Last Track, The (12 page)

He wondered who the people were, what killed them, and if they had been lost like him. He also wondered how similar they were to him when they had lived. A whole lot different, hopefully.

And then a rustling came from the trees, and he swore something, something inhuman, was watching him. Shaking, heart pounding, he took a few terrified steps, and once past the bones, he bolted. He only made it a few feet when he smacked his left arm against a tree trunk. The watch cracked, breaking into pieces, and fell off his wrist.

His timepiece lay in the dirt.

The hands stopped.

03:45:43 PM

The tracking conditions were perfect; Mike could not ask for more. The soil, which was firm and responsive to the slightest touch, documented the critical movements of the missing boy. A breeze wicked moisture from his brow. Wind mixed with sweat and chilled him. Even beneath the dense tree cover, the sun lit their path. A classic fall afternoon, it was so serene that under other circumstances he might wish that it would never end. Lastly, there was silence—blessed and uninterrupted. Dagget had been tight-lipped around Mike since the exchange with Lisbeth.

Not that the officer was any more resigned to the situation. In the face of a reprimand, Dagget was an unrepentant son of a bitch. Insults may have stopped streaming from his mouth, but the foul attitude persisted. Mike wondered when the next tantrum might burst. He suspected not very long.

When Dagget ate or drank, he did so alone, sharing none of the provisions. Lagging on several occasions, he nonetheless preserved a two-stride gap between Mike and himself. After Dagget missed the mark for the third time in ten minutes, Mike called back to him, “Do you want me to take the pack for a while?”

“Sure you’re ready?” Dagget asked, ostensibly relieved yet trying to save face. Approaching each other, they exchanged gear, the rifle holster for the backpack. Perspiration had coated the straps of the backpack, making the nylon slippery. “A few more hours and I might start to feel it.” Dagget said this nonchalantly.

“No doubt,” said Mike, with a small smirk.

Dagget pretended not to hear him in an obvious way.

More silence. “Hey,” asked Dagget, “when Lisbeth asked where I was, why did you cover for me?”

“What was there to tell her?” Mike asked. “It’s not like you quit.”

“What if I had, let’s say, considered heading back. Strongly considered.”

“There’s nothing for you back there,” Mike said plainly.

“Who says?” Dagget wore a frown that reflected his petulance.

“Whatever you were doing only got you here. Didn’t it?”

“All I’m saying is thanks for not mentioning it to Lisbeth.”

“Just holding up my end of the brotherhood,” said Mike.

Dagget look confused. “What brotherhood?”

“Lisbeth believes men cover for each other when a woman is involved,” Mike said. The dubiousness in his voice was obvious. “There’s some organization and official decoder ring.”

“She believes in a lot of things,” Dagget said dismissively at the mention of her name.

“And one of them is you.”

Dagget cocked his head slightly as if such a thought had never crossed his mind.

•••

Crotty planned the initial overture with care. Restraint was the key. Even when one had a trump card, it was better to wait for the right moment—and to make sure it was worth the risk—to play it.

Throwing a trump surrendered all other possibilities before the game even had begun. There was no fun in that. For now every option must remain on the table. And before drafting the list of actions most likely to yield results and selecting the best, he needed additional details.

With phone cards and a cell phone, he tagged a few sources for information. He also dialed the main desk of the local police department. When he posed as an out-of-town sheriff volunteering resources, a local beat cop unwittingly provided him the names of all key players in the investigation.

An Internet search returned a number of articles by Jessica Barrett and a few about Mike Brody. The articles provided texture, and he craved substance. He loathed the little surprises hidden in the fine print. A little voice insisted there was more about Mike Brody to uncover.

So he continued, probing for the vulnerable spot the way a neglected dog in the backyard leans into a chain, certain that the weakest link will eventually snap.

•••

A candy wrapper fluttered in the soil. Though Dagget had been relieved of the backpack, Mike reached it well ahead of the officer. Mike crouched on his haunches, and turned the paper over with a twig, examining the find.

Dagget groaned. “Why are we stopping for garbage?”

“It might be Sean’s,” Mike said.

“That could be from anybody,” Dagget said. “It’s probably been here for years.”

“Well, for starters, we’re in the middle of nowhere, and he crossed through here within the last twenty-four hours. But secondly, notice the wrapper interior? It’s bleached white. This can’t have been out here very long, because sunlight reacts with wax and causes yellowing. And it’s badly wrinkled, which makes sense, since he ran with it in his pocket.”

“The wind and rain could have done that,” Dagget said.

“The logo’s still intact. The lines are sharp and clear. Exposure bleeds out the graphics, makes them fade.”

“Well. . . ,” said Dagget. “If he was hungry, and he had this, why didn’t he eat earlier?”

“He knew enough to conserve his resources. He’s got some skills.” To Mike, the real question was why they had found so little refuse up to this point. Trash was a staple on North American trails. Yet these woods were immaculate, as if a private individual had posted all the land, and claimed it all for exclusive use. Mike set another reflective marker in the soil. Then he committed a waypoint in the GPS for Lisbeth. The device could recall the coordinates later more consistently and accurately than he would from memory.

Gripping the wrapper with tweezers, Dagget inserted it inside a small evidence bag. “No sense in littering,” he said.

•••

The investigation continued. As Crotty amassed details, he transcribed the data onto index cards, recording one critical note per card. He grouped and tacked the cards onto a wall-length slab of corkboard in the basement. Fastened at shoulder level were color photographs of each key player. Beneath each picture, the related cards. A literal who’s who in the search for Sean Jackson.

Blacked-out windows, the glass caked with a special polymer, absorbed all sonic vibrations on his side, and thwarted eavesdroppers armed with electronic devices. From outside, all an observer might notice about Crotty’s basement were four windows wanting for a dust rag. A halogen lamp to the left of the workbench spared the room from complete darkness. The floor was concrete and cold. Even as the coils of a space heater beneath the workbench pumped electric heat, a chill penetrated the soles of his shoes.

The cell phone he used was disposable, the phone cards purchased with cash at a convenience store.

For each call, he used a different phone card. Once activated, the call forever linked the phone used to the card, and by proximity, to the caller. Therefore, using the card again on another phone at a later date was foolhardy. Despite his thriftiness, in four hours he would destroy the phone and the entire series of cards, even if they had a credit balance left on them.

A few hours and a few favors later, he had completed dozens of index cards. Pinning the last note to the corkboard, he stepped back from the wall. The most useful parts of a personal history, all at a glance, all at his fingertips. He drank his gin, hands trembling a bit, and considered the rest of the handiwork.

Next to the pictures, a topographic map. Red Xs marked sensitive regions, blue X’s marked the rough position of the searchers. Police scanners were indispensable, fantastic tools that captured radio jabber between the cops. However, the last and very important detail remained unknown.

Grabbing another phone card, he dialed the head of company security—at his company with the Partner. “Mohawk Dry Cleaning,” answered the voice.

“Got two jackets in need of martinizing. A double-plus rush job.” Martinizing a jacket was a triangulation trace on a cell phone. The trace provided the geographic location of the caller.

“Yes, sir! Do you require pickup and delivery service?”

“Just a pickup,” Crotty said.

“Your address is on file, so we just need a current contact phone number.”

“555-2323 or 555-5309,” Crotty said.

“I’ll dispatch a customer service representative to your location immediately.”

Crotty finished his gin and stared at the topographic map.

One final detail before the real work began.

07:00:01 PM

A surge of anxiety overwhelmed Jessica like a tide rising above the high-water mark. The source of the distress: the missing photograph. Throughout the afternoon she caught herself straying from the moment, returning just long enough to drift off once again, wondering. The racing thoughts took root during the day’s second ride. She was distracted by Erich.

Even Tic-Tac—with whom she mastered when to push and when to pull, what he enjoyed, and what he disliked—did not hold her focus.

It was not the missing picture itself that bothered Jessica; it was replaceable. She kept digital copies in a safe place back home. Twenty minutes with a high-resolution color printer, and she would have a shiny new photograph. What gnawed at Jessica was the thought of someone picking through her belongings, and removing such a specific one.

And she was almost positive that was what had happened. Jessica used the planner constantly. If there was a change, she made it. The picture was in its plastic sleeve earlier. Definitely. She had glanced at it when Mike left that morning.

Maybe Andy had moved the planner and taken the picture without her noticing, but she doubted that. The top of the bureau was taller than he was. Reaching it would have been difficult, and moving it served no real purpose. They had been together almost the entire day, and when he was in the room, she was with him. When she asked him about it, he had no idea what she was talking about.

So she crossed Andy off the list at the start, which left the cleaning service. But the cleaning service seemed a reach, too. Not because she knew them personally, or vouched for their characters, but because they had passed over jewelry, a spare camera, and a laptop—three easy-to-sell items she left in plain sight. A photograph held only sentimental value, but it bothered her tremendously.

The fact that whoever it was let the expensive items be, made the loss harder to process and accept. Having no idea why someone had swiped the picture rattled her far more than the actual crime.

A bit cautious, a bit paranoid—to Jessica, both seemed reasonable given the situation—she checked her other belongings, her son’s, and then Mike’s. By all appearances the possessions were where they should have been. Just as she remembered them. Good enough for now. Making a big deal out of a minor incident was unnecessary, and would attract unwanted attention.

She turned to her second worry: the bonfire. From a purely social point of view, the event was appealing. Jessica enjoyed parties, especially large ones. A show of hands after lunch seemed to suggest every guest might attend. And the time was right to mingle and make friends.

Very few people had noticed Mike disappear after the orientation, and even less had seen them together in the first place. Whatever apprehension she had felt earlier about flying solo had ended. No one would ask why she was alone. Her real problem with going alone lay deeper.

The event meant a chance for conversation in a relaxed setting. Fine on the surface, but she was out of practice. There was just so little opportunity with a career, a son, and a failed marriage to keep her social skills active. Jessica worried she might be rusty at making connections outside of work.

Guiding a story out of someone over the phone or chatting up sources at junkets was different than making a friend. Journalism meant getting the job done and done quickly. Life in hyperdrive—that was how she lived. Every decision, every contact, every sentence advanced her to the next piece. In contrast, a party was so laid-back, so meandering. With so many opportunities to say the wrong thing. Jessica took a deep, steadying breath.

Jessica spot-checked herself in a square mirror above the bureau. Carefully, she worked a tortoiseshell brush through her hair, which wet from a shower, grazed the top of her turtleneck sweater.

“Do you think Dad will be at the bonfire?” asked Andy.

The question reminded Jessica that there had been no additional news or messages from Mike. Typical, regrettable Mike Brody behavior. “I don’t really know,” she said, and plugged her cell phone into a wall charger. She did this even though the cell phone had sufficient charge. The battery level was incidental. If Mike phoned her tonight, he would have to wait for a return call.

Searching for the right pair of shoes, she lingered in the closet. Hiking boots seemed too gauche, sneakers too casual. She decided on black leather boots, the shaft tucked beneath her denim slacks. The boots were sturdy yet stylish, the one-inch heel squared, clog-style. Almost finished, she applied lip gloss.

“If Dad’s not coming, who are you dressing up for?” Andy asked.

“Jeans and a sweater is hardly dressing up, honey,” Jessica said.

“What about the makeup?”

Jessica pocketed the lip gloss. Sometimes Andy was too perceptive for her liking. Too similar to her, as it were. “My lips are chapped.”

A knock at the door ended the explanation. Cara, the mother of the twins Andy had played with earlier, saved the day. “We’re leaving in two minutes, so be ready. Okay?” Jessica said to Andy. Then she stepped into the hallway with Cara, and shut the door.

“You look nice!” said Cara, beaming. “I like the lip gloss!”

“Thank you,” Jessica said. “And so do you.”

“Oh, I’m an old hag,” Cara said. “But it’s good to hear all the money I spent on plastic surgery paid off.”