Sara (4 page)

five

Sara tried to lift herself from the shallow grave. Her left hand was useless and throbbing from the broken bone in her wrist. Her right arm worked, but pain screamed through her chest with the slightest movement. Exhausted, she abandoned the effort.

             
Having spent a year working as a nurse’s aide in the emergency room, she performed a slow assessment of her wounds. She used the fingers of her right hand to probe the cut on her throat. The shallow gash started at her left ear and stopped abruptly near the ridge of her wind-pipe. It was sore, but the bleeding had stopped and the wound wouldn’t need stitches to close. If the knife the driver had used had been any sharper, he would have certainly opened her carotid artery and she would have died in seconds. Sara shivered from the realization.

             
Moving to her left wrist, she noticed that her hand was swollen terribly and hung limply toward the thumb. She probed the puffy wrist with her right hand and felt the distinct grinding of bone on bone. She guessed that her radius was fractured. She would need to improvise a splint to stop the wrist from moving and help reduce the swelling.

             
Against protocol, she saved what she felt was the worst for last. Lifting her right breast with her right hand, Sara grimaced at the amount of blood that covered her waist. With some relief, she noted that the blood was dark, which meant that it was not arterial and it was not seeping from her lung. She took in a deep breath and winced at the pain in her ribs. Her lungs filled cleanly with cold air and no bubbles appeared in the wound. Good! That meant that her lung was not punctured.

             
While still holding her breast out of the way, Sara used her pinky finger to probe the knife wound in her chest. The knife had entered just under her right breast and was luckily deflected by her ribs. The blade had torn muscle from the rib-cage and finally exited near her right arm-pit. It was a deep purple mass of mottled tissue and clots, but not life threatening at this time. It needed to be cleaned soon. Flies were already being drawn to the smell of the dying flesh.

             
A twig snapped to her right and wrenched Sara from her evaluation. Fear flooded her senses as adrenaline dumped into her system and she physically began to shake. The solitude of the rain soaked forest closed in and threatened to smother her with its isolation. Sara had always felt at peace in the mountains; felt a part of the forest, teaming with life and rugged beauty. At present, she only felt seclusion. The mountains were now a place where men could bring a young woman and do unspeakable things without recourse. A place where no help would arrive and death seemed to stalk in every shadow.

             
Her breath came in short puffs as she waited for the two men to emerge from the tree-line where the trail disappeared downhill. She used her good hand to search for any weapon and came up with a jagged piece of white quartz. Her ribs screamed in agony. Her eyes watered, and for the first time since she had awaken, she felt her naked vulnerability under the cold rain.

             
A twig snapped again. Sara could do nothing but sit, frozen in place, shaking violently, staring toward the shadows from which the disturbance originated. She saw his legs first. Gray pants, dirty knees, dark shirt. No, maybe it was a fur coat.

             
A six-point buck stepped from the gloom and looked past Sara as if she wasn’t there. He was looking for three does which had remained in the trees and skirted the clearing where Sara sat. The mule deer lowered his rack and grazed on green grass near the trail.

             
Sara slowly released the breath she had been holding and lowered the jagged quartz to the ground, relieved in the knowledge that if the deer were here, then the men obviously weren’t.

             
The buck raised his head at the sound of the rock striking the ground and bolted when he saw the half-naked girl sitting in the shallow hole.

             
The flurry of action startled Sara. When the buck and three does finally disappeared, she was once again left to the soft rain and shallow grave. She looked around the clearing one last time. She had to leave this place. She knew the men who had raped and tried to murder her would return to finish the job.

six

Mike Haller actually smiled when he drove into the small town of Ranch Springs, Colorado. The welcome sign proudly announced a population of 1149 and presented the town’s motto, “Under God’s Gracious Sky,” in elaborate painted script.

             
Mike pulled into the dirt parking lot of a small general store and café and climbed from his car into the crisp mountain air. Looking toward the sky, he noted the gray clouds that covered most of the peaks of the Rocky Mountains.
Rain’s coming,
he thought to himself. The soft smell of wood-smoke reminded Mike of home and the fatigue from a long night without sleep washed away on the song of a male robin, sitting in a nearby Conifer. He straightened his wrinkled uniform, entered the store and found an older woman behind the counter, putting away a stock of cigarettes and tins of chewing tobacco.

             
Feeling Mike’s presence, the woman turned. “Hello, hun,” she greeted in a familiar tone. “Are you here for breakfast?”

             
Mike looked around the store. In a back corner, four round tables stood decorated in checkered linen with ketchup, salt and pepper shakers, and napkin dispensers set neatly in the middle.

             
“Maybe later,” he smiled at the woman. “Is there a hotel in town?” he asked.

             
The woman chuckled. “Not in Ranch Springs, honey. There’s a bed and breakfast across from the church at the top of the hill, but if a motel is what you’re looking for, you’ll have to go back to Fort Collins.”

             
Mike hesitated for a moment. The vision of Sara sitting in a cheap room, waiting for her car to be repaired, faded away. He pulled her photo from his shirt pocket and showed it to the woman.

“Have you seen this girl? She would have passed through here yesterday afternoon.”

              The woman studied the photo and shook her head. “Pretty little thing, but I can’t say that I have seen her.”

She looked at Mike and sm
iled, “Lots of kids come through here this time of year with college starting in Fort Collins and Laramie. Some stop here to use the restrooms or buy a soda, but most just zip on through.”

             
Mike tucked the photo back into his pocket and sighed. “Can you point me toward Duncan Towing?”

             
The smile disappeared from the woman’s face as she straightened her back and studied the deputy for the first time. Her demeanor changed slightly. In a cool tone she pointed west.

“Take Ranch Spring Road west to the edge of town.
You’ll see the impound yard on the right. The office is at the west end of the yard.”

             
Mike raised his hand to tip his hat and found that he had left it in the car. Touching two fingers to his brow, he opted for a casual salute instead.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said and walked from the store.

The impound yard stood behind an eight foot chain link fence at the edge of a barren red colored ridge left behind by the ancestral Rocky Mountains. Several cars sat on the lot in various states of disrepair. Sara’s Honda Civic was parked inside the fence between an ’82 Datsun pickup and an old Chevy step van once used as an ice cream truck. Mike felt a moment of relief and noted the shredded passenger’s side front tire on the Honda.

             
At the west end of the lot was a twelve-foot wide trailer house perched on cement blocks and surrounded by Skunk Brush and parched Spiderwort. An air conditioner sat tilted in a boarded window and a hand-painted sign hung near the door identifying the trailer as the
Office
.

             
Inside, Mike found a man in his late fifties with graying hair and dirty overalls, sitting behind a desk, focusing on a computer screen. The man squinted at something on the monitor, cussed to himself, then hunted for the right button to push on the keyboard.

He
looked up at Mike and grimaced. “This damn thing is impossible to understand. Give me a pad and paper any day.”

             
Mike smiled and nodded his head. “I know what you mean.”

             
The man threw his hands up in disgust and stood from his chair, offering his hand to Mike. “I’m Duncan Winter,” he said. “What can I do for you, officer?”

             
Mike shook the man’s hand and introduced himself. “Mike Haller,” he said. “I’m here for my daughter. You have her Honda Civic in the lot outside.”

             
Mr. Winter sat back at his computer and pecked at a few keys.

“Let’s see,
August twenty-fifth, zero-eight-two-five” he spoke quietly to himself. Finally looking up at Mike, he asked, “What’s your daughter’s name?”

             
Mike leaned slightly over the desk to view the screen. “Sara Haller. She had a flat tire yesterday afternoon and apparently our roadside service contacted you for the tow.”

             
Mr. Winter focused back on the computer. “So that’s where that damn Honda came from.” He shook his head. “I was off yesterday helping my brother-in-law dress out an elk.” He looked up at Mike. “Maybe you know him? He’s the Sheriff of Red Feather County.”

             
Mike shook his head. “No. I’m a deputy sheriff from Eagle County. I’m sorry to say that I don’t make it to this part of the state very often.”

             
Mr. Winter returned his focus to the computer and jabbed the enter key several times. “There’s no record of the Honda in the system yet. It really ticks me off when I can’t go away for one single day without this place falling apart.”

Duncan
Winter turned in his swivel chair and flipped a switch on a two way radio. Before keying the mike, he looked over his shoulder and explained, “My driver had to make a run up to the Wyoming border this morning for a DUI impound. State trooper says that catching drunk drivers on that road is like shooting fish in a barrel. Sometimes as many as ten each night on the weekends.”

             
Turning back to his radio he called, “Jordan, are you heading back with that impound yet?”

             
The radio crackled. “Yes, Mr. Winter. I’m just south of Virginia Dale. I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

             
“Good. I have a sheriff’s deputy here to pick up the Civic you brought in yesterday. Do you have the paperwork on that?”

             
There was a long pause.

             
“Jordan, did you hear me?”

             
The radio sat quiet for another moment before crackling back to life.

“Yes
, sir. I have the paper work right here.”

             
“Good. See you soon.”

             
Mike interrupted, “Would you please ask him about my daughter?”

             
Duncan Winter waved him off. “He’ll be in shortly and you can ask him yourself.”

Pulling open a drawer on the desk, the old man ret
rieved a large set of keys and stood. “Let’s go take a look at that car.”

             
Mike followed Mr. Winter out the door and waited for him to unlock and roll open the wheeled gates to the impound yard.

             
“Yup, she blew out her front tire alright. I wonder why Jordan didn’t just change the flat for your daughter and send her on her way?”

             
Mike walked around the car. “I was thinking the same thing, sir.”

             
The driver’s side door was unlocked so Mike opened it and peered inside. Sara’s purse and cell phone lay in the front passenger seat. Fast food wrappers littered the passenger’s floorboard and the keys were in the ignition. Boxes of clothes filled the back seat. Mike Haller reached down and pulled the lever to open the trunk. It was packed full of stereo equipment, books, pillows, and more clothes.

             
Duncan Winter peeked inside. “There’s the reason the flat didn’t get changed,” he pointed. “We won’t unload a trunk on the side of the road. It’s safer to bring the car back here and do it.”

             
Mike looked around the yard. “That’s fine, Mr. Winter, but where’s my daughter?”

             
Duncan Winter stuck his hands in his pocket. “Oh, I’m sure she’s tucked away safe somewhere close by. Jordan will know.”

             
Mike closed the trunk and leaned against the ice cream truck. “Tell me a little about your driver.”

             
Duncan Winter propped his hip against the Civic. He appeared a little nervous. “He’s a good kid,” he said. “Twenty-two years old. Single. His daddy was a drunk and killed himself in a wreck up on Deadman Mountain when Jordan was just a pup. He’s my sister’s boy. Been working for me since high school.” Mr. Winter stopped and looked around the lot. “He’s a little empty headed sometimes, but he has a good relationship with God. Goes to church every Sunday. Respectful. Like I said, he’s a good kid.”

             
Mike was about to ask another question when the deep growl of a diesel engine caught his and Duncan’s attention.

             
“Here he is,” Mr. Winter announced.

             
A black Super Duty Ford truck pulled through the open gate, towing a newer Toyota Four-Runner. The truck squeaked and groaned as the driver swung it in a circle and pointed it back out the open gate before coming to a complete stop. Jordan revved the engine before shutting it off, then sat in the front seat filling out a form on a wooden clipboard.

             
Mike caught the nervousness in the driver’s actions and his heart sunk.