ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE (12 page)

Chapter Twelve

Stacy had heard of people seeing red, but she’d never experienced this red haze of anger clouding her vision. “My son is not
safe
with anyone but me. And you are insane if you think I’m going to go anywhere and wait until the government decides they can get around to returning him to me.”

“He’s in no danger,” Sullivan said. “As long as he’s safe...”

“How do you know that? You told me earlier you hadn’t even seen him. Or was that a lie to try to shut me up?” She stood, and Patrick rose also, prepared to prevent her from launching herself at Sullivan. “He is away from his mother, with people he doesn’t know. He’s alone and afraid and you will not leave him there one
second
more than necessary.”

“Mrs. Giardino, we are talking about a major investigation that has ramifications with the security of the United States,” Sullivan said.

“What does Nordley have to do with national security?” Patrick asked.

“He’s head of the Senate’s committee on homeland security.”

“I don’t care if he’s best friends with the head of the Taliban,” Stacy said. “You can investigate him
after
you rescue my son.”

“We really can’t do that.” Sullivan looked to Patrick. “Explain to her how important this is.”

“I can’t.” Patrick folded his arms over his chest. “You can’t justify leaving a three-year-old in a dangerous situation for the convenience of an investigation.”

“He’s not in any danger.”

“I don’t agree. And I won’t go along with any plan to delay his rescue.”

“Then it’s just as well the decision isn’t up to you.” Sullivan stood also and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Stacy asked.

“Back to do my job. I’ll be in touch.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Patrick asked.

“All that you need to know.”

“Have you seen Carlo?” Stacy asked. “Is he really all right?”

Sullivan looked from one to the other. “I’m not going to discuss this investigation with you any further. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”

“I have a job with this investigation, too,” Patrick said. “The Bureau isn’t running this show.”

“It is now. But don’t worry—you still have a role. Your job is to protect Mrs. Giardino.” He smirked. “Obviously, you’re taking that assignment very seriously.” He opened the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

Sullivan left. Patrick moved to the window and watched the agent get into a black SUV and drive away.

Stacy watched over Patrick’s shoulder. “Aren’t you going to stop him?” she asked.

“I can’t.” He turned away from the window. “That last dig about you was his way of letting me know he won’t say anything to my supervisors about our relationship as long as I stay out of his way. If I make trouble, he’ll have me reassigned. You’ll get a new handler who’ll have orders not to let you get near the investigation.”

“I can’t believe this is happening. What are we going to do?”

“At least if I stay with you we can work together.” He put his arm around her and pulled her close. “We’ll find Carlo.”

“But he ordered you to stay away.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bent the rules to help someone I was sworn to protect.” He’d sent Elizabeth Giardino a gun, though doing so had been out of line. Directly disobeying orders to look for Carlo was a much more serious transgression; it could cost him his career.

“You’d risk your job for me?” she asked.

“Finding Carlo is the right thing to do,” he said.

“How will we find him? We don’t know where the ranch is.”

“The same way Sullivan probably found him—we’ll talk to people and listen to what they have to say. We will find him, Stacy. I promise.” He squeezed her shoulder. And when they did, he’d do what he had to do to reunite the child with his mother, even if it meant defying his bosses and the government.

Stacy dressed in the clothes she’d worn the day before, which were at least a little cleaner after their soak in the tub and a night spent drying over a chair. Patrick wore clothes that had belonged to the pale-eyed man, though the shirt was a little tight across his broader shoulders. They packed their few belongings into Pale Eyes’s suitcase and prepared to leave. They were on their way out the door when Stacy remembered the other suitcase. She put her hand on Patrick’s arm to stop him. “Wait. What about the money?”

He nodded and went to retrieve the second case from under the bed. He unzipped the top and surveyed the neat stacks of bills inside, as if to reassure himself they were still there.

“We didn’t tell Sullivan about this,” she said.

“I never told my office, either.” The oversight wasn’t deliberate; he’d simply forgotten with everything else that had happened. He zipped up the case. “I’ll be sure to report it the next time Sullivan bothers to get in touch. In the meantime, we might be able to use it as a bargaining chip.”

“With the feds or with Uncle Abel?” she asked.

“Maybe both.” He carried the case out to the car and locked it in the trunk. He didn’t know if fifty thousand dollars was enough to persuade anyone involved in this case to act differently, but the money might link up some of the players. Had the two thugs been delivering or receiving the cash? Who had put it into that suitcase? He added these to the growing list of unanswered questions in this case.

* * *

L
IGHT
SNOW
FELL
as they drove toward Crested Butte. Stacy didn’t ask what they’d do when they got there. Stacy trusted Patrick had a plan. All she could focus on was Carlo and praying that he was indeed all right. Maybe Abel and Willa liked little children and they’d be kind to him and do what they could to calm his fears. It wasn’t the same as having his mother with him, but she wanted him to feel safe. To know he was loved. Wasn’t that the best security of all, to know that someone cared about you and wanted to protect you?

“Do you think Agent Sullivan is right about the reason Carlo was kidnapped?” she asked. “To gain control of the money?”

“Greed motivates a lot of crimes. But you said Abel has money of his own?”

“Sam always said he did. He referred to him as ‘my brother, the rich rancher.’”

“What kind of ranch does he have? Cattle?”

“Horses, I think. Maybe some cattle, too. I’m not sure. Sam always talked about Abel ‘playing cowboy’ and said he was rolling in the big bucks.”

“Maybe he was being sarcastic.”

“Maybe. An honest rancher probably doesn’t have as much money as a mobster.”

“We don’t know that he’s honest,” Patrick said.

“Kidnapping isn’t honest,” she agreed. “And if he was the one who sent those two thugs after us in the canyon, how did he know to hire people who had worked for Sam, unless he and Sam had been in contact—even working together—all along?”

“I wonder if the cash in that suitcase was payment to the thugs for going after you—or if they were supposed to deliver it to Abel from someone else.”

“From Senator Nordley?” she asked. “Was he fronting cash to Abel until he had the money from the will?”

Patrick shook his head. “It’s all speculation. And we could be completely wrong. We’re still not certain Abel even has Carlo.”

She slid down lower in the seat. “I hope he does. At least then we know where he is. If he isn’t with Abel and Willa, then he’s vanished.” The thought made it difficult to breathe.

Patrick squeezed her hand. “We’ll find him. I promise.”

She nodded, too moved to speak. She believed he meant his words, but she also knew he couldn’t guarantee that Carlo was safe. She wouldn’t rest easy again until her son was safe in her arms, and far away from the people who wanted to hurt him or use him.

After two hours of driving, a highway sign informed them they had reached the outskirts of Crested Butte. Patrick turned off the highway at a complex of warehouses and industrial-supply businesses. “I’m headed to the airport,” he said, before Stacy could ask. “We need to get rid of this car.”

“Because Abel’s men might recognize it?”

He glanced at her. “That, and because the feds know it.”

She sat back in her seat. Right. If Sullivan and his bunch recognized that Stacy and Patrick were getting too close to their precious investigation, they’d do everything they could to stop them.

Patrick parked the car at Crested Butte’s tiny airport, which was housed in a single terminal with two gates. He carried their suitcases inside and led the way to the rental car counter, where he rented a yellow Jeep Cherokee with a ski rack. “The snow is great right now,” the clerk said as she handed over the keys. “Have a great vacation.”

“Thanks.” His eyes met Stacy’s and she looked away. She only wished they were a happy couple on a relaxing vacation, instead of two people thrown together in a desperate search for her missing son.

From the airport they drove into the heart of Crested Butte, which proved to be a picturesque hamlet of Victorian-era wood-front buildings painted bright colors, clustered along a few streets against a backdrop of snow-covered mountains. Patrick found the courthouse, parked in front of it and went inside to the clerk’s office. “We’re doing some research and would like to look through the tax records,” he told the middle-aged redhead behind the counter.

“You can use this computer.” The clerk led them to a small workstation and pulled up the county records program. “You can search by the name of the owner or by address,” she said. She started to type in an example, but the phone rang. “I’d better get that,” she said. “If you have any questions, just ask.”

Stacy sat in the chair in front of the terminal while Patrick pulled a second chair alongside her. “I guess I’ll start with the obvious,” she said. She typed the word
Giardino
in the space for last name and hit Enter.

“No records returned,” Patrick said.

In quick succession she tried Abel, Willa, Sam and even Carlo. But nothing came up that looked remotely like the ranch Abel supposedly owned. “Try Nordley,” Patrick suggested.

She tried the name. “Nothing.”

Patrick sat back. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Even in a county this small, there must be thousands of properties. We can’t research them all.”

“You’re right.” She clicked back to the home page, then pushed out her chair. “I have an idea. Just give me a minute.”

With her most friendly smile in place, she approached the clerk. “Maybe you can help me,” she said. “I’m doing a college thesis on historic ranches of Gunnison County. Do you know who might have a listing of all the ranches in the area?”

The lines on the clerk’s forehead deepened. “The historical society might be able to help you,” she said.

“So you don’t maintain any kind of listing of ranches or anything like that in this office?”

“We have a map the cattleman’s society put together a couple years back, but it won’t tell you if the places on it are historic or not.”

“Could I see the map? It would be a great start.”

“I think I have a copy around here somewhere.” She retreated to a back room and returned a few minutes later with a yellowing scroll. “Here you go. Just return it to me when you’re done.”

Resisting the urge to unfurl the scroll and examine it right there at the counter, Stacy thanked the woman and carried her prize back to the workstation. “This map supposedly shows the ranches in the county,” she said.

Patrick took hold of one end and helped her spread out the documents, which proved to be an artistic rendering of the county, complete with mountain ranges, miniature skiers and carefully sketched-in cattle and forests. Stacy scanned the names of the ranches: Red Hawk, Powderhorn Creek, Pogna Ranch. She stopped when she came to a name affixed to a parcel not far from town. “Willing and Able,” she read. “That has to be it. It’s a play on their names—Willa and Abel.”

Patrick pulled out a notebook and wrote down the general location of the ranch. Stacy typed the road number into the computer and came up with a listing of properties in the vicinity. Third from the top was the name A.G. Holdings. “Abel Giardino,” she said.

Patrick nodded and replaced the notebook in his coat. “Let’s drive out there and take a look.”

Stacy returned the map to the clerk. “Did you find what you were looking for?” the woman asked.

“I think so. Thank you very much.” She couldn’t hold back her smile. Maybe in just a little while she’d be able to see her son.

“Hurry,” she said to Patrick, and rushed past him toward the Jeep.

He followed at a slower pace. Once they were buckled in, he turned to her before he started the car. “Right now we’re just going to drive by to make sure we have the right location—and to see if we spot any of the federal surveillance. I doubt we will—these guys are very good. But we won’t be stopping and lingering. And we won’t be driving up to the front door and demanding to see Carlo.”

“Of course not.” Though part of her had envisioned just such a scenario.

“I know it’s hard for you, being this close and having to wait,” he said. “But if we’re going to retrieve Carlo safely, we have to have a plan. I’m hoping this drive will suggest a way to approach the ranch house without being seen by either the feds or Abel’s guards. This is just a reconnaissance mission.”

She nodded. “All right.” She reached out and pressed down the door lock. She could do this—but if she actually saw Carlo, all bets were off.

Patrick consulted the map of the area the rental car company had given him, then drove out of town and turned onto a plowed gravel road that cut between expanses of snow-covered fields crisscrossed with sagging barbed-wire fencing. They passed herds of cattle eating hay that ranchers had spread for them that morning, the feed a dark green line against the pristine whiteness of the snow that rose above the animals’ hocks.

Other pastures were vacant, the snow as smooth as buttercream frosting on a wedding cake, unmarred by even the tracks of deer. Stacy thought again of the remoteness and loneliness of this country. “I could never live here,” she said. “So far from everything.”

“Some people like it, I guess,” he said. “No neighbors to see what you’re up to.”