Forgotten Secrets (3 page)

“Where are you, sis?” he muttered when he reached the edge of town and the Singing River Methodist Church.

Sitting on several acres of land, the church had always been a beacon. Now its steeple stood tall, illuminated against the night sky. A group of strategically placed floodlights bathed the building with strong white beams.

Four pickups from the Riverton Ranch sped past Thayne, heading toward the woods. The perpetual family feud hadn’t stopped the Rivertons from joining the search. Thank God.

Thayne screeched into the church’s parking lot. Several dozen vehicles sat empty in the grassland north of the church. A hell of a lot different than a SEAL op. Thayne usually found himself part of an eight-man squad or four-man fire team. Double that had gathered on the edge of the parking lot around the command center table, waiting for assignments. You’d have thought it was midday on a Sunday after services rather than late Friday night.

More than a hundred had searched for Cheyenne already, including his brothers. Hudson and Jackson had been the first to take a quadrant. Last he’d spoken with them, they’d found nothing.

Their father leaned forward, pointing at a map on the table. Clive nodded and handed flashlights to Olaf, the cook from the diner, and Yvonne, whose Cuts, Curls and Color Salon was a Singing River institution. They each grabbed a map and moved to the coffee station.

Thayne strode up to his father. Sheriff Carson Blackwood’s jaw throbbed with tension, his lips pursed. Myocarditis had landed him in the hospital less than two months ago. His clothes still hung on his body, but he’d regained some color in his cheeks. He wasn’t fully recovered, though. It could take another four months.

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to go home and rest for a while,” Thayne said, grabbing his mug and filling it with coffee from the next table.

“Anything?” His father bit out the words.

“Nothing. It’s like she disappeared into thin air.” Thayne shook his head, gripping the coffee, trying to shove aside the tension vibrating through his body. “Any news here?”

His father’s shoulders sagged, and he shook his head.

“About time you got here.” Three seventy-five-year-old voices spoke as one.

Norma, Fannie, and Willow glared at Thayne, but he recognized the worry behind their eyes. The women were his grandmother’s best friends. They’d been part of his life for as long as he could remember.

“I’ve been suggesting that your stubborn fool of a father take a break for the last hour,” Norma Baker said, crossing her arms. “He looks like he’s about to keel over.”

“You old busybodies.” His dad’s gaze narrowed in exasperation, and he sent Thayne a looks-could-kill glare. “When Cheyenne is home safe in her own bed, that’s when I’ll rest. And not before.”

Norma’s gaze softened. “Your family needs you, Carson. Cheyenne needs you healthy. You won’t do any good to anyone if you’re laid up in the hospital again.”

Thayne recognized his father’s famous temper on the verge of erupting. “Dad, what did DCI say?”

“They’re shorthanded. They can only spare one investigator.”

“DCI?” Fannie asked.

“The Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation,” Thayne said, facing the three women, who leaned forward with rapt attention. “They have a field office in Pinedale.”

“Oh, like CSI,” Fannie said.

Norma shook her head with a sigh. “That TV stuff isn’t real.”

“But more are coming, right?” The stark look on his father’s face gave Thayne a chill. “We need the help.”

“Maybe. In the meantime, Pendergrass will be using everything he learned from that forensic training he took at the DCI crime lab. He’ll do a sweep and send any prints and evidence to them. Best we can do, except to keep the search going.” His father swiped his brow. “What guts me is everything I love about Singing River is the very thing that will slow us down. A remote small town in a large, remote state with a small population. Hell, the nearest FBI field office is in Denver. We’ve only got a few resident agencies across the state, barely manned.”

“Will they come?”

“They’re stretched thin, too. One missing woman doesn’t exactly float to the top of their list.”

“So we’re on our own.” Thayne knew the statistics. They had about seventy-two hours to find Cheyenne. If they didn’t . . .

“It’s like before,” Willow whispered under her breath. “Like that poor Gina Wallace, Carol’s girl.”

God, Thayne hoped not.

Norma straightened her spine. “Nope. We’re finding Cheyenne. This time we know quicker. She’s out there. We have hundreds of people combing everywhere.”

“That’s right,” Fannie said, shoving a couple of her melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon rolls into a bag. “Cheyenne is a tough girl. She’ll make it out of this alive.”

“Of course,” Willow said, her brown eyes troubled. Thayne knew why. Willow’s late husband had been a tracker on the Gina Wallace search. They’d never found a single trace. The girl had simply disappeared.

Just like Cheyenne.

Thayne shoved away the memories. Too many differences to compare. Gina had been a child; Cheyenne was a woman. Technology had been in the Dark Ages fifteen years ago. They’d started this search within a half hour of Cheyenne’s disappearance.

They had a chance for a different ending. “Anything from the BOLO on the black SUV Fannie saw heading north of town?” Thayne asked his father.

“We’ve alerted the surrounding counties to be on the lookout. No news yet.”

“How could Cheyenne just vanish in broad daylight? Someone had to have seen
something
.”

“Which is why I contacted the media and put out a request for any possible sightings or information. Like you said, we need all the help we can get.”

A mud-splattered pickup screeched into the church parking lot. Deputy Michael Ironcloud hit the ground in a run, still wearing his fishing gear, his Shoshone ancestry undeniable, his presence and skills a welcome relief. He raced up to Thayne and his father.

“I thought you were gone for a week,” Thayne said.

“Brad twisted his knee. We had to come home early. I dropped him off at home.” Ironcloud shoved his hand through his hair. “I just heard about Cheyenne and the BOLO. I wish we’d known sooner.”

Thayne froze at the deputy’s words. “Why do you say that?”

“Because we noticed a black SUV heading toward Fremont Lake not long after Cheyenne disappeared.”

CHAPTER THREE

North of Singing River, Wyoming, in the middle of nowhere, only the moon and dozens of stars offered any disruption from the utter blackness surrounding the vehicle. The bright headlight beams illuminated the dirt road in front of Thayne’s SUV.

His gaze swept to and fro, searching for anything out of place, out of the ordinary, a glimpse of the plum dress Cheyenne had been wearing when she disappeared. He glanced over at his father, his dad’s face even more drawn than two and a half hours ago when they’d left one of the deputies managing command central.

“We’re going to find her,” Thayne said, needing to hear the words as much for himself as to comfort his father.

“Of course we are. Good idea to search these dirt roads off the main route between town and the lake.” He snagged the radio.

“Dad, you contacted the office less than fifteen minutes ago.”

“Damn it, you think I don’t realize that?” He closed his eyes. “We both know what could be happening to her, what they could be doing to her. If . . . if she’s still . . .”

Still alive.

His father couldn’t say the words aloud.

Neither could Thayne. “They didn’t kill Gram. Hopefully that means something.”

“Maybe.” The sheriff of Singing River let out a sharp curse and tossed his badge on the dash. “The case is different when it’s personal. A hell of a lot different.”

“Yeah.” Thayne recognized the expression. Anger, frustration, and desperation lying in wait just beneath the surface, clawing to escape. “My mind’s going places it shouldn’t,” he admitted.

“Did I tell you I’m glad you’re home and not on an op?” His father stared out the side window. “Your mother hated not knowing where you were for weeks or months at a time, if you were alive or dead.”

“
Mom
always worried.” Thayne understood the message. He could play along with the distraction—and with their standard worry game. Even though his mom had passed away five years ago, his dad still invoked the old standby excuse.

“Makes this damn heart infection worth it.” The tough, no-nonsense sheriff cleared his throat and blinked. “Where’s my little girl?” His dad leaned forward in his seat. “Where is Cheyenne?”

“We’ll find her. We have to.”

The SUV rounded a curve, its headlights forming a bright tunnel revealing a line of Douglas firs on one side of the road and a creek lining the other. They topped a small hill, and Thayne stepped on the brakes. A gate and barbed-wire fence blocked the road.

“Let me take a look.” Thayne left the vehicle and studied the padlock, tugging at the rusted metal before slipping back behind the wheel. “No one’s opened that gate for months.” He turned to his father. “Cheyenne’s smart and resourceful. She’ll get word to us. We just have to keep looking.”

He made a U-turn off-road and headed the way they’d come.

“I wish she’d call. She must have her phone. Pendergrass didn’t find it at her office.”

“Try the locator app again, Dad. We could get lucky.”

“Apps,” his dad huffed, tapping the screen. “When Jackson fought that fire in Arizona, his phone hardly worked at all. Today your brother is searching the mountains that back up to our ranch, but he could be on Mars and I couldn’t tell. The terrain around here makes for one big dead zone. Hudson’s on the south end leading a team. No reception there, either.” With a frustrated hand, his father tossed the phone next to the badge. “I don’t know why you kids gave me this damn phone anyway. I was perfectly happy with my old flip phone. This monstrosity doesn’t tell me squat. Except that you’re sitting right next to me. Sure as hell doesn’t tell me if you’re in Afghanistan or Pakistan or wherever you were last.”

Thayne frowned at his father’s outburst. “There’s always a chance.”

“We need satellite phones out here. It hasn’t been in the budget, but I’m thinking we’ve got to find the money somehow.” Thayne’s father snagged the device and stared unblinking at the screen. “You gonna opt out, son?”

OK, the question came from nowhere, but sometimes the only way to cope with panic was to discuss the mundane. He wasn’t fooled. His father’s whitened knuckles gripped the phone. Not any different than Thayne’s clutching the steering wheel.

The SUV bounced on the rain-savaged road. “Haven’t decided. What would I do if I left the SEALs?”

“I could make that deputy’s badge permanent. You could settle down, get married. Have a life.”

A scoffing laugh escaped Thayne. “Come on, Dad. Of all your kids, I was voted least likely to follow in your and Pops’s footsteps.”

“Not by me or your mother. Jackson’s the adrenaline junky. Hudson’s heart is in the land. Cheyenne’s tied to the people. But you, Thayne, you have that sense of justice, that need to right a wrong. You just feed the need on the battlefield fighting for Uncle Sam. You could do it here. Where you belong.”

The SUV slammed into a pothole. Thayne eased up on the gas pedal. “Singing River is the only place on Earth Hudson could ever be happy. Cheyenne left for school, but only so she could come back.”

“And you?”

“Singing River is . . . claustrophobic. Everyone knows my name, knows our family, knows what’s expected. Gram understands. I couldn’t even blow off a little steam without you and Pops knowing about it. Or be alone with my girlfriend. It’s a wonder I’m not still a virgin, as many times as you guys interrupted—”

“That was your mother’s idea.” His father drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Why not come home, settle down?”

OK, Thayne had to figure out how to derail this conversation. Their superficial attempt at normalcy had just veered into dangerous waters. “There’s no one here who makes me want forever.”

“Does this have anything to do with a certain FBI special agent you spend hours talking to on Friday evenings?”

Thayne whipped his head around to meet his father’s gaze. How could he know about the relationship with Riley? No one knew. Even Thayne had trouble wrapping his brain around the confusing emotions.

A small beep sounded from the app. “Thayne, I’ve got a signal.”

“Who?”

His father blinked. “Cheyenne’s phone. It’s a mile off the dirt road leading to the old mill.”

Thayne flipped on the sirens, pushing the vehicle as much as he dared on the dirt road.

The sheriff grabbed his badge off the dash and snatched the radio. “We’ve got a cell phone signal,” he said, relaying the location. “Send backup.”

Five miles onto the highway following the creek, Thayne skidded onto a dirt road. Dust kicked up, reflecting off the headlights like a curtain of sand.

“We should be closing in. How much farther?” Thayne asked.

“Almost there.” His father tugged a spotlight from the floorboard. “About a hundred feet southwest of us.”

Thayne stopped the car. They mounted the light and flipped it on. Ground cover rustled in a grove of fir and aspens. Thayne jumped from the running board and raised his weapon.

The branches swayed at the base of the tree. A coyote stared at them from among the twigs, then bounded away.

With a flashlight in one hand, Glock in the other, Thayne took the lead. His father followed close behind, monitoring the phone.

Thayne’s flashlight beam swept side to side. He knelt down, studying the leaves and pine needles. His shoulders tensed. “Someone’s been here,” he said under his breath.

“Cheyenne?”

“Combat boot,” Thayne whispered. He stilled, body coiled, listening for any sound, any hint of the unfamiliar.

For a moment, he could have sworn they were being watched. He peered through the trees, listening, waiting.

No movement.

He’d stayed alive through four tours trusting his gut. With caution, he ducked under a large tree limb and motioned his father forward. “I’ve got a bad feeling someone’s out there. I can’t tell which way he went. You?”

The man who’d trained all his children to track and survive bent down, squinting at the area in the flashlight’s range, then slowly shook his head. “Guy knew how to cover his tracks. I can barely tell he wiped them away. He was here, but he could’ve headed in any direction, including back to the road. Trouble is, I didn’t see any tire tracks, either.”

Weapons drawn, they searched through the grove before moving into an area of wheatgrass. A glint drew Thayne’s attention. He squatted down.

A phone. His gut twisted.

“It’s Cheyenne’s. I’d know that bright-red case anywhere.” His father leaned over Thayne’s shoulder.

Thayne shoved on a protective glove and scooped it up. Within seconds, he’d placed it into an evidence bag and tapped the screen through the plastic. The phone lit up. “It’s locked. Do you know her password?”

“Her birthday.”

“Damn silly choice. Too easy to break,” Thayne muttered, but he tapped in the numbers. “It worked. When we find her, I’m making her pick a new code.” Thayne searched photos, texts, and even e-mail. “She hasn’t used it since she called me.”

“No message? Nothing? I can’t believe that.”

“Whoever took Cheyenne must’ve dumped it.”

“And then carted her off to God knows where.” Thayne’s father studied the road heading toward the National Forest. “It’s too easy. They’re not headed into the woods. They’ve covered their tracks well so far. Why point us in the right direction?”

“I agree. So, back the way we came?”

The sheriff grabbed his shoulder mic. “This is Sheriff Blackwood. Expand the BOLO for the black SUV and Cheyenne to all the neighboring states. And get Pendergrass out here. We have a secondary crime scene.”

While his father barked out orders, Thayne walked the area around the phone’s location, searching for anything they might have missed, some clue to lead them to Cheyenne.

He circled tightly, focused on the ground cover, but nothing appeared out of place until . . . He froze at a radius of ten feet, unable to move or breathe.

God, please no.

On the edge of a group of shrubbery . . . freshly sifted dirt, and just beyond that, a small ditch covered with dead branches and leaves. With a sidelong glance at his father, he hurried to the site. A fox scampered away, streaking below the evergreen leaves.

Thayne knelt down.

Please don’t be here, Cheyenne. Please.

He braced himself and shoved aside several branches.

Buried beneath the logs, an old, shredded tent and a few fence posts lay embedded in the earth.

Thayne’s knees gave way. He fell back in the dirt. Hard.
Thank God.

“What’d you find?” His father’s clipped voice jerked Thayne out of the intense relief. “Is it her? Is she . . . ?”

Thayne stood up and quickly strode to his dad. “It’s not her. It’s remnants of the last flash flood.”

His father closed his eyes. Thayne hated being grateful they hadn’t found Cheyenne, but for a moment, he’d believed he’d uncovered her lifeless body. He never wanted to feel that way again. Not ever.

The radio sparked.

“Sheriff. It’s your mother. She’s awake, but it’s not good.”

The streets of DC never slept. Even well after midnight. Horns honked nearby, a car alarm pierced through the dark, and Riley squirmed in the seat next to her boss. He’d been too quiet since they’d left the crime scene. His silence didn’t bode well.

Tom pulled up in front of Riley’s apartment building and shifted into park, the rumbling purr of his government vehicle nothing but a reminder that he’d been lying in wait since they’d left the hospital.

“You look like hell,” he said, his voice soft but clipped, his gaze hard and knowing. “And not because of that bullet graze. When’s the last time you slept more than a few hours?”

Her mind ticked back through the last week or two, buried in this case, getting to know, to appreciate, to really like Patricia. At the same time living in the heart of a monster, peeling back the dark layers of hell.

What could she say? She had no idea.

“That’s what I thought.” A long sigh escaped him. “What did I tell you after the last case, Riley?”

She ignored the question. What was the point in rehashing an order she could never follow? She couldn’t do her job if she didn’t make the case personal. It was her gift: getting into the mind-set of the victim . . . and the killer. It was how she worked. It was how she’d found O’Neal. She couldn’t change now.

Riley met his gaze, her own unblinking, and he shook his head.

“We can’t save everyone.” Tom frowned at her, a furrow between his brows. “You know that.” He steepled his fingers under his chin. “You still can’t let her go, can you?”

“I joined the FBI to save lives. To save people like Patricia.” Unrealistic expectations? Probably. That didn’t change the sour taste rising in her mouth at tonight’s failure. She should have anticipated O’Neal’s behavior. That was her job, damn it.

“I’m not talking about Patricia Masters. I’m talking about your sister. You see your sister in the face of every victim and it’s destroying you. You can’t keep going on like this, Riley.”

Her lips grew taut. She couldn’t deny the truth, but she didn’t have to admit it.

“Do you know why I chose you for this unit? Even though you’ve only been with the FBI for three years?”