There were three patrol cars at the Shell station when Taylor pulled in. And no sign of Ariadne. McKenzie had been redialing her number on his cell, but there was no answer.

Taylor ran inside and described Ariadne to the man behind the counter, who hadn’t seen her. Nor had he seen anyone who looked like the drawing she pulled out. So no Ariadne and no Schuyler Merritt. Shit.

She went back outside, signaled to the officers. “Mount up. Let’s drive up McCrory, see if we find her car.”

They all piled in their cars and took off, Taylor in the lead. The flashing blue-and-white lights made the road light up like Christmas, and it only took a few minutes until they saw a Subaru Forester parked at the side of the road, just at the rise of the hill. It showed no signs of life, no lights, no engine.

“Her car’s there,” McKenzie said unnecessarily. Taylor pulled in behind it, the three patrols taking up defensive positions in front and on her flank, effectively blocking the road.

Taylor was out the door in an instant, Glock drawn in a two-handed grip, pointing toward the ground. She eased up to the vehicle. The driver’s side window was broken, there was glass everywhere, inside and outside the car. A jagged edge shone dark in the feeble moonlight; Taylor could smell blood.

“What’s that?” McKenzie whispered in her ear. She stopped and stood tall, listening. Crying, coming from twenty feet away.

“Ariadne?” she yelled, walking toward the noise. She saw a lump on the ground, yelled, “She’s here. Shit. 10-47, 10-67, code 3!” She holstered her gun, knelt down and rolled Ariadne onto her back. She cried out in protest.

“Relax, honey, it’s okay. We’ve got help coming. Where is the boy?”

It didn’t take a genius to see what had happened. Ariadne was grimy with dirt and leaves, her skirt twisted, flashing pale thighs smeared with blood. She cried out again as Taylor moved her hands over her in the dark. Broken ribs, probably, maybe a broken jaw. A bloody cut on her forehead.

“When you called, you said he heard you. Was it Schuyler Merritt, Ariadne? Did he rape you?”

A ghost of a nod. She was trying to speak, the words coming out low and jumbled. Taylor leaned her head down, close to Ariadne’s mouth.

“Don’t know his…name. Pulled me. From the car. Ra…ra…raped me. Drove off, after.”

The broken sentences exhausted her, and she let her head drift back down to the ground. Taylor felt for her pulse, reassured when she found it strong and steady. The damage wasn’t life threatening.

“Okay, you’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

McKenzie was squatting a few feet away. He took Ariadne’s hand and whispered, “I’m sorry. We should have listened sooner.”

Taylor shot him a look, but didn’t stop him. Getting herself and the department sued for letting a witness become a victim was the least of her worries right now.

She heard the comforting sound of sirens. Rescue was on its way.

She held Ariadne’s hand tighter. Where was that little bastard going now? They had his woman, his friends in custody. His mother and father were dead, with cops crawling all over the two houses he might retreat to. Where else would he go?

“Ariadne. Do you know where he was going?”

“No,” she whispered. Taylor hated this, she hated the fucking hell out of this. Hearing that lively voice so dispirited made her want to hit something.

Rescue pulled up, got briefed and pulled Taylor from Ariadne’s side to treat her. The EMTs were females, Taylor was happy to see. Sometimes rape victims balked at being treated by men—the 10-67 had alerted them, but it was still good luck. They had her fastened to a gurney and slipping off into the ambulance quickly.

“Where are you taking her?”

“Baptist,” was the brief reply.

Taylor walked with them to the doors, watched while Ariadne was loaded in. The harsh lights reflected the bruise on her jaw and the dislocation of the mandible. Taylor knew that had to hurt, and broken ribs, the sharp ends stabbing into lungs and skin, weren’t a picnic, either. Ariadne was being awfully brave, not crying, those luminous blue eyes fixed on Taylor. She shifted under the azure gaze, read the words Ariadne put in her mind and turned away, shoving her hands in her pockets to keep them warm.

“Not your fault,” Ariadne said, as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud. “Not your fault.”