Missing (16 page)

 
The moment he saw the lab equipment and the empty cages, his curiosity rose. He checked for some notes or papers, anything to tell him what had been going on down here, but he found nothing specific—until he started back up the stairs and noticed the huge trash container that had been pushed beneath the steps. He dug through it, searching for a name. He found a bill and looked at the address.

 
Roland Storm. So the man's name was Roland Storm. He started to drop the papers back in the trash, then stopped and frowned. What he'd first taken as spilled ink now appeared to be blood. He pushed aside the top layer of papers, and saw the blood and the gore and the dismembered rodents.

 
Now he knew what had been causing the stink. But... why?

 
Crap. Is the man a nutcase who likes to cut up small animals...or is there something more going on?

 
On closer look, he realized there had been a purpose to the violence. The rats had been dissected. With a shudder, he pushed the trash can back under the stairs, crept up the steps, turned off his flashlight, then slipped back into the kitchen. He listened again, and when he was satisfied his presence was still undetected, he moved into the hall. It was long and narrow, with a number of doors along the way. He thought about the risks involved in taking this further, then shoved them to the back of his mind. Although it would solve nothing, he needed to see the enemy's face up close.

 
He kept close to the wall as he went, knowing that the boards there were less likely to creak, until finally he'd reached the first door. It was slightly ajar, and he stopped, barely breathing, listening intently for the sounds of habitation. When he heard a soft snore, he tensed. It was now or never.

 
He put a hand on the door, applying just enough pressure to move it while hoping the hinges didn't squeak. When it swung silently inward, he breathed a sigh of relief and followed it, stopping a couple of steps inside the doorway.

 
The light inside the room was faint, but Wes could see the man's outline beneath the covers. A window-unit air conditioner had been positioned so that it blew directly across the bed. Its busy little hum masked any number of small sounds, which gave Wes time to study his prey.

 
Storm was tall—very tall. The angular planes of his face gave him a skeletal appearance, but with his eyes shut, it was difficult to judge his personality. What Wes could see was a long, grayish-brown ponytail lying over his right shoulder and down across his chest.

 
The urge to wake him up was strong. Wes knew how to get information from people who were unwilling to divulge it, but at least as yet, this wasn't war, and he wasn't a cold-blooded killer, so he had to be satisfied with what he'd learned so far.

 
Suddenly Storm snored and then choked. Wes froze. Within seconds, Storm would be awake. He took a silent step backward, pulling the door with him as he went and leaving it slightly ajar, just as he'd found it.

 
Then, moving quickly along the wall, he retraced his steps through the kitchen and out the door, taking care to lock it behind him. Once outside, he ran into the woods, then stopped and looked back at the house.

 
As he watched, a light came on in what appeared to be the bedroom, then, a few seconds later, another in the kitchen. When the kitchen door opened, Wes took another step back, although he knew that, given where he was standing, he could not be seen.

 
Storm was naked except for a pair of briefs, but Wes could see that his hands were curled into fists.

 
"So...you felt me in there, did you?" Wes muttered.

 
Roland Storm stepped off the porch into the dust.

 
"Who's there?" he called, but he heard nothing except the faint echo of his own voice.

 
He focused his gaze on the darkened forest surrounding the house, and for the first time since he'd come here, felt imprisoned by the isolation, rather than hidden. He shifted his focus from the trees to the meadow, wondering if someone was out there now, stealing that which did not belong to them. Then he smiled. If they were, they would have a rude awakening.

 
"You're going to be sorry!" he shouted, then turned on his heel and stalked back into the house. Moments later, the lights went out.

 
Wes's eyes narrowed as he thought about what he'd seen down in that basement lab. He felt threatened by the man, though he didn't know why. He wasn't going to find out anything more tonight. Satisfied that, for now, he'd done all he could do, Wes began to retrace his steps.

 
He'd been moving at a pretty rapid clip down the mountain when suddenly he heard the sound of an engine on the road behind him. In that moment, he realized he'd underestimated Roland Storm. The skin crawled on the back of his neck as he judged the distance he had yet to go to get home. He didn't know how he was going to do it, but he had to be inside his house before Roland Storm came knocking.

 
He leapt forward into an all-out dash. As he ran, the sound of Storm's truck out on the road suddenly seemed fainter; then he remembered the big curve, knowing it would slow Roland down. It wasn't much, but it might just be the edge Wes needed.

 
Rocks rolled beneath Wes's feet as he ran; branches slapped him in the face. Rabbits spooked and dashed for cover, as owls startled from feeding abandoned their prey and took to the sky. Twice Wes tripped and fell, and each time he quickly scrambled to his feet.

 
He was running almost parallel to the truck he could hear off to his right. His heart was hammering in rhythm to the pounding of his feet against the earth. This mad dash through unmarked territory was against everything he'd been taught in Special Ops, but there was no time for caution. Either he got there first or he was found out.

 
Just when he thought it was over, he was out of the trees. He was running across the backyard toward Dooley's house just as the headlights of Roland Storm's truck appeared up the drive. Earlier, Wes had used the front door, but he couldn't go back the same way without being seen. The back door didn't have a key, only an inside bolt, which he knew was locked. His only chance was through the root cellar. Thankful that it had no lock, he yanked the door open and then let it fall shut as he flew down. Stumbling on the bottom step, he tripped and fell, but again he picked himself up and flew up the other set of steps on his hands and feet. He burst into the kitchen just as he heard Roland pulling into the yard.

 
His heart was thumping, his chest heaving. Without taking time to think, he ripped off his shirt, tore off his pants and shoes, and kicked them under the kitchen table as he dashed to the sink.

 
He turned on the water, then leaned down, frantically washing the blood from his scratches as a knock sounded on the door. Drying quickly, he started into the living room, then did a quick one-eighty, grabbed the switchblade out of his pants pocket and moved toward the door as another knock came—this time louder and longer.

 
He took several deep breaths to calm the sound of his voice, then made noise, as if he was just coming down the hall.

 
"Who the hell is it?" he shouted. There was a long, startled moment of silence, and Wes knew that his presence had taken Storm aback. Storm obviously believed he'd had an intruder and believed it was Wes. The last thing Storm had expected to hear was the sound of Wes's voice. Wes popped the switchblade, then opened the door.

 
Roland Storm hadn't expected the stranger to be home, let alone meet him at the door, nearly naked— with a switchblade in his hand.

 
"Uh...I am—"

 
"I know who you are." Wes peered past him to the truck beyond, then frowned. "You're that crazy bastard who almost ran me off the road this afternoon. What's wrong now? Was I snoring too loud?"

 
Roland didn't know what to say. The man was standing in the shadows, but he could see the shimmer of the blade.

 
"Someone broke into my house tonight. I thought..."

 
Wes cursed rudely. "Mister...if someone broke into my house, I'd be calling the local authorities, not calling on my neighbors."

 
"Yes, well...I just wanted to make sure it wasn't—"

 
Wes slammed the door in his face, then held his breath, waiting to see if Roland Storm left. Within seconds, he heard the sound of footsteps moving away from the door, then the sound of a car door slamming shut. Moments later, an engine fired. When Storm backed up to turn the truck around, the glare from his headlights swept through the windows.

 
Only then did Wes turn the lock on the door. When he heard Storm leaving, he slid to the floor with his back against the door and started to shake. He'd done it.

 
It took long, agonizing minutes before Wes was able to move. Even then, the muscles in his legs were still cramping. He staggered into the bathroom, then into the shower, letting the warm water soothe the aches and pains. Finally, when the water began to run cold, he got out and dried, then crawled into his bed. Just before he fell asleep, he rolled over and set the alarm.

In what seemed like only minutes later, it was buzzing rudely, waking him from a deep and restless sleep. He shut it off and rolled out of bed. Considering it was his first day of work, he didn't want to be late.

 
Harold James still didn't know what had possessed him to hire a perfect stranger to work in his store, and once the man who'd identified himself as Wes Holden was gone, he hadn't really expected to see him again. Yet there he was, coming in the front door of the feed store before the clock had struck 8:00 a.m. Harold studied the width of Holden's shoulders and the leanness of his physique, as well as that head full of dark hair that he wore tied back at his nape. He was a fine figure of a man, all right, but there was something guarded in his expression. Then Harold shrugged. If Ally Monroe vouched for him, and as long as he did what he was told, Harold wouldn't have a quarrel.

 
"’Morning, Holden," Harold said.

 
Wes nodded as he came through the door.

 
"Where did you park? I meant to tell you that employees park in back."

 
"Don't have a car," Wes said. "What do you want me to do first?"

 
Harold stared. "No car?"

 
Wes shook his head.

 
"Then how did you get here?"

 
"Walked."

 
Harold's eyes widened.

 
"Dang, man, that's a good five miles."

 
"Don't know how good it is, but yes, it's every bit of five miles."

 
Suddenly Harold had a new respect for the man he'd hired. If he wanted to work bad enough to walk five miles to get to the job, then he figured he'd just hired himself a good man.

 
"Got a load of chicken feed coming in around nine. Why don't you go clean up around those empty pallets before we fill 'em up again? Oh...and one of your jobs will be to feed Scooby first thing every morning."

 
"Who's Scooby?" Wes asked.

 
"A damn good mouser, and in a place like this, you got to have yourself a good mouser. However, he likes his tuna. I always feed him a tin of tuna before he starts his day. You'll find Scooby and the cat food in the back room near the loading dock."

 
So Scooby was a cat.

 
“Tuna it is," Wes said, and headed for the hallway that linked the front of the store to the warehouse.

 
And so the morning passed. Wes soon discovered that Scooby did not discriminate. Whoever held the key to opening the can of tuna also held the key to Scooby's heart. The big gray torn entwined himself between Wes's feet, rubbing against the legs of Wes's pants until the tuna was on the plate. After that, Wes was on his own.

 
The semi arrived from the warehouse in Charleston promptly at nine, and Wes began to earn his pay. After unloading four tons of chicken feed that came packaged in twenty-five-pound sacks, the muscles in Wes's arms were beginning to burn. But it felt good to be tired, and even better to know that, once again, he was earning his way.

 
Wes spent the rest of the morning loading the occasional sacks for the customers Harold sent his way. He expected their curiosity but was unexpectedly touched by their genuine friendliness and welcome to Blue Creek.

 
It was nearing noon when Harold walked into the warehouse.

 
"It's going on twelve," Harold said. "You get an hour for lunch. Kathy's Cafe across the street is your only option, unless you're in the market for pop and candy, in which case, you got the fillin' station on the corner or the grocery store down the block."

 
All too aware of his dwindling funds and uncertain of when he would get paid, Wes decided against spending the money.

 
“Thanks, but I'll pass," Wes said.

 
Harold frowned. "Listen, Wes. You hauled a lot of weight around this morning. I don't want you foldin' up on me before quittin' time."

 
"I don't fold," Wes said shortly.

 
Harold's attention shifted. Once again, he suspected there was a whole lot more to this man than met the eye.

 
"Suit yourself," Harold said, and started to walk off, then something occurred to him. He pulled a couple of twenties out of his pocket and handed them to Wes. "Thought you might need an advance on your pay."