style="font-size:15px;"> “Can you show me this shortcut?” Hank said, getting to his feet.
She glanced down the hallway for a moment, and he could see how badly she wanted to go down there and yell at her son. Slowly her gaze came back to him and she rose from her chair as if she was an old woman. Her children were killing her, he thought as they went outside to his vehicle.
“What was Charlotte driving?” he asked.
“A small, dark blue Chevy. I can’t remember what year. It’s an older-model sedan.”
He nodded. “And what was she wearing?”
Arlene shook her head. “I don’t remember exactly. She’s so big and she refuses to wear maternity clothes, so whatever she had on was stretched over her stomach.”
“I think that’s the style now.”
Arlene looked mystified by that.
“What about the baby’s father?” he asked. “Is it possible she’s with him?”
“I doubt it. She wouldn’t tell me who the man is, but from what I could gather he’s involved with someone else. I’m not even sure he knows about the baby.”
Hank took that in, wondering how the man couldn’t know in a town the size of Whitehorse. From what little time he’d lived in the county he’d discovered there were no secrets. Everyone seemed to know his name even though he spent little time in town and had met only a few people.
“I tried her cell phone,” Arlene was saying. “It goes straight to voice mail. I left a message…”
“Maybe you should call the sheriff,” he suggested as they drove out of town.
“No.” She softened her expression and her words as she continued. “I already spoke to the sheriff. He can’t file a missing-persons report yet. The thing is, Charlotte has had some problems with the law. The sheriff thinks this is just one of her stunts—and, you know, he’s probably right.”
THE SHORTCUT WAS narrow, with deep barrow pits on each side—much like the main road to Old Town Whitehorse.
But the road was closer to the Evans’ farmhouse, and since Hank hadn’t seen Charlotte’s car on his way to Arlene’s, this would be the next place to check.
He found himself taking in the land that ran toward the Missouri Breaks, fascinated this untamed country was right out Arlene’s back door. Who couldn’t get lost in this?
“I’m sure Charlotte probably just stayed in town,” Arlene said, drumming her fingers on the armrest. “It’s just that I can’t imagine who she might have stayed with.” When she looked at him, he saw the pain.
He realized he had never known the names of his daughter’s friends. There’d been a stream of them in and out of the house over the years, but he’d never been home enough to keep track of them.
His daughter had grown up without him being around. He’d told himself that she was fine, Bitsy was doing a great job raising her. That he wasn’t needed. His job was to provide for his family. Only now could he admit what bull that had been.
“What was your husband like?” he asked.
“Absent,” she said and craned her neck to look out as the road dipped down to a creek crowded with thick stands of chokecherries and dogwood. “Wait. Back up. I think I saw something.”
He stopped the SUV and reversed back up the hill.
“There!” she cried.
He pulled over to the edge of the road as best he could although it wasn’t wide enough for another car to pass and put on the emergency flashers even though he doubted any other cars would be coming along. Arlene was already out of the car and running to the edge of the road.
He joined her as she pointed down the slope and saw the patch of blue through the dense, tall brush along the creek.
Closer, he could see the tracks in the soft earth where a car had gone off, some of the sagebrush limbs broken or uprooted.
“Oh, God,” Arlene said beside him. She took a step toward the ravine, but he stopped her.
“Stay here. I’ll go check.”
Arlene looked stricken. “If she went off the road…The baby—”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions before we know if that’s even her car down there, okay?”
She nodded, although they both knew it had to be.
He walked down the road to a spot where the slope wasn’t so steep and worked his way down to where he’d seen the patch of blue from above.
The chokecherries and dogwood were thick and hard to navigate, but he hadn’t gone far when he caught the glint of a chrome bumper.
Forcing his way closer, he glanced into the rear window. The car was covered in dust but he could see that there was no one in the backseat.
Working his way along the passenger side of the car, he covered his hand with the tail of his shirt to open the door. If this was a crime scene, he didn’t want to destroy any more evidence than necessary.
The door opened and he peered in. No eight-months-pregnant woman inside. The keys were in the ignition, he noted. The car appeared to be in Neutral.
He glanced around. No sign of a struggle. No blood. No indication anything had been taken, since there were a couple dollars in change in the drink holder and the glove box was still closed.
He glanced at the driver-side door. It was closed, a dense wall of brush against it—just as there had been against the passenger-side door. Just to be sure the car was Charlotte’s, he checked the registration in the glove box.
Then, reaching across, he pulled on the trunk lever. The lid groaned open.
Closing the door, he straightened and moved to the rear of the car. He was relieved to find the trunk empty except for the usual junk most people carried there.
He closed the lid, careful not to leave his prints.
“Hank?” Arlene called down, sounding scared.
“She’s not here,” he called back. “I’ll be right up.” He climbed out of the ravine to find her standing on the road where he’d left her. She’d worn a path in the dirt, though, where she had paced.
“It’s her car, isn’t it?”
He nodded. “But she wasn’t in it when the car went off the road.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “Oh, my God, she could be out there anywhere, wandering around, maybe having her baby.”
“Arlene.” He touched her arm. “She wasn’t in the car when it went off the road.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“Come here.”
