Ride to Denver

By M.A. Karwacki

Molly is desperate to escape Wyoming ranch country, and follow her passion - acting in a big city community theater. After dumping a free ride scholarship, she drops out of college to pursue her dream - a secret she keeps from her overbearing mother. When a twist of fate gives her an unexpected opportunity to star in a theater production, her first performance is a hit. But the night’s euphoria vanishes when she is snatched off a city street and driven to a dark, remote spot. Bound and terrified, she barely escapes with her life - but not before her abductor reveals she's being punished for her mother's sins.

When the police notify Molly’s mother that her daughter is in the hospital, she travels to Denver, not knowing what to expect. Now mother and daughter must face long-hidden secrets to track down Molly's attacker and his motives - before he attacks again.

"A thrilling story with strong characters ..."

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.A. Karwacki
• Release date: Jan 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370148592

M.A. Karwacki

M.A."Marty" Karwacki is a writer and photographer who covered police beats and general assignment stories throughout the Rocky Mountain West during the 1990s. Observing the growth and changes of that lively and fascinating area inspired him to begin writing fiction. Ride to Denver is his first genre novel. He is at work writing another book.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Denver, Colorado –1991

SHE loved riding the roller coaster at Elitch Gardens. Before moving to Denver, she had never ridden a roller coaster. Someone told her it was one terrifying ride. So, she had to try it. The coaster lived up to its reputation, the ride was indeed thrilling and terrifying. This night would turn out much the same, but the terrifying part would be gut-wrenching reality.

Red! They loved you! Jason hollered at Molly as she skipped behind the curtain to the sound of thunderous applause. Other cast members shouted similar kudos. She felt her face blush, red enough to match her hair, but she managed a smile.

She wasn’t sure what to say. They loved us all, she hollered back, thrilled, but also embarrassed. Everyone in this community theater group had tons of experience, except her. She almost begged to get accepted into it, starting out with helping backstage, then auditioning and getting a few small parts during the season. As far as Molly was concerned, it was a miracle the lead role was offered to her. She was petrified when she got the call. She wondered how long before everyone discovered she did not actually have any acting talent.

Someone yelled out, We did it. We closed a success! Now the theater would go into hiatus until next season.

Behind the curtain, cast members hugged each other. A couple of the lead players came over and congratulated her.

Great job, Molly! One said.

Hey, said another running at her, stopping and getting right into her face. High five!

Molly raised her hand into the air.

Way to go, baby!

Praise kept coming. That embarrassed and thrilled her. Until that moment, she hadn’t known what the others really thought of her performance. The hugs and kudos ended the insecurity. Now, she was caught up in the electricity of triumph flowing through the entire cast. More importantly, now she really felt like part of the Denver Gold Community Players. The work, the hours of rehearsals, had all been worth it.

As the electricity of the troupe continued to charge the air backstage, she soaked up every moment. In her mind, a picture lingered of the audience standing to applaud. That exhilarating feeling was thrilling enough, and now there was the cast party in a few minutes. She headed for the dressing room thinking, this is going to be a night to remember.

On the street, in front of the theater, the night air felt refreshing. She took a deep breath of it into her lungs. As she started crossing the street, someone called to her. She looked over to see Jason, car window rolled down, looking at her.

Need a lift to the party? Jason flashed one of his smiles. I can drive you over, then back here. Pick up your car later.

Need a lift to the party? Considering Jason’s looks, the offer was tempting, but those words could mean more than just a ride. Molly knew Jason’s reputation. Everybody in the theater group did, so did the trail of broken hearts Jason left behind.

Thanks, I’m okay, she said.

Where is your car parked? He turned his head to look around the street.

Molly pointed. Couple blocks over.

Well hop in, Jason said. I'll drop you off there.

Thanks. I'm ok, Molly said.

Suit yourself, Jason snapped, his smile gone now.

Molly finished crossing the street, walked a block, then cut down an alley and walked through its darkness. Traffic had been moderately brisk near the theater, but when she exited the alley, traffic on the next street was non-existent. She found her beat-up little Chevette, unlocked the door, threw her purse inside, then noticed something. She looked to the front of her car, then walked to the rear. The front bumper of a van pressed up against the rear bumper of her car. The Chevette was hemmed-in. She threw up her arms, paced a little, wondering what to do.

She got back inside the car and locked the door, started the car, then eased her foot on the gas pedal. The Chevette tapped the rear bumper of the car in front of her. She turned the steering wheel, hard, put the gear shift in reverse, backed up until she felt a little jolt when the Chevette hit the car parked behind her. She drove forward again, trying to squeeze her way out of the parking spot. No luck, the Chevette was jammed in tight.

She settled into the seat and sighed. Ten minutes passed. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.

Hey! Sorry! Someone yelled from outside, loud enough to hear through the rolled-up window.

She looked out to see a man wearing glasses, running across the street toward her. He stopped outside her car door and spoke to her through the closed window.

Sorry, he said. Even through the glass he sounded out of breath. Be out of here in a minute. He walked back to the van and climbed inside.

Through her rear view she watched the van’s headlights come on, heard the engine start. It moved back and bumped the car parked behind it. It moved forward slightly, moved back again, then forward, bumping the Chevette with a jolt. The driver got out. He knocked on the Chevette’s window. He motioned for her to roll it down. She didn’t roll it down, only opened it a crack.

Sorry, sorry. He said. I need a spotter.

A what?

I can't see in behind my van. Can you get out and spot me a second? Guide me. I don’t want to take anybody’s bumper off.

She felt like she should stay put, then thought about the cast party.

Okay, She said, unlocked her door and got out.

In blackness, almost like in a dream, she heard a growling noise, felt a vibration under her. She opened her eyelids to blurry vision. Slowly things came into focus. A dirty floor mat, the underside of a dashboard. The growl of the engine sounded old and raspy, accompanied by the creaks of a suspension and a swaying chassis. Every once in a while, she could hear something rattle and bounce in the back of the van.

She moved ever so slightly. There was tape over her mouth and she realized her wrists were also bound. Her arms stretched out in front of her under the passenger’s side seat, but she could move her fingers. She opened and closed them, stretching them out, trying to pull her hands apart.

She moved her fingers along the grit that covered the floor under the seat. She felt something small, and was trying to get it between her fingers when the sounds changed. The vibrations stopped, so did the creaks and engine growl. The vehicle had parked.

She moved her feet. They were free, so she tried again to get up, couldn't. Then she heard the voice, first sounding distant like in a dream, but growing louder as she became more conscious, less woozy.

Hey there Sunshine. Have a nice nap?

She looked up into the face of the man from the Denver street."

Here, let’s give you a hand getting up. He sounded almost courteous. He held a red plastic cup in his hand, placed it on the dash. She felt large, strong hands grab hold of her, almost lifting her up from the floor into the passenger’s seat. When she was seated he grabbed his cup again, held it up, drank from it. He pushed the cup under her taped mouth.

Thirsty?

The cup smelled like cola and alcohol. She jerked her head away from it.

Suit yourself. Just trying to be a gracious host.

She looked right at him now. In the dark of the van, she could see his somewhat gaunt face, his lean frame, full head of hair combed back, but what got her attention was his eyes. They had a hardness to them, a mean coldness that radiated even through the dark shadows inside the van. She also saw he no longer wore glasses. Terror swept over her. She began to struggle for air, then hyperventilated. He looked at her and smiled.

Bet you want to scream? Don't you?

He set the cup on the dashboard again, reached down under his seat. What was he getting? More terror bolted through her. His hands came back up holding a sawed-off shotgun. He bent down again, one hand disappearing down his right pant leg. It came back up with a hunting knife. He set the shotgun across his lap, with the barrel pointed toward her but then changed his mind, put it on the dash, barrel still pointed at her.

He pointed the knife toward her. She felt like her heart would explode from her chest. He grabbed her taped wrists with one hand and pulled them up. He passed the point of the knife inches from her face, then down her body.

Behave yourself now, he said and stared into her eyes waiting for a response.

She nodded her head up and down.

That’s a good girl, he said.

He sawed through the tape that bound her wrists. Then he ripped the tape off her mouth and she winced at the pain. He sat back in his seat. She sat stiff as a board, fists clenched, legs and arms stiff, her whole body frozen in terror.

He took the shotgun and waved the barrel across the windshield to indicate the expanse of high country darkness that surrounded them. Looking past him, out the driver’s side window and windshield, she now noticed they were up in the mountains. In the darkness, she could see the silhouettes of conifers on a steep slope.

Scream loud as you want, he said. Nobody’s going to hear way out here.

She looked straight forward, her eyes blinking furiously.

Scream, he said.

She remained silent.

I said scream. Go on. Do it. Nobody will hear it. Nobody would even hear this shotgun go off either. Not way up here.

He stuck the barrel of the gun an inch from her face. He waited for her reaction. She gave him none. She stared out into the blackness of the night, struggling to calm herself. He held the shotgun, waiting.

Spirit. I like that, he said. Just like your mother.

That made her look over at him. He smiled. Put the shotgun across his lap, reached for his cup and took a drink.

How’s your mother doing in that big ranch of hers?

As he watched her for a reaction, he took a sip from the cup. Oh yeah, we’ve got a lot to talk about, you and me. Lot of catching up.

She started to move around in her seat a little.

Bet you would like to open the door. Jump out and run.

He set the cup back on the dashboard, then he shoved the shotgun barrel into her face. Holding it in one hand, he leaned over toward her. She held her breath, wanted to close her eyes but did not. He leaned past her, took hold of the passenger’s door handle. Cold night air filled the car. He settled back in his seat, picked up his cup again.

Well, go on, he said taking a sip. Hop out like a little bunny rabbit and run. I won’t stop you. He put the shotgun and the knife in his lap. His hand held up the red plastic cup high like a toast. I won’t stop you. I promise. He set the cup on the dash and held his open hands up, palms forward. Honest. Run along.

She felt a speck of hope. She was a fast runner. She turned and looked out the open door. Just inches from the van’s rocker panel was nothing but darkness. Far below was the outline of tree tops. He had parked the car at the very edge of a sheer drop-off on the mountainside.

Now the speck of hope vanished from her. Lord help me, she thought. She sat back across the seat feeling lost.

Well get along. Hippity hop.

He started laughing. He turned his head, reached for the red plastic cup and took another drink. When he turned back, the passenger’s seat was empty.

CHAPTER 2

Wyoming –1991

OVER the whistles and shouts of ranch hands driving bawling cattle into stock trucks, Dell Jameson said to Frank O'Shea, You’re making a big mistake, Frank.

Jameson’s eyes shot a glance over at Frank’s daughter Wyoma. She had her weather-worn Stetson pulled low, a braided plait of hair dangling out the back. She caught the look, but chose to ignore it. She stood next to Frank as the three watched the Flying O Ranch cattle being loaded onto Jameson’s trucks. She nonchalantly jabbed the toe of one Roper Lacer into the ranch ground. Like her hat and Carhartt jacket, the boots had ridden some miles.

I seen you and Ruth work hard turning this land into a respected ranch in these parts, Jameson said. Wya looked over at her father to see how he would react to the mention of her mother. Ruth, beloved by most, had passed on.

Frank’s wide-brim western hat shaded a weather-beaten face. He lifted his head now and more sunlight hit it. His face was filled with creases and crevices, skin looking like sun burnt earth.

He stared off in the direction of the Jameson cattle trucks, his face expressionless. Pushing eighty years old, Frank’s frame stood sinewy, hard muscled, softer now than in his younger days, but a sharp contrast to the younger Jameson whose body had gone to fat. Still, Frank O’Shea wasn’t a healthy man.

Jameson looked annoyed now, waiting for Frank to say something. Shoot. Frank, I feel like I’m taking advantage of an old friend and neighbor.

After a moment more Frank said, Ruth ain't here no more.

I didn't mean any disrespect, Frank. We all miss her, Jameson said. I was just pointing out that…

Frank cut him off. Point being, Wya and Jess is running things now. I ain’t having no say-so in things. Don't want none, neither.

Wya looked over at her father knowing that wasn’t exactly the case. She and Jess were running the place now, but she had pretty much had to drag her father, kicking and screaming, into their future plans for the ranch.

Dell Jameson had bought all the Flying O cattle and some ranch equipment in a cash deal. Cash was king and a commodity not many small ranches, including the Flying O, possessed these days. Small cattle ranches had found it progressively tougher to survive. Multi-national conglomerates ran distant ranches and feed lots from high-rise offices hundreds, or thousands of miles away.

Ain’t no reason for you to quit running cattle on this land, Jameson said. There’s still a place for the family rancher in this country. We can call this deal off and work something else out.

Jameson’s words sounded a little hollow to Wya. She studied him from the corner of her eye and wondered how much sincerity his words carried. Probably enough, she decided. The Jameson family had been in this country for as long as her own family had.

Dell Jameson began riding range and working a ranch when still a boy. He’d paid his fair share of dues busting his back in hard work. But that was then. Now, every year he bought more land, hired more hands, and delegated day-to-day ranch work while he spent time in Cheyenne with legislators, or cut deals in Denver, Omaha and Salt Lake, while wearing pressed western-cut suits.

For crying out loud Frank, Jameson said. I feel like I’m not doing right by you.

Frank just stared silently ahead, watching the cattle being loaded. Wya knew his stoic manner was a facade. Seeing an end to the cattle business on the Flying O had to be stirring up his insides. As if reading Wya's mind, Frank suddenly broke into a fit of coughing that turned to wheezing, but then got control, stood straight as he could, like nothing had happened. He’d die prideful, Wya thought.

She could remember the time he had rode range land into a blizzard with a busted leg, not saying a word about it until long after the work was