Last Track, The (29 page)

Of the possibilities he plotted, two were miles and miles off from where he stood. Those coordinates he filed away again temporarily. But one estimated location lay within a half-mile. Roughly. If his present bearings were correct, at least. Still stinging from the Partner’s broadcast interventions, he couldn’t be certain about them, unless he conducted reconnaissance and took another detour. Not worth considering unless it took him closer to Sean. Right now, he did not believe it would do so. There was no evidence of Sean here or at the other end.

The temptation to investigate further was tremendous, though. A quarter-mile—that was Wrekker’s claim—would only take him five minutes. Maybe less.

But he sensed he and Dagget should stay the course. They had a goal, and a shrinking window of time to deliver on it and recover Sean, thanks to the weather. A few dark clouds loomed at the horizon. Other signs of an approaching storm mounted. Mike feared there were not many hours left before the weather turned foul. He pocketed the GPS and stared down a path that faded into a swath of trees. He wanted to uncover what lay at the other end of that quarter-mile.

To his right, Dagget peered through the trees and said, “And you’d be doing what, exactly?” He sounded younger and Irish.

“Nice accent, there. I wouldn’t have thought that was you,” Mike said. “And I’m thinking.”

“Cut that out,” Dagget said. “‘I’ve been trying to call. I found something huge.”

03:59:34 PM

Intrigued, Mike followed Dagget away from the road. Along the way was more evidence of Sean. In the broken branches at knee-, shoulder-, and ankle level. In the deep, heel-to-toe strikes in the soil. And in the frenetic pace he must have traveled while leaving those signs. The terrain cropped his gait, so the space between his steps shrank dramatically.

As for so many miles before, the new tracks reaffirmed Sean’s almost unrelenting determination. Predictable and very rigid. Almost like an automaton, Sean had stamped each track into the earth, instead of like a frightened kid on the run. He gave Sean a lot of credit; the boy had incredible stamina. Consistency among his tracks made spotting the next one easier.

Mike hoped that endurance held as long as Sean needed it.

“Can you believe this?” Dagget said, motioning ahead of them with a broad stroke of his hand. “Probably not related to Sean, but it’s something isn’t it?”

Before them was a clearing with the two skeletons. Both men paused, studying the same scene Sean had discovered. Dagget broke the ice. “Bones are picked clean.”

Crouched beside the skeleton that was fastened to a tree, Mike said, “Chained up and left to die. Might have been alive when they were eaten.”

“Nasty way to go. A pack of wolves?”

Already Mike had seen enough to know the culprit. “A single animal did this,” Mike said. “Wolves hunt in packs. A crew of them would have spread bones everywhere. Mountain lions hunt alone and leave the carcass behind. They might cover the kill sometimes, try and keep it cool. The trees provided a natural shade, so a big cat could leave it here without worrying.”

Spotting a broken watch near a tree trunk, Mike stopped. He turned on his cell phone. With the camera in the phone he took a picture and emailed it to Lisbeth. Then he marked his find in the soil, recorded the coordinates, and tucked the watch carefully into the backpack.

“It’s all related,” Mike said. “This is Sean’s watch. I recognize the band.” He shifted gears and asked, “What made you come over here?”

“I was just waiting for you and I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. So I checked it out. I’m going to call Lisbeth and let her know about the skeletons. Maybe they can be identified. They might be important people.”

Mike nodded his approval. “Well, good work.”

“Oh,” Dagget said, dialing, “plenty of people would be surprised by what I can do.”

03:59:56 PM

With his stomach on the cave floor, Sean listened for the helicopter. It buzzed overhead then retreated, returning later for another pass. There seemed a deliberate pattern to the runs, consistent enough to set a watch by. Sean wished he had one.

At first, he noted every second between passes. Unraveling the pattern seemed urgent, possibly critical for his salvation, and he measured time between them as best he could. Numbers whirred constantly in his head and soon got to him. So he switched to counting off in five second blocks instead. When that became too tedious, he switched to minute intervals, and then every other minute. An hour tapped out like that in his mind. Maybe a little more. Maybe a lot less.

During one pass, the copter hovered at one hundred feet. When he realized how close the flying machine was—the peril it implied—he withdrew from the entrance. He burrowed like a mole shunning light. And he remained so still, so breathless, so terrified.

Waiting in suspension for ten seconds, paralyzed, was harder on him than an hour of exertion in the open air. Long-distance runners loved motion; they craved constant movement.

He might be many things: young, nearsighted, an average student, and asthmatic. Collectively, to Sean, the items read like a list of downers. But being a runner was a plus. He knew the lifestyle well. Lonely, driven souls who arose in darkness to trade a warm bed for damp air and sweat. He loved running purely, wholly, the way a boy loves before he discovers girls. And as a runner, many times before he had trained for races he had no shot at winning. Kind of like his predicament now. He knew what other runners felt like when they struggled in the back of the pack.

The most organized competitions with finish line tape and chronographs could not be settled by merely separating packs of runners into one winner and lots of losers. Races were more complex than that. In large events, each of the top ten placers revealed themselves as a possible champion early on, often within the first minute. At a certain point in the race—it varied by the participant—the others accepted their position in the pack. They might gain dozens or even hundreds of places, but their gold waited for another day. Yet they continued, knowing they would not win.

Sean knew why they kept on in spite of the odds. Win or lose, the journey offered its own reward. Runners ran for the feeling of getting somewhere on their own steam. It tempted every soul who strapped on a pair of trainers and muscled their way inside a pack. The more consistent the supply of endorphins, the better.

Now he lay, jagged rocks cutting into his stomach, petrified of breathing too loudly. He knew it was a ludicrous fear; there was no way people in the helicopter could hear him breathing. He was still scared, and as far as he imagined from chasing endorphins.

He was done chasing this afternoon. Probably for this evening, too. Instead, he was being chased. He was the prey. He wanted to do more to save himself. And he wanted to go home.

Stretches of idle time made his skin itch. He clawed at his forearms. Wild swipes with his nails caught a few insect bites. Irritated, the bites turned red.

The helicopter approached again. Outside the alcove, it drew very close, nearer than ever before. Rotors sliced at the atmosphere; a long, black horizontal propeller generated lift, raising or lowering the bird. Shock waves rattled the treetops and tore leaves and branches. Aviation gas, exhaust, and sweat merged into a sweet fragrance. All around Sean the valley rumbled like a dam bursting.

Sean’s chest tightened from the stress. He waited and watched, half expecting a landing near the cave opening. A breath forced its way into his sinus cavity. The inhaler stayed in his back pocket because the medicine inside was too precious for anything but a genuine attack. He cycled another breath, this one by breathing through his nose.

Several times over the last two days he could have sworn the thin canister of asthma medicine was tapped. Then an attack would strike. He inhaled. Relief arrived. Rationing conserved supplies but could not replenish an empty canister. He wondered how long the lucky streak might last. He was too old to believe in forever anymore. He only hoped for as long as he needed it.

He still had an important objective: finding a way he could break out of the cave. To Sean, the timing absolutely depended on the helicopter.

He noticed the shift in pitch as it banked leftward. He exhaled, as slowly as he could.

He wanted to scream at the goddamn thing. Tell the pilot to go harass someone else. He thought about throwing rocks at the copter.

A tiny bit of damage might force them back to the hangar for repairs. That would buy him an opening. Maybe a big enough one. He could run then.

The more moments he spent penned in like a convict, the better the notion of lashing out seemed. Once, he even scooped up a flat-sided rock, ideal for lobbing great distances. He almost pitched the rock at the metal underbelly.

Then reality hit.

First, his upper-body strength paled in comparison to his legs. Throwing anything a few hundred feet exceeded his abilities. Even if could he lob a stone that far, his poor sense of aim ensured, at best, a near hit. Third, and more likely, the crew inside would spot him. He did not want to be seen. Attacking from below virtually announced his location. So he waited.

The helicopter reversed course. The mountain swallowed the noise. With the threat past, the stress engulfed his body. All the symptoms of an asthma attack pounded him at once.

His heart rate doubled. His breathing became faint. His chest and throat tightened. He rose, or tried to. Weakness rode him right back onto the cave floor. Fumbling for the inhaler, he crammed the plastic nozzle into his mouth and squeezed, hands trembling, fingers cold. A trickle came out, maybe a quarter shot. Enough to ease his breathing, but not nearly enough to stop the attack. Frantic, he shook the device a few times, and listened for the familiar rattle inside the canister.

This time the inhaler was empty.

04:13:08 PM

Somewhere in the string of moments that shaped a day, fall began. Mike had sensed this earlier at breakfast, when a chill nipped at his exposed skin. He had tucked the observation away then, almost nonchalantly. Viewing the same landscape now, Mike regretted his haste. He remembered his yard in California; he remembered the great scenery he had missed back home.

Above the sprawling landscape of mountains and forests, the turn of season was more obvious, and showed in the leaves. Longer nights slowed the production of chlorophyll, a component that made foliage appear green. Once chlorophyll production stopped, two other chemicals, carotenoids and anthocyanins, were released, and their bold pigments ignited and revealed themselves. From green, the leaves turned shades of yellow, orange, and red.

When he had left for this trip, the transformation was localized, striking patches of trees, but not all. Four, five, six at a time turned, surrounded by green slopes. Now the patches of sharp colors would be more apparent.

“You ready to move ahead?” Dagget asked.

The prompt shook Mike out of his daze. “Maybe,” Mike said. “I saw our Humvee a few minutes ago.”

“No way.”

“Busted headlight and all. A few men were loading it up with boxes of drain cleaner.”

“And you want to investigate?” Dagget asked.

“I almost did. They were coming from somewhere nearby. At least that’s what I picked up from their conversation.”

“So that’s why you kept your cell phone off,” Dagget said.

“Well it’s staying on from now on. That’s what the Partner wanted,” Mike said.

“They warned me about the same thing. Any luck with Jessica?”

“Jessica never quits easily.”

“Maybe she’ll come around.”

“I’m hoping.” Mike said. “What are your thoughts on another detour?”

“Did you notice what time it is?”

“4:14 PM.” The day was vanishing, and Mike felt it.

“And you realize how long that poor kid has been out here? Even presuming we’re very close, he’s gotta be running on vapors with his meds. It’s about him, remember? You told me that. We don’t need to know where a Humvee went to bring home the gold. Besides, the cell phones are on full time, and they can figure out where we are.”

Dagget’s explanation was hard for Mike to accept, but he knew the officer was right. His selfish reasons were not compelling enough justification for another detour.

So they pressed on.

05:00:00 PM

Feet upon the desk, reclining in a chair, Crotty dialed Detective Lisbeth McCarthy’s direct line.

“We have a mutual interest in the Sean Jackson case,” Crotty said seriously. “I have information about the missing boy.”

“I’d love to hear all about it,” Lisbeth said. “But I usually don’t handle tips myself. We have a hotline for that. So why don’t we start with who you are, and go from there.”

“There are a few things I need before I tell you where he is, Detective.”

“I like to know who I’m talking to. How about a name?”

Crotty heard a lighter flick over the phone.

“Check the number on caller ID,” he said. “Homeland Security.”

After that, it was a whole different conversation. “So what do you know, and how can it help my search?”

“The boy stumbled very close to a place of interest in a deep-cover investigation,” Crotty said. “He turned up on our video surveillance today. The men involved with this place of interest—to say that they are killers is putting it mildly. So far the boy has stayed under their radar, but I can’t make any promises that continues. Now I hate to make decisions like this, play King Solomon and all, but more than a year went into this investigation. Since your helicopter sweeps, they’ve already quieted their operations considerably. If we go charging in for the boy right now, they’ll ditch the whole facility and move on. Then again, if we don’t . . .”

“What are you proposing?” Her voice betrayed she was considering the proposal.

“An arrangement that works for both of us, partner.”

05:10:05 PM