Carter explained and Sparks nodded. “I can handle this. Go ahead and take off.”
He didn’t need any further impetus. He was in his Blazer and driving as fast as he dared, windshield wipers slapping off snow, police band crackling, his heart in his throat. Hang in there, Jenna, he thought, and planned to ream out and fire that useless piece of trash who called himself a bodyguard. What the hell was Turnquist thinking?
His cell phone rang and he answered, dreading a call that would pull him away from Jenna’s place. “Carter.”
“Hi, it’s BJ. I’ve been called to an accident on 84, but I thought you should know that I got a match.”
“A match?” he repeated, and his gloved hands tightened over the steering wheel.
“It’s not much, but you were right. There was an employee who worked for Hazzard Brothers who left right after working on White Out. He was a makeup man who also did technical stuff and he was injured in the explosion, nearly lost a leg. Collected a hefty sum of cash, nearly a million dollars, and disappeared. They checked their forwarding addresses—one in, get this, Medford—but that was a while back.”
“Mavis Gette was last seen in Medford,” Carter said. “Okay, so what’s his name?” He braced himself. Knew it could be anyone in town and probably not Wes Allen.
“Steven White,” she said.
“Steven White? Never heard of him.”
“Neither have I, and he’s not in our local phone book. Of course, there are about twenty S. Whites in the Portland-Metro area and I’m looking into them. I’m also asking for all public records under that name.
“The Hazzard Brothers have a ton of employee information they’re faxing me, including White’s employee picture. If this guy’s using an alias, we’ll find him.”
“And check any property bought since the accident. This guy has to live around here somewhere, and I bet he doesn’t want a landlord snooping around, so get a list of people who’ve bought places in the time since the accident.”
“There’s one other thing,” BJ said in a rush. “I don’t know how this factors in, if at all. But Steven White was the name of a character in Resurrection. He was Anne Parks’s, Jenna Hughes’s character’s, love interest.”
“Oh, this factors in,” he said, sure of it. “I just don’t know how. I’ll call Lieutenant Sparks and have him get in touch with the FBI, run Steven White’s name through their database; and see if anyone with that name on the West Coast was ever incarcerated.”
“You got it,” BJ said, “as soon as I get back to the office.”
“Keep me posted.” Carter clicked off, dialed Sparks and made his request, then turned off the main road. Jenna’s house was less than twenty minutes away.
Gripping the shotgun in one hand, Jenna directed the beam of her flashlight with the other. Icy snow pelted her as she tried to read the footprints that had collected around the house, garage, and sheds. Overhead, the windmill creaked and spun in the frigid wind, and though the night was alight with the blanket of snow, it seemed eerie, filled with an evil she couldn’t touch or see, could only feel, as if it were breathing hard and cold against the back of her neck.
The tracks were half covered with fresh snow, but she noticed several sets leading to the stable, or the fence line, or the barn. Big footprints. Made by Turnquist as he perused the property.
A fine lotta good that did, she thought angrily, when she noticed the smaller prints, nearly buried, heading straight to the barn. Her heart galumphed. Allie…the footprints had to belong to Allie, and beside the girl’s tracks, those belonging to some animal. The dog? There was also a larger set. Hopefully belonging to Turnquist.
Help me, she thought, and started following the footprints, the beam of her flashlight illuminating her path. Her heart was jackhammering with dread, adrenaline rushing through her bloodstream. What if the bastard had her daughters? She thought fleetingly of Sonja Hatchell, Lynnetta Swaggert, and Roxie Olmstead, all strong adults and probably up against the same sick son of a bitch that had taken her girls. Dread settled like lead in her heart. Her fingers clenched harder over the shotgun.
Would she be able to shoot the creep?
If he had her kids—no problem.
What if he used Allie as a shield?
She’d have to find a way to get her daughter free.
What if Allie and Cassie are already dead?
She wouldn’t even go there. Setting her jaw, she trudged through the knee-deep snow to the window and peered carefully into the darkened barn. She used it only for storage now. She’d never owned cattle or sheep; her horses were housed in the stable.
She saw nothing but blackness through the icy panes, heard no sign of life. But the footsteps had ended at the barn door.
Drawing a deep breath, she clicked off her flashlight. There was no reason to draw any more attention to herself or make herself an easier target than she already was. If someone was waiting for her inside, she wanted to level the playing field a little.
And then she glanced at the snow near the door again and her hopes plummeted. A splatter of dark spots, partially covered by half an inch of white, oozing stains that had melted the snow and were now being covered by new flakes.
Bird droppings, she told herself but knew better. One quick burst of illumination from her flashlight confirmed it. Blood. Deep red splotches of blood.