onto her left shoulder, putting her back to Rye.

"Yeah, well, it's Paul's responsibility to make sure she isn't hurt while exploring."

Rye dropped off his elbow onto his shoulder, reached around, and cupped her right breast. "Say, you're a little hot about this." He paused, but she didn't respond. "I'm going to do a little research into this trafficking stuff. Got anything planned for our days off?"

"Funny you should ask."

He loosened his grip on her breast in anticipation.

"I found a way to combine training requirements with community service."

"What training requirements?"

She rolled onto her back again and let the covers fall away, though only to reveal the tops of her breasts, and placed her hands behind her head.

"River rescue. We're within 50 miles of the Rogue River. That makes river rescue skills a requirement. The community end is being available for the annual Illinois River Run. That would be day after tomorrow. Aside from that, we need to restock."

He pursed his lips and frowned. "When were you going to tell me about this Illinois River thing?" Rye rolled onto his back with a harrumph. Claire rolled on top and pushed on his chest into a sitting position. "Tonight." She clapped her hands twice and the lamp went out.

**_Chapter Eleven_**

The mattress was on the floor, the sheets were grimy, and Ed felt grungy. He needed a shower, clean clothes, and a smoke, and he was still pissed over Amy's rejection the night before.

He pulled on a T-shirt that hung to his waist and figured he'd locate some clean pants later, but he couldn't find his sandals. He hated walking through the house barefoot. He either ended up stubbing his toe or getting a splinter. He made his way the short distance down the hall to the bathroom and didn't notice that the shower was running until he walked in. He looked from the corner of his eye fully expecting to see Frank. But the image behind the shower door didn't match. He turned to get a better look.

The body in the shower was silhouetted by the window light. Back arched, head back, long hair falling straight down. Breasts pointed at the ceiling, the pelvis thrust out. Her hands were wringing out her hair.

Ed turned and walked out and down the hall to the kitchen where he found Frank looking sober and sitting in the only kitchen chair that wasn't broken. "There's a woman in the shower."

Frank grinned. "I told you I was getting laid."

Ed was dumbfounded. What would any woman see in Frank? "You're kidding."

He turned around at the sound of someone coming up behind him. "He is."

The woman from the shower was wrapped chest to thighs in a beach towel with a second one incasing her hair. She stuck out a hand. "I'm Cindy."

Suddenly remembering himself, he gripped her hand. "I'm underdressed."

She looked down. "I can see that, and you are?"

"Ed Thomas."

With what little dignity he retained, Ed stepped around her and headed back to the bathroom.

"Honestly, Frank. This house is a pigsty."

She unwrapped her hair and shook it out. "That guy is supposed to be your pick-up man?"

Frank stood, walked over to the fridge, took out a beer, turned around, and leaned against the door. "He cleans up really well. Picked up a little fifteen-year-old but blew the test and started getting attached. Then, to make matters worse, he spouted off to her father and his friends about the business."

Cindy blanched. "Talk him into coming up to the country store." She turned toward the door then turned back. "Oh, and Frank? Stop telling everyone we're sleeping together."

Ed climbed out of the shower feeling like a new man. He rummaged around his closet until he found a clean shirt and some jeans without holes.

He walked up the hall hoping to meet Cindy, but stopped when he came to Frank's room.

"What are you doing?"

Frank was stuffing clothes into a duffel bag. "What does it look like?" I'm packing."

"I can see that. What I meant is, where are you going?"

Frank looked up at Ed, who was leaning against the door jam, but didn't stop packing. "What did you think of Cindy?"

Ed grinned when he thought of her silhouette in the shower. "Once you've seen them naked..."

Frank cut him off. "Hey, dick brain. I mean, what did you think of her?" Ed was taken aback. This was the guy who claimed he was getting laid.

"Hell, how should I know? I guess she has a firm handshake."

Frank stood and braced both hands on his lower back. "Could you work for her?"

Ed was immediately intrigued. "Doing what?"

"She owns a little country store on the edge of the Redwoods. Sells about everything. You'd be working the counter. The main thing is rafting. Can you swim?"

This was sounding better and better. "When would I have to let her know?"

Frank put on his best shocked face. "What, you've got to get your affairs in order? I know—it's your girl friend, right?"

Ed made a weak protest.

"Unless she's going to have your babies, I'd blow her off. Cindy's deal includes room and board if you run the rafting end of things. Matter of fact, I'm supposed to call her tonight and we'd need to be up there tomorrow to start your training. First trip is down the Illinois River."

Ed couldn't believe his luck and was suspicious. If he hadn't meet Cindy, he wouldn't believe a word Frank said. "Can I call her?"

Frank fished around in his pants pockets, before finally pulling out a wrinkled business card and holding it out.

"The Little Country Store. Cindy James, owner. Cute." Frank was back to stuffing the duffle bag and looked up. "Call the number on the other side after seven and be sure to ask for Cindy. Don't leave a message 'cause she'll never get it."

Tuesday was an early out day from school. Ed knew Amy'd go straight to the Dojo. He could meet her there. But he'd have to wait until she finished her lesson and pick her up when she was walking home.

"I'm going need your truck for a couple hours. "

Looking exasperated, Frank stopped his packing, fished a single key out of a pocket and tossed to Ed. "Be sure to gas it up."

Amy had a green belt in Chinese Kenpo Karate and today was working defenses for front and rear chokes and hair grabs. She knew she was past due for her brown belt test and wondered if today's training had anything to do with it.

She pushed through the double doors at the entrance of the studio and was surprised to find Claire sitting at the front desk.

"How you doing, Amy?"

The last time her aunt had greeted her like that in the Dojo, there was a surprise belt test.

"Fine. What's up?"

"Don't change. Were going to go through your entire orange and purple belt self-defense techniques. We're shooting for reality here. If you had to use one of these on the street, you wouldn't be wearing a Karate uniform or be barefoot. Meet me in the back room on the wrestling mat in fifteen minutes."

Amy walked down the narrow little hall to the woman's dressing room and stuffed her gym bag in one of the lockers, then emptied her pockets, removed her bracelet and earrings.

Out in the hall, she found herself behind a group of guys that seemed unsure of where they were going. "You guys lost?"

The one directly in front of her turned around. "We're looking for the wrestling room."

Maybe sensei had gotten her schedule wrong. "Straight ahead."

When they filed in the room, Claire was standing in the middle of the mat. "All you guys against the far wall. Amy, I want you in the middle here."

Then it began.

Bear hug from the front and rear. Push to the left shoulder then the right. Each time, it was someone different. Some took it easy on her, and others tried to take her down. There was no stand and face each other and wait for a cue. Claire called out the attack and pointed to one of the men standing against the wall. He would then walk over and attack.

She had faced everyone several times with different defenses—everyone but one guy. Claire called out 'headlock' and the biggest guy—the only one she hadn't already defended herself against—closed in.

The defense for a headlock called for a strike to the groin with the left hand that would immediately come up and over the back to grab the assailant's nose before pulling him over backwards. But she could see that it wasn't going to work. He was at least six foot three and she was only five foot five.

He surprised her by slamming her shoulders and knocking her back. Every other attack had been to the letter. This was already different. Then, lunging to her right side, he hugged her head so tight that she could barley move. She tried to tuck her chin to her chest, but he shifted his weight so she couldn't. Then he just kept moving. There was no clear shot to the groin, so she grabbed the upper inside of his thigh and squeezed and squeezed until she got a yelp and he released the grip on her head and neck.

She was staggering back when he came at her like a raging bull, pushing and shoving until he'd driven her up against the wall and began choking her with both hands.

With all her strength, she snaked her right arm up between his two hands until it was straight up and then drove it down on his left wrist, simultaneously pulling her right shoulder away from the wall and launching her right elbow at his face. With a sudden shout, he stepped back, seconds before the strike would have hit home.

Grinning like a banshee, Claire stepped between the two. But sometimes, the adrenaline rush created during practice spurred on reactions after the technique had been demonstrated.

Amy was the same size as her aunt and launched her full body at her attacker, both arms flying. One hand was in a hammer fist, while the other was in a tiger claw. Her attacker was looking on like a deer in headlights.

Claire was forced to subdue Amy with a choke, grabbing her right collar with her right hand and stepping to her left side, pulling her shirt across her throat. Amy recognized the move and immediately began to ratchet down, calming her breathing. She then took a single step back and bowed to her attacker and extended her hand. He cautiously took it and awkwardly returned the bow.

Amy moved back to the wall and slid down to the floor. Her hair was wringing wet and her ears were ringing, but she focused on her breathing as she watched her various opponents leave the room.

Claire walked over and sat next to her. "How far would you have taken that?"

Amy stared straight ahead. "As far as necessary, until he wasn't standing. Until he no longer posed a threat."

Reaching over, Claire gently pulled the fifteen-year-old's face around by the chin. "You okay? I think you scared the shit out of that guy." Then she got up and shut the door. "I'd like to ask you a delicate question."

Amy's mind raced. This didn't sound like anything to do with the martial arts.

"So ask."

Claire braced herself for an explosive reaction.

"Have you had sex?"

Amy stood and walked over to her instructor until they were eye to eye. "Do you and Uncle Rye have oral sex?"

Claire staggered back as though she'd been punched. This was not what she had expected.

"What?"

"None of my business, right? Well, my sexual activities are none of yours."

"How very right you are." Claire gave a long, slow bow. "You have my sincere apologies."

Amy suddenly folded her arms across her chest. "My father put you up to this, didn't he?"

"No, Amy. If your father knew, he'd kill me. Uncle Rye is trying to understand the sex trafficking thing that Ed brought up the other night. He thinks Ed might be right. My question did not come from your father and I really would be in your debt if you promised not to mention this to him."

Amy spun around. "That fucker."

Claire stepped up and spun her around by the shoulder. It wasn't the word, it was whom it was addressed to. But when Claire saw Amy's tears, she released her grip. "What is it?"

Amy blinked until her vision cleared. "It's Ed. He's a lying sack of shit, and doesn't care about me at all, and I'm breaking it off." She began folding and unfolding her arms while rocking back and forth.

Suddenly, bells and whistles went off. Claire grabbed her by the shoulders and locked eyes with her. "Did he hurt you, force himself on you?"

Amy realized she'd lit a powder keg.

"No, nothing like that, honest. It's just that he confessed that he doesn't have a job waiting for him in Vegas. He lives in a filthy wreck of a house and has a pervert for a roommate. That was enough for me." She didn't dare mention that the pervert roommate was always hitting on her.

Claire grabbed her in a deep hug then backed away. "Keep this in the back of your mind: you can always depend on me to be on your side." Amy just nodded, took her instructor's arm, and guided them both to the door.

"I love you, Aunt Claire, but I'm really pitted out and need to get home."

"Of course you do." Claire smiled and bowed. "We'll discuss the results of your test during our next lesson." She watched the young teen walk down the hall, wondering what can of worms she'd opened with her stupid question. But thinking of the response, her respect for Amy went up two notches. Focus. She still had one more class to teach.

Gym bag slung over her shoulder, Amy walked down the sidewalk, her mind filled with drunken monkeys. Should she have told her Aunt more about her sexual experiences? What would Ed do when she told him that she was breaking it off? Was that really a test today? Was it just an everyday test or was it a belt test? Her thoughts were interrupted by a short honk. When she looked up it was Ed, driving that pervert's truck. He was wearing a big grin. Something was up.

"What do you want?"

"Could you stop for a minute? I have something to tell you."

She turned and faced the road.

"I just got this really great job offer guiding rafts. I'll be working at a place called the Little Country Store. I know this is sudden, but I just couldn't turn it down." Amy smiled which confused Ed. He had expected a scene.

"That's great. I was going to break up with you anyway. Have a great life, Ed."

Frustrated, he revved the little engine, called her a cold bitch, and tore away down the street.

Amy cried all the way home. She wouldn't miss Ed and her feelings weren't hurt by the name he called her. She cried for the stupid mistake she'd made by going around with him, scared by where it might have taken her.

**_Chapter Twelve_**

Ed walked up to the raft. It was just like the ones he had seen on reality TV shows—twenty feet long with a metal internal frame and massive oars. A man wearing a tight-fitting wetsuit walked up and extended a hand. "Layton Smeeds. I'm one of your guides." Ed took the proffered hand. "Ed Thomas."

"Now, Mr. Thomas, if you'll follow me, I'll get you settled in."

Smeeds helped Ed into the raft, instructing him on how he should sit center-bow on the wooden seat.

"Hey, where are Cindy and Frank?"

"I can't tell you about Frank, but the word is, Cindy got hung up with some dispute over a delivery price increase. Everything in her store is trucked in—just like every other store. It's just that we're at the end of the line and when they bring things up here, there are no other stores to defray the cost."

Within minutes of Ed sitting, two other men arrived, both wearing wet suits. But they didn't look the part. Smeeds was tall and trim, the other two looked out of shape with big stomachs, sloping shoulders, and lily-white hands.

Ed's first notion that something was wrong came when Frank didn't show. Smeeds Said he'd gone to the store to get Cindy and some munchies and urged Ed to go ahead, saying that he was expected and that Frank would just hitch a ride with Cindy.

The second alarm went off as they pushed the raft into the water. Ed watched as the two newcomers stumbled and bumbled in.

"Hey, guys—shouldn't I have a life jacket or something?"

Smeeds remained at the center handling the oars, looking grim.

The one with the stomach grinned at his companion. "What's the matter? Can't you swim?" They both laughed like the question was some kind of inside joke.

"Well, yeah. When does my training begin?"

The miscreant with the sloping shoulders pointed at a large outcropping. "Just the other side of that boulder."

Ed looked around, but there was nothing to hang onto. There were several metal rings and a place that looked raw, perhaps from where something had rubbed. But there was no rope.

When they hit the first rapids, Ed slipped down off the seat in an attempt to lower his center of gravity.

"Hey, get back on your seat or you'll throw the boat off."

Boat. Throw the boat off. Ed wasn't sure what was going on, he only knew he had to get out of the raft.

"Layton, I need to get to shore. I think I'm going to be sick."

No matter how much he yelled, he couldn't get Smeeds' attention.

Big Belly came up and sat next to him. "I'm glad you got back up on your seat. It makes it easier."

Sloping Shoulders sat on the other side.

Ed swiveled on his seat to look at each man. "Make what easier?"

Belly smiled and patted him on the back. "Helping you out of the boat." For just a minute, Ed felt a wave of relief until he realized that they were headed for a huge hole, a place he'd seen the television rafters stay clear of, a place where the water swirled around at the bottom of a short drop in the river.

Then he was lifted off the seat and even though he was flailing his arms and screaming, was thrown into the hole.

Ed's mind shifted gears from trying to understand why this was happening to him to emergency mode. Before the first hundred gallons of water drove him down, he had taken a gulp of air, and as he descended, he opened his eyes. The bubbles and churning water made it hard to see.

Then his feet touched bottom and he let himself drift down further. Squatting, he pushed with all his might. His lungs burned and felt like they might explode. Then there was light and air, but this time he took a mouthful of water with the air before he was driven down again. Back up, he could feel the water slosh in his stomach as he tried to swim. Another gulp of air and he was dragged down. Before he touched bottom, he was pushed back up, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't reach the surface.

His vision began to close in, but he refused to blow out the air. His lungs screamed orders to the brain, still he refused. The white bubbles and green rush of water were all black and white and he was seeing his environment through a pinhole as his irises begin to shut down from lack of oxygen.

His brain shut down and sent the oxygen, what there was of it, to his limbs and Ed felt himself drifting like a stick of driftwood. He lost control of his bowels and bladder and finally gave up the air he'd been hoarding. His eyes were big, but he could not see.

Somewhere in his oxygen-deprived brain, it registered that he was going to drown and at that moment he relaxed, surprised and relieved that there was nothing to do but wait.

The raft surged past the hole into calm waters. Layton pulled with the right oar while keeping the left oar out of the water, spinning the raft around.

The two men had unzipped their wet suits; Belly sat still, scanning the water with his gun.

"He's dead. Nobody could hold his breath that long. Now put the fucking gun away."

"Shut up and steer the boat. Cindy said to make sure."

Layton shipped the oars. "If you shoot him, there will be a gunshot wound, and when they find him, all bloated but with a hole in him, they're going to wonder what happened. And then the police will come snooping around. Now, put the fucking gun away."

Belly looked over at the guide and reaching into the top of his open wetsuit, pulled out a large baggie, slipped the twenty-two in, and sealed it shut.

Rye was in the kitchen finishing a bowl of soup and about to bite into half a tuna sandwich when Claire walked in.

"How'd class go?"

She sat down and took up the remaining half of the sandwich. "Great. Tuna, my favorite. I'm starved." She took a bite got up walked to the fridge and returned with a beer. "What you meant to say was how was Amy? And did I ask her if she'd had sex?"

Rye bobbed his head as he took another bite of the sandwich.

"Do we have oral sex?"

He spasmodically swallowed. "What?"

Claire grinned and pretended to examine her next bit. "Actually, 'what?' is what I said. Amy asked about the oral sex." She took another bite.

Rye scrambled to think on his feet. "Why don't we ask her along for the Illinois thing?"

She twisted off the beer cap. "So you can ask her more about her sex life?"

"No. I thought maybe to reestablish our friendly neutrality."

Claire took a sip and slid the bottle across the table. "I'll check in with Paul, but you invite her. I think it would seem strange if it came from me," she said smiling.

**_Chapter Thirteen_**

Ellen hated driving with her mother. Dorothy was short and looked through the steering wheel instead of over it. She must have gotten her height from her father. Dorothy's hands were always inches from each other at the top of the steering wheel. God, and when she turned—instead of hand over hand, she fed the steering wheel with one hand into the other.

Other parents drove more like Steven: hand over hand. Ellen stopped herself mid-thought. Why was she even using his name, the name of the boy who had ruined her life? She forgot about her mother's driving and raged through the memories of the carnage his leaving her had resulted in. When she reached the topic of Camp Hiouchi, she hated her mother again.

"Tell me one more time why you surrendered your custody of me?"

Her mother dared not turn her head to even glance at her daughter for fear that a car might dart out in front of her at just that moment.

"Fifty-one percent. You are still my daughter. Mrs. Johnson says that for Camp Hiouchi to receive full state and federal benefits, I must sign over fifty-one percent custody for one year."

Ellen folded her arms tight over her chest, scrunched her butt farther back against the seat. "Jesus Christ. One year, and I don't even get summer vacation."

"Ellen, please. We have already talked of this. One year to finish your education, perhaps one year to get un-mad. You would rather go back and talk with Mrs. Stafford?"

She could feel her ears burn at the mention of the Vice Principal.

"You will see. Hiouchi is a nice place."

Ellen wanted to throw the folder Johnson had given her mother out the window. School five days a week. "Everyone at Camp Hiouchi works." She said in her most nasal and sarcastic voice. "Tell me just one more time why I'm going to be working in the kitchen?"

"I signed you up for this because you can cook and the only other choice was maid and I was reminded of your room." Dorothy chuckled at this.

"I don't find any of this funny. These people who I don't even know have complete control over my life." She pulled a sheet out of the file folder and scanned it. "Says here that I have to attend group counseling five days a week. Oh my god. I have to attend private one-on-one counseling. Who are these people? If I refuse, will they lock me up in solitary confinement?" She looked down at the bottom of the sheet. "My own mother isn't allowed to visit me for the first nine months. Mama, what have you done?"

By the time Dorothy guided the Subaru through the town of Grants Pass, she had decided not to stop for a pleasant lunch with her daughter. Both hands looked like she was on a white-knuckle ride at an amusement park as she gripped the steering wheel. For the first time since she had been called to the school, Dorothy admitted to herself that her daughter's year at a camp for troubled teens might be a good thing for her, too.

They drove from a two-lane road maintained by the county to a narrow one-lane. When they came to a 'Y' in the road, Dorothy stopped.

"If I were driving, I'd know which way to go."

Her mother turned off the engine.

"What are you doing? We're in the middle of the road."

Her mother was looking straight ahead. Maybe she saw something.

Dorothy spoke softly. "I have stopped because I will not see my daughter, my Ellen, for nine months." When she turned her eyes were moist.

This was something Ellen had never seen in her mother and she began to cry.

"Please, this is not how I want to remember my Ellen."

Ellen leaned across the console and hugged her mother. "Oh, mama. I'm so sorry."

Dorothy started the car. "We go to the right."

Ellen looked left. "What if we went that way?"

"Small store and restaurant. Mrs. Johnson says that if you are good, you may get to work there."

They followed a hard-packed dirt road and passed a number of outbuildings. Some kids were walking past the door where they were given tools. Some looked up, and one gave Ellen the finger.

They circled a log house and parked behind it. Ellen got out, surprised when her mother did not.

The crunching of pea gravel drew her attention.

A tall woman wearing jeans and white sneakers to match her white blouse and scarf was striding in her direction, right hand outstretched. "Jane Johnson." Ellen surprised herself when she turned to face her and took her hand. "Ellen Stulov."

"Your mother has already seen the facilities. There is no reason for her to come in with you."

Ellen turned briskly. "Mama, I love you."

Jane dropped an arm over her shoulder and guided her around toward the building.

"That was really sweet. If you come with me, I'll tell you why.

They walked through a short hall and past several offices.

Jane opened a door and ushered her in. "This is my place. Go on in and have a seat. I'm going down the hall for some coffee. Can I get you something?"

She couldn't smile. "Thank you, no."

Ellen took a seat in front of the desk and had just begun to look around when Jane returned. "Well, good. You just passed the first test." She took a quick look around before moving to the business side of the desk, setting her mug of coffee in the center. "You didn't trash the place." She paused and Ellen said nothing.

"Fine, then. Do you know why I called that moment out there sweet?"

It was a rhetorical question and Ellen just shook her head in the negative.

"Because most of the young people that come here do not arrive with a parent. And if they do, it is in a rage. The air crackles blue with their language and just as often as not, the rage is shared by their parent. Very sad." She slurped her coffee. "Sorry, way too hot."

"I read your file, and it's not sad. It says you've been living at home with your mother. Again, most of the young people here come to us from an abusive home or foster home. Some don't have a home and arrive in a sheriff's cruiser."

Jane took another sip of her coffee. "Better. Do you have any questions?" She took a long sip. "Here at Hiouchi, everyone has a companion and I'm yours. Got a complaint, bring it to me. Happy, sad, mad—any emotion that bubbles up and might disturb your routine, you bring to me. We'll sit right here and talk it out."

Ellen was beginning to get the idea that Jane had delivered at least part of this lecture before.

"We have fifteen girls and fifteen boys here. The boys live across the river. Like I said, I've read your file and I know that it was a boy that caused you to have a lapse of judgment. I don't want to hear about that relationship. But if you get an itch—and you know what I mean—scratch it any way you want, but don't cross that river."

They left the office and Ellen was given a complete tour. It took over three hours. Strange thing was that she was introduced to all the adults they met along the way, but none of the kids. She learned later that it was a sign of respect, that if the other girls wanted to meet her, they would seek her out during their free time.

Her cooking duties would be tested the very next day and if she passed the scrutiny of the chef, she would began cooking the day after.

They ended back in Jane's office.

"I will be your one-on-one counselor and am the teacher. Your group counselor will be Mr. James. Because you are the oldest girl at Hiouchi, you will have a private room with its own bath."

They were up again. Jane walked her across what reminded Ellen of a parade ground, over to her room. "I will be inspecting your living quarters each morning after your day has begun. Please leave it clean." She opened the door to her room with a key and gave it to her. "Keep it locked at all times. I'm the only other person with a key."

She marched across the tiny room to a small writing desk, opened the drawer and pointed out the pens, pencils, envelopes and letter-size paper. "I will expect you to write to your mother at least once each week. Drop the letter off at my office. I'll stamp it and see that it goes out with the day's mail."

Ellen waited until Jane left then looked around the tiny room. Someone had brought her suitcase up and placed it by the desk. She dragged it to the foot of the bed, climbed under the covers, curled up, and cried herself into a restless sleep.

**_Chapter Fourteen_**

Rye entered the kitchen, walked past his wife, and placed a box on the counter. He looked over to where she sat at the table, totally engrossed in several letters and a brochure. He picked up the box and set it down again with a little more gusto and gave a groan.

"I see you."

He turned around and with a hand on either side of himself, hopped up on the counter. "What do you have there that has you so engrossed?"

"Requirements for the river rescue course. We'll be working out of Agness at the confluence of the Rogue and Illinois Rivers."

He slid off the counter and began unpacking the box. "I found the blender, salad bowl, and utensils."

The announcement of his discovery of the kitchen items didn't get a response, so he walked over and sat across from her.

"Any surprises?"

When he sat down, she raised the letter she'd been reading up in front of her face. At his question, she dropped it, revealing a broad grin.

"I thought you'd never ask. I'm a victim in the final scenario."

He reached over and slid several letters and the brochure to his side of the table. "What, pray tell, is the victim's plight?"

Her voice softened and became dramatic. "I'm paddling down the river when my raft hits a rock and catapults me into a category Five hole."

Rye looked up from the brochure. "How exactly are they going to simulate that?"

Her grin widened. "I haven't the faintest, but it sounds like fun."

He frowned, then held up the brochure for Lucas Lodge and looked at her with a questioning squint.

"Big doings. I've booked our room for four days, as well as one room for Paul for two days, and a cabin for Amy for five."

Rye pulled up the letter that listed the equipment requirements. "How's that going to work? What about school?"

He noticed that she was looking very pleased with herself. "She just passed her brown belt test. It was grueling, if I do say so myself. So I called Paul to make sure that she's still maintaining a 4.0 grade point average while also being the president of the women's fencing club. I convinced him that she needed a reward. When I mentioned that we were headed for Agness, he jumped at the chance to spend some time with her there."

Rye rapped his knuckles on the table. "Problem. I happen to know that he's working on a case that will probably run into the weekend."

He was always pleased that he could point out some of the smaller details that she might otherwise miss, and that it never seemed to press any buttons for her when he mentioned them.

Claire continued as though he hadn't said a thing. "Long story short: we'll drop Amy off in Gold Beach at the jetboats. She'll ride to Agness on her own and arrive at the Lucas Lodge where her cabin will be waiting. She'll be on her own sorta for two days, then Paul arrives, although he'll be staying at the lodge. He'll be celebrating the successful end to a complex case, and we'll be kicking back after an exhausting four days of river rescue training. Amy will be basking in the glow of no school. Problem solved."

Rye listened to her plans and tried to anticipate her next thought, but caught himself being a less than good listener. Hmm, he thought, so she has a knack for solving problems.

"Isn't Amy a little young to be left alone that much? Especially in an unfamiliar place?"

He could see by Claire's look of self-satisfaction that she probably had that covered as well.

"We drop her off at the jetboats and drive into Agness and the Lucas Lodge to check into our room. The jetboat should reach the lodge just after we do. We help her check into her cabin and break bread together that evening. At the end of each day of training, we'll meet up for our evening meal. The last two days of our training will be the toughest; we'll probably just want to go up to our room and crash. But at that point, Paul will have arrived."

Claire stood and bowed. Rye clapped. "I'm impressed." But he couldn't resist throwing in one last doubt. "Amy's up for all this adult commandeering of her time?"

"Paul's going to surprise her with it tonight."

**Paul was thrilled** that he'd be spending two days with his daughter and was hoping that she would share his excitement. When he got home, he wanted to rush into her room and blurt out his plans, but thought better of it. He knew that she had broken it off with Ed and wasn't sure how she was taking it.

When he rolled into the carport he remained in the bus for a couple minutes, trying to mentally prepare for Amy's reaction to his plan and at the same time script a scenario. Among her peers at school, in the fencing club, and at the Karate studio, Amy was known to be grounded and calm under pressure. But he had seen her other side when the hormones surfaced and whatever he said was wrong and he was just her father, so what did he know?

With a sigh of trepidation, he slide out of the Volkswagen bus and entered the side door into the kitchen. No Amy—she must be in her room. He rattled around, opening and closing the fridge, then thumped into the living room where he dropped as noisily as possible onto the couch and turned on the evening news using the remote to crank up the volume just a bit. No Amy.

With a heavy heart, he walked down the hall to his daughter's room and knocked.

"Can I come in?"

But as he knocked, the door opened a crack. Tentatively pushing, he peeked in, relieved that she was sitting at her computer desk working on homework.

"Door's open."

He walked over and stood behind her, rubbing her shoulders.

"Everything alright?"

She leaned her head back and looked up at him. "I heard you banging around."

He pulled over a metal folding chair and sat next to her. "I have something to discuss with you."

Her heart sank. She knew he was going to ask her about Ed and she was just holding it together. She knew she'd lose it if he asked her if they'd slept together.

"As you know, I've been working on a big case."

She nodded. "I know."

There have been some breakthroughs that will bring it to a close soon. There was a considerable bonus promised if I solved the case, and pretty soon, I will have. I know you passed your brown belt test and have been keeping up your grades."

She could see that he had something to say and by the way he was struggling, she was certain it would be about Ed.

Paul gave his head a shake. "What I'm trying to say is that I need a break and am going to spend a couple days at a place called Lucas Lodge. It's not far from Gold Beach. Your Aunt Claire and Uncle Rye will be there for some river rescue training. If you'd like—and only if you want—they could drop you off to take a jetboat to the lodge. I'd reserve a cabin for you and you'd be on your own for a couple days, but I'd take a room at the lodge itself as soon as I could make it down."

Amy sat dumbstruck and Paul was sure he was about to hit a wall with her.

"What about school?"

He could feel his heart soar. "I'll take care of that. What do you think?"

"Is the lodge close to anything? I mean, is there a town nearby?

"There's the small town of Agness, and I mean it's really small. I don't know if it's walking distance from the lodge or not. I'm not trying to push you, but I need to know right now so I can call Aunt Claire and make reservations."

With a sudden squeal, she jumped to her feet. "Would I have to share the cabin?"

He just shook his head in the negative.

"What about money for food and, you know, other stuff?"

He could feel her feel his excitement growing with her excitement. It was intoxicating and contagious.

"This is my celebration and I want to share it with you. You're going to be on your own, so I'll want to make sure you have enough spending money to be comfortable." Amy lurched forward and wrapped him in a hug, something he wasn't expecting. Together they fell out of the chair, laughing.

When the moment passed, they stood and returned to their usual roles.

"I think you'd better finish your homework. I'll go call Aunt Claire and make those reservations."

Amy sat facing her computer, feeling her heart race and wondering how she would ever finish her homework.

**The river rescue** instructor, Larry Gill, walked between the tables, picking up ropes and examining knots. "It seems we can all tie knots now, so put the rope away. "Claire." He cleared his throat as he formed the question. "You're aggressively moving down river, feet out in front. Why not swim on your stomach, head up?"

She took a moment to look down the long table at the other trainees. "If you're swimming head down stream and something hooks your Personal Flotation Device, your head would be pulled under. Feet down stream also allows you a better view of what's ahead."

Gill walked to the chalkboard and pointed at several wavy lines that symbolized the river. "You're here." He made a dot in the middle of the river. "You want to swim to shore here." He made another dot forward and diagonal to the first. How will you reach that desired point? Please come up and show me."

Claire walked up to the diagram. "I'd swim diagonally back this way." She drew a line showing that she'd swim back.

Gill looked at the class and then at Claire. "Why?"

"The current is pushing me forward. If I swim directly toward my desired point on the shoreline, by the time I reach land, the current will have pushed me past the point I'm aiming for."

"Exactly."

Claire walked back and sat down.

Rye was watching from his seat at the end of the table, totally impressed with her cool ability to talk to a group.

"We've discussed the bag throw, Z-Drag for getting a raft off the rocks, a shallow water crossing with four or more people. How to cross river strainers and aggressively swim to an eddy. Tomorrow, we'll take these principles to the river and see if they work. We'll meet at the rafts at 8:00 tomorrow morning."

Rye carried the bucket of gear except for the drysuits that Claire had folded and slung over one of her shoulders.

"What did you think?"

He took the opportunity to set the container with all the rescue equipment down and flex his arms. "This is too much like moving boxes."

"So?"

"It was a good recap, including a couple procedures I'd forgotten about."

"Like what?"

He picked up the bucket and they started walking again. "Some of the knots and the correct way to cross a strainer. How about you?"

"Honestly?" She said. "It felt good to review."

The river rescue class was held in the Lucas Lodge Hall. As they left, the cabins were on the right. They stopped in front of Amy's cabin and Rye set the container down again.

Claire peered around at the front porch. "Looks like she's home."

Rye laughed. "Or left the lights on and is out haunting the streets of Agness."

She elbowed him and headed for the lodge.

He picked up the gear and jogged a little to catch up.

"Change and head back to pick her up?"

She looked over at her husband as she fished in her pocket for the key. "I'd like a quick shower first."

Twenty minutes later, they stepped out of their room and looked over at the cabins. Hers was dark,

"What do you think?"

Rye pointed to the lawn in front of the cabin. "I think she's enjoying the evening."

Claire jogged up and sat next to where Amy was laying. "How's the cabin?"

"Small, but just right."

"You ready to get something to eat?" But when she looked back over her shoulder, Rye was nowhere to be seen. "I think we'd better get going before the big guy eats it all."

The two could have been sisters, or perhaps mother and daughter. They were the same five foot five inches and both were slim and both moved with a sense of purpose, thanks to the martial arts.

When they reached the door to the lodge restaurant, Amy gave a short bow with the nod of her head and let her sensei go first. When she followed, Claire put an arm around her. "Thank you for that." Then she gave her a quick hug.

Claire was right. Rye had found a table and was already looking at the menu. All three ate light—fish and salad without desert. An hour after they'd sat down, they were all headed back to Amy's cabin.

"Would you like to come in?"

Rye gave a loud yawn and the two women looked on in mock disgust.

"Sorry, they just seem to come out that way."

"Maybe another night, I'd better put the big dog to bed or he'll drown tomorrow."

Amy used her key and Rye and Claire waited until she was through the door.

"Good night, then."

Claire gave a quick bow. "Goodnight, Amy."

Eight o'clock came early, but when they got to the rafts, they were all firm. Rye gave one a thump with his fist. "At least we won't have to cart over the compressor."

Each member of the eight-man team had to demonstrate how to coil the rope into the bag for the bag throw, so that it would come out without tangle. Then one of the members waded out into the river and allowed himself to be moved down by the current. Waiting downstream, each member threw the victim their bag and watched the rope uncoil.

Shallow water crossing seemed easy. Rye was the biggest, so he took the paddle and the lead.

The idea was to move single file with each person hanging onto the PFD being worn by the next in line. It was Rye's job to probe the river rocks with the paddle and choose the route so that there would be as little chance as possible of anyone getting a foot trapped.

He walked in a slight straddle and was moving the group along when he dislodged a log off the bottom with the paddle, lost his balance and fell back. Like dominos, all eight of the others fell back as well.

The water was only knee-deep, which made it funny, and the instructor sitting on the shore made them start again, once he stopped laughing.

By the end of the day, they were all glad to be wearing both drysuits and PFDs.

When they passed Amy's cabin, the lights were off. When they had changed and showered, there was still no sign of the fifteen-year-old. Thinking she might have gotten a table, they walked through the restaurant.

Claire waited at a table while Rye walked into the main lobby. He found Amy talking to one of the employees although she saw him first and called out.

"Ron, this is my Uncle Rye. He's taking the river rescue training course. Ron is the great grandson of Lucas, the man who built the lodge."

Ron looked to be about fifteen or sixteen, stood nearly six feet, and was well muscled.

"Pleased to met you, sir."

Rye was a little taken aback. He always felt his age when someone called him 'sir,' though he was pleased at the boy's manners.

"Ron was just telling me about Agness and how it's just a short walk down the road."

As if suddenly remembering the time, Amy took Rye by the hand. "We'd better get going. I'll bet Aunt Claire's wondering where we are." Rye gave her a knowing smile. "Right you are. Any longer and she'll have security out looking for us. She's waiting in the restaurant."

At the last minute, Amy turned and gave Ron a wave. "It was good talking to you. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

He waved back. "I hope so."

**_Chapter Fifteen_**

Rye stood on the shore watching Claire as she climbed from the raft to the outcropping just above the hole. He turned to the instructor. "I don't like it."

Larry Gill stepped around in front of Rye so he could look him in the eye. "She's wearing a drysuit and her PFD. The ropes tie into metal rings stitched into the leather girdle she has around her waist. The ropes will keep her from being sucked into the hole. If either rope plays out or come loose, we'll reel her in with the other."

"Category Five. I just don't feel good about this."

Gill moved around until he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Rye. "All she has to do is stay there until they find her and do a bag throw. That will be a third rope."

"Can you get me onto that rock?"

Gill just shook his head. "What would you do? Jump in after her?"

Rye turned and looked at the instructor. "Absolutely."

Gill shook his head in wonderment. "Look at this." He waded out until the water was knee-deep, then squatted down. "The effect of the Category Five hole is much like this." He began to whirl his hand around, not like a whirlpool, but like a Ferris Wheel. "It drags you down, then brings you to the top, usually not far enough to get any air. Around and around before at some point, it will spit you out, that is, if you relax and let it take you to the bottom, where you get into what we call the escape current." Rye was watching intently. "If anything happened and you jumped in, we'd probably lose both of you."

He stood and unclipped a pair of binoculars from his belt and handed them to Rye. "Take a look, follow the ropes. They wrap around a tree and are maintained by three men." He watched Rye for a minute. "If you still want, it's not too late. I can get you out there before the exercise begins."

Rye handed back the binoculars. "Yeah, get me out there."

Claire was slowly lowered into the water. She was supposed to be suspended in the water up to her waist, just to where the ropes were attached. Having been lowered down to her chest, she frantically waved until she had their attention and they raised her up.

She'd hit a log or something with her foot. Not hard, but enough to hurt.

She cupped her hands around her mouth. "Something's down there." She pointed down with both hands.

All hope of being heard was lost when a surge of water slammed against her upper back and shoulders and washed over her head. The surge, combined with her body weight, put a strain on the rings where the ropes attached.

She tried yelling again but it seemed that either they had lowered her further or the water was rising. It was up to her chest again.

What the hell was going on? She looked to shore but when she'd dropped, she'd lost her line of sight with the men on the rope. There was supposed to be someone keeping an eye on her during the entire exercise, a spotter.

There it was again. It banged into her ankle. She remembered her training. 'Never kick at unseen objects—you could injure your foot.' She tried to trap it between her feet and was looking intently into the water at a dark shadow when something struck her helmet.

The ropes wouldn't allow her to turn around, so she twisted her head to look back over her shoulder at the outcropping. Her heart leapt when she saw Rye squatting on the rock. Then she dropped again and the water was at her chin.

Hundreds of gallons of water were now surging at her neck and chin. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted over and over. "I'm in trouble." She could feel tentacles of panic climbing up her chest and she had already swallowed a couple mouthfuls of water.

Rye couldn't hear her plea, but he could see that she was near panic by the way she flailed her hands. He cursed himself for not bringing a rope.

Claire pushed down against the dark object that nearly surfaced inches from her chest. With the next surge of water, the object submerged, but something about it seemed startlingly familiar.

When she turned to look behind her, she could feel the cords in her neck pull. Another hundred gallons of water slammed into her and she wheeled around facing down river. One of the rings had come loose.

Rye watched in horror as she was thrashed at the end of one rope. If he could only get her out of the water and up onto the rocks.

She saw the dark object first and in a heart-stopping moment she realized it was a head. Then it rose up and came straight at her. Her efforts to swat it away increased her back and forth motion and she double wrapped the rope around her arm because if the other ring disengaged, she would end up in an endlessly spinning cycle.

Now each new wave of water hit her high on the chest and rolled over her head. Every breath was a gasp and included some water.

Where was the spotter and where was Rye? Her mind was racing and she was becoming hypothermic. If she was going to do something, it would have to be now.

Slowly, hand over hand, she began to reel herself across the hole.

There it was again—the full body this time. It slammed into her like so much driftwood and she lost her grip on the rope. What she really didn't want was for the ring on her harness to take any more stress. This time, though, the corpse snagged on the rope. Both hands driving, pushing like twin paddle wheels, she forced herself backward against the current until she could kick the body. But she hit it in the stomach, making the head and shoulders lurch at her. In that second, she recognized the face of Ed Thomas. Adrenaline flooded her system and she was kicking over and over until the corpse was torn free from the rope and pulled under by the current.

Heart pounding, she felt a hand on her shoulder and shuddered. Then something soft against her ear and she watched for a terror filled moment as a hand came out of the water, holding a knife, and cut the rope.

"Take a deep breath we're going to the bottom."

She wanted to turn around, wanted to hug the big guy. But what was he doing?

On shore, Gill was jumping up and down, screaming into a two-way. "Get a raft down to hole number three—STAT! Rope and kayaks right now!" Then he threw the radio onto coils of rope, sprinted up river, and dove in. He'd always been a powerful swimmer, but this would be the swim of his life. He caught the main flow at first, and then had to push past a boulder sieve that came out ten feet into the river and directly in his path. When he skirted the strainer tree, he had to flip onto his back to negotiate the school of rocks that crossed some fast moving shallows. Finally, gasping and wheezing, he surged to his feet and sloshed to shore.

He ran following the shoreline, skirting brush, climbing over boulders, and jumping over logs. Where the hell was the spotter? What happened to the men on the rope? What were they thinking?

When he came to the clearing where Claire's rope came out of the water, he found it tied around a tree, no one in sight. Rushing forward he grabbed the rope but his heart sank. It was limp.

He untied it and clambered onto the outcropping. They were gone—both of them were gone. "Rye." He paused and scanned the hole. "Claire." Desperate, he threw one end of the rope into the water and, as if fishing with a hand line, pulled and dragged it back and forth. But no one grabbed on.

Rye removed his Personal Flotation Device and, ignoring her flailing resistance, tore Claire's off, too, pulling her under.

It was a clear day and the water reflected the blue sky, as Rye and Claire were hammered deeper into the hole.

To eliminate any buoyancy, Rye had removed his drysuit, even though he knew that he would only have a matter of minutes before hypothermia would kick in.

He held Claire tight to his chest and willed them to the bottom. Their only hope was to break out of the recirculation wash and into the escape current that would spit them out.

Already, Claire had gone limp and his fingers felt stiff. He could feel his body shift gears as a first shiver ran through his core. He knew this was the body's way of creating heat, the body's last resort. His arms felt like lead and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold onto her much longer.

When she was torn from his grip, his lungs were already burning. With the greatest effort, he lifted his head but she was already out of sight. His body went limp and the only feeling he had was of bouncing along the bottom of the hole.

Gill reeled the rope in, coiling it at his feet. All he could do now was hope the bottom current would kick the bodies out and they wouldn't have to drag the hole with chain and hook.

Suddenly, he dropped the rope and jumped to his feet. Somebody was bobbing to the surface. Then his heart broke. There was no movement. He couldn't determine if it was Rye or Claire, though it didn't matter any longer.

He made his way down to the shore and walked along the water's edge, trying to get a better look. Something caught his eye and he turned halfheartedly—it was the second body. But this one was splashing and coughing and gagging.

He dove into the eddy where it would end up and swam aggressively to meet it—her, Claire—at the edge of the churning water.

"Claire, Claire. It's Larry Gill."

No response, except a kick and gasp as she flailed in the water. He executed a surface dive and came up behind her. In one move, he caught her chin in the bend of his elbow.

"Claire, you're alright. Claire, relax." By the time he dragged her to shore, she was vomiting up water. She fell to her side, unable to hold herself up, and continued to void her lungs of water.

He knew she was too weak to go anywhere and turned back to the river. Couldn't be. He stopped, trying to understand what he was looking at. There were two bodies again and he thought he detected movement in one.

Driven by a surge of adrenaline, he plunged back into the eddy and stroked to the larger body. It was Rye. Something was wrong.

It took all his strength to pull the big man out of the water and he fell to his knees with the exertion. Rye was convulsing. Then it donned on him: He wasn't wearing his drysuit and PFD. Gill knew he was looking at the last stages of hypothermia. He had to find something to cover him with to bring up his temperature—anything. But there was nothing. All the equipment was on the other side of the river. He looked over at Claire. Her color was returning.

"Claire, snap out of it. Listen to me. We will lose Rye unless we can warm him up."

He didn't wait for a reply or reaction, but instead lifted her up until she was standing. Pushing and pulling, he half-dragged her next to her husband then helped her to lay on top of him. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around him and slowly, as the reality of what was happening sank in, began to rub.

Gill rolled the two over and pushed up against Rye's opposite side, rubbing his limbs furiously.

Slowly—very slowly—the shivering stopped. Gill could see that these two would survive. Now he had to see after the third victim.

**_Chapter Sixteen_**

The sky was blue and a warm breeze caressed her face as she dozed.

"Hey there." Amy was jolted awake by a gentle voice and rolled over to see who was talking.

"Oh, Ron." She stretched and rolled up into a sitting position with her back against the sunny side of the cabin.

"I didn't mean to wake you, but I've got a couple hours off and thought if you still wanted..."

He didn't get a chance to finish.

"I'd love to go into town."

He extended a hand, but she stood up without taking it. Brushing off her bottom, she looked over at him. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

He tried not to stare as she swatted away some dirt and loose grass from the seat of her pants. "I graduated last year. What's your excuse?"

She marched out onto the dirt road that passed in front of the cabins. "Which way?"

He turned his back on the lodge and took a couple steps, then stopped to wait for her. "It's about three miles round trip."

As she walked to catch up, she realized that she'd forgotten to leave a note at the front desk for her aunt and uncle—or her father, in case he showed up early.

He watched her approach. "Should I be on the look out for a truant officer?"

She remembered her father telling her not to give too much information to someone she didn't know well. "I'm on a short vacation with my father and his two best friends."

They walked along in silence, stepping off the narrow road once to let a car pass.

"That guy you introduced me to last night—he's one of them, right? And also your uncle?"

She pondered an explanation. "He's not really my uncle. He and his wife rescued me from a well about ten years ago."

"Wow, that must have been scary."

"I don't really remember much."

She stole a look at him watching her and pretended to be looking at her feet.

"They're EMTs up here, taking a river rescue course." She drew out the next words as though speaking about a troubled child. "If my father makes it on time, we'll all have dinner together tonight."

The sun reflected off the dirt road that had now turned to asphalt, making it seem hotter than it was. Amy coyly unbuttoned the bottom of the three buttons on her golf shirt.

"So, just a vacation then?"

She wrestled around with what to reply, finally concluding that none of this would matter after she went back home.

"My father's a private investigator and has just solved a tough case. So this is kind of a celebration."

When they came to an old log home, she stopped.

"The old James place. Nobody's lived there in fifty years."

Amy reluctantly continued up the road before stopping again. Deciding she wanted to take a closer look at the old cabin, she turned, stepped into the weeds, and headed back. She expected Ron to object, but was surprised when he started yelling.

"Hey! You can't do that."

When she looked over her shoulder, he was tearing through the weeds in her direction.

"Stop. C'mon, Amy. Stop."

When she reached the side of the cabin she turned. "What are you getting so excited about?"

He lurched up next to her, panting, his hands on his knees.

"I don't see a 'No Trespassing' sign or anything."

He straightened up, still slightly out of breath.

She saw the extreme look of concern on his face. "I'm sorry. I didn't see any harm..."

He cut her off. "A few months ago, a body was found inside. A girl about your age, drug overdose."

She took a step away from the cabin. "Who was she?"

He shook his head as he spoke. "Nobody knows. Figured she was a runaway. Sheriff told everyone to stay away—that it was still a crime scene."

They walked back through the weeds in silence until they reached the road again.

"We don't really have any crime around here. Once in a while, one of the girls up at Hiouchi runs away, but that's about it."

She looked back at the cabin. "What's Hiouchi?"

"A camp for troubled teenage girls."

He suddenly stopped. "You're not a troubled teen, are you?"

She turned to look him square in the eye. "Don't be silly."

With a face of mock concern, he tilted his head. "Okay, then. What school do you go to?"

"Ashland High. I'm a freshman." Well, shit. There it was. She said it.

"Lucky."

She furrowed her brow. "What? Why?"

He jogged up to what looked like a wagon trail—two ruts separated by a high row of weeds. "See there?" He just stared up the road until she arrived at his side.

"You're kidding, right?"

He just shook his head. "Twenty-one kids ranging from ten to sixteen."

She laughed, but stopped when she saw how forlorn he looked. "You're telling me you attended a one-room schoolhouse?"

"Up to the eighth grade, until the county figured out what was going on. We had one teacher and none of the parents wanted their kids bussed into what they considered 'the city.'"

He headed up the road and it was a good thing, because Amy didn't know what to say and wanted to check out the steeple-topped building.

"That's the same school that my grandfather, the man who built the lodge, attended. I thought it was pretty neat until I got to a public school and saw what I was missing."

Amy felt terrible and guilty for not knowing what to say. Maybe if she hadn't mentioned where she went to school, he wouldn't be thinking about his own education.

She took a double step to catch up, and then grabbed him by the arm. "Ron, would you like to have dinner with us tonight?"

"Are you sure? It sounds kind of like a family thing."

"Actually, it's my celebration, too."

He turned around, now walking backwards. "What are you celebrating?"

They kept walking, facing each other.

"Well?"

Amy berated herself for letting the cat out of the bag about her father's occupation. I'm really going to get it for that, she thought. Why not just keep going now? What the hell.

"I've been studying Kenpo Karate since I was seven, and just passed my brown belt test."

He didn't say a thing, was just doing the math in his head. "How old are you?"

She mentally slammed her forehead. Daddy and Aunt Claire are going to kill me. I guess I'm the only person left to betray.

"I'm fifteen."

Ron turned back around and slowed up until she was next to him.

"Wow, and you've got a brown belt. Is that, like, really deadly?"

"How much further to the store? I'm getting thirsty."

She was grateful that he didn't press her for more details and stopped asking questions. There was no way she was going to tell him anything more about her friends, her father, or herself.

He looked over at her. She was walking with her arms crossed.

"Hey I'm sorry. I'm always talking too much."

When she didn't reply, he walked along in silence until they came to a bend in the road. "It's just a bit further now."

They reached the apex of the curve where they could see the store. She suddenly stepped off the road and into the weeds by a tree.

Ron looked at her surprised. She waved him over.

"Who works there?"

He looked over at the store, then back at Amy. "Cindy owns the place. Josh and Billy have been there almost as long as she has. That guy unloading the truck, he's new. Locals can't figure out why she hired Frank."

She didn't take her eyes off the guy unloading the truck. It sure looked like Ed's perverted roommate.

"Anyone else new?"

He leaned against the tree. "Word is that she brought someone up from the Rogue Valley to operate the rafting part of the business. But nobody's seen him yet. I thought you said you were thirsty?"

She stepped onto the road and walked backwards until she couldn't see the store and figured if Frank looked in their direction, he wouldn't see her. Then she turned and headed back down the way they'd come.

"What's up?"

"I don't want to miss my father when he arrives. That's all."

**_Chapter Seventeen_**

Gill ran back to the parking lot. He had a body and two near-drowning cases— one in critical condition—and there was no support crew anywhere.

His first clue explaining the disappearance of his staff came when he reached the lot. One of the three ambulances was gone, along with a Land Rover. What ever happened was a medical emergency.

All three medical groups were instructed to leave keys in an easily accessible hiding place on the outside of their vehicle. This way, anyone would be able to drive an emergency vehicle whenever it was needed.

He pulled the keys out of the tailpipe of the ambulance. Not sure how to work the mic, he parked in front of the lodge and called the sheriff to notify him about the body.

The ambulance was able to move up the trail until it came to a half-dozen trees that crowded in.

By the time he reached Claire, Rye was sitting up. She had stripped off her drysuit and wrapped it around his core.

She looked over at the sound of running and heaved a sigh of relief when Gill emerged from the woods.

"We've got to get him to the ambulance and start an IV."

"It's about half a mile down the trail." He looked over at the body, then stepped up to help get Rye on his feet. "How you doing?"

She struggled under her husband's weight. "I swallowed half the river, but kept a good core temperature."

Supporting Rye under each arm, they worked his near-lifeless bulk halfway down the trail before they had to stop and rest, bracing him against a tree.

"What the hell happened to my spotter and your staff?"

Gill shrugged. "I'm not sure except it was medical. When I got to the parking area, an ambulance was missing, along with one of the Land Rovers."

Rye startled them both when he lurched away from the tree. "I think I can walk."

They grabbed each arm as he began to sag.

"Maybe not."

All three laughed in that tight way people do when the humorous side of something tragic becomes apparent.

In spite of his protests, they strapped him in before hooking him up to the IV.

"Somebody here call the sheriff about a body?"

Gill looked over at Claire, who gave him an 'okay to leave' nod.

He stepped from the ambulance, extended a hand. "Larry Gill."

The officer took the proffered hand. "You in charge?"

"Yes, sir. We're conducting a river rescue course. I'm fully licensed and bonded and have all the permits."

The Sheriffs deputy nodded. "Can you take me to the victim?" He paused and looked at the ambulance. "They gonna be alright?"

Claire sat next to Rye, holding his hand and looking out, watching them walk down the trail and disappear into the woods.

"You awake?"

He opened his eyes. "Yeah."

"That body was Ed Thomas."

He closed his eyes again. "What do you think?"

"I don't know, but based on the bloating, he'd only been in the water for 24 hours."

"Any obvious injuries?"

"None that I could see under the circumstances." Rye didn't respond again and didn't open his eyes. His hand had gone limp in hers and she gently lay it across his stomach and took his pulse at the carotid artery. Asleep.

She checked the IV and the needle then quietly stepped out onto the lawn. Every time she took a deep breath she coughed. She was just recovering from a coughing fit when an odd rhythm of footsteps brought her around the ambulance, where she almost ran into Paul.

"I asked about you when I checked in and they said there had been some kind of accident."

She walked him to the front of the emergency vehicle so their voices wouldn't wake Rye.

"Ed Thomas is dead."

Paul dipped his head to make eye contact. "What?"

Claire was feeling the weight of her ordeal and sat down, cross-legged. Paul followed suit as best he could.

"Today was the last day of training and the final scenario. I was playing the part of the victim, one of three who had been flipped out of a raft. The scenario called for me to be suspended part way into a hole."

Paul made a questioning face.

"It's a place where the water plunges over a boulder and creates a circulating effect. The search team was supposed to find and rescue me by throwing me a bag filled with coiled rope. Seemed simple enough."

She looked away as if the memory of the event was too fresh in her mind. But as an EMT, she also knew that this was the best way to accurately describe an accident.

"Some kind of medical emergency caused my spotter and the staff manning the rope that kept me out of the hole to leave their posts."

She stood up, coughed, then stretched, and sat back down.

"Anyway, Rye rescued me out of the hole and in the process, Ed surfaced. Sheriff's looking at the body now."

"How's Rye?"

"It was a bitch getting the big guy from the river to the ambulance. But by the time we got him strapped down, he was responding well. Fairly serious hypothermia, but he'll be fine."

Paul stood and gave Claire a hand up. "Thanks. You're just in time. Once he's gone through the IV, I need to get him up to the room and into a hot tub and start filling him with warm foods. I'll need a hand."

Back in the woods, the two men stood over the body. "You alright?"

Gill had dropped down to one knee. "Just getting over an adrenaline rush. I'll be fine in a minute."

"I'll let you recover while I go back to the cruiser and get a tarp. The Medical Examiner is coming from Gold Beach, so he might not be here for an hour or so."

In their room at the lodge, Claire opened the door of the bathroom and had to duck to keep from getting hit with a washcloth. "Hey!"

"Get me a towel or clothes or something. I'm starting to turn into a prune."

"Alright, Mr. Bad Patient. Let me collect the dishes." She scanned the plate and soup bowl, both scraped clean. "I see you haven't lost your appetite. Your sweats will have to do."

Once on the bed, Rye with a third bowl of soup in hand, they had begun to discuss the tragic events of the day when they were interrupted by a knocking at the door.

Rye started to get up but was pushed back with a firm hand to the chest. "I've got it." The knocking continued until she opened the door.

"Paul? She looked past him expecting to see Amy. "What's up?"

She motioned him in. "Rye's pretending he's all better."

He looked at his friend. "He looks fine."

"Don't let him fool you. He's weak as a kitten."

Rye held up both fists in a mock boxing position. "Come over here and say that."

"You and Amy have a falling out?"

The Private Investigator sat on the end of the bed. "Not that I'm aware of. She doesn't want to come out of her cabin. When I ask if everything is alright, she just shakes her head. I told her about the accident and she was concerned but didn't want to come visit." He looked directly at Claire. "I don't know. I thought it might be a woman thing."

Claire nodded. "Right. A woman thing. Got it. She saw a spider and now won't leave the safety of her cabin."

"C'mon. You know what I mean."

"Get with it, Paul. You're the single parent of a developing young woman. But seeing how you're apparently inept in this department, I'll visit the young lady."

When she got to Amy's cabin, the lights were still on, so she knocked and called out.

She nearly fell on her face when the door opened. Amy had her around the waist in an aggressive hug before she knew what happened.

Claire pried her hands away and tried for some light banter. "Rye's the only one that greets me like that."

Amy peeked out into the late afternoon then closed the door and twisted the button in the knob.

Shocked at her actions, Claire sat on the bed and patted the mattress beside her. "Talk to me."

Amy seemed nervous and rocked back and forth. "I don't know, can I?"

Claire bristled. "I'm your friend, your sensei, and your adopted aunt. Tell me what's going on."

She worried that she had come across too strong. Paul had mentioned on more then one occasion that Amy rebelled whenever he put on a strong parental attitude.

"Remember Ed?" It was a rhetorical question, one Claire was grateful for. She just nodded.

"Yeah, well, he had this roommate who was a real pervert, always used to hit on me." She instantly regretted mentioning that last part. "Well, Ron and I were walking to the little store in Agness and suddenly, there was Ed's roommate unloading a truck. Ron said some new guy named Ed was brought in from the Rogue Valley to run the rafting end of the business."

"Who's Ron?"

Amy softened her posture and dropped the edge from her voice. "He works here at the lodge. He's a relative of the original owner, four times removed or something like that. Anyway, I don't want the pervert to see me, 'cause he'll tell Ed, and then Ed'll come around."

When Claire didn't comment and seemed to be looking down at her feet, Amy peered around to see her expression.

Claire looked back at her. "Sorry. It's just that I have to make a decision right now that involves you and your father. Under normal circumstances, I'd never bring up a sensitive issue with you without your father being present." Claire paused. "But honestly, he sent me over to find out why you didn't want to leave your cabin."

Amy was shaken. She'd never seen her aunt so serious.

"I need to talk to you as one adult to another and I'll tell you now that I'm hoping for a response, not a reaction. Do you understand?"

Amy just nodded.

"Not good enough. I need a verbal response."

Amy climbed off the bed and turned to face her Aunt with her hands on her hips. "You ask me to act like an adult, then you tell me how to respond. Am I a child or an adult?"

Claire ran her hands over her face. "I'm sorry." She paused and shook her head. "I just gave your father that same lecture." She could think of no easy way to soften the news. "Ed is dead."

Amy blinked several times, turned, and sat back down on the bed. In the next moment, she surprised Claire. "How did he die?"

"I thought you two were a thing? You know, dating or whatever?"

"Remember when you asked me if I'd had sex?" Another rhetorical question and again Claire just nodded. "Well, we didn't, unless you want to call a handjob sex." Amy hoped that her aunt had been serious about talking one adult to another because there was no way she was going to explain 'giving a handjob' to her.

"You're telling me that you weren't in love or anything like that?"

"There was kind of an attraction at first, but the more I got to know him, the less I liked him. I broke it off right after my brown belt test."

Claire suddenly bristled. "If you want, I'll go over to the store and settle Frank's hash."

"Please, no. Let's just go over to your room."

They walked across the lawn toward the lodge without a word until Amy touched her aunt's shoulder, and they stopped. Claire turned to face her with a questioning look. "Um, Aunt Claire? You ah, you won't tell daddy about...you know."

Claire frowned. "Not tell your father about what?"

Amy rolled her eyes. "God." She stroked the air with an open fist. "You know."

Claire laughed. "I don't want to know any details, and you don't have to worry. Your father will never hear about it from me." She stroked the air and laughed again. "Welcome to womanhood."

Arm in arm, they crossed the lawn the rest of the way to the lodge.

When they reached the lobby, Amy looked around and asked mindlessly, "How's Uncle Rye doing?"

"Are you really that worried that Frank will be here?"

Amy started for the stairs. "I was looking for Ron. On our walk today I invited him to join us for dinner. But that was before I learned about your accident."

Claire laughed. "If your Uncle is anywhere near back to normal, his appetite will be, too."

When they came to the room, Claire knocked before entering, hoping that Rye wasn't parading around in his underwear. When they entered, she was relieved to see that he had changed from sweats to jeans and a jacket. The two men looked like they were ready to go out.

Paul turned. "Glad you ladies could make it."

Amy walked over and gave her father a hug. "I know about Ed."

He looked over at Claire, then down at his daughter. "You okay?"

"It's not like we were lovers or anything."

He tried not to show his relief.

"Your Uncle Rye and I have been talking. He can't seem to let go of what Ed said about the girls from the accident being part of a human trafficking ring."

Rye got up and tried to avoid Claire's withering stare. "I'm fine. I just need to take it slow and stay bundled up. I thought we could have dinner in the restaurant instead of an outside barbecue."

She grudgingly agreed.

They dined on grilled trout with salad on the side. In the middle of the meal, Amy suddenly jumped up and ran out of the room. Her father was on his feet until Rye put a hand on his shoulder. "The young man she introduced me to last night." Claire followed his stare. "That would be Ron." Moments later, Amy was leading a clean-cut young man up to their table.

"Ron, this is my Aunt Claire and you met my Uncle Rye. And this is my father."

Ron bobbed his head. "Pleased to meet you all."

Claire stood up and dragged a chair over from an unoccupied table. "Please join us."

Rye and Paul exchanged looks.

Ron shared smiles all around the table. "Amy said that you were here taking a river rescue course. How's it going?"

Rye smiled. "Funny you should ask. During the last scenario, we discovered a body in the river. The sheriff said the victim was hired by the owner of the little country store to operate the rafting business. The owner said he told his friend he was going to walk the river for a ways and check it out. I was just wondering, since you've lived here for a while, if there have been other accidental drownings."

Ron took on a look of confusion that Paul picked up on.

"What is it, son?"

"That's not true."

Rye looked across the table at Paul, but he couldn't get his attention because he was in full investigative mode.

"What's not true?"

"I saw the new guy get into the raft with Billy and Josh."

"Who's Billy and Josh and where exactly did you see the raft go in?"

"Daddy," Amy protested.

Ron was frantically looking from Rye to Paul. "This is really weird, man. I ran into the sheriff and told him I'd seen the new guy climb in a raft and he told me he already had it covered and not to worry about it."

Paul frowned. "He didn't contact you later, take a statement or anything?"

"No, sir."

Rye stood. "I'm feeling a bit of a chill and am wondering if we might continue this conversation up in our room."

Ron stepped back from the table. "Actually, I'm scheduled to help in the kitchen tonight. That's where I was going when Amy snagged me. I'm probably already in trouble."

Paul stepped up and shook the young man's hand. "Thanks for playing tour guide for my daughter. I'm a Private Investigator..."

Ron smiled and interrupted. "I know. Amy said you just finished a big case."

Paul looked over at his daughter then back. "Is that so?" He cleared his throat. "I'd like to talk to you more about the drowning. Do you have a cell number?"

"No, but I live in one of the cabins and have a landline."

Paul produced a business card. Ron scribbled his number on a scrap of paper placemat and traded him.

They said their goodbyes and went up to their room.

Claire watched Rye sit on the edge of the bed. "I thought you were cold."

He waved away the question. "I noticed a woman watching from the kitchen. She seemed focused on Ron."

"Under the covers or put on a jacket."

He glared at his wife then broke into a smile, leaned over, and gave her a kiss. "I'll take the jacket."

Paul was beginning to pace. "We know the victim was Ed." He turned to his daughter. "And you're sure you saw Frank working at the store?"

"He was unloading a truck. But I'm sure it was him."

Claire snuck up behind her husband and tossed the jacket over his head. "Who was your servant last year?" Then she turned to Amy. "He didn't see you?"

"No. I stopped before we got close to the store. As soon as I saw him, I turned around."

Rye popped his hands out the sleeves and zipped the jacket up to his chin. "It just seems too much of coincidence. Ed mentions the trafficking thing, then he comes up here and has an accident. On top of that, we have two different stories about what happened to him and the sheriff seems to already be choosing one over the other."

Paul picked up the narrative. "Both stories make sense. But I think he'd be more likely to fall off an outcropping then out of a raft..."

"Unless," Amy interrupted, "he was pushed."

Paul pointed at his daughter with one hand and touched his nose with the other. "A chip off the old block. And therein lays the foul play. But we have a disconnect. Can anyone guess?"

Rye had taken off the jacket and crawled under the covers. "I don't know. He did mention the human trafficking thing."

"Yes, but who knew about that outside of this circle? Amy, did he ever bring up the topic with you?"

She looked at her father then looked away. He knew that reaction and probed further. "C'mon. Did you ask him about it later?"

"Yeah. We were parked in front of his house." She suddenly blurted out. "But we didn't do anything. I mean, he tried to kiss me, but I wouldn't have any of it."

Claire stepped over and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Whatever happened is okay. That's not what this is about."

"Then yes. I mean, I asked him how he knew that stuff about the date rape pills. He told me it was just something he overheard Frank talking about."

The room went silent and stayed that way when they realized Rye had fallen asleep. Then the silence was broken by his snores. Claire held up a finger to get everyone's attention, walked over, and pulled the covers down off his shoulders. Seemingly on cue, he rolled onto his side, pulled the covers up to his chin, and stopped snoring.

She smiled. "He sleeps the sleep of the dead."

Paul continued in a softer voice but with no less intensity. "So the sheriff chooses to believe that Ed fell off the outcropping, which on the face of it, makes sense. But when confronted by an eyewitness with a different story, he blows him off. Still, we have the disconnect. If nobody outside the four of us heard what Ed had said about human trafficking, then we have a dead end. And a sheriff looking for a simple solution."

Amy looked around in disbelief and was shushed when she began to raise her voice. "What about the fact that both Frank and Ed ended up here?"

Her father shook his head. "What about it? Perhaps all this is nothing more than a coincidence and Ed's death is an accident."

It was late when the conversation dwindled and everyone was a little spooked. That is, except Rye, who was still asleep. Paul and Claire walked Amy to her cabin, where her father kissed her goodnight. "Lock the door. I'll wait." After a minute, he grabbed the knob and gave it a shake to make sure it was locked.

**_Chapter Eighteen_**

Ellen moved through the motions of cooking, cleaning the kitchen, and generally following the rules of Camp Hiouchi like a ghost. Drifting around the facility and emerging from her self-proclaimed exile just long enough to participate during the counseling sessions or a visit with her companion, Jane Johnson.

Every day, right after her 9:00 AM to noon class, Ellen had a free period for just half an hour right before her cooking and kitchen duties began. During this time, she would sit alone on the bank of the river. At first, she'd just watch the gentle flow of the water. Then, as one day blurred into the next, she found herself wondering what it would be like to step into the water and let it pull her away.

It was a bright warm day in May, one of the first where she could sit on the riverbank in short sleeves. From somewhere in the back of her mind, her companion's warning bubbled up. "We have fifteen girls and fifteen boys here. The boys are across the river but don't even think of crossing over for a visit."

All these days, and she hadn't seen a single boy. Were they so different? Never wondering at the river and its destination? Many of the girls enjoyed spending their free time wading and splashing on the shore, always under the watchful eye of a companion. Maybe these boys were hardcore and couldn't be bothered with the river.

She'd borrowed a pair of binoculars from one of the staff, explaining that she thought she'd found an eagle's nest.

Where were the boys? She could see some buildings and a couple cabins. Were they in lockdown? She watched day after day until she became obsessed. Where were the boys? One day she saw a van. Another day, she saw two men.

She was just finishing cleanup after the noon meal when a messenger brought her a note. She took the moment to wipe her hands on the apron she always wore and to tie her hair back.

It was from her companion, Jane Johnson. She looked around. She was alone, so she read it out loud. "We need to meet. My office, 1:30." She folded the note and slipped it into her back pocket. She pondered the time. This meeting with Jane would cut into her group counseling session. She looked at the big clock on the wall. She only had ten minutes.

The broom was in the closet, the mop and bucket out back drying. She gathered the cleaning rags and dropped them in the hamper on her way out. As she was finishing these chores, she thought about her conduct lately, trying to remember if she'd done anything that could get her into trouble. When she entered the administration building, Jane was at the coffee machine.

"Ms. Stulov. Ellen." She checked her watch. "Right on time. I appreciate that." They moved down the hall, Jane sipping her coffee and Ellen feeling the knot in her stomach unwind a little after receiving such a pleasant greeting from her companion.

"Please have a seat. How are you, Ellen?"

Ellen nodded. "Very well, thank you."

Jane took a long sip of her coffee. "I want to know how you're getting along." Then she pulled out a yellow pad and pen.

Ellen knew how to play the game and gave a sigh. "Comfortably. I like cooking and feel a sense of pride when I leave the kitchen clean." She looked away for a minute and nodded for effect. "And, you know, I think that has been helping me keep my room neat and tidy."

Jane made some notes and took a short sip this time. "One of the companions— the one overseeing the girls at the river—has noted that you spend your free time sitting alone on the bank."

Ellen noted how Jane never said a companion was 'watching.' Instead, they were always 'guiding' or 'overseeing.'

"Yes, I enjoy the solitude."

Jane made more notes. "You can honestly tell me that you're not brooding or sad?"

Ellen vigorously shook her head. "Oh no, not at all. The river brings me peace. It moves so gently. Sometimes, I'll toss a small stick in and watch its progress."

Jane's voice became less innocent and soft, more probing. It took on an edge, like she was ready to catch her charge in a lie. "The companion said she saw you looking across the river with a pair of binoculars."

Ellen ignored the implication that she might have been doing something wrong and projected as angelic a smile as she could muster.

"One day—I think it was the warmest this year, the day I could go out wearing just my t-shirt—I thought I saw an eagle's nest. I'd been watching it circle and thought it landed among the trees. I borrowed the binoculars from Mr. Randle, the maintenance man, but I returned them the same day."

She noted a sense of relief wash over her companion and that's when she knew.

"Did you find the nest?"

"No. I think it was just resting or watching for fish or something."

She noticed how Jane had stopped drinking her coffee when her questions became more pointed. Now she sipped her coffee and made a face. "Cold."

Jane picked up her coffee cup as she stood, then looked across her office at the clock on the wall. "Group counseling is almost over. No reason for you to attend. Showing up late is such a disturbance. Looks like you have some free time. Will you go look for the eagle?"

Ellen followed Jane back down the hall where she stopped at the coffee machine.

"No, I think I'll go back to my room and write a letter to mother."

She continued to sit by the river during her free time, but now that she knew she was being watched, she made a point to look into the water, throw the occasional stick, maybe skip a stone. But she was also careful to always steal a glance across the river, in search of the non-existent boys.

At first when she arrived at Camp Hiouchi, she believed everything she was told, that there were boys across the river. How strange, she'd thought. Boys that never went swimming, never walked among the woods that surrounded the cabins. Even with the binoculars, she couldn't find any boys.

But it was on the day that she was called into Jane's office that she realized there was something on the other side that she wasn't supposed to know about. The real reason she wasn't allowed to cross the river—she knew it wasn't boys.

Ellen didn't know how, but she was going to find out what was over there. At first, she tried to speculate. When she couldn't come up with anything, she decided to make a plan to cross over and find out for herself.

**_Chapter Nineteen_**

Amy slept in the back of the bus most of the way home, but cornered her father when they were carrying in their luggage.

"Daddy, have you given any more thought to Ed's death?"

He frowned and tried to look puzzled. "It most likely was nothing more then a tragic coincidence and I really haven't given it a second thought."

But she knew he had. He gave it away when he used the phrase 'most likely.'

Her father was, if nothing else, dogged in his investigations. Once he got hold of a clue, or an unanswered question, he wouldn't quit until he'd found the answer.

Like he'd said back at the Lucas Lodge. She was a chip off the old block. She had no intention of leaving Ed's death as an unexplained coincidence.

She couldn't drive, so she couldn't visit Agness and the lodge again by herself. Then the next best thing slammed home. She'd call Ron.

He'd given her father his number and she knew where he kept his list of contacts.

That afternoon, right after school when she knew her dad was in Medford with an attorney, she ventured into his office. First stop was his Rolodex. Nothing. Then the top middle drawer, left side: his contact list. Again, nothing. She tried to remember if Ron had given him a card. She didn't think so. What was daddy wearing that night? She pulled and pushed through his clothes closet, checking every pocket. "Bingo."

Each step of the way she'd been sure to cover her tracks, returning the Rolodex back to the letter R, where it had been when she'd found it. When she replaced the contact list, she was careful not to disturb the rest of the drawer's contents. But after rifling through his closet, she didn't know how to cover up her search. Maybe he'd never notice something like how his clothes were hanging.

Every night for a week, she sat at her computer desk and stared at Ron's phone number. She knew she couldn't just call him out of the blue, and began to make a list of questions. And she wanted a map, a lay of the land, and maybe a list of residents. She'd watched her father assemble facts, names, and places on his giant dry erase board. He'd always told her that if you get all the pieces of the puzzle together, then it was just a matter of figuring out means, motive and opportunity before you'd be able to assemble it.

Uncle Rye thought someone had killed Ed because he was talking about trafficking. But daddy said the disconnect was that no one had heard what Ed said outside of the four of them, and that there was no reason for him to tell anyone if he'd been giving away secrets.

Somebody knew. Uncle Rye or Aunt Claire might have mentioned the conversation, but to whom? She eliminated that possibility.

Someone wanted Ed dead, but why kill him in Agness, at the Rivers there? Oregon was so rural. He could have been killed and dumped in any number of places where his body would never be found.

Rye was in the back bedroom. He'd christened it the library. All their medical and legal books pertaining to the business would reside there but he was more excited about his collection of novels and adventure fiction finally having a place to live.

He was straining, bent slightly backwards, under the weight of the last box of books when someone pounded at the front door. He grudgingly set the box on the coffee table and half expected Claire to dash into the room in response. Then he remembered. She was in the back mudroom setting up the various weight machines. The pounding continued.

Claire had called in a medical day off and here he was carrying boxes. Taking a break, they'd both marveled at the progress they were making around the new house. They'd hoped to be completely unpacked last week, but the river rescue training had gotten in the way and now they had such limited endurance that Rye wasn't sure they'd finish tonight like they'd wanted to.

When he opened the door, Paul stepped in. Rye laughed, pulling it open extra wide. "Well, come on in."

"I peeked in the barn and saw the ambulance and your sidecar rig and figured you were home. But I couldn't see Claire's motorcycle. Is she around?"

Rye had seen his friend like this before, although usually during a rather dangerous case. "You need some strong arm? This way—I think she's still in the mudroom."

Claire looked up from the floor where she was securing a support bar to its stand. She pushed up with a groan. "This had better be our last move." Then she looked over at Paul. "Well, if it..." Rye, standing slightly behind the PI and to his right was shaking his head. She cut off her smart ass question, walked up, and took Paul by the arm. "To the kitchen! We need a break and I'm starving. How do you feel about lunch? I think I know where everything is."

A short time later, Rye was digging into a bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

"Chow hound," Claire laughed. Then she nodded her head at Paul. "How can we help you?"

Paul produced a folded yellow page from a legal pad. "I haven't been able to get Ed and his suspicious cause of death out of my head."

Rye put his half-eaten sandwich down. "Go on."

"Remember how I said there was a disconnect?" His friends nodded as one. "Alright, let's push that aside for a minute. Amy said she saw his roommate working at the store. The owner is a woman." He consulted the yellow page of notes. "Cindy James. Locals describe her as a real looker, but all business."

Claire stirred her soup. "Sounds like you've been checking into this a little."

He looked at her sheepishly. "More then a little. I knocked on some doors around where Ed used to live with that roommate. Aside from a lot of negative comments about the house looking like a dump, one Mrs..." Again he consulted his notes. "Ethel Hump noted that they had a good-looking female visitor that she was sure was a prostitute."

He looked up expectantly, first at Rye, then Claire. When they didn't respond, he stood up and began to pace. "Don't you see? This connects the store with Frank and Ed."

Claire got up and took his bowl of soup. "Would you like me to zap it in the microwave?"

He nodded mindlessly then continued. "Amy said that when she asked how he knew about the date rape pills, that Ed told her it was just something he'd heard Frank talk about. So..." He consulted his notes. "That begs two questions. First, who was Frank talking to about trafficking and date rape pills? Second, was Ed killed because he overheard something that he shouldn't have? Now, I know this is pure conjecture, but what if the person on the other end of Frank's conversation was Cindy?"

The timer on the microwave went off and seemed to signal that it was time for a pause.

"I have an idea," Claire interjected. "Let's eat."

Rye was already finished and at the stove for the rest of the soup. "Anybody want more?"

Mouths full, his companions shook their heads.

Once they'd all eaten their fill, Paul cleared the dishes, picked up a sponge, and began to wash. "There's more."

Rye snapped up a towel to dry while Claire looked mockingly across the now- cleared table. "I don't think so."

Paul ignored her reference to dishes, dried his hands, and came back to the table. "It's Amy."

Claire became serious. "What about her?"

Rye put the last bowl away and joined them at the table.

"She's gone through my office, my closet. She took Ron's phone number."

Claire looked over at Rye, then back at Paul. "Have you confronted her?"

"No, and I don't think I will. If Ed was murdered, I'll want her input. If I make a big deal about her going through my office, I'll loose any chance of her cooperation."

Rye reached across the table and slid the page of notes over, spinning it around so he could read it. "Sounds like Amy is doing her own investigation." He slid the sheet over to Claire without further comment.

She did a quick scan. "I don't see where Ron mentioned that the two workers from the store climbed in the raft with Ed."

"Exactly, there it is. That seals the connection between his death and the store. Then you have the storeowner and her visit to Frank's house. We now have means and opportunity, two out of three. If we can prove that Ed's death was a murder and not an accident, the motive will reveal itself."

"Do you think Amy will really call Ron?" Claire asked, as she spun the sheet of questions around in circles.

Paul reached over and took his notes back. "Without a doubt. But I'm more curious about what she's going to ask him"

**_Chapter Twenty_**

Ellen made up her mind.

It was a moonless night and she felt foolish. Understandably, since she was standing in the kitchen in her underwear, rubbing Crisco all over her body and even on her face. Replacing the can of shortening in a cupboard, she scampered out the back door and over to a bucket of ashes taken from one of the fire pits. Squatting down, she began to shovel the ash into a giant baggie.

She'd scoped out her route during the day. It afforded her the greatest cover from the kitchen to the river. She figured the Crisco was so greasy that it would help keep her warm and not wash off during the swim.

Hair tied back and holding the bag of ash to her chest she wadded into the river. Filled with air she was able to use the plastic bag as a flotation device. And employing a frog kick, she was able to keep from splashing.

Although it'd just been part of her cover story at first, throwing sticks into the river had been helpful in her planning. All week, she threw twigs in the water and then followed them, walking along the shore to gauge the speed of the river. Now that was paying off.

When she reached the other side, she rolled onto the shore and crawled behind some scrub brush. She was surprised at how out of breath she was. She lay there for a moment, just listening to her heartbeat. No one sounded an alarm, and she didn't see any wavering flashlight beams searching the shore.

She opened the bag, relieved that the ash was still dry, and began to apply it to her body from head to toe. Now for the scary part. Staying low, she crept to the first cabin. Standing on tiptoe, she peaked inside. Nothing. No cots or bunks and certainly no boys. She made her way to the next cabin. Same thing.

Ellen froze at a sound in the brush on her right. She held her breath. Nothing. Staying low, she made her way from tree to tree until she reached what looked like a small barn. That's when she first heard it. Whatever it was, it wasn't an animal. She followed the side of the barn, but there were no windows. Throwing caution to the wind, she rapped on the wood and the sound grew louder. But now she could hear crying.

"Who's there? Who are you?"

More crying.

Forgetting herself, she walked along the side of the barn, intent on finding the doors. The sound of an approaching vehicle stopped her. A van was driving up the dirt road with its headlights off.

Suddenly, she was jerked back and around the corner by a hand around her waist. Another hand was placed over her mouth. When she opened her eyes, she was on her back and her captor had a knee on her stomach. Keeping a hand over her mouth, he pressed the index finger of the other against his lips. She nodded.

She watched as the stranger stepped away from her and crawled on his belly to the corner of the barn. He was a boy, and didn't look much older then she was. Then he scooted backwards next to her and sat with his back braced against the barn.

He seemed to be staring at her chest and she was reminded that she was in her underwear. His hand reached around the back of her head and she felt helpless to resist. He slowly moved his lips against her ear and whispered. "What is this stuff?"

When his hand retracted, he held it up close enough that she could see the smear of black. She leaned forward and whispered back. "Crisco and ashes." He just nodded.

They sat huddled together until the sound of tires on gravel and dirt alerted them that the van had driven away.

"Who are you?" the boy asked. "How did you get here?"

She crossed her arms across her chest. "I'm from Camp Hiouchi. This was supposed to be the boy's camp. But there's nobody here."

He shook his head. "Wrong." Then he motioned for her to follow.

An aging conifer was leaning steeply against the back of the barn. With some effort, the boy jumped up and grabbed the first branch, then reached down to pull her up.

She ignored the scraping on the inside of her thighs as she clamped her legs around the tree to keep from falling. Like a monkey, he climbed hand and foot onto the roof, then turned and waved her up. With all her courage, she shimmied up until she could once again take his hand. He was looking down at the roof. She came up next to him and saw that he was staring between two shingles at the room below, and bent down to take a look for herself.

Ellen stifled a gasp and sat upright, nearly losing her balance. Then bending over, she looked again. She counted ten shadows, images that were milling around, and somehow she knew they were girls. Suddenly, she felt the tension of his grip on her shoulder. He was pushing her flat. The van was coming back.

Creeping like a snake, the boy moved up to the peak of the roof and watched a woman get out of the passenger side. The driver was the third man he'd seen on the raft. He looked back and waved to the girl, but she just shook her head.

Ellen was terrified. Her little stunt was coming apart. Something really bad was going on and she didn't want to know about it. She had to tell someone. But whom could she trust?

The boy seemed to be waiting for something. Watching. Then he was waving her to go back, mouthing it with his lips.

By the time she dropped down from the last tree branch, her hands were raw and her thighs and ankles bloody. She waited and watched, but he didn't follow. Then slowly, like a snowflake, a small card floated down. It was a business card. Silently, she made her way back to the river. Holding the card in her teeth she quietly dog paddled to the opposite shore and retraced her route to the kitchen.

The next day was warm, but Ellen wore long pants and kept her hands in her pockets as she walked around the facility. During her free time, she pulled the card from her bra and turned it over several times, not sure of what to make of it. On one side was the name 'Paul Casey,' and below the name were the two words 'Private Investigator.' The backside had two phone numbers. Was her mystery man a PI? Did he want her to call him? She tucked it away, not sure what to do.

Another camper delivered a note to her. Ellen's heart sank and she could feel herself breaking out in a cold sweat. The note simply read that she should report to Mrs. Johnson's office upon reading it. The young messenger girl didn't dash off like the last time, but stood around watching her read the note. "I'm supposed to escort you to administration."

When Ellen entered the hall, the coffee machine was empty. At first, she figured that Jane must have taken a day off from caffeine, but she smelled the acid brew even before she entered the office. Jane sat with her fingers in steeple fashion, her chin resting on her fingertips, and her steaming coffee cup on the desk between her elbows. She looked up, only moving her eyes.

"Please sit. I've been looking over your counselor's notes, as well as those of the kitchen staff. I believe you've earned the right to work at the Little Country Store. We have a contract with them that mandates that we provide them with one employee each year. You've been chosen."

Ellen couldn't speak. Just when she was convinced that the entire camp staff was involved in some kind of kidnapping scheme, she was being rewarded for her conduct.

Jane produced a tight-lipped smile. "I can understand your surprise. But I cannot stress enough that this position may be revoked at any time, for even the slightest break of protocol. But it is still your choice. Today you will be taken into town and walked through the job duties. If you decide the position is not for you, there'll be no shame. Your ride leaves in fifteen minutes and will bring you back for the evening meal. Tonight, you'll eat at my table."

**_Chapter Twenty-one_**

The blues rift sounded muffled until Paul pulled his cell phone from his inside coat pocket. He looked sheepishly at Rye and Claire. "Sorry." He glanced at the screen for caller ID.

"Hello?"

"Paul, this is the girl from last night."

Overhearing, Rye raised his eyebrows and smirked.

"Who is this?"

"Ellen Stulov. Camp Hiouchi. Last night across the river, the girls in the barn, don't you remember?"

Before he could respond, the call ended.

Claire excused herself and went down the hall.

"Elaine Stuloft?"

Paul looked at his friend. "Stulov, Ellen Stulov."

He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and wrote the message. Then read it out loud. "Paul, this is the girl from last night. Ellen Stulov. Camp Hiouchi. Last night across the river, the girls in the barn." He looked up at Rye and shook his head. "I haven't got a clue who that was or what she was talking about."

Claire walked back in the room. "I think I can shed some light on the conversation. The last name is familiar, although I can't place it. But I looked up Hiouchi. It's a camp for troubled teens and guess where it's located? Just outside Agness. That would mean she was talking about the Rogue River. But as for the girls in the barn..." She shrugged her shoulders.

Paul had been punching numbers into his phone as Claire was speaking. "This should yield some results." He hit 'end,' set the phone on the table, and stared at it. In less than a minute, it emitted an old fashioned ring. He picked it up, pressed answer, and held the phone out for Rye and Claire to read.

"The Little Country Store." Claire said. "That's where the call originated, and isn't that where Amy saw Ed's roommate?"

Paul returned the phone to his pocket. "Yes, and I think it's time to bring her in on this."

Jane looked at her Caller ID and snatched up the receiver. "I told you never to call here."

There was a moment of silence. "The girl you sent made a phone call. I traced it to a Paul Casey, Private Investigator."

Jane slammed a fist on her desk. "You're supposed to keep an eye on these girls. You hear anything?"

The tone was sharp, edgy. "Sure did. I distinctly heard her say 'girls in the barn.'"

Jane slammed down the phone, picked up her coffee cup, and threw it against the wall where it burst into a thousand shards of ceramic. "Fucking little bitch is going to ruin everything." A minute latter the phone rang. "Yes," she hissed.

"What do you want me to do?"

Jane pulled the Stulov file from her top drawer. "She must have been with that kid you caught last night. Where is she now?"

"I told Billy to teach her a lesson."

"Yeah, well, tell Billy not to hurt her and that I want to add her to the group."

"What are we going to do? What if this PI comes snooping around?"

"I may have to call on the sheriff again. Keep the little bitch at the store, and I'd keep a tight leash on Billy. He gets brutal if given a minute alone with the girls." Jane paused, thought better of her orders. "No. Take her to the barn with the others."

Paul looked over at his daughter as she climbed into the bus. He'd pulled her out of school with the pretext of a family emergency. All he'd told her was that he was working a case, and needed her help.

He was quiet and stern during the drive from Ashland High School to Valley View. She'd seen him like this before and knew better then to play 20 Questions.

He walked her through the front door of the new Rogue Rescue and Ambulance headquarters without knocking—another sign that something was up—and led her into the kitchen.

Claire immediately walked around the table and gave her a hug. "We're really glad you're here."

Paul crossed the room and sat on the far side of the table so he'd be facing his daughter. "Less than an hour ago, I got a phone call." He took out his cell and put it on the table. "Based on this conversation, your Aunt Claire did a bit of Googling and determined that the girl who made the call is attending Hiouchi, a camp for troubled teens." He paused, confused at the grin that was spreading across her face. "Why are you smiling?"

"I knew in my heart of hearts that you couldn't leave this alone."

He grinned back. "Okay, so you think you've got me pegged. Keep in mind that I'm your father and just maybe I can change my mind."

Rye elbowed his friend. "Let's get on with it."

Paul gave a nod and continued. "We've also made a connection between the owner of the Little Country Store, where you saw Frank, and Ed's death."

The room went silent and Amy looked around. "Hey, I'm okay."

"I'm going to play the message and ask for everyone's response.

"Amy, I want you to go first." He pressed a few icons and the message played. When it stopped, he locked eyes with his daughter. "What do you hear?"

She looked around at the three adult faces, all looking back expectantly. Everyone that met her always mentioned how mature she was for her age. But this was pushing it.

"A girl's voice, tense. I think she thought Daddy was the guy she was with the other night." Claire saw the concern on her face and felt the need to encourage her. "Very good." Rye and Paul nodded in agreement. Claire saw the fifteen year-old beam under adult approval.

Encouraged, Amy continued. "The reference to last night would have been the night after we left, 24 hours ago."

Again, Paul and Rye nodded and made agreeing noises.

Rye tapped the phone. "Could you play it again for me?"

When the message ended, he slapped the table. "We've all heard enough. We can make a connection between the owner of the Country Store, Camp Hiouchi, and a mystery barn filled with girls..."

Amy chimed in excitedly. "Don't forget the connection between the owner of the store and Ed's death."

Her father gave her a stern look for having interrupted. "Remember, all we're doing right now is connecting events."

Rye shook his head vigorously. "I disagree. Hiouchi is for troubled teens. Claire pulled up the website for the camp." He nodded for his wife to take over.

"Right," Claire began. "It turns out that if the girls toe the line, they get the opportunity to work at the Little Country Store. Then you get a phone call from a girl thinking you're someone she saw at a barn full of girls, and where is she calling from? The Little Country Store in Agness."

Nobody said a word until Rye broke the silence. "We need to call the police with the information we have and let them sort things out."

Paul slid his chair back and stood. "No. I think we have a sheriff who's on the take. He'd be the first one the police would contact so as not to go barging in and step on jurisdictional toes." He walked to the counter and held up the empty coffee pot. "I know what you're thinking. That this is a human trafficking ring, and I agree. If we're correct, there could be thousands involved, and who knows how long the trafficking ring has been in place..."

Amy gave a little squeal. "What better recruiting center than a camp for trouble teens where the parents can't visit for nine months?"

Paul looked across the table at his daughter and bulged his eyes at her for interrupting.

Amy admonished her father. "I looked up the camp, too, and I can have opinions." Then she folded her arms across her chest.

Claire put a hand on the teenager's shoulder. "I think we have a more immediate issue that we need to act on right now." She saw that she had everyone's attention and continued. "The caller tried to remind you of who she was by mentioning Hiouchi. We all agree that she's attending that camp and the call came from the Little Country Store. I think Amy is right on—the girl was tense. She saw something she knew she wasn't supposed to see and made a call. Did anyone notice how abruptly the call ended? She could be in real danger."

**_Chapter Twenty-two_**

They were all rehashing the phone call, playing it over and over again, when the amplified ring of a phone split the air.

"Wow, the new intercom system really works." Rye said, as he made his way to the dispatch room.

"Rogue Rescue and Ambulance Service, Rye speaking."

Claire walked around and stood in front of him with raised eyebrows and a questioning look.

He held up one finger. He seemed to be listing to a long story.

"Yes. Ten minutes."

By the time he hung up, Paul and Amy were also standing at the entrance to the converted walk-in closet.

Rye sensed their presence and turned around. "Sorry." He walked as he spoke, and they stepped out of his way. "Two boys have fallen into the cement reservoir up on Terrace. Let's regroup. We'll call you when we're clear."

Claire had run ahead and thrown the climbing gear and diving equipment into the back of the ambulance and climbed behind the wheel. Rye unplugged and slid open the door. Paul and Amy came out the front of the house. Amy ran to the barn. "Get going—I'll catch the door." Rye gave her a wave and a smile.

Claire went lights and sirens when they passed the coffee kiosk and were headed into town, knowing that the lanes would merge into one. "Up Granite past the county lot, up Ashland Loop Road?"

Rye was looking at a map. "Don't think so, it turns to gravel and narrows. Could be a problem. Go Gresham to Morton and we'll cut up to Terrace from there. It's all paved residential. The Terrace Street Reservoir holds 2.4 million gallons of chlorinated drinking water."

She looked over at Rye and they spoke as one. "Contamination."

He began frantically flipping through a small book. "I'll get Water on the line for protocol." It rang six times before transferring him to an emergency number that didn't answer. "Shit, nobody's home."

Claire guided the three-ton ambulance down an incline with a sharp curve and pulled to a stop next to a cyclone fence. The ambulance headlights illuminated a short set of steps and a man with a flashlight standing next to a fence. "I guess they'll have to drain the pond," she said. "You took the call, you take the man. I'll get the bolt cutters."

They jumped from the cab at the same time. Rye going directly to the man on the steps. "Sir? Did you call about two boys falling in?"

"Yes, yes over there." He shined his flashlight on one of the hatches. "I seen them go over the fence, seen them clear. By the time I put my shoes on and got a light, well, I was in time to see what looked like one fall and the other jump."

Claire arrived at the base of the steps with bolt cutters, a floodlight, and headlamp.

"Sir, my partner needs to get through the gate." The man shined his light in Claire's eyes. "A woman?"

"Yes, sir." He gently guided the Good Samaritan down to the street by the elbow. "How long would say the boys have been down there?"

"When I seen the one jump, I ran in the house and made the call, say five minutes to locate your number. Then you show up in ten..."

Rye was already running to the back of the ambulance for the drysuit and the rope.

As he jogged up the steps, he heard the neighbor coming up behind him, yelling. "Fifteen minutes, they been in the water fifteen minutes." Rye stopped at the top, one foot through the gate. "Sir, I'll need you to stay right here and make sure no one else comes up." Then he turned and ran up beside Claire.

She handed him the floodlight. "Take a look."

He moved the light back and forth. "I' don't see anything, but I hear water."

"Exactly. I think they're filling it."

He handed her the drysuit.

"Thanks." She stripped to her underwear, stepped in legs first, then arms, and Rye zipped her up.

"I'll set up a block and tackle but the cable won't reach this far, so no floodlights. I'm afraid you've got all the light you're going to have."

She stepped into the harness and fastened it at the waist. "Any idea about the temp down there?"

He ran the rope through a steel loop on the bumper and set up the block and tackle that would allow him to pull up his wife and one boy at a time. When he came up behind her, she was scanning the bottom and calling out. He checked his watch. "They've been down there around half an hour."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "How cold did you say?"

"This time of year? 45 to 50 degrees. You'll be dealing with hypothermia."

He wrapped the rope around his waist and around his forearm, leaving her about five feet. She walked to the edge. Then he counted off, "Three, two, one," and she was gone.

When he felt her stop swinging he walked to the edge, unwrapped the rope and began to feed.

He was a little unnerved that after twenty-five feet of rope had played out, she was still dropping. If the reservoir was dry, there was no chance that either boy survived the fall.

Then the rope went slack.

He let out another ten feet then secured it, fell to his belly, and crawled to the opening.

All he could see was a pinpoint of light moving around in circles.

Down in the reservoir, Claire spun around, creating the effect of a lighthouse, holding the floodlight at water level and calling out. But the sound of water drowned out the sound of her voice. She began to search out the source of the pounding water with her light, following the contours of the wall. That's when she heard it, a mewing, the kind of sound an animal might make if it were trapped. She began to yell, but the sound wasn't responding to her voice, but to the light.

She shortened the span from left to right. Finally, when the light and the sound collided, she could make out the source of the water.

Protruding from the cement was a twenty-four inch pipe. Hanging from the pipe was a body.

In the short time she'd been in the water it had gone up from her waist to her stomach. Attaching the floodlight onto her belt clip, she followed the beam of her headlamp.

As soon as Claire saw the body, she charged with all her strength, thinking that she was clear of the main flow of water. But she was knocked off her feet by the force of the water coming out of the pipe. It was shooting out ten feet at high velocity. Half-swimming half walking she moved out of the stream until she could stand in the water. It was now above her stomach.

Eyes as wide as saucers, the body was being supported on the back of a boy squatting just below him. When she approached, the roar of the water was so intense that she was forced to put her lips to the boy's ear to be heard.

"What happened to your friend?"

She pointed to her own ear and the boy stretched his neck to get his mouth close enough to be heard. Even without them touching, she could feel how cold he was.

"We were going to drop orange dye into the water, but David lost his balance and fell in. When I called out to him, he didn't answer. So I jumped in and found him floating face down."

It wasn't unusual for an accident victim to ramble on about the particulars leading up to the event. She would generally cut victims off as soon as she had the information she needed. But this was different. The young man had risked his own life for his friend.

"What's your name?"

The young man cupped his hands around his mouth. She couldn't hear his words, so she read his lips and nodded.

"Tom, help me unhook him from the pipe. I have a rope and harness that will take him out of here."

She pulled her lips from his ear and pointed at the opening.

Without a word, the young man pulled out a pocketknife and Claire instantly got the idea.

Splashing in the now chest-deep water, she worked her way under the unconscious form so she was supporting the boy like his friend had, with her back. When she felt the weight increase, she slid to one side, putting an arm over her shoulder. With Tom on the other side, they sloshed back to the rope.

"Hold him upright. I'm going to hook the harness." She held up the double loops that would go around the boy's legs in case Tom hadn't heard.

When he stepped behind his friend and lifted him up by his armpits, Claire did a shallow surface dive and by the light of her headlamp, attached the harness. She surfaced gasping and floundering. The water was just below her chin. Struggling to stay on her feet, she freed up the floodlight, shining it on the ceiling until she found the opening and Rye's face, then tugged on the rope.

She kept the light on the unconscious boy who slowly began to spin as he ascended to the ceiling. She watched with relief as he was pulled through the opening. Moments later, the rope dropped back down.

With her help, Tom was able to step into the harness and again she kept the light on him all the way to the opening. Now, she was fanning her hands and flutter kicking to stay on the surface.

She saw Rye drop the harness but couldn't find it at first and had to swim in increasingly larger and larger circles to locate the rope. Near exhaustion, she stepped through the loops and drew the top belt around her waist. She didn't bother latching the floodlight, just let it hang from the lanyard, and tugged on the rope until she felt Rye take up the slack. With his assistance, she crawled onto the cement top.

He grabbed a wool blanket from a stack and she wrapped it around her shoulders and tried to stop shivering.

When she looked over the boy was breathing as Rye and Tom helped him into the ambulance. Pushing to her feet, she followed.

**_Chapter Twenty-three_**

Claire rode in the back, bundled up with the two boys. It seemed amazing that neither was suffering from hypothermia. After dropping them off at Ashland Community Hospital where their parents met them, she came around and climbed in the cab, still wrapped in the wool blanket. "Home, James."

She started a hot bath while Rye took care of the ambulance and started in on the report.

He walked a pad and pencil into the kitchen and sat at the table, making note of the time of the call and key events that would trigger his memory tomorrow when he planned on finishing it. Satisfied, he slid the pad to the middle of the table and got up to get a glass of milk from the fridge, then stopped. Reaching out, he slid a magnet to one side, removed the note, and headed towards the bathroom and Claire.

He barged in without knocking and Claire slid modestly under the suds until only her head was above water.

"Hey, can't a girl get a little privacy?"

He walked over, lowered the toilet seat, and sat. "Paul and Amy have gone to Agness."

She rose up to a sitting position and Rye couldn't help but stare. "At this hour?"

He looked back at the note. "Says he wants to try and locate the barn under cover of darkness." Then he looked back up.

She reached forward and pulled the plug and turned on the shower.

"I have an idea. Why don't you stop starring and go throw some things in the Fiat?" He was at the door when she called after him. "You might also call and see if we can snag a room at the lodge."

The Volkswagen Bus rumbled down Interstate-5 at 60 miles an hour.

Amy sat, knees drawn up, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets.

"Daddy, are you okay?"

He looked over at his daughter and gave her a tight smile. "I never should have brought you along."

"It's okay. I looked up human trafficking on the computer. I read how girls are kidnapped and forced into prostitution."

She knew that her father probably thought she was to young to talk to about prostitution. That maybe if he knew she'd looked it up on the Internet—he'd change his mind.

"Prostitution is only the half of it." He glanced at his daughter and wondered at the conversation they were about to have. "Girls not much older than you, and some as young as twelve, are made to have sex. They're sold, sometimes several times. Men—business men—will pay to have a young girl perform..." He choked off details that weren't necessary for her to know.

Amy sat listening to her father but in her own world. The girls she hung around with mostly didn't talk about sex. Only how cute a certain boy was. But some did. She'd heard talk about how they'd give oral sex, but how that wasn't really sex, so they were still virgins.

"I know all about sex, daddy."

Suddenly, he slammed a fist on the steering wheel. "No!" he shouted. Then catching himself, he lowered his voice and calmed his tone. "No, you don't. There are deviant sex acts that you won't find on the Internet and if you asked a teacher, you'd be expelled.

"These girls that are kidnapped and trafficked, are forced into doing all sorts of sexual acts. And if they resist, or are for some reason found undesirable, they're killed—or worse."

Amy tried to imagine deviant sex. She replayed all the details she'd heard about oral sex and boys masturbating on their girlfriends. But she couldn't believe that these things were wrong. Didn't they keep her friends from getting pregnant? What did he say? 'Killed—or worse.'

"How would they kill the girls?"

Paul looked over at his daughter, dumbfounded. He thought she'd be put off or embarrassed by this kind of talk. He nodded to himself—she was older than her years.

"You sure you want to hear about this?"

When she didn't answer, he looked over at her. She smiled and shrugged.

"Would they kill them with drugs?"

"You mean a drug overdose? Yes. Many of the girls are runaways and when they're found dead of an overdose, no one is surprised. Remember what Ed said about how the girls are given date rape pills so they will become compliant? Well, that's just a step away from an overdose."

"I know where one of those girls ended up. And it was just like you said."

"What? How?"

Amy stretched her legs because they were stiff, but yawned because she was nervous.

"Ron and I were walking to the Little Country Store and passed an old log cabin. I wanted to look inside and ran through the weeds get to one of the windows. Yeah, well, Ron got all mad and chased after me. He said that a girl's body had been found inside, said she died of an overdose and that the sheriff told everyone to stay away because it was still a crime scene."

"The sheriff again."

Despite the sound-deadening Paul had installed in the cab, most conversation still had to be had just above a yell.

They were just passing through the town of Grants Pass and the lights from the different businesses cast eerie shadows inside the cab.

"What about the sheriff?"

Paul was glad to be off the subject of sex. He was afraid she'd ask a question he'd be embarrassed to answer.

"I think the sheriff is on the take and that he's in on the trafficking."

When they reached Gold Beach, Paul guided the bus into the parking lot of the Sea and Sand Inn and shut off the engine.

"Let's get in the back and make a plan."

He opened the sliding side door, but when his daughter walked up, he stopped her from getting in. "We'll be treading on dangerous ground and I have no business bringing you into this. Your Aunt Claire would kick my ass for this. But here goes. You do exactly what I say or we get you a room right now and you wait for me."

She could feel her heart pounding but remembered that sometimes it was good to be afraid.

With jagged breath she lunged forward, hugging her father. "I love you, daddy." Then she stepped back. "A chip off the old block, remember?"

"Alright, then. The bus is too noisy to sneak up in and if we park it too far up the road, we'll be walking all night. I say let's drive right up to the lodge. Tell them we just need a place to park, and that we'll sleep in the bus."

Amy stepped past her father and up into the back. They both laughed at the thought of the deception, then he followed, slid the door shut, and joined her at the little table.

"You said that Ron told you where the bridge was that crosses the river, and the road that leads to the barn. Can you get us there?"

**_Chapter Twenty-four_**

Driving from Gold Beach to the little town of Agness took the bus just over an hour. After another twenty minutes, they were parked in a designated campsite and making their way on foot up the rutted road past the old school house.

When they reached the bridge where it crossed the Rogue, Paul led his daughter into the high weeds by the side of the road. They both wore black. Amy had her hair tucked up under a watch cap.

He touched his forehead to hers. "I'll cross first. When I reach the other side, I'll step into the weeds. Wait five minutes. Scan the woods on the other side. If you see any kind of movement, do not cross. Understand?"

She reached over and took his hand. "What about you?"

"I can take care of myself. If you see anything, stay put, hunker down. If you need to stay right here all night—do it."

He took her head between his hands and kissed her on the tip of the nose. Then he held her out at arm's length. "Just so you know, I left a note for Claire and Rye. They're probably headed over here right now."

Then he was moving low across the bridge, attempting to stay at the same level as the guardrail.

Watching the dark close in around her father, she suddenly felt very small and scared and alone.

She watched until her eyes hurt. When she looked away, there was movement. From the corner of her eye, she saw something and it wasn't her father. She sighted along the guardrail and there it was again. Just where the rail curved away from the road, at the opposite end of the bridge across from where her father would end up, she could make out two figures. No three—and one was limping. "Daddy."

One was carrying a stick. But when he turned, the moonlight reflected off of a shotgun.

She flattened in a panic, the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

"Count breaths, count breaths. Find the rhythm." But her new calm was jolted by shouting and then the sound of the shotgun firing.

Alarms were going off in her head, pulling her apart. She was just a girl, only fifteen. But then the image of Aunt Claire came to mind. They were the same size and what did she always say? 'If you're small like us, you're fast and sneaky.'

Where was her focus?

With her heart in her throat, she scrambled across the bridge to the other side. Then, in a crab and staying in the shadow of the guardrail, she scuttled the length of the bridge until she was directly across from the man with the gun. She didn't move. What were they doing?

Then she realized that they were going to throw her father off the bridge.

She'd have to come in diagonally from behind. Take the man with the gun first. Take him out at the knees.

She slowly emerged into the open. Both men were badgering her father. She crept closer, adjusted her angle so the man she hit would go down and be an obstacle between her and the other one.

She guessed at the distance then charged. No yell, just the sound of feet. The man with the gun turned at the sound too late. He went down hard, striking his head and losing his grip on the shotgun. Then unexpectedly, the second man wrestled her father over the guardrail and she panicked and ran to the rail.

The second man wrapped an arm around her neck and began to squeeze. Dropping her chin, she opened her mouth and sank her teeth into his arm. The man released his choke with a yelp and she sprang back.

She never saw the figure approaching, stepping up behind her. The sand filled sock whistled through the air until it made contact with the back of her head. Jane Johnson caught the limp figure by the arm and lowered her to the road.

She stood over the diminutive figure. "You think you can handle her?" Holding his arm to stop the bleeding the second man stepped up and drew back a foot to deliver a kick. "Don't. " She reached into her coat and removed what looked like a black flour sack. "Put this over her head and take her to the barn."

The two men waited until Johnson was out of sight then, each grabbing an arm, jerked Amy to her feet and dragged her toward the end of the bridge and the barn.

One ankle twisted, pain was her wake up call. She couldn't see, her head throbbed, and she sensed that she was being dragged.

"Think she hit her to hard?"

The dragging stopped.

"This will wake her."

A hand shot up under her sweatshirt, fingers roughly grasping her bra and pulling until she thought her back would break. Then it was yanked down to her stomach.

"Shit, she don't got no titties."

Scared and remembering everything her father had told her, she found her feet.

She was pushed and pulled until finally, she was shoved face-first into a wall. Then, arms pulled behind her, she was forced to walk backward. She could hear a door open, loud hinges. Wood scraping ground.

"Take the fucking sack off so she can see what she's in for."

Amy was primed and ready. When her hood was removed, she spun with a back fist that connected with the side of her abductor's head.

"Shit. Bitch."

Holding a hand to the side of his head, he shoved at her hip with his foot, pushing her through the doorway.

"Pants, shoes and socks. I'll be back."

Amy shot forward, but he slammed the solid wood door in her face.

At the sound of shuffling she turned around. "What the hell?"

From a clutch of girls, a taller, older one separated herself. "Better do what he says." Amy couldn't help but notice that all the girls, maybe ten in all, were standing around barefoot and in their underwear.

The spokesperson seemed to be fading even as she spoke. "My name's Ellen. I resisted." Her eyes dropped to her feet.

Amy followed. Blood was running down her legs and across her feet.

"Watch out for Billy."

"When she looked up, the poor girl was gone. Shoulders forward, chin down. Eyes blank. She took her by the hand and walked her back to the group. That's when she noticed that they all had the same appearance.

The room looked to be about 12 x 12, the size of her bedroom. The walls were some kind of dark wood, rough-cut. Light came from a single bulb at the end of a cord that dangled about seven feet from the floor.

She walked around the room then looked at the girls. She tried get an assessment to distract herself. Pretty with nice figures, and all appeared older then she was.

She walked into the circle, up to the one who had spoken to her. "What happened?" No response. "Why are you all here?" A soft mewing from the group was her only answer.

Holding her hands out to either side, she herded the girls against the back wall.

Walking to the center of the room, she removed her hooded sweatshirt and jumping straight up, swatted at the light bulb.

Standing in the dark she held her breath. "Bingo. First try."

The room was nearly pitch-black. A glimmer of light came from under the only door, and a little from the side where it wasn't flush with the boards that made up the door jam. There also seemed to be moonlight coming from the ceiling.

She wouldn't wait. As soon as that pig returned and opened the door, she'd push past him and run. She began to pace back and forth in front of the door, wishing he'd hurry up before she lost her nerve. She kept looking back at the girls, now mere shadows, how they'd moved together and huddled in a corner.

When the door rattled, she jumped, then catching herself, stepped just to one side so she couldn't be seen.

The door opened but faster then she expected. Tucking low, she slammed her shoulder into the man's gut and sprinted off to the right. But he didn't chase like she expected. Head down, sprinting away with adrenaline-driven legs, she barreled into another man not five feet from the door.

He grabbed for her hair but she had already turned. He took a step and lurched.

Head turned slightly, she could see the man reaching for her from the corner of her eye and executed a rear kick that caught him just above his belly in the solar plexus. But when she looked forward, it was into the hand of the first man. Going with the force of the strike she spun, leading with her elbow. Contact. But the impact knocked her to the ground, even as it sent the man reeling with a hand to his jaw.

When she tried to scan the room, to get prepared in the dimly lit hall for the attack that was sure to come from the second man. She could taste blood. Her mind screamed, find him. Where is he?

Before she could turn her head, it was viciously yanked sideways. He'd come out of the dark and grabbed her hair.

All of her training—all of the rough and tumble attacks from the strangers brought in by Claire—kicked in.

Twisting one full turn, stepping under her own outstretched hair, she placed both hands on his hand and kicked first to his knee then his groin. Both missed, but they forced him let go when he jumped back. Then he charged in a low tackle around the waist. She braced with a step back and drove an elbow into the back of his head.

He staggered back, looked at his partner, then back at Amy. "You want to fight? Is that what you want?" Without hesitation, he clocked her in the side of the head with a haymaker.

By the time her ears stopped ringing and her head cleared, she was on the ground and the guy that hit her was sitting on her stomach facing her feet. The other man was taking off her socks.

"Now the pants."

When she kicked, the man on her hips shifted back until he was sitting on her chest and punched her in the stomach.

She couldn't breathe and was beginning to panic but couldn't make her arms move. She thought she was going to black out. In a moment between heartbeats and short breaths, she remembered Claire telling her that this kind of situation was like a chess game. That sometimes you had to wait for the right move.

Her pants were coming off over her feet. "There you go. Now doesn't that feel better?"

The man got up off her chest and twisted one arm until she had to roll over onto her stomach.

The one who took her pants off looked down at her. "What a cute ass."

Her arm was uncoiled from behind her back and held partly outstretched to the side like the other. He was sitting on her lower back, leaning forward, keeping her arms pinned to the floor.

She strained her neck, turned her head, and could just make out that he was fooling with the front of his pants.

He pulled his hand from a front pocket, produced a couple pills, walked around in front of her, and kneeled down. Then he looked up at his partner. "Hold her."

He extended his hand in front of her face so she could just see the two little white pills. "Now be a good girl. Take these and we'll let you up."

The man sitting on her shifted his weight forward so he could watch.

She couldn't speak, so she just nodded her head.

He brought them up to her mouth, fingers splayed out. But it didn't protect him.

Amy was hoping for a checkmate.

She bit two of his fingers, simultaneously launching her hips as high as she could while straightening out her right arm and lurching to that side. The result was the man with the pills screaming as he rolled back holding two bloody fingers while the man on top had fallen to her right side. She rolled with him, ending against his side on her back and drove an elbow into his groin.

She was on her feet in less then a second, then just as quickly thrown to the ground on her back. The man with bloody fingers grabbed her arm shoved a foot in her side and pulled.

The man who had taken her down had come out of the shadows. She'd never seen him. He had her other arm, foot in her side, stretching her arm out palm up. Then the man she'd elbowed in the groin walked up with syringe in hand. He stood over her and made sure she could see the needle and the entire affair.

"Don't move. Try any of that Kung Fu shit and I'll break the needle off." He gave a tight-lipped grin. "Leave you with a souvenir."

Amy turned her head away and clamped her jaw shut at the pain.

When she looked up, the man had set the syringe on the floor and was rubbing his crotch. "Maybe I'll leave you a souvenir, after all."

Almost instantly, she felt her arms and legs go limp.

Both arms were released. The third man, the one from the shadows, seemed to be the leader. "I don't think so, Billy. You nearly ruined the one from the store. No. This one goes in the hole."

Billy came around to look down at the leader. "We aren't leaving until tomorrow night. She could die and what would Cindy have to say? And what about the pills?"

The leader stood to face off the question. "I'll deal with Cindy. Now dump this bitch in the hole and be sure to weigh down the lid. We'll give her the pills when we pull her out. All the fight should be out of her by then."

Struggling as much as possible, her eyes closed as if of their own volition and Amy felt like she was floating. When next she opened her eyes, she had to blink to be sure they were open. It was pitch black. She rubbed her hand over her face and came wide-awake. When she pushed to sit up, she'd barley moved before banging her head. In a sudden panic she remembered the last words she heard. 'This one goes in the hole.'

She rolled on her side and banged into something soft. Like reading brail she tentatively ran a hand over the object. Then she snapped it back and rolled to the other side. It was a body.

"Hello." No answer. She was in and out of panic, constantly banishing the image of her father falling off the bridge. She had to count breaths. Nothing worked. Her heart pounded and images of her father falling ran through her head.

Amy began to cry. "Oh, daddy. I'm sorry. In her mind's eye, she could see him looking all over for her. Aunt Claire and Uncle Rye, too.

She thrashed and kicked at the body next to her until she was exhausted and then began to think.

Reaching around and feeling the sides, touching the end with her feet, she determined the size of her confines. Then, slowly, so as not to make contact with the body, she rolled onto her stomach. Rising up, she flattened her back against the lid and began to push. She felt something shift and when she collapsed, she heard a thump. She'd moved the lid.

**_Chapter Twenty-five_**

Rye guided Claire's 1968 Fiat Spider behind a gas station that looked like it had been closed since their car had first been manufactured. The next curve straightened out in front of the Little Country Store.

The only light came from the moon. They both wore black pants and sweatshirts.

The Fiat was a convertible. Rye used the door and was always amazed that Claire would rather vault in and out whenever the top was down. He watched her pull a two-foot rattan stick from behind the seat.

"Think you'll have to use that?"

She popped the air several times. "Not taking any chances."

They started out at a slow lope through the weeds, but were making so much noise that they moved onto the hard pack dirt road.

"Paul's note indicated a footbridge we could take that would put us on the same side of the river as the barn. Said it would be hard to find in the dark and that if we came to the main bridge for vehicles, we'd have gone too far."

Claire ran in a crouch, stick in her right hand. "How far from river crossing to the barn?"

"The note just said to follow the river."

Rye tapped his wife on the shoulder, pointed, and without a word, they cut across a field of weeds and intercepted a path that led to the bridge.

"That's what I call a footbridge," Claire whispered. "Do you think it's even a foot wide?"

He shook his head. "I'll go first. Thing looks a hundred years old."

She was relieved that it didn't sag or creak under his weight. He hadn't reached the end when she started out at a sprint. She figured the less time she was on the bridge, the less time there'd be for someone to see her.

River debris was scattered along the bank so they moved through the forest, keeping the river in sight.

They'd been moving at a steady jog for twenty minutes when the trees opened up.

Rye nudged her with his shoulder and she followed his gaze.

An odd shape was heading in their direction and lurching with a sagging gait, one arm obviously swinging out of sync with the rest of its movement.

Claire gripped Rye's arm and pulled him close so she could whisper. "I'll take this one clean and quiet. You play backup."

Rye had boxed and wrestled in college and spent several nights a week on bag work. He didn't like it when she relegated him to backup, but it made sense.

The strange figure was changing its angle of approach and would be crossing directly in front of their position.

Claire prepared herself to spring and waited until the figure was less than a foot past their position to make her move. In an easy flow, she ran the stick against the carotid artery in the neck and bulldogged the man to the ground. But something was wrong. There was no resistance and he was soaking wet. Slowly, cautiously, she removed the stick, instead of pressing and sending him into unconsciousness. When Rye duck walked up, the figure extended a hand in his direction and pronounced his name.

"Paul. What happened?"

Before he could answer, they heard voices and quietly pulled him between several trees. All three flattened themselves among the ferns.

Rye kept a hand on his wife, knowing that her adrenaline was pumping. They never saw anyone, but the voices grew faint until a night breeze carried their words away.

"Amy. I think they have Amy." At the mention of her niece's name, Rye felt his wife's hackles rise. There was nothing he could do to restrain her when she got to this point.

She stuck her face inches from Paul's. Even so, her whisper came out with a rasp. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"We came up just to find the barn. Parked the bus at the campground. I left her to cross the bridge and ran into two men, one with a shotgun." Paul's words began to fade, Rye restrained Claire's arm when he saw she was about to give him a shake. He could see dark spots along the arm that had been hanging. The mention of a shotgun explained everything. The spots were blood.

Paul rallied and pushed up into a sitting position with his good arm. "They threw me over the bridge. The last thing I remember is Amy slamming into one of them. But it was too late for me." Claire helped him brace his back against a tree, then looked at Rye.

He felt helpless as he watched his best friend struggle to stand. She couldn't miss his anguish. She looked at her husband with a 'don't argue with me' stare that he'd seen before. "You go back to the car and get the first aid kit. I'm going to locate Amy."

Paul looked at Claire. "I'll go with you."

"No. Wait here and rest. I'll bring her to you."

Rye touched his wife on the shoulder. "He'll be fine."

Without a word, she turned. Rye knew that she didn't like the idea of his not following her plan of going to the car. He knew that his insistence on going with her made her feel ineffective, but she'd shake it off. Without a backwards glance, they moved in the direction of the cabins.

Paul slumped low against the tree. Claire was right. He never should have brought his daughter along. He watched the shadows of his two friends until they faded into the night, knowing in his heart that if there was a chance of finding his daughter...He stifled a sob. "Buck up, God damn it." He sat up straighter. He was angry with himself for bringing Amy along despite knowing the risk, and he was frustrated that he was too weak to help look for her. He had to do something.

By the time Claire got to the first structure, Rye was right on her heels. Exchanging looks of caution, they approached the front and slowly pushed in the door. Empty.

There were twelve cabins, two rows of six, all facing each other. By the time they discovered the third one empty, they relaxed and proceeded to the end of the row where they stopped.

Continuing in rows were six outbuildings of differing sizes, mostly shed-like. At the end of the road, which had become a cul-de-sac, was a barn.

"I'll go around to the front. You hang back until I whistle." Claire whispered.

Rye nodded. "Anything comes down the road, I'll let you know." Backup again, he thought.

He watched as she rounded the corner. He waited but she didn't whistle, so he backtracked around to the corner, thinking he'd come around from the other side and meet her.

When he came around the far side, car lights appeared in the distance, heading toward the barn. A tree was growing several feet from the back of the barn, but leaning sharply into it. He quickly pulled himself up using several low branches. The van pulled to the front of the barn just as he scrambled up and stepped onto the roof.

Although he was carefully crawling to the peak, his foot pushed through a hole between several shingles. He had to warn Claire. Then he heard harsh voices, knew she was in trouble, and pulled with all his strength. Placing both hands just below his knee, he rocked back and pulled at the same time. But it seemed the more effort he put into freeing his leg, the tighter the shingles became. Cautiously leaning forward, he pried up several of the wood slats until he could withdraw his foot.

Like pulling the cork from a bottle and releasing the contents, when he removed his lower leg from the hole, he suddenly heard a strange mewing. Dropping down to his belly, he carefully inched up to the opening so as not to dislodge any more shingles, and couldn't believe what he saw. But as he took in the tragic scene below, he felt a subtle vibration come up from the roof and course through his body.

Shuffling from one wall of a small room to the other were half a dozen young girls. The words from the phone message instantly jumped to the front of his mind: 'girls in the barn.' Then he was torn away from his revelation by the voices coming from the front. "Oh my God. Claire."

The peak ran from Rye's left to right. He looked over the top and was confronted by the steep pitch that he'd have to navigate. Then he felt it again. A tiny vibration came up the walls, moved across the roof.

Easing over, he immediately began to slide. In a near panic, he managed to stop himself by digging in with the palms of his hands and toes. Adjusting his breathing, he crept the last couple feet to the edge, grabbed the eves, and gently slid just his head, only enough to see, over the top. He knew that if he relaxed his arms for just a second, he'd sail off the roof.

The men below weren't trying to be quiet and Claire was being ushered into the barn at the point of a shotgun

"Drop the stick, bitch."

He watched helplessly as the man with the weapon prodded her with a quick jab to the stomach.

"She looks the part, but is way too fucking old." The man with the gun fished some keys out of his pocket and tossed them to his companion. "We'll lock her in the barn. Load the girls into the van, Jane will know what to do with her."

Rye suddenly knew where she'd end up.

Arms quivering, he pushed back until he could swing around. With bleeding palms, he made his way back to the peak. Then he slid over and once again used his hands and toes to keep from sliding over the edge, only stopping himself by grabbing the edge of the opening, hoping Claire's captors wouldn't look up.

Holding onto the shingles that ran along the opening, he listened, but didn't dare peek down into the room and risk being discovered.

He heard the sound of mewing—so near to words but not—and loud, abusive prodding, the shuffling of feet. Finally, the sound of the van's door sliding shut and the engine starting prodded him to action. Still, he waited until he heard it drive off.

**_Chapter Twenty-six_**

Paul pushed to his feet, bracing heavily on the giant redwood he'd been leaning against. He flexed his arm—it hurt but was functional—and stepped away from the tree, feeling surprisingly steady. But then he saw the headlights and stepped back and out of sight. It was the same vehicle that had driven past in the direction Rye and Claire had taken.

Adrenaline shot through his body as he peered around the tree at the shrinking taillights of the van and realized that Amy might be inside. He slammed a fist against the tree and fumed at the memory of Rogue Rescue arriving at the scene of an accident involving a white van full of girls.

He jogged down the middle of the road as well as he could manage with his limp. He had to get to the Fiat and follow that van.

Josh drove and Billy sat in the passenger seat, looking back at the girls. When they approached the Little Country Store, he guided the van behind the building and out of sight.

Josh climbed out then turned to Billy. "Stay here and keep an eye on the girls."

He'd just stepped away from the van when Cindy intercepted him.

"What the fuck is going on?"

He walked her around so she could look through the side window into the back at the girls. "We had an intruder. I need to talk to Jane and find out what to do."

Cindy walked him up to the back door. "You know they weren't supposed to go north until tomorrow night."

He turned and looked back at the van. "Yeah, right. I sure as hell wasn't going to leave them in that barn with maybe another intruder snooping around."

"What are you talking about?"

He walked through the back door of the store and stopped in front of the candy aisle. "We were out patrolling and came on this private investigator. We were in the process of tossing him over the bridge when out of nowhere, a girl appears and starts attacking with all this Kung Fu shit. Turns out, Jane was coming out to meet us and lays it to the little shit, tells us to put her in with the other girls."

Cindy slapped his hand away when he reached for a candy bar. "She in the van now?"

He snapped the candy off the shelf and, with eyes shooting daggers, dared her to slap his hand again. "No. We pinned her down, but when we came back with the pills, she went into another Kung Fu fit." He gave a short laugh. "We brought Layton along with a syringe, held her down while he shot her up. She's in the smuggler's hole."

He peeled the wrapper away, dropped it on the floor, bit off the end of the candy bar and walked over to the corner of the building and the phone.

"Jane's already hot. One of her girls made a phone call to the PI you dumped over the bridge. I thought she was going to melt the phone."

Josh just shook his head and dialed.

In her office, Jane read the caller ID again. "What now?"

Josh looked at the half-eaten candy bar and wished he'd finished eating it before he made the call.

"It's Josh. We discovered another intruder and locked her up, but loaded the other girls up in the van." There was no dial tone, but he held the phone out and looked at it when Jane didn't respond.

When he heard the tiny voice come out of the phone, he held it back up to his ear.

"Finally did something smart, huh? Put Cindy on." He held out the phone for Cindy to take and jammed the rest of the candy bar in his mouth.

"Yeah."

"I visited the girls in the barn and the older one is damaged goods. I'll thank Billy for that later."

Cindy cringed at the veiled threat and knew Jane would make good on it.

"Have Billy separate her from the others, tell him..." Jane paused, leaving Cindy wondering in the silence. "Tell him he can finish what he started, but he has to walk her back to the barn. The sheriff will meet him there and lead him to a place in the woods.

Give him enough time to get to the barn, then send Frank and Josh back there to kill the snoop they locked up. By now, the little bitch they threw in the hole earlier is dead. Instruct them to bury the bodies at the open sites. I'll come pick them up on my way to the store in the chase van and escort you and the girls to Wolf Creek."

Cindy watched Josh go into the restroom. "We'll be one girl short."

"Let's hope the little Kung Fu bitch is still alive."

**_Chapter Twenty-seven_**

She nodded at the phone then placed it back on its hook, startled that she'd just hung up on her boss.

Jane listened to the dial tone for only a second then slammed the receiver down, Layton released her hips and stepped back. The sheriff was in the corner, hitching up his pants. She straightened up from the foot of the bed and glared at Layton as she walked past him, naked. "Bastard."

He threw her a kiss.

The sheriff walked over and reached for a breast, but she slapped his hand away.

"It's a good thing one of us can keep it together."

The two men looked at each other and smiled.

Layton walked up behind her. "C'mon, you like it as much as we do." Placing a hand on her shoulder he spun her around, and she surprised him with a slap to the face so hard he staggered back.

She pulled a stack of clothes from the chest of drawers and carried them to the bathroom. Then turned to face her companions. "Twelve girls, just over a million dollars each and a new buyer. Billy may have fucked things up. We've had three intruders, one of whom was a PI. We need to deliver on time and make sure that when we return, this place isn't swarming with cops. You two had better put on your thinking caps. And that means you especially..." She paused for effect. " _Sheriff_."

Moments later when she stepped from the bathroom, both men finished conferring and turned to face her.

"We think maybe it's time to leave Hiouchi rather than risk discovery," Layton said, casually moving across the room.

"Is that what you think too, Elmore?"

The sheriff looked nervously from Layton and back to Jane, as if making up his mind. "No, I don't. I think you're making all the right decisions."

She sauntered over in the sheriff's direction.

"You do, do you?"

Elmore could feel drops of sweat run down his side as she approached.

She stopped a mere six inches away and began to play with his zipper. "So you approve of my decisions?"

"Yes." Then more firmly while looking over at Layton. "Yes, I do."

In one smooth motion, she removed the sheriff's pistol from its holster, turned, shot Layton in the face, then pivoted around and handed the gun back, handle first. Instinctively, he took the grip, surprised when she stepped back.

"You'd better approve of my decisions and do what I say, you flaming asshole. Because you just shot the mayor of Agness."

Elmore stared down at the gun in his hand.

"Your finger prints are all over your gun. You like my decisions—fine. Tonight bury the mayor's body in one of the open graves in the boy's camp." She looked over at the expanding circle of blood around the mayor's head. "Wrap him in the carpeting."

The sheriff crossed the room to leave but turned around at the sound of his name. "What?"

She joined him at the door. "That Vietnam vet still camped out in the woods?" She gave a short sharp laugh. "Hoping to catch sight of his granddaughter?"

"Yeah. Want me to roust him?"

She leaned against the door jam, and gave the sheriff a playful finger poke in the stomach. "No, I've got a better idea."

He stepped back, just out of range. She looked him in the eye and smirked, pumped her hand toward her mouth while bulging her cheek out with her tongue. "You like that don't you?"

He was disgusted at the thought of sex with a woman he now considered a Black Widow. Would she shoot him when it suited her?

"No? Fine. Just keep in mind that there's big money in this batch for you."

He wondered if he'd live long enough to enjoy it. "What do you want me to do?"

"Billy's bringing one of the girls he messed up, expects to meet you at the barn. Take him and his girl up to that guy's camp, kill them both. Make it look like our veteran had a flashback, then call your detective friend in Grants Pass."

The sheriff ran a hand through his hair. "What if he's there?"

Jane never hesitated. "Kill him, too. Then make your call."

Elmore moved into the hall, fingered his sheriff's badge, and wondered how he got mixed up in this. Kill a vet? He didn't know Joe Baker, but the man had a lot of friends who had made it back from Vietnam. He'd joined the sheriff's department to dodge the draft, and now he just didn't know if he could bring himself to kill Joe, if it came to it. He sauntered down the hall past the coffee machine and out of the administration building, in no hurry to meet Billy. Besides, Billy was walking the girl over from the store, so he'd have some time.

He unlocked the cruiser, climbed in behind the wheel, fastened his seat belt, but didn't start the engine. He knew that the worst thing you could do was start empathizing with a prisoner. But Joe Baker was different. He knew his story, was already caught up. Caught between a rock and a hard place, more like it.

Joe'd lost a son to cancer, and his daughter-in-law had taken to the streets to pay the bills. Meanwhile, their daughter, Joe's granddaughter, began to act out. Mother kept getting busted for solicitation, so the state put the daughter in Hiouchi. So, Joe Baker, Vietnam vet with a solid job as a contractor, petitions for custody. During his son's hospitalization, while the mother had been letting the ball drop, Joe and his granddaughter got pretty tight. Elmore had heard that Joe owned property in the backwoods somewhere and began work on a house, with the hope of moving the girl in. Custody would go into effect when she left the camp. Elmore hung his head as he remembered, pretended to be looking at a report on a clipboard, in case Jane was watching.

He remembered the day, not quite six months ago, when Jane told him she'd called Baker and said that his granddaughter ran away. Elmore pinched the bridge of his nose. Not supposed to get emotionally entangled. Jane had warned him to expect trouble from the grandfather.

Baker didn't believe she'd run away, came down to talk to the counselor. Made the mistake of calling first. That was when Jane instructed Elmore to head him off at Gold Beach.

Elmore flipped a couple of pages on the clipboard, still pretending that he was reading.

Joe was six foot two—looked to be maybe three hundred pounds judging from his belly—and had one of those hats a lot of vets wore. Gray hair peeked out from under it. The guy appeared to have gone to seed, probably from the combined stress of 'Nam and then the loss of his granddaughter.

Their meeting was cordial. He'd contacted Baker ahead of time saying he'd escort him to the camp.

He cringed when he remembered how he explained that the camp administration had changed their mind, said that all Joe'd do if he were to visit was disrupt things. Elmore was surprised at Baker's lack of response. Man just shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

There had been a flurry of media stories, all speculating that the camp was holding Baker's granddaughter hostage. The sheriff and Jane had actually held a joint press conference in Agness, during which he'd said that everything was being done to locate the runaway. Jane explained that the camp was home to troubled teens, many of whom had a history of running away.

Baker had no evidence, so no one listened to him and the news conference seemed to settle public concern.

Next thing he knew, a call came down the pike from a source at the state capital. Said that Baker took his case to a task force that focused on human trafficking cases, accused the camp of moving girls. In the long run, it turned out that there _was_ no investigative body. But everyone—the FBI, the Justice Department, even the state—was willing and interested in prosecuting if only Baker could produce some evidence that they could act on. Somewhere along the line, it was suggested that he go public: television, radio, print. Dan Rather came to Portland—even _The Oregonian_ got into the act—but nothing produced results, just stories. Then Baker vanished.

A few months later, Elmore had spotted a lean-to in the woods and when he checked it out, he found Baker's hat lying around. Elmore started the cruiser. No, he'd kill Billy. The man was a monster and deserved to die. He'd kill the girl, too. Probably be doing her a favor. But he wouldn't kill Baker.

**_Chapter Twenty-eight_**

When Rye could no longer hear tires on gravel or see the taillights, he peered over the edge of the roof, but not before he felt, rather than heard, a thump.

With the doors closed, only the moonlight streaming through the hole in the roof illuminated the room. Peering through the gap in the shingles, he called down.

"Claire?"

Shifting his head to allow more light to enter, he could just make out her face as she looked up.

"Don't come down. There's no way we'll be able to climb out. You'll have to come in through the door."

"I'll be right there."

She looked up, puzzled by his words as his partial silhouette disappeared. Not sure what he had in mind, moved to the far side of the room and faced the door. Then she felt a subtle vibration through her shoulders where she was leaning against the wall.

Rye released his grip and began to slide, allowing his momentum to gather until he could reach out and grab onto a branch of the tree. Pain coursed up from his bloody and raw palms and fingers through his arms, but he couldn't give in to it now.

Swinging around, he shinned down the tree, finally catching a branch that would allow him to drop just a few feet to the ground.

He landed hard, but shook it off and ran around to the front of the barn. He didn't even look at the door, instead scouring the ground until he found a shoebox size rock.

Flat side down, he raised the rock high over head and slammed it against the lock. Again and again until the hasp, not the lock, pulled away from the wood.

Adrenaline flooding through his veins, he tossed the rock to one side and pulled the big barn door open, only to be faced with another one, this one a normal size. Judging from the hinges, it opened inwards. He could see space between the door and the jam. Several well-placed kicks just across from the dead bolt and it slammed open. Claire flew into his arms.

For just a moment, they stood together as one in an embrace. Rye spoke first. "Feel that?"

Claire took a step back.

The room where the girls had been held was in the center of the barn. Initially, when he entered, Rye had been in a hall, facing the door. Claire stepped to the right, entering the dark, tunnel-like hall. He followed, stopping every couple of feet. "There. Did you feel that?"

Her voice pierced the dark. "It's just up here..."

Keeping one hand on the wall, he was moving as fast as possible to catch up until he ran into her.

"What is it?"

As one they dropped to their hands and knees, feeling their way across the floor, Rye now in the lead.

"Ouch."

His sensitive palms detected a wood floor. "Dirt stops, wood continues...shit."

"Claire stopped. "What?" She could hear scraping. "What is it?"

"Bricks." More scraping. "There's a stack..."

This time he felt the thump. His voice turned urgent. "C'mon, help me move 'em." His fingers had found a gap in the planking that made up the floor. "I think they're covering some kind of hatch or something."

"God, I can't see a thing in here." First she found his leg, traced it to his body and followed down his arms to his hands and the bricks.

"Can we push it?"

She came up until they were on hands and knees, side by side.

"On three, two, one." She could feel his entire body tense and then heard the grinding of brick on brick, then a crash as the stack toppled over.

Claire had fallen forward when the bricks fell. "Let's not do that again. I just scraped the hell out of my arms."

"Yeah, my hands are turning to pulp."

She puzzled over the comment.

They pulled the remaining bricks to the side and had finally cleared what they were sure was a hatch.

He took her hand and placed her fingers on a small space in the flooring. In that moment, as she ran her fingers along the gap, she thought she knew what it might be like to read brail.

Moving around the edge in total darkness, engrossed in following the space, they banged heads.

She followed his groan. "Come around next to me."

Scooting, sliding her body, and still on hands and knees, she moved around until she bumped hips with him.

"Now what?" He reached over until he found her wrist and followed it down to her hand. "Still got your finger on the gap? Try and push your finger tips into the space." He could hear her grunting with the effort. "Got it."

"We're going to push until the boards move forward and there's enough space so I can get a hand under the plank."

Grunting and pushing, they both managed to get most of their hands under the hatch.

"Lift. Lift more, more." Rye was grunting with the effort, talking while he was lifting. "Push... toward me. I'm going to throw it off to the side."

With supreme effort, they finally flipped the six-foot by three-foot hatch on top of the bricks and pushed it off to the side.

Still panting with the effort, Rye fell to his knees and, placing one hand on the edge of the hole, he slowly reached into the blackness.

Before he could react, a foot shot up, caught him on the chin and knocked him over onto his back.

Claire could only sense the action of Rye falling backward, but heard the sound of his groans as he fell across the bricks.

"Get away! Don't touch me. Get away, get away!"

Claire instantly recognized the voice. "Amy? Amy, it's Aunt Claire." But the yelling continued.

Finally, pushing back onto his knees, Rye reached in, keeping his head cocked to one side and feeling around. "It's Uncle Rye. Can you feel my hand?"

He could feel something, a human form, but it didn't move. "Amy, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Just as suddenly as the yelling had started, it turned into sobs. "Help me, Uncle Rye." At that moment, their hands touched and each grabbed the other's wrist. In one swift move, he stood and pulled her out of the pit and into his arms.

"I've got you, baby. Aunt Claire is right here. I'm going to set you down. She's right here."

But when he set her down, she wouldn't let go. Finally, she released her vise-like grip when she felt Claire's fingers on her shoulders. In a single motion, she spun around and wrapped her Aunt in a hug.

"We need to get outside, Amy. Take my hand."

"No, they'll be waiting!"

Fishing for anything that might convince her to leave, Claire finally gave Amy a gentle tug on the arm. "Your father is waiting," she said.

"Daddy's alright?"

"He's waiting at the edge of the clearing."

Cajoling and urging her on with the promise that she'd soon see her father, Claire finally managed to get Amy out of the barn, into the moonlight and the fresh air. But Rye didn't follow.

"Let's sit down for a minute and practice calming breaths." Claire knew that being Amy's sensei, her direction to sit and breathe calmly would strike a familiar note. Sure enough, Amy released her hand, sat cross-legged, and began to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. But she didn't close her eyes.

Rye broke the moment when he emerged, came over, and sat next to Claire, whispering in her ear so that Amy couldn't hear. "There was another body in there with her. The person had been dead for a while. I think it was Ron."

Slowly, with constant reassurances, they got Amy to stand and walk back past the cabins and towards the edge of the camp where the forest began and where they said her father would be waiting by a tree.

All along the way they kept chatting about how brave she'd been when she tried to save her father. They explained that he'd been thrown off the bridge and shot in the arm. By the time they reached the first row of trees, they couldn't contain her and she broke away. "Daddy! Daddy, where are you?" When they caught up to her, she was near panic.

Claire grasped her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "You have to calm down."

Rye was plowing through the ferns, moving from tree to tree and looking until he found some ferns that had been flattened. "Over here."

The two women came over and stood next to him, staring at the ground.

"He's probably recovered a little. It looks like he got up and is walking back to the lodge. I'll bet he's waiting in the restaurant for us right now." Even as he spoke the words, he knew they weren't true.

It was only when she noticed that the teenager was slowly dancing from one foot to the other that Claire realized Amy was barefoot and in her underwear. Stepping between Amy and Rye, she gave her husband a 'step back' nod with her head and then came within a foot of Amy. Reaching up, she touched her on the nose. "Listen to me, honey. I need your full attention on this."

Amy nodded.

"Did those men hurt you?"

Amy pulled her head back and blinked several times as if totally surprised by the question. Then, as if remembering , she glanced down at her naked legs and feet.

"Not how you think. They took my pants and shoes, so I wouldn't run away."

Rye stepped up between the two. "Amy, you and I will go back to the lodge and meet up with your father. Claire, you head back up the road and bring around the Fiat. While we're at the lodge, I'll use the landline to alert the highway patrol to be on the lookout for the white van."

Again as he spoke, he doubted his own words. He could only hope that Paul would be waiting for them.

**_Chapter Twenty-nine_**

Paul moved with a little more caution when he saw lights on in the store. But there was no van.

He cursed under his breath. He'd never be able to catch up with them now.

Staying low in the weeds, he decided to circle the store and see who was inside. He'd come in the back and force whoever was there to tell where the vans were headed. But when he reached for his gun, the underarm holster was empty.

He dropped onto his belly, not believing his luck. The van was parked almost against the store. He pushed up into a low crouch but the sounds of another vehicle drove him back onto his belly. What looked like a second van was turning up the driveway. In a matter of moments, its headlights would pick out his image. Rolling over and over, he managed to avoid the glare and still be close enough to see that driver was a woman.

Overwrought, he wanted to search the vans for his daughter. It took all his self-control to skirt around the little store, leaving the vans behind and continuing up the road.

Rye had said that he parked the Fiat behind an abandoned service station. Paul's energy was flagging, only the thought of rescuing his daughter drove him on. When he rounded a wide curve, his heart soared at the sight of what must be the gas station Rye mentioned.

Constantly scanning to be sure he hadn't been followed, Paul waited in the shadows. Then he slowly crept up to the Fiat. Using moonlight only, he felt around the inside of the left rear wheel-well until his fingers touched a small metal box held tight to the metal body by a magnet. He thanked his lucky stars that Claire was a creature of habit and pulled it loose.

As he slid the box open, he didn't realize he was holding his breath until he recognized the ignition key and breathed out an audible sigh of relief. In less than a minute, the Fiat rumbled to life.

In total frustration, he slammed a fist against the wooden steering wheel. If he only had his...in less time than it took to acknowledge the thought, he was reaching under the seat for Claire's Lady Smith and Wesson. When he felt the butt of the gun, a dozen scenarios sprang to mind.

He'd go back and get some respect from those sons-of-bitches. No, he'd wait for them to pass and shoot out the tires. At this range, he couldn't miss. No, no, no. The girls—Amy—could get hurt in the process. His best bet was to step out in the middle of the road and fire a couple of shots in the air. He slumped back into the driver's seat. What was he thinking? He'd follow them.

Getting out of the car and shouldering the door to the gas station office open, he scanned the room. Empty. The door to the garage was nowhere in sight. Paul stepped down onto the cement floor and kicked at the oilcans that were scattered there. There had to be something on the shelves that he could use to leave a message. One of the cans didn't move when he kicked it—it was full.

Follow van. He stood back and looked at his handiwork. Then he remembered an old Sherlock Holmes story and made a puddle with the rest of the oil just in front of the driver's side tire, sure that both tires on that side would run through the oil and leave a trail.

He had just tossed the empty can into the brush when the vans appeared, coming around the curve.

Crouching behind the Fiat, Paul waited until he was watching the tail lights dim down the road. In less than a minute, he was rolling forward then back through the oil, coating the tires, then he pulled out from behind the gas station, not wanting to lose sight of the vans.

At a lone stoplight in central Gold Beach, he checked his rearview mirror, pleased that he could easily see the oil track that the Fiat was leaving. The vans entered the I-5 heading north. They stayed close and cruised at 55 miles an hour in the slow lane. Close enough that another vehicle wouldn't even try to squeeze in between. The constant flow of traffic around them made it easy for Paul to follow at a distance.

He had no idea how many girls were in each van. He didn't understand how they could all pass up the rest stops, so he wasn't surprised when they took the Wolf Creek exit. "What the hell?" He'd made it off the interstate and through the exit. But as the road curved away through the forest, the Fiat sputtered and died. Paul fluttered the gas pedal, then looked at the gas gauge. "Shit, out of gas." He guided the little sports car onto the shoulder of the road. Sitting quietly, he checked the safety and shoved the little pistol in his rear pocket.

He'd track them on foot. It wouldn't be the first time he'd followed a suspect without a car.

**_Chapter Thirty_**

Devon Alto stood in the lobby of Portland's exclusive Media Club. All day, he'd been enjoying the sights, wandering the streets of Portland, Oregon. There was nothing like this in his country.

His men moved in and out of the shadows, close, but far enough away that he'd only catch a glimpse of one now and then. It had almost become a game to see how good they were.

He'd taken the tram and shopped several of the clothiers, visited several of the bookstores. He could sense their presence, knew they were there. He'd only just walked into the lobby when two men approached. They weren't his, but cut from the same mold—large, hair slicked back, matching sport coats. One stopped ten feet away, the other came to within a foot and gently unbuttoned his coat, pulling it open wide enough to expose the handle of a Glock-24 protruding from its holster.

"Please, come with us."

Alto had nothing to fear. After all, he was a guest and a buyer.

The two men flanked Alto on either side, walking him up to a bank of elevators. The silent one, the man who had stopped ten feet away, produced a key that opened the private middle elevator. There was no ping. The censor picked up the presence of the men and the door silently opened. When they had stepped in, the door closed. The silent one spoke, indicating the back wall. "Please assume the position." He smiled. "Security. You understand."

Alto nodded. "Of course."

He spread his legs and arms as he leaned into the wall. The man with the Glock patted first his chest, under arms, and back, then moved down his legs paying special attention to his ankles.

The door opened onto an open-air penthouse. The two men escorted him past a long mahogany bar. The bartender had her hair tied in a ponytail and was topless. She didn't look up as they walked by.

A pool occupied most of the rooftop penthouse. Alto looked around. Aside from a single round table with two chairs, there was no furniture. His escort with the gun indicated that he should sit, and he did.

"Your host is on his way."

He didn't bother to watch where the bodyguards were going. Unless they jumped off the roof, they would leave by the elevator.

It was dusk and he could just make out Mt. Hood. He was not impressed; his country had many such mountains.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting."

He hadn't heard him approach. The voice was soft, yet clear and easy to understand. There was no accent.

Alto stood and turned, extending his hand. He couldn't help but notice that when he stood, the bodyguards took a step, each reaching under his coat. His host noticed the look on his face.

"I'm afraid my friends are a little on edge. After our incident, I wasn't expecting such a cordial greeting."

Alto leaned to one side and gave a wave. "I assure you that their edginess is unwarranted."

His host turned and gave the two men a salute. On cue, they entered the elevator.

"Now to business." He held up his hand and the bartender brought over lemon water in fluted glasses.

Alto made no pretense that he wasn't ogling her breasts as she leaned in front of him to serve the host. "The group I represent only wants the goods for which they have already paid."

The host knitted his brow. "Yes, an unfortunate mishap. A dreadful auto accident. Many of the girls were injured."

"You assured me that the buyers I represent would be able to view an example of the product."

The slight hiss of the elevator caught Alto off guard. But when he leaned back in his chair to watch the elevator, he smiled.

The host looked at his watch. "Consider this an apology for the delay." He waved to the young girl who had remained in the elevator car.

Slowly, as though she were in a daze, she walked up to the table. She was nude.

Alto extended a hand. "Come here, my sweet." His finger roamed down her back as he pulled her in for a closer look.

"Our girls, your merchandise, are all country virgins. We do not deal in street urchins that live under bridges. Twelve and thirteen years old, fifteen tops. The older ones can outperform a street prostitute, but have the endurance of youth."

Alto had the girl on his lap and was examining her arms. "Drug addiction?"

The host expressed shock. "All our girls are clean. We may give them an oral relaxant just prior to transport, but that's all."

Alto stood and began to remove his slacks. "And compliant."

The host stood and reaching out, pulled the girl to his side. "I must say no." He held her out at arm's length. "She is a virgin and will stay that way for the time being."

Alto was red-faced and pulled up his pants, incensed. "I have managed to convince the buyers that, as you say, a tragic car accident ruined the first shipment of goods, and I assured them that you would make good. After all, you have their money. All it would take to dispel them of that notion is one word from me."

The host clenched his jaw. "Is that right? He looked around. "And then what? This is not Brazil where men settle scores, guns blazing." He noticed that his men were no longer lounging in front of the elevator. "I have taken all precautions to protect your girls."

In truth, however, he was doing nothing different. Transportation was via a van up Interstate-5 just as he had always done before. Looking over at the bar, he snapped his fingers. Quickly, the little girl ran to the bar and helped the bartender with a tray of finger food and drinks. The host took a small keyboard and screen from the tray. "Completely untraceable. Routing is through multiple ISPs in five countries. You were instructed to bring a dial-in code. Your buyers will receive live feed, as though they were using Skype."

The girl ran ahead of the bartender and ducked around behind the bar.

Alto couldn't believe his ears. "You're expecting further payment?"

The host leaned back in his chair and held his hands out at his sides. "Certainly not for these girls, but some additional compensation, yes. Something for our loss. Those twelve girls were conservatively valued at 18 million dollars, a loss we wouldn't have suffered, but for your order." He smiled and picked up one of the Greek dolmas then paused, holding it just in front of his lips. "Split the difference. Nine million?"

Alto reached under his coat and removed a cellphone. " I must consult my buyers."

The host stuffed the entire grape leaf and rice delicacy into his mouth, chewed for a minute, then swallowed. "But, of course."

Alto went to speed dial and pressed the button that would bring this hideous affair to a halt.

The host took a sip of his lemon water. "Twelve girls, two hundred dollars a visit, say, five visits each day. Five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year—do the math, Mr. Alto. Your buyers are getting a bargain."

Alto replaced his phone. "Not if they have to pay an additional nine million. But we may be able to strike a deal."

The host set down his drink.

Alto took this as a sign to continue. "I understand that the girls will be held in a motel in the tiny town of Wolf Creek until the buyers accept your proposal to, how did you say it? 'Split the difference.'"

The host was reaching for another dolma but stopped and sat bolt upright. "How could you know this?"

Alto smiled. He'd been counting in his head since he pressed the speed dial. His accent suddenly became thick and he stood and slowly made his way toward the bar. "In Brazil, we don't always settle a score with guns blazing. We are actually known for our...mmm...forgive me my lack of words...It's like your Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Just then, the elevator hissed open, revealing four men, two slouched and unmoving. The two remaining men stepped quickly into the room, guns first.

The host rose from his seat, turned, and received a bullet between the eyes for his effort.

The men looked to their boss for instructions.

"Take the girl. Kill the bartender."

One of the men holstered his gun, looked directly at the girl, and extended a hand. Meekly, she approached and placed her tiny fingers in his upturned palm. The other man marched around to the end of the bar and fired his silenced .22 caliber three times into the cringing blonde figure huddled behind the bar.

**_Chapter Thirty-one_**

Following Amy's directions, they went directly to the Volkswagen in the campground. She staggered around to the back of the bus and reached into the tail pipe for the extra key.

Before leaving to look for the barn, Paul had folded the seats down into a bed. Rye pulled them back up to bench seats on either side of the little table, and patted one, but Amy was at the fridge.

"I'm starving. Can I make you a sandwich?"

Ever hungry, he just smiled and nodded.

"How do we know that daddy isn't lying somewhere by the side of the road?"

When he saw her head sag and shoulders shiver, he awkwardly slid out of the little seat, laid an arm around her shoulders and walked her back to the table. He sat across and watched her for a full minute. She was exhausted, dehydrated, and near the edge of her limit for emotional stress.

"Amy, look at me."

Taking several jagged breaths, she raised her head from where it had been resting on her crossed arms. "What?"

"Your father knew where we left the Fiat. I think Claire is going to drive up here any minute now with your father riding shotgun."

He got up once again. "How about tuna?"

With half-open lids she shook her head. "Sorry, I'm not hungry." Everything was catching up to her.

He turned and opened the fridge, took a minute to examine the contents, then turned back and found that she had curled up on the bench seat and was sound asleep.

He checked the clock above the little table, reached up, turned out the light, and tried to get comfortable. Consulted his watch and groaned. "3:45." Then he allowed his eyes to close. Knowing that he'd be asleep in minutes, his final thought came in the form of a question: where's Claire? She should have been here by now.

A pair of eyes peered through the side window and scanned the two occupants of the aging VW bus, then looked the length of the vehicle through the windshield.

Rye's eyes snapped open. It was still dark and he could just make out the hands of his watch. 4:00 AM. He'd only dozed. Amy was still asleep.

Somebody was moving around the bus. He froze, held his breath, and could hear the crunch of feet on gravel. In one swift move, he pulled the handle, rolled the sliding door open to its stops, and leapt out.

"Jeez, you scared the shit out of me." He looked around the campsite. "Where's the Fiat?"

Claire climbed in saw Amy curled up asleep and stepped back out. "I think Paul took it. But he left a message and a trail."

He motioned her away from the bus. "A message? What kind of trail?"

She joined him as he squatted at the foot of a large redwood. "Two words. 'Following vans.' The trail was tread print."

Rye shook his head angrily. "What the hell was he thinking?"

She reached out and touched his arm. "I've been running for the past hour and had a lot of time to think." He gave her a 'keep talking' nod.

"If he saw the vans come and go, he must have thought Amy might be in one and somehow reached the Fiat in time to follow them."

Rye locked eyes with his wife and was on his feet. "What the God-damn-hell does he think he can do? No! This time he's on his own. Amy is exhausted and dehydrated and we need to get her home."

Claire pushed to her feet and grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip. "I'd be willing to wager he found my Smith and Wesson. She gave his arm a shake. He's your best friend and he needs your help."

She released his arm and walked back toward the bus. He followed her to the cab, climbed silently into the passenger side.

She remembered driving with Paul and pumped the gas pedal several times before turning the key. With a slight rumble, the engine came to life. She shifted into reverse and gunned it, but the engine died.

"I think you need to let it warm up, just a little."

She looked up into the rearview mirror. "How long you been awake?"

"Just a couple minutes, since you fired up the bus. Want me to get it going?"

Rye was already unbelted and moving to the rear of the VW. "I think your Aunt Claire can handle it. How you feeling?"

She looked sheepishly at her Uncle who was staring at her with a look of surprise. "Hope I didn't overstep my bounds," Amy said. "Daddy lets me drive sometimes." He laughed. "I should have known."

"I'm feeling beat up and tired, but awake."

The two collapsed the table, pulled out the extra pads, and made up the bed.

Rye tried to catch his wife's eyes in the rearview mirror. "How you holding up?"

"I'm wide awake. If you two want to crash, I'll wake you when I reach the gas station and the message."

They needed no coaxing. Rye curled around a mini beanbag chair in the back. Amy crawled up into the passenger seat with a pillow, pulled her knees into her chest, and slept.

Claire eased the bus into first and guided it out of the campground and onto the road in the direction of Agness, at about five miles an hour.

An hour later she was able to gain speed when the quality of the road improved. When she passed the little store, it was dark and she didn't bother slowing but guided the bus up next to a puddle of oil just behind the gas station where she'd left the Fiat.

Amy was already awake and stretching when Claire shut off the engine and Rye was making his way forward.

"I wanted you to see this." The three piled out of the cab.

Claire squatted down and pointed at the tire tracks. "This is where I left the Fiat. Someone made this puddle of oil right in front of the tire. I'm betting it was Paul."

Amy let out a squeal and clapped her hands. "Daddy."

Rye looked over at the fifteen-year-old. "How do you know?"

She kneeled down next to Claire. "The Case of the Hellfire Conspiracy. Daddy made me watch all these old Sherlock Holmes movies. He said it would teach me about deduction. The bad guys drove out of a paint factory just before Holmes arrived. But they were able to track the car because it drove through some spilled paint."

Rye smiled as the two women stood. "Elementary, my dear Amy."

Both women groaned.

**_Chapter Thirty-two_**

The footbridge that crossed the Rogue River was halfway between the country store and the lodge.

Billy hung onto her hair and stared across the span. It had taken forever to drag her this far. He didn't understand why he had to go all the way to the barn.

He kicked her in the butt. "You first, bitch."

Pain from the incessant pulling on her hair brought her around. She was sure her bare feet were bleeding and the area around her vagina was on fire.

She walked across the bridge, only vaguely aware of how narrow it was.

The sheriff had to pass a hippie bus. At this hour, it was probably sneaking out of the lodge's campground to avoid paying. He parked in front of the barn and had just turned off the engine when he saw Billy and the young girl coming up the road between the cabins.

He checked the clip in his Glock-24, his throw down was untraceable, and climbed out of the cruiser.

The girl was sobbing and he could hear Billy mumbling something he was sure he didn't want to hear.

"So, here I am. What's the big fucking deal...?"

Elmore untethered his pistol, leaving it in the holster and nervously fingered his badge without thinking about it. "Hey, shut up. Jane wants me to take you to a campsite in the woods."

Without a backward glance, Elmore cut between two trees where an animal trail opened up.

"Girl, I'm going to rip you a new asshole, and then make you beg for more. I'm gonna..."

He stopped his threats when the barrel of the sheriff's pistol poked him in the eye.

"If you want to make it to the camp with the ability to do all those things, Shut-The-Fuck-Up."

He looked over at the girl and realized that she wasn't drugged. Christ, that changed everything. Billy deserved a bullet, but he'd expected the girl to be stoned to the max.

They walked the last quarter mile in silence. Elmore could only hope that Billy would kill the girl with his lust. But as they walked along, images of the physical carnage she'd go through before dying haunted him. No. He couldn't let it happen that way.

When the lean-to came into view, Billy broke from the trail at a run, towing his victim by the hair.

Elmore still hadn't decided what he was going to do.

Billy pulled, tugged, and finally pushed the girl into the shelter, then began fumbling with his pants.

Inside, light leaked through layers of branches. Exhausted, Ellen fell to her knees, glad to get off her cut and bruised feet, but terrified of what was to come. There was only one way in or out. She scanned the tiny space for anything she might use as a weapon. Nothing. On top of a pile of stones there was a small notebook and pen pushed down into the top of a strange looking hat, nothing more.

Elmore watched the scene unfold with a morbid fascination. Billy, pants down around his ankles, obviously excited, duck walked into the tiny shelter. He pulled his gun out and checked the clip again.

Billy charged in like a raging bull and pushed her onto her back, knocked her legs apart, and was reaching for her underwear when she struck.

Holding the pen like a knife so the end came out the bottom of her fist, Ellen slammed it into his left cheek. She was aiming for his temple. The tip punctured his skin, entering his mouth just forward of his rear molar. With a roar, he reached up to grab her hand but she had already released her grip.

With a scream, she pushed Billy onto his side, climbed over him, and lurched out of the shelter.

Elmore was suddenly alert and raised his gun, sighting on the girl. Then Billy emerged, wild-eyed, blood streaming from his mouth.

Without a thought, Elmore shifted his weight, adjusted the angle, and pulled the trigger three times. Then he cautiously approached his victim. He nudged Billy with the toe of his boot, then bent down, and reached for a pulse. Dead. When he stood up, the girl had vanished into the woods.

At first she just ran, branches slapping her face and bare legs. Her feet seemed to seek out the softer ground of their own volition.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw a break in the trees and cut in that direction. But she never stopped running. When she stepped onto the hard pack dirt road, she left bloody footprints. But couldn't stop pumping her arms, lifting her knees. She had to get away.

**_Chapter Thirty-three_**

Walter Link stopped and kneeled, panting from the exertion of the hike. He flexed his arm to get rid of the ache. The trail he'd been following was churned up. He stepped into the ferns and moved silently, stopped again when he recognized Billy's inert form, then scanned the woods and listened. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart.

He cursed under his breath. This would change everything.

Link stuck his head in the shelter. It was a mess. He depressed the tiny button on the throat mic he wore and instinctively pressed the index finger of the opposite hand to his ear.

"I'm at the camp site."

His head gave an involuntary jerk when static filled his ear. He could never get used to it.

The voice came through, soft and distant, and he had to strain to understand each word.

"We're right here with you. What have you got?"

"There's been a struggle. Billy Jackson is dead with a ballpoint pen penetrating the cheek. But that's not what killed him."

"Say again about the pen?"

Link rolled his eyes. "Someone shoved an ink pen into Billy's mouth through his cheek. But it was three slugs that did the trick." He looked up the trail. "Billy was chasing someone when another someone shot him in the back. Whoever his intended victim was got away."

He stood up and began to calculate trajectory from where the body lay and stepped toward where he thought the shooter must have stood, looking for shoe prints, anything. Then he saw the glint of something coppery and found the casings. Leaning heavily against a tree, he bent down and picked them up.

He pressed the mic. "Judging from the shell casings, I just found the killer's location and some .45s." He braced for a static response. "Sheriff uses .45s in his Glock."

"What else you got?"

Link pocketed the shells and was already moving up the trail. This time the pain was high up in his chest.

"Find Billy's intended victim," the voice crackled. "It was probably one of the girls. Then we'll get some answers."

He began to jog, following the trail of broken branches and compressed soil, but he didn't find a shoeprint. Barefoot. How fast could she go? He was about to increase his pace to catch up, but after another shot of pain in his chest, thought better of it.

Within a matter of minutes, he had left the forest behind and was high stepping through the weeds—they made it easy to follow her. But the trail ended when she stepped onto the hard pack dirt road.

He was grateful for a chance to stop. Breathless, he bent at the waist, hands on thighs, supporting his weight. He'd have to scan the hard pack to pick up her trail. He dropped to his knees for a closer look. What he thought was water turned out to be drops of blood and he knew he'd located the trail.

Rye crawled up front and kneeled between the passenger and the driver's seat. "Wasn't that the sheriff that passed us back there? He didn't even slow down."

Claire looked over at Amy who was now sitting up. "Sure was."

"Stop." Amy began bouncing in her seat and pointing. "Stop, Stop, Stop."

Claire snapped her head around and hit the brakes so hard that Rye was thrown forward and had to catch himself before he hit the dashboard.

She slammed the bus into neutral, yanked on the hand brake, and jumped out of the cab, Amy on her heels. Both women called to the figure caught in the headlights, but she didn't stop.

Suddenly, Rye surged past both women, snatched the young girl into his arms, spun around, and ran into the high weeds. "We got company! The sheriff's coming back."

He crushed the mystery girl into the ground with his body, hand over her mouth. He could feel her heart pounding and whispered in her ear. "Be still, we're going to get you out of here."

He watched the sheriff's cruiser stop and the officer get out.

"Hello?"

When there was no answer, he pulled a light from his utility belt and circled the bus twice, shining it through the windows. He called out a second time and stood still, listening. Curious why would the driver leave their vehicle with the engine running.

Reaching through the open driver's side window, he switched off the engine and waited for someone to appear.

Slowly, as if he expected somebody to mysteriously jump out of the bus, he walked backward to the cruiser. He had to return to Hiouchi and report to Jane. But he had no intention of telling her that the girl got away. With a final look around, he got in and drove off, not giving the bus another thought.

Claire and Amy were on their feet the minute the sheriff was around the curve of the road and out of sight. Rye rolled off the young girl, who pushed up into a sitting position.

Amy squatted down and looked her in the eyes. "I remember you. You're Ellen. How did you get away?"

The girl didn't answer, didn't look around.

Claire took her pulse at the carotid artery and looked up at Rye. "Let's get her back to the bus."

The rumble of an old Volkswagen engine drove Link back into the weeds where he watched a man and a woman put two girls into the aging bus. One had to be Billy's intended victim.

He pressed his mic. "I just found the victim."

He was back out in the road watching the bus drive out of sight.

"She alive?"

"Looks like it. She just caught a ride in an old hippie bus. Oregon plate. JUG 043."

He jogged up the road, moving back into the weeds, up to the old school house where he'd stashed his motorcycle.

The vintage Kawasaki Vulcan barked to life just as his head filled with static and he had to kill the engine to hear.

"What?"

"Your hippie bus is registered to a private investigator. Paul Casey."

He balanced the helmet on the gas tank. "Not a chance. I know his profile. Guess again and make it quick. Whoever it is, he's getting away."

He secured the chinstrap and made the conection from throat mic to helmet. He had to catch up to the bus before it reached Gold Beach.

"Tall male? Female companion, about a foot shorter?"

"Roger that."

"Rye and Claire Anderson, PI's friends."

He rolled off the throttle when he caught sight of the bus.

Claire saw the motorcycle in the side mirror. "Trade places with me. I think we've got company."

Rye reached over her shoulder and grabbed the steering wheel. She awkwardly kept one foot on the gas pedal until he slid into the driver's seat and pushed her foot out of the way. Once in the back, she unlatched the side sliding door.

"False alarm, cycle's passing," he said, but then he hit the brake. "Scratch that. Guy's waving me over."

"Amy, you and Ellen stay put."

He slid out of the cab at about the same time the rider removed his helmet, but didn't move forward of the driver's door.

Unzipping his leather jacket, Link tucked the helmet under his left hand and reached inside with the other. Rye nodded imperceptibly and Claire jumped him from behind before he could remove his hand. She brought him to the ground with a rear naked choke.

Rye came up and pulled the man's hand away and reached in, expecting to find a gun. "Oh, shit." Instead, he found a wallet with a badge inside.

Claire stared at the badge then at the man. "When did the FBI wave restrictions on physical fitness?" Then she reached out and took the wallet. "Walter Link. Either a friend of the sheriff..." Rye cut her off and took back the wallet. "Or not. Any way you look at it, we're in trouble." He stood and dropped it on Baker's unconscious form. "At any rate, when he wakes up, he'll know we broke his cover."

Claire had been cradling his head and released her grip gently, setting his head and shoulders on the ground when she heard the static. Rolling his head to one side, she spotted the source. It was a receiver in his ear. She pulled it out and listened, at the same time snapping her fingers to get her husband's attention.

Claire held the little device up to her ear and motioned Rye in close. "The Andersons operate an Ambulance Service. If they get involved, all our surveillance will amount to nothing. Those girls have to be delivered. Stop the Andersons any way you can. Come back."

Rye looked at her questioningly.

"Looks like we just took out a good guy with instructions to take us out. They said the girls had to be delivered according to plan." He looked at his wife as he spoke to make sure she heard the same thing.

She just nodded.

He turned and stormed back to the bus shouting over his shoulder. "Anybody with a plan that involves leaving a trail of abused girls is really sick."

Claire ran to catch up and climbed in the passenger side, immediately realizing that he had found his soapbox.

"If we hadn't been jolly on the spot..." He didn't finish his statement, but shot his wife a stern look.

"Hey, I'm with you."

"Sorry." He banged a big fist on the steering wheel. "It's just that this human trafficking stuff is sick and I don't know who the good guys are. First we figure the sheriff is on the take, and now this guy. And we don't even know who the hell he's working for."

**_Chapter Thirty-four_**

Leslie Toms walked into the communications room located in the penthouse of the Portland Regal Hotel where an agent was repeating a message over and over into a desk microphone.

He swiveled around in his chair when she entered. "We lost him twenty minutes ago. Thought I picked up something on the throat mic—random voices, nothing more."

She cursed under her breath but loud enough for the other agents to hear. "Shit. Without Link we're blind."

Agent Larry Mandel joined his supervisor. "Time to turn up the heat on camp Hiouchi?"

She followed him to a desk. "Procedure?"

"We seal off the camp and enter with two school busses to take the kids out. A four-man team will raid the store, roll into the camp, and take Jane Johnson into custody. No doubt she's the ringleader. Definitely a justification for the raid."

Toms walked over to the eight-by-four foot dry erase board and thumped on it with an index finger. "What about these two and their friend Paul Casey?"

Link was supposed to take care of them."

She spun around. "Try him again."

"Nothing...Wait."

The agent's shoulders hunched and a hand went up to the headset he wore. He depressed the button at the bottom of the microphone.

"I'm putting you on speaker. Toms is here."

Link's voice was raspy. "I just met Rye and Claire, up close and personal."

Toms bent down to speak into the microphone. "Did Jane move the girls? Did you find out where they were holding them?" Her face tightened as she waited for an answer.

When the sound of a motorcycle being revved came over the speaker she screamed into the mic. "Link you pot-bellied son of a bitch. I need to know if the girls have been moved and what vehicles are being used."

She whirled around so fast that Mandel took a step back and held up a hand. "There is another way to find out."

He was relieved to see the tension drain from her face. "I'm all ears, please continue."

Mandel walked to the dry erase board. "We could detain the Andersons and find out what they know. But that could get messy."

Toms moved to the board, picked up a pen, and began fiddling with it. "Go on."

"If they're playing vigilantes, they're either following Jane or are waiting for the team to move the girls and are planning to head them off. The other possibility is that they're part of the ring and are transporting."

She shook her head and drew big circles on the board. "Either way, we still don't know where Casey is or his role in all this. And either way, he's dangerous."

"No sign of Casey. I'd bet the Anderson's got rid of him, why else would they be driving his bus and that means they're transporting." Mandel watched Toms for a reaction.

Toms stepped back to communications. "Any word from Link"

"Nothing, but I occasionally pick up the sound of his motorcycle."

Mandel moved around to face his boss. "What do you think?"

"Sealing off Hiouchi would involve maximum manpower, net us a lot of troubled kids, and there's no assurance that Jane's still there."

Mandel threw his hands I the air. "Then what? Sit and wait for Link to call in?"

Toms surprised Mandel with a smile. "You're half right. We'll wait for Link to call in, and he will. Meanwhile, we close in on the Media Club where we know that Devon Alto is in the process of purchasing twelve girls."

**_Chapter Thirty-five_**

When they neared the interstate, Rye pulled the bus off to the shoulder. Amy came forward. "Ellen is sleeping. Why are we stopping?"

"Got a flashlight?"

She moved back into the bus, opened a drawer, and handed a flood light to Claire, who had followed. "We have to find some tracks. Uncle Rye will take the ramp north, and I'll check the south. I'd like you to stay with Ellen."

Amy made a weak protest. "But she's still sleeping."

"If she wakes up, I don't want her to be alone."

Amy didn't want to be the protesting teen and gave a little nod. "Oh yeah, good point."

Fifteen minutes into the search, Claire discovered a partial print no more than an inch long and half an inch wide that she swore belonged to the Fiat. Wanting to include Amy, she went back to the bus. But when she peered in, the teen was asleep.

Rye jogged up by her side. "I hope you found something, 'cause I didn't."

Claire guided the bus at a lumbering 50 miles and hour up the curving ramp that led to the Interstate. When she looked in the rear view mirror, Amy was making her way to the front. Rye looked at her as she settled between the driver and passenger seats, then at Claire "We know Paul's headed north following the vans, but he's got to be so far ahead by now that we haven't got a chance of catching up."

"We can't turn around now," Amy pleaded.

"It's okay, Amy. We're not turning around, but we need a plan," Claire said.

"They'll have to pee."

Rye glanced back at Ellen, still sleeping in the back, then reached up to where Amy squatted and put a hand on her shoulder. "I think there's a rest stop coming up. But it's a good sign. You're not as dehydrated as I thought."

She looked at him puzzled for a minute and then broke into a broad grin. "Not me. The girls in the van. If they stopped long enough for ten girls to pee, that might give us enough time to catch up."

Claire shook her head. "I don't know. I think they had a big head start and we've stopped a couple of times."

Once on the interstate, she'd kept the bus wide open at 70 miles per hour and stayed in the fast lane until a car would begin to tailgate. Then she'd change lanes and let them pass.

They continued on in silence, each trying to come up with a way of catching up.

The bus had just returned to the fast lane when Amy's head spun like an owl's.

"Isn't that your car?"

Rye practically knocked her over as he charged to the rear of the bus and looked out the back window.

"Pull onto the median and hang a U-turn. I see it. Just inside the Wolf Creek exit."

Claire rolled across the grass-covered center that separated north and southbound traffic, then accelerated to merge back into traffic, negotiating to get into the slow lane so she could take the exit.

Amid honking horns she squeezed between cars and took the ramp nearly wide open, braking and downshifting at the sharp curve that led to the little town.

When they pulled up next to the Fiat, they failed to notice the Kawasaki taking the same exit.

Claire and Amy exited the cab. Rye checked on Ellen—still sleeping—and got out through the sliding door. He turned too late at the sound of a motorcycle.

Walter Link pulled in front of the bus, drawing his gun as he dismounted the bike.

He pulled off his helmet with his free hand without moving or shifting his sight.

Rye stopped mid-stride before he reached the Fiat. Claire was bent over the driver's side door, reaching under the seat. Amy stood at the passenger side watching her Aunt.

"Well, hello. I think we're going to try this one more time."

He waved Rye forward. "Feel free to join your wife." Then he looked over at the fifteen-year-old. "What's your name?"

"Amy."

"I want you next to me, Amy." He glanced around. "I only count three, I believe there's another girl in the bus."

Rye stepped up to the rear of the Fiat. Close enough that Claire could feel his anger.

"One of your friends just brutally raped her and then tried to murder her."

Link relaxed just a little. "That was Billy Jackson and he was no friend of mine. I thought he was on your team."

Claire looked from her husband to the man with the gun and knew there was about to be trouble.

Suddenly, Amy was right next to the gunman, executing an elbow to his side, which caused him to bend slightly forward. With her right arm, she snapped down on his gun hand, pulling him down and forward further. Then, with a whipping motion, she snapped a back fist into his nose. In his moment of pain and hesitation, Claire lunged forward, jamming the web between her thumb and index finger into his throat, driving him over backward until she had him pinned to the ground. In the process, Amy had wrenched the gun from his hand and began waving it around triumphantly.

Rye stepped up and gently took the gun. "I guess my work is done here."

He moved forward and kicked the downed gunman in the foot. "I need your attention. If you move, I'll shoot you. Claire step back."

"Your ID said Walter Link"

Link raised his right hand and pointed at his nose. "Do you mind?"

Rye just nodded.

Link pushed up to a sitting position, leaned his head back and pinched his nose.

Exhausted from the adrenaline rush, Amy was leaning heavily on the front fender of the Fiat. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Claire ran around behind Link and walked her behind some bushes.

Slowly lowering his head and dabbing at his nose, he looked up at Rye. "Who the hell are you?"

Rye took a menacing step forward. "No! Who are you?"

Link nodded his head, still dabbing at his nose that had now stopped bleeding. "You've got the gun. Walter Link. Special FBI task force."

Rye moved over and sat on the hood of the Fiat. "That's a good start."

**When the vans** transporting the girls took the Wolf Creek exit, Jane surged ahead, rolled down her window, and pulled up next to the passenger side of Cindy's van.

"We'll wind up into the woods, less than a mile past the little town. you'll see an old motel. I'll pull up to the far end. You stop in the middle."

Once the road passed the detour that led to the little town of Wolf Creek, the road narrowed and what was left of the asphalt was cracked and filled with potholes.

What looked like the Bates Motel from the movie _Psycho_ hadn't been open to the public in decades, not since the old lumber mill shut down.

Jane and Josh got out and were joined by Cindy and Frank.

"Take the girls out two at a time, and watch yourselves. They can get feisty if the drugs have worn off." Jane looked back at the van full of girls. "They'll have to pee and the only toilet that works is in the office. Cindy, you and Josh go first. When they're finished, move them to the first room at the opposite end."

She walked with them to the van and watched as they unbuckled the first two, then turned to Frank. "You come with me, we'll open up the rooms."

The parking lot had been taken over by weeds and all the windows that used to provide views across the lot to the forest had been boarded up.

It took Frank three tries to separate the door from the warped frame that opened into the first room. Then he just stood staring into a yawning darkness that seemed to literally ooze must and mold.

Jane walked up next to him and peered in. "Go into the bathroom, prop open the door, and open the little window. Get a breeze passing through."

He took one step in and stopped. There was no furniture, lamps, or curtains. Even the carpet had been torn up. Only the king size bed remained.

The bathroom door was already open. The linoleum floor had been torn up, leaving small sections in the corners. The sink was no longer plumbed, no pipe. The same with the toilet. The porcelain was there, but it was obvious that it had been moved, and the bathtub was filled with rocks. The little window was a framed sheet of 12-inch square plywood.

Frank stepped out and nearly ran into Cindy and Josh, who had a girl under each arm. Jane was leading the way, holding a bottle of pills. "Give 'em two each, then Cindy, I want you to park yourself between room one and two. Frank, you and Josh go get the next two girls. Six rooms, two to a room. Each of us watches two rooms, get the picture?"

Frank looked confused and opened his mouth to speak but didn't get the chance.

Jane didn't quite blow up. "This is not rocket science. When it gets dark, you can watch in pairs from one of the vans." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. "Frank, take this and one of the vans into town and buy as much bottled water as you can carry. We have to keep them hydrated. And grab some sandwiches while you're at it." She rolled her eyes. "The food is for us."

Cindy stood in the middle of what was once the parking lot, watched Frank turn around, then looked over at Jane. "What's the other way?"

"Road dead-ends at what used to be a lumber mill. Let's take a walk."

Cindy looked over at Josh who was anxiously marching up and down in front of the rooms.

"They all took their pills, it'll be hours before they regain the ability to think, let alone stand." She gave a short, sharp laugh. "Just stay put. We'll be back."

The two women walked in silence down to where the asphalt turned into a rutted wagon road.

Cindy was nervous around Jane, but relaxed as she talked.

"The motel was originally built to accommodate the overflow of lumberjacks. Teams of up to fifty drove logging trucks into these mountains." In less than a mile, the rutted road opened into a clearing surrounded by dilapidated buildings.

"Here." She waved her hand from left to right like a tour guide. "This was the hub." She indicated a small shack. "This was the infirmary, and there, straight ahead, was the mess." Jane shook her head with a look of amazement. "Those men were eating machines."

Cindy took a step back for a better look at her boss. Five foot seven with piercing blue eyes. Blonde hair kept that way with the help of a bottle. Even under the windbreaker it was obvious that she was buxom and full-figured now, but she could imagine a different appearance twenty, even ten years ago.

"Jane, I don't understand how you can be so nonchalant and relaxed."

The woman turned on her. "Honey, this is my twelfth delivery. One hundred and forty girls, give or take the few that didn't make it. Besides..." She swept the area with an arm, "this was my home."

Cindy took another step backward. But Jane was somewhere else and never noticed. "I started out serving the men in the mess and ended up servicing them. You've never met a man as randy as one cooped up in the woods for 120 days. For fifteen years, I was a camp follower."

She kept walking and chatting until they reached a teepee burner. "You know, this still works. It was a major tourist attraction for the town of Wolf Creek. They'd light it up every Friday. She walked over to a conveyer belt. "This still works, too. It would take the wood pulp up and dump it down to feed the fire." She kept talking as if addressing a crowd. "Did you know that this burner is twice as high as the diameter of the base?"

Cindy was staggered by Jane's sudden change.

"The bottom fell out of the timber business and the owner of the camp, Dayton Light, approached me about running a camp that operated under the guise of a home for troubled teens, but really provided girls for the sex trade. Well, I can tell you that I was filled with fear. I'd already been busted a half a dozen times for solicitation. But the money he promised was too good to pass up."

Like Jekyll to Hyde, Jane changed from soft-spoken to a harsh taskmaster. "We've lingered long enough. Frank should be back by now."

**_Chapter Thirty-six_**

Claire came up behind her husband and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned to face her. "How's Amy?"

"She'll be fine. She's just come to the end of her endurance for all the excitement. I'll go check on Ellen."

Link stopped touching his nose, checking for blood, and rocked forward onto his knees. "What are you doing with those girls?" Rye handed the gun to Claire, stepped over, lifted him to his feet by his leather jacket, and took half a step back.

"Keeping them out of your hands."

In a move she'd never seen him use, Rye pulled back a fist as though he was going to hit Link in the face, which caused him to protectively raise both hands. Then Rye punched him in the stomach with the other.

Link doubled over trying to catch his breath. Rye dragged him to his feet and shook him until he stopped gasping. "Why would you be instructed to stop us?"

Link shook his head to focus. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"We pulled a receiver from your ear just after your first visit. Someone on the other end, part of your task force, was instructing you to stop us at any cost. Now, why was that?"

When he saw the other man's anger building, he sagged until Rye pushed him away.

"I saw you put two girls in the bus, and there's no sign of Paul Casey. It looked like you were transporting. I called it in and they reached the same conclusion. They came back with instructions to stop you."

He looked from Rye to Claire. "We've been watching a Brazilian for the past month who we think is a buyer for a group in South America that move girls internationally. I think my boss was afraid that if you beat us to the punch, aside from the possibility of getting yourselves killed, you'd also scare off the buyer."

Claire stepped up next to her husband, hoping to defuse some of his anger. "Paul Casey, the owner of the bus, was injured when he attempted to locate some of the girls at Camp Hiouchi who were about to be transported. We think he followed them here and for some reason, abandoned the car."

Rye forcefully sliced the air with an open hand. "You're either with us or against us."

Link looked from one to the other. "For Christ sake, I'm with you. But these people are ruthless. They sell these girls for hundreds of thousands of dollars each and there are millions at stake with each delivery. If they think you'll get in the way or try to stop them..." He looked directly at Rye. "You're as good as dead."

The two men locked eyes until Claire broke the stare down. "C'mon, who'd be suspicious of a family in a VW bus checking out historical Wolf Creek?"

Link wiped a hand on his leather chaps, extended it, and took a step in Rye's direction. "Truce?"

Rye hesitated. "If I find out that you're anything less than honest with us, you'll be the one as good as dead. I promise." Then he shook the man's hand. Link looked over at Claire and extended a hand toward the gun. "Is he always like this?"

She looked at her husband then back at Link. "I'd take him at his word. And I'll keep the gun for now."

"I'll stash the bike and ride in the back of the bus."

When he emerged from the bushes where he hid his motorcycle, Rye confronted him at the side of the bus. "I want you up in the passenger seat where I can keep an eye on you."

Link threw both hands in the air. "Fine with me."

They parked in front of the little general store. Rye stayed in the bus. Link and Claire bubbled into the store, commenting on how cute and quaint Wolf Creek was.

Rye nearly jumped when a hand clamped onto his shoulder. "Where's Aunt Claire?"

He turned to face the fifteen-year-old. "How you feeling?"

She stood in a low crouch so she could look out through the windshield. "Better, but really hungry. Plus, I think Ellen is awake. Can I go in the store?"

Before he could respond she'd pulled the handle and partially slid the door open, suddenly falling back with a look of horror.

**_Chapter Thirty-seven_**

Cindy, following Jane's pace, double-timed it back to the motel.

She saw the van first. "Frank's back."

Voices could be heard coming out of the office. "Check on the girls. I'll straighten out Josh and Frank."

When the door to the office burst open, both men turned to face Jane.

Looking very agitated, Josh took a step in her direction. "He saw a private investigator at the store." He looked over at Frank. It's just a matter of time before he comes down the road. We've got to do something quick."

Cindy ran into the office breathless. "Gone, they're all gone. The girls are all gone!"

Jane reached to the middle of her back under her windbreaker, whipped out a small caliber pistol, and leveled it at Josh's chest. "Where are the girls?"

Cindy wanted to run away from this crazy woman. It didn't matter how much money she'd been promised.

He raised both hands. "We put them back in the van, figured you'd want to leave right away."

She pointed the gun at the ground as though giving some thought to what Josh had said. Then she brought it level with Frank's face. "Talk to me."

His eyes bulged and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. "My roommate in Ashland, Ed. He had a girlfriend whose father was a private investigator. She used to drive over in his VW bus. I must have seen it a hundred times. I watched it drive up to the store when I was leaving."

Jane replaced the gun in the holster. "You're sure of this?"

Frank was beginning to shake. "Not a doubt."

She stepped out of the office and looked down the road toward town. "We'll need some insurance in case your PI does show up. Frank, I want you to follow this road until you come to a sixty-foot cone. On the backside is a small door. Open it and throw in all the dry branches you can find and light them on fire. Be sure and shut the door or the fire won't catch. Once the fire gets going and you can see it burning, come back here at a run."

She watched in utter amazement as he ran to the back of the office but was relieved when he ran out holding a box of stick matches.

"Josh, you and Cindy unload all the girls. Put nine in room number one, bring the other two to me."

Halfway back up the old wagon road, Frank met Jane. She was dragging a girl on either side.

"Is the fire going?"

Frank didn't pause, but shouted as he passed. "Burning like hell."

When Jane reached the former lumber camp, she pushed the two girls into the infirmary and went from building to building until she found what she was looking for.

Twenty minutes later, she left the teepee burner behind, and stepped into the woods without the two girls.

**Rye wrapped** and arm around the fifteen-year-old, pulling her further into the bus, then peered out.

"What did you see?"

Amy was hugging herself. "Ed's roommate. He just drove away in a white van."

When Claire glanced back towards the bus, she could just make out Rye's figure in the driver's seat frantically waving her back.

"I'm going back to the bus, honey."

Link smiled at the young woman behind the counter. "Morning sickness." Then he turned and ran out the door. "It's alright, baby. We can get some pickles and ice cream at the next stop."

When he came around to the sliding door, Claire was immediately in his face. "What the hell was that?"

Link didn't flinch. "You left so abruptly and I didn't want to draw attention, so I told the clerk you had morning sickness I couldn't think of anything else that would make sense."

Claire made a fist and shook it in his face. "You're fired." Then she turned to Rye. "What?"

"Amy saw Frank."

Link and Claire climbed into the bus and they all sat around the table except for Ellen, who was now standing just behind the driver's seat, seeming to take it all in.

"Who's Frank?"

Rye looked to Claire to answer. "Back in Ashland, Amy had a boyfriend, Ed. Frank was his roommate. The two came to work at the general store in Agness. We think the roommate had something to do with Ed's death and with Cindy, the owner of the little store. Now that we've seen him here, I'd bet he has something to do with the trafficking ring."

Link looked at Amy and spoke in soft, yet firm tones. "Did you see which way he went?"

She pointed down the road.

"Anyone know what's down there?"

Fifteen minutes later Rye walked into the store. "Excuse me."

The woman behind the counter smiled. "Yes."

"I'm just exploring the area. Where would I end up if I went back out to the main road but continued on instead of heading back to the Interstate?"

"Here." She reached under the counter and brought out a brochure. "This will tell you everything you could possibly want to know. We used to have a burn out at the old lumber mill every Friday. People came from all over Oregon to the see the old teepee burner. Then the state pulled our permit, said it polluted the air. Anyway, here." She slid it across the counter. "It's about a quarter mile past the old motel. Been closed for years, all shut up."

Rye rapped on the door before sliding it open. Claire, Amy, and Link were sitting around the little table. He looked over at Ellen who was still standing. "You want to sit?" She just shook her head in the negative. Amy stepped out and let Rye slide in, then sat on the edge of the seat, feet out.

Rye sat back. "Motel has six rooms and an office. From what the woman in the store said, it's probably boarded up." Link folded his arms. "What better place to put up a dozen girls than a place with all those bathrooms and bedrooms? Time to call in the task force."

Rye leaned forward across the little table stretched out an arm and made a fist. "I don't think so. I still don't trust you."

Link slammed a hand down flat on the table. "What are you going to do? Roll in with the bus and collect the girls?"

Claire could see an eruption coming, but decided to let it play out.

Rye spoke without taking his eyes off the agent. "Amy, let me out."

She looked over at Claire, who nodded.

Then he spoke louder and more intensely. "Amy, please."

The agent was on the outside and pushed his bulk out from behind the table.

Amy stepped out and sat back down.

Rye was only halfway out when he shot out a fist. Link parried and with the same hand and threw out a back fist. Rye ignored it and stepped in and grasped the agent by the throat.

"Stop it!"

The voice was so shrill and so unexpected that Rye retracted his hand and turned.

Ellen had taken a step away from the back of the seat where she'd been standing and stood with her hands clenched in fists, held at chest level, shoulders up near her ears, tears streaming down her face.

Claire instinctively took a step forward intent on comforting her but she backed up until she bumped into the seat back.

Amy reached over and took her hand. "C'mon, let's take a walk." No one spoke as they stepped out of the bus into the parking lot.

Rye took a step to follow but was stopped when Claire took his arm. "Let 'em go. They'll work it out." Then she turned on the two men. "And that's exactly what we're going to do, too."

The agent sat back down, not taking his eyes off Rye as he leaned against the counter. Claire leaned on the little table.

He held up both hands. "What if I go down the road to checkout the motel, determine the girls' situation?" He paused and looked at Claire who had turned to face him.

She looked at Rye, who gave her a nod.

"We're listening," she said.

"When I return, then we'll decide if we can make the rescue or need to call in the task force."

Rye was nodding. "Fair enough."

Claire took a step and turned to lean on the counter next to her husband. "How will we know if you run into trouble?"

Link rubbed his chest without thinking. "Give me one hour."

Rye stepped forward hand extended. The agent took the proffered hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Don't make me come after you."

**_Chapter Thirty-eight_**

Jane bushwhacked through the woods until she could see Cindy, Frank, and Josh standing in the middle of the parking lot looking down the road the way they expected her to come.

They didn't see her when she first stepped out from the trees.

"Hey." She stood with her hands on her hips.

Cindy and Frank jumped. Josh pulled a gun as he spun.

Cindy cautiously stepped forward. "All the girls are in room one, the last room at the far end of the motel."

Jane walked up to Josh. "You win the prize." She turned and walked back the way she'd come then pointed at a tight stand of conifers. "Right in there. C'mon." She watched until he was deep in the shadow of the big trees. "You two: Cindy, go stand in front of the office. Frank, in front of room three."

Next, Jane walked to the van she'd driven and removed the shotgun and a rifle. Then, checking to see if she could see Josh in the trees, she walked up to Cindy and scanned the woods. Next, she joined Frank and once again tried to locate Josh.

Frank looked past her to Cindy who just shrugged. "What are you doing, Jane?" he finally asked. "Shouldn't we be getting out of here before the PI arrives?"

Jane spun on him. "Think. We're going to Portland and it's not going to take us 24 hours. We need to stick it out here. Anyone comes down the road looking for the girls, they'll have to go room to room. Sitting ducks."

Frank shaded his eyes. "Gotcha."

Jane rolled her eyes and walked the shotgun and rifle over to Josh and traded him for the pistol. She looked back through the trees at Frank and Cindy. "You've got a clear shot. Anyone comes around, let them get past the office to room five or four. Then just keep 'em pinned down."

Josh leaned the shotgun against the tree, sighted through the rifle's scope, and looked over at Jane. "Then what?"

She gave him a wink. "I'll come get you."

**After getting** out of the bus, Link made a good show of jogging down the road, but as soon as he was out of sight, he slowed to a walk. He justified his slowed pace with the thinking that he didn't want to be running if there was a surprise up ahead.

He saw the end of the office and the parking lot when he rounded the fourth curve and was beginning to wonder how much further he'd have to go. Flexing his arm, he moved slowly into the trees that marked the closest edge of the lot. Nothing moved. A hitch caught in his chest. He had to take a deep breath and kneel down to regulate his breathing, press on his chest until the pain went away.

The vans were at the end of the row of rooms, but he didn't see any movement. He automatically reached for his underarm holster, but remembered that Claire still had his gun. Standing up he took a test breath, no pain.

At his best 'I'm in no hurry' pace, he strolled across the parking lot to the office. The door opened easily, but it was obvious that it had been forced. The dust and dirt on the pressboard floor showed footprints. He didn't have to go in far to know that it was empty. He tried not to let on that he was scanning the woods when he moved down to the room marked six.

The number was long gone but someone had painted 'six' at head height in the middle of the door. Glancing in, he saw that the room was starkly empty. He thought he felt a breeze coming from the bathroom. One step and he was out again, moving down the row toward room five.

He heard the pop before he saw the dust kick up. Without a thought, he dropped into a deep crouch and sprinted for the door. It swung wide with the impact of his shoulder and he dove to the floor and rolled under the boarded-up window and braced his back against the wall. Tentacles of pain shot through his chest and he passed out.

When the girls returned, Ellen opened up. She recounted her ordeal to everyone. "First, I began to wonder about the boys' side of the camp, then I decided to go check it out."

Rye was nervously checking his watch. All three women were sitting at the table.

"I didn't find anybody. I don't know what I was thinking I'd do, if I did. Anyway, I was just kind of wandering from cabin to cabin and found a bigger building when I saw headlights and just about freaked."

Ellen was wedged into a corner on the bench seat, knees pulled into her chest and pushing against the table. Amy had given her a pair of her sweat pants. As she told her story, her eyes would periodically brim with tears as though she was saying one thing, but remembering another.

"That's when this guy, like, you know, rescued me. Covered my mouth and pulled me to the ground. I told him that the camp was deserted, but he said it wasn't."

She paused and took a long drink from the bottle of water Rye had gotten from the store.

"Anyway, we climbed up on the roof and looked down through a hole."

This got Rye's attention and he stepped forward and leaned on the table. "What did you see?"

She began to play nervously with the water bottle, sliding it from one hand to the other across the Formica tabletop.

"Nothing at first. Air was coming up and made my eyes water. Then I saw the girls." Tears ran down her cheeks, she stopped talking and broke into a series of hiccupping sobs.

Claire reached out to place a comforting hand on Ellen's but the girl recoiled.

"It's alright..."Claire looked over at Amy, who was interrupted.

"What about the guy—what happened to him?"

Suddenly, it was as though the two teenagers were the only ones in the bus.

"He made me go back. There was this tree. I had just climbed down it, and, like, my hands and legs were all scraped and stinging and I wasn't sure what to do. And then this card floats down. It was, you know, a business card."

Rye gently rapped two knuckles on the table, looked at Claire, and pointed at his watch. "He's twenty minutes late."

Amy stood up to let Claire out then scooted back onto the seat until she faced Ellen.

Claire turned to face the girls. "Both of you stay put. We're going to check on agent Link If we're not back in an hour, go in the store and use their phone to call the Highway Patrol." She looked from one girl to the other. "Not the police—the Highway Patrol."

Rye reached into a pocket, fished out the keys, and slid them down the table toward Amy. "Just in case you have to move the bus."

Amy got out from behind the table and watched her two favorite people in the world jog down the road, then slid the door shut.

**_Chapter Thirty-nine_**

When the first shots rang out, Jane touched Cindy on the arm and caught Frank's attention. "That's our cue."

The three moved back down through the forest toward the teepee burner.

Link woke to a splitting headache, shortness of breath, a pain in his chest, and the realization that he was probably having a heart attack.

He fell to his shoulder reached out and pushed the door with just his fingers. It was enough movement to warrant a shot.

At the sound of shots being fired, Claire moved into the trees that ran parallel to the road, Rye right on her heels.

She crouched low, head swiveling left to right. Her voice came out as a faint whisper. "What do you think?"

Rye shook his head and held a finger to his lips. As a youth, he hunted with his father who had taught him to wait out the animal. Minutes passed and he heard someone clear his throat.

He held a hand to his ear, looked, and pointed. Claire followed, stepping where he stepped. When they could look out through the trees and see the office, they stopped. There were no other sounds.

Claire was looking ahead hoping to see movement in the trees when a hand on her shoulder brought her around. Rye brought two fingers to his eyes then pointed at the motel, but she didn't know what she was supposed to look at.

She leaned forward and felt his breath on her ear. "Bullet holes in the door, room five."

When she saw them, she looked up at Rye and waited. She knew he had a plan.

It came in a faint whisper. "Link is in five. I'll cross to the office and draw fire, you find the shooter." He reached over, squeezed her leg, and gave her a wink. "Before he finds me."

Before she could protest he was high-stepping between trees and moving into the parking lot.

She watched him not realizing she'd been holding her breath until he reached the office without a shot being fired. Then she let it out in a near-silent whoosh.

Link was beginning to sweat. Josh was confused, Frank hadn't mentioned two people. He leaned forward just enough so he could look past the trees and up the road, expecting a carload of police to arrive at any minute. Then he stepped back. He'd wait until the new guy walked down a little further.

Rye stepped out of the office and was just in front of the boarded-up window of room six, when the first shot rang out.

Claire was moving as quickly and quietly as possible in the direction of the shot.

Diving into a roll, Rye smashed through the door and slid to one side. The second shot punched a hole high through the hollow-core door.

Then silence.

Claire stopped. She still couldn't see the shooter, but knew she had to be close. Wait. That's what Rye would do. So she squatted down and began counting breaths.

The dust and grime was thick, so Rye rolled on his back and began to push to the back of the room in search of the source of the breeze. When he reached the bathroom, he slowly stood. There, a tiny window was pushed open. It was too small to get through. He squatted in the furthest corner.

Soft retching and coughing followed by a low moan repeated themselves a few times before he could identify the source as human. Turning, Rye rapped on the common wall and softly called out. "Hello?" Nothing.

There it was again. Then he recognized the tone. It had to be Link shot.

Rye pulled out the longest blade on his little pocketknife, holding it so it came out from the bottom of his hand. Then he began to stab at the wall.

Back in the bus, Amy suddenly froze. Ellen was getting scared. "What? What?"

"Did you hear that? Gun shots."

Amy looked down the road. "What do we do now?"

Without saying a word, both teenagers knew that they weren't going to call Highway Patrol.

Amy got up from the table, walked over, pulled out a drawer, and inserted her hand, groping at the underside of the lid. She turned around smiling and holding up a Glock-24.

Ellen was suddenly energized and on her feet. "I'll need shoes."

Two pair of socks and moccasins slipped on, the girls were sliding the side door open but then shut it again instead of getting out.

"Who's that?" Ellen was looking out the rear window, watching a stretch limo pass as it headed down the road. Amy came up next to her. "Not the cops, that's for sure."

Rye punched, peeled, and cut at the rotted pressboard until he could get his shoulders through. Leading with his hands, he managed to squeeze through the common wall connecting the bathrooms.

Once through, he sat and waited. The only light came from where the tiny window in the bathroom had been pushed open, casting a dim glow through the door where it illuminated a figure on the floor, curled in the fetal position.

He scrambled into the larger room and next to the agent But when he rolled him over, there was no blood. The man was pasty and sweating profusely. He opened his eyes and blinked several times.

"We've got to get out of here, get you medical help."

Leaving him, Rye went back in the bathroom and began to dig at the wall just below the little window.

**_Chapter Forty_**

Leslie Toms waited in the lobby of the Media Club, watching the entrance to the building. Two agents were at the front desk getting the emergency key for the bank of elevators. The cars on either side of the private elevator were already at lobby level and when the doors opened, they were empty. They had to call down the private car.

"Toms, you'd better come see this."

Two bodies lay slumped on either side of the private car.

She practically spit in her anger. "I can bet that Alto is long gone." She turned and marched out of the lobby onto the sidewalk. "Link, where the hell are you?"

**The hole** was waist high and shoulder width. Rye's hands were scraped and bleeding.

Walter Link was standing on his own, leaning against the bathroom doorframe. "I can't climb through that little hole."

"Sure you can."

Leaning against the back wall, Rye clasped his hands. "Step here and I'll give you a boost up. The agent looked doubtfully at the big man. "You're joking."

Rye stepped over and pulled one of Link's arms over his shoulder. He guided him over so that his upper body leaned out through the hole, then reached down and pulled at his pant leg.

"Give me your foot."

With a groan, Link lifted his leg and grabbed the edges of the hole, pulling as Rye lifted. Then he was through.

"You alright?"

Crumpled in a heap, he lay unmoving. In a moment, Rye was next to him, taking his pulse. He'd passed out again.

**When the** driver guided the stretch limo around the curve that revealed the motel, he turned the large car so as to block the road. Alto's two bodyguards got out.

Josh kept looking over his shoulder for Jane. Two men pinned in rooms six and five, and now this. Tinted windows all the way around except for the windshield. He would bet that the two men with the slicked back hair and sunglasses and suits were FBI. But he'd never heard of the Feds going around in a limo. The spoken spanish was the give away. Someone in the car was giving the other two instructions.

He squatted down and watched. Both men had guns. They moved with precision from door to door. He couldn't imagine what would happen when they found the two men trapped in the motel. But nothing happened. One kicked the door open while the other faced the parking lot, gun at the ready.

Josh would let them get to room four then pin them down, just like he'd done with the other two. He rolled from a squat to a solid sitting position, steadied the gun against the tree, and aimed at the boarded-up window of room four. When they passed that point, he'd open fire.

Walter Baker was awake and moaning when Rye heard someone step into the room. Sitting tall, he peered through the hole in the bathroom wall and got a glimpse of a suited man with a gun. Hooking his hands under Link's arms, he dragged the agent behind two stumps and into a circle of trees. When he checked, the agent was unconscious again. He desperately probed for a pulse. Still alive. Maybe it was better this way—at least he wouldn't make any noise.

Rye watched the hole. The man stuck his head out, took a quick look around and then retracted it. He couldn't leave Link and could only wonder about Claire. Had she found the shooter? But his answer came a moment after the thought. Three shots rang out and then the sound of shuffling feet and voices speaking Spanish The shooter had at least driven the two men into the next room.

Rye's head was spinning. Who was the shooter, and who were the men in the next room? Where were all the girls and where was Claire? He leaned back against one of the stumps and checked his watch. Amy should have called the Highway Patrol by now. All he had to do was wait.

Ellen stared down at the pistol. "Do you know how to use that?" Amy checked the gun's clip the way her father had shown her, then peeked out the side window. "All clear."

Ellen pulled the handle and slid the door open. "Who do you think they were?"

Amy stepped out holding the gun close to her body, pointed at the ground.

Ellen followed her into the trees and along what looked like an animal trail, keeping the road in sight. She finally stopped Amy with a firm grip on her arm.

"This is stupid. What are we doing anyway?"

Amy shook her off her and looked out into the forest, then down the road and pointed. "Look, I think I see the motel from the brochure."

Ellen came up and sighted down her arm. "I see it, too. Do you think your Aunt and Uncle are there?"

Before Amy could answer, the sound of gunfire had the girls hiding behind a tree and then running deep into the forest.

Suddenly, Amy fell headlong, throwing out her arms like she was trying to fly. Ellen was so close that she fell on top of her. When she rolled off, Amy sat up and grabbed her ankle. "Oh God, oh God. I think I broke something."

Ellen gave a little squeal and looked over to see what she sat on. It was a loop of old rusted cable as big around as her wrist. "I found what you tripped on."

Amy was rocking back and forth. "Get my Aunt Claire. Go back to the motel and find her."

Ellen looked around until she found the gun, turned, and ran back the way they'd come until she found an animal trail she thought was the one they were on when they'd heard the gunshots.

Traveling through the silence of the forest, Claire could hear the faint sound of voices and began to increase her pace. Ten steps, stop and listen, then ten more steps. She picked out a path that would muffle her movement as much as possible. Watching, searching.

She never found the shooter and became consumed by the voices, and the sound of something else. It seemed that the closer she got, the stranger these things sounded. Finally, she stopped and listened. There were actually two sounds. The voices of two, maybe three people, and a crackling and snapping sound that she couldn't identify.

Slowing her breathing, she held her breath and focused on the voices. Two female, one male. But what was the background noise? She knew she was way past the motel and was trying to remember what Rye had said about an abandoned lumber mill and a teepee burner that used to be a tourist attraction. In that moment, she identified the mystery sound as that of the old wood burner.

Ellen thought she saw somebody and froze when she recognized Josh from the van. Consumed with terror, she took several steps back when she heard a loud bang and saw the shadowy figure of her former captor crumple to the forest floor.

Without thought she began to run down the animal trail, not caring where it led. Just wanting to get away.

Alto was stretched on his stomach across the hood of the limo. When the image he was sighting fell, he slid back to his feet and called out 'all clear' to his bodyguards.

Rye tensed at the sound of more gunfire. But the caliber was different. The weapon that had fired on him was a rifle. This had been from a pistol.

Not knowing what to expect he pulled the agent deeper into the trees, but when he braced his feet and hooked under his arms, one hand slipped and his finger caught on something around the agent's neck.

It was the throat microphone. Reaching around to the back, he unhooked the necklace-like affair that held the mic in place. Bringing it up, he clipped it around his own neck and pressed the button now located at his throat with no idea if it would work.

"This is Walter Link, Rye said into the mic. "I've found the girls at Wolf Creek. They're being held in an old, boarded-up motel." He repeated the message five times, thinking it was better to pose as link than to give his real name and maybe have the task force come after him.

Claire heard the shot that took out Josh as a call to action. Not knowing who these people were, but thinking they might be able to help locate the shooter, she stepped into the clearing, not realizing that the man she'd been looking for was already dead.

Ellen saw the break in the trees and stopped when she spotted a crouching figure step forward. She was about to call out but she approached the edge of the clearing for a better look, still hidden, and was instantly filled with panic.

Slowly, terror-filled, Ellen circled around until she was positive. Jane, her counselor from Camp Hiouchi, was standing next to Cindy and the other worker from the store. She wasn't sure what was going on until she followed Jane's pointing hand and saw two girls strapped to the conveyor belt that led to the top of the wood burner. But that's also when she noticed that the guy was holding a gun on Claire, who had just stepped into the clearing.

Ellen worked her way around to the backside of the burner, and then, stumbling and shaking, stepped out and pressed the gun to the middle of the guy's back and stammered. "Put your gun down."

Frank dropped his gun and Jane pulled hers and leveled it at Claire. "Cindy, start the conveyor belt." Then she looked over at Ellen. "Ms. Stulov, if you want to save your friend's life, put your gun down and we all walk away. Nobody has to get hurt."

Nobody had moved. Jane suddenly took on her counselor voice. "Think about it, Ellen. You'll be saving the life of the two girls up there and this woman. All you have to do is put down your gun."

Cindy hadn't moved.

"I said, start the conveyor."

The storeowner stepped closer to Claire. "No!" In one quick move, Jane shot Cindy in the head, then brought the gun back to point at Claire and began to walk backwards.

"One last chance, Ellen. The two girls will fry, I'll shoot this woman, and I don't care about Frank. Go ahead. Shoot him and see what happens."

Jane had reached the handle that would engage the conveyor, but it wouldn't move. She twisted so she could see and in that moment, Claire lunged. Two slow. Jane caught the movement out of the corner of her eye, raised the pistol, and fired.

With loud grinding and scraping, the conveyor belt started to move.

Tears running down her cheeks, Ellen slammed the gun as hard as she could into the back of Frank's head, but when she turned, Jane was crossing the clearing for the cover of the forest.

Suddenly, Paul burst out between two trees, slightly behind the burner and got off one shot at the figure who was rapidly blending into the woods. Then he raced to the engine that propelled the conveyor belt. He picked up a stick in the process, used it to leverage the wire from the spark plug, and quickly took in the scene, noting the young girl who was standing there. Then he ran to Claire, rolled her onto her back, gasping when he saw the blood flowing from her head. He had to stop the bleeding.

"Quick, he said to the girl. "Give me a hand here." The teenager stepped over the crumpled figure at her feet and staggered next to Paul. Then she looked down at the rapidly pooling blood. In a flood of images and suffering a lack of blood to her brain, Ellen fainted.

The sting to the side of her face was more than she could take and she opened her eyes to yet another slap.

When Paul saw her eyes flutter open, he grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her to a sitting position. "C'mon, wake up. I need your help. What's your name?"

Pushing her legs out in front of her, she leaned back on her arms. Then she saw the knife in his hand.

"No! No, get away."

She began to crab away until one arm hit a branch that rolled and she fell onto her back.

"It's alright, don't be afraid." Paul glanced down at the pocketknife in his hand and understood her fear. "This woman will bleed to death unless we help her. I need a strip of material from your sweat pants."

Timidly, she extended a leg in his direction.

First he cut the elastic, then looked up at her. "What's your name? I'm going to cut a strip up to your knee."

"Ellen."

Paul ran a hand up the inside of her pant leg to her knee and she instantly stiffened.

"Hey, it's okay." Then he shoved the knife up and through the material and pulled the pant leg tight with one hand while pulling the knife down. "See? Once more so I have a strip."

This time she reached down and pulled the sweat material around the knee tight and he made the second cut.

"You'll have to help me." She crawled over on her hands and knees.

"Lift her head so I can wrap the material all the way around."

When he brushed at Claire's hair to move it away from the wound, a handful fell away, exposing bone. He tied the strip on the opposite side of her head.

"Ellen, look at me. Her name is Claire..."

"I know."

Surprised he looked at the teenager. "What?"

She looked down at Claire as though talking to her. "This woman, her husband, and Amy saved me. I was sleeping in the back of their bus when..."

Paul interrupted her narrative with such excitement she scooted back.

"It's okay. Amy is my daughter. I thought..." Then he caught himself. "Where is she?"

Ellen turned and pointed. "There's an animal trail. She tripped and hurt her ankle."

He reached down, took her hand and pressed her palm to the bandaged wound. "Keep applying pressure until it stops bleeding."

He pushed to his feet and stepped over to Frank and scanned the ground until he found the gun. Then he hustled over and gave it to Ellen.

"I think you did a good job on that guy's head, but if he wakes up, shoot him. Can you do that?"

With a surge of self-confidence Ellen would never understand, she shifted her position to face the crumpled figure. "No problem." Then she watched Paul vanish into the trees.

**_Chapter Forty-one_**

One of the bodyguards stepped out into the parking lot and began to wave his arms and then point. Alto climbed into the stretch limo and instructed the driver to park at the end of the lot, next to the two vans.

"No, stop here. Pull up close to the trees."

He cautiously slipped from the driver's side with the forest to his back and waved over the top of the car.

One of the bodyguards jogged over. "We found the girls."

Alto stepped around the front of the limo. "What is their condition?"

The man looked over his shoulder at his partner who was now leaning in the doorway of room one, then back at his boss. "Mostly okay. I think they've been drugged."

Alto walked toward the vans. "How many?"

His bodyguard followed closely. "Nine."

"I'll bring the van over myself, go help with the girls."

Alto climbed in the nearest van and rolled down the windows. There seemed to be nothing that could stop him now, but he wondered who the young man who fired on him was and what had happened to the people who had transported the girls. He scanned the forest, but saw no movement. Could they be waiting for him to load the girls before making their move? He shrugged and started the engine. Then he pulled the van as close as possible in front of the motel room.

The girls were drugged, dehydrated, and hadn't eaten in two days. It took both men practically dragging them to the van, then Alto wrestling them into their seats and buckling them up so they wouldn't fall over.

After the third girl was secure, one of the guards climbed in. "These girls need food and water."

Alto nodded as he looked at the near-unconscious young girls heavily leaning into their shoulder harness. "They're young and will be fine. Once we get them into the plane at the Medford Airport, we'll revive them with food and water. We were expecting twelve, so there will be plenty of food and water for all of them. "

He stepped out of the stifling hot van and took a deep breath. "Right now it is important to get them loaded and get away from this place."

**Walter Link** jolted awake and looked around. He was alone.

He rubbed a point on his chest just below his sternum. "Shit, another Angina attack."

He could remember Rye pushing him through a hole in the bathroom wall but not much beyond that. He sat propped against a stump and slowly began to test his limbs, first his hands and arms, then he rotated his feet from side to side. Everything seemed to be working without pain.

Grabbing the branches of the small tree next to the stump, he pulled himself to his feet, all the time tracking each movement. "So far so good."

"Good, you're up." Rye walked up and leaned against the back wall of the motel.

"Three men are loading the girls into one of the vans."

Link let go of the tree, took a step, and began to sway. Then he pointed at the throat mic. "Hey, what the hell?"

"You were out of it and I decided it was time to call in the cavalry. Where's you're task force located?"

The agent rolled his eyes, though he was feeling better by the minute. "Portland."

The two men stood in silence at the realization that it would take at least two hours for them to reach Wolf Creek.

"Nothing we can do here, but Paul keeps a gun in the bus. Think you can make it?"

Link took a couple tentative steps. "What are we going to do with one gun? These guys are probably armed to the hilt."

Rye watched him for a minute then caught up and took one of his arms. "Block the road and stall for time."

Link looked over at him and nodded.

**_Chapter Forty-three_**

Jane replaced the gun in the holster in the middle of her back, leaned against a tree, and looked down at her left hand. "Oh fuck." Blood dripped from each finger. She tried to remember if they had eaten all the food Frank brought from the store. She'd need all the strength she could get to load the girls into the van.

First she had to take care of her wound. She had to look. She could move her arm with great effort, but that seemed to make it bleed more.

With her right hand she reached inside the windbreaker and unbuttoned her shirt, shrugging it off. She gave a tight laugh.

She had to lift her arm to see the wound, but couldn't for the blood. The skin was puckered on the inside of her upper arm and there seemed to be a slight numbness. She had to stop the bleeding. Slumped down at the base of the tree, she ran her fingers through her hair and ripped lose a short hank. Then she looked around until she found a small flat rock and lay the hair across it. Sitting up straight, she reached into her front pocket and fished out her lighter.

One spin and the flame sprang to life. Hand shaking, she held it to the hair then tossed the lighter aside. With her thumb she crushed the now brittle hair until it was powder. Then taking a pinch between thumb and index finger, she applied it to the source of the bleeding until the blood had coagulated.

"Good to go." Careful not to move her arm and start the bleeding again, Jane kept it pinned to her side and then started down the trail at a steady pace.

Frank was an idiot but she could have used Cindy. She ran the scenario of what took place at the wood burner, but couldn't figure out who the man was that shot her. Then she was on to Josh. The two could easily load the girls. He could even run to the little store and get food and water. No. They could do that on their way out.

Over and over she imagined each step of loading the girls and driving to Portland. They could have the girls delivered by dark.

When the motel came into view, she slumped down at the base of a tree. Her arm seemed slippery against her chest and when she pulled it away, blood was running freely. She felt weak and nauseous. It took all her strength to shrug out of the windbreaker. Then she tried to wipe the blood away and finally wadded up the thin material and shoved it between the upper inside of her arm and her body.

Jane didn't know it, but she was bleeding out. It takes the loss of a liter and a half of blood before vision closes in and the brain starts shutting down bodily functions. During the entire process, the mind knows it's dying.

Jane had lost a liter of blood and knew that something was terribly wrong. That realization would be among her last thoughts. But still, she moved on, refusing to acknowledge her situation.

Her energy level surged briefly when she saw activity at the motel and thought that maybe Josh was already loading the girls. But that didn't make sense. The windbreaker was blood-soaked, but it had stemmed the flow. Slowly, moving from one tree to another, Jane crept to the end of the motel and watched as two men helped a girl to the side of the van where another pulled her in. And what was with the limo? Was this the host or the buyer? There was no sign of Josh. Her mind was failing and she found it hard to focus. Then her vision closed in. Her brachial artery had been bleeding again. Sliding down, blackness took over and she slumped forward.

The three men stared in the van at the nine young girls who hung against their shoulder harnesses, moving only with the rhythm of their breathing.

Alto waved to the limo driver, then turned to the bodyguards.

"Leave the empty van. I want both of you with the girls."

The driver pulled up, leapt out, and opened the door for his boss. Once inside, the driver executed a three-point turn and was followed by the two guards with the van full of girls.

Paul followed the animal trail, but found no trace of his daughter and finally emerged into the parking lot of the motel just in time to watch a white van disappear around a curve.

He walked backwards toward the empty van, glad that he knew Amy wasn't in it with the other girls. He was pulled by the urge to go back in the woods and search until he found her, and at the same time, by the need to stop the men driving up the road.

Once at the van, he was surprised to find the key in the ignition. If he could just pull up fast and unexpectedly ram the other van. Then he could shoot the drivers when they got out. Paul shook that thought out of his head. There was too much risk that one of the girls would get hurt.

Without a plan, he put the van in drive and followed the first one, staying just out of sight. With a mile to go before the turn off to the Interstate, the driver of the limo brought the sleek vehicle to a stop.

"Lower the divider." Alto looked past the driver out the windshield. "What is it?"

"There appears to be a an old VW bus in the middle of the road. I'll handle it."

With the tinted divider down, Alto had a clear view as his driver approached the bus.

Alto pulled out his gun and set it on his thigh.

The limo driver took several steps and when the figure leaning into the rear of the bus didn't stand up, he unbuttoned his coat for easy access to his pistol. "Hello, bus." He was relieved when the man stepped back.

"Could you give me a hand? I'll put it in neutral and we can push it out of the way." The limo driver looked back at his boss who'd been watching and waved him back.

When he reached the stretch, the passenger side door opened and his boss stood up. "Tell the others to stay with the girls, then help push the bus out of the road. Be alert."

The driver looked back at bus, but the man had stuck his head back in the engine compartment.

He conveyed his boss' message to the bodyguards and jogged up toward the Volkswagen. "C'mon, lets move this piece of shit."

The man stepped back and closed the lid of the engine compartment. "Thanks, I'll put it in neutral and steer, you come back here and push."

The driver had his hands on his hips, slightly opening his coat. Rye couldn't help but notice the butt of a gun. He only hoped that Link, who was waiting with a tire iron on the other side of the bus, wouldn't be too surprised.

Paul was keeping his speed down to accommodate the cracks and potholes in the asphalt and to avoid becoming visible to the first van, but when he reached the apex of yet another curve, there it was stopped in the middle of the road.

He shut off the engine and waited. Apparently, the driver of the girls' van hadn't seen him. Stepping back through the van, he exited through the rear double doors and into the cover of the trees, then slowly advanced.

"What the..."

Directly in front of the girls' van was a stretch limo and in front of that, was his bus.

He watched mystified, as a man with some kind of cap and wearing a blue suit, must be the driver of the limo, walked around to the rear of his bus and was clubbed to the ground by some guy with a tire iron. Then, to his utter shock and surprise, Rye stepped out and fired six shots into the windshield of the limo.

Almost on cue, both doors of the girls' van flew open. Two suited men, guns drawn, slipped out. Paul took out the one nearest the wooded edge of the road that had come out of the passenger side. The man's partner moved around to the front of the vehicle, staying low, using it as a shield, and opened fire into the trees. But Paul had anticipated the move and hunkered down behind a big Douglas fir.

Suddenly, the man stopped shooting and slid to the ground.

Rye walked forward, gun aimed at the crumpled figure at the front of the van.

He lowered his gun when Paul stepped from the trees.

"What the hell are you doing with my bus? It's a classic, you know." Then exhausted from an adrenaline rush, he stumbled and Rye had to rocket forward to keep him from doing a face plant.

"Hey, I'm fine. Just tuckered."

Then Link was looking down at him. Paul extended a hand and stood with the help of his friend. "Claire's been shot." Before Rye could respond, a shot rang out and Link pitched forward. Then another shot and as both men whirled around and crouched, scrambling for cover, Devon Alto's face exploded. He spun in a slow circle to the ground.

**_Epilogue_**

Rye moved with purposeful slowness, a protective arm around Claire. They were followed by Paul and his daughter, Amy, who was still limping. They walked around the ambulance. Comments flowed about the new location for Rogue Rescue and how Valley View Road was a perfect location. They laughed as they spoke of the move and lifting boxes until their backs ached.

Rye opened the big rear double doors of the ambulance, and they all climbed in. He gave them a verbal tour of the 70,000 dollars in electronics, and positively glowed as he explained how it would allow them to be that much more efficient. Then he rocked back in the chair at the head of the gurney and turned serious.

"Frank died from a blow to the head, Cindy from a single gunshot at close range. Both were connected with human trafficking. Devon Alto's bodyguard killed Josh, and we all know what happened to Ed."

Amy spoke in a jagged tone. "What happened to Jane Johnson?"

Claire answered. "I have no memory after she shot me until they put me in the ambulance. I noticed a shrouded body and asked the EMT. He said a woman had bled out from a gunshot wound."

Paul leaned forward. "I found my way to the wood burner on an animal trail and by following the smoke. The first thing I saw were the two girls strapped to the conveyor." He looked over at Claire. "I saw you go down and the woman who shot you run for the trees. I got off one shot, I must have winged her."

They solemnly stepped down out of the ambulance and waited for Rye to close and latch the doors. Taking Claire's hand, he led the way through the breezeway that went from the barn—which was also home to the ambulance—to the house, now void of all moving boxes. With little fanfare, they all sat around the kitchen table except Rye.

The room was silent as he brought out four frosted clear glass mugs. No one moved until he returned from the fridge with a large pitcher of beer and filled each mug, then took his place.

Claire made the first toast, lifting her mug. "Here's to Sheriff Elmore Tinsley. Whatever his involvement, he arrived in time to take out Devon Alto, which saved my husband. To Elmore."

Then Rye raised his mug. "Here's to Ellen Stulov, who kept pressure on a wound and saved my wife. To Ellen."

Paul went next, wrapping an arm around his daughter's shoulders and giving her a squeeze first. "Here's to a daughter brave, true, and older than her years."

Then, with tears in her eyes, Amy raised her mug. "Here's to Ron, a really nice guy I'll never get to know." They all clinked mugs.

Rye spoke again. "And to the survivors, girls every one. May they grow up in peace." They all bowed their heads then touched mugs again.

Moments passed before anyone spoke. Paul broke the silence. "What about Walter Link?"

Rye laughed. "Alto fired a typical small caliber pistol. At long range like that, by the time the bullet reached Walter its velocity was down. Not to mention that it tagged him in the shoulder. Long story short, he survived the gunshot wound, thanks to Sheriff Tinsley, who transported him. I heard that while in the hospital, he had a triple bypass. Toms said he'd lost fifty pounds and had retired from the Bureau." Imagining the agent losing his stomach, they all laughed.

Claire touched a hand to the side of her head. "What about Ellen?"

Rye shook his head. "Haven't heard."

Amy spoke in an emotion-filled voice. "Word around school is she's back living with her mother and training to be a youth counselor for troubled teens."

Rye raised his mug and shook his head. "It never ends. According to the news, Leslie Toms and her task force stopped a private jet bound for Brazil carrying 22 girls."
