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  She lived in rural Harlowe, and as they drove east through miles of tobacco farms, the sky darkened with a gathering storm. Sam parked in front, eyeing the property, a white clapboard farmhouse, with a black SUV in the gravel drive. Someone pulled the drape slightly from an upstairs window, then dropped it.

  Remi, the book in her lap, patted the front cover, saying, “Let’s get this thing delivered.”

  “You sure you want to give it to her?”

  “Yes. It has to be better than tying it up in evidence or even probate for who knows how long. Maybe his daughter can tell us what’s so important about the book.”

  Together, they walked up the path, and Sam knocked on the front door. It opened a moment later a few inches, and Bree looked out at them. Her eyes were red and slightly swollen, no doubt from crying. “Mr. and Mrs. Fargo . . .” She gave a faltering smile. “You have the book?”

  Remi handed her the brown-wrapped parcel. “How is your cousin?”

  “She’s . . . not well.” Bree hugged the book to her chest. “I’d invite you in, but . . .”

  “No worries,” Remi said. “We were wondering, though, if you know what was so important about this volume. Why someone might be looking for it?”

  “No.” She gave a slight shrug. “But thank you. For bringing it all this way.”

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  Bree nodded.

  When the silence became awkward, Remi took a step back and smiled. “Let us know if you need anything.”

  “There is one thing I was wondering. How is Mr. Wickham? He wasn’t hurt in the robbery, was he?”

  “No.”

  Bree looked down at the book, then at Remi. “Tell him I miss him and that I’ll try to write to him. Would you?”

  “I’ll be glad to.” Remi linked her arm through Sam’s, saying, “We should get going. It’s a long flight home.”

  Sam gave a polite nod. “Bye.”

  “Good-bye,” Bree said, then closed the door as he and Remi returned to the car.

  Remi said, “She’s in trouble. You heard what she said? Asking me to pass a message to Mr. Wickham? Pickering’s cat? We need to go in there and rescue her.”

  “Not a good idea, Remi.”

  “But you’ve got a gun this time.”

  “One against how many? We don’t even know who’s in there. If you had yours, we might stand a chance.”

  She frowned at him, then took out her cell phone. “Then we call the cops and up our odds.”

  “Not in front of the house,” he said. “If she’s being held, they’ll be watching us.” He pulled away from the curb, then drove down the street.

  Remi phoned the moment they were out of sight, and the dispatcher directed them to wait at a market that was located off the highway about a mile inland. A few minutes after they pulled into the parking lot, her phone buzzed, and she saw she had a text from Selma to call home ASAP.

  Remi called, putting the phone on speaker. “You found something on the digital photos we sent?” she asked.

  “Not yet, Mrs. Fargo. But that’s not why I needed to talk. An officer stopped by a few minutes ago asking for you. They found Bree Marshall’s car abandoned on the side of the road not too far from the airport. There were several boxes of fund-raiser tickets and an envelope with checks made out to the Fargo Foundation in the vehicle. The officer was wondering if we wanted to pick them up from the tow yard.”

  Remi looked at Sam, who said, “Was there any indication of a struggle?”

  “He didn’t say, Mr. Fargo. But I expect if there was, he might have mentioned it.”

  “Thanks, Selma,” Sam told her. “We’ve just called a deputy to check on her. We’ll let him know.”

  About ten minutes later, a Carteret County sheriff’s deputy pulled up. The offshore wind whipped at him as he stepped out of his car, nearly blowing his hat from his head, and he directed them to the front of the store, where they’d be somewhat sheltered. Remi gave a brief explanation.

  The deputy’s expression turned dubious. “Is it possible her car broke down on her way to the airport? Maybe she called for a cab or something.”

  “Maybe,” Remi said. “But there’s also the matter of her telling us to pass a message on to her late uncle’s cat.”

  “A lot of people talk to their animals.”

  Sam, realizing the deputy failed to appreciate that bit of evidence, took a step forward, leveling his gaze at the officer. “Is it possible to ignore the reason we think our friend is in trouble and just check on her and see if she’s okay?”

  “Sure. Not that I don’t believe you,” he replied, sounding exactly as if he didn’t. “Just like to get the facts. I’m the only deputy in the area here, so if it’s something that I can handle myself, I will. Otherwise, we’re looking at waiting a good twenty minutes for backup.”

  “Of course,” Sam said. He took a card from his wallet, handed it to the deputy, saying, “Our cell phone numbers. Should anything come up in between here and there.”

  The deputy took the card, got into his patrol car, and drove off in the direction of the farmhouse.

  They were about to follow him over when Remi pointed toward a vehicle driving in the opposite direction as the deputy. “That’s the SUV that was parked at the farmhouse.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Definitely.”

  He started the car. “You see who was inside?”

  “Two men. I can’t say for sure, except the passenger’s profile reminded me of that gunman who robbed Pickering’s shop,” she said as he took off after the SUV. “What about Bree?”

  “The only deputy in a twenty-minute radius is checking on her. And judging from his reaction to your cat story, I highly doubt he’s going to drop everything and follow a car that we have absolutely no evidence is doing anything wrong even if we could get ahold of him.”

  “Good point.”

  The two-lane rural road wasn’t exactly one on which a person could drive unnoticed for too long. Even so, Sam did his best to keep plenty of distance between him and the SUV, figuring it was en route to Beaufort. Apparently it was headed to an industrial area near the water, and Sam followed as it made a right turn down a street that dead-ended into a dock with several large warehouses on one side. Sam slowed but didn’t stop as they passed the street. If the car was there, he saw no sign of it. “See anything?” he asked Remi.

  “No. It must have driven onto the dock or it’s between the warehouses out of sight.”

  Sam’s phone rang. He dug it from his pocket and handed it to Remi, who pressed the speaker function and held it up for Sam to answer.

  “Deputy Wagner,” came the voice on the other end. “Just wanted you to know that I checked the house. There was no answer.”

  “Sam . . .” Remi whispered.

  He glanced at his wife, then back at the road. “We appreciate you checking. We followed the car we saw parked at the house. My wife thought one of the men looked like the man who robbed us in San Francisco.”

  “Your friend wasn’t in the car?”

  “Didn’t see her.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Near the water about ten to fifteen minutes south of Beaufort.”

  “Do me a favor. Don’t do anything rash. I’ll try to get backup from Beaufort and meet you out there.”

  He disconnected, and Sam pulled over to the side of the road. “Guess all we can do now is wait.”

  Remi reached for the door handle. “We might not have fifteen minutes.”

  “Remi,” he said, reaching out, grabbing her arm.

  She stopped, looked over at him.

  He leaned in, kissed her, and said, “You didn’t think I was going to let you go out there alone, did you?”

  “Of course not.” She smiled at him and opened the door.
“Now let’s go find my friend.”

  Eight

  Sam slipped his revolver from its case clipped to his belt, then popped the trunk. Remi stood watch, ready to warn him if there was any movement. And though he hoped that they wouldn’t need any weapon, his instincts told him otherwise. There was only one vehicle seen on that roadway. If Bree wasn’t at the beach house, then she had to be in the SUV as it drove past. And, since they couldn’t see her, chances were good that she was either injured or dead.

  They both turned their cell phones on vibrate. Remi kept hers in hand—just in case—and Sam shoved his into his pocket. Sam gave Remi his Smith & Wesson, then took a tire iron from the trunk. “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready.”

  He peered around the corner. “Clear.”

  The wind gusted as they walked to the dock just beyond the first warehouse, the only sounds their footsteps on the wooden planks and the cry of the gulls as the water lapped against the pilings.

  There were no boats at the dock nor anyone working nearby. On closer inspection, the warehouses appeared abandoned, the windows broken, the doors padlocked shut from the outside.

  The perfect place to take a kidnap victim, Sam thought as he and Remi made their way, keeping close to the side of the warehouse.

  A faint sound caught his attention. He stopped, signaling for Remi to do the same. “Listen,” he whispered.

  “Sort of a rusty, squeaking sound.”

  He nodded toward the end of the warehouse they stood against. A gull cried out overhead, startling Remi as it dove down into the water just a few feet away.

  Sam gave her a thumbs-up signal.

  She nodded, then trailed him as he started forward again, following his lead as he ducked beneath a window to keep from being seen—on the chance someone was watching from within that particular warehouse. Unfortunately, the dock was long, and they didn’t know which warehouse they might have gone into.

  When they reached the end of the building, Sam peered around the corner, saw the SUV parked between buildings. A door of the warehouse on the far side of the vehicle stood slightly ajar. He stepped back. “It’s there.”

  “Anyone in it?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” he said. “The door is open on the next building. I’m taking a stab that’s where they are.”

  Remi nodded, then glanced back in the direction they’d come, hoping to see the deputy’s car speeding their way. Sam didn’t bother mentioning that he was at least ten minutes behind them. They were on their own.

  He watched the warehouse a few moments, wishing he had something beside a tire iron.

  His gaze strayed to the SUV, realizing they’d only seen the two men in the front. No other passengers.

  Sam motioned for Remi to stay put. He crouched down and moved over to the SUV, rising just enough to peer into the tinted back windows.

  Bree was there on the floorboard, her hands bound behind her, a gag over her mouth, her feet tied.

  He tapped on the window, relieved when she looked up at him. He put his finger to his lips to let her know that they weren’t going to leave her there.

  Bree nodded, and Sam tried to open the vehicle’s door. Locked, of course. He gave her a smile of encouragement, then checked to make sure it was clear before returning to Remi. “She’s in the car.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Tied-up, but appears okay,” Sam said. “We need to get a look into that warehouse first. Find out what we’re up against.”

  They made their way to the warehouse near the open door.

  Sam put his ear against the side of the building, but couldn’t hear anything. “What I wouldn’t give for that mirror from your purse right now.”

  “For what?”

  “To see inside that door without breaking cover.”

  She held up her phone. “How about a camera lens?”

  “As brilliant as you are beautiful.”

  “Flattery will get you—”

  “Everywhere?”

  “A cell phone,” she whispered as she accessed the camera feature, then handed it to him.

  Sam set the tire iron on the ground, then squatted down as he held the camera close to the floor. He angled it about, using the lens to see in, as he took a movie of the interior. After about a minute, he rose, stepped back, and played the recording.

  “There,” he said, pointing. They saw three men leaning on a workbench, at least two with guns in hand, looking down at something—probably the map book that Remi had turned over to Bree. The picture was small but clear.

  “Our two fake cops from the hotel,” Remi said.

  “And our robber from the bookshop.”

  Wait? Or move in? He weighed the risks. One gun and a tire iron against three armed men. So the odds sucked. But Sam had Remi, and when it came to capable partners, he’d take her over some brainless thug any day. He grabbed the tire iron and pulled Remi away from the doorway to the other side of the vehicle. “First thing,” he whispered, “is we get Bree out of this car.”

  His thought was simply to smash the car window—until he glanced over and saw the red light flashing on the dash.

  “Plan B?” Remi asked.

  Actually, his initial plan might still work. The vehicle looked like a base model, one he hoped didn’t come with what was often an added feature to the standard motion alarm—a glass-breakage alarm. He dug out his little knife and gave it to Remi and she put it in her pocket. “You cover me while I break the window. If the alarm doesn’t go off, wait until I’m at the back of the SUV before you unlock it. If it does go off, they’re going to run right toward us. You may only have seconds to cut her ties and get out of here while I rip off a few shots to slow them down.”

  She moved by the front fender, aiming his gun toward the warehouse door.

  Sam stood in front of the driver’s window, hefting the tire iron. Vehicle safety glass was designed to shatter yet hold together under impact—which meant he had to hit it in the right spot to get it to break. He’d have one chance. The alarm would definitely be set off by movement. He pulled back, then rammed the tip of the iron into the lower right corner. It shattered, diamond-like bits raining down onto the driver’s seat.

  Silence. So far, so good. He set down the tire iron, took the gun from Remi, and hurried to the back of the SUV. When he was in position, his aim on the door, he nodded at her.

  She reached in, popped the locks. The moment she opened the back door, a deafening wail filled the air. From the corner of his eye, he saw Remi ducking down, trying to cut Bree’s ties.

  Sam braced himself. The warehouse door swung open. A figure burst out, his gun aimed at the SUV and Remi.

  “Hey!” Sam cried. His .357 revolver barked. The shot struck the man in the face and he went down. Something flew from his hand. The car keys.

  Sam dove, scooped them up, then stood, shouting, “Remi. Keys!”

  He flung them over the top of the car.

  She caught them, then pushed the back door shut, opened the driver’s door, and slid in. The engine revved to life. Sam jumped into the passenger seat. He slammed his door shut just as the other two men raced out of the building, firing at the SUV.

  Remi hit the gas. The tires screeched as she backed perilously close to the edge of the dock.

  “Remi!” he snapped, bracing himself.

  “I see it.” She turned the wheel, braking hard as she threw it into drive.

  Sam looked back. The second man was aiming at them. Sam shot first and saw the third man fall and clutch his left knee.

  Remi jabbed the gas pedal to a stop. The sharp report of bullets hitting metal pierced their eardrums. “Come on,” she said as though urging the SUV to move faster.

  The tailgate window shattered. “Stay down.” He fired through the broken rear window. The two men dove for cover.
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  Remi slid as low as she could, not slowing until she reached the end of the street. She turned the corner, racing down the same road they’d arrived on, the first, fat drops of rain splatting against the windshield.

  In the distance, they saw the flashing lights of the deputy’s patrol car, then heard the faint sound of the siren as he sped toward them.

  Remi pulled over, and they got out of the SUV, waving at the deputy.

  He stopped beside them, cutting his siren.

  “We found our friend,” Remi said, then opened the passenger door.

  The deputy looked in, saw Bree still tied up, his mouth dropping open slightly. Then, recovering, asked, “Anyone hurt?”

  Remi removed the gag from Bree’s mouth. “How are you?” she asked.

  “Fi—” Bree stopped, took a deep breath. “Fine. My cousin? Where is she? Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said.

  Remi used Sam’s pocketknife to cut her ties as the deputy drew Sam to the back of the car out of the roadway. “What’s going on?”

  He gave a brief explanation, showing him the video on Remi’s phone, shielding the screen from the scattered rain.

  “Where did this happen?”

  Sam pointed north. “About five miles up. Some old warehouses on that first street near the docks. Second warehouse in.”

  The deputy glanced at the bullet holes along the right rear fender of the SUV and the missing rear window, then keyed his radio, reporting shots fired at one of the abandoned warehouses outside Beaufort. “Three suspects. Description: white male adults, dark clothing.”

  The dispatcher copied.

  The deputy started for his car, but Bree called out, “What about my cousin?”

  “What about her?” he asked.

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “At the house?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. No one answered the door. It was locked.”