Appalachian Abduction. Debbie Herbert

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      Charlotte’s paranoia radar activated. Harlan Sampson was the county sheriff. Was there any way he knew who she was and why she was here? Was that why he wanted to speak with Officer Tedder?

      “Be right back,” he said.

      Alone, Charlotte leaned over the desk and peeked at the computer screen. Her not-so-flattering driver’s license photo was on display. Feeling restless, she stood and strolled to the open window, wincing at the burst of pain.

      Downtown Lavender Mountain was picturesque with its gift shops and cafés. From here she could see the local coffee shop and a gourmet cheese store. Despite the off season, a few people were out and about.

      Leave. Just leave. Now.

      Charlotte bit her lip, debating the wisdom of her inner voice. It’s not like Officer Tedder had arrested her, right? And he didn’t issue an order to stay when he left. If she could keep out of sight for a couple of hours and then hitch a ride back to her truck, maybe he’d give up on questioning her.

      Yeah...but then what? Stay the next town over? It wouldn’t be as convenient, but she could rent a different vehicle, find an inconspicuous place to park it near Falling Rock, and then continue on as before. All it took was one photograph of any of the lost girls by a window, one slip-up by the kidnappers transporting their captives, or one girl to escape their cabin and make a run for it. Then she’d have the needed proof to obtain a search warrant and rescue Jenny.

      It was worth the risk. Hell, she’d already damaged her career by coming to Lavender Mountain anyway. So what if a local cop got angry with her and eventually charged her with trespassing? That was the least of her worries.

      With a longing glance at the locked drawer housing her gun, Charlotte scooped up her backpack. She’d get another weapon. If nothing else, she was resourceful and a risk-taker. With that, and a whole lot of luck, she’d bring down that human trafficking ring.

      * * *

      SOMETHING ABOUT HER story didn’t jibe. James hurried back to his office. More than anyone, he realized these mountains were as dangerous a place as any city. He need look no further than his own family for confirmation of that sad fact. But hunters shooting at a woman didn’t sound right. Hunters around these parts knew you shot by sight, not sound. Was it an irate property owner? It was possible they’d fired a warning shot or two in the air. People ’round these parts didn’t take kindly to trespassers on their land.

      And what was she so afraid of? If Charlotte Helms could afford to rent a truck, she could afford a motel. No reason an ex from Atlanta would ever think to look in this area.

      Time for answers.

      Squaring his shoulders, he stepped back into his office. His empty office. No, surely she didn’t run again. She wouldn’t, would she?

      “Sammy,” he bellowed, scurrying down the hall.

      “What’s up?” Samuel Armstrong asked, not looking up from his computer.

      “Did you see a woman leave the building a minute ago? A redhead limping on her right leg?”

      “Nah,” he drawled with a wry grin. “Saw y’all come in, though. You manage to lose her?”

      “Maybe.” James hurried over to Zelda’s cubicle. “Did you see that woman in my office leave?”

      Zelda laid down her pencil and crossword puzzle book. “No, my back’s been to the door. Want me to check the ladies’ room?”

      “Please.”

      She rose from her chair with a sigh. He followed Harlan’s secretary to the lobby restroom. But he guessed Zelda’s answer before she emerged half a minute later.

      “She’s gone.”

      Aggravating woman. “Thanks,” he mumbled, hurrying back to his office for his jacket. He pulled it on as he rushed out of the lobby. He’d spoken with Harlan about five minutes, tops. Charlotte couldn’t have gone far with an injured leg and no vehicle. He glanced up and down the road, but no flash of red was in sight. James crossed the street and entered the coffee shop. This was as good a place to start as any.

      Myrtle waved as he entered. “What’ll it be, Jim Bob? Your regular with two sugars and one cream?”

      His campaign to have people address him as James instead of his boyhood nickname was not a success. “No, I’m looking for a woman. A petite redhead. Seen her?”

      “You have very particular tastes,” Myrtle said with a wink. “Didn’t know you were partial to redheads and leather.”

      He was so not in the mood for jokes. “Sheriff’s business. Has she been here or not?”

      “Touchy today, huh? Nope, haven’t seen your mysterious lady.”

      “Call me if you do.”

      He exited the shop and tried half a dozen others. No one had seen Charlotte. He stood in the middle of town square, hands on hips. Every minute that went by increased the likelihood that she’d succeeded in giving him the slip. Think. Where would he go if he were in her shoes? Probably slink around the alleys and slip into a shop’s back door if someone approached. He hustled behind the coffee shop and scanned the alley lined with garbage bins. Down at the far end, he spotted Charlotte rounding a corner, red hair flaming like a beacon.

      I’ve got you now, he thought with grim satisfaction. He hurried to the end of the backstreet in time to see her slip into the Dixie Diner.

      Now he’d get answers.

      Inside the diner, the aroma of fried chicken, biscuits and gravy made his mouth water. Chasing Charlotte was hard work and it was past lunchtime. He scanned the tables filled with families.

      No Charlotte.

      He proceeded to the back exit and stuck his head out to check the alleyway.

      Still no Charlotte.

      Only one place left unchecked. He rapped on the ladies’ room door once and then entered.

      Lucille Bozeman, an elderly member of the local Red Hat Society, shrieked and clutched her pearls. “James Robert Tedder,” she said breathlessly, “what on earth do you think you are doing?”

      At least she’d used his full name instead of Jim Bob. Normally, he found her and the other members of the Red Hats a hoot—amusing older ladies with their red hats, purple attire and carefree spirit. But not today. Heat traveled up the nape of his neck. “Sorry, Mrs. Bozeman. I’m looking for a woman.”

      “You’ve come to the right place, but this is hardly appropriate behavior. I’ll speak to Harlan Sampson about this. How dare you...”

      But he tuned her out and bent over. No feet were visible under the stalls, but one door was closed. He knocked on it.

      “Come on out, ma’am.”

      A long sigh, and then a dry voice answered. “You going to order me to put my hands up or you’ll shoot?”

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