Right Behind You

by Lisa Gardner

  Other SAR members were pulling up as Cal arrived. He nodded in greeting as he moved around his truck. He kept a well-supplied backpack and hiking boots with him at all times. He’d swung by home for his rifle.

  The initial call had come thirty minutes ago. Given the sprawling nature of the county-wide organization, it would take an hour to get all SAR members on-site and incident command established. In fast-moving cases, however, the first responders would form an immediate search team and get the party started. As one of their best trackers, Cal expected to be on the trail within the next fifteen minutes. He only required a situational report and a couple of teammates.

  He spied the county’s mobile command center, a souped-up RV parked across the street from a tired-looking gas/convenience store sporting a great deal of crime scene tape. Shooter’s last known destination, most likely. Nodding to himself, Cal headed over to incident command.

  Sheriff Atkins stood in the open doorway of the RV, already talking to the assembled volunteers, most of whom were covered in a sheen of sweat.

  “Target is a seventeen-year-old male, suspected in four shooting deaths. We believe he’s in possession of at least six firearms, including three rifles. Having recently discovered his overheated vehicle abandoned two miles south of here, we also believe he’s on foot, which will limit what he can carry with him at one time.”

  “Cell phone?” a voice asked from the back.

  “We recovered the subject’s personal cell from the glove compartment of the truck. It’s possible, however, that he has a burner phone on him. But nothing we’re aware of for immediate tracing.”

  “Other supplies?” asked Cal’s team leader, Jenny Johnson, standing to the right.

  “We don’t know. Other than the cell phone, the truck’s empty, so assuming the kid doesn’t want to lug around an arsenal, he could be utilizing some sort of weapons cache. Most recent visual showed the kid wearing a black hoodie and armed with a nine millimeter. Across the street, you’ll see his last known location. Given it’s a convenience store, it’s possible he helped himself to some water, snacks after the shooting. Whatever he took, it’s not enough to be readily noticeable, but that doesn’t mean he left empty-handed.”

  The assembled volunteers nodded. First rule in tracking: Think like your target. In conditions as hot as this, hydration would be a major concern. Fugitive would need water, lots and lots of water. As in an entire backpack full of the bottled stuff, or purification tablets in order to make his own on the go.

  Next question, from the back: “Outdoor skills?”

  “Unknown,” the sheriff said.

  At the collective groan, she raised a hand.

  “Sorry, folks, but the suspect’s first victims were his foster parents. Appears he shot them early this morning, then headed out shortly before seven thirty. At this point, the only people he’s had contact with, he’s shot and killed. Needless to say, this limits our information.”

  Cal felt himself stand up a little straighter. The call had come in as fugitive tracking of a target considered armed and dangerous. But Cal hadn’t realized this armed, this dangerous. He’d hunted a few wanted men in his day, one charged with domestic violence, another B & E, but never a suspected murderer.

  “This is what I can tell you,” Sheriff Atkins continued now. “The suspect has been in and out of half a dozen foster homes. Rap sheet includes trespassing, criminal mischief, and resisting arrest. At some time this morning, Telly Ray Nash walked into his foster parents’ bedroom and shot both dead. From there, it appears he ransacked the gun safe, helping himself to six firearms and an undetermined—but probably considerable—stash of ammo. He then set out north in his foster father’s truck, which overheated two miles south of here. From that point, we’re assuming he continued on foot, arriving at this convenience store shortly before eight A.M., where he shot and killed both a customer and the cashier.

  “And he hasn’t been seen since.”

  The sheriff fell silent, giving them a moment to digest this news.

  “Now, if I can bring your attention over here”—Sheriff Atkins gestured to a giant topographical map that had been posted to the side of the mobile command unit—“we have our initial search area. Given it’s been three hours since the shooting, we’re assuming a perimeter of nine miles, maybe less given the heat.”

  As Cal knew, first order of business in a search was to establish a perimeter of greatest possible distance traveled. Given that a fugitive moved at an average speed of three miles an hour, the sheriff had accordingly drawn an enormous circle, radiating out nine miles on all sides from the shooter’s last known location, the convenience store, which was marked in the center as a giant red X. A three-hour head start had already given the fugitive many more possibilities than Cal would’ve liked. And given that the perimeter would be expanded by three miles every hour of the search, their target area would only grow larger in the near future. Fortunately, geography was on their side, as the sheriff now explained:

  “Looking at our map, you can see that nine miles to the west puts our fugitive smack in the middle of Tillamook Bay. Given that it’s beach season and we haven’t had a single tourist report a black-clad gunman, it’s reasonable to assume our suspect didn’t head west. Likewise, traveling directly north or south puts our gunman along the coastal highway. We’ve already had half a dozen cruisers patrolling this area since the original call-in, and once again we haven’t received a single sighting from any business or residential area. Which, to look at the map, brings us to the east. The foothills of the coastal range.” Sheriff Atkins climbed down from the front steps of the command center, crossed to the map, and tapped a huge green swath. “I’m betting our fugitive’s gone off the beaten path, hiked up enough to reach the cover of the tree line, where he can run along the foothills in either direction while remaining out of view. Hence, even with every local, county, and state patrol officer on the hunt, we still haven’t had any sight of him.”

  Cal and several members of his team nodded their agreement.

  Essentially, command had started out with a sizable search area. With a little help from the coastline, plus some basic logic, the sheriff had already reduced that circle by half. Now the experienced trackers such as Cal would define their target area even further by picking out natural pathways—say, a river that would be logical for the fugitive to follow, or an easy-to-access deer trail through the woods. Starting at ground zero—the convenience store—several search teams would radiate outward in different directions, focusing on locating those natural pathways and seeing who could pick up the trail first.

  Which, of course, is when things would grow interesting.

  The sheriff wrapped up by promising she had detectives already digging deep in the fugitive’s background; the minute they knew anything more, she’d be sure to pass it along. Till then, SWAT would be providing backup for each search team. Dogs were on their way. And yeah, her first priority was that everyone go home safe.

  The debriefing broke up. SAR had its own command structure. Cal spotted his team leader. Jenny Johnson was standing at the topographical map, motioning for the rest of them to join her.

  One of the biggest misconceptions of tracking: A tracking team itself didn’t magically stumble upon the fugitive. Even a tracker as experienced as Cal, working his home turf, could only move at a pace of half a mile an hour.

  Given a fugitive’s much faster speed of three miles an hour, it would be unlikely for Cal and his team to ever catch up. Instead, a tracking team’s goal was to establish the target’s directionality. Once they picked up the trail and determined which direction the fugitive was headed, then Cal’s team would become a spear, slowly but surely driving the target forward, keeping on his heels, but also, whether the target realized it or not, forcing him to make choices. Pretty soon, leaders such as Jenny Johnson, who’d be following Cal’s progress on the topographica
l map, would get some very strong opinions about where the target would have to head next. At which point, a recovery team would be sent in at a hard hiking pace to intercept.

  Having said that, fugitive tracking was still dangerous work. Hounded, panicked targets could decide to double back for an ambush, or, feeling pressured, find high ground and make a last stand. Hence the SWAT team officers who would be assigned to each team, serving as flankers. Cal’s job would be to pick up the trail, while the flanking officers worked on getting everyone home safe that night.

  Assuming, of course, that the search was over by then. Thirty-six hours of searching wasn’t uncommon for an SAR team, and Cal had once headed out for forty-eight consecutive hours. Others would hike in additional water and supplies to the tracking teams as needed. Such was the nature of the hunt.

  He felt jazzed. Which might be good. Might be bad. Adrenaline perked a man up, got him moving. Just as long as he remembered that in cases like this, slow and steady won the race.

  Jenny started assembling teams. Cal, as a head tracker, was ready to go. He simply needed an assistant tracker—basically a second pair of eyes—then the two flankers from SWAT.

  Jenny assigned Norinne Manley as his second. Cal approved. An iron-haired grandmother of four, Nonie could out-hike searchers half her age and spent her free time teaching adult literacy at the local church. To say she was beloved would be an understatement. Certainly Cal was happy to have her on his team.

  From SWAT, Jenny rattled off the names Antonio Barrionuevo and Jesse Dodds. Two green-clad men separated from the huddle of law enforcement and made their way to where Cal and Nonie were standing.

  Both men were wearing light body armor, which, given the heat, made Cal feel sorry for them. But maybe at the end of the day, they’d be standing over his shot-up body thinking the same. Never knew.

  The SWAT officers had .223-caliber rifles on AR-15 frames slung over their shoulders. Based on his own long gun, Cal would guess the rifles were outfitted with EOTech holographic sighting systems. In addition, the officers’ vests bristled with supplies—extra magazines, a tactical medical kit, flexicuffs, a baton—while the pockets of their tactical pants were weighed down with protein bars, water tablets, batteries, probably even a knife or two. Cal didn’t often get to work with SWAT officers. At this stage, he was mostly interested in their shoes. Nothing hampered a search team’s efforts quite like blisters. Annoying in the beginning, agonizing at the end, blisters could grind them all to a halt. But both his flankers appeared to be wearing well-loved boots, one of the most important pieces of equipment, as far as Cal was concerned.

  Now Cal delivered his spiel, rapid-fire, ready to go. Fugitive already had a three-hour head start; no reason to give him even more lead time.

  Cal hefted up his pack. “Don’t leave behind anything you might need, don’t bring anything you don’t. Pace won’t be hard, but once we set out, could be days before we come back.”

  Nonie, who’d done this kind of thing before, yawned. Antonio and Jesse barely blinked. Tough guys. Fair enough.

  “First indication of a hot spot on your foot—speak up! I got moleskin. Better to treat the blister before it ever happens. Because again, once we set out, don’t know when we’re coming back.”

  Yep, definitely tough guys.

  Cal continued: “I track thirty feet out, looking for signs—which is to say, any disturbance of the natural world. Broken twig, impression in the moss, hell, boot tread in the mud. We had rain two days back, so if we get lucky, conditions in the shade might yield us some imprints. Nonie here will be acting as a second set of eyes, ’cause as the saying goes, two heads are better than one. Lose sign and we backtrack to last known location, work in outward spirals till we pick it up again. There’ll be times it’ll feel like we’re going backward more than forward, but you’re gonna have to trust us. And just in case you haven’t worked with trackers before—we’re not bloodhounds. We don’t walk around staring at our feet. Best way to see something is to come at it from a diagonal. So we will be looking out more than down; doesn’t mean we’re not doing our job.”

  Antonio and Jesse nodded, still blank faced.

  “Look up,” Cal advised them now. “There’s a lot of hunting in these parts, meaning there’s lots of hunting stands. Any of which would make for a pretty good hiding spot at best, or ambush site at worst. If I happen to know of any stands in the area, I’ll let you know. But hunters build new ones all the time, and this area isn’t exactly on the hiking maps.”

  Twin nods.

  “You hike before?” Cal asked.

  “Grew up in Bend,” Jesse supplied, which was on the other side of the Cascades and known for its bounty of outdoor adventures.

  Cal got the picture. The SWAT officers had been picked with some thought to wildland skills. He grinned at them now.

  “Sorry, but you know how command can be.”

  Which finally earned him two responding grins. They all knew how command could be. And some days it was enough to leave the worker bees shaking their heads.

  They finished gearing up, the flankers unslinging their rifles. Then, as a team, they crossed the street.

  Cal started by studying the convenience store. Last known location of their target. Ground zero in their search. He stared at it and did what he did best: thought like a fugitive.

  Seventeen-year-old kid. Something had triggered him to get out of bed this morning and gun down his foster parents. At which point, he’d gone on the run. Emptied the gun safe, stolen the truck. Headed north.

  Why north? First decision worth considering.

  Truck had broken down. Overheated in these hotter-than-hell temps. Where were those coastal breezes anyway?

  So the kid had headed out on foot. Carrying all six guns? That would certainly be noticeable. So he’d hidden some. Most likely near the truck, where the investigating detectives would find them soon enough. Cal and his team would appreciate that update. As long as you were chasing an armed fugitive, good to know how armed.

  Sheriff had mentioned a nine millimeter. And Cal would bet the kid had also kept a rifle. One short-range weapon, one long, a good mix for a suspect hell-bent on destruction.

  Which brought him back to directionality. Why had he chosen north? Did he have a destination in mind? Say, the EZ Gas, where he’d killed two more people?

  Cal wasn’t a criminologist. He didn’t fully understand the whys and wherefores of violence. No, his gift was logistics, thinking like a fugitive on the run. And this fugitive, having gunned down two more people . . .

  Cal approached the perimeter of the crime scene, the other members of his team hanging back, waiting for his signal. Nonie was doing some looking around on her own, but mostly, having worked with Cal before, she was waiting for him.

  Cal stood at the lone entrance/exit of the EZ Gas. Then, putting himself in the mind-set of the shooter, he turned north. He walked around the crime scene tape till on his left the narrow coastal highway shimmered with silver heat, while to his right stood the store’s Dumpster, near a hedge of thick, overgrown brush. No identifiable walking path emerged at the end of the property. No sign of recent trespassing or trampling.

  And yet, already, he could feel his pulse quicken.

  Cal crouched low. He looked for disturbances in the dusty edges of the parking lot. He sought a different vantage point on the overgrown brush. On the other side of the battered Dumpster, he could just make out something. A footprint? A darker patch.

  He rounded the Dumpster, and there, just behind it, nearly touching one locked wheel, he was rewarded with his first sign of the day.

  He turned to his team, which was trailing fifteen paces back.

  “Hey,” he called out. “Tell the sheriff: We got vomit.”

  Chapter 9

  QUINCY HAD MET THE COUNTY DA, Tim Egan, a number of times. Twice when Quincy and Rai
nie happened to be consulting on local cases, but more often than not in social situations, a fund-raising function here, a cookout at a friend of a friend’s there. Quincy would say he knew the DA well enough, while the profiler in him understood you never really knew anyone at all.

  Perhaps Egan thought the same of him.

  Egan had been the DA for over fifteen years. Meaning he would’ve been the one who’d made the decision to not prosecute Sharlah’s brother for the murder of their parents eight years back.

  Currently, Egan was wrapping up a call. He indicated for Quincy to take a seat, something easier said than done given the boxes of manila folders crowding the space. After a moment, Quincy gave up and remained standing. He was grateful enough for the air-conditioned office and bottle of water Egan’s secretary had stuck in his hand.

  Egan set down the phone, glanced up at Quincy, then seemed to take in his office, the lack of seating, for the first time.

  “Sorry.” The older man grimaced. “County decided to save some money by downsizing storage. In theory, we’re supposed to be going paperless, so we don’t need as much space, right? Except last year, county decided to save money by trimming back manpower. Meaning, who do I have left on my staff to magically make all this paper paperless?”

  “Sounds like a job for interns,” Quincy commented.

  “Ah, if only hungry law students believed in such things. This new generation, they’ve been raised by their parents to assume they’ll start at the top. No scut for them. They’ll just sit in their parents’ basement till the job offer for partner comes in.”

  Egan belatedly stood, stuck out a hand. Quincy shook it. In public, the county DA was rarely seen without his gray blazer and signature brightly colored silk tie. Today, the jacket was slung over the back of his chair, topped with what appeared to be a stripe of fuchsia silk, leaving the DA in a button-up short-sleeve Brooks Brothers shirt, the top two buttons already undone. He nodded to Quincy’s own casual attire.