Missing (15 page)

 
Wes nodded, while wondering if he would ever be happy again.

 
Ally sensed his discomfort and immediately backed away.

 
"I'll let you get on home, but if you need anything, will you promise to let me know?"

 
"Yes, sure," Wes said, then added, "Thank you."

 
"For what?" Ally asked.

 
"For helping me help myself. And just so you know, as soon as I get paid, I'll start paying you rent."

 
"That's not necessary," she said.

 
"It is for me," he said, and waved goodbye.

 
Ally held the gentle sound of his voice close to her heart long after he had disappeared.

 
Wes was less than a mile from home when he heard a car approaching from behind. Without turning around, he moved off the road into the grass along the shoulder, expecting the driver to go on by. But when he realized that not only was the car not passing him, but that the driver had slowed down, his instinct for survival kicked in. He turned in a motion so fluid that it startled Roland Storm into hitting the brakes even harder. In that moment, time seemed to stand still.

 
Wes knew he was looking at the enemy, he just didn't know why, and at the same time, Roland realized he'd more than met his match. And when he saw the stranger set down his sack of groceries and reach into his pocket, he realized he was also armed. Startled by the defiance in the stranger's stature, Roland quickly took his foot off the brake and stomped the accelerator, leaving Wes in the dust.

 
It wasn't until after the man was gone that Wes realized Aaron's switchblade was in his hand. He looked down at the deadly edge on the ten-inch blade, then calmly flipped it back in its sheath, picked up his groceries and headed for home.

 
The incident had been startling, but, strangely enough, it had also awakened Wes's instinct for survival.

 
When he'd looked into that man's eyes and seen the enemy, he'd known for sure he wasn't ready to die.

 
As he neared the little house, instead of approaching from the front, he slipped into the woods and slowly circled the property until he was certain there was no one lying in wait. Then he entered the house and did a quick search inside before locking the doors.

 
It occurred to him as he was putting away his things that there was danger on this mountain. A part of him wanted to walk away right now, but he didn't like the feeling that gave him. It would be as good as admitting he was not only a failure but a quitter, and since that wasn't part of who he'd been, he refused to give in to the urge.

 
What he needed was some intel. He needed to find out what that man was all about and why he'd targeted Wes. That would come after dark. For now, he was going to make a meal, maybe read one of Dooley Brown's books and relax.

 
As he opened up a can of stew and turned on the stove, his thoughts slipped to the woman down below. Most likely she would be in the kitchen about now, preparing food for her family, probably laughing and talking, catching up on the events of the day. He thought of Margie and tried to recall similar memories, but nothing came to mind, which only served to remind him of how far their lives had separated. He'd loved her. They'd made a baby together. He'd given her his heart, but he'd given his time and his soul to Uncle Sam. It had been a mistake, but one that was impossible to retract. Instead, all he could do was promise himself that it was a mistake he would never repeat.

 
Danny's mood was high as he pulled into the driveway and parked in the shade. Ally was sitting on the porch drinking a glass of lemonade.

 
"Hey, Ally...where's Porter?"

 
"He hasn't come back from hunting," she said. "What's up?"

 
"I found us a job."

 
"Porter, too?"

 
"Yes, Porter, too," Danny said. "It's supposed to rain tonight, so on the first sunny day after, we start work."

 
"Who for?" Ally asked.

 
Danny's smile shifted just enough to make Ally think he was hiding something, but then she discarded the thought as he answered.

 
"You know that man who lives on the old Harmon place?"

 
"Are you talking about that odd skinny man who wears his hair in a ponytail?"

 
"Yeah, that's him. Name's Roland Storm. He's a bit of an oddball all right, but he's willing to pay big money for some help."

 
Ally didn't have a good feeling about this, but she had no logical reason to question Danny's decision.

 
"What does he want you to do?" Ally asked.

 
"He's been growing some kind of Chinese herb, and he wants me and Porter to harvest it for him."

 
This time Ally made no attempt to hide a frown.

 
"Chinese herbs in West Virginia?"

 
"It's what he said."

 
"What's he paying you?"

 
"Five thousand dollars apiece."

 
Ally gasped. "That's ten thousand dollars! Just to harvest a crop? Danny! You've got to know that's suspicious! For that kind of money, it's bound to be something illegal."

 
Danny was getting angry, Ally could tell. Still, she couldn't stop.

 
"Don't do it, Danny. Something bad will happen. I just know it."

 
"Hellsfire, Ally, I thought you would be happy for me. You know how hard jobs are to come by up here. I haven't seen the crop yet, and truth be known, I don't know if I'd recognize it if it was some kind of drug. All I know is, it's good money for a job well done, and I'm taking it."

 
He started into the house, then paused and turned.

 
"And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't say anything negative about this to Dad."

 
Ally glared. "You act like I'm going to tattle on you, which is childish. I didn't do that when we were kids, and I'm not going to do it now. However, you know Dad will find out, and if I were you, I'd make sure I was the one who told him."

 
Danny glared back.

 
"I'm going to find Porter."

 
Ally shrugged. "I've said all I'm going to say."

 
"You've already said enough," Danny muttered, then let the door slam shut behind him as he went inside.

 
The sound was like a slap in the face. Ally's shoulders slumped, and her hands went limp. The words of Granny Devon's prophecy, about her being her brother's keeper, kept repeating in her head. But Granny had also said something about a man who had done evil. A man who was bad. Could Roland Storm be that man? Or was it the stranger she'd let into their world?

 
Roland had come to the conclusion that it was fate that had led him to hire Danny and Porter Monroe. His fascination with their sister, Ally, was the only thing besides Triple H that he cared about. Maybe hiring them had just given him the link he needed to meet her face-to-face. He was disturbed, although, by the presence of the man living at Dooley Brown's place.

 
Roland was nervous—very nervous. He'd come too far and gone through too many disappointments to let the unexpected arrival of the enemy stop him now. The man had to go, but Roland needed time to decide how to go about it. It was obvious that he couldn't overpower him as he had Dooley Brown.

 
He made himself a sandwich, reached for the newspaper that he'd purchased in town and settled down at the dining table for a relaxing meal. There would be plenty of time later to decide what to do about his new neighbor.

                            
* * *

 
That night, the only thing to be said for the mood around the Monroe dinner table was that it was cautious. Ally felt guilty, knowing something her father didn't— something she felt could cause problems for her brothers. And there was the fact that there was a stranger living—by her invitation—in her uncle Doo's house. Confused as to what she should do, she did nothing.

 
Danny had filled Porter in on his news and they kept giving each other nervous glances and quick half smiles.

 
Thankfully, Gideon was blessedly oblivious to the undercurrents and completely focused on his own agenda. Come Friday, Freddie Joe and his children would be sitting at this very table. Ally would realize how much she was needed in the Detweiller family and accept Freddie Joe's advances. After that, it was only a matter of time before she was married. When that happened, Gideon would have fulfilled his last promise to his wife, to see their only girl-child happily settled.

Nine

It was fifteen minutes after one in the morning when Wes rolled out of bed. He was getting the hang of Dooley Brown's world and hadn't bumped his chin on his knees in nearly two days. He was, however, still stumped as to how to take a shower without having to stoop over, but that was a small price to pay for the shelter of this house.

 
As he went about the business of gathering up clothes, he knew he couldn't be late for his first day of work tomorrow, but he was still unsettled about that man in the truck. He didn't know who he was or where he lived, but since he'd been coming down from above Dooley's house, it seemed simple enough to Wes he needed to follow the road upward and see where it led.

 
He pulled his darkest clothes out of the closet and dressed quickly, taking care to pocket the switchblade as he slipped out of the house. After locking the doors, he stood near the wall of the vine-covered cottage, waiting until his eyesight had adjusted to the spare moonlight and shadows, while absorbing the smells of the night. There was a faint smell of polecat, as well as moisture in the air, which made him wonder if it was going to rain. He could hear the faint, faraway sound of traffic on the highway below—a distant reminder of the world from which he had come. Still, it was what that world and the army had taught him that was holding him in good stead now.

 
He circled the house, then started walking upward, taking care to stay away from the road. As he walked, he became aware that the higher up he went, the fewer trees there were. Following the faint outline of the light from a quarter moon, Wes moved without leaving a trail. Something large and feathered glided silently past his head and disappeared into the darkness—most likely an owl. It reminded him of hunting with his daddy when he was a kid—the quiet times when they'd been sitting in a tree in a deer stand and watching the first fingers of daylight tearing strips out of the dark sky. Feeling the chill of frost settling on fingers and the end of a nose, seeing breath forming small white puffs of condensation and knowing that nothing would ever be better than this. It was a camaraderie that only another man could ever understand.

 
Suddenly a twig snapped behind him, and by the time he turned around, the switchblade was out of his pocket, the blade bared. It wasn't until he saw a raccoon waddle out of a thicket that he let himself relax. Still, the incident was a reminder for him to keep his focus on the business at hand and save the reminiscences for later.

 
The soldier in him was back.

 
A few yards later, he found the first dead animal—a small doe.

 
Puzzled by the fact that no predators had eaten it, he gave it a wide berth and kept walking. Just before he got to the house he found another dead animal—this time a squirrel. It was lying beneath a bush, and if the moonlight hadn't been shining down on the spot, he would have missed it completely.

 
Again, nothing had fed on it.

 
Something felt wrong, but he couldn't say what.

 
When he got to the house, he knew it belonged to the man he was looking for when he recognized the two-tone brown truck parked next to the porch.

 
He stood for several minutes, taking in the entrances and exits while looking for a dog or any other animal that might sound an alarm. As he waited, a small opossum walked out from under the truck and headed for the back of the house. Still, there was no sign of a dog.

 
Convinced that there were none at the place, he moved closer to check the truck, but it was locked. He circled the house, checking for signs of a security device. The only thing he found was a single line for electricity. There were shades pulled down on every window, which Wes found strange. It was hot outside, and very still. The house was at the end of a road, at the top of a mountain, yet every window was covered so that no one could see in. Either the man inside was some kind of recluse, or he had something to hide. Wes's gut instinct told him it was the latter, only he had no way of finding out what it was unless he looked.

 
Without hesitation, he moved around to the rear of the house, quietly picked the lock on the back door and walked into the kitchen.

 
The room smelled of fried food and cold coffee, but the countertops were clean, and there were no dirty dishes in the sink.

 
So the man wasn't a slob. That didn't tell him anything. There was a door on his left that was slightly ajar. He opened it enough to look in and realized that it must lead to the basement. He slipped inside, then shut the door before descending the stairs. It wasn't until he was all the way down that he took out a small flashlight and turned it on. There was a scent of decay in the air, although the room seemed scoured and clean.