Lost. Helen R. Myers

was parked slightly off Pete Fite’s driveway on the grassy, sloped embankment. The driver’s door was wide open, the interior light on. There was no sign of Faith.

      “Is that how you found things?”

      “Exactly this way—the engine and headlights off, but the door wide open. Pete swears he didn’t touch a thing. Doesn’t look good, Chief. She’s not here.”

      “Well, somebody was.” He could tell that it was Faith’s car from the license plate. But what had him placing his hands on his hips was the man who rounded the thing and leaned into the vehicle. “Who the hell is that?”

      “Deputy DeFreese Adams. Sheriff Cudahy’s newest boy.”

      “Where the hell did he train? Hollywood? Get him away from there before he touches anything. As it is, he’s probably contaminated the surroundings. Look where he’s standing—right where there would have been the only footprints of the driver.” He had to all but yell over the baying hounds, and he scowled at Pete’s dogs leaping and cavorting around the visibly upset man. “Why hasn’t someone told Fite to lock up those mutts?”

      “I was on my way to do that when you pulled in.”

      Chagrined, Buddy didn’t wait for Jared to comment further; he took off. Halfway there, he yelled something at Deputy Adams that Jared didn’t catch, but it made the lanky cop pull out of the Firebird so fast, he hit his head on the frame. His sharp curse and subsequent shuffling made Jared half tempted to reach for his gun.

      “Shooting the son of a bitch wouldn’t make half the mess.”

      Turning away from the pitiful scene, he came face-to-face with Deputy Roy Russell. The shorter man’s dark, somber eyes and gray, thin hair testified that he had as many years in law enforcement as Jared, and was as disturbed by Reese’s actions.

      “Sorry, Chief. He’s new.”

      “So I heard.” Sometimes new was good, because then people did everything by the book as though each page was tattooed on the inside of their eyeballs. Why hadn’t they been blessed with one of those? “Well, this sure is starting off bad.”

      “I’ve only been here a minute, but it feels worse.”

      “Yeah, Eagan tells me there’s no sign of her.”

      “That’s not all.” At Jared’s questioning look, Russell lifted both eyebrows, as well. “He didn’t tell you?”

      “Can’t say I gave him time to.” Actually, he’d expected his man to share anything pertinent immediately. It seemed the new guy wasn’t the only one screwing up tonight.

      “Her purse is in there. At least, I’m assuming it’s hers. That’s why I was in my car. I’ve called the sheriff, told him we’re going to need John. Hope you don’t mind me making that decision before talking to you.”

      “I would have done the same thing.” John Box was the new detective for the Sheriff’s Department. A transplant from the Dallas PD with fifteen years in Homicide, he’d moved his family to the Pineywoods after hearing his teenage son and daughter respond to him once too often in mall-speak. Wood County was fortunate to have him, and because Pete’s property was only partially in Split Creek, the sheriff’s people had as much jurisdiction here as Jared did. “Tell me about the purse. What makes you think it’s hers?”

      “It looks like something my teenage niece would carry. You know—less than half the size of what older women carry, and the seams splitting from being crammed with brushes and cassettes and makeup. It’s on the passenger floorboard.”

      “Tipped over as though the car had been stopped sharply, or as though thrown back in for…whatever reason?”

      “Neither. It’s pretty much upright, kinda leaning toward the console. Looks intentionally placed there, as though that’s where she kept it. My wife keeps hers that way, too, since I told her how at city corners thieves like to bust in windows and steal purses they see on the seat.”

      “Are there any signs of a struggle? Blood? Spilled liquids?”

      “I wish. It’s such a stagnant scene, it gives me the creeps. But listen, I only had a quick glance around. Once I guessed what we were dealing with, I got the hell away from there.”

      “Wish you’d given your cohort the same advice,” Jared replied with a nod toward Adams, who was still standing too close to the vehicle to suit him.

      Roy sucked air between his front teeth. “That’s an ambitious boy, Chief. Made it clear after his second day that he wants to be the department’s second detective.”

      It wouldn’t happen because of his performance on this case. “Ignore me if I’m insulting your intelligence,” Jared replied. “But if I don’t get to him first, remind Box to take print samples from Mr. Up-and-Coming so we don’t waste time on false leads.”

      “I hear you.” The deputy glanced over toward the house, where Pete was penning his dogs, then back at the street, and finally the woods. “Where do you think she is?”

      “Until a few minutes ago, I’d hoped at a friend’s having a good pout.”

      “Spoiled type?”

      “A little. More accurately, part of a struggling family. Anyone related to Buck Ramey has her work cut out for her.”

      Roy’s eyes widened. “She’s that Ramey?”

      “There aren’t any others in these parts that I know of.”

      “I’d never seen her at the garage.”

      “It’s not exactly her idea of a fun place to hang out.”

      “Mike’s little sister…damn.” He eyed the Firebird with new dread. “It’s gonna be tough on Mike to see this.”

      “She isn’t going to.”

      That, too, won him a look of surprise. “Who else is going to tow it and keep it locked away from vandals and the curious? You know she has the contract for Split Fork—half the county for that matter. Even Cuddy would call her, seeing how close we are to town.”

      True. And considering the hour, Bendix up in Winnsboro would cuss him until Sunday for hauling his butt out of bed at this hour if it meant crossing into Mike’s territory. Besides, he did want the Firebird close. But, heaven help her, Mike didn’t need this.

      Once more Jared peered into the darkness toward the farm-to-market road. There wasn’t so much as a security light at the entrance to Pete’s farm. What would make Faith turn in here of all places?

      “You sure you didn’t see anything or anyone while driving over here?” he asked Roy.

      “Not a soul. Folks don’t frequent rural clubs the way they used to, and even less so on a weekday. It’s also too early for the milk trucks to start making the rounds to the dairy farms. I know you’re hoping the girl had car trouble and decided to walk home, but I reckon if that was the case, she’d have been more likely to grab her purse and head up to the house and ask the old guy for help.”

      “Could be Pete’s dogs scared her.”

      “So why not honk the horn until he came out?” He gestured toward the abandoned car. “Her keys are still in the ignition. Who leaves a vehicle like that?”

      Someone who was in a hurry, or hurt…or who didn’t have a choice. Before he faced Michaele, he had to have a clue as to which it was, because one thing was for sure—Mike would demand answers.

      “We have to search the woods,” he said.

      With a fatalistic sigh, Roy glanced down at his shiny new boots. “Thought you’d say that. I’d hoped that since Pete’s hounds hadn’t picked up any scent, we could pretty much cancel out worrying about that.”

      “With the chicken stink around here, it’s a wonder those noses can lead