Sara (8 page)

             
Trina took over, “Sadly, no one ever remembers because so many kids pass by. There is a rivalry between CSU in Fort Collins and the University of Wyoming, but these kids also party together a lot. There’s a huge rock out on the highway that they’re always painting messages on. The point is,” Mrs. Lang took the photo of Sara from her husband and studied it carefully before handing it back to Mike, “it is impossible to tell these kids apart. She is a beautiful girl. I hope you find her safe.”

             
Mike took the photo and rubbed it with his thumb. His heart had been replaced by a lead weight and his eyes watered.

             
Trina Lang reached out and touched his hand. Empathy etched her face.

“When you finish your breakfast, why don’t you cross the street and talk to Pastor Popineau. He lives in the ministry quarters attached to the church, and I know he could be a big help to you.”

              Brian Lang smiled and added, “Pastor Gary is full of fire and brimstone on Sundays, but he’s a big teddy bear in person. He can help you see God’s plan a little clearer.”

             
Mike placed Sara’s photo back in his pocket and smiled.

“It’s been a long time since I have passed through the
doors of a church,” he said. “It just might fall in on me.”

             
Trina and Brian Lang stood together.

“We’ll leave you alone,” Trina said
. “Give the pastor a holler. God speaks to us in lots of different ways, Mr. Haller. It’s up to us simply to listen.”

Mike stood outside the Sightseer Inn and checked his cell phone for the time. He wanted to find the sheriff and talk to him about these other missing persons, but he knew that Jean
would show up at any minute. Pushing a small rock from the sidewalk with his left foot, he looked up and studied the brilliant white church across the street.

             
The church stood on the highest point in the small community of Ranch Springs. Clapboard siding framed beautifully arched windows made from leaded glass. An entrance porch offered shelter beneath a steeple that rose to a masterfully balanced point, giving perch to an elegant Latin cross. The ministry quarters sat at a right angle to the chapel in a flourish of primrose and lavender.

Mike ambled across
the street and followed a cobblestone path to the ministry quarters. Gently knocking on a red lacquered door made from solid oak, he fidgeted. When no one answered, he turned and hesitated before turning back and knocking again. The door finally opened to reveal a heavy man in beige cargo pants and long-sleeve camp shirt, buttoned tightly over his expanding waistline.

             
The pastor scowled at Mike and opened the door a little wider.

“What can I do for you, young man?” he asked impatiently.

              Mike immediately regretted coming.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “
Mr. and Mrs. Lang across the street suggested I come over and talk to you. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

             
Pastor Popineau looked across the street and finally smiled.

“Of course not,” he said in a low voice.
“I was just coming out to do a little gardening. Do you mind if we speak out here?”

             
“Great,” Mike said, and stepped back. “You have a beautiful garden.”

             
The heavy man moved through the door and closed it behind him.

Offering his hand to Mike, he s
aid, “I am Pastor Gary Popineau. How can I be of assistance?”

             
Mike shook the Pastor’s hand and tried to smile back. “My name is Mike Haller,” he said.

Noticing the Pastor’s glance at his uniform, Mike pulled
his hand from the grip of the minister and tried to smooth away the wrinkles in his uniform shirt. “I am a deputy with the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department,” he continued, “but I am not here on official business. Well, it could be considered official business,”

Mike hesitated, “
But I’m not really here in an official capacity.”

             
Pastor Popineau placed his hand on Mike’s shoulder.

“Son, son,” he said quietly. “It is obvious that you have come here with a
heavy heart.” He led Mike to a flagstone bench. “Please sit, and share with me what has brought you to my door.”

             
Mike sat with the minister. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m not sure how to properly address you. Is it Father, or Padre, or…?”

             
Gary Popineau closed his eyes for a brief moment and smiled.

“Pastor Gary is what many of my congregation
call me.”

             
Mike laughed nervously. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t have much practice talking to men of the cloth. I probably should do it more often, but it’s pretty easy to find other priorities.”

             
Pastor Gary peered deeply into Mike’s eyes. “It is okay, son. We all talk to God in our own way. As long as you have not locked Him from your heart, He is there listening, as He is here listening right now.”

             
Mike diverted his gaze to a passing car. “I am here looking for my little girl,” he said with a shaky voice. “She was on her way to Wyoming when her car broke down outside of town.”

Mike drew in a deep breath,
“And now she’s missing.”

             
Pastor Gary slid closer to Mike and placed his hand on his shoulder.

“Oh
, Mr. Haller,” he murmured. “Have you spoken to the police?”

             
Mike nodded, “Yes, of course. The sheriff is looking into it.” Taking in a deep breath, he continued, “I just feel so helpless. I feel like events are spiraling around me and I have no ability to make sense of any of it.” Looking back to Pastor Gary, he added, “In my line of work, I sometimes talk to parents of missing children and I offer them advice about staying hopeful and never giving up.” Mike shook his head, “I can’t even follow my own advice. I just want to charge in and find my daughter and murder any person who may have brought harm to her, and if I can’t do that, I just want to curse God and crawl into a dark hole and die.”

             
Pastor Gary moved his hand to the back of Mike’s neck.

“I understand
this dark place you are talking about, Mike. Satan puts these obstacles in our path to divert us from God’s love. He wants you to curse God and he wants you to crawl into that dark hole because that is where he lives.”

Pastor Gary released Mike’s neck and took his hand.

“In the Book of Job, God gives Satan permission to test Job’s love by taking away his sons and daughters. Satan inflicts Job with boils and sickness, and Job’s own wife finally commands him to curse God and die. But Job remains strong in his faith and worships the Lord even more.”

             
Mike finally broke down and cried.

“I don’t understand,” he said through quiet sobs. “I have tried to live my life as a good person
. I have raised my daughter to be kind and empathetic to man. Why would God punish us like this?”

             
Pastor Gary shook his head slowly, “Mike, God’s discretion is divine. He does not arrange suffering for the purpose of retribution. He presents this suffering to you as a gift to make your love and worship stronger than ever. By making you strong, He will save you from Satan.”

             
Mike closed his eyes and let tears flood his cheeks.

“Would it be wrong to ask God’s help in finding my little girl?”
he asked.

             
Pastor Gary smiled, “Of course not,” he said. “Would you like to pray with me to ask His guidance?”

             
Mike pulled the photo of Sara from his pocket and straightened a folded corner.

“This is her h
igh school photo from last year,” he said.

             
Pastor Gary admired the photo for several seconds before closing his eyes to pray with Mike.

fifteen

Sara roused with a start to the soft sound of water trickling over moss covered rocks. The gentle bubbling did nothing to deflect a stabbing fear that she was not alone. The air was cool as the sun peeked over a mountain to the east. Sara’s breath formed a cloud near her chin and brought some comfort with the realization she was still alive. Her body ached and the wound under her right breast roiled in agony.

             
Sara sat perfectly still, moving only her eyes to survey the forest around her. Something had startled her awake and she vowed not to twitch a muscle until she discovered what it had been. Her left arm begged to be repositioned and her legs tingled from loss of circulation.

             
There
! Her breath stopped. A female mountain lion stood at the creek, not thirty feet downstream. Its slender body craned luxuriously and blended perfectly with the shadowed forest floor, projecting an air of cavalier strength. The cougar lowered its head to the water and lapped while her ears remained peaked, listening for any sign of danger during her moment of vulnerability.

             
Sara began to tremble; her instincts cried out for flight. She watched the lion drink her fill from the brook before sitting gracefully in the long grass, licking moisture from her broad paws. The cougar’s ears twitched and she stopped her chore to concentrate on whatever had captured her attention. Finally standing, the lion stretched again, looked directly at Sara and froze. For a full minute, the cat studied Sara with golden eyes, exhaling a deep throaty growl that stiffened the hairs on her neck. Sara closed her eyes tightly and willed the mountain lion away. The forest became silent as she listened to her own pounding heart, gorging her middle ear with blood in some endemic preparation for danger. She quaked in anticipation of the vicious attack to come. When it failed to materialize, she opened her eyes slowly to see the puma slipping gracefully back into the darkened forest. Sara let her breath out slowly, and the cloud that formed in front of her, reminded her once again that she was still alive.

The trail weaved through young aspen and willow, jumping the gurgling stream back and forth in a playful game of leapfrog. The winding brook took Sara through open meadows, teaming with fluttering moths and abundant sunshine,
then led her through a tangle of fallen and twisted pine. Sara’s stomach moaned and tightened with hunger. She picked at soft red raspberries along the trail and dropped to her knees to consume a patch of small wild strawberries that grew in a clearing.

             
Sara remained vigilant for any sounds that might come from the men who could be hunting her. She watched carefully for lines that would not appear in nature. The straight edge of a steadily held hunting rifle, or a faint cough from a man troubled by allergies, could give her the warning she would need to stay alive a little bit longer.

             
The worn path finally turned away from the stream and disappeared through a grove of aspen trees. Sara halted and stood perfectly still. The roofline of a cabin peeked through the quaking leaves of the aspens. Sara watched the chimney, made from rusted pipe, for any sign of smoke. There was none. She listened for any sound of domestic animals or small children, or murderous men. The forest was silent, except for a light breeze, dancing through delicate branches, spinning silver leaves in a game of Ghost in the Graveyard.

             
Sara inched closer until the cabin came into full view. It was old, but kept in good repair. There was no obvious road that led to the cabin, only the path she had been following. A small window in the door appeared clean and new, and a large stack of freshly cut firewood stood sturdily at one end. What she could see of the interior through the small window appeared dark and uninhabited.

             
Sara waited a full thirty minutes before moving any closer. Circling the cabin, she finally convinced herself that it was empty; for the moment at least. She noted a small outhouse, made from rough sawn lumber, near the tree line to the south. The door stood partially open, revealing an empty interior. Thoughts coursed through her mind.
There may be food or medical supplies inside the cabin. There may be a radio, or a map, or a weapon to help protect her.
Sara stopped and squatted against a tree.
There may be a man, waiting to finish a grisly murder that was botched by a dull hunting knife.

             
Another half-hour passed before Sara finally rose and walked to the door of the cabin. She turned the door knob expecting it to be locked, and hesitated when the door opened silently on freshly oiled hinges. Sara peered through the opening and quickly determined that no person was inside. She noted an antique wood-fired cooking stove, an old metal footlocker, a whitewashed hutch, and a wood framed bed with a semi-clean mattress. Sara stepped out, surveyed her surroundings one last time, then entered the cabin, closing the door behind her.

             
Standing against the door, she inspected the interior of the cabin and could now make out cans of food and a set of blue enamelware dishes set neatly along the shelves of the hutch. Exhaling her breath slowly, she turned and latched the door and pulled a small curtain across the window. Sara couldn’t shake a feeling of absolute vulnerability inside the cabin. She could feel tremors racing through her muscles like an electrical current, mobilizing her body for a frenzied escape. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm her tattered nerves. She felt claustrophobic, boxed in, and completely exposed to any person who might walk through the door of the cabin. Sara breathed deeply again and coaxed her fears to that dark cell she found refuge in during the rape. If she were going to survive, she needed what this cabin had to offer.

             
Finally stepping away from the door, she fingered cans of soup, and Spam, and fruit cocktail along the top shelf of the hutch. She opened a drawer and found silverware, a can opener, matches, and folded washcloths. She quickly scanned the cabin for any signs of a radio or telephone and found none. Her eyes finally fell on the metal footlocker. She knelt in front of the rusted container and lifted the lid with her good arm. Folded blankets, a pillow, toilet paper, and a small first aid kit sat neatly inside. She pulled out the first aid kit and opened it, relieved to see sterile gauze bandages and medical tape inside.

             
Sara closed the lid and sat on top of the footlocker. With a sense of urgency, she emptied the first aid kit and picked up the roll of medical tape. The splint on her left wrist had loosened, so she repositioned the small branch and awkwardly taped it into place. Unbuttoning her blouse, Sara winced as she tugged the folded bra from the wound under her breast. The cloth had become cemented to the edges of the gash by dried blood and puss, and pulled painfully at the skin. Sara cried out when she witnessed several tiny larvae writhing along the jagged edges of the knife wound, eating away the toxic tissue. She closed her eyes and retched at the thought of these maggots feasting on her decaying flesh.

Covering
her eyes with her right arm, she cried out, “Oh my God, please help me.”

             
Sara sat for several seconds with her eyes closed, tears washing paths through the dirt on her cheeks. For the first time since she woke under that dirty mattress down the mountain, the realization of her grave situation flooded her senses. Sara leaned against the wall, brought her knees to her chest and screamed.