She hung up and looked at the farmhouse. The rain poured off the porch roof in sheets.
She went back inside. Through the kitchen. To the back door. She opened it and stepped out onto the rear porch.
"Noah? Noah!"
Her voice was swallowed by the rain. The yard stretched out in front of her, the overgrown grass flattened by the downpour, the barn to the left, the field beyond. And in the mud between the porch and the field, two sets of footprints. One heavier, deeper, dragging slightly. One lighter, steadier, close behind. Both heading in the same direction. Across the yard. Past the barn. Toward a grain silo barely visible through the curtain of rain.
The silo door was open.
Callie holding her weapon stepped off the porch. The rain was in her eyes and the mud pulled at her boots and the footprints filled with water almost as fast as she could follow them. She crossed the yard and passed the barn and movedthrough the field with her weapon up and her heart hammering against her ribs.
She reached the silo. The metal door hung open on its rusted hinges. Inside, the concrete cylinder rose above her, dark and hollow. A hatch in the floor was open. A faint light came from below.
She descended the stairs with her back against the wall and her weapon leading. The bare bulbs lit the concrete steps in harsh white light. At the bottom, the bunker opened up. A cot with stained sheets. Zip ties on the floor. A chain bolted to the wall.
And Noah. On the floor. On his side. His wrists cuffed in front of him and his face pressed against the concrete. He wasn't moving.
"Noah." She crossed the room and crouched beside him. His skin was gray. His lips had a blue tinge. His breathing was there but barely, shallow and slow. He was losing the fight between air and whatever was in his blood. She pressed two fingers to his neck. His pulse was faint.
"Noah, can you hear me?"
His eyelids moved. A twitch. Nothing more.
Then a voice came from behind her. From the base of the stairs.
"You won't be able to help him. At least not here."
Callie's hand went to her weapon but she was crouched over Noah with her back to the staircase and the voice was already continuing.
"Careful now," Lydia said.
Callie turned her head slowly. Lydia Holt stood at the bottom of the stairs with a .38 revolver pointed at Callie's back. She was dry. She'd come down after Callie. Followed her in. Let her find Noah first.
“Lower the gun."
Callie looked at the weapon in her hand. Then at Noah on the floor. Then at Lydia.
“Lower it," Lydia said again. “And slide it over."
Callie set her service weapon on the concrete floor and slid it toward the cot. It scraped across the floor and stopped against the metal frame. She was still crouched beside Noah. The ankle holster was against her right calf, hidden by her pant leg. The backup piece. A Glock 26. It was there. She could feel the weight of it.
"Now keep your hands where I can see them."
"What did you give him?" Callie asked.
"Morphine. A high dose. Drowsiness is first, slowed breathing comes next, then apnea, followed by coma, and finally cardiac arrest. In that order." Lydia's voice was steady. Clinical. The voice of a nurse reading symptoms from a chart. "Unless he gets Naloxone. But even then, with what I gave him, you'd need more than a field dose. You'd need a hospital."
"Let me help him."
"You can't help him."
"Lydia. I’ve already called for backup. Please.”
"No."
Callie stayed very still. Lydia was eight feet away with the gun level. Callie felt her ankle holster pressed against her calf.
"Where is your son?” Callie said.
