“I don’t know.”
“Gun?”
Another shake.
Then Clara whispered, “It had a needle.”
Doc stood completely still.
Stone’s gaze hardened.
“What were they doing with it?”
“I don’t know.”
Her tiny fingers curled into fists.
“But Noah said he felt funny.”
Doc grabbed the trauma bag.
Stone turned.
“Boone. Doc. Rafe. With me.”
All three men moved instantly.
“Mouse, call the sheriff.”
A thin, bearded rider near the jukebox pulled out his phone.
Stone added, “Tell them possible child endangerment, possible abduction, motel Room 17.”
Clara suddenly grabbed Stone’s wrist.
“Please.”
Stone looked down.
“They said if Mommy didn’t tell them where it was, they’d make Noah sleep forever.”
Something ancient and violent moved behind Stone’s eyes.
But his voice remained gentle.
“Clara, listen to me.”
She looked up.
“Nobody is making your brother sleep forever.”
Then he turned toward the door.
The distance between the Rustline and the motel was less than two hundred yards.
Stone crossed it as though every step were taking him toward something he had spent years trying to forget.
Boone caught up.
“You know that name?”
Stone did not answer.
“Stone.”
“I heard it.”
“Rebecca.”
“I heard it.”
Boone grabbed his shoulder.
Stone spun so quickly Boone released him.
Twenty years of friendship passed silently between them.
Boone lowered his voice.
“Is it her?”
Stone stared at Room 17.
“I don’t know.”
“But you think—”
“I said I don’t know.”
They reached the exterior staircase.
A curtain moved upstairs.
Stone stopped.
Room 17.
Someone was watching.
Then the curtain dropped.
“Police are eight minutes out,” Mouse shouted from behind them.
Stone looked toward Doc.
Eight minutes.
If a child had been injected with something unknown, eight minutes could matter.
Stone climbed.
Inside Room 17, Rebecca Whitmore knew they had lost control.
Not because Clara was missing.
Not yet.
Victor Hale had not noticed.
He was too focused on the object in Rebecca’s trembling hands.
A small brass key.
“You lied to me for twelve years,” Victor said.
Rebecca stood beside the motel bed.
Noah lay curled near the headboard, conscious but pale. One of Victor’s men held his shoulder.
The syringe sat unused on the nightstand.
Rebecca had managed to slap it away before they could inject him.
But Noah had been struck during the struggle.
The cut near his hairline was small.
The fear in his eyes was not.
“Mom,” he whispered.
Rebecca looked at him.
“Everything is okay.”
Victor laughed.
“You’re still doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Lying to children to make yourself feel brave.”
Rebecca’s fingers closed tighter around the key.
Victor looked different from the man she remembered.
Older.
Thinner.
But the eyes were unchanged.
Ice-blue.
Patient.
Cruel when patience stopped working.
Twelve years earlier, Rebecca had believed those eyes belonged to a man who loved her.
She had almost married him.
Then she had discovered what Victor really did for a living.
Not theft.
Not drugs.
Not even murder in the ordinary sense.
Victor Hale specialized in making people disappear on paper.
New identities.
Altered records.
Dead men turned alive.
