Chapter 7 #2
Steep forested slopes barricaded one side of the road, while the other fell down to the dark blue of Shelly Lake, winding along the highway. Sagebrush dotted the land, along with towering pines. Homes with long winding driveways overlooked the lake.
They drove into town, passing a couple cafés and coffee shops as well as eateries and motels. She spotted a waterfront area.
“Cute town,” James said.
She expected him to stop.
Instead, he kept going, through town and then out, along the highway.
“Where are you going?”
“I got a look at your pin yesterday. I think I can find this.”
Huh. “We could stop and ask.”
He nodded but said nothing.
Weird.
A little way out of town, he turned onto another paved road. The landscape here had thinned, and they passed farmhouses and A-frames and even a vineyard, then the road became dirt, spongy with rain.
And it occurred to her, a fist deep in her gut, that James seemed to know exactly where he was going.
A secluded two-story timber-framed cabin came into view, rustic charm amidst the wilderness, with a wraparound porch, and beyond that, another lake.
The gravel driveway crunched under the RV’s tires.
An SUV sat in the driveway. And as they got closer, she spotted a child’s plastic playset in the grass.
James pulled in and put the RV in park. Glanced at her. “Hope this is the right place. Do you know these people?”
She shook her head. “North might have mentioned him once, and I think York’s wife might be related to someone who works with him…I don’t know. Hopefully York can straighten this all out.”
She got out, the rain still falling, a chilly breeze coming off the lake. A glass front door reflected the sticky handprints of a child. Selah took the steps up, then rang the bell.
It dinged in the house, and a dog barked from inside.
“I’ll be right there!” The voice emerged muffled, then footsteps and, “Hana! Please get this dog!”
Selah spotted a woman inside, dark hair, holding back what looked like a golden retriever, then handing her grip over to a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, blonde hair. The girl made the dog sit as the woman came to the door. She picked up a toddler on the way and put him on her hip.
She unlocked and opened the door. “Can I help you? Are you lost?”
“Um. No, I’m…” Selah frowned. “I’m looking for York Newgate?”
The woman’s mouth opened, then closed, and she hesitated. “He’s not here right now. Can I ask who—”
“I’m Selah Silver. Hamilton Jones told me find York. I was in a train wreck a few days ago.”
“Oh. My. That’s you. Yes, of course. Ham called me.”
And then her expression changed. She set down the little boy and opened the door. “Come inside, now.”
Okay. “Um, I have a friend—”
The woman looked past Selah, out into the driveway, and her eyes widened. Then she grabbed Selah’s arm. “Get in here. Now.”
Selah turned, glanced back.
James had gotten out of the RV and was running up to the porch.
“Hana! Get Josh to the safe room!”
What—
But the woman was jerking Selah inside the storm door. Then she slammed a big wooden door. Locked it.
And then she turned, her eyes fierce on Selah, and said darkly, “What have you done?”
* * *
Last night’s conversation played through North’s mind as he guided Frank’s borrowed truck along the winding forest roads. He had to take the back way to Shelly.
In the rain.
Frank called it a shortcut. North called it lethal.
Pine branches scraped the roof, and despite summer, patches of snow remained among the high pines, sending streams of melting water down onto the road.
And of course, as he muscled the old truck around potholes big enough to swallow an elk, he heard the man’s voice in his mind.
The man who’d answered Selah’s phone.
“She’s fine. Taking a bath.”
And he didn’t know why, but he’d sensed a smile on the other end of that line. Like the man might have been playing a game with him.
“Who’s this?”
“I’m her friend James. Who’s this?”
“Let me talk to her.”
“She’s indisposed. I’ll have her call.”
“I want to talk—”
The line had gone dead.
North had spent the night staring at his phone, willing it to ring. Pacing Frank’s guest room.
It hadn’t helped that his follow-up call to Ham had netted them both the same realization.
Selah was most definitely with Alan Martin. Ham had told her to go to York’s place and sent her a pin before he realized Martin was listening.
So, that was excellent.
Ham had said he’d also send a pin to North. Except, of course, North would need cell service to get it.
North had tried to tell himself that she wasn’t going anywhere until morning, and had finally lain down on the guest bed and stared at the ceiling.
Might have slept.
Or not.
He had been up before dawn and met Frank in the kitchen. The man wore a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans and sipped coffee, staring out at the sunrise. He’d glanced at North. “Any luck?”
“Sleeping? No. Finding Selah? Again, no.”
And that’s when the man had fished out keys from his pocket. “Go on down the mountain about a half mile and you’ll get cell-phone coverage. Maybe you can get those directions.”
The directions to York’s place.
His phone had pinged with the pin before he’d even reached the half-mile mark. And then a voicemail from Ham, left sometime last night.
We’ve got problems. York’s gone dark. None of my contacts can reach him.
Glorious.
North had downloaded the offline GPS, then called Ham back before he returned to Frank’s place.
“Have you heard from Selah?”
“No,” Ham had said. “And I’ve been up all night trying to get ahold of York—and you. Where have you been?”
“Sightseeing—where do you think I’ve been?” He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. “Did you pick up her GPS?”
“No. But I called Ruby Jane, York’s wife. She’s ex-CIA. Still works for the Caleb Group sometimes. She’ll be ready.”
“For an assassin.” He’d put the truck into Drive.
“He wasn’t an assassin so much as an operative.”
“Semantics. Listen, I’m going to lose signal, but I’ll get to York’s place. Keep trying him.” North had hung up and floored it back to Frank’s house.
The man had stood on the porch as North drove up. He’d met him on the soggy lawn. “Anything?”
“I’m going to a place called Shelly. It’s down the highway over to Wenatchee and back north—”
“Or you take the backcountry. C’mon.” He’d gestured for North to follow, and they’d headed back into the house.
Frank had pulled out a folded Washington State map and spread it over the table.
His weathered finger landed on the town of Shelly.
“Here’s where you’re going. You could go south.
Or…” He’d grabbed a highlighter from the desk.
“You take the fire service roads. They’re all open by now, although you might see snow on the higher passes, but you follow these”—he ran his highlighter over thinly marked trails—“and you can work yourself over to Shelly.”
He’d looked up. “What’s the address?”
North had widened his screen and read it off. Frank had circled it on a map. “If you go this way, you shave off at least an hour, maybe more.” He’d folded up the map. “Take my truck, son.”
North had met his eyes. “You sure?”
“I got Butch’s. But try not to bang her up, okay?”
North had taken the map, then stuck out his hand. “I don’t know what to say, sir.”
“Just do the right thing, get your girl, and trust that God has a plan.”
That seemed like a tall order, but North had nodded as Frank shook his hand and clamped him on the shoulder.
Miriam had appeared then and handed him a coffee. “Be safe.”
He’d headed to the truck, then opened the map on the bench seat and motored out of the driveway.
Forty-five minutes later, the coffee gone, the rising sun painted the mountains gold. The land was rustic up here, swaths of timber broken with granite tumbles of rock amidst lush forest.
And not a house in sight. He could be driving into Canada for all he knew. But he’d followed Frank’s directions…
North’s mind raced through scenarios, contingencies, ways this could go wrong.
And of course, Frank’s words rumbled through his head. Find her. Save her. But don’t lose yourself doing it. That’s what separates us from them—the ability to do dangerous things while keeping our souls intact.
He wasn’t sure he could do that last part if Alan had hurt the woman he loved. North gripped the steering wheel and shot a look toward heaven.
Make me your man, Lord. Don’t let me walk away from you in my anger.
He slowed, then stopped and consulted the map as the mountain road cut south. So far, it seemed right.
And as he drove, he spotted a house. Then another, and more and more, on hillsides and in valleys, and finally, below, a lake.
He pulled over and studied the map again. Felt like he was downrange again, following a terrain map, on mission.
He pulled out found pavement, then a turn-off onto a dirt road, and finally, a timber-framed house appeared through a break in the trees. North slowed, assessing.
The house blended into the woods, with a wraparound porch and a view of a lake, and an old Winnebago and black SUV parked outside.
North eased Frank’s truck behind the RV, out of sight from the house.
Oh, he should have brought a weapon. But frankly, his bare hands might be enough. Maybe.
He scooted alongside the SUV and looked inside. Keys dangled in the ignition.
The morning air bit through his borrowed flannel shirt as he moved toward the house. The storm door window was shattered, the frame broken, a heavy wooden door hanging open.
His gut tightened. Okay, so he’d found the right place.
He stilled, but no sounds lifted except the call of birds and the creak of branches in the wind.
They had to be here. He eased inside.
Wait. Gas. The scent hit his nostrils as he approached the back door.
A crash—glass breaking.
Okay, he definitely needed his weapon.
He headed down the hallway…and paused in the doorway to the kitchen.
A man in a black shirt poured something across the hardwood floors. The liquid gleamed in the morning light.
Oil?