After She's Gone (West Coast 3)

Snagging his keys off his dresser, he charged down the stairs when he heard a beep from his cell phone indicating a text had come through. Cassie?

His jaw tight, he glanced at the phone’s tiny screen and frowned. The message was a brief note from Carter:

Checked with L Sparks of the OSP. Larry Sparks was a lieutenant with the Oregon State Police. While at Jenna’s house Trent had filled Carter in about the search for the 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe. Luckily, Carter hadn’t balked at the source of the information, and had later confirmed that Sparks had promised to do some checking with the stipulation that Detective Nash of the Portland Police Department be kept in the loop. Neither Trent nor Carter had any problem with making certain the Portland PD was informed. Trent figured the more cops who were searching for Allie Kramer, the better.

Carter’s text continued:

9 vehicles: 07 Hyundai Santa Fe, Arctic white, beige interior etc. in the tri-county area. No plates with bucking horses.

No surprise there. Nine vehicles was a start, though the tri-counties didn’t include outlying counties in Southern Washington and out here, east of the Portland metropolitan area. Trent walked to the kitchen and found the dog on his heels. “Not this time, boy,” he said as he snatched his hat and jacket from a peg near the back door. “You hold down the fort.” After cramming his hat onto his head, he slipped his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and turned up his collar. Rain peppered the ground and the wind tore down the gorge as he jogged to his truck. Once inside, he switched on the ignition and dialed Cassie’s cell.

“Pick up,” he said, hearing the phone ring. Once, twice, three times. “Come on, damn it!” With the phone tucked to his ear, he turned the truck around, then hit the gas and started racing down the lane leading to the county road. He heard her phone click to voice mail. Damn! “Saw you take off. What’s up? Call me.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat.

Why the hell hadn’t she told h

im where she was going?

The simple answer was that she didn’t want him to know.

“Screw that,” he ground out as he reached the county highway and, with a quick look in either direction, cranked the wheel.

Fishtailing, the truck slid on the wet pavement before the tires caught. His cell phone jangled and he saw it was Carter. He picked up and wrestled with the idea of asking him if Jenna had heard from Cassie, but decided Carter would share that info if he had it and he didn’t want to worry Cassie’s parents . . . yet.

“Kittle.”

Carter’s voice was deep. Serious. “You saw my message about the tri-county area,” he stated.

“Yeah, just got it.”

“Sparks found about seven more scattered around the state, but the thing of it is, there are no Oregon license plates with an image of any kind of bucking bronco. Wyoming? Yes. Oregon? No.”

Of course, that would have been far too easy, Trent thought, scowling through the windshield as the truck’s tires sang against the wet pavement.

“So either your info is faulty, or you misunderstood.”

“He said a bucking bronc. I was there.” Frustrated, Trent snorted through his nose. He’d almost known this would turn out badly.

“Could he have been talking about the license plate holder? Not the plate itself, but some kind of decorative bracket fixing the plate to the SUV?”

“Maybe. But he seemed pretty sure of himself.” Of course Rinko was a patient in a mental hospital so he lost some credibility there.

“There are plate holders with any kind of image you want, you know. Like the name of the dealership, or if you’re a sports fan, you can get one for your favorite team, like the Trailblazers or the Oregon Ducks or Oregon State Beavers or whatever. Also, local dealerships offer to decorate plate holders.”

To Trent, looking for a decorative license plate holder with a horse on it was a long shot, a stab in the dark.

But what else did they have to go on?

“Sounds good,” he said, and clicked off, then turned the wipers onto the fastest speed offered. He tried his wife’s mobile number again.

Of course, she didn’t pick up.

His jaw slid to the side and he squinted into the darkness.

What the hell was she up to?

ACT III

Absently rubbing the scratches on her wrist, she stalked the perimeter of her room, barely eight by ten and dominated by her dressing table with its vanity mirror. A small window was cut into one wall. The other three were covered with large posters, mounted carefully. Each was from a movie starring either Jenna Hughes or Allie Kramer, one butting up to the next, a collage of pictures of the women in their most celebrated roles. There were other images on the posters, some with their costars’ faces, but dominating each poster was a close-up of Jenna or her famous daughter.