Last Track, The (36 page)

“He’s lying,” Lisbeth said.

“Right, that’s what I thought. I almost woke up believing that, too. Swears he’s been framed, but has no ideas who did it. Then out of nowhere, dude says that he did have some issues with his cook, Chappy. Apparently, Chappy used to own the place and has been trying to buy it back. The negotiations haven’t been going well. Erich refused an offer he made a few weeks ago, and since then, there’s been a series of odd incidents. Guests reporting things missing from their rooms, room doors found open, petty cash shortages, and the like. Erich suspected Chappy, but never had enough to prove it.”

“Interesting, but it’s pretty thin . . .” Lisbeth lit a cigarette.

“Definitely. Until I checked out Chappy. He did a five-year stretch years back. Second degree murder. Put two shots to someone’s head with a handgun in a staged break-in. Sound familiar?”

“That’s all circumstantial so far.”

“But it’s not circumstantial that the handgun we found near Shad’s place was reported stolen by Erich months ago. He filed an official report.”

“Then why is there no record with the county clerk?” Lisbeth said.

“That’s a very good question. Because we found a copy of the report at the ranch in Erich’s safe. It’s legit. Verified it with the clerk and issuing officer. They both remembered him filling it out. But they checked both the paper records and the system, and while there’s paperwork for the sequential number matching the one before and after Erich’s, his is nowhere to be found. The report just doesn’t exist.”

“Bring in Chappy, then,” Lisbeth said.

“Don’t worry; he’s in custody. Chappy said Erich had nothing to do with Shad or David St. John. Chappy’s working for someone else, trying to get a stake to buy back the ranch. He admitted to injecting Andy’s horse with a drug, and dosing Jessica’s food. He wouldn’t say who the Partner is, but he sang like a little girl about some guy named Crotty. A rogue Homeland Security agent.”

All at once, Lisbeth realized who Mayhew was really looking for, and where he was headed.

She reached for her phone to warn Mike.

•••

Mike offered Sean the water bottle. Next to Sean, the Marlin was propped against a cave wall. Weakened, his face pale, Sean mustered enough strength to drink unassisted. His outward disposition improved further when offered an energy bar. The glucose boost added a little color into his face.

“And this is yours, too.” Mike pulled out Sean’s watch from the backpack and gave it to the boy, whose eyes popped wide as he bore a huge smile. “Hang tight, Sean,” Mike said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t leave me,” Sean said in a raspy voice.

“No way. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Since there was no signal in the cave, Mike stepped into the alcove to call Jessica. She needed to get out with Andy immediately.

“I didn’t recognize your number.” Jessica beat back a yawn. “Are you okay?”

“We’re good. We’ve got Sean. If we can get him a doctor soon, he’ll be fine. Take Andy and get the hell out of there. Don’t look back. I’m serious this time, Jessica. You know where to go.”

“You really did it?” She rather sounded like she didn’t believe it, but desperately wanted to. “Is Lisbeth coming with the cavalry?”

“Dagget is in charge of that one.”

“You want me to call her just in case? Maybe she needs to hear it more than once?”

“Only if you can do that from the road.”

“We’re halfway there already,” Jessica said. “I promise.”

Footsteps approached. Mike loaded the Marlin and walked toward them, staying in the shadows.

The man stood with the sun at his back, the bright light concealing his features. He held a chain of rosary beads. He rubbed the two largest beads together. The smaller plastic spheres clicked as they slipped around in his hand.

“Mike Brody?” the man asked.

06:59:13 AM

Sighting the Marlin, Mike lingered in the shadows. He could rip off a clear shot at any time. “Who’s asking?”

“No need to shoot.” The man presented a badge in a leather case: R.P. Crotty, Department of Homeland Security. “We heard from Officer Dagget that you found Sean. Nice work! Where is the boy now?”

“Resting inside. He needs medical attention.”

“Of course,” said Crotty to Mike. Into a walkie-talkie, Crotty said, “Got’ em. We’re going to need a Medivac, and let the ER doctors at Washington Memorial know it’s urgent.” Finished with the walkie, he clipped it back to his belt, and offered his hand to Mike. “I am impressed. Who would have thought that one man could find a lost boy in the middle of nowhere? But you pulled it off. Just between you and me, I’ve been rooting for you since I heard you were involved. You led me right to him.”

Mike lowered the rifle, but kept it ready. He did not shake Crotty’s hand. “I had lots of help.”

“Don’t be so modest,” said Crotty. “And put the gun away already. How much assistance did you really have, when it came down to it? Officer Dagget doesn’t strike me as a very able individual. And there were all kinds of obstacles you tackled, I’m sure. Yet you persevered. Not everyone could do what you did.”

“What exactly is Homeland Security’s interest in a missing person case?”

“As you probably guessed,” Crotty said, “Sean witnessed a murder. The victim is a person of great importance to us, and we’re anxious to hear what Sean might have to say about that.” He stepped closer to Mike. “I’d like a statement from him before the airlift arrives.”

Mike stepped aside. In passing, Crotty glanced at Mike.

But Mike was looking elsewhere.

Glancing over Crotty’s shoulder, Mike noticed a track in the soil, one that belonged to neither Sean nor Dagget nor himself. Recognizing the pattern, it shocked him. The tracks from the clearing. The same tracks as the killer. With that realization came responsibility.

“Agent Crotty?” said Mike, his voice casual. Turning to Mike, Crotty paused as if inconvenienced. “I was just wondering if you had any suspects in the murder?”

“I need a statement from Sean first. Government business, you understand.” Crotty took another step down the alcove, closer to the cave.

Mike placed a hand on Crotty’s shoulder. “Maybe we can talk now.”

Crotty reached for his Glock 17, still facing away from Mike. With a clenched fist, Mike rammed the base of Crotty’s neck, sending him to his knees. The Glock 17 fell to the ground closer to Mike than Crotty. Crotty rolled, jumped up, and spun around so he faced Mike.

The handgun remained on the rocks.

Crotty punched Mike twice—the first Mike slipped, the second slammed home. Mike relaxed his jaw and turned with the punch as Crotty’s fist connected, blunting the shock. Pulling back, Mike sucked in three quick breaths. He was too close to fire the Marlin, he needed more room to raise the gun to his shoulder and absorb the recoil. Crotty rushed him, driving his body against the wall, then tried pinning Mike’s upper body. The impact knocked the Marlin from Mike’s hands; the rifle smacked against the rocks. Mike broke loose, and knocked Crotty off balance.

Crotty slithered off, too far from either gun. He struggled to his feet. Rising, he said, “Do you think saving Sean will make the faces go away?”

“What faces?”

“The faces you found that day, buried in the woods behind the supermarket. When you called for the excavators and the long poles, everyone expected a body,” Crotty said.

Mike remembered . . .

Beneath the last layer of plastic had been a wooden crate. Inside, had been twenty-seven pictures of children—all aged ten—the photos taken by a school photographer. Each had been abducted by the same man over a nine-year period. None had ever seen their family again, except for one. The seventeenth victim escaped from the hideaway, navigated by the stars, and ran more than eleven miles to the interstate. A trucker with a goatee discovered him on the road, and drove him to the police. The papers marveled at the boy’s survival skills, though he never discussed the experience with anyone, including the authorities. Widely believed dead by the media, officially the perpetrator remained at large. Mike knew what had happened to the boy; he knew everything that happened, because Mike Brody was the seventeenth victim—the only known survivor.

“I have an offer for you,” said Crotty.

“You have nothing to offer me.” Mike still pushed the long-repressed images away.

“Maybe I do, Mike. We’re not so different, you and I. We were both orphaned at three.”

“Congratulations. You want the I-have-abandonment-issues jacket?”

“I know where your abductor is,” Crotty said. “You remember him, right? Kendrick Purcell. He kidnapped all those boys. Kidnapped and killed your brother. It was too bad that by the time you led police back to Kendrick’s deep-woods lair it was too late for Tommy.”

“You’re lying,” Mike said. “He’s dead.”

“No, I can assure you, Kendrick Purcell is alive. It may be unfair, but it’s true. I can give you all the information you need to find him and a free pass from prosecution. You can do as you see fit to settle the score. Whatever happens is between you and Kendrick.”

“If you know where he is,” Mike said, “then someone is protecting him.”

“That I can’t confirm officially,” Crotty said. “And trust me, you don’t want to know. Let’s get to what I want. I could use a man like you, Mike. You’ve traveled. And you’ve walked tours right through some very strategic places and gotten out unharmed. My business and supply routes are growing. I need a face for my contacts in Baja to interface with. You meet a few people, shake some hands, and pass some communications along. You wouldn’t carry any money or handle any product. Hell, you’re doing that ambassador type of stuff already. I just need you to do it for me now and again.”

“I’m not passing notes for scum like you,” Mike said.

“That’s unfortunate. Tell me, does it keep you up at night that you didn’t make it back in time to save Tommy?” Crotty said, sneering.

Enraged, Mike used his fist like a hammer and slammed Crotty in the face so hard cartilage cracked.

Crotty’s broken nose opened up, gushing blood down his neck. Crotty stumbled for a second, and recovered. He faked high, then kicked at Mike’s bad knee.

Mike blocked the assault, partially. Crotty tried again, this time hitting the joint. And that’s when the real pain started. Mike slipped. A boot heel found the kneecap and Mike crumpled.

Crotty scooped up the handgun, and aimed it at Mike. “You should have taken my offer . . .”

“Stay down, Mike!” Dagget yelled from the opposite end of the alcove. He centered his semiautomatic USP at Crotty, his hands steady, his Weaver stance perfect.

Before Crotty could turn, Dagget pulled the trigger, firing three shots. The bullets pierced Crotty’s heart, and he fell sideways. The only shot Crotty managed bounced harmlessly off the wall above Mike. Stepping up, Dagget kicked the Glock 17 out of Crotty’s hands, out of reach. Entry wounds from the bullets showed two-inch groupings, just as Dagget claimed he could manage.

“He’s alone, I hope,” said Mike.

“Lisbeth scooped up three heavily armed guys not far from here a few minutes ago. Good thing you left that walkie-talkie on in your pocket,” explained Dagget. “Or I wouldn’t have known what was going on. She tried calling us, but our phones were off . . .”

“Lisbeth is coming?” Mike asked.

“She picked up the flare I fired, so it’s her and everyone else. State Police, DEA, the press, you name it,” Dagget said. “Apparently Jessica called some people, too. There’s a press conference later. Let’s get Sean and go. I want to sleep in a real bed tonight.”

Dagget helped Mike to his feet for the second time that day. As they passed Crotty, he gasped, and reached for Dagget. “The . . . Partner . . .” Crotty said. Blood gurgled out of his throat. Crotty collapsed on the rocks. The combined shock of the wounds was fatal. A chain of rosary beads lay broken next to his body.

“So you’re not going to arrest me, Dagget?” Mike asked.

“Oh, we’ll get you out of here and your knee fixed up. Then I cite you.” This time Dagget said it clearly tongue in cheek. “The good kind. You know, signed by the mayor.”

Tired and broken, Mike Brody stepped into the last flickers of a sunrise as a helicopter flew over the mountain.

Often Mike Brody said he would know what he was looking for when he found it. This time it had been Sean Jackson. Even on this search, he was seeking more than a lost child. He was looking for a mission to heal his childhood wounds. And he knew that whatever happened to him, whatever the consequences or risks, he would never stop searching for the missing. Mike could never stop searching, even if the next time was the time he was too late.

Two weeks later

Dagget called Mike Brody at the tracker’s home in California. The men had not spoken to each other since the morning they emerged from the woods with Sean and faced the hordes of press and law-enforcement officials. The crowd was a zoo, the likes of which only someone with Jessica’s extensive contacts could summon on short notice. Mike left Dagget to deal with it, drifting past the reporters who held cameras and microphones toward them like jousting sticks.

“How’s the knee?” Dagget asked.

“Better.” Since the surgery Mike hobbled intermittently, and used a crutch when the painkillers wore off. He faced five more weeks of physical therapy, strength training, and aerobics. He had been down this road before, and knew he would recover, though the process would take a lot longer than he wanted. It was the nature of knee injuries—an instant to tear badly, months to heal.

“I wanted to thank you again for saving my life on that cliff,” Dagget said.

“You saved mine, too,” Mike said. “Thanks for that. Hey, I owe you an explanation still. I promised if we found Sean, I’d tell you why I track.”

“We’re even,” Dagget said. “If you want to tell me someday, you will. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier, but an investigation I’m running took all my time. I was calling to thank you for something else.” He said this thoughtfully. “It was very humble of you to let Lisbeth and I take all the credit in the papers.”