The lights came on gradually, a soft, warm glow at the edge of vision. A halo touched the fringe of the earth, casting its golden aura on all but the voids above and below. The light intensified, illuminating the edges of consciousness. Cool, crisp air stroked my skin like a mid-winter paintbrush. 

Too cold and cragged to be Heaven.

Raw dryness coated my gullet. Coat sleeves chafed at my wrists. Throbs of dull pain in my ribs signaled extensive bruising—not broken. I’d been through that before. Sharp rocks jabbed my spine. 

Like a distant memory being gradually unfurled, lines and curves of a vehicle’s undercarriage fixed their shape against daylight. Bewilderment faded with the growing brightness and scent of fresh pine. Frigid ground compelled shivers that rattled my bones. 

My body was sprawled supine under the Tacoma. Thankfully, the mild mountain winter prevented one more frozen death of a skinned carcass cast into the underbrush. 

I rolled onto one side, wincing at the pain in my ribs. Groans told a story words couldn’t, but retreat from beneath the truck was essential. Every motion dispatched shocks of torment throughout my battered anatomy. The effort also pumped vital blood flow into my extremities. Including my brain.

How did I end up under the truck? Where exactly was it parked? 

With a hold on the vehicle’s frame, I dragged myself, with gut-wrenching labor, into the afternoon sun. The nominal warmth encouraged me.

It took a moment to catch my breath and assess my surroundings. 

The truck was parked where I’d left it. Daylight had moved lower on the horizon, indicating at least a few hours had passed. I was hungry, but not as ravenous as a day without meals.

A brush of the gravel from my untucked shirt revealed a large rip along the length of fabric. It was probable that I’d been dragged over rough terrain for quite some distance before being dumped under the truck. Whoever had abducted me, at least had the courtesy to leave me at the mercy of nature’s aloof hostilities, rather than let me die of starvation in some dank basement. 

I stood, testing the strength of my legs. Nothing felt broken. Everything felt bruised. A sharp pain shot through my right shin when I put weight on it. I limped in a small circle as I checked for any other damage. No open wounds or fractures, but it felt like my insides had been rolled over by one of those massive road implements from Hugh Jenkins’ compound. A flash image of the LeTourneau Log Stacker ripping my flesh with its giant saber teeth evoked a tremble. 

Fear settled over me as I realized how easily the injuries could hinder clear thinking. I let the shooting pain in my leg  sharpen the gray cells, and keep me on task, until I climbed into the Tacoma. The crisp seat welcomed me without fanfare. The keys remained where I’d left them and I drove to Doc Gibbon’s clinic.

It was a sobering ride. The economic downturn the city and county suffered when lumber lost its grip announced itself with every yard of unkept roadway. I rolled over the cracked asphalt past an empty storefront with shattered windows, the victim of disgruntled children. Rusted chains hung from a locked gate to a lumber mill long empty of workers willing to trample the dormant weeds. 

Unlikely those lumber moguls cared much what happens when prosperity vanishes, bequeathing decay and disrepair.

A throbbing pain began to emanate from deep within my thigh, apparently radiating upward from the sharp stab in my shin. The truck’s seat rubbed against my skin, scratching the bruises on my arms and legs. Each bump and bounce elicited a grunt from behind clenched teeth. I yowled shamelessly at least once. 

With hands gripping the steering wheel, I sorted the probable meanings of an abduction during a B&E as a way to keep my mind off the torturous drive. Thoughts leaped from one nonsensical idea to another, like a pinball ricocheting from flashy bumper to flashy bumper. 

The obvious answer was that Deputy Spiesz caught me sneaking through his house and conked me on the head. But he was supposed to be seventy miles away in Libby to take care of official business. A hard thing to get out of so you can harass a trespasser.

Who else wanted to end this investigation? Lorna Peale? She had a certain kind of crazy, true enough. But the roughness of the streets clobbered that idea. Lorna leaned toward sexual manipulation, not physical abuse or psychological torture. Her daughter, Vicky, had the raw, aggressive anger needed to pull off an abduction and torture. Especially if she transferred her rage at Aidan onto her prey. But my perpetrator’s story of childhood abuse didn’t fit what I knew about Vicky. Unless I’d gotten it completely wrong. 

The Tacoma hit a pothole with such a jolt, I screamed a string of obscenities. A slap at the steering wheel inflamed my ribcage like molten lava. Eyes glued to the roadway, I gritted my teeth and continued the review of suspected abductors. 

Derek Cooley would never put that much work into anything that didn’t have a sexual conquest at the end of it. That guy was all hedonist. Hugh Jenkins didn’t know me well enough to drag me into a dark room for a coffee, let alone a come to Jesus. And of course Sheriff de Lude had limited patience for outsiders. He would just shoot me and toss me into a canyon for bear food. None of that crazy talk about being toyed with as a child. Man up or check out was his motto.

Tension increased as I grappled with the questions and doubts. Tension that transmuted to torment at each physical wound residing in my flesh. Prolonged focus was impossible, arresting any clear idea before it blossomed. It was all I could do to get to my destination.

“You’re a sight,” Doctor Myrtle Gibbons said, as I hobbled into her clinic. 

“I decided to modify my ensemble for your benefit, Doc.”

“I’m flattered.” Her professional grimace did not hide the trepidation in her emerald eyes. She led me to a small exam room. “Sit.”

The metal examination table was colder than the ground I’d woke up on. Its frozen touch penetrated right through my now tattered jeans.

“Do you ice this thing before every patient, or am I special?”

She pressed and probed for damage with hands made from the same frosty steel as the exam table. “You are special, son. Maybe not in the way you’d hope.”

She found the tenderness in my leg and I howled.

“You might put a cushion on this thing.” I settled my butt back onto the harsh surface. “Ease the shock for us weaklings.”

“Cushions are for patients that are trying to stay alive and healthy. I don’t waste them on the soon dead.”

“It was my lawyer didn’t answer, not St. Peter.”

She chuckled and fussed around the cupboards.

“You need to shimmy out of the shirt for me.”

It was a job, but I managed it without screaming.

Doc took a close look. “Nice color.” She traced those chilly fingers over the pattern. “Someone took their knuckles to you, with malice, I’d say.” She pressed in a little.

I jerked away, sucking a deep breath. “Be kind to strangers, ma’am.” I said, with a long, slow exhale. Every movement hurt.

“Probably need an X-ray, but I don’t think they’re broken. Severe enough bruise that it’ll take a while to heal.” She stepped back enough to look me in the eye. “Heavy on the ibuprofen.” Doc leaned in so I had a clearer view of the forcefulness in her green-eyed glare. “Easy on the sporting activities. Especially combative ones.” 

I raised my hand in surrender. “I absolutely hear you, Doc. I promise to mind my manners going forward.” A shallow promise meant to soften her urgency.

“And take it easy on the leg. You twisted it good somehow, but it’ll heal. The ibuprofen should help with the discomfort there as well. And stop complaining about that lawyer. He’s probably home with his family. Where you should be.” She turned on me with a hypodermic needle.

“Whoa, Doc! Haven’t I been punctured enough for one day?”

“Stop whining. You can’t walk into oncoming traffic and then complain that you were hit by a truck. Nobody will care.” She waved the needle at me. “You’ll be fine. Nothing a good week’s rest won’t cure. Besides, I don’t have a shot for stupidity. This is for a real patient in the next room who needs a flu vaccination.” She walked out on me.

I buttoned my shirt, keeping clear of the bruising around my rib cage. It took more than a minute.

Doc Gibbons returned. “I called the Sheriff.”

“What if Kayla was abducted for an illegal adoption?” I asked before she could race away again.

Her intelligent eyes searched my face. “That’s a smart idea, Shamus. What turned you on to it?”

“Been tossing it around for a bit since I found the land deal between Aidan and Jenkins.”

Doc gave a gentle snort. “I should have caught on. Makes perfect sense out loud.” She spent some time straightening up the cupboard area. “You share this with Bernie?”

“I talked to Deputy Spiesz about it. He wants to introduce me to a rich friend who has some mysterious interest in the matter.”

She turned to stare. “A friend with money?”

“Seems so.”

Doc stepped closer. “Be careful of that, Connor. The court jester isn’t always the fool they appear.” 

De Lude and Spiesz showed up just then. The doofus deputy held his typical grin of wonder. De Lude’s glance held even less compassion than when he arrested my sister in front of me. 

“I believe I recommended you stay out of trouble, Mr. Pierce,” he said, mustache wrestling with his lip.

“Really, Bernard,” Doc Gibbons said. “A man is abducted in your jurisdiction and beat up and your response is to blame him? I’m ashamed and I’m damn sure your mother would be ashamed.”

Bernie de Lude scowled but his chin dropped an inch or two. The fat mustache rolled tightly around his lips. 

Spiesz’s grin grew into a bare toothed smile. It gave no hint that he suspected what I’d been doing so near his house. “Got back early,” he said to me. “Turns out they didn’t have the trial today.”

The sheriff gave him the shutup stare.

“D.A. wants us to wrap this case,” Sheriff de Lude told Doc. “Pierce’s muddling around makes that a bit more difficult.”

“His sister is accused of murder, you damned fool.” Doc’s ire flared giving her classic facial structure a ruddy tint.

De Lude went for the tough act. “You decide, Pierce. Keep poking your nose into things to find the real killer,” he stated with a fine emphasis on real. “Or maybe accept the truth that your sister lost her cool and stuck a pitchfork into the man she believed a threat to little Kayla.”

His lack of allegiance to the badge pissed me off. The heat in my face and neck made me forget the pains in my body for a moment. I ground my teeth to hold my tongue. Defiance only served to alert these dolts of my intent to keep searching. Confront them with their failure as cops and and they’d arrest me for a minor offense like jaywalking, or obstruction, to get me off their back. She was my little sister. My incompetence got her into this mess. I needed to get her out of it.

I steered my thoughts in a different direction.

“You’re not going to ask questions about my abduction? Isn’t your job to find the bad guys? If this isn’t all about Aidan Peale’s murder, why is someone attacking me?”

De Lude huffed. “Our job to find out who. You can’t expect us to do our job if you go around muddying the water by provoking lunatics.”