Last Track, The (6 page)

Choosing a police officer was reasonable, but her particular selection was shocking. The last person he had expected, the one who had given him grief on two separate occasions, Officer Dagget, was now standing before him.

09:51:22 AM

After orientation, Jessica retreated to her room with Andy. Had anyone asked why, she would have lied. She had been here before; the role of single parent was nothing new for her.

Even if Mike had golden intentions, Jessica resented his bolting. For any reason. They had agreed this was a work-free vacation, a time-out. A chance for Andy to visit both parents at the same time. Such events happened so rarely, even before the divorce. Once again, Mike had left behind a mess of open issues that needed attention.

At least she had a temporary distraction. The digital SLR camera was the latest and most expensive brand on the commercial market. Though just within her economic means, this one was borrowed. It belonged to the editor of
Pacific Coast Reader
, Jack Graber. Graber was a former boss and a longtime freelance contact.

The tough-talking editor, who chewed cigars down to stubs but never once lit them up, had offered her a deal. Jessica could use the camera in exchange for a sneak peek at any promising story before she shopped the piece elsewhere. Many times Graber had said he depended on her to honor the bargain.

Jessica uncovered the stories with big themes that caught a reader’s attention. Reporting assignments had led her through the belly of prisons, crack houses, and police actions. She covered civil unrest and violent, bloody riots. Once, she even tempted fate and exposed links between organized crime and high-ranking state politicians.

Months after a story ran, she would review a piece and remember what really happened. The feelings were often overwhelming. She had no choice. She operated this way because doing otherwise risked her sanity and health. Because she dealt with the best, and worst, parts of humanity.

Many buckled under the stress of chaos, slithering for the nearest exit. They numbed the pain with alcohol or drugs. Something they could ingest to dull the edges, to escape the pressure. Jessica Barrett worked differently. She thrived on instability. The backdrop fit her like a book she wanted to disappear in, over and over. Journalism offered a perfect marriage of ability and ambition. The work was its own reward.

Throughout the regional and national press corps she was known for gripping real-world accounts. Unsure how this reputation started, she reveled in its benefits. Like the camera.

She missed the classic 35mm single lens reflex terribly, but a high-capacity device that spared her the task of finding a photo lab was a great asset. Documenting a story could mean taking a tremendous number of pictures; she never knew how many in advance. That feature alone saved her, and the paper, money.

Testing the sound levels on the mini cassette recorder, Jessica played back a few recent observations. Nothing important so far, just a joke about a gas station attendant they passed in Nevada. Jessica hit
stop
, satisfied the instrument worked perfectly.

Wherever she went, she carried a recording device and a package of blank tapes. Stories might break at any time, with little warning. The slender cassette recorder was solid enough for capturing raw ideas in the field. Later she would transcribe the audio notes to a laptop.

She set the mini recorder on her planner and looked for the essential spare batteries. Backups, especially data backups, were critical. Once a magnetic business card wiped her PDA clean. Since then she used paper for appointments and contact information.

Andy screamed, bounding off the mattress as if ejected by booster rockets. On the windowsill—a praying mantis. It was a perfect specimen, four inches in length, with large pocketknife forelegs. Beneath the legs, the serrations appeared like spiky teeth.

“Go away!” Andy hollered at the insect.

Outside, a hand rapped the door twice.

With practiced ease, Jessica opened the window, cupped the insect between her hands, and released it into the wild. Her maneuver was the quickest solution, if not the most helpful from a developmental perspective. One day soon, she hoped Andy would confront this childish fear. She knew the struggle; she had nursed quite a few into her teen years. The boy could not be rushed through the growth process. For now she sympathized and understood why he was scared of them. She guided the window along the runners, locking the frame shut.

Jessica opened the door, revealing Erich Reynard. In his left hand he held a basket sealed in plastic wrap. Beneath the clear wrap: snacks, bottled water, scented soaps, and chocolate.

“Is everything okay?” Erich asked.

“Yes. Sorry about that,” Jessica said. She glanced at Andy, who breathed heavily, still crouched in the space between the second bed and the wall.

His fingers gripped the comforter tight enough that his knuckles whitened. Even with the window locked and the insect gone, Andy seemed unsettled.

She added, “It’s nothing.”

Erich offered the basket to Jessica. “Just a few things to make your stay a little more comfortable.”

“Thank you so much,” Jessica said. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” Unlike many hospitality baskets, often loaded with junk, this one looked useful. Stepping away from Erich, Jessica placed the basket on the bureau before returning.

Erich continued. “I spoke with Mike earlier about the mix-up, and asked him to stop by the front desk after breakfast. His room is ready. So far he hasn’t come for his key.”

“He probably won’t,” Jessica said. “Not for a while anyway.”

“Is everything okay?” Erich asked, again.

“Andy and I are fine.”

“Does that mean you’re up for a plane ride?” Quickly Erich relayed the same offer he made Mike.

“That’s very kind of you,” Jessica said. “Unfortunately, I’m not a big fan of airplanes.” Fifteen Septembers before, a small plane had crashed into a field behind her parent’s house. At the time she was at school. Jessica never forgot the sight of the burnt wreckage. Since then she had only flown for business, and only when she had to.

“The Cessna is barely a year old,” Erich said. “And the pilot is highly skilled.”

“I don’t know.” And she meant just that. Her vague response baffled her. Being concise about what she wanted was rarely a problem for Jessica.

At the word
airplane,
Andy had leaped up from his hiding spot. Jessica knew he’d always wanted to fly. “Come on, Mom!” said Andy. “It’ll be awesome.”

“Jessica, I’d love to fly with you and Andy. Reconsider, please. There is nothing like autumn at three thousand feet.” Erich had a likable smile that struck her as genuine. “And every view is great from
Destiny
.”

“I’ll think about it.” Her first offer of a private plane ride. Jessica wondered why she had not said no immediately, when the idea seemed so preposterous. She did not fly for fun. That was final.

“Can’t ask for more than that,” Erich said. “I heard you were researching an article about my ranch. I’d like to help.”

“An interview for a plane ride. Is that your proposition?” Irked that Mike had leaked her plans, she hid her resentment as best she could. Ideally, the longer it stayed quiet she was a journalist, the easier that the writing would go. Once word spread she was a reporter, wild tales would come to her from every corner. People loved being written about as much as they liked talking about themselves.

“I do like a good conversation.” Erich held up the room key. “About Mike, how do I get this to him?”

“I’ll take it for now.” She reached outward for the silver key. Erich cupped his hand around hers. The gesture surprised Jessica.

More surprising to her was how long she hesitated in the doorway.

09:52:53 AM

Dagget lingered near enough for a conversation, yet far enough away that it was clear he preferred talking with anyone other than Mike.

“This is not what we discussed when I agreed to go in,” Dagget said, his voice strained.

“You’re critical here, Dagget,” Lisbeth said. “You and Mike.”

Dagget grunted loudly and harshly, almost as if expectorating something he could not purge from his throat fast enough. “I think it would be best if I helped with the search in another way.”

Lisbeth gave both men a glance. “Concern noted. I’m not going to sell you on this arrangement or convince you of the merits. There are a lot of complementary skills between you. Dagget, you know this area extremely well, and you’re one of the few officers with advanced search-and-rescue training. Plus, you’ve always demonstrated a tremendous enthusiasm for assignments like this in the past. Mike, between your references and my hunch, I’m certain this pairing will work well for you, too. Trust my judgment. That’s all I ask.”

“With all due respect, Detective . . . ,” Dagget said.

Lisbeth cut his protest short. “The choice has been made. You’re working with Mike. Your first report is due in three hours. Now go see Shad Hammer. He’s got some gear for you.”

Mike considered her reasoning curious, but the decision was hers. Dagget and Mike stared at each other for a long and awkward moment. Irony wore badly on Dagget; the officer was obviously uncomfortable. When it was clear to Mike that Dagget would never make the first move, he broke the silence and put out his hand. “The name’s Mike.”

“I know who you are.” Dagget folded his hands under his arms, declining the handshake. He glared past the tracker. A disparity in their heights—Mike was easily six inches taller—blunted the effect.

“Dagget, right?” Mike asked. He wasn’t crazy about the arrangement. He wasn’t sure he really trusted Dagget, either. Still, he wanted to help with the search. He had to.

“That’s Officer Dagget, pal.”

•••

Shad Hammer was the sort of tech who preferred handling gear over dealing with people; that was Mike’s impression. The tech probably had learned to appreciate the equipment because it was a crutch during conversations and a ready-made excuse for tinkering. As Dagget and Mike approached the van, Shad was reading the movie section of the local newspaper, his back propped against the vehicle. From behind his pages, Shad hummed the
Mission Impossible
theme.

“You need gear, you need the Shad,” he said, smirking at the cleverness of his own introduction. Ditching the paper, Shad opened the rear door of the white van. Inside were neat, ordered rows of firearms, ammunition, and various electronic devices. Unzipping a black tactical bag with shoulder straps, Shad rattled off its contents: “Two walkie-talkies, encrypted transmissions. First aid kit, water filter, flashlights, batteries, maps. Protein bars, Gatorade mix and assorted freeze-dried provisions, and two syringes of epinephrine for the kid’s asthma.”

Besides the weight factor—food was heavy—to Mike the gear made sense. Except one item. “Why syringes?” Mike asked. “Auto-injectors are more portable and sturdy.”

Shad nodded. “They would have been a better choice, yes. Unfortunately, this is what we had on hand.” He continued. “A flare gun and three flares if we have radio trouble and need to locate you. And here’s a special GPS, already calibrated for the terrain and preloaded with more than two dozen local maps . . .”

With a shake of his head, Mike said, “I’ve got my own, thanks.”

Shad countered. “At least take it as a backup device.”

“Definitely appreciated, but I only trust my own navigation gear,” Mike said.

“Okay,” Shad said. “Last—weapons. That USP is not going to cut it for you, Dagget.”

“I know what I want,” said Dagget, pointing toward a rifle with a high-capacity magazine and shoulder straps. “Gimme the AR with the scope.”

Shad reached for the firearm.

“You don’t want that,” said Mike in such a way that Shad stopped reaching.

“And why not?” Dagget asked, snorting.

“It’s heavy,” Mike said. “Carry that for a few hours, it’ll tire you out.” He knew a few things about hauling heavy weaponry all day, even when he was exhausted.

“Pretending you even know what you’re talking about, what do I want?” Dagget asked.

Mike pointed to a Marlin 444. It was a big bore rifle, designed for backwoods hunting and just over seven pounds loaded.

“I’d have to agree with him,” said Shad, who nodded at Mike.

“Looks like a cap gun,” Dagget said dismissively, his jaw clenched.

“That . . . ahem . . . cap gun can drop a grizzly bear. Forty-four pounds of recoil,” Shad said. “Not for the meek. What about you, Mike? You want something?”

Mike shook his head no. He rarely carried anymore, and hunted even less. Weapons had their time and place.

Dagget stared at the rifle, hesitating.

“Listen,” Shad said to Dagget. “It’s what I would pack in this situation.”

The last bit sold Dagget on the Marlin. He relented, reached for the rifle, and conceded. “It is pretty light.”

“Let me get you a shoulder sling and some shells.” Shad reached for the appropriate ammo box while Dagget checked the chamber, pointing the rifle at the ground. Shad grabbed the correct box without checking the label; the dimensions and weight told him all he needed to know. The shells rattled in the package.

Dagget found that the chamber was clear. Presenting two boxes of twenty rounds, each shell three hundred grains, Shad asked, “That enough?”

“If it takes more, we’ve got real problems,” said Dagget, checking his watch. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Shad laid the weapon against the bumper. The barrel pointed upward. “I’m impressed, Mike. Most cops grab a machine gun.”

“We’re not trying to clear a room,” Mike said.

“No, you’re not,” Shad agreed. “Looks like Dagget is giving you a hard time.”

“I don’t take it personally,” Mike said.

“Good.” Shad paused. “Man, I’d swear our paths have crossed before. Were you ever in Fort Benning, Georgia?”

“A long time ago,” Mike said, wistful for the past and at the same time, hesitant about looking back right now.

Shad yanked up his sleeve and revealed the Ranger scroll tattooed across the toned shoulder. Mike recognized a brother in his midst and smiled. When the sleeve fell back over the ink, they shook hands.