The guy swallowed again. Looked like he was going to vomit. “It was no big deal. Just a harmless prank to let her know we don’t appreciate her kind on this land.” The fuck actually had the balls to glance at Jackson.
Jackson fisted his hands at his sides and fought the urge to punch this asshole in the nose.
“Her kind?” Trace’s words were high and loud. “You mean the female kind? The Caucasian kind? The skiing kind? What the fuck do you mean? That’s my only sister out there, you slimy piece of dog shit. Are you telling me Sandhouse had something to do with this?”
The guy paled.
“Do you know what that son of a bitch has done to my family in the last few years? Tell me where she is, or I’m liable to pull my gun, shoot you first, and ask questions later. Do you hear me?”
The guy nodded. A lock of his blond hair hung across his face and over one eye. He needed a cut. He could get it in jail for all Jackson cared. “Pete probably stopped her about two miles that way.” He pointed toward Cambridge. “He didn’t say anything about doing anything illegal, just that he was going to fuck with her and make her see reason.”
“Reason?” Trace released the blond with a shove, causing him to careen backward, almost landing on his ass. “Fuck you.” Trace spat at the ground in front of him and turned around to head back to the squad car at a dead run.
Jackson followed. His blood was pumping so hard, his blood pressure had to be through the roof. He climbed into the passenger side and swung the door shut while Trace did the same on his side.
Before Trace pulled away from the side of the road, another car sped past him, honking. A hand reached out the window to indicate they should follow.
Melinda. She sure hadn’t stopped for the roadblock. The woman was exceeding the speed limit by so many miles per hour she would surely go to jail for such an infraction. Jackson would thank her for it later.
Trace’s tires spun and then squealed loudly when he pulled out behind her and raced to catch up.
Jackson held on to the door handle to avoid being thrown across the front seat. He hadn’t put on his seat belt. And there was no way he was letting go now to do so.
Sure enough, in less than two minutes, Melinda veered off the road and turned down a gravel path that had seen better days. Her car, or Mimi’s it would seem, bounced around on the uneven gravel, but she didn’t slow down more than strictly necessary.
“Hold on,” Trace shouted, as if Jackson needed the reminder. He jerked to the right to avoid a hole and then corrected so sharply the car almost lifted onto two wheels.
Jackson gasped, his eyes going wide, when he saw Melinda’s car off to the side. Not Mimi’s car, Melinda’s own car, the one Sharon had been driving.
Melinda stopped in front of them and jumped down from Mimi’s car faster than Trace could get them safely stopped.
And then Jackson was right behind Melinda, running full out for the car as if it would have answers or even a sleeping Sharon in the backseat.
No such luck, however. There were no occupants, and no evidence of anyone. The driver’s door had been left open as if in a hasty retreat. And that door was the only one open. The thing that made Jackson’s heart stop beating was the shattered windshield.
He leaned into the car to search for a reason the windshield would have been so badly broken. There was no evidence of a crash, which left one other possibility. He froze when he spotted the hole in the upholstery of the passenger seat. No blood.
Jackson scrambled back out of the car to face the others. “Gun shot shattered the glass. No blood.” He spun around in circles to survey the area, scared out of his mind.
Had Sharon been alone and left on foot or paws from here? That seemed unlikely. If she were running, why not contact them? Or at least respond.
If Pete Sandhouse had anything to do with this… He fisted both hands so tightly they hurt. He knew in his gut Sandhouse had taken her. Hell, the punk-ass deputy at the roadblock had indicated as much.
“Jackson, I’m close. Where are you?”
Jackson told Cooper the exit number from the highway and continued to look around in hopes of some clue as to which way she went and how many footprints.
“I’ll be there in a few.”
Jackson nodded, as if that would be understood by Cooper. He simply didn’t have the energy to elaborate.
“One set of prints,” Trace declared.
“Sharon’s?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Undoubtedly he was carrying her. She can’t be conscious. You would know it.”
“How fast can he possibly move carrying a grown woman?”
“One who has been knocked out,” Trace added as he leaned into Melinda’s car again and looked around.