There has to be!

Her heart flooded with hope because she no longer saw the rocks as a barrier. No. Now they were a door—a multiton door—to escape and freedom.

All I have to do is open it. One rock at a time. I could do it. Rock by rock.

Really?

Then Sam swallowed at the reality—the epic reality—of those rocks.

Think this through.

There had to be more than a couple of hundred, each the size of a bowling ball, settled in a sloping pyramid fashion, choking an archway as tall as her.

Move one rock the wrong way, and I could trigger a rockslide, maybe one that would fill my space. And who knows what’s under those rocks? More bats? Something worse? Who knows?

Sam’s heart sunk.

So, what’s the alternative? Sit here and wait to die? Or fight for my life by moving one rock at a time?

It could be futile. It could come to nothing. Sure, but doing nothing gets me nothing. Doing something gives me hope, and that’s what I need.

Sam stood, went to the bicycle, replaced the flashlight in the holder on the bike, and adjusted the beam to cover the rock pile.

She approached the pile and took hold of a rock. Grunting, she hefted it, took several steps, then placed it aside.

It was heavy, but she could do it.

Taking a breath, she returned to the pile, took care to grip a rock as high up as possible. As she lifted, a few rocks above shifted and tumbled down the slope, causing other rocks to knock and bump in a small avalanche. Losing her balance, Sam released her hold and fell, her stomach resting on the slope.

She got to her feet, stepped back, and caught her breath.

All right. So this won’t be easy.

Dragging the back of her hand across her forehead, she selected another rock near the pile’s top, raised it, then carried it, setting it aside next to the previous rock.

Okay, that’s two.

CHAPTER 29

Derby / Spiritsburg, Vermont

Why is George Houghton’s name ringing a bell?

Still on the phone with him, Rod Noble turned to his corkboard, looked at the map of Spiritsburg, focusing on the section of town showing the Green Rolling Hills Inn where Samantha Moore had vanished.

Sure enough, the residence that sat across from the motel was labeled with a color-coded note identifying it as the home of George and Hilda Houghton.

“Mr. Houghton, could you spell your name for me?”

“H-O-U-G-H-T-O-N. George and Hilda.”

“Thank you.” Noble jotted the name on his pad. “Give me a moment.”

Noble went to his keyboard and mouse, opened the Moore case database, submitted “Houghton” then read what he had. It wasn’t much—logs and canvass reports. No one had spoken to the Houghtons. Other residents had indicated the Houghtons were on vacation at the time of Moore’s disappearance.