Page 148 of Whispers

“To have all of you Holland girls. I thought it was the ultimate revenge for . . .” He clammed up suddenly as he spied a turnoff, an old logging road that angled upward through the remaining trees.

“Where’s Sean?” she demanded. “And Tessa.”

He slid a glance her way. “Safe.”

“Up here, on this old road. What is it?”

“Don’t you know? This is where it all started, Claire. Up here was the first logging camp, bought by your old man. It’s fitting as it backs up to Stone Illahee where old Dutch is making his announcement about running for governor. Jesus. Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

“Who?”

“Your son and sister for starters. I had them rounded up. That’s right, I didn’t do it. I have an alibi for the time they went missing.”

Her heart sank as she saw that an old rusted gate was hanging open and fresh tire tracks wound up the hill . . . surely the police would be able to identify the tracks . . . or would they? Even if they did, by that time it would be too late because she was certain that Weston meant to kill them all.

Unless she could stop him.

“Did you get all that?” Petrillo asked as he clicked off the recording. Miranda clutched the telephone receiver in a death grip.

“Yes,” she managed to say, fear scraping her soul. She’d heard the call that had come into police dispatch, had listened with horror to the conversation between Claire and Weston Taggert. The bastard who had raped her. Had killed Harley and let Tessa take the blame. Had killed Jack and Hunter. Her heart twisted with fear. “You have to get them safe,” she whispered, hoping Samantha didn’t overhear her.

“We’re working on it. Figure from the clues your sister gave us that they’re at Camp Twenty-Four, up along the bluff to the south of Stone Illahee. The place has been abandoned for fifty years. I’ve already dispatched some men.”

“I hope you’re not too late.”

“So

do I,” Petrillo said and he sounded worried. “Someone better tell your father.”

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly nine. About the time her father would be making his announcement in the ballroom of Stone Illahee. Miranda’s stomach contracted. “I’ll see to it. Just get to them, Petrillo. Nail that son of a bitch and make sure that my sisters and nephew are safe.”

“Doin’ our best,” he said before hanging up. She turned and found Samantha standing in the doorway.

“That was about Mom, wasn’t it?”

“The police think they’ve found her.”

“Is she okay?”

“We think so. I’ll know in a little while. The best detective in the world is working on it. Now, go on upstairs, wash your face and get a move on. We need to go to the party and explain what’s happening to Grandpa.” Samantha was up the stairs like a shot and quickly Miranda punched out the number of Kane Moran’s cell. He was in love with Claire. Sean was his son. He deserved to know what was happening.

Kane hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. He was only five minutes away from the turnoff to the old logging camp. He’d been to Weston’s office and the security guard had insisted Weston was still there, evidenced by his car parked in his marked spot. But Kane had insisted the guard call Weston and when he hadn’t been able to find him, they’d walked to the office. Weston wasn’t anywhere in the buildings and, upon checking with a guard at a nearby lot, they’d discovered that a dark blue pickup was missing. The same truck that Samantha had seen. The same truck that Claire had climbed into. Kane didn’t dare think about Claire and what could happen to her at Weston’s hands. It was too chilling. But if that bastard so much as touched her, Kane would kill him.

Period.

And what good would you be to her then? What good would you be to your son?

Gritting his teeth and squinting into the night, he didn’t want to think about the consequences. Right now he had to find them. He heard sirens cutting through the night, but couldn’t see their lights in the fog. Nearly missing the turnout, he nosed his Jeep onto the old dirt-and-gravel road. Weeds and potholes greeted him. A rusted gate stood open. He shifted down and gave his rig some gas. He didn’t know how long this road was, couldn’t see over the edge of the cliff as the narrow lane switched back and forth up the mountain.

He had no weapon. No gun. Not even a knife.

But he’d learned hand-to-hand combat while he was in the military; knew what it took to kill a man.

And if Weston Taggert had done any harm to anyone, Kane would take him out. The engine ground up the hill, surely announcing his arrival, his tires spun and caught in the steep incline. He had to put his rig into four-wheel drive to keep from sliding down the hill and into the foggy nothingness.

“Come on, come on,” he said, expecting with every turn to see the pickup looming in the dark. To face Taggert. To, please God, save Claire. They had unfinished business, the two of them, and now they were four. Sean and Samantha were definitely part of the deal. Which was just fine.

Where the hell were they? God, he’d climbed for ten minutes steadily and still there was no sight of . . . suddenly he was in a clearing. Two vehicles, their lights dimmed were parked between dilapidated buildings with sagging porches and broken windows. Between the dark pickup and a filthy gray van, in the beams of the headlights where fog rose like smoke, a group of people huddled. Kane’s heart pounded as he recognized Claire and Tessa, very much alive and unmoving as Weston stood to one side, a rifle trained on both of them. On the other side of the clearing was a second man whom Kane recognized as Denver Styles. Sean was missing.