Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

The Story Thus Far

Chapter One: Mallory Kalvornek and her lover Julie Hanson have returned to Bronning, Minnesota, for the first time in years to catch up with friends and family. Meanwhile, their old friend (and occasional sex partner) paramedic Nettie Hastings fights to save a life, her lover Hannah drops by with an unexpected surprise, Terry Wilder grapples with writer’s block… and two little girls living in a trailer park named Heather and Gina are being carefully observed by a hidden stranger.

Chapter Two: Mallory and Julie get together at Nettie’s home with Nettie and her lover Hannah, Nettie’s friend Terry Wilder, Terry’s teen daughter Halee, and Mallory and Julie’s friend (and occasional sex partner) Cindy. Gossip is exchanged, memories shared, and an unexpected attraction between Mallory and Terry Wilder reveals itself. Meanwhile, the mother of the two trailer park girls Heather and Gina goes out for a night on the town, oblivious to the presence of the man spying on her home.

Chapter Three: At Nettie’s place, Nettie and Hannah leave the others to indulge in a bit of romantic pleasure, while Julie and her old friend Cindy get it on with Terry’s teen daughter Halee. As for Mallory, she has repaired to Terry’s place for one of her occasional bouts of heterosexual action. Appetites are indulged, confidences shared. Meanwhile, Heather and Gina are abducted from their trailer home by a mysterious and very scary man.

Chapter Four: At Nettie’s place, four women and Halee Wilder greet the morning after an evening of lesbian abandon. Later that day, Mallory rejoins Julie, Nettie, Cindy and Hannah for a day of fishing. Halee returns home and spends the day upgrading her internet in preparation for promised to be a fun night of video chat sex with her girlfriend Bethany. Meanwhile, Grace and Heather are in the custody of the mysterious man, who seems to takes delight in terrorizing them.

Chapter Five: After their day of fishing, Nettie, Julie, Cindy, Mallory & Hannah engage in a five-woman sexfest inside a tent… and with the use of Cindy’s phone, their old friend and occasional bedmate Emma attends the orgy virtually. In the midst of their abandon, Nettie has a weird, vague memory flashback that leaves her shaken, but she conceals it from the others. Back home, Halee and her new love interest Bethany (Hannah’s daughter) are having long-distance sex via their laptops. 

Chapter Six: Nettie has a heart-to-heart with Hannah about her personal demons. Later, she gets a call from Agent Bridgett Ramscone, who has an unsettling request: for Nettie to go through the documentation of her own childhood kidnapping — and the murder of her sister — as a possible way to gain insight into the abduction of Heather and Gina (who are still being emotionally abused by their kidnapper, but are also taking steps to escape). Nettie is shaken, but agrees to do what she can. 

Chapter Seven: Many years after the fact, submerged memories of Nettie’s kidnapping began to make themselves known — memories of a possible accomplice to the original crime. She shares her thoughts with Bridgett. Meanwhile, Heather and Gina work on a potential escape from their makeshift prison.

For a list of the characters from the story you are now reading, visit this page. 

For a list of the characters from the previous two stories that you will encounter here as well, visit this page.

And now, dear readers, we make our way into the next installment. Read on…

by Rachael Yukey

Somebody save me tonight
I’m ready and willing to fight

Uriah Heep, 2023

Nettie didn’t know why she couldn’t stop staring at the photo of a dirt road. It was almost seven AM, and she’d been flipping through case files on her laptop for the better part of two hours. No epiphanies seemed forthcoming, but something about this one picture kept calling her back.

Heather and Gina Dulcey, along with their unknown captor, had been tracked a little over a mile through the woods by police dogs. The scent had gone cold when it crossed paths with a lightly traveled dirt road leading from the highway to a remote fishing spot, the obvious inference being that the perp had loaded the girls into a waiting car, then hauled them off to who the fuck knew where.

The photo in question depicted the wretched dirt trail at the point where the scent had been lost, in hopes of identifying the vehicle’s model based on tire tracks left in the dust. Unfortunately, there were four discernable sets of tracks, none of them the same. All four vehicles appeared to have driven all the way to the lake, turned around, and made their way back to civilization. It seemed a complete dead end, yet every time Nettie pulled it up she felt something nibbling at her subconscious.

Giving her head a hard shake, she flipped to a new file with an angry stab of a finger, promising herself she wasn’t going to waste another single second on this stupid picture of tire tracks.

Then she froze in place, her mouth hanging slack. Just a goddamned minute…

It took a full thirty seconds for her hands to catch up with her brain. She called up that same image again, zooming in on one particular set of tracks. Switching to her file browser, she opened the case file for her own abduction all those years ago. A trembling hand blindly scooped her phone from the end table.

“Ramscone here. Are you feeling better, Nettie?”

“I’m fine, Bridgett. Do you know if anyone was able to get a range of what car models might have made the tracks? You know; on the road where the dogs lost the scent. That info isn’t in the files you sent me.”

“Um—” The clatter of a computer keyboard emanated from the other end of the line. “Hold on a minute.” Nettie opened her mouth to speak, but too late. Bridgett’s voice was replaced by a fuzzy-sounding orchestral arrangement of some fucking 70’s rock hit that Nettie couldn’t quite put a name to. She waited long moments, fingers drumming impatiently on the arm of her chair. It was almost two full minutes before the irritatingly familiar tune cut out.

“Sorry, I had to make a quick phone call to get that,” said Bridgett. “There’s not much to go on. They got the measurements, but all those tracks could have been made by a fairly wide range of vehicles. Why?”

“You put me on hold before I was finished,” said Nattie. “I’m looking at a set of tracks that’s a little closer together than the others. Narrow vehicle, narrow tires. To me that screams little shit-car from the 70’s or 80’s. One of those Japanese deathtraps that starts rusting if you overspray it with a garden hose. What I was about to ask before you put me on hold is if you could find out whether those tracks matched the footprint of a 1981 Datsun 210.”

“Why a Datsun 210?”

“Because according to the old case files, Jacob Brentshaw was the registered owner of a 1981 Datsun 210 hatchback. And there were tire tracks at the scene where Anna and I were found that matched the footprint of that car.”

There was a moment’s silence. “The guy I just talked to was going to email me his list of possibilities,” said Bridgett. “Hang on, the message just now landed in my inbox—”

Another silence. “Yep—a Datsun 210 is one of half a dozen different car models those tracks could have been made by.”

Nettie felt a wave of excitement course through her, but that feeling was almost immediately beaten down by a surge of annoyance. “And nobody thinks this is significant?”

“Nettie—” Bridgett ventured cautiously, “I doubt the FBI people have even made that connection. Jacob Brentshaw is dead. His vehicle wasn’t at the scene of the crime when he was apprehended; he rode in on a snowmobile that day. If anyone knows where his car ended up, it’s not in any of the documentation I have. But the thing was ancient even when—”

“So what?” Nettie cut her off. “You sent this stuff to me based on the theory that it’s either a copycat crime, or maybe Brentshaw has an accomplice at large. If it’s a copycat, maybe the perp wanted the same sort of thing he drove. You told me yourself how obsessive those people can be about stuff like that. If it’s an accomplice—hell. For all we know it could be the same fucking car.”

“That should be easy enough to rule out,” Bridgett replied thoughtfully. “We can just trace whether a vehicle with the same VIN has been registered since—”

Nettie snorted. “Are you kidding? Oh, that’s right—you’ve always lived in the metro. Bridgett, I know a guy who forgot to re-register his pickup a few years back, and drove the goddamn thing for almost a year before a cop noticed his tabs were expired. I mean, it’s worth checking, but just because it’s not registered doesn’t mean someone isn’t driving it. Not out here.”

“Hmmm.” Bridgett was silent for so long Nettie began to wonder if the connection had been lost. She was just opening her mouth to speak when Bridgett spoke up again. “Here’s the thing. The FBI grudgingly let me share all this stuff with you, but they’re not taking anything either of us has to say very seriously. This opens up a whole new line of investigation, and they’re not likely to devote resources to pursuing it because, well, they don’t believe in it.”

“Fuck, Bridgett, I’m not sure I believe in it.”

Bridgett sighed. “Me either, but it’s at least as promising as anything else that’s been brought to the table. I’m traveling up north this morning to look things over for myself. Care to join me?”

Nettie sat forward, eyes widening. It was the first time Bridgett had requested her presence to assist with an investigation on the ground. Still—

“I don’t see how you can justify going at all, Bridgett, much less bringing me along. You’re DEA, not—”

“One of my agents up there let slip that we have a lead on whoever was supplying the babysitter with the narcotics that were in her system. We don’t, and to be honest we’re not even really looking, but it gives me an excuse to go poking around. And to bring an assistant. Whaddya say?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m starting a thirty-six hour shift at seven this evening.”

Bridgett sniffed audibly. “Let me call you back in five.”

Pushing herself out of the chair, Nettie made her way down the hall to her bedroom. Nestled in the walk-in closet were a couple of nice old pieces of brown leather luggage that had belonged to her father. Nettie pulled out the smaller of the two, tossed it carelessly onto the bed, and then slipped out of her bathrobe. Rummaging in her dresser, she got into a bra, a plain black long-sleeve shirt, and a pair of comfortable but decent-looking jeans. She then pulled out a few changes of clothes, choosing almost at random. She didn’t know precisely what Bridgett had in mind, but had little doubt that she’d be joining the investigation.

She was unzipping the suitcase with one hand and clutching a fistful of undies in the other when her ringtone went off. Abandoning the zipper, she snatched up her phone.

“You are no longer scheduled to work this evening,” Bridgett said without preamble.

Nettie was not the least bit surprised. “How exactly did you pull that off?”

“A contract medic is on his way to Johnstown to take your place, at our expense.”

“And what did you tell Greg Wahlberg to get him to go along with that?”

“The truth, or at least a heavily abridged version of it. Your boss strikes me as a fundamentally decent guy. Besides, I can be damn persuasive when I want to be.”

Nettie snickered. “Tell me something I don’t know. What’s the plan here, anyway?”

“It’s about a three-hour drive for me to get to Forbes from where I’m sitting right now,” Bridgett replied. “To pick you up would be almost an hour out of my way. But driving on your own, you could be there in ninety minutes. You wanna just do it that way and meet me somewhere? Keep track of your mileage; it’s compensated.”

Five minutes later, Nettie was backing out of her driveway.

***

Heather slams the loose chunk of concrete down on the last, and most stubborn, of the broken pieces embedded in the earth. Raising it again, she strikes once more, a cry of pain emanating from her lips. And feels the damn thing finally give way. The smaller chunk is hurled to the side, and raw, bleeding fingers pry loose the final recalcitrant bit. Then those fingers scrabble at the dirt, pulling away as much loose detritus as they can.

The resulting hole is wider than either her shoulders or Gina’s, but that’s not the problem. It’s the clearance between the hard-packed earth and the first unbroken siding board that concerns her.

“I don’t know if we can dig any deeper,” she mutters in desperation. “The ground underneath is really hard.”

“So we can’t get out?” Gina is crying again.

“I won’t fit. But I think maybe you can.”

Swiping at the tears on her cheeks with grubby fingers, Gina eyes the opening critically. “Maybe. But what about you? What’ll he do to you when he finds out I’m gone?” Her voice rises to a plaintive wail on the last few words.

Shoving her fears down deep, Heather resolutely meets her little sister’s gaze. “Nothing he won’t do to both of us when he gets here and sees we’ve been trying to get out. Just go, Gina. The sun’s up, and he’ll get here soon. I’ll keep digging till he does, but the best thing you can do for me is to find help.”

“But where?” Gina wails.

“I don’t know—stay in the woods. Try to go straight. If you can do that, there’s got to be a highway sooner or later.” Heather’s lived around the forest long enough to know that GIna is just as likely to go in circles until she stumbles into an abandoned mine or gets mauled by a bear or just plain can’t walk anymore. But what are the alternatives? She doesn’t believe for a second that the monster is going to let either of them leave this shed alive.

It takes almost five minutes for Gina, grunting and squirming, to worm her way through the narrow opening. She squeals in pain as Heather pushes on her butt, forcing it the last few centimeters to the other side. Her legs disappear, and a moment later her anxious face is pressed against the hole.

“Heather,” she whimpers, tears flowing freely, “I’m s-scared.”

“Just go, Gina!” Heather urges. “Go before he shows up!”

“Heather, he’s going to hurt you!”

“He would anyway. I’ll keep digging. Gina, go now! Get help for me.”

Gina’s face disappears, but her heartbreaking sobs are still loud in Heather’s ears. With a crunch of leaves, Heather hears the younger girl take her first tentative steps. Then those feet begin to run. The sobs recede. Steeling herself, Heather begins to frantically claw at the dirt with swollen, bleeding fingers.

***

The rusting hulk of the Datsun idles in the center of the dirt trail. A haunted figure wearing a faded green army field jacket from a bygone age raises the hatchback and leans in, coming up a few minutes later with a center-screw jack. The figure ambles to the passenger side of the car, only mildly annoyed by the delay. He has time. He has all the time in the world.

***

“Hey, Antoinette—sorry I missed your call earlier. We had a trauma case at the ER this morning that they needed anesthesia for.” Hannah’s voice boomed from Nettie’s car stereo, through which she’d been blasting Labyrinth at chest-pummeling levels. She hastily cranked back the volume.

“No problem, babe. Everything okay back there?”

“Yeah, or at least it will be. The medic who brought the patient in was kind of a tool, though. Guy named Sam? There were airway management problems, and he gave me some lip when I questioned him on it.”

Nettie sighed. “Yeah, I know. The company hired him last month, over my objections. Send me a write-up, and I’ll make sure it gets addressed.”

“Thanks. So what’d you need? Or could you just not go another minute without hearing my hella sexy voice?”

Nettie laughed. “That too. Look—I’m traveling on that case we were talking about yesterday. I’m about ninety minutes northeast of you right now.”

“Whoa—I thought you were just a consultant. What about your shift tonight?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. Guess not. And the shift’s covered. The point is, Hannah, I might be gone for a couple days.”

“I understand. We still on for dinner and tongue exercises this weekend?” A hint of merriment had crept into Hannah’s voice.

Nettie smiled, but only for a moment. “Hannah—”

“Yeah?”

“Look—I totally want to do those things with you this weekend. But maybe something else, too. Would you be willing to drive up to Bronning again? There—there’s something I need to show you. Then tell you about.”

Hannah didn’t hesitate. “Of course I’ll come.”

Nettie slowed as she approached a stop sign, signaling right towards Highway Seven. A glance at the GPS told her she was a mere couple of miles from her destination.

“Thanks, Hannah. Look, I have to go. We’ll talk more soon.”

“Can’t wait.”

Nettie broke the connection as she pulled up to the intersection of Town Lake Road and Highway Seven. Across the highway and to the right was a largish, dilapidated brown building with a low-slung gymnasium-length addition out back, which she recognized from the case files. It had once been an elementary school, then briefly a restaurant, and now an apartment complex. The dirt parking lot contained half a dozen cars, none of them even close to new.

Across the road from that was what appeared to be a long-abandoned gas station, with a structure behind that had probably been a service shop. Beyond that was brushy wasteland, giving way to pine forest about fifty yards in. Except for the trailer park, this was the single largest cluster of buildings in the township of Iron Junction.

Shaking her head, Nettie turned right onto Highway Seven, accelerating smoothly. Once you left the old school behind, there wasn’t much out here. Mostly just evergreens, with clearcuts pockmarking the landscape to make room for the occasional residence. On her left passed a post office and an auto repair shop, each standing on its own, incongruous against the backdrop of trees. After two miles of this, her GPS informed her that the next turn was Keenan Lake Road.

Nettie pulled off onto the shoulder, right turn signal flashing, and came to a stop. Resting both hands on the wheel, she closed her eyes, thick black hair pressed against the headrest. There was no particular reason to turn off into the trailer park from which the Dulcey girls had been taken. She could continue in the direction she was already headed, and in about twenty minutes she would reach the city of Virginia, where she and Bridgett had arranged to meet for lunch.

But Bridgett was almost two hours behind her, so she might as well get a feel for the scene while she waited. Not that she had the first fucking clue how a proper investigative procedure was carried out, but what could it hurt to take a quick look around? She opened her eyes, took her foot off the brake, and turned the wheel to the right.

Keenan Lake Road was essentially a long hill with a moderate slope, a couple of houses tucked into the pine trees on either side. At the crest of the hill and to the left was the trailer park.

Nettie idled her Kia slowly around the outside of the ramshackle community, marveling at its state of disrepair. The trailer park back in Bronning was a pit, but this place was a whole new level of ghetto. Over half the homes, she judged, were unoccupied, as evidenced by weed-choked front walks and broken windows. Several add-on enclosed porches had collapsed into unusability, and strips of aluminum siding hung precariously. If she’d had to guess, not a single trailer in the park was less than forty years old. The only person she saw as she circled the place was an elderly woman sitting in a lawn chair, idly stroking a cat. She raised her hand as Nettie drove by. Nettie waved back.

On the far side of the park, kitty-cornered at the opposite end from the entrance, was the lot in which the abduction had taken place. Nettie approached hesitantly, lowering her speed to a crawl while still several lots away. The trailer was a shortish blue-on-white affair, probably no more than two bedrooms, as shabby and ill-kept as any of the other still-habitable units she’d passed. A few well-worn toys dotted the poorly maintained lawn; a plastic table and tea service, a couple of bikes.

Nettie blinked as her eyes fell on the car in the driveway. The rust-eaten Honda was of a design hearkening back to the eighties, and Nettie wondered if its narrow wheelbase and tires might just fit the profile of the tracks that had precipitated her presence here.

But as quickly as this line of thinking occurred to her, she abandoned it. The mother’s whereabouts were thoroughly vouched for at the babysitter’s estimated time of death, and most of the period before and after. First by a roomful of fellow barflies, then by the man she’d left the bar with and his roommates. Mom was in the clear.

Nettie allowed the car to drift past the corner lot without coming to a halt, easing right to follow the gentle turn. She couldn’t think of any compelling reason to stop. Now on the downhill side of the park, she noted there were no lots to her left. That side remained wooded, no doubt owing to a steep drop just a few yards inside of the tree line, which she knew from the satellite footage terminated on the shores of Keenan Lake.

Fixing her eyes on the side streets to her right, Nettie focused her attention on the handful of vehicles parked in the driveways. With some dismay, she noted that several of them were of similar character to the ancient smurf-blue heap behind her at the Dulcey girls home. Aged compacts from the 80s or early 90s, quietly rusting in the Minnesota sun. No wonder the FBI had no interest in following up on that set of tracks; cars like these were probably legion in this neck of the woods.

Coming around another bend, she accelerated uphill towards the park entrance. Whatever the answer was, she wouldn’t find it here.

***

The lean, worn figure glares at the still-shiny black halo nestled into the spare tire compartment. The goddamn donut is flat. He hadn’t expected that; the cubby looks pristine, new, and dust-free, a stark contrast to the rest of this rundown pile of scrap. Most likely, this is the first time it’s been opened since this wreck rolled off the assembly line. His mild annoyance has escalated to low-level consternation.

He doesn’t think the vehicle will be visible through the tree cover, and the odds of anyone coming across it are slim going on zero. Nevertheless, it won’t do to leave it sitting here for any length of time. He considers trying to drive out on the rim, but the Datsun’s clearance is barely adequate for the badly rutted trail as it is. He hefts the spare experimentally; at least it isn’t very heavy. Hugging it to his body, he sets off towards the highway.

***

Heather Dulcey huddles against the wall of the shed, only inches from the hole she’s created. She still can’t get through. She’s been using the concrete chunks to scrape at the hard-packed earth, but it’s slow going, and her hands are an almost unbearable mass of pain. The exhaustion she feels does nothing to improve the situation; Heather has been awake for over twenty-four hours now.

Fuzzy, indistinct thoughts flit through her head, scraps of imagery with no particular connection from one to the next. Tea on the lawn with Gina, only days before. Mom in those hideous red “steppin’ boots”. That horrid creature scraping lazy patterns on Gina’s belly with a sharp stick. Gina’s seventh birthday party—the last time they saw their father. He’d taken them horseback riding, then vanished from their lives without explanation or a trace.

Heather’s eyes drift closed—then snap open again. She gives her head a hard shake, then lets it sag back against the wall. Her eyes drift closed again. This time they stay that way.

***

Crossroads Convenience, about a mile up Highway 7 from Keenan Lake Road, was about as nondescript as the countless other copy/paste convenience stores dotting the American landscape. Gas, grocery, and attached liquor store, nothing noteworthy except its remoteness. Across the highway was a large junkyard, the badly faded sign out front optimistically proclaiming HOLMES PREMIER RECYCLING AND SALVAGE.

Nettie stepped into the gas and grocery side of the building, an icy blast of air conditioning sending an immediate shiver down her spine. Casting her eyes about, she located the coffee machines and headed in that direction.

Sixty seconds later she was at the counter, a hastily selected candy bar in hand, a medium coffee in the other. The cashier was a pretty teenage girl, her brown hair tucked under a baseball cap sporting the store’s logo.

“Find everything all right?” the young lady inquired, aiming her scanner at Nettie’s Milky Way.

“Not quite,” Nettie replied. Shutting out the part of her mind that told her it would be better to wait for Bridgett, she pulled a thin faux leather wallet from her purse, flipping it open to flash the DEA consultant card Bridgett had insisted she carry.

The girl’s eyes widened in alarm, and she drew in a sharp breath. “Hey, listen, I haven’t—”

“I was wondering,” Nettie cut in, “if you’ve happened to notice an old compact car of some kind stopping for gas here. Something from the 80s, maybe a Datsun. Probably rusty.” The young woman blew out her breath and blinked a couple of times. Nettie realized the poor thing had paled visibly.

“Look, um—” Nettie glanced down at the name tag pinned to the Crossroad Convenience polo. “Jennifer. I don’t care what you’re using, except to say that you really ought to knock that shit off. You’re young and pretty, and believe me, you don’t want to find out where that road leads. I don’t even care if you’re dealing from the back room of this dump. I’m just trying to find out about this car, and whoever might be driving it. Any help?”

Jennifer gave a jittery laugh, then got a grip on herself. “I—I don’t know if I can really help you,” she got out. “There’s a lot of crappy old cars around here, y’know.”

“Sure, I see that,” Nettie replied. “What about a hatchback? You don’t see a whole lot of those anymore. An old hatchback. Think Datsun, or something similar.”

The girl pursed her lips. “Yeah—okay. There’s this old gray rusty hatchback that’s stopped here for gas a few times. I probably wouldn’t even notice, but the guy always comes in first thing in the morning, just after we open, and he prepays his gas with cash. I mean—who does that?”

With an effort, Nettie suppressed her mounting excitement. “How often?”

“Every three, maybe four days for the last few weeks. Say—does this have anything to do with those two little girls missing from the trailer park?”

Thinking fast, Nettie shook her head. “Why would it? This is a DEA thing, remember? Does the guy talk about anything when he’s in here?”

“He doesn’t really talk at all. I’ll say good morning or whatever, and he just sort of nods and mumbles.”

“What does he look like? And does he buy anything other than gas?”

“He’s thin. I think he’s older, maybe in his fifties or so. Dude always has a big floppy hat on. When he gets his gas, he also gets donuts and coffee. He always looks tired, like he’s been up all night. Does that help?”

“Do you have security cams?” Nettie already knew the answer, having taken note of their locations.

“Who doesn’t?”

***

Ten minutes later Nettie was seated in the convenience store office, watching a replay from over a week before. The young attendant had phoned her mother, who owned the place, to get the access password for the cam footage. The light gray Datsun, rear rocker panels almost completely rusted away, was illuminated by the harsh lights of the pump awning, the background obscured in a predawn fog. A quick Google search on her phone confirmed that the car was a model 210.

This piece of footage was almost identical to the several captures she’d already viewed, the most recent of these taken the morning of the girls’ abduction. A lanky driver, clad in jeans, construction boots, and a faded olive drab jacket came inside the store, got his coffee and chocolate glazed, prepaid for gas in cash, fueled the car, then drove away. Like Jennifer said, he wore a large, floppy white hat that drooped enough to obscure his features. Never once did he look directly at any of the security cameras. Nettie was quite certain he was aware of their locations and deliberately avoiding them.

Jennifer, who had stepped out to wait on a customer, returned to the office. “Need me to see if there are any more?”

Nettie stood and stretched. In her hand she clutched a scrap of paper with the license plate number, and another with her own phone number on it. All her senses were tingling. “No, I think I’m good. Thank you.”

The two of them walked back out to the sales floor. Nettie caught Jennifer’s arm before she could slip behind the counter.

“Two things,” she said. “First of all: this guy is dangerous. If he comes back, act natural. Just wait on him like usual, and don’t give him any reason to think you’re suspicious. After he has gone, call me at this number right away.” She pressed the bit of paper with her number into the girl’s hand.

“Second, about what I said before. I saw how you reacted to my card. Seriously—whatever you’re doing, just stop. You’re a beautiful young woman, and you don’t want to fuck everything up for yourself when you’re just getting started in life. My thing is booze. I’m working on it, but I wish I’d never got started.”

The girl gave Nettie a sultry half-smile, tilting her head to one side. “You really think I’m pretty?”

Nettie recognized that look. Placing both hands on Jennifer’s shoulders, she leaned close. “Oh, yes. And if I didn’t have a girlfriend, we’d be having an entirely different conversation.” She planted a kiss on the corner of the girl’s mouth, then turned and strode from the station.

An awed Jennifer studied Nettie’s ass as the woman walked away. “Damn,” she breathed.

***

Moments later Nettie was seated in her car, frantically pulling up Bridgett’s number. As per usual, the DEA agent picked up at once. “Hello, Nettie.”

“I’m onto something, Bridgett. Something big. I checked out the convenience store about a mile from the trailer park and found out…”

“Wait, wait—hold on. You did what?”

Nettie sighed, realizing she’d almost certainly exceeded her mandate. “I know I should probably have waited, Bridgett. But listen; I stopped in this place and asked about old hatchbacks stopping in. This girl who works the morning shift, the owner’s daughter—she’s seen this one guy come in on the regular for a few weeks. She’s got cam footage. It was a rusty old Datsun—a model 210. The guy driving wore a big ass hat that hid his face, and he was  obviously avoiding the cameras. Minnesota plates, expiration date November of this year. I have the license number; are you able to run it?”

It was a long moment before Bridgett replied. “Officially, you shouldn’t have done that, Nettie. Unofficially, damn fine work. Gimme the number.” Nettie read it off.

“Okay, got it,” said Bridgett. “I have to call this in. Are you still at Crossroads Convenience?”

“Yeah, I’m in the parking lot.”

“I’m about an hour away. How about I meet you there instead of Virginia?”

“Works for me. See you then, Bridgett.” Nettie killed the connection, then screwed her eyes shut, thinking hard. In each instance, the cam footage showed the vehicle pulling in from the east off of MN 37, then heading back out the same way. There was no deviation from this pattern. That also happened to be the direction one would take to find the little dirt trail the tire tracks had been photographed on.

Opening her eyes, Nettie threw the car into reverse, backed out, and then accelerated towards 37 in the eastbound direction. She recalled the details from the maps she’d studied, keeping an eye on the mile markers as they passed. She’d just pegged the speedometer at sixty-two when the phone rang.

“Hi, Bridgett. Did you trace the plates?”

“I did. Those tags are stolen. Went missing from a Ford pickup just outside of Hibbing a little over a month ago.”

Nettie’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “Did you ever check on Brentshaw’s car?”

“Yeah, just heard back on that a little while ago. There’s no record of it following his arrest. It was never impounded, because it wasn’t at the scene when he was taken, nor was it found at his residence. It hasn’t been registered since.”

An uneasy shiver went up Nettie’s spine. Taking note of the upcoming mile marker, she tapped her brakes, looking carefully to the right. “Bridgett, you don’t think—”

“Brentshaw is dead, Nettie. Confirmably. He was murdered in prison last year. And the odds of this being the same car are so spectacularly low they’re barely worth discussing. It does make a very decent argument for a copycat situation, though. The FBI won’t be able to ignore this once we show them what you’ve found.”

A wooden sign, so badly worn as to be scarcely legible, marked the entrance to Keenan Trail. Nettie signaled right, hauling off onto the gravel shoulder. “Fair enough, Bridgett. Think you can get an agent here to talk to us once you arrive? The sooner everyone is in on the lookout for that car, the better.”

“Oh, I’ve already activated an all-points on the car.” Bridgett replied, sounding a trifle smug. “I have the authority to do that much, at least. And I’m going to arrange a meeting as soon as I’m off the phone with you.”

“Sounds good,” said Nettie. “Let me know when you’re close.”

“Will do,” said Bridgett, and cut the connection.

Nettie turned her attention to the sad little dirt trail just ahead and to her right, still cordoned off with crime scene tape. Shoving the car in park, she got out, knowing there was precious little she’d be likely to learn here. Only trouble was, she hadn’t the slightest clue where to look next.

Soon to come: Chapter Nine!