Royce pulled into the drive of Pop Merrill's large, western-style, log house. He didn't exit immediately, but sat quietly behind the wheel taking a second to gather his nerve. He had known Pop for a long time and wasn't really keen on having this particular conversation. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out onto the crushed gravel drive stalling a moment longer as he took time to stretch and admire his surroundings.

The home itself sat squarely in the middle of several hundred acres of rolling hills, plains, and woodlands that rested in the shadow of the large mountain range the town of Harts Ridge had been named for. The peaceful atmosphere and breathtaking views resembled something off the glossy travel brochures they handed out at Boundless Adventures, the town's one and only travel agency. It was, however, a far cry from any of the resort cabins the tourists that frequented Hart's Ridge would have occupied. There were no spas or room service here. 

The ranch boasted quite a large herd of cattle, half a dozen horses, and a midsize plot of land Pop was now using for farming. The latter had only begun to really expand in the last few years.  Royce knew the cattle business had become a little more than Pop wanted to deal with at his age. The growth of his farmland would allow Pop to cut back while still allowing the ranch to turn a profit.

Readying himself Royce started around to the front of the house coming face to face with Garret Sutherland as he did so. The man in his early thirties was red-faced and his skin shone with a fine sheen of sweat. Strands of his dark blonde hair protruded from his black ball cap clinging wetly to the nape of his neck.  Garrett served as Pop's right-hand man here, overseeing the day-to-day operations of the ranch.

"Well, hey Royce," Garrett said enthusiastically slapping the sheriff on the shoulder. "What brings you out this way?"

"I was actually needing to speak with Pop. You don't know where I can find him do you?"

"He made a run into town just a little while ago. He's got us putting a new roof on that old barn of his today before the winter weather sets in. You know the old man. He likes to get a jump on things," he said removing his cap to run an arm across his damp brow.

"Oh yeah. I'm aware," Royce said agreeably.

"Well, the hardware store sent the wrong supplies out twice today so Pop decided it might be best if he went into town and took care of things himself."

"That sounds about right," Royce said laughing. "Somebody's going to get an earful."

"Yep," Garrett answered grinning. "Better them than me. Do you want me to tell him you stopped by?"

"That's ok. If it's all the same, I might just wait around till he gets back. I'd like to catch him before I head home for the day."

"Sure. Not a problem. I've got a key if you want to wait inside."

"Nah. Here's good. The weather's actually pretty nice as long as I'm not putting a roof on that barn."

"I hear that, Sheriff," he said laughing, "well, make yourself at home. I have to get back down here and make sure the boys aren't slacking off. Like I said, he should be back any minute."

"Thanks, Garrett," he said nodding, and then started across the front yard to the wide split rail fence that served as an enclosure for several of Pop's favorite horses. He leaned against the fence one foot propped on the rail watching two palomino quarter horses frolic together in the field. They pranced slowly around each other, heads bobbing, and then, as if there were a signal that only they could hear, they would break loose together at an all-out sprint up the hill. Once at the top the whole process would start over again. As he watched the duo's strange dance he felt relief for the first time in twenty-four hours. Relief that Pop wasn't here and that he would have a few extra moments to gather his thoughts.

 The events of the last few days had left Royce feeling on edge and wrung out. If Molly had still been around she would have insisted he had a bad case of what she referred to as "the grumpies." She wouldn't have been far off either. He'd been in a foul mood ever since meeting with that idiot Agent Simmons. Royce had long believed that Chris Simmons didn't have the sense God gave a flock of yard hens, but he was starting to think he had been too hasty with his previous opinion. It was most certainly an insult to the hens.

When the Agent suggested that they were looking at Emily and Jake as suspects, Royce was surprised, but not overly shocked. After all, a good police investigation always started from the inside and worked its way out. Anyone who'd ever watched an episode of Dateline knew that. Not to mention that people faking their own disappearances was not unheard of. Royce could think of at least two cases where that very thing had occurred in just the last decade. The issue was not that Emily and Jake were suspects. The issue was the ferocity with which Agent Simmons was holding onto this theory. The man had developed a bad case of tunnel vision and that was dangerous in any case, but especially one of this magnitude. Royce didn't like what he was seeing here and there was no room for error. If Simmons's theory was wrong then there was a killer out there and that meant that Emily could be in a world of danger. After what he had seen at the crime scene the day before, there was no doubt in his mind that Simmons was allowing his theories to cloud his better judgment.

Royce remembered the way Simmons had spoken to him, even now he still prickled at the memory, just before leading him and Sully down to where Emily had been held. They descended at a steep angle, stopping at a wood landing before continuing to the right. The walls of the basement itself were cinder blocks. There was a chill here that seemed to seep into your very bones. Royce felt a dull throb beginning in his joints, his arthritis reacting to its new climate no doubt, making sure that he understood just how much this little excursion would cost him.

As they came to the bottom of the stairs, the trio found themselves standing in a small room with a concrete floor. The room was devoid of furnishings, save the dust and cobwebs that seemed to have gathered in every corner of the residence.

Chris said nothing, but beckoned for Royce and Sully to follow as he started through a wide door to the left of the staircase. Just out of his line of sight, Royce could hear people speaking in hushed voices. Turning to glance over his shoulder, Royce caught the grim look on Sully's face as they approached, having already viewed the scene earlier today. Seeing his friend's expression, the grizzled sheriff suddenly felt the need to steel himself against whatever was coming.

Moving through the doorway and around the corner, Royce could now see the men that he could only hear just a few moments before. They were standing just off to the side of a large concrete support column. Chris Miles, Royce's acting forensic photographer, was busy snapping pictures with one of the department's two DSLR cameras. Just behind him stood two men, an agent and one of Royce's guys talking in reverent tones often reserved for a church as they looked over whatever was in front of the three men. At Chris and Royce's approach, they immediately fell silent, nodding in their direction as a form of greeting. As they came into view the focus of the men's discussion became clear. The sheriff suddenly understood the strained look he had witnessed on Sully's face, if only because he felt the mirror image of it darkening his own.

Royce found himself staring into a small alcove. The officers had set up large work lights to ensure that every corner of the area was illuminated. The only other light filtered in through a small window, just wide enough to look out of but not quite large enough to escape through, that ran a few feet along the top of the wall. Royce felt a little sick. He had dealt with some serious things in his time as an officer but nothing of this severity.

Against the wall was a small metal cot. The mattress it held was thin and filthy. Brown stains covered its length. The thought of what could have caused those stains had Royce's stomach rolling in uncomfortable ways. In the center of the floor, someone had drilled a hole and inserted a ground anchor with a long length of chain attached. The chain lay now coiled and useless near the cot but the very look of it gave Royce a chill. They had that poor girl wrapped in that, he thought to himself with a shiver. There was a bucket in the far corner and the sheriff didn't need anyone to tell him that it had served as a makeshift lavatory. Beside the cot lay a looped piece of plastic. Royce stepped forward and knelt beside the small bed to investigate. He saw that it was a thick plastic zip tie.

Chris was talking a little too loudly to the officers behind him. Royce had tuned him out as he took in the scene, a skill he had honed throughout his career. He had learned that some of these scenes could be chaos personified and being able to tune out the insanity was imperative when trying to concentrate. It had also proved to be a helpful skill throughout his marriage during the few times he had landed on his wife's bad side. 

Still kneeling as he slowly took in the scene, Royce's mind went back to the night that Emily's disappearance had been called in. He had gone out to where her car was located, still parked outside the law office where she worked. The note they had found on the driver's seat was asking for seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars for her safe release. 

To his right, he heard quiet footsteps approaching and looked up to see Sully's friendly face towering over him. "So what do you think?" He asked, his voice almost as quiet as his footsteps. Both of them understanding that they were purposely excluding Agent Simmons.

"I think for that girl to be any type of suspect is a huge stretch," Royce answered as he stood. "If this was a setup it's a very elaborate one and that's taking into account that we would even find this place. I mean what's the motive? If all of this was a hoax to generate a payday, why blow your cover before you get the cash? It doesn't add up."

Sully nodded, "that's exactly what I think. I just don't see it. It looks to me like she escaped while her captors were out. You said she was malnourished. It might not have taken much for her to slip out of her restraints and be on her way."

Royce nodded his agreement as he looked the scene over once more. It was obvious the zip tie had been around her wrists. He assumed the chain had been there to allow her to get to the facilities when necessary. Sully was probably right, he thought to himself, most likely she had just slipped out and run.

Royce was still thinking about what he and Sully had discussed when his wool-gathering was interrupted by the sound of a decrepit motor approaching. As it broke through the trees, he recognized an old 70's model Chevy truck approaching at roughly the same land speed as the three-toed sloth. Creeping around the curve it parked just to the right of Royce's SUV and a slender figure emerged from the driver's side. An older man wearing faded Levi's, a light blue chambray shirt, and old work boots that looked as if they had been bought around the same time as the truck. Royce wouldn't have been surprised if that had been the case. Pop Merrill had always been tight with a dollar.  He turned and started toward where Royce stood, obviously not happy to see the sheriff. There was a large brown cowboy hat pulled down low over his eyebrows but the deep frown lines etched in the thin tanned skin around his eyes and mouth were still visible. He moved with the defiant stride of a man who was used to receiving bad news.

Royce headed in Pop's direction, meeting him halfway across the yard. "Hi, Pop. It's good to see you. How are things going?" Royce said as he approached.

"I wish I could say the same. Cut to the chase Royce. What did they do this time?"

Royce knew that Pop was referring to his ranch hands. Pop had always believed in giving second chances and a few of the men that worked for him had been in trouble with the law on occasion. There had been a rough few months last winter when Royce had to run more than one of them in, but Pop seemed to have the majority of the trouble under control for now. From what Royce had picked up around town, it seemed that Pop had sent a few of the rougher men packing. The ones that seemed to have no interest in turning over a new leaf. Their departure had also served as a warning to the men on the ranch who enjoyed having a job. Since then Royce hadn't seen any sign of trouble from them.

"It's nothing like that Pop. Settle down."

The old man's obvious tension eased a little but Royce could see that he was still wary. "Alright, then what is it? You and I both know that you don't make social calls."

Royce nodded his agreement. "Well, you're not wrong. I need to talk to you about Jake."

Pop's shoulders slumped as he let out a small sigh of resignation. 'Well, I guess you better come on in then. If we're gonna do this I could use a cup of coffee first."