by Lisa Gardner
“Something’s gonna break,” Cal said. “In real life the trail does go cold, but sooner or later, we always pick it up again. Remember, the kid’s gonna need water. Even if we don’t find him at this campsite, we’ll find him.”
The sheriff didn’t say anything. Was she thinking something? Worrying about something?
Cal had never worked with Sheriff Atkins before. He’d heard stories—how she’d single-handedly carried a federal agent out of a burning building. And he’d spotted the shiny scars on her neck that seemed to prove it.
Tough woman, he thought. And interesting.
“Check back in thirty,” the sheriff said now.
Cal replied in the affirmative.
Then they were once more headed up the trail.
—
MOLLYWOGS LAY DOWN.
Just like that. She was walking. Then she wasn’t.
It wasn’t an exhausted plop, either, which Cal would have fully understood after ninety minutes of hard hiking. This was more like a crouch. Barrel-chested body low but stiff, ears cocked, gaze going directly to the handler. Deb held up a hand, not that it was necessary. The moment the dog had stopped, so had the rest of the team. Up until this point, Cal had viewed their strange-looking canine as little more than a drool machine. But now he saw it. The pit bull side of the dog’s mongrel breeding. And the look she had for her handler . . .
Goofy Mollywogs would die for her human. She’d done her first job, tracked the scent to the critical mass looming straight ahead. Now the dog was preparing herself for what would happen next.
Cal unslung his rifle as the two SWAT team officers got busy. Recon. They needed information. Not just that there was a human at the campsite, but how many, how prepared? To get the job done, Darren picked a tree, one of the few broadleafs around with thicker branches. His smaller, younger sidekick, Mitch, got to do the honors, hopping from the ground to a nearby boulder, to the lowest available branch. Mitch didn’t say a word as he worked himself higher and higher, seeking the best vantage point. Then, halting at last, he pressed his back against the trunk, peered through his scope, and zeroed in on the camp.
He held up one finger.
One target.
Darren acknowledged, and Mitch settled his rifle into the curve of his shoulder, his vantage point now a sniper’s stand.
They had been green-lighted for use of deadly force before they ever set out. Capturing the suspect alive was still preferred. But given their target’s history, what he’d done to the last search team . . .
That kind of fugitive, Cal found himself thinking. That kind of day.
And his hands were shaking again. His hands that never shook.
Cheese maker. Tracker. And now this.
Darren gathered Cal and Deb together. A tactical situation was his call, so they listened close as he drew a map in the dirt and illustrated their strategy. With Mitch up in the tree to provide cover fire, they would split up, creep to the top of the trail in sync, then, at his signal, burst upon the camp.
Darren glanced at Molly, then Deb, raising a brow in question. Clearly, he wanted Molly to go first, as a charging police canine made for a very intimidating sight, not to mention a smaller target. If they got really lucky, Molly would take down their shooter before they ever cleared the trees. Or at least distract him long enough for their own ambush.
Deb nodded, her hand resting on top of Molly’s square head. A policewoman. A police dog. But even Cal could tell that if things went badly, the loss for the dog and the handler would be well beyond professional.
He kept his own rifle gripped in front of him. He’d asked for this assignment. For his team. For his community. He could do this.
Another flurry of hand signals, more scratches in the dirt, and then that was that. They had a plan. Deb and Molly took the trail. Darren headed left. Cal headed right.
They made their final approach.
—
CAL PAUSED TWICE TO WIPE THE SWEAT from his brow. The building heat, the growing tension, he wasn’t sure which it was. But suddenly, acutely, he was aware of how his favorite hiking shirt was glued to his torso and the rivers of sweat poured from his brow. The woods were no longer a cool, shadowed sanctuary. He didn’t even smell the scent of green.
Instead, creeping around boulders, stepping lightly through knee-high ferns, he felt as if the world had gone eerily silent. He smelled earth and rot and decay. The scent of death, which had to be a trick of his imagination.
He’d never shot anyone. He didn’t even like to hunt. For Cal, walking through the woods had always been enough.
This, he thought ironically, was what too much volunteering did to a person.
A snap of a tree branch to the far left. Darren. Man better be a good shot, Cal thought bitterly, because he was a piss-poor stealth tracker.
Then, what had to happen next:
A whistle, high overhead. Mitch’s signal that their target, alerted by the noise, was on the move.
Followed almost immediately by Darren’s own birdcall and then . . .
A deep, rumbling growl as Molly burst up the trail. Barking, barking, barking, former rescue dog, now loyal police canine, charging into the campsite.
Cal didn’t let himself think anymore. He picked a break in the bushes and ran toward the madness.
Chapter 29
IT HAPPENED IN A BLUR. Cal didn’t see as much as he heard. The sudden snap of breaking twigs and multiple bodies bursting through the underbrush. Barking. Mollywogs, low and fierce. Followed by a man’s shriek and Deb’s steely command. “Stop. Police.”
More barking, more shrieking, then Cal himself was skittering to a halt in the clearing, rifle held before him, blood thundering in his ears. Ambush. Gunshots. Screams of terror. He was braced for it all. Expecting it all. Adrenaline coursing through his veins and something more. Rage. Primitive and raw, because this kid had shot his team. Because Cal had screwed up and walked his team straight into a killer’s rifle sights.
Nonie, a grandmother for God’s sake, had screamed as she went down. Screamed and screamed. Then Antonio, and all Cal could do was hit the ground and wait for it to end.
He was on the kid before he was fully aware of his own actions. Rifle jammed against the back of a dark-haired skull: “Drop your weapon drop your weapon drop your weapon!”
Then it was over. Just like that.
Molly came into focus, standing stiff-legged on the other side of the crouched figure, Deb behind her dog, Darren three feet to Cal’s right. None of them were looking at the cowering figure. All of them were staring at him.
Moaning. From the curled-up form on the ground.
“Don’t shoot, man. I swear, I swear. Don’t shoot.”
Cal came back to himself. He realized just how hard he was trembling. Like a man on the edge.
Very slowly, very carefully, he took a step back.
Shock, he thought. Delayed grief and rage over the events of the morning. Maybe even PTSD if one could have it set in within a matter of hours. Why not? He was just a cheese maker and a tracker. And nowhere in all the training did they tell you how to handle becoming the target yourself. Or what it would feel like to watch members of your team drop one by one.
Cheese maker. Fugitive tracker. And now, he thought, also someone else.
Deb took control. Her dog, her catch.
“Hands,” she demanded now, in the kind of voice that brooked no argument.
The man was curled up on his knees. A camo-patterned hiking pack obscured most of his back. His arms were wrapped protectively around his head. Probably more in response to Molly’s barking charge than any of the humans bursting onto the scene. Now his arms shot straight up.
“Very slowly, rise up from the waist. Stay kneeling! Just straighten up.”
Very slowly, the man obeyed. Kid, really. Late tee
ns, dirty-blond hair, sweat-plastered dark green shirt. And definitely not Telly Ray Nash.
Just a terrified hiker, who, by the look and smell of things, had just wet himself.
“Holy shit,” the kid whispered now. “Whatever it is . . . I swear, man. I swear.”
“Name?” Darren barked.
“Ed. Ed Young.”
“What are you doing here, Ed?”
“Hiking, man. I mean, just . . . getting away from the heat. Thought I might spend a night camping out. Hanging in the river, chilling out.”
“By yourself?”
“Um . . . sure.” The kid’s gaze slid away.
On cue, Molly growled low in her throat.
“Brought my phone,” the kid added hastily. “Might’ve called a few buddies to join later. But uh, no dice, right, ’cause look around. This campsite’s always been first come, first served, and someone already beat me to it. That’s the breaks, right?”
For the first time, Cal took in the entire clearing. It was a makeshift camp of sorts. The charred remnants of an old fire, still ringed in stones, not far from where their target now knelt. Farther to the left, a platform of old wooden pallets, currently topped with a small pile of gear. The pallets were to keep a camper and his supplies out of the mud in inclement weather, a common enough trick in the Pacific Northwest, where liquid sunshine was the forecast more often than not.
Now Darren motioned with his head for Cal to do the honors. So Cal crossed to the platform, careful to check the ground for any sign of footprints or trace evidence he’d need to mark for later. But the thick carpet of needles held on to its secrets. He’d have to get luckier with the gear.
“Bedroll,” he called out as he grew closer, used the tip of his rifle to sort through the pile. “Tent. Backpack.”
He knelt down. The tent was still folded up and secured in a green nylon carrying case. He could make out dark lettering at the edge. “F. Duvall,” he read off, then glanced up at Darren.
“Frank Duvall. This is his stuff. We found the campsite.”
Darren returned his attention to their charge. “Who did you see?” he demanded sharply.
“What? Who? Man, I didn’t see anyone. Just got up here myself, saw the stuff, and then, like, the woods exploded. That dog . . .” He looked over at Molly, who was still at attention, and shivered. “Man . . . I’m telling you, whatever it is, I didn’t do it.”
Which implied even to Cal that the kid had done something.
Darren seemed to agree. He crossed his rifle in front of him, adopting an intimidating stance.
“How old are you, Ed?”
“N-n-nineteen.”
“Local? Grow up around here?”
“Yeah.”
“Bakersville High School?”
“Yeah.”
“Know a fellow student? Telly Ray Nash?”
Frown. “Nah.”
“Really? Never heard the name?”
“No. But, I mean, it’s a big school.”
“Not even this morning? On the news?”
“What happened this morning?” The kid appeared so confused, for once Cal believed him.
“How long you been hiking, Ed?” Darren again.
“Started out first thing. Six A.M., trying to beat the heat, though shit, man, in these conditions, too damn hot even then.”
Cal spoke up: “Which trail?”
“The Umatilla. Parked my car couple of miles north of here, hiked in from that direction.”
So not the deer trail used by the tracking team, who’d been presumably following Telly Ray Nash.
“You started out at six A.M.,” Cal continued, “and you’re just now hitting this site? What are you, the world’s slowest hiker?”
Kid flushed. “Took my time. Enjoying the great outdoors, you know.” The kid went to spread his arms as if to indicate the towering trees and magnificent scenery all around him. Molly growled. Kid jerked his arms straight up again.
From behind Molly, Deb leaned closer, took a few experimental sniffs. “I’d say you’ve been enjoying more than the great outdoors,” she observed wryly.
“Hey, man, I got a prescription,” the kid said quickly. Great, Cal thought. They’d set out to catch themselves a homicidal teen and had ended up with a half-baked doper instead.
“You encounter any other hikers today?” Cal asked. “Out on the trails?”
“Well, sure. It’s August. Trails are lousy with hikers. Which is why I thought to come here. Off the map, you know. Locals only.”
“What about coming across a lone male? About your age.”
“Dunno.”
“Think harder,” Darren said, taking a small but pointed step forward.
“No! Definitely no. Some groups, okay. I saw three or four groups, some younger couple . . . an old guy with a dog. But no loners . . . like me.”
“Four-wheeler?” Cal prodded. “See one, hear one in the area?”
Ed regarded them blankly. “No four-wheelers around here. Trails aren’t wide enough.”
Cal nodded. The Umatilla was marked for hiking only. Traversing it with a four-wheeler would be difficult going and, given the steady flow of day hikers, conspicuous. Meaning Telly would have to ditch the four-wheeler before accessing this camp. Or approach it from a different direction. Being a hoofer himself, Cal wasn’t as familiar with the recreational vehicle paths.
Most likely, Telly had accessed this campsite first thing this morning, utilizing the same, lesser-known deer trail they had followed. In which case, he never would’ve crossed the Umatilla. Once he’d dropped his supplies, Telly would’ve had to return via the same trail in order to get in his truck. Next stop: the EZ Gas station and a fresh round of carnage.
Which raised the question: If Telly had dumped camping supplies here for future use, had he also stashed the extra firearms?
Cal glanced at Darren, saw the SWAT officer was thinking the same.
Darren whistled once. At which point, Mitch clambered down from his tree perch, and, with Mollywogs keeping an eye on their trembling hiker, they scoured the area in earnest.
A rifle carrying case was hardly a small item. Given Telly had been caught on camera wielding a pistol, then had opened fire on Cal’s team with a rifle, that left two handguns and two long guns unaccounted for. For ease of carrying, Cal imagined Telly had packed the firearms into a single duffel bag, then filled the rest of the space with boxes of ammo. A heavy load, especially given the kid had also strapped on a metal-framed hiking pack, a tent, and a sleeping bag.
Upon arrival, Telly had to have been relieved to divest himself of his load. The pack, tent, and sleeping bag had obviously been dropped on the wooden pallet. But a duffel bag? Long gun case, anything?
Darren and Deb took the campsite, while Mitch returned his attention to the trees, in case Telly had thought to stash his weapons up high.
Cal returned to his area of expertise, looking for signs—trampled ferns, broken branches, recent scrapes in the moss-covered tree trunks—anything that might indicate Telly had departed the campsite in search of a more discreet place to hide the firearms. But once again, the dense covering of pine needles made picking up a trail nearly impossible.
They widened their search, working in broader and broader circles. Hot, tedious work.
Which yielded nothing, nothing, nothing.
They returned to the dopehead hiker, emptying out his day pack in case he’d found the guns before they did. Still nothing.
Two rifles. Two handguns. Boxes and boxes of ammo. No way they could’ve simply vanished into thin air.
And yet.
They’d found Telly Ray Nash’s campsite. But still no signs of his arsenal.
—
ORDERS FROM CENTRAL COMMAND: Return campsite to original conditions, install the surveillance cam
eras, and retreat. With no reported sightings of Telly or a lone male on a four-wheeler, they had no way of knowing just how close he might be. And Sheriff Atkins was adamant—next time they encountered the armed fugitive, she wanted it to be on their terms, say, when he’d returned to his campsite and, thinking he was finally safe, gone to sleep.
Cal disagreed. Having determined what wasn’t present at the suspect’s base camp—the guns—he now wanted a chance to discover what was. He gave the sheriff some credit: At least she listened. After a bit of back-and-forth, they settled on a compromise: Deb and her canine would return with the wayward hiker to mobile command, where Sheriff Atkins and her detectives would question Ed in more detail. Mitch would resume his tree perch, where, between the vantage point and his high-powered scope, he would be able to spot an approaching figure way before Telly could spot them. And with Darren also standing guard, Cal would inspect the camp as quickly and thoroughly as possible.
“Then get the hell out,” Shelly ordered.
“No problem,” Cal agreed. “For the record, however, there’s no indication Telly’s anywhere in the area. And we need all the information on this kid we can get.”
“Snap photos. Document the scene before, during, after. Then put everything back exactly as you found it. We don’t want to spook the kid. Ambushing him once he returns is our best chance of ending this.”
“Above-average powers of observation, remember? I think I can handle this.”
“Really? Then who’s that standing right behind you?”
“What?” Cal whirled around, only to discover empty air.
From over the radio: “Gotcha.” Then, more soberly, “Fast and efficient. Get in, out, done. I mean it. We’ve suffered enough damage today.”
Deb and Molly set off with half-baked Ed, Molly still in full work mode, dark eyes fixated on her catch. She no longer looked like a panting, grinning sidekick. More like a predator, licking her chops.
With the civilian out of the way, Mitch headed for his tree perch, while Darren took up a crouched position behind a mound of ferns, his attention split between the deer trail they’d used to access the clearing and the direction of the Umatilla trail, which Ed had followed to the camp.
