Sara (10 page)

eighteen

Mike vibrated down the county road, cell phone to his ear, trying desperately not to let the wash boarded gravel road take control of his car.

             
“Jean,” he said impatiently, “I was just hoping you would remember what type of panties Sara was wearing the morning she left home.”

             
“How would I know that, Mike?” Jean replied tersely. “I stopped dressing Sara when she was three years old.”

             
A sob came from the other end of the connection, “Tell me what you’ve found, Mike.”

Jean drew in a deep breath,
“Did you find a body?”

             
Mike frowned deeply and shook his head, “No, honey. Nothing that terrible.”

             
Mike applied his brakes to avoid being bounced from the road. His voice took on a more conciliatory tone.

“Jean, we ha
ve to be more positive. Sara is alive, honey. And we are going to find her, okay?”

             
Jean was quiet for a moment, causing Mike to check his phone to see if they were still connected.

             
She finally sighed, “Sara had bought some plain cotton bikinis just before she left. I washed them for her and left them on her bed.”

             
Mike perked up, “What color were they, Jean?”

             
“Different colors; white, pink, blue, and black, I think. But I don’t know if she wore a pair of them or something she already had.”

             
Mike jumped in quickly, sure that he was on to something.

“If I send you a text message with a photo, do you think you could identify a pair of her panties?”

              Jean scoffed loudly, “Come on, Mike,” she said harshly. “They’re cotton panties, for God’s sake. You buy them in a pack of six for six dollars at Target. How the hell would I know if they were Sara’s or not?”

             
Mike physically deflated as he pulled to a stop sign where the county road intersected a paved road that led to town.

             
“You’re right, Jean,” he said. “I guess I’m grasping at straws.”

             
“Well, I’m not grasping at straws,” she replied. “The people here in Laramie have been so helpful. The editor of the student paper offered to print up flyers with Sara’s picture on them, and she is meeting with the sorority that Sara had applied to, to organize a volunteer search in Ranch Springs for Sara on Sunday. I’ve asked Larry Jents to organize people from home to come help.”

             
Mike thought that Larry Jents, the overly social Eagle County dispatcher, was an obvious choice to get the word out. He absently checked for traffic before pulling onto the paved road.

“That’s great, honey,” he said. “What did the police there have to say?”

              “Well, Chief Saddler tried to be accommodating,” she said. “He and the chief of the university police promised to work together to come up with a plan. They both thought that I should concentrate my efforts in Colorado. I told them that you were handling that. I’m going to stay right here and help coordinate the search this weekend.”

             
Mike bit his lip. Volunteer searches rarely turned up any significant evidence. He had always regarded them as “chicken soup” for civilians who felt powerless after a person was reported missing.

             
“The search is a great idea, Jean. Please let me know what the final plans are so I can help.”

             
Mike was jolted when a short burst of siren caught his attention. Looking in his rearview mirror, he spotted the Sheriff’s Chrysler 300 with emergency lights flashing.

             
“Jean, I have to go,” he said quickly. “I’ll call you this evening and we’ll talk some more.”

             
Without waiting for a “goodbye”, Mike snapped his phone shut and pulled to the narrow shoulder of the paved road. The Sheriff’s Chrysler pulled in behind him, blocking the entire lane for safety. The road was deserted, but Mike understood the logic for the precaution. What he didn’t understand was the purpose of the traffic stop.

             
He watched in his side mirror as Sheriff Barnes stepped from the car and approached slowly. The purr of an electric motor filled the Taurus while the driver’s door window slipped into hiding. “Turn off the automobile,” the Sheriff’s voice boomed from behind.

             
Mike was embarrassed. He had made more than enough traffic stops to know the procedure by rote. He turned the key in the ignition and was taken by the silence of the deserted road.

             
“Remove the keys and place them on the dashboard, then place both hands on top of the steering wheel.”

             
Mike tried to turn in his seat to look at Sheriff Barnes. He was becoming agitated at being handled like a common criminal.

             
“Keep your eyes forward,” Barnes shouted. “Remove the keys and place them on the dashboard, then place both hands on the steering wheel. Do not make me ask you again.”

             
“Fine,” Mike said, then followed the instructions to the letter.

He couldn’t see Sheriff Barnes in his mirror, but he had a clear mental image of the man standing back, weapon in his hand pointed forward and down, legs spread shoulder width,
right foot slightly forward.

             
“Place both hands out the window where I can see them.”

             
Anger flashed through Mike. He was a man who was accustomed to being in control. Sheriff Barnes was handling him like a felon and that put Mike in a position of little control. He did as he was told, but when he turned to place both hands out the window, the Insider holster and Ruger dug deeply into his right hip.

             
Mike now had a decent view of Barnes and he was shocked that the Sheriff actually did have his sidearm pulled. A light sweat broke out across his brow.

             
“I’m carrying a concealed weapon,” Mike said.

             
“With your left hand, reach down and open the door. Do not reach for your weapon at any time. Do you understand me?”

Mike wa
s becoming pissed, “I’m familiar with the procedure, Barnes.”

             
“Then do it
now
.”

             
Mike opened the door with his left hand and pushed it open slowly, keeping both hands in plain sight.

             
“Now, step from the car, turn and place both hands on top of the car, and spread your legs. I repeat, at no time are you to reach for your weapon.”

             
Mike held his hands out in front of his chest and slowly stood from the car finally coming face-to-face with Sheriff Barnes. What he saw frightened him. The man showed no hint of recognition on his face, no sign of cockiness, or playfulness, or sense of ease, knowing that Deputy Mike Haller was not a threat. Sheriff Barnes seemed on edge and ready to use deadly force if he deemed it necessary.

             
“Turn and place both hands on top of the car and spread your legs.
Now
!”

             
Mike did as he was told, “You’re being a little overly dramatic, aren’t you, Barnes?”

             
The sheriff kicked Mike’s legs apart and pushed him hard into the side of the Taurus before removing Mike’s sidearm from its hidden holster.

             
“You won’t be needing this anymore,” he said.

             
Mike’s belly burned with an anger that quickly spread to his chest. He had never been an aggressive man and had always prided himself for a calm demeanor and respect for authority, but he also didn’t like being manhandled. The Sheriff was pushing him toward a black hole where reasoned thought might easily dissolve into animated fury.

             
“What the fuck are you doing, Barnes?” Mike yelled.

             
Sheriff Barnes responded by shoving Mike’s head hard against the roof of the car.

“I saw you turn off County Road 37 a few miles back, you little prick.
That’s the road my boy lives on. Why do you persist in conducting an investigation in my jurisdiction?”

             
Mike felt himself step from the edge of civility. Pushing back off the car, he gained enough room to turn and grab Barnes.

“I’m tryi
ng to find my daughter, you son-of-a-bitch,” he yelled. “How many girls have to disappear in your county---”

             
Mike never got a chance to finish. Sheriff Barnes thrust forward and drove his forehead into the bridge of Mike’s nose, shattering it. In one swift motion, he brought his arms up, breaking Mike’s grip on his jacket, and delivered three quick blows to Mike’s chest, forcing all air from his lungs.

             
Mike knew he was beaten before the fight even started. The Sheriff continued his assault with two more punches to the jaw and Mike went to his knees. Unable to breathe, he swallowed hard to clear blood from his throat, then bent over on all fours and vomited onto the pavement. A hard kick to his ribs bulldozed Mike toward unconsciousness.

The last thing he heard before slipping away was, “You’re under arrest…”

nineteen

Mike sat in the back seat of the Chrysler 300, hands cuffed behind, both nostrils plugged with wads of gauze. A blinding headache stood like a concrete wall, keeping full consciousness just beyond his reach. Mike had suffered a severe concussion four months earlier and had spent several hours in a drug induced coma after a run in with a hired assassin. He couldn’t help but wonder how many more blows to the head he could sustain before he was fitted for a permanent protective helmet.

             
He felt the vehicle lurch as the sheriff put it into gear and pulled onto the paved road.

             
“Is this how you treat all law abiding citizens in your county, Barnes?” he asked.

             
Sheriff Barnes looked into his rearview mirror and replied sternly, “When a citizen resists arrest and commits an assault on a police officer in my county, they can expect to be handled forcefully.”

             
Barnes responded to a radio call.

“
Ten seventy-six, code five.”

Looking back in his mirror again, the
sheriff continued, “I don’t know how you boys do it in Eagle County, but here, we don’t worry much about sensitivity training and the fragile self-esteems of the criminal element.”

Barnes chuckled,
“We don’t use bean bags and pepper spray to pacify a suspect. If you fail to obey a lawful order here, you need to prepare yourself to be taken to the woodshed.”