The Camp (19 page)

She followed his groan. “Come around next to me.”

Scooting, sliding her body, and still on hands and knees, she moved around until she bumped hips with him.

“Now what?” He reached over until he found her wrist and followed it down to her hand. “Still got your finger on the gap? Try and push your finger tips into the space.” He could hear her grunting with the effort. “Got it.”

“We’re going to push until the boards move forward and there’s enough space so I can get a hand under the plank.”

Grunting and pushing, they both managed to get most of their hands under the hatch.
 

“Lift. Lift more, more.” Rye was grunting with the effort, talking while he was lifting. “Push… toward me. I’m going to throw it off to the side.”

With supreme effort, they finally flipped the six-foot by three-foot hatch on top of the bricks and pushed it off to the side.

Still panting with the effort, Rye fell to his knees and, placing one hand on the edge of the hole, he slowly reached into the blackness.

Before he could react, a foot shot up, caught him on the chin and knocked him over onto his back.

Claire could only sense the action of Rye falling backward, but heard the sound of his groans as he fell across the bricks.
 

“Get away! Don’t touch me. Get away, get away!”
 

Claire instantly recognized the voice. “Amy? Amy, it’s Aunt Claire.” But the yelling continued.

Finally, pushing back onto his knees, Rye reached in, keeping his head cocked to one side and feeling around. “It’s Uncle Rye. Can you feel my hand?”

He could feel something, a human form, but it didn’t move. “Amy, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Just as suddenly as the yelling had started, it turned into sobs. “Help me, Uncle Rye.” At that moment, their hands touched and each grabbed the other’s wrist. In one swift move, he stood and pulled her out of the pit and into his arms.

“I’ve got you, baby. Aunt Claire is right here. I’m going to set you down. She’s right here.”

But when he set her down, she wouldn’t let go. Finally, she released her vise-like grip when she felt Claire’s fingers on her shoulders. In a single motion, she spun around and wrapped her Aunt in a hug.

“We need to get outside, Amy. Take my hand.”

“No, they’ll be waiting!”

Fishing for anything that might convince her to leave, Claire finally gave Amy a gentle tug on the arm. “Your father is waiting,” she said.

“Daddy’s alright?”

“He’s waiting at the edge of the clearing.”

Cajoling and urging her on with the promise that she’d soon see her father, Claire finally managed to get Amy out of the barn, into the moonlight and the fresh air. But Rye didn’t follow.

“Let’s sit down for a minute and practice calming breaths.” Claire knew that being Amy’s sensei, her direction to sit and breathe calmly would strike a familiar note. Sure enough, Amy released her hand, sat cross-legged, and began to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth. But she didn’t close her eyes.

Rye broke the moment when he emerged, came over, and sat next to Claire, whispering in her ear so that Amy couldn’t hear. “There was another body in there with her. The person had been dead for a while. I think it was Ron.”

Slowly, with constant reassurances, they got Amy to stand and walk back past the cabins and towards the edge of the camp where the forest began and where they said her father would be waiting by a tree.
 

All along the way they kept chatting about how brave she’d been when she tried to save her father. They explained that he’d been thrown off the bridge and shot in the arm. By the time they reached the first row of trees, they couldn’t contain her and she broke away. “Daddy! Daddy, where are you?” When they caught up to her, she was near panic.
 

Claire grasped her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “You have to calm down.”
 

Rye was plowing through the ferns, moving from tree to tree and looking until he found some ferns that had been flattened. “Over here.”

The two women came over and stood next to him, staring at the ground.

“He’s probably recovered a little. It looks like he got up and is walking back to the lodge. I’ll bet he’s waiting in the restaurant for us right now.” Even as he spoke the words, he knew they weren’t true.

It was only when she noticed that the teenager was slowly dancing from one foot to the other that Claire realized Amy was barefoot and in her underwear. Stepping between Amy and Rye, she gave her husband a ‘step back’ nod with her head and then came within a foot of Amy. Reaching up, she touched her on the nose. “Listen to me, honey. I need your full attention on this.”

Amy nodded.

“Did those men hurt you?”

Amy pulled her head back and blinked several times as if totally surprised by the question. Then, as if remembering , she glanced down at her naked legs and feet.

“Not how you think. They took my pants and shoes, so I wouldn’t run away.”

Rye stepped up between the two. “Amy, you and I will go back to the lodge and meet up with your father. Claire, you head back up the road and bring around the Fiat. While we’re at the lodge, I’ll use the landline to alert the highway patrol to be on the lookout for the white van.”

Again as he spoke, he doubted his own words. He could only hope that Paul would be waiting for them.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Paul moved with a little more caution when he saw lights on in the store. But there was no van.

He cursed under his breath. He’d never be able to catch up with them now.

Staying low in the weeds, he decided to circle the store and see who was inside. He’d come in the back and force whoever was there to tell where the vans were headed. But when he reached for his gun, the underarm holster was empty.
 

He dropped onto his belly, not believing his luck. The van was parked almost against the store. He pushed up into a low crouch but the sounds of another vehicle drove him back onto his belly. What looked like a second van was turning up the driveway. In a matter of moments, its headlights would pick out his image. Rolling over and over, he managed to avoid the glare and still be close enough to see that driver was a woman.

Overwrought, he wanted to search the vans for his daughter. It took all his self-control to skirt around the little store, leaving the vans behind and continuing up the road.

Rye had said that he parked the Fiat behind an abandoned service station. Paul’s energy was flagging, only the thought of rescuing his daughter drove him on. When he rounded a wide curve, his heart soared at the sight of what must be the gas station Rye mentioned.

Constantly scanning to be sure he hadn’t been followed, Paul waited in the shadows. Then he slowly crept up to the Fiat. Using moonlight only, he felt around the inside of the left rear wheel-well until his fingers touched a small metal box held tight to the metal body by a magnet. He thanked his lucky stars that Claire was a creature of habit and pulled it loose.

As he slid the box open, he didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he recognized the ignition key and breathed out an audible sigh of relief. In less than a minute, the Fiat rumbled to life.

In total frustration, he slammed a fist against the wooden steering wheel. If he only had his…in less time than it took to acknowledge the thought, he was reaching under the seat for Claire’s Lady Smith and Wesson. When he felt the butt of the gun, a dozen scenarios sprang to mind.

He’d go back and get some respect from those sons-of-bitches. No, he’d wait for them to pass and shoot out the tires. At this range, he couldn’t miss. No, no, no. The girls—Amy—could get hurt in the process. His best bet was to step out in the middle of the road and fire a couple of shots in the air. He slumped back into the driver’s seat. What was he thinking? He’d follow them.

Getting out of the car and shouldering the door to the gas station office open, he scanned the room. Empty. The door to the garage was nowhere in sight. Paul stepped down onto the cement floor and kicked at the oilcans that were scattered there. There had to be something on the shelves that he could use to leave a message. One of the cans didn’t move when he kicked it—it was full.

Follow van. He stood back and looked at his handiwork. Then he remembered an old Sherlock Holmes story and made a puddle with the rest of the oil just in front of the driver’s side tire, sure that both tires on that side would run through the oil and leave a trail.

He had just tossed the empty can into the brush when the vans appeared, coming around the curve.
 

Crouching behind the Fiat, Paul waited until he was watching the tail lights dim down the road. In less than a minute, he was rolling forward then back through the oil, coating the tires, then he pulled out from behind the gas station, not wanting to lose sight of the vans.

At a lone stoplight in central Gold Beach, he checked his rearview mirror, pleased that he could easily see the oil track that the Fiat was leaving. The vans entered the I-5 heading north. They stayed close and cruised at 55 miles an hour in the slow lane. Close enough that another vehicle wouldn’t even try to squeeze in between. The constant flow of traffic around them made it easy for Paul to follow at a distance.

He had no idea how many girls were in each van. He didn’t understand how they could all pass up the rest stops, so he wasn’t surprised when they took the Wolf Creek exit. “What the hell?” He’d made it off the interstate and through the exit. But as the road curved away through the forest, the Fiat sputtered and died. Paul fluttered the gas pedal, then looked at the gas gauge. “Shit, out of gas.” He guided the little sports car onto the shoulder of the road. Sitting quietly, he checked the safety and shoved the little pistol in his rear pocket.
 

He’d track them on foot. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d followed a suspect without a car.

Chapter Thirty

Devon Alto stood in the lobby of Portland’s exclusive Media Club. All day, he’d been enjoying the sights, wandering the streets of Portland, Oregon. There was nothing like this in his country.

His men moved in and out of the shadows, close, but far enough away that he’d only catch a glimpse of one now and then. It had almost become a game to see how good they were.

He’d taken the tram and shopped several of the clothiers, visited several of the bookstores. He could sense their presence, knew they were there. He’d only just walked into the lobby when two men approached. They weren’t his, but cut from the same mold—large, hair slicked back, matching sport coats. One stopped ten feet away, the other came to within a foot and gently unbuttoned his coat, pulling it open wide enough to expose the handle of a Glock-24 protruding from its holster.
 

“Please, come with us.”

Alto had nothing to fear. After all, he was a guest and a buyer.

The two men flanked Alto on either side, walking him up to a bank of elevators. The silent one, the man who had stopped ten feet away, produced a key that opened the private middle elevator. There was no ping. The censor picked up the presence of the men and the door silently opened. When they had stepped in, the door closed. The silent one spoke, indicating the back wall. “Please assume the position.” He smiled. “Security. You understand.”

Alto nodded. “Of course.”

He spread his legs and arms as he leaned into the wall. The man with the Glock patted first his chest, under arms, and back, then moved down his legs paying special attention to his ankles.

The door opened onto an open-air penthouse. The two men escorted him past a long mahogany bar. The bartender had her hair tied in a ponytail and was topless. She didn’t look up as they walked by.

A pool occupied most of the rooftop penthouse. Alto looked around. Aside from a single round table with two chairs, there was no furniture. His escort with the gun indicated that he should sit, and he did.
 

“Your host is on his way.”

He didn’t bother to watch where the bodyguards were going. Unless they jumped off the roof, they would leave by the elevator.

It was dusk and he could just make out Mt. Hood. He was not impressed; his country had many such mountains.

“I hope I have not kept you waiting.”

He hadn’t heard him approach. The voice was soft, yet clear and easy to understand. There was no accent.

Alto stood and turned, extending his hand. He couldn’t help but notice that when he stood, the bodyguards took a step, each reaching under his coat. His host noticed the look on his face.

“I’m afraid my friends are a little on edge. After our incident, I wasn’t expecting such a cordial greeting.”

Alto leaned to one side and gave a wave. “I assure you that their edginess is unwarranted.”

His host turned and gave the two men a salute. On cue, they entered the elevator.

“Now to business.” He held up his hand and the bartender brought over lemon water in fluted glasses.

Alto made no pretense that he wasn’t ogling her breasts as she leaned in front of him to serve the host. “The group I represent only wants the goods for which they have already paid.”

The host knitted his brow. “Yes, an unfortunate mishap. A dreadful auto accident. Many of the girls were injured.”

“You assured me that the buyers I represent would be able to view an example of the product.”

The slight hiss of the elevator caught Alto off guard. But when he leaned back in his chair to watch the elevator, he smiled.

The host looked at his watch. “Consider this an apology for the delay.” He waved to the young girl who had remained in the elevator car.

Slowly, as though she were in a daze, she walked up to the table. She was nude.

Alto extended a hand. “Come here, my sweet.” His finger roamed down her back as he pulled her in for a closer look.

“Our girls, your merchandise, are all country virgins. We do not deal in street urchins that live under bridges. Twelve and thirteen years old, fifteen tops. The older ones can outperform a street prostitute, but have the endurance of youth.”