Last Track, The (31 page)

Jessica voiced her apprehension. “That’s not the problem. This isn’t the right time for me.”

“Are you afraid of what might happen?” He stroked her cheek; she withdrew slightly.

“Yes. Maybe. I . . .” Jessica collected her thoughts, bolstering her reserves. Hold the line, she told herself. “I only know that now is not the best night to open these doors.”

“There are many doors in life,” Erich said. “It’d be a shame to shut them all this early.”

“I agree, but . . .” Feeling his stare, she stopped.

Erich took a long look into her eyes. It was as if his gaze transported both of them elsewhere briefly and then returned them to the moment with a new insight. His expression dramatically shifted afterwards.

“I was foolish not to notice earlier.” His arms hung, slumped at the shoulders, as he realized the truth. Despite every outward sign to the contrary, her heart wanted the same person it had for years.

Three police cruisers burst through the main gate and tore across the parking lot to the dining hall. Red and blue lights blazed and flashed. Stones flew up in the wake of the cars. A crowd gathered at the windows and watched the action through the picture windows. Lisbeth stepped out of the lead car. Four officers appeared at once near her, ready to assist. Together they rushed onto the porch.

“Erich Reynard,” Lisbeth said gravely, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Officer Shad Hammer and conspiracy to murder David St. John.”

06:46:24 PM

Erich protested like the only man caught speeding in the fast lane—shocked and indignant. “I don’t even know who those people are.”

“Fascinating.” Lisbeth blunted the sarcasm enough to maintain a professional tone, yet not so much that a passerby could not tell what she felt about the situation. “Then why were you the last person to call Shad with a disposable cell phone purchased with your credit card? The same phone used to threaten Mike Brody. The charge card statements and phone records say it all. You are the principal of Better Days, LLC, incorporated in the state of Delaware.”

“Better Days is a community service-focused organization! We help all kinds of people. My company purchases hundreds of disposable cell phones each year,” Erich said. “We donate them to women’s shelters. They distribute them to women in abusive situations so they have a way to call for support without their spouses finding out. Please tell me I’m not being harassed because one person misused them.”

Metal clicked as the officer closed handcuffs tightly around Erich’s wrists.

Lisbeth continued, “You’re under arrest because a murder weapon surfaced near the scene tonight. The serial number matches a handgun registered in your name. If I were you, I’d quit talking now, because anything you say can be used by the prosecution. And besides, scenes like these are bad for business, aren’t they? Especially for a man who cares so much about public relations.”

It all clicked for Jessica. “There was never anything wrong with your plane, was there?” Jessica asked Erich. “You just wanted to slow down the search for Sean.”

“No!” Erich said. “It wasn’t like that. All I wanted was a chance to fly with you. I knew once I got involved, I wouldn’t see you at all. It was selfish of me, but nothing more.”

“Shameful,” Jessica said. “Just shameful. And what about your ‘rescues’? Appearing at just the right moment. You knew just when to appear, didn’t you?”

The police led Erich to a squad car.

Looking back at Jessica, Erich spoke with enormous anguish, “He doesn’t deserve you. Are you even going to tell Mike that you still love him?”

Lisbeth slammed the car door shut, with a disgusted look on her face.

07:31:06 PM

Dark clouds accumulated slowly and enveloped the valley. Electric bolts supercharged by collisions between pressure zones awaited release. The air smelled of raw almonds. When the sun went down, a stiff gust roared to life. Wind rushed them from every corner, whistling in their eardrums. Thunder groaned in a distant valley.

Although Mike hoped the storm would pass over, he knew better. They needed shelter. Right now. The time for establishing camp was before the sky went black and heavy rains forced their hand; the will of men was nothing against a storm’s fury.

The line between a minor rain event and full-scale riot were questions of fate. Nature did whatever she pleased. And once a melee broke out, the safest course for those left behind was to get out of the way.

Unnerved by the approaching weather, Mike wanted more time, wanted to press ahead, and present conditions made that impossible. Already he had pushed farther than yesterday, much farther than was logical, given the impending storm. He had waited too long to quit for the day. They could have stopped a half hour ago and found shelter. Despite this, he had continued. No effort they had made so far seemed good enough; there was more they must do to find Sean.

And then the storm materialized like a roadblock. The obstacle was maddening, because he sensed they were close to Sean. He wanted to believe they were so very close. He had to believe.

At the base of the twin mountain caps, he made two executive decisions: find shelter, and contact Lisbeth. He needed cover and answers, starting with what happened to the helicopter. The Apache sweeps had stopped hours ago. If she had received his messages requesting an explanation, she ignored them.

Should the clouds peel away after the storm and before daybreak, he would urge Dagget to press ahead, with or without contact from Lisbeth. He planned to continue as soon as possible—even in the blackness of night across sloppy terrain. This decision contradicted his normal protocol. Tracking in the dark increased the chances for mistakes, so by habit he stopped working after dusk, then waited out dawn, resting. But the searches he aided rarely stretched across multiple days. This situation was one where Mike was willing to bend his own rules, because of his experiences.

Often a common thread connected successful cases. Those recovered alive often wanted to be found more than their actions had hinted initially. While they evaded searchers, or deliberately hid from them, they left behind evidence, signs that betrayed their location. Sean wanted to be found or he would have been more careful. He just did not know whom he could trust.

Tracking meant spotting tiny truths like that from the false statements. Parents lied out of love. Cops lied by omission. The press lied to sell papers. But tracks did not lie to Mike Brody.

Beyond the mountain caps, a thunderbolt cracked and lit up the mountainside.

Dagget topped off the canteens and scurried ahead. “It’s looking like the end of the world, man. Where are we going?”

“I’m working on it,” Mike said.

Four minutes away on foot, peeking out from behind a swatch of trees, a sheet of yellow and white nylon rose off the ground. The wind caught the fabric and buoyed the edges. Something restrained the nylon; it rose and fell with the wind, fixed to the same spot.

A second bolt crackled. The deafening howl rang long after the bolt touched down on a tree. The tip struck a quaking aspen near them and seared a black streak down the trunk. Sections of the tree shattered. Wood flew through the air.

Unnerved by the explosion, Dagget dropped a canteen, which bounced off his thigh. Water seeped out the half-tightened cap.

The flapping nylon had to wait, Mike decided. Finding safer ground came first.

“This is crazy!” Dagget said. He cradled the dripping container. He pointed towards the base of a mountain. “I’m going for cover!”

Rocks made poor conductors. In an electric storm, he and Dagget would fare better under sediment than beneath trees or in the open. The base sported many nooks and crannies. A square- shaped breach within spitting distance met all their requirements. Large enough for both men, a wide roof shielded against run-off. The entrance was high enough to protect them from rising water.

Mike led them to the hill. Tagging behind Mike at first, the officer stayed back until he spied the opening. Then Dagget raced past Mike as if a bear chased them.

Both men ducked inside as the storm unleashed hell.

07:45:08 PM

Rain dropped in sheets. It was a merciless tempest. For hours, the torrent ravaged the valley like a flood tide. Winds raged. Thunder boomed. Bolts shaped like jagged knives lit up the sky. The water swallowed a bit more land with each new advance. Primal instincts guided some animals to high ground, some into crags, some down caves.

Inside Mike and Dagget’s shelter, the men wrestled with a different problem. The rocky overhang they retreated beneath had proved a facade. It was terribly cramped. Low, shallow, awkward, the quarters forced both men into a hunch. The tight space cramped up their neck and shoulder muscles, restricting upper body motion.

Flecks of rain splashed their clothes. Moisture chilled them.

Fortunately, a bright bolt revealed a hole in the mountain that looked like a better shelter. When the lightning passed, Mike beamed the foot of the opening with his Maglite. Thirty feet ahead, the narrow tunnel twisted into the unknown. Certain of more beyond the turn, Mike seized the chance.

“Where are you going?” Dagget asked petulantly.

“Inside,” Mike said, as civilly as he could.

Dagget chortled. “Rocks. Rocks and mold. That’s all that’s in there.”

Standing within the aperture, Mike extended to his full height. The relief was immediate. “Enjoy squatting until the rain lets up,” he called back to Dagget, creeping into the tunnel.

07:47:28 PM

Still Dagget hesitated at the entrance. Lightning crashed overhead. Thunder echoed off the rocks. “Maybe it’s worth a quick check,” Dagget said.

Uneven layers of rock lined the tunnel walls. Some were quite jagged, and the same barb caught both men across the left arm. At its end, the tunnel opened into a chamber.

Once, someone had made a home here, Mike observed, though now the chamber stood barren. Whoever had selected the chamber made a wise choice, because the spot had many natural advantages. Beyond the reach of a floodplain, the floors and walls stayed dry. A draft spilled through the wall from the left side, delivering healthy supplies of clean, fresh air. The room was sturdy and durable; no event less than a major earthquake could damage the structure.

And since light never penetrated the walls and the room was partially underground, the chamber maintained an average temperature of fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit throughout the year. In case that proved too cold, occupants could burn wood in a massive fire pit.

The quarters were spacious. It was wide and deep, with a high ceiling that made it feel even larger. A virtual palace for a camper of humble means. Or two exhausted men.

Inside was a small stool with four legs—the solitary furnishing. Below the seat, tattered from years of use, was a blanket rolled in a tight cylinder. Against one wall stood an arrangement of empty tin cans with the labels removed, forming a pyramid.

The fire ring—a circular arrangement of stones on the floor that corralled flames—was loaded with gray ash. Carbon deposits from the most recent fire stained the inner rim. Intense heat had split many of the stones. Safe from the reach of embers rising from the flames, a half cord of dry, seasoned timber leaned against the wall.

Finished surveying the aesthetics, Dagget spoke. “There’s been chatter about a recluse out this way for years.” With a casual dip, he claimed the stool, grunting as his bottom touched the seat. “It was said he lived on the outskirts of town, holed up in the woods. Every once in a while a trespass call came in about a short, bearded guy with long coal-black hair and blue eyes. He Dumpster-dove behind a few of the supermarkets or restaurants. We’d cruise in, check it out, but he always slipped out ahead of us. The creep was mobile, didn’t stay in one spot very long. Wasn’t much point chasing after him. He never hurt anyone.

“One time, though, things turned real sour. Damn madman blew up half a construction site with homemade explosives. To stop a mall development, the papers said. That brought the Feds knocking. He disappeared right after that. They say he burrowed deep into the woods. Hasn’t been a sighting since. Papers made the thing into a bigger deal than it really was.”

“Reporters are good at that.” Mike Brody knew the struggle. How some in the media twisted a minor happening into the event of the century. Oddly though, he had heard tales of a similar man fitting a similar profile, The Ridge Runner. Jessica had published a story about a fugitive in Northern California several years ago. She had coined the unusual nickname based on his habit of skirting across difficult rock ledges without climbing equipment. From Dagget’s description, Mike wondered if the two legends were the same man. He hoped not. Nearly five years ago he had chased the Ridge Runner—Oswald Lecher was his real name—through the deep reaches of a remote Northern California forest for nine days. Worst rundown of Mike’s life. The Ridge Runner was an expert at evasion, though Mike prevailed. Barely. These days the Ridge Runner was serving hard time at Sheridan on terrorism charges.

Mike gathered an armful of logs from the pile, and bent down to arrange the wood inside the fire pit. A fire that burned high above the ring worked best—it meant less crouching for warmth, brighter light, and better ventilation—so he propped the ends of three logs against each other, forming a tripod. With a knife he carved off slivers and bark. The kindling he placed underneath the logs.

A bright flame from his butane torch set off the kindling. Monitoring the fire’s progress for fifteen minutes, he stayed until two of the medium-sized logs caught. When he rose, his right knee cracked. He winced, though not from the sound.

Dagget removed his boots and set them upon the ring. The black laces dangled down the shafts, tips below the soles, but above the flames. He rubbed his hands, chattering.

Mike swept the room for more proof of life. In the space between the woodpile and the wall, a draft flowed openly.