Missing In Blue Mesa. Cindi MyersЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Three

      Michelle was still on Ethan’s mind the next morning as he made his way down the quiet residential street on Montrose’s south side. Staying emotionally distant from victims was a necessary part of the job—let yourself get too wound up about the things people did to each other and you’d never sleep at night. But Michelle got to him. She looked so wounded and fragile, yet he sensed real strength in her.

      He turned onto his parents’ street and nodded to a jogger on the sidewalk. The neighbor’s sprinkler sent a shimmer of water over the perfectly trimmed yard, and the aroma of wet grass and pavement drifted in through his partially open window. He pulled into the driveway, wondering how long it would be before he stopped expecting to see his father waiting at the front door. Dad had been gone six months now, but every time Ethan came to the house he experienced that jolt of expectation followed by disappointment.

      His mother came to the front door and held open the screen, waiting for him. She wore pale blue scrubs and white clogs, ready for her nursing shift at Montrose Hospital. She looked so small to him—smaller than she had been when he was a boy, and smaller than when his dad had been alive. She smiled as he approached and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “This is a nice surprise,” she said. “What brings you out so early?”

      “I just stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

      “I’m fine. I went shopping yesterday and they had some nice melon. Would you like some?”

      “That’s okay, Mom. I already had breakfast.” He looked back at the neighbor’s sprinkler. “I’ll try to come over this afternoon and mow the lawn,” he said.

      “You don’t have to do that,” she said. “I can hire someone. Mrs. Douglas across the street has someone. I can ask her who she uses.”

      “You don’t have to do that, Mom. I’ll take care of it.” His dad had kept the place immaculate when he was alive—grass cut every week, hedges trimmed, flowers mulched. Dad paid all the bills and took care of the cars and even drove Mom shopping once a week. Now she was having to do all those things herself. Ethan wondered if it was too much for her.

      “First chance I get, I’ll change the oil in your car,” he said as he followed her into the house. “It’s probably past time for that.”

      “I can take it to one of those quick oil change places,” she said. “You have enough to do without worrying about me.”

      But Ethan did worry. One of the reasons he had jumped at the chance to join the Ranger Brigade was that the new position would allow him to live close to his mom—to look after her.

      “Do you have time for coffee?” she asked as she led the way to the kitchen. “I was just going to pour myself a cup.”

      “Coffee would be nice.” He sat at the kitchen table—his usual spot, to the left of the chair where his father had always sat. From this position, he had a good view of the backyard, and the patio he and his dad had put in during Ethan’s senior year of high school—a patio currently occupied by a trio of tabby cats, busy devouring a dish of crumpets.

      “Still feeding the neighborhood strays, I see,” he said.

      “They’re not strays.” His mother slid a blue mug of coffee in front of him, then took her seat in her usual place across from Ethan. “They’re feral cats. They’ve never had a home, but grew up in the wild.”

      One cat finished and retreated to a fence post to groom itself in the sun. “You planning on adopting them?” Ethan asked. A pet might be good for her, keep her company.

      “That’s not how it works with ferals,” she said. “You can’t really tame them. They’ll never give up their independence. The best I can do is feed them and provide a sheltered spot for them to get out of the weather.” She indicated a pile of blankets in a corner of the covered patio.

      “Sounds like a good way to end up with a whole zoo of wild cats,” Ethan said.

      “Oh, no. They’ve all been neutered. See how their ears are notched? That tells everyone they were fixed.”

      The cat on the post did indeed have a notch cut out of its right ear. “Maybe you should think about adopting a domestic cat, then,” he said. “Wouldn’t you enjoy the company?”

      “I enjoy feeding the ferals and having them around, without the commitment to a full-time cat,” she said.

      “Just be careful, Mom,” he said. “Don’t let one of them bite you or anything.”

      “You sound just like your father.”

      Though she was smiling, the remark pained him. The reaction must have shown on his face, because she quickly changed the subject. “How is your new job going?” she asked. “Are you working on anything interesting?”

      “We’re trying to track down some car thieves we think might be operating on public land.” He sipped the coffee. “We were out at Daniel Metwater’s camp last night, seeing if they knew anything.”

      “He’s that good-looking preacher fellow, isn’t he?” His mom shook a packet of sweetener into her coffee and stirred. “I’ve read things about him in the paper—all those young people camping out with him. Just like the hippies back when I was that age.” She laughed. “One summer your father decided to grow his hair long and your grandmother was worried to death that he was going to become one of those flower children.”

      “Dad had long hair?” Ethan couldn’t picture it. For most of his life, his dad hadn’t had much hair at all.

      “Oh, it was just one summer,” she said. “Then he got a job in the oil fields and he had to cut it. I quite liked it, though. He had prettier hair than I did.” She laughed again. “What are they like, the followers of that Prophet?”

      “Mostly young,” he said. “Some men, but a lot of women and children. Most of them are probably harmless, but he’s attracted his share of people who are running from something—including the law.”

      “I can’t think the children have much of a life, camping in the woods like that,” she said.

      “We try to monitor them, make sure there’s no abuse or neglect.” He frowned, remembering the bruises on Michelle’s face.

      “What is it, dear?” his mother asked. “You look upset.”

      “Last night when we were out there, we ran into a woman,” he said. “Or rather, she ran into us. She’d been beaten—pretty badly. But she insisted she had fallen and wouldn’t tell us who had hit her.”

      “Oh, no.” His mom made a tsking noise. “We get women like that in the emergency room sometimes. They’re too afraid to tell the truth, I think.”

      “This woman was afraid.” He pushed his half-empty cup aside. “I’m going to go out there this morning and talk to her again. Maybe I can persuade her to file charges.”

      “I hope you can help her,” his mom said. “No woman should be treated that way. Your father would have died