Wrongful Death (21 page)

“He had quite the story to tell.”

“How did it end?”

“Same way it started. Cassidy’s dead if we don’t get to him first.”

“Then we need to go back there tonight.”

“You said they left.”

“They’ll be back—one of them at least.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because they got something cooking and have to keep an eye on it. You got any camping equipment?”

“Some.”

“Get out what you have. I’ll throw my clothes in the wash and take a shower while you make me something to eat.”

“What about your shoes?”

“I’ll pick up a pair of boots when we go for supplies. Good thing my employer gives me an expense account.” Jenkins started down the easement toward the gate. “Come on. We’ll only get one shot at this.”

THEY STOPPED FOR
supplies at the Fred Meyer store in Burien. Jenkins pushed a cart through the aisles, grabbing headlamps, batteries, wool socks, waterproof gloves, long-sleeved thermal shirts, backpacks, camouflage floppy hats, two heavy green tarps, a bolt cutter, two sixteen ounce water bottles and a size 14 pair of black combat-style boots. At the counter he grabbed a handful of health bars and packages of beef jerky. Sloane laid down his credit card and tried not to wince at the total.

In the parking lot Jenkins hid their purchases under the tarp in the back of Alex’s Explorer. Alex had brought down his guns from Camano Island when he called at Sloane’s request and asked her to get to Three Tree Point and stay with Tina and Jake until he or Sloane could get there. She’d brought his 12-gauge shotgun and an AR15 rifle, the civilian equivalent to an M16, which Jenkins had fitted with a Leupold scope. She also brought extra rounds for his Smith & Wesson and Glock.

Inside the car, Jenkins provided Sloane an overview of the terrain. “We can’t approach the trailer from the front; it’s two hundred yards of open space. The grass is tall, but the footing is bad from the rain, as you know, and there’s no good place to park the car, which you also know. Besides, if someone else has found Cassidy, we don’t want to get pinned in that grass.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“There’s a quarry up there that looks to have been closed for
some time. We can hide the car there and hike in over the foothills. It’s only about a thousand feet in elevation, but the foliage is thick and nasty. Without a defined path it’s going to be slow going. But the vantage point will also be better up high. If anyone has found Cassidy, we’ll be looking down on them.”

Half an hour later, Jenkins exited the freeway and drove east through Maple Valley. He slowed the Explorer and turned up a hill, the road heavily wooded on both sides. With no street lamps or ambient light, the Explorer’s headlights bored two funnel cones through the darkness.

“The road is up here on the right,” Jenkins said, slowing. He turned off the asphalt onto dirt and gravel and drove for about ten yards, stopping at a metal gate across the road and shutting off the headlights.

“You drive,” he said, sliding out the door with the pair of bolt cutters.

Sloane slid behind the wheel and watched Jenkins snap a chain locking the gate to a concrete embedded post. When he pushed the gate open, Sloane drove through and waited on the other side while Jenkins closed it and wrapped the chain back around the pole so it again appeared locked. Then he slid into the passenger seat.

Sloane followed the road into what looked like a crater on a distant planet. The surrounding hillside had been scraped and scarred by heavy equipment, leaving piles of upended tree stumps and boulders. The quarry was a good spot to leave the car.

At the back of the car they filled the two backpacks with the supplies and slipped on the headlamps. The glow illuminated a six-foot path but not much more than that. Jenkins slung the strap for his rifle over his shoulder and carried the shotgun. He gave Sloane the Glock and the Smith & Wesson.

As they descended the paved path and approached the main
road, they turned off their headlamps, crossed the asphalt pavement in darkness, and stepped into the woods.

Jenkins had accurately described the terrain. Judging from the size of the trees and height of the branches, the area had been logged perhaps twenty years earlier, giving the undergrowth plenty of sunlight to grow thick and dense. And the recent rains had made the ground covering, ferns and composted leaves, slippery and unstable.

“They have bears out here?” Jenkins asked.

“I don’t know, why?”

“I don’t like bears.”

“I read that you’re supposed to wear bells on your hat to scare them off,” Sloane said, struggling to catch his breath and find a rhythm to his breathing.

“Yeah, I’ve read that too,” Jenkins replied. “Only my mother used to ring a bell to call my brothers and me to dinner.”

They pushed on, the going slow. Jenkins led, holding each branch until Sloane could grab it. Neither spoke much, concentrating instead on his footing. The cool night air felt sodden and the waterproof hooded ponchos restricted air circulation. Sloane had soon perspired through his clothes. They stopped twice to drink water and allow Jenkins to check the compass. The smell of pine was strong, and the air buzzed with insects, the chirp of crickets, and the occasional hoot of an owl. After an hour of uphill hiking, the terrain flattened and the trees thinned. They had reached the top.

“If I did this correctly,” Jenkins said, taking a gulp of water and breathing hard, “we should drop down just behind Cassidy’s trailer. How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine,” Sloane said, though the hike had been harder than he had expected. He could feel the strain in the muscles of his thighs.

“All downhill from here.”

But hiking down was as difficult as hiking up. The wet compost gave way unexpectedly, causing them to stumble frequently. Each landed on his ass once. Sloane picked up a branch to use as a walking stick, jabbing it into the ground in front of him for support and balance.

After another thirty minutes, Jenkins stopped and turned off his headlamp. Sloane did the same, plunging them into darkness. Jenkins lowered his backpack and lifted the binoculars, taking a moment to scan the area.

He handed Sloane the binoculars and pointed. “Bottom of the hill, follow the tree line about two hundred and fifty yards north.”

With the night-vision the forest glowed green—so did a dilapidated shed, and next to it an equally dilapidated mobile home amidst a mound of junk. “What a dump.”

“Didn’t I tell you?”

Jenkins took back the binoculars and methodically scanned the area. When he was finished, he handed Sloane back the binoculars, spread a tarp on the ground, set the alarm on his wristwatch, and lay down. He pulled the poncho tight around his collar and lowered the brim of his hat over his face. “You get the first watch.”

Sloane sat on his own tarp, chewing on a health bar. “What if he sticks to his story?”

Jenkins tilted back the hat. “You’re not one of those Chatty Cathys in bed are you?”

“What if Cassidy sticks to his story?”

“Then we’re no worse off than we are now, except for less sleep. Besides, nothing loosens lips like the knowledge that someone you trusted is trying to kill you.”

Sloane shook his head. “Something is wrong. I’m missing something.”

Jenkins sat up on his elbow. “Maybe it’s like the guy in L.A. said—Argus was dirty over there. Hell, Kessler could be using the
Argus security force to continue the business he started, selling drugs. He could have made any number of contacts during his first tour. Or maybe it’s like Griffin said, a man takes a bullet to his spine and finds himself confined to a wheelchair. He gets bitter and angry. He begins to believe he’s entitled to a lot more than the military will otherwise provide. We can speculate until the cows come home. Why don’t we just wait and find out what Cassidy knows.”

Jenkins lay back down and again pulled the brim of the hat low over his face.

“I’m missing something,” Sloane said.

Then he thought of Tina and Jake. He would not sleep, and he knew Jenkins wouldn’t either.

SAN VICENTE VILLAGE
BAJA, MEXICO

THE TWO MEN
drove the black SUV through the tiny village. Early in the morning, three boys walked along the road without shirts or shoes. One dangled a stick behind him, leaving a line in the dirt. A dog followed at another’s heels.

The driver of the SUV slowed and rolled down the window.
“Buenos días, muchachos,”
he said.

The boys stopped and admired the car, smelling money. The dog barked and bounced around the vehicle.

“Estoy buscando a tres gringos,”
he said, telling the boys he was looking for three Americans. He adjusted the blue cap on the back of his head, speaking fluent Spanish. “I’m looking for my wife and son, a boy about your age. They’re traveling with another woman. I’m afraid they could be lost.” He asked if they had seen them.
“Los has visto?”

The boys shook their heads no.

He held dollar bills out the window.
“Es muy importante que los encuetre,”
he said. “Is there any place else around here, any other villages I could check?”

The tallest of the three boys stepped to the window and pointed down the road.

“Para alla,”
he said, pointing down the road. “Maybe down there.”

The man looked down the road. “Yeah? What’s down there?”

“Un campemento,”
the boy replied, adding, “A gringo lady owns it.”

The driver looked to his partner in the passenger seat, then back to the window.
“Gracias.”

He took his foot off the brake and let the car roll slowly down the road, still dangling the money out the window. The boys gave chase, shouting, but the man kept the dollars fluttering just beyond reach until he tired of the game and let loose, watching in the side mirror as the money scattered, sending the boys into a frenzy.

“Just like a pack of dogs,” he said.

A mile down the road they came to what was presumably the campground, a handful of tents pitched in a small orchard. Why anyone would travel to Baja to stay in a tent, he hadn’t a clue, but it would be a good place to hide.

The two men parked and exited the car. A woman, presumably the American the boys spoke of, stepped out from beneath a large canopy to greet them. “What can I do for you?” She smiled, but it did not look genuine. It looked forced. He pulled out credentials that identified him as a private investigator. “We’re looking for two American women who’ve kidnapped a boy from Seattle. Have you seen them?”

The woman shook her head. “No.”

Her eyes betrayed her. They registered fear. In his experience innocent people had nothing to fear. “We spotted them in Cabo
but they evaded us. We believe they headed north, possibly hiding in one of the villages along the way.”

“Did you check the village down the road?”

He nodded, looking about the camp. “Would you mind if we looked around?”

“I have guests here,” the woman said.

He shrugged and stepped toward the tents. “We won’t disturb anyone.”

She moved into his path. “But I told you they’re not here.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you?”

She grew defiant. “You have no authority here.”

He removed his sunglasses. “You know about authority? They’re fugitives from justice. If you’re harboring them, that makes you an accomplice. Or are you a fugitive? You can hire a lawyer and sue me if I’m wrong. How’s that for authority?”

The woman stepped back. “I told you they’re not here.”

They divided the task, searching the tents, going through the belongings. When they returned, the woman sat drinking a cup of tea, trying to appear calm.

“Will you be leaving now?” she asked.

The driver sat down at the table across from her. “Actually, we think we might like to stay a night. Do you have any openings?”

She shook her head. “We’re full.”

“That’s too bad.” He pulled out the blue hotel uniform and placed it on the table. “I’ve never stayed at a camp with maid service.”

MAPLE VALLEY, WASHINGTON

JENKINS SAT UP
and took the binoculars from Sloane but did not raise them. There was no need. The two cones of light across the grass field flickered behind the trunks of trees and
shimmered in the branches before disappearing as the vehicle turned at the bend in the road. A few seconds later the lights reappeared and proceeded toward the trailer. As the vehicle neared, Sloane saw that it was a white truck.

Jenkins stood. “I love it when I’m right.”

The dog tugged at the end of her tethered leash, tail wagging with excitement. Her bark echoed up to them, scaring birds from trees.

“Amazing,” Jenkins said. “They treat her like shit. Don’t feed her. No water. Leave her out in the cold all night, and she still just wants to love them.”

A young man stepped from the cab, one hand thrust into the pocket of his blue jeans, the other holding a cigarette to his lips.

“Cassidy,” Jenkins said.

Using the binoculars, Sloane watched Cassidy shiver against the dawn cold, shifting from one boot to the other as he sucked on a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. In a flannel shirt, he looked like a construction worker inhaling as much nicotine as possible before rushing back to the job. Cassidy looked up the hill, causing Sloane to lower the binoculars.

“Relax,” Jenkins said. “No way he can see us.”

Cassidy flicked the butt at the dog, walked to the edge of the grass, which was covered by a thin layer of mist, and unzipped his fly. Steam rose where he urinated. Finished, he jumped up and down to zip his fly, pushed the bangs of hair from his face, and walked up the dilapidated trailer steps searching a key ring. He unlocked one lock, flipped through the ring for a key to a second lock, and repeated the process.

“A lot of security for a trailer nobody would ever find. What’s the guy making, gold?” Sloane asked.

“Not far from the truth,” Jenkins said. As Cassidy stepped inside the trailer Jenkins gathered their things. “Time to go pay him a visit.”