Page 59 of Skin Game
“Mia Witherspoon. Does that name mean anything to you?”
“Did I hear you say Witherspoon?” Elton asked. He’d manifested himself from sitting in his truck to standing directly next to Casey.
Casey glanced at Elton and lifted his brows in a silent question. Were they going to tell Eagan about Gabe’s side job?
Elton spoke up. “Gabe had a run-in with Randy Witherspoon on Monday. Is she a relation?”
Apparently, theyweresharing Gabe’s side hustle.
“And again yesterday. Gabe ran into him in Westfort,” Casey added.
“But that doesn’t explain why Mia Witherspoon showed up at Gabe’s Monday morning,” Elton added.
“Maybe we should head to the office and compare notes, see if we can come up with a narrative that makes sense. But before we do that, Deputy Wycoff and I will knock on doors around here, try to flush out a few witnesses, but I’m not holding my breath. Please, wait here.”
Thedon’t do anything stupidwas inferred.
After getting a nod from each of them, Eagan and Wycoff headed toward the nearest neighbor.
“Why are we waiting here?” Elton asked out the side of his mouth.
“Because we are not Gabriel Karne?” Casey replied, equally quiet.
The truth was, Casey didn’t want to wait either. Waiting felt wrong, but they needed a direction to search in.
“If it was one of us, Gabriel would not sit on his hands,” Elton pointed out.
“Where do we start?”
“First, we go to the Sheriff’s Office, like Deputy Eagan asked. We report Gabe missing. Then we think like Gabriel. He didn’t leave under his own power but knowing him, he left us a clue if he could.”
“What like, Hansel and Gretal?” Casey asked.
Elton’s eyebrows twitched up and down. “Exactly like Hansel and Gretal.”
TWENTY-TWO
GABE – LATE THURSDAY NIGHT
Gabe was cold. His head and back hurt. He was hungry, and he was pissed off. And his bladder needed relief.
He’d been unceremoniously packed into a vehicle of some kind. With his luck, it would turn out to be a cliché serial killer-style van, all black and no windows, the passenger seats removed for easier transport.
You are not the stereotypical serial killer’s dream catch, Chance.
The vehicle was big enough that his abductors had been able to easily toss him inside. He’d rolled onto his side on a cold metal floor but didn’t have much more space to move around.
A bag or a shirt—cloth of some type—had been pulled over his head so he couldn’t see. Worse, Gabe was forced to breathe through his mouth because whatever the fabric was, it reeked of sweat and body odor.
Covering his head meant they didn’t want him to know who they were and where they were going, right? Or that the kidnappers had watched way too much TV and thought covering his head was just something they needed to do.
That was not good. Or was it?
It bothered him that they weren’t speaking. But again, could be the too-much-TV thing on the part of his kidnappers.
“If you tell me what you want, like by using your words instead of inflicting pain, I might be able to help you.”
Nothing. Not even a grumpyshut it.