Robert barged into the barn where Lara lay curled on her side, unable to move from the cold and from the drugs. His mouth moved, but Lara couldn’t make out what he’d said. Her battery pack had died. Before she had a chance to move out of his way, he slammed his foot into her side. She grunted, or at least she thought she had. He bent over, grabbed an arm and yanked her to a standing position. Her mind had sorted through the escape options, discarding all of them.

When he got in her face, she teetered backward. He dragged her over to the stool and shoved her down. “Sit. I need to lure your gentleman friend here.”

Bastard. “Detective Kinsey is not my gentleman friend. He protected me when he thought I needed protecting. It was merely a job to him.”

She schooled her features the best she could, like she used to in high school when others mocked her. She had to make Robert understand that he couldn’t use her life as leverage to get Trevor to come here.

“I’ve watched you two together. He comforted you at the funeral. Yes, he kept watch, but I’m not blind. He cares for you.”

Trevor had been overly attentive then. She took in slow breaths, not wanting to give into the fear. “I doubt he’d come. He’d smell a trap.”

“I’ll outsmart him. Sit up straight. I need a picture of you.”

Robert lifted his cell phone and snapped a picture. “Not your finest pose, but I’m sure Mr. Kinsey will be happy to see you’re alive.”

“Why not take a picture of his brother too?” And give him a clue as to where Robert was holding her hostage.

Once Trevor recognized he was dealing with a killer, he’d come with plenty of firepower and back up.

“A good thought, but no.” Robert pulled out a syringe from the box, and her pulse jittered.

“While I’m away on business, I don’t want you to have any ideas about escaping. This will put you asleep for a good twelve hours. It’s a double dose.”

Dear God. She hadn’t recovered from the last shot. How much could her body handle? Lara shot off the stool and stumbled toward the door when a needle shot into her butt. She straightened, and then collapsed.

When she opened her eyes, a thin stream of light leaked through the wooden slats, and her cheek was pressed against the cold cement.

Not again.

The air was moist and fresh, like it had rained. With effort, she plucked out the syringe, rolled over, lifted her wrist, and checked the time. It was only four in the afternoon. Robert said she’d be out twelve hours, but she’d slept only nine. She scanned the room for her captor. With all the tableau curtains pulled back, there was no place for him to hide. She was alone. Good.

Like a newborn colt, Lara rose to her knees, staggered to the rough barn wall and collapsed against it. Water soaked the sides. She peered through one of the slits. Rain splattered the dirt road leading away from the barn, and the trees swayed heavily. Dark clouds scudded above. About four hundred feet away stood a boarded up house.

Head pounding, she edged her way along the wall, looking outside wherever the wood gapped, but she spotted no other homes. Damn. No one would hear her if she made noise. Even if she banged two shovels together, the thunderstorm would block out the sound.

She returned to the big barn door. Tugging on the handle with all her might, she tested its strength. It wouldn’t budge. Next to the twelve foot wide door was a narrower one, designed as a pedestrian entrance. She jiggled the handle and pushed against the wood, but it failed to move too. Robert had locked her in.

Maybe she could find something to wedge between the door and the molding. If she didn’t get out of there soon, he would dip her in plaster and wax.

Drawing on every ounce of inner strength, she forced her eyes to focus on the barn’s interior. The pitchfork seemed to be the only weapon slim enough to do the job. What a shame she didn’t have the skills to make a bomb out of the fertilizer and blow the damn door off its hinges. She’d done well in chemistry but had never developed any practical skills. If Braham University ever gave a class in Destruction 101, she’d be the first to sign up.

Doubled over, she fought the nausea and rippling pain as she worked her way to the pitchfork. Damn drugs. What the hell was in the stuff? He’d never confirmed what he’d used, but she’d bet her career it was ketovencuronium, which was made with animals in mind, not humans.

With her hands bound, she dragged the tool to the entrance, jammed one prong in the opening and twisted the handle, but she couldn’t get enough leverage to move the door or break the lock. After trying for a few futile minutes, Lara slumped against the wall to catch her breath. There had to be something in this big barn to help her escape.

There were some tools by the tableau Robert used to carve the wax faces. The ax! The one held high by the Chief.

She leaned the pitchfork against the wall and moved as quickly as possible to the tableau. As she neared, she realized the weapon was a fake—an excellent replica made from wax. Damn it. In case he’d dipped a real metal ax in wax, she bent the tip, hoping the real deal would be underneath. A chunk of wax broke off exposing nothing but more wax.

“Useless weapon.”

Back to square one. She stilled. While the pitchfork did nothing against the hard metal, it would slice through human flesh with ease. Wouldn’t Robert be surprised if she skewered him like a pig at roasting time?

Out of habit, she slid her fingers across her pack to turn it on, only to realize the batteries were dead. Wait a minute. The bulge she touched was the alarm Trevor had Velcroed to her pack. Her mind whirred with the possibilities. He’d told her the whistle would disorient someone long enough for her to act. Given she couldn’t hear, she wouldn’t be affected. Yes! For once, her deafness would be an advantage.

A new plan emerged. She dragged the chair to the side of the door, grabbed the pitchfork, and leaned back against the wood, dreaming of when she’d end his pathetic life.

Trevor stared at his office phone, willing it to ring.

The captain barged his way to Trevor’s desk. “We got something.”

Trevor straightened. “Tell me.” His voice cracked.

“Odessa sheriff’s office called, asking for our help. A kid, driving his bike along a dirt road, spotted a woman asleep under a tree. When he couldn’t rouse her, he called 9-1-1. She was unconscious when they brought her to the hospital, but once they determined she was diabetic and pumped her with insulin, she came too. She’s coherent. Kind of. And boy, does she have a whopper of a tale to tell.”

“Is the woman Lara?” Trevor dragged a hand down his face. “Never mind. Lara’s not diabetic, what am I thinking.”

“It’s Maggie Sanchez.”

He froze. The image of George Sanchez on the beach with his throat cut and blood pooling out of his chest gave him an instant visual. “The woman is alive?”

“Yup. Maggie told us about some guy who made wax figures from humans. Native American look-alikes.”

“Shit. Bernie was right. The bastard took Lara.”

“You and Wolfe talk to the girl to see if she knows where he’s holding Lara hostage.”

And hopefully Ethan. Trevor was on his feet in a second. “Let’s go.” He tossed Wolfe the keys to the cruiser. “I don’t trust myself to keep my mind on the road.”

The drive seemed to take forever. Once they arrived at the Emergency Room entrance, they sprinted inside, showed their badges and found Maggie in record time. The woman in the bed looked different from the picture her brother had sent. The scratches and IV hook-ups didn’t help her youthful looks, but he had no doubt she was who she claimed to be.

He slid into the seat nearest the bed. “Your brother, Ben, is worried about you.”

Her eyes widened. “Ben? He tried to find me?”

“He and your parents have tried for months, but they didn’t look further than Ohio.”

She rubbed her eyes. “How did Ben know to contact you?”

While he hadn’t come to satisfy her curiosity, the witness wouldn’t be able to focus on the killer until he told her what she wanted to know. “Ben took a look at your computer and found your reservations to come down to Tampa to elope.”

“George. Poor George.” Tears welled in her eyes, and her lips pressed together. “The bastard killed him. Right in front of me.” Her hand reached over to the phone. “He took me, and I’ve not been able to contact anyone.”

He was happy for her, but he needed information first. “Tell me about Robert, the man who made the wax figures. Do you know where he held you captive?”

“Robert? That’s his name?”

“Yes, he’s a mortician.”

“Mortician? That’s what I smelled. Formaldehyde. I called him chemical guy.” She scooted back in the bed and adjusted her gown. “I watched him kill George, and then he drugged me. When I came to, I was in some boarded up house. I couldn’t see out, couldn’t tell the time of day, and couldn’t get help.” The young girl rolled over, planted her face in the pillow and sobbed.

He waited for as long as he could, his mind focused on Lara. Trevor couldn’t imagine the despair and fear she’d been through.

When Maggie’s episode subsided, Wolfe tapped her shoulder and handed her a cup of water.

After she took a sip, she inhaled and dragged a hand across over her damp eyes. “Thank you.”

“Was anyone else with you?”

“No. I still can’t believe I’m free.”

“How did you escape?”

“I dug my way through the cinder block wall.”

What a gutsy girl. “What did you see when you escaped?” He prayed she’d been observant.

“There was nothing there but a house and a barn.”

Wolfe pulled out a pad and pen. “What did the barn look like? And the house? The land around the buildings?”

“I don’t know, except the house was one story and old. I only glanced at the barn though this Robert guy took me inside once.” Her gaze bounced around the room, as if she were trying to visualize the setting. “The house sat back from the road. It had a driveway made of shells. I know. That’s how I cut my feet so bad. I think I walked for a good two hours and never saw another house.”

He needed more specific information. “Do you remember the color of the house?”

She bit her lower lip. “White, I think. The lawn was a pile of weeds. I don’t think he wanted anyone to know I was living there.”

No shit.

“How about a street sign,” Wolfe interjected.

She yanked the sheet up around her neck, and her feet stuck out the end. Gauze and white tape covered the bottoms, but her toes were cut and scraped, documenting her story. “None of the roads were marked. Mostly, I stayed along the tree line once I was free. I didn’t want him to find me.”

“Do you remember what time you left the house? And what day you left?”

“I think today. It was around five or six in the morning.”

The hospital said they picked her up a few hours ago.

“Can you describe this barn?” Trevor asked. Maybe that’s where he was keeping Lara.

“I only saw the inside. He blindfolded me from the house to the barn. He told me how he killed all the people underneath the wax—Native Americans mostly. He was real proud of his work. He even told me that he’d dipped them in plaster and covered them in wax.” She sniffled, and then blew her nose. “He did it for his dead mother who was a Seminole Indian. It was kind of sad.”

Excitement at finding a clear clue increased his heart rate. Bernie told him Robert’s mother was Seminole.

Wolfe’s lip curled. “Don’t feel sorry for him. He’s a killer.”

“I know.”

“Thank you.” Trevor placed his card on her side table. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

“Hey, mister?”

Trevor turned back. “Yes?”

“Will you let me know when you get him? I want to know when he’s dead.”

“You have my word on it.” He handed her the phone. “Have fun talking to your family.”

She took the phone with trembling hands. “Thanks.”

Wolfe and Trevor sprinted to the car. Wolfe took the wheel once more. “Now where to?”

“I want to see if Carla can locate Hoffman’s house in the country. The sheriff told the Captain where they found Maggie. Given the condition of her feet, she couldn’t have walked too far.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Trevor paced outside Carla’s office while Wolfe sat cross-legged on the floor staring into space. Trevor had given Carla the coordinates of Maggie Sanchez’s found location. She pulled up the latest satellite images and promised to find a white, boarded up stucco house with a barn in back, surrounded by acres of nothingness.

Given the amount of empty land in some parts of the state, he believed her job was like finding an alligator with a torn toenail.

“I have something,” Carla yelled from inside her office.

Wolfe and Trevor rushed to her side. “What?”

She leaned back in her chair and polished her knuckles on her shirt. “I’m thinking this information deserves a week’s worth of Starbucks delivered three times a day.”

“If it leads us to Lara, I’ll deliver coffee for a month,” Trevor said. “Personally.”

She smiled. “Look here.” She pointed to a house on the satellite map that matched the description.

“I need the address.”

Carla printed off the directions and handed them to Trevor.

“You are the best.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“Just find Lara, and we’ll be even.”

He and Wolfe made it down the stairs to the cruiser in less than sixty seconds. He tossed the paper to Wolfe and started the engine. “Call the Captain and fill him in. We need back up.”

Trevor’s wet palms nearly slipped off the wheel as he peeled out of the University parking lot. The moment he reached Fowler Avenue, he turned on the sirens. It would be the longest drive of his life.