She moved behind a tree watched and waited as the vehicle came into view. This time it was a car—a blue sedan.

Oh, thank God!

Her heart pounding as it got closer, Sam saw the driver—a woman. Sam stepped onto the road, waving while stooping in agony.

The car stopped.

Sam cried out, “Help me! Please!”

Sam staggered, steadying herself on the hood. She was bent with pain, convulsing into sobs.

“Please help me!”

The woman got out, staring at Sam’s emaciated body; at her face, pale and laced with raw scrapes; at her clothes, soiled, torn; at her filthy hair; at her foot encased in straps of fraying fabric and vines.

“My name is Samantha Moore! I’m from Queens, New York! I was kidnapped. He—he tried to kill me!”

Her vision blurred with tears, Sam saw the woman nodding.

“Dear Lord, you’re the missing girl!” the woman gasped.

“Call the police!” Sam said, crying with relief and anguish.

Taking Sam gently by her shoulders, the woman helped her to the back, opening the rear door.

“You’re trembling and in shock,” the woman said. “We need you to lie down in the back.”

Crying and sniffling Sam got in the back.

“I was on my way to the vet with my baby,” the woman rasped.

Sam heard a meow—and through her tears, saw the cloudy shape of a cat in a travel carrier.

“Please call the police!” Sam said.

The woman was reaching for a blanket.

“I will, but we’re in a no-service area. Here, let’s make you comfortable.”

The softness of the car seat felt good under Sam. The air was fragrant with lavender and rose. Sniffling, wiping at her tears, Sam’s vision sharpened, and she noticed the woman putting the folded blanket under her head, like a pillow.

She had white-blond hair, tied in a ponytail, and big, black-framed glasses; was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt over a mauve turtle neck with a silk scarf. Her makeup didn’t seem to be well-applied. Something about her lips, her jawline, and her jutting brow seemed off. Her voice was husky.

Some hair on the back of her hands caused Sam to wonder.

Is she a cross-dresser? There’s nothing wrong with that, but something’s not right.

“Now, just sit tight,” the woman said, reaching over the front seat for her bag. “I’ve got something that will help.”

In an instant, the woman pressed the prongs of a mini stun gun against Sam’s neck. It sizzled with an electric blue lightning bolt, overwhelming her nervous system in spasms of pain before Sam sank into darkness.

CHAPTER 61

Northeast Kingdom, Vermont

Ray Wyatt’s Ford Escape rolled along the narrow paved road that knifed through the dense woods north of Spiritsburg.