Nowhere to Run

by C. J. Box

  “Do you think he’s still there?” Campbell asked.

  “I doubt it,” Parnell said. “He knows we have the high ground and a clear field of fire. He’s not stupid enough to try to take us on up here in these rocks.”

  Smith nodded. “He waited until we left Capellen alone before he attacked him. That way, he had the odds on his side as well as the element of surprise. I wonder how long he’s been tracking us?”

  Parnell shrugged.

  “Maybe all night,” Smith said.

  Campbell turned. “Farkus, what the hell are you doing back there?”

  Farkus said, “Trying to make Capellen more comfortable. I took his vest off so he could breathe easier. I’m sure he won’t mind if I wear it for a while.”

  “What are you doing with his pants?”

  “WHAT IS IT with those guys?” Smith asked no one in particular. “We couldn’t see a damned thing without our night vision equipment, but whoever went after Capellen didn’t seem to have that problem. And I seriously doubt those guys have any real technology to use.”

  “They’re not human,” Farkus said.

  “Bullshit,” Parnell spat.

  They’d made it to the rock slide without being attacked. The horses were picketed on a grassy shelf above them, and Capellen lay dying in Farkus’s jeans with his back to a slick rock. There had been no movement on the scree beneath them or in the wall of trees below since they’d arrived an hour before.

  Smith said to Farkus, “If they aren’t human, then what the hell are they?”

  “They’re Wendigos,” Farkus said, pleased to finally be able to introduce his theory.

  Smith said, “Jesus. But that doesn’t work because these guys used to be human.”

  “That’s exactly how it works,” Farkus said. “They start out human, but something goes wrong. It’s usually related to terrible hunger, but sometimes it’s like a demon enters into them and turns them into monsters.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but things have been happening up here in these mountains for the last year that don’t make sense. It’s common knowledge in town that something’s going on up here.”

  Hearing no objection, Farkus forged on, keeping his voice low. “One night, in the Dixon Club, I asked an old Indian I know. He’s a Blackfoot from Montana by the name of Rodney Old Man. That’s the first time I heard about Wendigos. Then I did some research on the Internet and checked out a couple of books from the library. It’s scary stuff, man. These people who turn into Wendigos look like walking skeletons with their flesh hanging off of their bones. They stink like death—like those horses we found back there. And they feed on dead animals and living people. They’re cannibals, too, but they’re really weird cannibals because the more human flesh they eat, the bigger they get and the hungrier they are. And they can see in the dark.”

  Farkus said, “You guys are from Michigan, which is close to Canada, where most of the Wendigos come from. Do you know the story of an Indian named Swift Runner?” Farkus asked. No one spoke. “Now there was a man filled up with the spirit of the Wendigo. Killed, butchered, and ate his wife and six children.

  “You hear of a guy named Li just a couple of years ago? Up in Canada? He cut the head off a fellow bus passenger he’d never met before and started eating him right there on the bus.”

  Parnell hissed, “Shut up, now,” and put the muzzle of his weapon against Farkus’s forehead. Parnell’s face was flushed red with anger. The soundtrack for his rage was Capellen’s wet breathing, which had got worse.

  “Gotcha,” Farkus said.

  AS THE EASTERN SKY lightened enough for Farkus to shed his night vision goggles, Capellen died with a sigh and a shudder.

  “Poor bastard,” Parnell said. “There was nothing we could do to save him.”

  Farkus didn’t say, Except maybe take him to a hospital.

  Parnell stood up and peeled his goggles off, said, “We’ll pick up his body on the way out. He’s not going anywhere.”

  Then: “Let’s get this thing over with so we can go home.”

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

  19

  IT HAD BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE JOE HAD GOT UP EARLIER than the rest of his family and made them breakfast. He cooked what he always cooked, what he knew how to make, what he thought they should want even though he wasn’t sure anymore that they did: pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon. He’d drunk half a pot of coffee and his nerves were jangling by the time Marybeth came down the hall in her robe.

  “Smells good,” she said.

  He poured her a mug of coffee.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I hope you don’t take it personally if the girls don’t dive into that big ranch breakfast you just created. Don’t forget—they’re getting older and more health and weight conscious all the time. It’s a struggle to get them to eat a banana or cereal in the morning before school. Most of the time I’m giving them something as they dash out the door.”

  “That’s because you don’t tempt them with bacon,” Joe said. “Bacon is magic.”

  She let that pass. “Any sign of Nate?”

  “Nope. My guess is he’s out at his old place on the river or staying with Alisha.”

  “I’d guess Alisha.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  She said, “I’m glad we talked last night.”

  “For starters,” he said.

  She smiled and looked away. He watched as she peered through the front room toward the picture window, squinted, and turned to him. “Who is parked in front of our house?”

  “What?” There hadn’t been any vehicles in front when he’d gone out earlier to collect the weekly Saddlestring Roundup. Now, though, there was a massive red Ford Expedition with Colorado plates blocking Marybeth’s van in the driveway.

  Joe walked to the front window in his apron with a spatula in his hand, just in time to see the passenger door open and Bobby McCue swing out. McCue was talking with someone inside. Although the windows were darkened, Joe could see at least two other heads besides the driver.

  Marybeth joined him at the window, and they both watched as a man and a woman got out of the Expedition. The man was tall and red-faced, and his movements were swift and purposeful. He slammed the door shut and strode around the front of the vehicle. He wore an open safari jacket, jeans, and heavy boots, as if he planned to traverse the Outback later in the day. The woman, in a knee-length navy blue jacket, wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to make herself smaller. She was short, thin, dark, and furtive. She appeared uncomfortable or nervous, and she looked to the red-faced man for their next move. He gestured toward the house with a brusque nod and walked right by her, swinging his arms. She followed him up the concrete walkway in front of Bobby McCue.

  “Do you know them?” Marybeth asked.

  “I know the guy in the back. He’s the one who came to see me in the hospital and lied about being from DCI.”

  “What do you suppose they want?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe said, “but if they want to talk, I’ll steer them into my office. Do you mind feeding the girls?”

  Marybeth said, “That’s what I do every day, Joe. I think I can handle it.”

  THE RED-FACED MAN SAID, “Brent Shober” and stuck out his hand.

  Joe reached out and shook it. “I was wondering when I might hear from you.”

  “This is my wife, Jenna.”

  “Hello, Jenna. I’m Joe Pickett.”

  She smiled tightly and looked away from him.

  “And our investigator, Bobby McCue.”

  “We’ve met,” Joe said, nodding toward McCue. McCue shrugged and winked, as if he and Joe were brothers in arms in law enforcement subterfuge. Joe shook his head, denying the bond.

  Joe had to clear papers from his two office chairs and fetch a folding chair from a hall closet so all three could sit down in his cramped home office. They filled the room. He closed the door and sidled past them and around his desk and sat in his office chai
r. Joe didn’t want any of them seeing his girls as they went about their morning routine getting ready for breakfast and school.

  “You gonna wear that?” Brent Shober asked, indicating Joe’s apron. Joe flushed. He’d forgotten about it. But he didn’t feel like taking it off, either. He put the spatula on his desk next to his pen and pencil set.

  “What can I do for you?” he said.

  Brent snorted and sat forward, putting his elbows on Joe’s desk. He glanced quickly toward McCue and Jenna before forging ahead. “We’re here because Bobby got a hold of the statement you made to the sheriff in Carbon County, right?”

  Joe said, “Now before you jump to conclusions, I never said I positively identified your daughter. I’m sorry to say that, but . . .”

  “Look, Pickett,” Brent said, cutting Joe off. “I’m not one to beat around the bush. We’re here because we need you to help us locate Diane.”

  “Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

  Brent shook his head as if it didn’t matter. “We’ve spent the last week in agony while that search team went up into the mountains to check out your story. We waited for any kind of word from them. When they found nothing—nothing at all—it was like another twist of the knife in my back, right? And I’m getting sick and tired of having my hopes raised up and smashed back down. You’re the only one, apparently, who knows where to find her. We need you to do just that. If necessary, I’ll hire you. Just name your price.”

  “It isn’t about money,” Joe said.

  “Everything’s about money, right?” Brent said. “I can see how you live here,” he said, gesturing vaguely around Joe’s cluttered office. “I also know your personal situation from Bobby here. You’ve been put on the shelf. You’ve got nothing to do and who knows if you’ll even get your job back. Right?”

  Joe didn’t like talking to people who ended statements with the word “Right?” for the reason of preempting any possible disagreement. But before he could speak, Brent said, “For two long, hard years, Jenna and I have done everything we could to get the word out that our daughter was missing and doing everything we could do to find her. I personally spent two weeks this summer talking to law enforcement to remind them she hadn’t been found and putting fliers in every public place I could in northern Colorado and southern Wyoming. Finding her is my obsession, Pickett. I know she’s alive and well. I just know it, right? And up until Bobby got a hold of that statement of yours, I was starting to think about giving up hope. Not that I did give up, but I was considering the possibility, if you know what I mean, right?”

  Joe had learned not to even try to talk to Brent Shober, so he didn’t.

  Brent stood up. He clearly wanted to pace, but there was no room. So he bent over Joe’s desk so his face was even closer.

  “My little girl was on a schedule to go to the Olympics, something her old man barely missed out on. I was a one-thousand-meter man. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of me or not, but no matter. A month before the trials, I screwed up my knees. Still, I missed qualifying by only six seconds. Diane, though, she was on track. She was getting stronger by the month. That’s why we moved part of our company from Michigan to the mountains out here, so she could train at high elevation and gain endurance and strength. She was on track, right?”

  “Right,” Joe said.

  “Then she goes for a long run and never comes back. We haven’t seen her or talked with her in two years. Think about that. It’s been eating us up, Jenna and me. I nearly lost my company—I build superhigh-end office parks—because I spent so much time talking to local yokels and listening to every crackpot who said they might have seen her. That’s because I put out that half-million-dollar reward, right?”

  Even though Brent’s eyes burned into him, Joe let his return gaze slip away. McCue sat in his chair like a good hired soldier, betraying nothing. There was a slight smile on his face, as if he enjoyed seeing someone else on the other end of Brent Shober for a change. He’d likely heard the story twenty times, but he didn’t betray his boredom or familiarity. Jenna, on the other hand, made a point not to look at Joe or her husband, even when he referred to her. No doubt she shared his pain, Joe thought, but she didn’t share his bombast.

  “So,” Brent continued, “for two years this has been our quest—to find our Diane. We’ve hired private investigators, I’ve gone personally to meet with the FBI in D.C., Denver, and Cheyenne, and we’ve even listened to hack psychics tell us she is definitely alive, and definitely waiting for us to rescue her. Her no-good fiancé used to work with us, but he’s given up the fight. That little rat bastard picked up and moved to Baja and we haven’t heard from him in months. But I’m not giving up, Pickett. I know she’s still up there somewhere, that somebody’s got her, right?”

  Joe felt pummeled and somehow at fault. “Mr. Shober, I can’t even imagine what it would be like to lose your only daughter.”

  Brent stuck out his palm to stop Joe from talking. “No, Pickett, you can’t imagine what hell feels like.”

  Joe wanted to say, But I have a pretty good idea . . . when Jenna Shober spoke for the first time. She said, “Diane is our youngest. We have an older daughter and an older son. But they aren’t . . .”

  Brent cut her off, said to Joe, “So we need you to go back up there. Take as many men as you need. Hire experts, if you have to, and send me the bill. But you are the only soul alive who has seen her in the past two years, and you are the only one who has a chance of finding her again, right?”

  “Wrong.” Joe felt as if he were being screwed into the floor with guilt. He wished he’d never have mentioned her name.

  Brent Shober sputtered, “What did you say?”

  “I said ‘wrong,’ ” Joe repeated. He pointed at McCue. “I told your guy and every investigator since I made the initial statement that I didn’t get a good look at the fourth person up there. It was dark, I was hurt, and I was influenced by all those fliers you put up. Her name popped into my mind, is all. I wish I could tell you different, but I have no idea at all who that woman was.”

  Brent shook his head. “You’re backing out on me.”

  Joe said, “I was never in. Look, at least let me ask you a couple of questions before we end here.” He was fully aware of his promise to Marybeth and he was honor-bound to keep it, even though the circumstances may have changed. But his curiosity was up.

  Brent turned to Jenna, incredulity on his face, as if he were being confronted by madness.

  Joe forged on. “Did you or Diane ever know a couple of brothers named Grim? Or Grimmengruber? Is there any reason to believe if this person I saw was your daughter that she’d be with them?”

  Brent screwed up his face with utter contempt. “That’s the most fucking ridiculous question anybody has ever asked me. Of course we don’t know anybody like that.”

  “What about Diane?”

  “Jesus, are you deaf? We don’t know anybody like that. We’d never know white trash like that, right?”

  Joe paused. He looked at McCue, then back to Brent Shober. “How do you know what they’re like?” Joe asked. “I never said a word about them. I never used the term ‘white trash.’ So how would you not ever know anyone like that if you don’t know a thing about them?”

  Brent’s face got redder, and Joe could see the cords in his neck pull taut from his clavicle to his jawline.

  McCue said, “He knows what’s in your statement and the report. I told him all that.”

  Joe wasn’t sure. He looked to Brent’s face for clues but read only fury. Jenna wouldn’t meet his eyes.

  Brent closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, obviously to calm himself. A full minute passed. Joe started wondering where his pepper spray was amidst the clutter. Just in case.

  Finally, Brent said, “To accuse me of anything is beyond ridiculous. I love my Diane more than life itself.”

  Joe felt ashamed. “Really, Mr. Shober, I didn’t mean to imply you were guilty of anything.”
r />   Brent waved him off and continued. “Do you realize, Pickett, what a special girl she is? That she has the capability of representing her family and her country in the Olympics? Do you know how rare that is? Do you realize that in the life of a long-distance runner, you get maybe—maybe—two shots at the Games? That’s how short the window is. And if you miss your chance, you never get it back for the rest of your life. You grow old knowing you had your shot and you didn’t take it.”

  Joe said, “Are we talking about Diane here?”

  McCue was faster than he looked, and was able to throw himself in front of Brent Shober before the man could leap over the desk and throttle Joe.

  McCue and Jenna managed to get Brent turned around, and McCue wrapped him up and guided him out the door. Brent yelled over his shoulder, “YOU’VE GOT TO HELP ME! YOU’VE GOT TO HELP ME! ” even as McCue pushed him across Joe’s lawn toward the Expedition. Jenna followed, her head down.

  As they reached the SUV, he turned and looked back at the house, as if sizing it up for demolition.

  AFTER THEY DROVE AWAY, Joe moaned, collapsed on the couch, and put his head in his hands. He ached for Brent and Jenna Shober. What torment they’d gone through. Torment like that would likely turn him into someone like Brent, or worse. He didn’t have to like the man to feel sorry for him.

  He closed his eyes and tried to recall the fourth person on the mountains, but her face became no clearer.

  AFTER CLEARING away the breakfast dishes and noting that the girls had eaten the magic bacon but little else, Joe called the FBI field office in Cheyenne and asked for Special Agent Chuck Coon.