“Morning, Earl.” She greeted the shopkeeper. “Any packages for me today?”
“Mail’s not in yet, Doris. Though Margie should be along soon.”
As they chatted, I weighed my options.
Waiting for the mail truck now seemed risky.
If Nathan’s men had been here distributing flyers, they might return, or the storekeeper might make the connection between the missing woman and the stranger in his shop.
Doris finished her business and headed back outside.
On impulse, I followed her.
“Excuse me,” I called softly.
She turned, squinting at me in the sunlight.
“Yes, dear.”
“I couldn’t help overhearing. Do you live nearby?”
“Just up the road,” she replied, gesturing vaguely. “Why do you ask?”
I made a quick decision.
“I’m having car trouble and I really need to get to Callispel today. I’d be happy to pay for a ride if you’re heading that direction.”
Doris studied me for a moment.
“Not today, I’m afraid, but my son is dropping by this afternoon with supplies. He lives in Colia Falls, just outside Callispel. He could probably help you out.”
Relief washed through me.
“That would be wonderful. I’d be so grateful.”
“Come along then,” she said, heading toward an ancient pickup truck. “No sense waiting here in the sun. You can have some lunch while we wait for him.”
As we drove the short distance to her ranch house, I glanced nervously at every passing vehicle, expecting to see the black SUVs from Frank’s property, but the roads remained quiet, the mountains indifferent to my plight.
Doris chattered amiiably about local history and her family as we bumped along the dirt road.
I responded with appropriate interest while keeping my fabricated backstory consistent.
A wildlife photographer from Minneapolis visiting Montana for the first time.
Her home was modest but comfortable, sitting on several acres with a barn and corral visible behind it.
As we pulled up, I noticed another vehicle already parked in front, a silver sedan with tinted windows.
“Looks like Tommy’s here early,” Doris remarked cheerfully.
But as we approached the house, the front door opened to reveal a woman whose appearance struck me like a physical blow.
Sophia, my daughter, stood on the porch, her expression shifting from pleasant to shocked as she recognized me.
For one frozen moment, we stared at each other, the daughter who had betrayed me and the mother she believed she had sent to her death.
Then her hand moved to her purse, and I knew with cold certainty what she was reaching for.
“Doris, get down!” I shouted, shoving the older woman aside as Sophia withdrew a pistol from her bag.
The first shot splintered the wood of the porch railing as I dragged Doris behind her truck for cover.
“What in God’s name?” Doris began, her voice shaking.
“That’s my daughter,” I explained breathlessly, the absurdity of the situation not lost on me. “And she’s trying to kill me.”
In the distance, I heard the rumble of approaching vehicles, reinforcements.
Undoubtedly, the trap was closing.
And this time there would be no secret passageways to escape through.
“Your daughter,” Doris repeated, shock rendering her momentarily speechless as another bullet pinged off the truck’s hood.
“Why would your daughter?”
“It’s complicated.” I gasped, my mind racing. “Is there another way out of here?”
Doris nodded, her initial shock hardening into surprising resolve.
“The barn connects to the back pasture. There’s an access road the ranch hands use.”
She fumbled in her pocket, producing a set of keys.
“My husband’s old Jeep is in the barn. Still runs.”
A voice called from the direction of the house.
Sophia’s voice, sweet and reasonable, betraying nothing of her murderous intent.
“Mom, is that you? Thank God we found you. Everyone’s been so worried.”
The performance was chilling in its believability.
If Doris had been alone, she would have certainly emerged, never suspecting the danger.
“We need to move,” I whispered to Doris. “When I say now, run for the back of the barn. Stay low.”
The rumble of engines grew louder.
Through a gap beneath the truck, I glimpsed two black SUVs turning onto the property’s long driveway.
“Now!” I shouted, and we both scrambled to our feet.
Another shot rang out as we fled, dirt kicking up at our heels.
Doris was remarkably spry for her age, keeping pace as we zigzagged toward the barn’s rear entrance.
We burst through the door, startling chickens that had taken shelter in the shade.
The barn was mercifully spacious, offering multiple hiding spots among stacked hay bales and equipment.
There, Doris pointed to a tarp covered vehicle in the corner.
“That’s Harold’s Jeep. Keys should work, but it hasn’t been started in months.”
I ripped away the tarp to reveal a vintage Jeep Wrangler, dusty, but intact.
While Doris barred the barn door with a beam of wood, I slid behind the wheel, inserted the key, and said a silent prayer.
The engine coughed, sputtered, then roared to life.
“Thank you, Harold,” Doris murmured, crossing herself before climbing into the passenger seat.
“You should stay,” I told her. “Tell them I forced you. They have no reason to hurt you.”
She fixed me with a steely glare.
“Young lady, I may not understand what’s happening, but I know wrong when I see it. Nobody shoots at people on my property. Besides,” she added, reaching under the seat to withdraw a weathered shotgun. “I know these back roads better than anyone.”
Before I could respond, shouts erupted from the front of the barn.
The doors rattled as someone tried to force them open against the barricade.
I threw the Jeep into gear and aimed for the rear doors, which hung slightly a jar.
We burst through them in a shower of splinters, fishtailing onto a dirt track that led away from the house toward the tree line that marked the property boundary.
In the rear view mirror, I glimpsed figures pouring out of the barn, Sophia among them, her face contorted with fury.
The black SUVs were redirecting, attempting to cut us off.
“Left at the creek bed,” Doris instructed, bracing herself as we bounced over the uneven terrain. “These logging roads connect all through these mountains. They’ll never catch us if we stay off the main roads.”
I followed her directions, grateful for local knowledge, as we plunged into a labyrinth of unmarked dirt tracks that wound through dense forest.
The jeep handled the rough terrain admirably, though every bone in my body protested the jarring ride.
“Now,” Doris said once we’d put several miles between us and her ranch, “I think it’s time you told me why your daughter is trying to kill her own mother.”
As we navigated the backwoods of Montana, I gave Doris the condensed version, Frank’s discovery of corruption, his faked death, Nathan and Sophia’s involvement, and the evidence that could bring down their entire operation.
“So, your husband isn’t actually dead?” she asked, her weathered face registering continued disbelief.
“Apparently not, though I’ve only heard his voice on the phone.” She shook her head. “And I thought the Tel Nollas I watch were far-fetched.”
Despite everything, I laughed, a sharp, surprised sound that felt foreign in my throat.
“Trust me, I’m still struggling to accept it myself.”
“Where are we headed?” Doris asked as the forest began to thin, giving glimpses of a valley beyond.
“Calispel, there’s a federal agent there who Frank said would help. A man named Marcus Wilson.”
Doris nodded thoughtfully.