Last Track, The (2 page)

“You chase the rush and she pays the bills.” Lisbeth’s lips pursed as if she had uncovered a mystery. “From the sounds of it, your offerings may be a bit too strenuous for me. I’m interested though. Do you have anything for novices? A little less active?”

“If you’re looking to sit in a tour bus and gawk at scenery,” Mike said, “an S&B Outfitter package is not for you.”

“Point taken,” Lisbeth said. They reached a fork in the road. The sun had started to set; the trees cast longer shadows. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re not what I expected from the article in
News Story.
”

“Wondered how you recognized me.” Despite occasional press attention, Mike never considered himself a celebrity. He worked for a living.

“I won’t lie,” she said. “I’m definitely curious because of the article. You found Senator Hexler’s son when no one else could.”

“That was a massive search team. I was a tiny part of it.” Mike cleared his throat uncomfortably. For Mike, where he had been, what he had seen—was history. He worked hard to keep his past in the past. He did not discuss old cases. Doing so felt like exploitation. “Part of me thinks that story should never have been published.” Because of the article, the matter of Bret Hexler’s son was his most notorious case.

“Really? Then why did you agree to it?”

“Jessica, my ex-wife, sold the pitch to them, and told me about it after they had accepted it. She had tried breaking into that magazine for a long time.”

Regrets aside, he seldom refused Jessica when it came to her career. He felt he owed her that much for the sacrifices she had made for him.

“Blame vanity on the ex, do you?” Lisbeth chuckled. “To be frank, if they wanted to write about me, I wouldn’t pass on the chance.”

“Might want to be careful who you say that to, Lisbeth. Someday it might come true.”

“I’m a gambler but that’s a long-odds bet if there ever was one. Here’s a bet for you. Six to one you were in the military.”

That tidbit wasn’t mentioned in the article. “It was a long time ago,” he conceded. At thirty-four, his early twenties seemed very distant indeed. He rubbed the half-day stubble on his right cheek.

“It’s in your stance,” she answered as if the question were asked. “The squareness of your shoulders. Once it’s drilled in, life never really smooths it out. That’s where you learned to track?”

“Not exactly,” Mike said, omitting that when he left the service, he had sworn off tracking for many years.

“Don’t like questions about the service, huh? I can imagine there are all kinds of interesting applications for the discipline there. What’s it called when you can move around without leaving any traces?”

“That depends on who you ask.” Mike had to admit,
there was a directness about Lisbeth that appealed to his sensibilities.

“I’ve heard you can place your hand into a print and see the missing person,” Lisbeth said. “Is that true?”

“In some cases,” Mike said.

“How does that work?”

“People leave more behind than just marks in the dirt,” Mike said. “The tracks capture emotional energy as well.”

“So why did you get into the business of finding missing people?”

“Let’s be clear about one thing,” he said, stopping and looking at Lisbeth, “tracking is not a business to me. I don’t charge money for it; I don’t teach it; I don’t sell it, or anything to do with it; and unless asked, I don’t talk about it much. Tracking is something I do. Every once in a while, a call for help comes. Sometimes I can lend a hand.” And sometimes . . . it ended differently. He resumed walking again.

“Why do you do it?” Lisbeth pressed, almost repeating herself in spite of his clear message about not wanting to get into it.

Briefly the memory of a desolate field near a supermarket played in his mind. Just a flicker, the images lasted long enough for him to become aware of them. Then he returned to the moment. He wanted to know why Lisbeth really summoned him, but waited. He could hold on a little longer.

“I have my reasons,” Mike said.

“Humility. I like that.” Her tone packed more sincerity than flattery. “Any idea about what’s going on out here tonight?”

“Been wondering about that for the last ten minutes,” Mike admitted.

She pressed ahead as if he hadn’t responded.
“
How about the radio? Heard anything through any media channels?”

Mike noticed that Lisbeth closely watched his physical reactions to her questions, instead of focusing on the answers. Interrogation savvy
.
Skills like that came with experience, not from training exercises or a book.

“No,” Mike said. “The only news blurb that comes to mind is the one about an abducted girl in Colorado. Caught an AMBER Alert about her on television at a truck stop.”

“I don’t believe we’re dealing with something quite like that,” Lisbeth said. “At least, I hope not.”

Although interested, Mike was still a bit guarded, considering the lack of details. He was trained to be cautious.

They reached a group of officers talking at a police line next to the road. “Dagget! My report? Wanted it ten minutes ago.” Lisbeth dispatched one of the cops, Dagget, who fidgeted. His face drew long as if he just had his last laugh for the year. “Get going,” she added, quelling the leftover chatter. Another officer held up the tape for her and Mike to pass. Ducking beneath the yellow plastic strip, they stepped into the woods, among the pines. “Lucky for us, your name popped up on the guest list, so I asked around about you. Called a friend at the FBI. Ordered a background check, too. You’re certainly well regarded in the right circles.”

Even as Mike was about to thank her, he sensed a qualification poised on her lips. Lisbeth delivered. “Although, the state troopers in California think you’re a fraud.”

Far worse allegations had been leveled against Mike over the years. With nothing to prove or lose, words slid right off him. “And what do you think?”

Lisbeth stopped. “I want to show you something.” They stood at the threshold of a break in the woods. An empty clearing. The inner perimeter of the Douglas firs formed a broad semicircle.

“What are we looking at?” he asked with his right eyebrow raised.

“And here I was hoping you could tell me.” She grinned.

His face flushed, the color more disappointment than anger.
Maybe we’re not peers, but a trace of respect would be nice,
he thought.
“Why does this all feel like a test?”

“Perhaps it is,” Lisbeth said.

Mike Brody was in no mood for such things, especially not after that road trip and the heat from Jessica waiting for him. He turned away from the clearing for a second.

“I should get back. This has been an extremely tiring day and my patience is shot. It was nice to meet you. Whatever it is you’re searching for, hope you find it.” He turned his back on her.

“Mr. Brody,” Lisbeth said bluntly.

He had almost decided that Jessica had been right, and he should stay out of this one. Not every situation was the right fit. Besides, it had been a long day and a half in the car. Maybe his judgment had declined along with his energy levels. Then, turning back, he noticed an unusual depression in the soil toward the center of the clearing. The track bothered him.

“Mr. Brody, don’t pretend you don’t want to know what this is about. Or think for a second that I can’t see that.”

Looking up from the depression, he faced her again, finding her expression considerably less reserved.

“Let me walk you through some background and you can decide,” Lisbeth said. “I got a call today about a possible missing child from the ranch. A fourteen-year-old boy with asthma, from Brooklyn. Only child.”

“You want my help with the search?” Mike asked, talking to Lisbeth, his eyes on the clearing.

“I’d like you to take a look at what we have, and give me some scenarios,” Lisbeth said. “Abduction, runaway . . . or something else. I want to cover every angle. We’ll start here because an officer recovered some personal effects that the parents identified as Sean’s. Part of a watchband.”

“If I pick up a promising trail, do you want me to track it?”

“Just the scenarios for now.” Lisbeth tilted her head to the left, put her hand on the nape of her neck, then smoothed back a few loose strands of hair. “Can I count on you?”

He looked past her, again focusing on the depression.
Something about the clearing looks wrong,
Mike thought.
Definitely need lights for this.
After their short discussion, he doubted what the tracks suggested. Still, there was little choice but to believe them. People lied. Tracks did not.

“Something the matter?” Lisbeth prompted him
.

Answering after a long silence, Mike said what he suspected Lisbeth wanted to hear. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with my equipment.” Then he added, every single word clear and distinct, “We can discuss the murder then.”

09:02:27 PM

After Mike Brody set up the portable lighting gear, he searched the scene. He took his time as Lisbeth watched from a spot outside the clearing, silent. In her right hand she held an envelope.

He respected that she avoided pressing too much for details deep in his past, especially subjects where he resisted discussion. He disliked that she had consulted third parties before asking for his help. But at least she had owned the inquiries, a point in her favor as far as Mike was concerned. In part, her reluctance was understandable. He was an outsider in law-enforcement circles and likely always would be. In their world, he was an observer first, a participant second. He knew the score.

Once the sun set, the temperature dropped rapidly. Enveloped in the work, he ignored a chill in the air. Those few moments when he did notice, the sensation of being cold passed. Survival training taught that coldness was just a mental state, rather than a physical dilemma. Resisting the cold made one colder. Fighting the cold, like fighting pain, prolonged it.

A harvest moon rose. Wide canyons stretched across the surface of the distant sphere. The sky was clear, and packed with stars. The sort of night made for fires and ghost stories and cold beer.

Instead of roasting marshmallows, Mike lay flat on his stomach, staring at impressions in the dirt, rising and dropping again as necessary, depending on which track intrigued him. Points of special interest he tagged with markers, thin sticks with a reflective coating on the tips.

Thirty minutes later, he rose a last time, finished. A narrow strip of cartilage in his right knee cracked loud enough for Lisbeth to hear. He brushed the dirt off his long-sleeved shirt.

“Well, what are your thoughts?” asked Lisbeth, although Mike was still facing away from her. Other officers had gathered and formed a semicircle.

“I’ll give you my opinion,” Mike said, “but I want to hear a little bit about the murder first. The two are almost certainly connected.” Lisbeth was used to setting the agenda and it showed on her face. She hesitated.

“You know a lot more about this than you’re telling me,” Mike said. “You’d like to know more about the missing boy, and I’d like more details. Way I see it, we both get what we want. Some truth.”

At last Lisbeth budged. “We got a call this afternoon from a hunter on a cell phone. Guy’s shooting deer out of season. He’s wandering. Finds a body.”

“And murder doesn’t happen often around here?”

“We get more overdoses than anything else,” Lisbeth said. “This is a quiet town. So we check the hunter out. He doesn’t have any of the necessary permits and he’s completely out of line being here. This whole area is posted. To top it off—while he’s waiting, the hunter takes some pictures of the victim with his cell phone camera and e-mails them to my office.”

“That’s odd.” Such behavior disturbed Mike. Technology had purposes. E-mailing death pictures was a particularly questionable one. “And a bit twisted. He’s not involved?”

“Well, besides the basic reality that hanging around for the police after you report a murder you committed is pathological . . . none of the guns in his possession had been fired recently, and there was no powder on his hands. He’s sketchy but clean.” She continued. “Now flash ahead. First officer arrives on the scene. Questions the hunter, verifies there is a corpse, and cordons the area. Then he waits for my team with the suspect in his patrol car. Everything by the book.”

He glanced again at the soil in the clearing. In his survey, he had recognized more than the signs of a struggle. “Not everything by the book, though. I thought it was common practice to place markers that indicate the arrangement and position of a body.” He shook his head. “The only markers here are the ones I placed.”

“My team never had a chance to do that.” She spoke carefully, each word weighted. “The body is missing.” She cleared her throat in such a way that Mike knew she wasn’t going to say anything else about it. “Now, what can you tell me about the boy?”

Mike took a breath. “He’s a runner. Lanky. Got a real practiced stride, like a cross-country runner. He lands heel first, and rolls forward. Textbook form. And he’s scared. Real scared. Something spooked him big time. That piece of watchband you found is where he slammed his wrist into a tree as he fled.” Mike stood near the trunk, pointing at a narrow scrape mark. “Matches the edge of the link from the watchband. Also gives us an idea of his height, along with his stride.”

“Can you see anything else?”

Something about her inflection made it clear to Mike what she was really pushing for: Lisbeth was looking for an indication he could see more than just the physical evidence. That he knew something about the missing boy that he should have no way of knowing. He hesitated. He usually did at these moments. Once he opened this door there was no going back—she would view him very differently.

Again he bent down, placed his hand in one of the tracks, and closed his eyes. For Mike Brody, the world stopped. Pictures of Sean dashing through the trees raced in his mind. Tapping into the emotional charge people left behind in their tracks was exhausting; he could only manage it for a few seconds at a time. So he let the stream of images continue as long as he needed them to and not a second longer.