Colorado Abduction - By Cassie Miles & Marie Ferrarella Page 0,30
“Why are you interested?”
“Nicole was kidnapped by two men on horseback somewhere between the Widow Grant’s place and the Carlisle ranch house. Do you think the kidnappers came this way? Toward the Circle M?”
“Our land is fenced with barbed wire. Nobody came through here on horseback.”
“Why is it fenced? You’re not running cattle.”
“Horses,” Logan said. “We keep them in the barn at night and let them run free during the day.”
Looking toward the barn, Burke noticed a surveillance camera attached above the door. Another lens was visible on the mobile home. No attempt had been made to hide the cameras. “You have electronic surveillance.”
“State-of-the-art, equipped with night vision,” Logan drawled. “Some people don’t like us. We need to keep ourselves protected.”
Were the fences and the surveillance used to keep people out? Or to keep the Sons of Freedom in? “Any chance that I could take a look at the footage from last night? The cameras might have picked up something that would help me find Nicole.”
Logan showed no sign of being worried. “What time was she kidnapped?”
“Before dark. Somewhere between five and six o’clock.”
“You’re out of luck,” Logan said. “During the day, we have enough people around to make sure nobody breaks in. We generally don’t turn on the surveillance until after dinner. That’s around seven or eight. Too late to show anything that would be useful to you.”
He’d answered quickly, almost as if he knew the time of Nicole’s kidnapping before Burke had told him. Was she here? In addition to the mobile home, the house, two bunkhouses and the barn, there were several smaller buildings. Storage sheds. A smokehouse. Other motor homes and trailers. There was probably a root cellar under the house.
Altogether, there were too many damn places for Logan to hide a kidnap victim…if she was still alive.
IN THE RANCH HOUSE KITCHEN, Carolyn was the only woman wearing jeans and boots. Her clothing wasn’t the only thing that made her different. She stood taller. She had energy, fire and ambition.
These three women—dressed in shapeless frocks, limp sweaters and leggings—seemed like the life had been drained from them. After they politely introduced themselves using only their first names, they returned to their chores, quietly performing their tasks with dedication and zero enthusiasm. Like prisoners, they seemed robbed of their will, caught in an endless cycle of boredom. What could possibly cause these young women to come to this place? Why did they stay?
“I hear you raise horses,” Carolyn said. “This would be a wonderful afternoon for a ride.”
“The men handle the horses,” said the tall blonde who appeared to be in charge of the kitchen. Her name was Sharon, and Carolyn guessed they were the same age—mid-thirties. The other women were at least a decade younger.
“We get to brush and curry the horses,” peeped a very pregnant woman who had identified herself as Sunny. She waddled across the kitchen floor with all the grace of a Mack Truck. Her formerly blond hair had grown out several inches at the roots.
“Do the men let you muck out the stables?” Carolyn asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Lucky you.” Carolyn laughed into a pall of silence.
There was about as much vitality in this group as a gathering of tree slugs. Somehow, she needed to get them talking, to find out if they’d seen or heard anything that might lead to Nicole.
Sauntering across the gray tiled kitchen floor, she zeroed in on Lisa—a scrawny brunette with tattoos of thorns around both wrists. “You seem familiar,” Carolyn said. “Are you from around here?”
“No, ma’am.” She concentrated on chopping a zucchini into one-inch cubes. “I grew up in Denver.”
“That’s where I live most of the time. Maybe we met there,” Carolyn said. Remembering Burke’s suggestion that they get names that could be run through the FBI database, she asked, “What’s your last name?”
Sharon cleared her throat. “When we joined the SOF, we gave up our last names. This is a new life. A fresh start.”
Sunny teased, “Lisa wants her last name to be Richter. She wants to be Mrs. Pete Richter.”
“No, I don’t.” The paring knife in Lisa’s hand trembled. “I don’t like Pete. Not that way.”
“You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not since your sister took off.” Sunny explained to Carolyn, “Both Lisa and her sister had a thing for Pete.”
“But your sister left?” Carolyn questioned.
“Yes.” Lisa centered another zucchini on the chopping block.
“Do you know where she went?”
A single tear slid down Lisa’s cheek. “She’s gone.”
“Forget about her,” Sharon said harshly. “Your sister was a fool.