Last Track, The (5 page)

More than technical details, what he remembered most clearly about cases afterward were the faces of the people involved. Where situations turned ugly, he wrestled with the memories, especially while awake. He remembered cases with pleasant resolutions best. These were the right match for his skills. Where he helped. Where the loved ones drove home happy. A sliver of him shared in their exuberance. The faces of loved ones carried him a few nights, maybe a little more. Then the night terrors returned. They always returned.

What are the odds these are from Sean?
he thought. If so, the first track—the second most important one in any case—had presented itself.

From there, Sean sprinted off into the woods, toward the road, pushing off on his toes. Swaying leftward several times, he had considered glancing backward, then had changed his mind mid-stride.

Reversing course, Mike returned to the murder scene. He wanted verification the boy had not entered the clearing, or even breached the perimeter. Although he was almost positive Sean had nothing to do with either the murder or the removal of the body, Mike wanted to be certain. He found nothing implicating the boy of either.

Unless he wanted to follow a particular set of tracks out of the clearing, there was little else there for Mike, so he left the scene. Back at the road, Dagget blocked his way. “I’m not buying it,” Dagget said. “This whole business of yours is crap. You’re a lucky guesser is all.”

“I won’t add your name to the newsletter then,” Mike said. Many times before he had dealt with officers like Dagget. Though Dagget’s opposition was more rabid than most, there were always critics. Arguing with them was reckless. Ignoring them when they were in his face was worse.

He had never been concerned about his image, though Jessica long had lobbied for him to consider how his actions appeared to others.
Results aren’t everything,
she had said.
Sometimes even when you win, you lose, because results aren’t enough.
On a gut level, he knew she was right. But in practice, when the hammer dropped, and there was a missing person, results were the only thing that mattered. Mike did what he had to and held his ground. The fallout landed where it must.

“I need to go that way,” Mike said, pointing toward the road.

Eventually Dagget yielded, stepping aside with a scowl. Mouthing the word
faker,
he also muttered a few expletives.

Unfazed, Mike found Lisbeth at the road. “Here’s your picture,” she said.

It was a color photograph of a boy like most any other fourteen-year-old on vacation with his parents—an awkward kid that yearned to be anywhere else. The first detail that leaped out was Sean’s glasses. The plastic frames were aviator style and too large for his thin face.

“Anything on the footwear?” Mike asked.

“Sean brought one pair of shoes,” Lisbeth said, “and he’s wearing them. Did you find anything?”

“If Sean’s path crossed with anyone else’s, it happened elsewhere, away from here.”

“Had a feeling that’s what you’d tell me.” She exhaled slowly, clearly pondering a half-formed idea. “Now what do we do about that?”

Enough with the “guess what I’m thinking” game,
Mike thought. He cleared his throat. “I could track Sean.” His mouth stayed opened very slightly when he finished his offer, waiting for her response.

“Okay,” she agreed finally. “But you’re not going into the wild without a buddy.”

09:40:51 AM

The hardest part of tracking for Mike was right before he started. Once in motion, the momentum snowballed, and one discovery fed on another. Before that point he was almost paralyzed with excess energy and ideas, waiting for the go-ahead.

Near the group of officers, he gathered the following gear: a Global Positioning System device with a special attachment to improve accuracy, a cloth canteen, a small pair of high-powered binoculars, iodine tablets, a knife, a bag of reflective markers, and a microsized butane torch. Some of the more hard-core survival experts dismissed modern equipment as cheating; it made the challenge too easy. A stable and predictable flame and access to worldwide navigation information were not needs Mike Brody questioned. There were times for proving one could start a fire without a match, or navigate by landmarks, a compass, or the stars.

But with a life on the line, bravado could wait. Besides, everything fit securely in the pockets of his cargo pants and kept his hands free.

Focused on the main problem, he worked over some initial impressions about Sean, and reviewed the short profile about the boy that Lisbeth had provided.

As far as negotiating the woods, Sean Jackson had a few advantages. Only children often had independent streaks. That could serve him well in unfamiliar or uncomfortable settings. Used to being alone, the solitude might not have such a dramatic impact. Also, Sean was innately curious. He walked toward the crime scene prior to the murder willingly. The mere fact that he wandered far off the road and away from a marked trail also proved that Sean was an explorer of sorts. Another check in the plus column.

On the minus side, Sean previously had only minimal exposure to the deep woods. The cement streets of Brooklyn were very different from the wilderness of Montana, especially once the sun set. There was food and water for the taking, but Mike doubted Sean would know where to look. As for what sort of choices Sean might make under duress, Mike wanted to speculate, but he needed more information.

It was imperative that he have more than just the tracks. Physical evidence only took one so far.

One of the more gnawing details Detective Lisbeth McCarthy had not shared: why the boy left the ranch. Exactly where Sean found the time was puzzling. The daily schedule was packed with activities from breakfast through lights-out. Mike needed an answer. That meant dealing with the parents.

Sean’s father had cooled considerably from earlier, and shifted from yelling to pacing and grumbling. Ignoring his rants, the police asked that Mr. Jackson remain behind the sawhorse and stay calm. Still, he was in better shape than Sean’s mother, the woman from the porch who had dashed off after her husband earlier, who looked ragged from concern. On her arm just above the wrist was a bruise. The marks matched a large pair of hands. Mike had a good guess whose hands had clamped down on her forearm.

Mike introduced himself to the Jacksons. Clearly, Sean’s father, Gerald, was unimpressed. “You don’t look like no cop,” Gerald said. “Why are you here?”

“I help find missing people,” Mike said. The wife, Faith, kept avoiding eye contact.

“Oh, neat.” Gerald wore sarcasm badly. “I sure would like to help.
Somebody
doesn’t want my help.” All the emphasis was on
somebody.
So much emphasis the man practically spat the words.

“I’ve helped the police in similar situations before,” Mike said. “And every time, it rips a hole in my heart to see parents suffering like this. No one has definite answers, and all you want is some kind of assurance that everything is going to work out. I have a son, a little younger than Sean, and I’d be devastated in your position.”

Gerald fell silent.

“Was there any reason Sean was out this way?” asked Mike.

“He’s always wandering off,” said Gerald, shrugging. “Boys do that. Usually he comes right back.”

“But this time he didn’t,” Mike said, remaining calm, hoping to inspire trust. “I’m asking why. And I ask because we want the same thing. To see Sean home again as soon as possible. There are a million things happening all around us, but what matters is Sean. If you can help me understand why he left, I may be able to help find him. Did anything unusual happen that morning?”

“He’s lost is what happened,” said Gerald. “That’s all I know.”

Already Mike doubted Gerald would help, but these answers were paramount, so he forged ahead and hoped for the best. “In order to help, I need to understand his mental state. The more I know about what he might have been thinking or feeling, the better.”

Faith Jackson stepped up and put her hand lightly on Mike’s arm. “Sean was a little upset when he left yesterday.”

“Who asked you?” Gerald strained his vocal cords barking the words.

Mike faced Sean’s mother. “What might have upset him?”

Averting his gaze, she stared mostly at the road. “I didn’t say this to the police. Yesterday was our last day and Sean really wanted to stop somewhere on the way to the airport, and . . . ”

“How this matters is beyond me,” said Gerald gruffly.

“I ask these questions because they’re important.” With a glance toward Faith, Mike said, “There was a difference of opinion over the stop?”

“Yes,” Faith said, finally meeting his eye.

“What kind of disagreement?” Mike asked.

“Normal sort,” Faith said, like the memory of it had drained her energy. Based on Gerald’s stance, it was clear that he felt she had shared too much already.

“Tell me about how he left,” Mike said. “Did he sneak off or was it more in the open? Might he have been a little confrontational about it?”

“He just . . . just . . .” Faith sobbed.

Again Mike recognized he had nailed a raw nerve ending. By not admitting anything specific, Faith betrayed quite a lot. Mike suspected she avoided looking at both men for different reasons. Certainly Mike’s questions intimidated the suffering woman. But if Mike’s questions bothered Faith, it seemed Gerald’s presence positively terrified her.

He could tell there was nothing more Faith would share with him. At least in this setting.

“I’m sorry that you’re in limbo right now,” Mike said. “I hope there’s some good news for you very shortly.”

“Yeah, well,” Gerald said, “unless you got some, you’re no better than the rest of them.”

09:49:16 AM

Mike had an image of Sean now, the genesis of a profile. But even with a clearer idea about Sean through, or perhaps in spite of, his parents, Mike was still unsure about what made the boy tick. Typically he received a more thorough briefing about his subject. Here his impressions rested largely upon a short string of adjectives: only child, scared, city dweller, independent, lanky, asthmatic. The tracks would have to fill in the blanks.

He directed his energies to the equipment.

He checked, then double-checked his water supply. The canteen was full, the iodine tablets intact.

Catching his racing thoughts, he inhaled twice and redirected his focus. Lisbeth had mentioned a search buddy. The idea had merit.

There were tremendous advantages to multiple sets of eyes, especially ones familiar with the terrain. Besides the advantage of local area expertise, it greatly expanded their reach. If fatigue became a factor, a partner would help ease the mental burden.

Often police recruited him several days or weeks after a person vanished. Sean Jackson was an exception, since this call had arrived early. That was a plus. Not necessarily a trump card, but very helpful. So far the tracks were fresh and intact, the weather clear, the ground dry. The last storm was three nights back, leaving the soil firm and highly responsive. With highs in the low sixties and hours of light before dusk, the odds were definitely in a searcher’s favor.

He had missed breakfast so he scarfed down a protein bar, swallowed some lukewarm coffee from his thermos, and longed for just one more swig. But Lisbeth’s appearance meant the wait had ended.

“You look tense,” she said as she came over, looking a bit tense herself.

“I found the first track,” Mike said. “The second most-important, and where I start. Waiting for the go-ahead. So who’s my partner?”

Lisbeth was all business. “No word on the helicopters,” she said. “Scent dogs are coming. They’re newbies. First time out. It’s a bit disturbing.”

“A lot comes down to the handler.”
Nice of her to dodge the question,
Mike thought.

“He’s green, too.” She sounded like someone fishing for reassurance.

“Gotta work with what you have, right?”

Lisbeth sighed. “What’s your basic strategy today?”

“That depends somewhat on you. First off, I’d like to see where the tracks in the clearing lead. That’s a promising area. If the searchers find something you’d like me to check out, I’ll do that. But, I’d like to begin with a known track from Sean.”

“How far do you think Sean wandered?”

“Too early to tell,” Mike said. “He might be a mile away, he might be five. Right now he might even be within shouting distance.”

Lisbeth considered the prospect with interest. “You’ll check in every three hours.”

“I can do that.”

“That wasn’t a question, Mike. We got you some long-range walkie-talkies. Secure encrypted transmissions and they’re a direct line to me. Whenever you check in, communicate your coordinates as precisely as you can manage. I expect you to make use of your GPS.”

Something told Mike she was not worried about him getting lost.
To this point instincts had served Mike well with Lisbeth. She was sharp; he liked her. “I’ll watch the time.”

Lisbeth continued, glancing around. “Your counterpart was given identical instructions.” She paused for a moment. “In as much as we don’t have a large number of searchers right now, we do have quality talent, which includes you. Much thought was given to what expertise might jell best with yours. There’s not much point in sending you out there with a shadow.”

“I agree entirely. If you’re going to do something . . .”

“. . . do it right.” She finished the sentence. “That was my mother’s favorite saying by the way. So let’s do this right.”

“Absolutely.” Mike nodded. Her voice, her plan, it all made perfect sense.

“Great then, let’s get these introductions done.” She appeared increasingly perplexed. “Excuse me. He seems to have slipped away.” She scanned the road, then motioned toward a lone figure who faced away from them. A low hanging branch at the tree line obscured the man’s face. She summoned the officer with a single command. As the figure approached, Mike recognized the trooper-style haircut before remembering the name. Disbelief showed on the tracker’s face. Either Lisbeth did not notice, or she pretended not to.