The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [117]
“Anything’s better than being here not knowing what’s going on down there.” Jude nodded.
“Let’s go, then,” Betsy said from the doorway. “Simon, you can navigate. Jude, you pray. . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Jude, I still think you’re overreacting.” For the second time in less than an hour, Tom Burton began his lecture. “I still think she’s met up with . . . someone”— Tom paused, making a distinct effort to be as tactful as possible—“Could be a friend, could be a boyfriend, and just lost track of the time.”
“An entire night, Tom? Anything could have happened. Her car could have gone off the road into a ditch; she could have been attacked by someone who might have been hiding out in one of those vacant barns.”
“Jude, no one ever said you lacked imagination.” Tom shook his head but at least had the good sense to not smile. “How old’s your daughter? Old enough to spend a night out without checking in with her mother?”
“Yes, of course she is. And I’m sure there have been times when she’s done just that. But this time, since we were staying with a friend in Pennsylvania for a few days, she would have called, Tom.” Jude pointed skyward. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the sun is up. I want to find my daughter before it sets again.”
“I understand that. And the best way to make that happen is for you to give me and my officers a chance to see what’s what.”
“That’s your way of saying go home and get out of your hair. You think she just had a wild night, don’t you?” Jude’s anger and frustration flared. Her fisted hands rode her hips. “You think that Dina is shacked up someplace with some guy she met in a bar. Well, she isn’t. I know she isn’t.”
“Jude, I’m not trying to make light of the fact that your daughter didn’t come home last night. But young people do—on occasion—stay out all night and, for whatever reason, forget to call home. It happens all the time. Now, I understand that being her mother, you don’t want to hear that . . .” Tom began, then backed off when he saw the fire in her eyes. “Oh, hell. Fine. We’ll make a tour of all the farms that are for sale. Give me that list that Linda Best faxed over and we’ll take a look at some of these places.”
Jude studied the list as if to memorize it before handing it over to Tom.
“Now, why don’t the three of you go get yourself some breakfast and give us a little time to work here.”
“All right.” Simon nodded. “I’ll just take these ladies right across the street to the Henderson Café.”
“Good enough.” Tom held the door of the police station open for Jude, Betsy, and Simon.
“How can you eat at a time like this?” Jude poked at Simon.
“I can’t. But I would like a cup of coffee for the ride.”
“What ride?” Betsy asked.
“Jude, where do you think the police will look first?” Simon took Jude’s arm as they walked to the pedestrian crossing.
“My guess is that they will start at the places closest to town.”
“Then we’ll start at the places farthest from town.”
“Good plan.” Betsy nodded her approval. “Jude, you run into that café and get the coffee. Simon, let’s get the van. I don’t want to waste any more time than we have to.”
“Don’t you dare leave me,” Jude warned Simon.
“Well, since I don’t know where we’re going and I’m not familiar with the controls in that specially equipped van of Betsy’s, that’s one worry you don’t have. It’s all for one and one for all, as far as I’m concerned. Now, you go on and get the coffee; we’ll bring the van around and pick you up right here.”
Simon had to quicken his pace to keep up with Betsy’s chair, which fairly raced to the van they’d left parked at the end of the street.
“Hurry, Simon. I don’t like the feel of this,” Betsy urged him on. “I don’t like the feel of this at all. . . .”
By noon they’d driven a total of seventeen miles and checked out three of the properties on the realtor’s list. All three were occupied, and none of the owners reported any interest in their farms over the past week.
“Jude, are you hungry? We never did get that breakfast.” Simon