Free STOLEN by DAWN KOPMAN WHIDDEN Page B

to her mother she felt she should postpone her nuptials to Marty? No,
the briefest thought of having to deal with her mother’s reaction sent shivers
down her spine. Grace Rubin would have a conniption, a regular full-blown
temper tantrum. All of a sudden her face turned pale as she had an overwhelming
sense of déjà vu. Did she have this feeling once before or was she imagining
it? Was it possible that she wanted to cancel the wedding to her first husband Richard,
and didn’t heed the warnings, because she was afraid of her mother’s reaction?
    Her first marriage turned out to be a disaster. Richard was
a womanizer, a total dirt bag; and deep in her heart, she had always known he
couldn’t be trusted. She intellectually knew Marty was nothing at all like her
ex-husband; and the only thing Richard and Marty had in common was their
stunning good looks. Marty was so damn good-looking. No, she thought Marty was
so much better than Richard—inside and out. It wasn’t Marty’s fault if women
found him irresistible, but she would be lying to herself if she didn’t admit
the thought scared her. How long could a man like that be faithful? Wasn’t that
the same problem she had with Richard? Didn’t Richard’s good looks turn out to
be a curse for her? “Why,” she thought to herself, “couldn’t she fall in love
with a homely man?”

Fort
Rock, Oregon
     
     
    The snow began falling before dawn and a new storm front had moved in and the biting
wind was causing Lieutenant Michael Sanders’ nose to run. The Lieutenant was
just six months shy of retiring and was looking forward to leaving the frigid
winters of Fort Rock, Oregon to the warmer climate of Bell, Florida, a small
farming community in North Central Florida. His wife’s sister had moved there
five years ago and had been begging Tammy and him to join them there. In
anticipation of his impending retirement, Sanders had purchased a twenty-five
acre hay farm last summer; and days like today made the move look so much more inviting.
    Lieutenant Michael Sanders was in charge of the Homicide Investigation
Tracking System, also known as H.I.T.S., a division of the Oregon State Police.
The six-foot-two, hundred and ninety-five pound ex-marine was hoping for a
quiet day at work, as he shook the slush off his boots and made his way into
his office. He let out a sigh of relief; grateful to finally be indoors when
the desk sergeant stopped him.
    “Hey, Loo, this just came over the wire,” the desk sergeant
said as he handed him the faxed report.
    “That A.P.B. we had on that father and sons we were looking
for in connection with that murder of that young woman, you know the one whose remains
they found during the excavation, you know where that strip mall is going
up . . . .”
    Exasperated from listening to the desk sergeant’s rambling,
he grabbed the report from the man’s hands and started to flip through it. He
knew getting to the point was not one of Tyrone’s better qualities. The man had
a tendency to talk in circles; and Sanders would constantly have to coax him
along if he wanted him to get to the point.
    “Yeah, I know all that, Tyrone, what about the suspects?”
    “Well, some small town in New York is investigating a
shooting. It appears to be that the dead guy is Arch Blakey. Troy Blakey, one
of the sons, was also shot. He is in the hospital and in a coma.”
    “Do they know what happened?” Sanders asked him, as he made
his way to his desk, removing articles of clothing as he went. He threw his
coat and gloves onto a chair, and made his way to his desk which was piled with
files and paperwork, leaving no room for his thermos of hot coffee, but somehow
he managed to displace a few papers and sat the silver vessel down before
sitting down himself.
    He scanned through the report. The dead man hadn’t been
positively identified yet, but he had several I.D.’s on his person, and a
vehicle on the premises fit the description of the Ford Focus that