Down the Darkest Road

52

Lauren looked at her watch, nervous at the time. She needed to call Maria Gracida and ask her to keep Leah, make up some kind of plausible excuse for being late to pick her up.

What would she say? I’m on my way to confront the man who stole Leslie. I might be a little late? There was the very real possibility she might not come back at all.

She told herself she couldn’t think that way. For once, she had the upper hand. She was the one with the leverage—and the gun.

She went back to the 7-Eleven and used the same pay phone Ballencoa had used to make his mystery phone call, wiping the receiver off with the tail of her T-shirt, grimacing at the idea that he had held it in his hand and put it to his face.

The phone at the Gracida stables rang and rang. Lauren listened impatiently. She’d spent enough time in working barns to know there was no receptionist to take calls. The priority of the staff was the horses. If someone who spoke English happened to be near the phone, it would get answered. If Maria was teaching or riding, or there was no English-speaking groom, or a client kind enough to pick up nearby, the call would eventually be picked up by the answering machine in the office.

“Rancho Gracida, Maria speaking.”

“Maria, it’s Lauren Lawton.”

“Oh, Lauren, you’re home. I’m so glad.”

“I’m not home, actually,” Lauren said. “I was just calling to let you know—to let Leah know—I might be late.”

“Oh . . . well . . . I took Leah home a while ago,” Maria said. “She wasn’t feeling well. I told her I would wait with her until you got back, but she just wanted to go to bed. I made sure she locked the door behind me.”

A strange, cold sensation went through Lauren. Suddenly she wished she hadn’t been so hasty in turning down Greg Hewitt’s suggestion that he keep an eye on Leah. She felt her daughter was safe at the Gracidas’s; there were so many people around that nothing could happen and go unnoticed. And Ballencoa wouldn’t know to go there, anyway. Home alone was another matter.

“I tried to call you before I took her home,” Maria said.

“I wish you hadn’t left her,” Lauren said with an edge in her voice as fear seeped through the chill within her.

“I asked her if she wanted me to stay. She said she would be fine.”

“She’s fifteen.”

“We thought you’d probably just run downtown for something. With the doors locked and the gate, she should be fine—”

“Her sister was abducted, Maria. What the hell were you thinking?” Now came the anger from the deepest part of her. A mother needing to protect her young—and doing a piss-poor job of it.

“I was thinking she would be fine inside a locked house behind a gate—”

Lauren hung up on her, dug another quarter out of her pocket, fed the phone, and dialed home.

The phone rang . . . and rang . . . and rang . . .