SECTION IV

I can only hope to persuade you to join me in this endeavor, a revolution against the afflictions of this present society.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Haddie had been obsessed with the case. Terry was right. She hadn’t been able to ignore the oddities like Mark Coleman’s fake business in Portland, the strange nature of the fires, or those marks on Harold Holmes. Her heart pounded in her chest.

Harold Holmes was British. The Irish mob had died, burnt, in England. Now people in Eugene were dying in the same way.

Worst of all, her dad might not be delusional, and that scared her almost as much as her current predicament. Her stitches had opened when Harold Holmes forced her to lie on the floor of his office at gunpoint while he zip-tied her wrists. She could feel a warmth to the already wet bandages. At least, she knew who Mark Colman’s secret partner had been. A faint victory considering the circumstances.

The thug in the raincoat, a man in his thirties with well-styled dark brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard, had evidently been tailing her from the veterinarian clinic.

Escorted out of the building at gunpoint with wrists bound, Haddie met his partner waiting at the Explorer parked by the exit. A man with graying hair, he didn’t look older than forty with a strong, clean-shaven jaw, a long face, and tight intense eyes. He wore a similar black coat over a dark gray suit with a blue striped tie. He’d looked unhappy with the rain as he opened the back door. They used zip tie restraints on her ankles, which cut against the cuff of her short boots. Then they’d hog tied her; face down on the seat so that her thighs cramped. The car seat smelled almost new.

The gray-haired man spoke on the phone, arranging to have Haddie’s RAV4 moved. “He says to move it north. A rest stop will be fine.”

No one had seen them kidnap her, not in the deluge. She’d disappear. Her car would be found miles away and no one would think to look at Harold Holmes. She swallowed. They’re going to kill me. In her whole life, she had never truly been in fear of dying, until she lay with her face pressed against the cool, smooth seat.

She swayed as they accelerated. An onramp, possibly I5. How far away were they taking her? What did Harold Holmes plan for her? Kill her and drop the body in the mountains?

Her muscles ached from tensing on the seat. She barely avoided being tossed onto the floor each time the bearded thug braked. She could see the side of the gray-haired man’s face. He texted on his phone and glanced back at her with little concern. If she hadn’t be left bound wrist to ankle, she could have kicked the driver, but she could only glare, trying to keep from oozing spittle onto the leather seat.

She couldn’t see much through the front window except flashes of a highway sign, dim in the rain through heavily tinted windows. That and the trucks they passed gave her a hint that they were on the interstate. The weather made it impossible to determine which direction they traveled, but she imagined they headed south. Otherwise, why hide her car in the north?

There were plenty of isolated ridges and ravines to hide a body in the south. She should have fought at the office. They would have shot her, but they might have run off at the noise and left her in the city.

The gray-haired man answered a call and shifted to glance into the rearview mirror outside his window. “No trouble. She’s just lying here. Nice and quiet.”

He’d looked behind them. Likely Harold Holmes followed. She hadn’t been able to see what he did once they’d told her to climb in the back seat and lie face down. They’d finished tying her and closed the door, leaving nothing but muted voices outside.

Did Harold Holmes plan on doing the job himself? Or just want to watch? Maybe he lived out here. She should have had Terry look up his address. What would it matter? No one knew where she was headed. She flushed thinking of Dad. Right now, she wanted him to come to the rescue. She’d grown to hate it as a teen, and even in college she’d trained him to not stalk her or her lovers. Considering the marks on Harold Holmes, and the way those people had died, Dad might just be a match for two armed thugs. Maybe she’d become delusional as well; perhaps it ran in the family.

They slowed about fifteen minutes after getting on the highway, which could put them near Cottage Grove. Maybe they’re dumping me in one of the lakes. Her heart started racing again. The bearded man slowed along the ramp and turned left, where they kept going without a sharp turn. She couldn’t remember the name of the main road, but it went out to Dorena Lake. Anywhere out east would be good to dump a body.

She nearly rolled onto the floor, her muscles cramping, as they came to a stoplight. With the fingers of her right hand, she felt at the zip tie connecting the restraints. It stretched taut. What would it take to get it to break? Then she could roll over and kick the driver, make him crash while she ditched onto the floor and they took all the impact.

They turned and her face pressed against leather, spittle pushing out the corner of her lips. She wasn’t going anywhere, at the moment. Maybe when they cut the ties so she could walk. Or maybe she was supposed to drown this way?

No, they were going up, into the hills. Tall pines lined a small, paved road as they drove up a noticeable incline. The forest opened, and she could make out the curved roof of a building with large glass windows instead of walls, like a modernized cupola. The Explorer lurched to a stop, toppling her onto the floor.