11

Just a few hours had passed since Luc let the kid take off with the neighbors. Less than a day since he and Abby had kissed in the barn.

As the hours slid by, sleep eluded Luc, and his worry increased.

He shouldn’t have let those men take Sammy back. He should have slammed the door, barricading the two of them inside, and called the authorities. He could just picture the standoff now. And where the hell was Abby? Were they holding her against her will? No. Of course not. He’d probably misunderstood the situation.

Or had he?

As morning dawned, he rolled out of bed, exhausted, and went right to work clearing the new field, halfway expecting her to appear over the crest of the mountain at any minute. By midmorning, it had started to snow, and he’d developed a crick in his neck from turning back to look at the fence line.

Maybe he’d head over there. Although that sounded like the worst idea. He’d never watched much TV, even in France, but he’d heard enough about cults to know things couldn’t end well. Like that Waco place in Texas where everything had been blown sky-high, or the Solar Temple people in Switzerland, all dead in a fiery inferno.

Jesus. What if she was already dead?

He couldn’t take it.

Back in the cabin, he picked up his phone and stared at it. Should he call 911? Was this an emergency? He put the phone down and rubbed a hand across his face. Shit. He had no idea. And would they even believe him if he called it in?

A glance out the front window showed the snow falling thick and fast. With a sigh, he grabbed his coat and went back out. After a few tries, the truck started, and he set off for town, nerves humming like they did every time he left the safety of his mountain—only worse. He hated himself for getting involved. Hated himself even more for waiting this long and knowing that if he didn’t do it, the weather would make travel impossible.

He should have looked up the sheriff’s number, he supposed, but he needed something to do. With his body, his hands.

The Blackwood sheriff’s department appeared deserted when Luc pushed through its double doors, a blast of wind and snow sneaking in behind him.

“Help you?” asked a voice from somewhere in the back of the small reception area. Moments later, a man stepped into the room—not at all what Luc had pictured when he’d thought of an American police officer. He’d imagined someone gray and mustachioed, tall and wiry and weathered, with a paunch and a permanent scowl. A cowboy.

This man was dark and scarred. More hoodlum than lawman. As Luc took him in, he could feel the man doing the same, eyes narrowed, giving nothing away as far as conclusions went.

“I would like to…” He hesitated, at a loss for words. “A woman who worked for me is missing.”

“She got a name?”

“Abby Merkley. Abigail Merkley.”

“She have any family?”

“She… I’m not sure.”

“How do you know she’s missing?”

“She’s…she’s part of the cult on the mountain. The Church of the…something Apocalypse.” Luc shook his head. How could he not even remember that about her? In some ways, he knew her so well. He knew all about that bright dash of humor, that thirst for life. He knew exactly how she tasted after sampling his wines. For over a week, he’d plied her with foods, taken pleasure in watching her taste them, savor them, but never once had he delved too insistently into her life. Because he hadn’t wanted to know.

He should have asked. Should have found out if she was safe where she lived. Should have held on to Sammy last night with as much care as he’d kept the dog who awaited him in his truck, despite the threat.

“Come on back into my office,” the man said before turning and leading Luc into a room, where he invited him to sit in front of his desk. “I’m Sheriff Clay Navarro. Your name, sir?”

“Luc Stanek. I have a vineyard up on the mountain.”

The man didn’t react, which was a surprise. Basically everyone he’d met since moving to Blackwood had something to say about the vineyard, its previous owners, or its nearest neighbors.

“Tell me what happened.”

“She was working for me. For more than a week. I—” He stopped himself from saying more about her. Like, that he liked her, or that they’d… “She hasn’t come back.”

“You’ve only known her for a week or so?”

“Yes.”

“Any chance she just got sick of the job?”

Frustrated, Luc shook his head. “She had to cut through the fence to get to me.” The sheriff straightened up, his brows lifting. “I looked today, and they’ve patched it back up.”

“Is she being held prisoner? Did she tell you that?”

“She said they…they don’t practice medicine. I know she was unhappy with that.”

“Did you see signs that she’d been hurt?”

After a brief hesitation, Luc shook his head. “No. She’s too skinny, but that… No.”

The other man sighed, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face. There was ink on his knuckles—faded-looking tattoos at odds with his neat, black uniform and close-cropped hair.

“Could you just go there?” Luc pressed. “Ask about her?”

The sheriff shook his head. “I’ve had dealings with those Apocalyptic Faith folks before. They’re extremely averse to any outside presence, particularly law enforcement, and I’m concerned about stirring things up on that mountain. You know this storm’s gonna be a big one, right, Mr. Stanek? I’m in no position to start something I can’t finish. I’m ex-ATF.” Luc must have looked as clueless as he felt about that, because the sheriff expanded. “Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives—an agency linked to the Department of Justice. I wasn’t around for Waco—a cult situation in Texas—but I know how easily something like this can go wrong. If you can give me some evidence of wrongdoing…something to substantiate what you’re saying—”

“There’s a boy. He might need medical care.”

The man’s brows lifted expectantly. “A child?”

“No. He’s older. Nineteen, I think. But disabled.”

“I understand there were complaints at one point. I know CPS got involved. Maybe a decade ago?” The sheriff squinted hard at Luc. “How long you been up there?”

“A little over two years.”

“Hm. Not you. Didn’t realize anyone else lived on that mountain.”

“There isn’t. It might have been the previous owners. I believe they left in a hurry.”

“If I head up there right now, by myself…” The man shook his head. “I could try to get some folks from CPS to head up there, maybe go with them.” At Luc’s questioning expression, the sheriff explained. “Child Protective Services. They won’t like it, but we could couch it as a routine thing, since they’re not sending any of those kids to school, far as I know. I understand you don’t want to rock the boat if your girl’s in trouble, but this storm is gonna shake things up around here, and I got two guys out with the flu. This isn’t gonna happen today. And it’s gonna be a few days before the weather clears.”

Your girl. Luc itched at that.

“But you’ll do something?”

“Yes, Mr. Stanek. I’ll look into it.” After a pause, he went on. “You’re not thinking of going there on your own, are you? Because I can’t do a thing to help you if you head up there right now, understood?” Luc nodded, pressing back the desire to ignore this man’s advice and bust through their fence. “You got a phone number you can leave with me?”

On his way back out to the car, Luc glanced up and almost stopped walking. The stillness was unsettling. No cars driving by, not a sound besides the brittle crunch of his soles over asphalt.

It was bright, the night sky swollen pink, broken only by the dots of falling snow and the jagged line of the looming mountains. His mountain, whose sharp, eroded angles had drawn him to this place; the property he’d bought for a song: vines, broken machinery, and messed-up neighbors included.

He started up the truck and stared at that peak. He’d never seen it look so ominous or unwelcoming. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t conjure an image of Abby there, living her life with those people. What was she doing right now? Was it business as usual, or was she in trouble?

Compressing his lips, he threw the truck into gear, pulled out into the snow-covered street, and slid his right hand into Le Dog’s fur. “What should we do?” he asked, his voice hollow in the cold cab. When the dog didn’t answer, he gave him a quick squeeze and nodded. “I don’t know either, boy. I just don’t know.”

* * *

How could she do this in the snow?

She couldn’t. Not with the way she hurt. The ankle was bad enough, but it was her back that worried her now. Why did it hurt so much? It hadn’t been like this before.

Just to the next tree. To the dogwood. The one that bloomed pink in the spring. She lurched, hurting, weak and cold—much too cold. No time to think about the cold.

With her body bent forward, the pain was the only thing that propelled Abby to the farthest pasture, almost to the hole in the fence. Sammy was someplace behind her, back with the Church. Isaiah had made sure she knew that. He never made it out, Isaiah had said. Which made no sense. No sense at all, since she’d sent him right to the hole.

Pain lanced through her ankle as she stumbled, and Abby reached for something good to help push her forward.

A memory: Luc with his knuckle to her lip. Just that one hot touch spurred her on as snow soaked through her shoes and left the bottom half of her nightgown plastered to her body. She shook as she tried to see through the driving snowflakes. This familiar journey was nearly unrecognizable. The night didn’t help either. Abby slipped, stumbling on a rock. She tumbled hard to the ground, the air forced out of her lungs with an audible oof. While she lay there, letting the rest of her soak and waiting for the energy to get back up, the dogs started barking, flashing her back to that moment two nights ago when they’d caught up with her. Were they looking for her already? If so, there was no hope.

No hope.

Get up! a voice said, right there in her head, loud and clear enough to be straight from God himself. But Abby didn’t believe in direct communications from Heaven. She’d seen enough firsthand evidence that those led to unhappiness and despair. She did, however, believe in Sammy, who deserved a better a life. A chance, at least. And she believed in Luc, whose steady hands were strong enough to put her back together again.

Feet caught up in her gown, she stumbled a few times as she tried to push herself to standing. Finally—finally—she rolled and got her feet under her. She pulled herself onto her knees, head pounding, eyes…wrong. Squeezed too hard by her skull. Time to go. No more resting. Go, go, go.

Up, moving, although she couldn’t be sure it was her legs taking her. Hard, fast, frantic, lungs full to bursting, face burning from the cold, back weak, but now blissfully numb.

Faster, faster, faster, legs swishing, fabric grasped like wet hands, like ropes, until she yanked it up and gathered it around her waist.

There it was: the fence, the last barrier, and the hole she’d cut into it. Only… No. Nononono.

It was gone. Of course it was. Of course they’d closed it up. She scrambled to the spot—she knew this was it—and saw where it had been wired shut. They’d found it, after all. Of course they wouldn’t just leave it open. Instead, Isaiah had had it reinforced with so many layers of wire, it felt like a message. It told her turning back was the only option.

Where were the cutters? Not here where she’d left them. Gone. Two steps back showed what she knew she’d see: eight feet of fencing topped with razor wire. The view from inside.

With a final glance behind her, she took in the cold, cold mountain, the miles of nothing. In front, frigid metal. Behind, Isaiah’s rule.

Please help me get Sammy out, she prayed. She’d looked for him tonight on her way out. He hadn’t been in the shed he sometimes used, nor had she been able to spot his sleeping form through the window at the Cruddups’ or at Benji’s cabin. She’d have risked going in if he’d been there.

Without hesitation, her fingers slipped over metal and pulled up, feet following suit, to no avail. The shoes had to go. She threw them over the top and started over.

She sucked back a sob, ignoring the strain and bite of chain link. Her body weight dragged her down, but she was driven by nothing but the need to survive. At the top, the galvanized coils, too high to be straddled, would slice her to bits if she didn’t cover them.

Without hesitation, she struggled to pull off the cotton nightgown—immodest!—spread it over the wire, tried to press it down a bit, and followed with her leg. But thin cotton was no match for apocalyptic paranoia.

Don’t think about it. Breathe through the pain. Breathe. The words pushed her to straddle the barrier that had held her prisoner for close to a lifetime. Up here, this high—closer than she’d ever been to the night sky, cradled by these mountains—Abby threw a long, aching look toward the compound. She said a silent good-bye to Mama, who didn’t know better than this place. To Sammy, whom she’d get out if it killed her.

It wasn’t until she’d made it all the way down that she remembered her near nudity—and the clear signs of escape she’d left in her wake. Barking sounded again, muffled by the snow. It was impossible to tell if it came from in front of her or behind. She ascended to retrieve the nightgown, torn to bits and stained in places. It was necessary but tedious and it took too long, too long with her dry mouth and tight chest.

Not one for details, our Abigail, echoed the voices in her head. Always in the clouds.

Always! she’d wanted to scream. It’s better than here! Anything is better than here!

Finally, she stumbled toward Luc’s cabin, leaving the fence behind for what she prayed was the last time.

* * *

Luc didn’t think about going to the neighbors’ place. He just went there, his truck barely making it up their drive, tires slipping all over the place. By the time he opened their gate, went up the drive, and pulled up to their main building—dark at this time of night—they’d been alerted to his presence.

But for now, he needed to know that Abby was okay.

“Help you?” came a voice from off to the right. A man. Possibly one of the guys who’d crowded onto his front porch last night. And like last night, the man held a rifle. Only now, it was pointed right at Luc. Should have listened to the sheriff.

“Yes.” Luc girded himself. “I want to see Abby.”

“Abby?” The man squished up his face. “Don’t have an Abby living here.”

“Abigail, her name is. I want to see her.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but this isn’t—”

“Neighbor!” came Isaiah’s voice. The leader. He stepped out from the shadows beside the building and ambled toward Luc’s truck. “What brings you here?”

“I want to see Abby. Where is she?”

Isaiah’s smile was visible in the night. The rest of his face was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. “How is it you know Mistress Merkley?”

“She…” Luc paused, suddenly recognizing the mess he’d gotten himself—and possibly her—into. “From the market.”

“She hasn’t worked the market in ages,” said the first man.

“She was there last weekend.” Luc looked from one face to the other. “May I see her?”

“No, sir.” Isaiah’s voice was hard.

Silence. Luc’s hands ached from holding them too tight, his knuckles dying to connect with the bastard’s jaw.

“Why not?” he asked, trying his best to keep his voice steady.

“I don’t believe she is receiving right now, Mr. Stanek.” Isaiah moved closer, not quite in Luc’s face, but close enough for Luc to see the pores on the man’s nose, smell the rank acid of his breath. “But we will let her know you paid her a call.”

Isaiah lifted his hat and turned to walk away, dismissing Luc. After a few crunching steps, he turned back, eyes harder than they’d been a moment ago.

“I don’t recommend trespassing on our land after dark, sir.” He smiled, a quick, dangerous flash. Then lifted his chin toward the man who still held his weapon trained on Luc. “We’ve been known to shoot first and ask questions later.”