His groin tightened in anticipation as he drove south on I-80 to Highway 50, then east on what used to be State Route 16 to Sutter Creek. He’d found the old abandoned gold mine there months ago. It was hidden well off the beaten track and virtually unknown.
He checked his watch. A little more than an hour. He heard the thump of the body in the trunk of the car and grew harder, his pulses thrumming with arousal.
One hand on the wheel, he unzipped himself and reached into his pants with the other hand.
When consciousness returned, Angie Hunt became aware of the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt and the rocky bump of a dirt road. She was curled on her side in a small space – the truck of a car?
The steady sound of the engine stopped abruptly, and her body was handled roughly as someone dragged her along uneven ground, feet first. Rocks jabbed her back, and brush tore at her clothes. She wanted to protect her head, but when she tried to lift her arms, they were uncooperative lumps of lifeless flesh.
A cold wind whipped through her coat. Her body hurt like she’d been somebody’s punching bag. Her fingers were numb and her head throbbed.
He must’ve clobbered her hard, she thought, as she drifted in and out of consciousness. She squinted at the dim night sky, and suddenly was hauled roughly into a place darker and less windy.
To think her life would end like this – after the hard road she’d walked – seared her chest with a pain more real than the one in her head. Even as despair overwhelmed her, she shook herself like a wet dog.
Angie Hunt was a fighter. She’d survived six years living on the street, drug addiction, and cancer. She’d eaten out of dumpsters and sold her body for smack. She’d begged on street corners and woken to find rats gnawing on her fingers.
She’d gotten through those bad years, and she wasn’t going to let some crazy-ass mofo take her down. She only weighed 115 pounds, but she was wiry and tough, and suddenly had a profound desire to live.
She was a survivor, she chanted silently. A damn survivor.
She passed out again and woke cold and wet. A dank, dimly lighted place. What the hell? He’d hauled her inside a cave? A single lantern lighted the interior and cast spooky shadows on the walls, horrible demon-like images.
Weak and dazed, Angie struggled to sit up, looking helplessly around. He was gone now, but she knew he’d be back. Tears made dusty trails down her cheeks and her nose dribbled snot. Crazy-ass mofo had dumped her on a tattered blanket and left her to die!
For a moment indignity overcame terror. Then a wave of despair swept through her. How could little Angie Hunt from Madison, Arkansas, fight against the white establishment of Rosedale, California?
Yeah, he was gone now, but she knew he’d return. And soon.
What chance did she have to survive?
By midday, her patient recovering nicely, Frankie Jones returned to the living room and curled up in the worn, comfortable chair she’d done homework in as a child. She felt the sweet drowsiness of memory and her father’s presence wrap her in a blanket of security.
She wouldn’t sleep she told herself, even though she’d had no rest for over twenty-four hours. Just a brief respite. Just a minute or two of closing her eyes. Checking her eyelids for cracks, her father used to say. She smiled as her mind wandered lazily and she relaxed her tired body.
Cole Hansen had mentioned prison talk about something illegal – illegal music. Musical instruments, like a keyboard or piano. An organ. She pictured the giant instrument, the tall various-sized pipes, the pedals, the double keyboards, the ... the organ. She felt herself go limp, her body succumbing to much-needed rest.
Music. Organ.
Organs.
Cole simply hadn’t understood how the overheard chatter fit with Anson Stark and his terrible, threatening plan of harvesting inmates’ organs.
Chapter 49
Sharon Fasser was a frazzled-looking white woman, bleached blonde and a little on the plump side, hurried through the gate to unlock the door to the lobby. “Sorry, guys, sorry.” She panted heavily and pushed her way inside, moving directly to Angie’s office and dumping her things on the desk.
Cruz followed her. “Where’s Angie?”
The blonde looked harried, but guarded. “Who are you?”
“Parole officer.” Cruz indicated the badge at his waist and repeated the question. “Where’s Angie?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. She didn’t show up, I got a call from one of the people, here I am. I never know anything,” she complained. “She’s a recovering addict. You know how it goes.”
“You file a missing person’s report?”
“Get serious. You think the cops care if someone like Angie goes missing a few hours?” She shrugged. “She’ll turn up.”
Cruz’s large body framed the doorway. “You don’t like her much.” It was a statement, not a question.