Free Jack Stone - Wild Justice by Vivien Sparx

roadside.”
    “Really?” Stone did a thing with his face to show he was merely curious, but behind the expression he was becoming intrigued. “Who is Hank Dodd? Is he a local?”
    “He owns a bar on Main Street called ‘Stan’s’.”
    Stone nodded, but gave nothing more away from his expression. “Where were the girls heading?”
    The woman shrugged. “No one knows, but Hank Dodd told the deputy that Margie was carrying a suitcase.”
    The woman leaned back, the news delivered. Stone frowned. “ Really? I didn’t read any of that in this newspaper report,” he said.
    The woman puffed out her cheeks and nodded her head, like she was one of the privileged few with access to information. “The police decided to leave that information out of the report. They didn’t want anyone knowin g any more than the basic facts while they complete their investigations.”
    Stone stood back, looking thoughtful. “So the police aren’t inv estigating this as a kidnapping?”
    The librarian shook her head, looked just a little smug. “No. Not from what I’ve heard around town. They think the girls have run away to Phoenix.”
    Stone rubbed his chin slowly. “Are you sure about this?” he frowned. “Are you sure this Hank Dodd told the police Margie was carrying a suitcase.”
    “Of course,” the librarian said, and then she peeled off her glasses and changed her stance so one of her hips was thrust forward. She glanced at Stone from beneath hooded eyes. “I got it straight from my boyfriend, Deputy Larry Peyton.”
    Stone blinked. He had a vague recollection of the young orange-haired cop with the rash around his neck who had leveled a shotgun on him back at the diner. He said nothing for several moments.
    “Do Margie’s folks live nearby?” Stone asked.
    The librarian nodded. “Corner of West and Richmond Street.”
     
    Fourteen.
     
    Jack Stone knew plenty about grieving parents. A fter mustering out of the military he had worked for a Seattle-based firm doing hostage rescue work. As a hostage rescue expert he had dealt with mothers, fathers – even brothers and sisters who were suffering the terrible trauma of not knowing the fate of a missing loved one.
    And he had his own personal experience that haunted him with the same terrible uncertainty ever day. So when he knocked lightly on the door at the corner of West and Richmond Street, he knew what to expect.
    He stood back, well away from the door. He knew he wouldn’t have to wait for long.
    He heard the creak of floorboards from inside the house followed by fingers scrabbling impatiently at a chain, latches being turned. Then the door was flung open just a few seconds later and a hopeful, tearful woman’s face appeared. The woman looked to be in her forties. She had curly blonde hair, unkempt, and pale skin that seemed puffy and blurred, like it had lost its elasticity. Like it just hung from her skull. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery.
    Stone stood with his hands clasped before him, quiet and respectful.
    “Mrs. Bevan?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ma’am, my name is Jack Stone. I’m investigating Margie’s disappearance.” He reached into his back pocket, flipped open his wallet to show his drivers license. He was too far away from the door for the woman to see his identification clearly, but he knew that wouldn’t matter. In Stone’s experience, the only people who asked for identification were those who weren’t freely offered identification.
    The woman looked Stone up and down, and her eyes narrowed. “You’re with the police?”
    “I’m conducting a parallel investigation,” Stone said. “And I just wanted to ask you one question if I may.” He kept his wallet open, held it up beside his face, like he had nothing to hide.
    The woman paused, and then a grey-haired man appeared behind her, peering over her shoulder at the stranger on their porch , crowding the doorway. The woman turned, spoke quickly to the man. “He’s an investigator helping