Last Track, The (17 page)

Lisbeth had said something earlier at the ranch. When he said
And murder doesn’t happen often around here?
Lisbeth had replied,
We see more overdoses than anything else.
At the time the detail seemed irrelevant, forgettable. Now the tidbit seemed important.

Dagget stirred. Mike let him toss for a few minutes before starting a conversation.

“What sort of drug activity do you have in town?” Mike asked.

“I’m the wrong officer to quiz about that,” Dagget said, wiping the sleep out off his eyes. “Never worked the narcotics desk. Probably about the same as most. We had a heroin ring a few years back, but the DEA shut that down.”

The purest heroin in the United States, and possibly the entire world, flowed from the shores of New Jersey, Mike mused. At the epicenter of the trucking and shipping industry for the entire East Coast, Jersey was the birthplace of several “brands,” including Capone, Homicide, and Greyhound. Their purity levels exceeded ninety-seven percent. As shipments traveled westward, the quality of opiates decreased sharply, because dealers cut the product with other chemicals to stretch their supplies. When the same-sized bag of heroin landed in San Francisco, it averaged less than twelve percent pure. A skeleton of what circulated on the streets of Newark or Plainfield.

While not impossible, being this far west, Mike doubted heroin was in the caravan.

“Why do you ask?” Dagget said.

“Lisbeth mentioned a large number of overdoses. I’m just asking some questions without worrying if the answers make sense,” Mike said.

“We do have drug issues,” Dagget said. “Most towns do, unfortunately. So you’re thinking that’s what the trucks were carrying?”

“Since we didn’t see anything, I’m not forming conclusions,” Mike said. “There are a number of possibilities.”

Dagget rubbed his eyes again. “I can ask a friend on the narcotics desk and see if he has any ideas.” Then Dagget wedged the backpack under his head like a pillow. “I’m grabbing another half hour of sleep.”

Mike nodded. “I’ll swing back later then. I’m going to stretch out my knee and wash my face.”

Sunlight painted the horizon orange and red. Leaving Dagget to rest, Mike climbed down the trail side of the ledge with the rifle and canteen. Another few hours of sleep would’ve helped, but he had pressed ahead with much less reserves before.

Water lapped against a large boulder in a stream five minutes from the ledge. Mike filled the canteen, dropped an iodine tablet inside, and shook the canister. He drank carefully, collecting every drop from the nozzle. The salty mixture burned and left a purple tint on his tongue. Almost like home. Foul as it might be, it was better than getting diarrhea from a bacterial infection. One bout of Giardiasis kept many a man from drinking from open streams for life.

His phone rang.
Caller unknown.
The Partner.

“I trust you see things my way now,” the Partner said.

“What am I supposed to do about Lisbeth?” Mike asked. “She wants coordinates when we recover proof of Sean. Another group could use them and follow us.”

“Give her wrong ones and tell her to try searching areas you know are a waste of time,” the Partner said. “Every so often, serve up a little detail that checks out and makes her happy. She’ll keep you in the game, but with reservations. She has to want to believe you and doubt you at the same time.”

Mike said, “I need a number to reach you at. Sometimes the cell coverage is sketchy out here. We might be talking, and all of a sudden the line will go dead. I don’t want to miss anything critical.”

“I’ve told you what you need to know,” the Partner said. “You don’t need my number for that. So keep your cell phone on, in case something changes.”

“I meant what I said earlier about leaving my family out of this,” Mike said. “They have nothing to do with us.”

“But your ex isn’t so innocent,” the Partner said. “She’s interfering with the search, helping secure resources the local authorities could not. And that sort of meddling needs to stop immediately. The helicopter is not appreciated by certain parties.”

Mike wasn’t surprised Jessica called in a favor for the search. She knew the right people—which was a problem. At times like this he wished she was a bit less remarkable. Mike just wished he could protect her now. Knowing they—Jessica and Andy—remained at the whim of someone else was frustrating. He still hadn’t decided what to do about the Partner. He spoke cautiously. “Trying to lead Jessica where she doesn’t want to go is like telling the sun not to shine.”

“When she comes to, get a bridle on her, Mike. And do it fast. I told you before, do what I tell you, and Jessica and Andy are going to be fine.” The Partner paused. “At least for now.”

“And then what?” Every second he kept the Partner talking revealed a little bit more about his foe. He needed a lot more information to be effective.

“Then their security is in your hands.”

06:15:22 AM

Mike returned to the ledge, and discovered something wrong with the campsite. The backpack was half open. Dagget was gone. Mike checked the equipment inside quickly. At first glance, nothing appeared to be missing. What he cared about were the syringes of epinephrine, and the flares, because both items were irreplaceable. The flares he found. The syringes he did not.

He studied the ledge, probing for signs of someone besides Dagget or himself. Working a stone or concrete site was harder and more time-consuming than tracking in soil. It was possible to follow animal trails—even across substantial distances—over less accommodating surfaces, however.

As he peered down the trail side of the ledge, his phone rang once, then dropped the signal. Lisbeth’s number flashed on the display. Shelving the sweep, he climbed down the ledge, and returned her call.

“Heard about Jessica,” Lisbeth said. “I’m sorry, Mike. How is she doing?”

“She’s supposed to be better by this morning, according to her doctor,” Mike said. “I’m going to try her soon.”

“I wish her a speedy recovery,” Lisbeth said. “The search owes her an enormous debt.”

Lisbeth explained about the helicopter, and Jessica’s efforts. That his ex-wife volunteered her services was not surprising. She loved breaking stories; it was her nature to spot them early and insert herself into the action. Under normal circumstances, he would have admired her direct action. Here he had to figure out how to make her stop, without making her shut down and close off from him.

“I had two questions for you,” Mike said. “When the fracas broke out in the hospital over who Andy was going to stay with and you vouched for Erich with security, why didn’t you give someone my number? No one knew how to reach me. I would have liked to be in on the discussion.”

“I gave Erich your cell number,” Lisbeth said. “And he said he had it already. Maybe in the confusion, he forgot to call.”

Buying the reasoning in part, Mike pressed on with his next concern. “Second question: What’s happening about the Humvees and the accident last night?”

“Humvees?”

“We went to see if anyone needed help when a caravan crashed near our site, and we almost got shot over it. Some men with MP5’s”

“Dagget mentioned nothing about it when we spoke last night.”

Mike listed as many of the important details as he recalled.

“I don’t know what to say,” Lisbeth said, rather politically. “Except that it might be awhile before someone can look into it.”

“We can make a quick pass before breaking camp,” Mike said. “Just for fifteen minutes. Might turn up something.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t. We need every pair of eyes on the search, Mike. Your diligence is noted and appreciated, but the best thing you can do is press on. Dagget knows to file a report when he gets back to the office. I’ll check into the matter myself when the search wraps up. You have my word on that.”

In Mike’s mind, her logic was sound, yet it oozed utter bullshit. True, she had few resources to work with. The force was tiny. For a crisis like this one, it was feasible that there were no spare officers. Like before, he trusted her on that. Still, he believed the caravan and the missing boy could be connected. He could not be certain how, but it seemed worth checking out, worth knowing why. Now, on her orders, nobody would ask the question until the answer probably would not matter. And that shortsightedness bothered him. Especially since he could be at the scene in under five minutes.

Lisbeth continued. “You already have one detour planned. Shad took your comments about the syringes to heart and set up a care package for you. Auto-injectors, food, and fully charged batteries for your cell phones. A few other things, too.”

He made a note to call Shad next. He owed him big. And maybe Shad had been able to trace the Partner’s phone number back to a name. He was less thrilled about taking a detour. As Lisbeth mentioned, each moment counted. Searchers had finite amounts of energy and daylight, diversions must be brief; participants must remain focused.

Dropping out for more supplies meant time away from the cause. However, this discounted the Shad factor, and the fact that the syringes were missing.

Given Shad’s expertise, the additional gear would probably justify the time spent retrieving it. Mike believed Shad could deliver. If mission-critical gear lay in reach, then charge for the equipment. Sound enough in practice.

But the phone threats changed all the protocols.

He and Dagget needed the gear. They also needed to stay on point.

“How will the equipment arrive?” Mike asked.

“Smoke-jumper style. We’ll drop the pallet with a chute from above,” Lisbeth said. “I’ll give you coordinates and a time; you get there any time afterward, and keep a watch out for incoming.”

“I’d prefer you saved the gas for the search,” Mike said. “We can manage with what we have.”

“You need these supplies, Mike. And the longer you stay out there, the more you will need them. Besides, we plan sweeps near you today. It’s no trouble logistically speaking.”

“What about the packing materials and leftovers?” Smoke jumpers carried out whatever equipment they brought into the woods. No exceptions.

“Stuff any refuse with the pallet,” Lisbeth said. “We can clean up the mess later. I’ll take the heat from Bureau of Land Management, if there is any. Hungry searchers make mistakes. Less regulations, more breakthroughs.”

With some reluctance, Mike agreed. Lisbeth read the coordinates for the drop site. Mike skewed them slightly, placing them a bit more west and north than they actually were, though it hardly mattered, because she had a rough idea where they were from their last discussion anyway.

Lisbeth added, “Also, the search is expanding this morning to include some trained volunteers. We’ve got seventy-five more people, fifteen on horses. And I may have another plane lined up. Other searchers can start checking out your leads today.”

They signed off. He pocketed the cell phone, bent down, and doused his face with cold water from the stream again. Tiny droplets weaved through the day-old stubble on his face. Washing off sweat and sleep, he held his eyelids closed tight. Scouring his cheeks with his hands, the stubble against his fingertips was like sandpaper to wood.

Eyes still shut, he listened to nature. Mourning doves cooed from the trees. Water splashed against the boulders and stones in the streambed. Air bubbles rose and popped on the surface.

A voice echoed over water toward him.

06:15:22 AM

Recycled air pumped through the AC unit beneath the window and made the fine, red hair on her arms stand on end. The air conditioner hummed steady like an idling car. A deodorizer stick in the wardrobe covered the scent of eggs and burnt bacon down the hall. In the corner, an unset tile in the suspended ceiling exposed a black crevice above it.

Jessica wanted a glass of water. A headache clawed at the base of her neck. Blinking, she had trouble focusing on objects past the bed.

Moment by moment, the lines of the darkened room became clearer. The primary source of light was the instrumentation surrounding her. After taking in the IV taped above her wrist and the remote control on the nightstand, she noticed a man in blue scrubs.

“Where is Andy?” Jessica croaked, surprised at the weakness in her voice. She leaned up, a bit too eager, and fell back into the pillow.

“You need rest right now.” He smiled, and added a good morning. A name tag over his right breast read McCrane, Donald, MD.

Recording his observations, he signed his initials with the usual doctor scrawl, unreadable to all but the most senior nursing staff. He threaded the clipboard through a hook at the foot of her bed. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

The doctor left, his rubber heels clopping down the empty hall. Even in her private room, she was not yet alone. A figure seated beneath the television rose and crept forward from the shadows. Jessica briefly wondered if it was just a specter of her overactive imagination. Recognizing Erich, she asked, “Why didn’t the doctor answer my question?”

“I was really worried,” Erich said. “One minute you’re charming everyone, next thing, you’re here. Thank God you’re all right. I feel so responsible for what happened. How are you?”

“Fine,” Jessica said. “Where is my son?” Her voice wavered.

Erich stood near the bed, and maintained a healthy, appropriate distance between them, though she wondered if she wanted him to move closer. The heart monitor beeped faster. She shook off the grogginess.

“Andy’s staying with Cara Isham,” Erich said. “The doctor couldn’t answer you because he didn’t know that.”

Jessica shook her head, grinning. “I keep wanting to call her Utah mom. Don’t know why. Maybe that’s the painkillers talking.”

“One advantage of running a ranch,” Erich said, “is that I have an excuse to meet all the guests. I get to know them quite well, actually. After a few days away from the rat race, people really open up. They help each other.”

Jessica added, half serious, “Plus you have everyone’s name, credit card numbers, e-mail addresses, home phone . . .”