Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
It’s probably just nail polish. Not plastic fingernails.
I grab one of her hands, yanking it away from the other.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demands.
“Lovely nails, Brittany,” I say.
“Since when do you give a shit about a woman’s nails?”
“Since”—I slide the tip of my finger underneath one of the fingernails, yank harshly, and the nail pops off—“now.”
She pulls her hand away. “What the hell? That hurts.”
I hold the red nail between my thumb and forefinger. “So you wear fake nails. The plastic ones that you glue on.”
“So what?”
“Doc Sheraton,” I say, “do you want to tell your daughter about the importance of these fake fingernails?”
Doc shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You didn’t tell him, Dad?”
“No. Not yet. I guess I didn’t have any reason to. Until now.”
“Tell me what?”
“A couple of plastic fingernails, identical to the ones your daughter appears to be wearing, were found in the barn on my property on the western slope. Close to the Wyoming border.”
“So what? Lots of women wear those nails.”
“Actually,” I say, “lots of women don’t wear those nails.”
“How the hell would you know?” This from Dad.
“Rory told me. She used to go out with a cosmetologist, remember?”
It’s a lie. Rory and I have never once discussed women’s fingernails. She’d probably freak if I asked about fake nails. I honestly have no idea how common plastic fingernails are.
But the explanation seems to be enough for Dad.
“You want to explain this, Doc?” he says.
“Brittany has nothing to do with any of this. I’ve already told you that.”
“Someone sure wants us to think she does,” I say. “Any idea who that might be?”
Doc gulps audibly. “Oh my God…”
“Start talking,” Dad says, his finger on the trigger.
We’re still sitting in Doc’s four-wheel-drive pickup. The two barns loom ahead of us. I’m still sick, knowing what’s inside them.
Or at least what has been inside them.
“We still have those nails,” I tell Dad. “We can get fingerprints.”
“They’re not mine,” Brittany says. “I swear it. I’ve never even been to your property on the border.”
“But someone wants us to think you have.”
Doc shakes his head. “They’re going to frame us, aren’t they? Brittany and I are going to go down for all of this.”
“What?” Brittany gasps.
“My God…” Doc Sheraton grasps his head in his hands. “This is all your fault, Steel.”
Dad’s jaw tenses. He’s been icy so far, but now he’s pissed. “Why? Because I didn’t give you that job all those years ago?”
“You ruined me,” Doc says. “What was I supposed to do? I had a daughter to support.”
“You’re supposed to make an honest living,” I say.
“As a veterinarian in a one-horse town like Snow Creek? Without the biggest ranch in my corner?” Doc rubs his temples. “What do you think happened, Steel? None of the other ranches trusted me after that. I ended up taking care of dogs and cats, the occasional horse.”
“Yeah,” Brittany says. “That’s why Dad started training guard dogs.”
“If you haven’t figured this out already, Brittany,” I say, “your dad is doing a lot more than just training guard dogs.”
Again I regard the plastic fingernail I’m still holding. I can have the others run for prints, as Dale, Donny, and I were all gloved when we found them. My fingerprints, however, will be on this one. Not that it matters.
“It’s time,” Dad says. “We’ll begin in the east barn.”
The east barn.
The one where they keep live cargo.
God… What might we find inside?
But we have to look. If people are in there—people being held against their will—we need to know. We need to rescue them.
I gulp down my nausea. What if it’s kids? Little boys like Dale and Donny were? Like Uncle Talon was?
Or little girls?
God. I’m going to puke.
But I need to stay strong. Like my father. I’m no iceman, for sure, but I need to appear as though I am.
“Brock?” Dad says.
“Yeah?”
“Get out your gun.”
Fuck. “Dad…”
“I need to stay out here with Doc and Brittany. I need you to go into that barn.”
“By myself?”
“You’re armed. You’ll be fine.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “We’ll take them with us. All four of us will go together. Besides, shouldn’t they be forced to see what’s going on in there?”
“All right,” Dad says. “You’re right. If anyone is in there guarding, they will most likely be armed.”
“What about the dogs?”
“Either Doc or I can get the dogs to behave,” Dad says. “Something I got out of him last night. He teaches all his dogs a command that only he knows.”
“Good. Then we’re all going.” I brace myself.
I’m twenty-four years old. I haven’t even been alive a quarter century.
And I’m about to walk into this horrific setting, gun drawn.
God help me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
RORY
After crossing the Utah border, we stop to fill our gas tanks and hit the bathrooms.
As usual, there is a line for the women’s room. My bladder is about to burst, so once Jesse and the others leave the men’s room, I scramble in.