A Wolf in the Woods Read online

  Dedication

  For Randy,

  ever and always

  Acknowledgments

  Taking this novel from the seed of an idea to publication has been a joy, and it’s a pleasure to recognize some of the folks who assisted in the journey. I want to thank my fabulous editor Nicole Fischer for her discerning eye as we crafted the story into its final form. My agent, Jill Marr of the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency, is an unwavering source of support. I’m indebted to my copy editor, Tracy Wilson, for her fine work. Showers of thanks go to my friend Cassie Priest for her outstanding editorial assistance. Professor Stanley Leasure generously shared examples of regional vernacular. And I couldn’t have tackled the subject matter of this story without the wise counsel and legal expertise of Jill Patterson, John Appelquist and Susan Appelquist.

  As always, I must thank the three people who mean more to me than words can express: my beloved husband Randy, my precious Ben, my darling Martha.

  Epigraph

  “Beware of the false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly are ravenous wolves.”

  Matthew 7:15

  “Behold, I send you out as a sheep in the midst of wolves; so be shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves.”

  Matthew 10:16

  “The better to eat you with, my dear.”

  Brothers Grimm, 1812

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Announcement

  About the Author

  Also by Nancy Allen

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  A dark-haired man lounged behind a battered desk in a second-floor room at an EconoMo Motel that sat on the highway in flyover country, Missouri. He pulled up Skype on his laptop and studied his own image on the computer screen, rubbing the tattoo that covered his neck. Behind him, the unmade bed was visible on the screen. A thin cotton sheet covered the form of a young girl.

  He adjusted the angle to cut her from the shot. The bed disappeared, replaced by beige curtains at the window, hanging askew on the rod.

  The place was a dump. He could afford better accommodations, without a doubt. It was business, and business was booming. His greatest challenge was procuring sufficient supply to meet the constant demand.

  On the desktop, bottles were scattered near the computer. Alprazolam. Oxycodone. Rohypnol. Diazepam. Three value packs of Benadryl: cherry flavored. A plastic bottle of Aristocrat vodka sat beside a jumbo container of Hawaiian Punch.

  As he pushed them aside, the bottle of roofies rolled off the desktop and onto the dirty carpet. He caught it just before it rolled under the dresser.

  A ding notified him: his Skype appointment was ready. Right on time. He liked the girls to be punctual.

  He hit the button on the mouse and fixed a smile on his face. “Lola! How you doing, baby!”

  A giggling girl with a mane of curly blond hair greeted him onscreen. “Tony, you’re so funny. I’m not Lola, I’ve told you a zillion times.”

  “But you look like a Lola. If you want to make it in the modeling trade, you’ll have to project glamour. Drama.” He stretched his arms over his head, displaying muscled biceps covered in ink, and locked his hands behind his neck.

  “Cool.” Her eyes shone.

  “Leave that country girl persona behind in Podunk. Where are you from again?”

  “Barton. Barton, Missouri. Where’s Podunk?”

  He laughed, running his hand over his thick hair. “Podunk is where you’re sitting right now. What you’re itching to ditch. How’s life?”

  Desiree shrugged, pulling a face.

  “They still giving you shit at school, baby?”

  She rolled her head back onto her neck. “All. The. Time.”

  “And how’s living at home?”

  “Lame.”

  “Wish you could leave it all behind?”

  “Totally.”

  The girl turned her head; he heard a whisper from someone off-screen. Sharply, he asked, “Are you alone?”

  A second head appeared over Lola’s shoulder. He saw a mixed-race girl. She was taller than Lola, but he pegged her at the same age: an adolescent, around fourteen.

  And she was a diamond in the rough—a black diamond. Unblemished skin, full lips, high cheekbones. Lola said, “You asked if I had any friends who wanted to meet you.”

  He smiled, tapping his hand on the counter. “Who’s this?”

  The tall girl looked at her friend, then into the computer. “I’m Taylor Johnson.”

  “And you’re interested in modeling?”

  She blinked. A nervous twitch. He shot a grin, to reassure her. “You’ve got the bone structure for it.”

  The tall girl pinched her lips together. “Maybe. I think so.”

  “We’ll need to conduct some auditions by video, maybe an interview, before you can qualify for a live shoot at the agency.”

  She looked skittish. He wouldn’t get anything from her today.

  “Let’s just get acquainted, okay?” He was about to launch into his patter: find out her story, gain her trust.

  But a moan sounded from the bed behind him. The girl was coming around. He glanced over, fearful that she might raise a ruckus that could scare off his new prospects.

  Tony picked up his phone. “Aw shit. Call’s coming in from one of our clients. I gotta take it.” He winked and shut off Skype just in time.

  In a weak voice, the girl said, “Tony. Help me. Please, take off the cuffs.”

  He sighed. Picking up a dirty plastic cup, he poured a measure of vodka and Benadryl, and topped it off with the red punch.

  The girl spoke again, in a pleading tone. “Don’t make me do it, Tony. It hurts.”

  He stirred the drink with his finger and walked toward the bed. “Mandy, Mandy. You look like you could use a magic drink, baby. This will fix you right up.”

  The girl tried to sit up as he extended the red plastic cup. Tony stared down at her, shaking his head. “What’s that saying? ‘The customer is always right.’ You know what you got to do.”

  The girl began to thrash against the mattress. But she was handcuffed to the metal bed frame.

  Chapter 1

  Seated at the counsel table in the Associate Circuit Court of McCown County, Missouri, Elsie Arnold watched the judge toy with the file folder before him on the bench.

  Judge Calvin ran a hand through his prematurely silver hair. “I’m binding him over, ladies. But it’s a close call.”

  Elsie heard her co-counsel, Assistant Prosecutor Breeon Johnson, exhale with relief. Elsie wanted to echo it. The judge was right; the preliminary hearing on the felony assault was not an open and shut case. Their victim was a homeless man who had been inebriated at the time of the attack; and though his injuries were grievous, his testimony was spotty. Seemed like he’d forgotten more than he could recall.

  After the judge left the bench, Elsie twisted in her seat to check the clock at the back of the courtroom. “That ran long.”

  Breeon nodded. “We’re working overtime, girl.”

  Elsie snorted. For a county prosecutor, the idea of overtime was a fiction. As salaried public servants, they routinely worked long hours with no additional compensation.

  The women exited the courtroom and walked the worn marble stairway down to the second floor of the century-old county building. Their footsteps echoed in the empty rotunda. The McCown County Courthouse, an imposing stone structure, had graced the center of the town square of Barton, Missouri, for over a century. While other county seats in southwest Missouri had opted to build new structures, to accommodate twenty-first century demands of security and technology, McCown County voters stubbornly clung to the old facility.

  “Five thirty, and it’s a ghost town,” Elsie said.

  “Not quite. My baby is waiting for me in my office.”

  At the bottom of th
e stairway, they exchanged a look. Elsie didn’t need to speak the obvious: Breeon’s daughter would be highly impatient with the delay.

  But who could blame her? Taylor was a fourteen-year-old kid. Hanging around the empty courthouse was a snooze. Breeon, a single mother who hailed from St. Louis, Missouri, tried to keep regular hours. While Bree was a dedicated prosecutor, her devotion to duty was bested by her devotion to her teenage daughter.

  Elsie, on the other hand, was a local product: a Barton, Missouri, native. Still single, at the age of thirty-two. And still enjoying her extended adolescence.

  As they entered the McCown County Prosecutor’s Office, Breeon made a beeline for her office. “Tay-Tay! I’m done, hon.”

  Elsie poked her head into the open doorway of Breeon’s office. Taylor sat behind Breeon’s desk. Her hand was on the computer mouse.

  With a sulky face, she said, “Finally. I’ve been bored af.”

  “Uh-uh.” Bree’s voice was sharp. “I don’t like that af talk. Don’t use it when you’re around me, do you hear?”

  Elsie’s eyes darted to the wall. The af abbreviation was a common sight in her texts. And her tweets. So much speedier than actually spelling out the words.

  “Baby, have you been on my computer?”

  “Yeah. Just for something to do.”

  “Taylor, it’s the county’s computer. We’re not supposed to be on it for personal use.”

  Taylor spun in her mother’s office chair and stretched her coltish legs across the tiled floor. “I was just doing some homework. Looking stuff up.”

  “Well, remember to stay off it from now on. We don’t want Madeleine mad at us.”

  Madeleine Thompson, who held the title of Prosecuting Attorney of McCown County had been known to get her nose out of joint for smaller offenses, Elsie thought.

  To lighten the mood, Elsie said, “Taylor, your mom says your birthday is coming up. Just around the corner. I can hardly believe you’re almost fifteen years old.”

  Taylor’s eyes lit up. “Mom, I know what I want for my birthday.”

  Breeon was digging in her briefcase, sorting through files. “You already told me. Those rain boots in purple.” Bree glanced at Elsie. “Do you know what Hunter rain boots cost? It’s a crime.”

  Elsie shrugged. When she was a teenager, rain boots weren’t even a thing—not in Barton, Missouri. On rainy days, she’d walked around town with wet shoes on her feet.

  Taylor spoke again, with a challenge in her tone. “Yeah, well, I changed my mind. I want headshots.”

  Breeon zipped her bag. “What?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Headshots. By a photographer. A real one.”

  Curious, Elsie stepped through the office doorway and dropped into a chair facing Bree’s desk. “What do you want pictures for? You don’t need your senior portrait till after your junior year in high school.”

  “Is this for the yearbook?” Breeon asked.

  Taylor’s eyes dropped.

  “Not the yearbook. For modeling.”

  Elsie and Bree both burst into laughter; but when a cloud crossed Taylor’s face, Elsie tried to choke it back.

  Taylor’s face was stormy. “You think I’m too ugly to be a model?”

  Breeon stepped over her daughter’s outstretched feet and ran a gentle hand over the girl’s hair. “Oh honey. You’re beautiful. And smart, and talented, and strong.”

  “So why can’t I do modeling?”

  “Baby, we’re in the Ozark hills of Missouri. Even if I wanted you to be a model—you can’t be one here. There’s no modeling industry around here.”

  A glance out of the window behind Breeon’s desk provided the truth to her claim. Tree-covered hills rose up in the distance, behind the town square where the courthouse sat. Barton, Missouri, the county seat of Barton County, Missouri, was a tiny town in the hill country of the Ozarks.

  A bare whisper escaped Taylor’s downturned head. “Maybe there is.”

  Elsie said, “Why would you want to be a model? They don’t get to eat.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes.

  Undeterred, Elsie continued: “They have to starve. And their career is over before they hit thirty. And they don’t get to use their brains; they are human clothes hangers.”

  Without acknowledging Elsie, Taylor bent to pick up her backpack. “I wanna go home, Mom. We have a game tonight. Coach doesn’t like it when I’m late.”

  “Sure thing.” Breeon shot Elsie a pleading look over Taylor’s head. “Can you lock up, Elsie? Taylor needs to be at the gym by six thirty to warm up, and I have to fix something for her to eat.”

  Taylor spoke up, with a look of anticipation. “Are we going to the grocery store? I want to get the new Cosmo.”

  “No, we’re not. But I got you something better.” Bree rummaged on her desk, pulling up a manila envelope. “It came in the office mail. I wanted to surprise you.”

  Taylor tore open the package. A paperback book fell out onto the desktop. She picked it up with a listless hand. “What’s this?”

  “Alice Walker. My favorite of her novels. You’re such an advanced reader, I think you’re ready for it.” She kissed Taylor on the forehead, then turned to Elsie. “So you’ll lock up?”

  “No problem. Hey—I’ll probably see you all over at the school gym tonight.”

  Taylor’s face turned in Elsie’s direction. “You’re coming to see me play?”

  “Well, I’ll be there for the ninth-grade boys’ game. I’m meeting Ashlock, since his kid’s on the team.” With an effort, Elsie kept her voice upbeat. She would much prefer to meet Detective Bob Ashlock, her current flame, in a darkened barroom after work. “But I’ll try to get there early, so I can see your team, too.”

  Breeon said, “That’d be great. Right, Taylor?”

  Elsie stepped over to Breeon’s desk to pick up the felony hard file they’d handled in Judge Calvin’s court while Breeon packed up her briefcase. Taylor bolted out of the office, with her mother following. Breeon’s voice called out as their steps retreated down the hallway. “See you later, Elsie.”

  Elsie flipped through the file and set it down. Giving the desk a final glance, she saw that Bree’s computer was still turned on.

  Their boss, Madeleine, had recently sent an office wide email, instructing the employees to log off and shut down the computers at night. It was her new “green” policy.

  Elsie leaned over the desk and clicked the mouse, preparing to log off Bree’s computer. Images popped up on the screen. Elsie leaned in to examine it.

  It looked like a link for a modeling agency, pitching glamorous jobs for girls from twelve to twenty-five. Elsie shook her head. “Taylor, Taylor,” she murmured.

  Idly, she skimmed through the text on the screen. It promised that the agency could make a young woman’s dream of fame and fortune come true, through an international modeling career. Elsie clicked the mouse to expose the bottom of the page, pausing to study a selfie of the agent in charge. It depicted a dark-haired man with a tattoo on his neck. He wore a smarmy grin.

  A chill went through her; she grimaced. It set off a buzz in Elsie’s radar. The man in the picture was not the type of individual that a mother would want sniffing around her teenage daughter.

  She turned off the computer and got ready to depart. Before she turned off Breeon’s office light, she glanced down at the trashcan near the door.

  At the top of the garbage was the brand new Alice Walker paperback novel. Elsie reached into the wastebasket to rescue it; but it had fallen on the remains of Breeon’s lunch. Mustard and ketchup smeared the cover. Elsie dropped it back into the can and headed for the women’s room to wash a streak of ketchup dripping from her fingers.

  Chapter 2

  That evening, Elsie pulled open the doorway of the Barton Middle School gymnasium and stepped inside. The old facility was steamy, and smelled of sweat and athletic shoes. The walls were lined with trophy cases holding dusty prizes. Elsie didn’t bother to look for any plaques bearing her name, though she had attended the school in her teenage years. Her medals were in a different hallway, by the speech and debate room.

  A teacher with frowsy gray hair stood behind the counter with a roll of tickets. “Three dollars,” she said, then peered over her bifocals. “Elsie Arnold!”

  “Hey, Mrs. Simmons.”