by Tony Hayden
Mike leaned back against the desk facing away from Mr. Winter, who was trying desperately to remain busy, determined to prove this was all just some big misunderstanding. Crossing his arms tightly across his chest, Mike broke the uncomfortable silence with his first question.
“What time would you say you received the call from the roadside service, Jordan?”
Jordan fidgeted, cleared his throat again and raised a thumb to his lips to attack another piece of dried skin.
Mr. Winter’s voice piped in from behind. “Ah, the dispatch log here says the call came in at two thirty-seven yesterday afternoon.”
Mike remained focused on the young driver. “Mr. Winter, I would like Jordan to answer these questions if you don’t mind.”
Jordan looked up for a brief second and Mike continued.
“Jordan, try to tell me exactly what the service said to you. Please be as detailed as possible.”
The young man slapped his hands to his knees and shrugged his shoulders.
“Hell, I don’t know, mister,” he said. “They told me a Honda Civic had a flat tire three miles north of town and asked if we could tow it to our lot.”
Mike pushed himself off the desk and stood towering over the nervous driver. “Did they ask you to tow the vehicle or did they ask you to change a flat tire?”
Jordan looked up, then immediately returned his gaze to the carpet. “I think the woman asked me to just check it out. Shit, I can’t remember.” Straightening up in his chair a little, he continued, “She said there was a silver Honda Civic with Colorado tags with a flat tire at mile marker 367 or 369 or something. It’s all written in the log there.” Jordan pointed, “Read it yourself.”
Mike knelt down, trying to make eye contact with the young man. “I don’t want to read it, Jordan. I want you to tell me exactly what you remember.”
Duncan Winter piped in again, “I’m calling your dad, Jordan. I think he should be here for this.”
A scowl crossed the young man’s face and Mike couldn’t decide if he saw fear or relief in his eyes.
“Did the roadside service mention whether or not there would be a girl with the car? Did they request that you give her a ride? Or call her a cab?” Mike’s voice raised a little. “Or do anything to ensure her safety?”
The young man shrugged again. “I don’t think they mentioned any girl. There sure as hell wasn’t any girl at the car when I got there.”
Mike paused for a long moment. Exhaustion seemed to wash through his bones. The thought that this man sitting in front of him may have caused harm to his little girl began to cloud his ability to think clearly.
Mike forced a smile and pulled the photo of Sara from his shirt pocket. Holding it up, he whispered, “She is a beautiful girl isn’t she?” He leaned in a little closer, “Helpless little thing on a lonely road in the middle of nowhere.”
Leaning in so Jordan had no choice but to make eye contact, Mike continued in a brotherly tone. “Of course you wanted to be with her; who wouldn’t? Classy college girl---probably wouldn’t give you the time of day anywhere else, but out there,” Mike pointed out the door of the trailer. “Out there, she needed you. You were her knight in shining armor.”
Mike watched as a thin smile spread across the boy’s face. “Did you ask her back to your place for a drink? A little appreciation for you riding to her rescue?”
Jordan blinked, looked away from the photo and smirked, “I told you, the bitch was not in the car when I got there.”
It was a burst of anger that lasted only a second. Mike had the boy out of his toppled chair and pinned against the table top in one fluid motion. A glass coffee pot shattered and cups rattled to the floor.
Mike was nose-to-nose with Jordan. “You little bastard, that ‘bitch’ is my daughter,” he yelled. “If she so much as has a splinter in her finger, I will end your life.” Mike shook the boy once. “Do you understand me, Jordan?”
Jordan cowered and tried to cover his head with his arms.
Mike felt a hand tearing at his shoulder and slowly realized that Duncan Winter was yelling at him.
“Mr. Haller!” he yelled. “Let go of him now!”
Mike released the boy and stood as the door to the trailer jerked open. A man in a sheriff’s uniform stepped through. He stood tall, with a good sized gut and barreled chest. Mike remembered Mr. Winter informing him that Jordan’s step-father was the sheriff of Red Feather County. The man’s right hand rested on the butt of a 9mm Glock, tucked into an unsnapped holster, and he frowned deeply as he tried to make sense of the situation.
Mike stepped back and crossed his arms across his chest.
“What the hell is going on in here, Duncan?” the sheriff asked, dividing his attention between Jordan and Mike.
Mr. Winter answered, “Hunter, this here is Mike Haller.”
Mike nodded to the sheriff.
“He’s a deputy sheriff in Eagle County, he says.” Duncan squeezed himself between Mike and Jordan, who was now leaning against the table. “The deputy is looking for his daughter,” Duncan added. “Jordan towed her car in yesterday afternoon but the girl wasn’t in it.”
Sheriff Hunter Barnes scowled at Mike. “Are you conducting an investigation in my jurisdiction, Deputy?”
Mike looked hard at Jordan. “I’m trying to find my daughter, Sheriff. I am not acting in any official capacity.”
Sheriff Barnes stepped closer to Mike. “Your uniform and badge suggest otherwise, Deputy.”
Looking at the broken coffee pot and overturned chair, Sheriff Barnes turned red in the face. “Maybe I will haul you down and process you into my jail for assaulting my boy.” Looking up at his stepson, he asked, “Jordan, do you wish to press charges against this man?”
Jordan grumbled, “No, sir, but I would like to see you beat his ass.”
The sheriff raised a finger and pointed at the young man. “Watch your language, boy.”
Turning to Mike, he said, “Follow me outside, Deputy.”
Mike followed Sheriff Barnes through the door, glancing over his shoulder briefly to convey to Jordan that this was not over.
A fully loaded, black Chrysler 300, with Red Feather County Sheriff decals on the doors and a custom low-profile light bar across the top, blocked Mike’s Taurus from leaving the small dirt lot. A light drizzle had started while Mike was inside.
Sheriff Barnes pointed to the passenger’s side of his patrol car and grumbled, “Get in.”
nine
Mike sank into the comfortable front seat of the Chrysler and immediately tried to make amends with the sheriff.
Taking an apologetic tone, he started, “I’m really sorry about the misunderstanding, Sheriff. I was on duty last night when I was informed my daughter might be missing.”
Sheriff Barnes started the cruiser and set the heater to low.
“I’m listening, Deputy.”
Mike continued with his apology, “I didn’t think to take off my uniform before driving up here.” Hesitating a little bit, he tried to elaborate. “I am worried that my daughter is not with her car, and she has failed to contact me or her mother. I guess that my appearance was the last thing on my mind.”
The sheriff adjusted his butt in the leather seat and breathed out a heavy sigh, “I understand your concern, Mr. Haller, but let me point out to you what I just witnessed.”
The radio on the dash came to life with a dispatcher’s voice. Sheriff Barnes adjusted the volume down after determining the call was not for him. He turned in his seat a little to make eye contact with his passenger.
“I received a call from Mr. Winter, stating that an officer of the law was conducting an official interview with one of my constituents.” Barnes smiled, “Actually, Jordan is my stepson. I’m not sure if you were made aware of that.”
Mike only nodded, knowing the sheriff was not finished.
“Now, I sat wondering, after I got the call from Duncan, just how I missed the official notification that an outside
agency was conducting an investigation in my county?” The sheriff chuckled, “So I raced right over to see if I could be of any assistance, and I walk in on a two-forty in progress.”
Mike winced at the reference to an assault in progress. “I apologize---”
Sheriff Barnes cut him off. “Not only do I witness a fellow police officer committing battery on my stepson, I am also informed for the very first time, that a young female may be missing in my county.”
Mike turned red in the face. He’d screwed up royally, and he knew it.
“You’re right, Sheriff. I am---”
Sheriff Barnes interrupted again, this time with a raised voice. “You are going to get out of my cruiser, Deputy, and you are going to drive your behind down to the county building and file an official report with my office. In the mean time, I will get the facts from Duncan and Jordan and decide at that time whether or not to lock you up.”
Mike opened his door and stepped out. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”
Sheriff Barnes rolled down his window and spoke as he moved his car enough for Mike’s Taurus to get out. “I’ll be along in a couple of hours or so. Don’t you leave the county building until I get there, Deputy.”
Mike nodded before climbing into his car. His chest was tight from embarrassment and frustration. An ache announced itself from a broken rib that had healed improperly after two bullets were stopped by his tactical vest six months earlier. Mike started his car and backed slowly from the driveway. His shame transformed to sorrow when he spotted Sara’s Civic behind the chain-link fence of the impound lot.
ten
Sara pushed forward along a narrow game trail; her bare feet ached from stepping on jagged rock and fallen branches. The forest canopy opened wide into a grassy meadow and seemed to quell the sunless cavity that threatened to suffocate her spirit. The light drizzle had subsided, leaving the forest quiet and cool in its absence. The pain under Sara’s right breast was becoming unbearable. When she reached for it with her left hand, a piercing ache stitched along her forearm, reminding her of the broken bone in her wrist. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to continue much longer with this torment.
Finding a rock bathed in a bit of sunshine, Sara sat and began tending to her wounds. With her right hand, she removed a thin cotton belt from her waist. Finding a small dead branch from a dying Aspen, she used her bare feet to break it to a proper length, then scraped it against the rock she was sitting on to wear its sharp edges smooth. Leaving a small branch that had grown at a right angle to the bough, she fitted the improvised splint along her left wrist, carefully gripping the offshoot in her palm, and secured it snuggly with the cotton belt. The relief was immediate.
Sara took a moment to rest quietly while she surveyed the tree-line around the meadow. If the men were coming for her, she would have but a brief moment to flee. Bending over, she retrieved the unused portion of the Aspen bough. It had broken to a point and she gained some comfort knowing that it could be used as a weapon. Fear gripped her heart; she would not be raped again!
A Gray Squirrel chattered from a nearby tree and rescued Sara from her brooding. One thing she had learned during hunting trips with her dad is that a quiet forest usually warns of approaching danger. As long as birds were chirping and chipmunks were jabbering, she was relatively safe.
Turning to the stab wound under her right breast, Sara unbuttoned her blouse and inhaled sharply when she saw the discolored gash. The edges had already turned black and were emitting a foul odor. White bone from her rib stood out in ghastly contrast to the purple mass. Sara was reminded of patients with advanced diabetes entering the emergency room at Valley View Hospital, with appendages in various stages of gangrenous infection. She was well aware of the perils of untreated and infected wounds.
Sara closed her eyes as Stable Flies gathered around the wound to feast on blood and lay their eggs in the muddled mass of tissue. Tears streaked her face and she sobbed openly, knowing that the fly larvae may be her only chance at surviving this terrible wound. She remembered a lost hiker who had been found and brought to the hospital earlier in the summer. He had endured several days and nights in the mountains after a fall from Trestle Rock. A doctor had pointed out maggots around an open gash on the young man’s leg and informed the nurses that the larvae had eaten the dead tissue around the wound, probably saving his life. At the time, Sara shivered with disgust, but now she understood the importance of this lesson.
After several minutes, Sara pulled the folded bra from her pocket and brushed the flies away from the wound. She placed the bra over the gash and held it in place until it became stuck in the drying blood. She needed pressure applied to the wound, but could think of no solution other than her elbow to hold the improvised bandage in place.
Sweat stung the laceration on her neck as her fingertips tenderly probed to reveal a shallow laceration. Sara guessed the wound was about four inches long and had already closed up with dried blood. A dark realization passed over her as she thought about the knife being pulled across her throat. Never in her life had she felt as helpless as she did at that moment; that brief second in time when she knew that she would soon be dead; relieved that the nightmare would soon be over, but horrified by the realization that her life was ending.
The sound of a jet flying high overhead brought Sara’s eyes to the sky. She imagined the passengers sitting safely in their seats, concentrating on magazines or an in-flight movie, completely unaware of her plight far below. The image of normalcy stabilized a place in her quivering stomach. At that moment, Sara knew that she would survive this ordeal.
eleven
Mike found the county building and requested the proper paperwork to fill out for a missing persons report. He was sitting at a small table in the lobby, chewing on the plastic cap of a borrowed Bic pen. He couldn’t get past a question that inquired whether Sara’s dental records were available or not. Of course Sara had dental records, but Mike couldn’t bring himself to answer yes. If he did, then he would have to admit to himself that Sara may already be…gone. He scoffed to himself and felt inwardly embarrassed when he realized that he couldn’t even form the word dead in his own mind.
“Mike Haller,” a deputy called out from an open door. When Mike finally stood, the deputy asked again, “Mike Haller?”
“Yes,” Mike nodded.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the deputy said, eying Mike’s uniform suspiciously. “I thought you were one of us.”
Mike looked sheepishly at his rumpled outfit.
“I’m just a worried father today.”
The deputy opened the door wide for Mike to pass through.
“I am Deputy Ryan Watts. Do you prefer to be called Deputy, or Mr. Haller?”
Mike smiled at the young officer, “Mike, is fine.”
Deputy Watts led Mike through a series of hallways until they came to a small room with a table and two chairs.
“This should be private,” Watts said. “Have a seat.”
Mike tossed his paperwork and Bic pen on the table, and slid heavily into a wooden chair. Deputy Watts placed an Interview in Progress sign on the door and closed it quietly before sitting.
“How long have you been a deputy sheriff, Mike?” Watts asked.
Mike held eye contact with the officer.
“Six years now,” he said. “How about yourself?”
Deputy Watts blushed a little, “Only a year, sir. I spent six years as an MP in the Army.”
Mike smiled at the deputy, “Well, I guess that makes you the senior man in this room, Deputy Watts.”
Watts accepted the compliment with a nod and opened a thin manila folder he had placed on the table.
“We are going to fill out a missing persons report on your daughter, Mike, and hopefully, before all this paperwork is finished, she will turn up at a friend’s house or something.”
Mike pulled his small stack of papers closer and picked up his pen. His eyes swam for a second. “That wo
uld be good,” was all he could say.
Deputy Watts noted the solemn response and paused for a moment before proceeding.
“Mike, I’m sure you are aware that I have to ask you a series of questions that are going to seem insensitive and some that are just downright impolite. I’ll try to get through them quickly so we can get down to the serious business of finding your daughter.”
Mike tapped his incomplete form with his pen and nodded.
Watts continued, “Now, your daughter’s name is?”
Mike sat up straight, “Sara Jean Haller,” he said, then spelled her first name out loud for the deputy.
“And her date and place of birth, Mike?”
“She was born on July 6th, 1992, in Wheatridge, Colorado.”
“Can you give me a brief description of Sara, including what she was wearing the last time you saw her?”
Mike took in a deep breath that shuttered a little.
“Sara is about five foot seven, and she weighs around a hundred and twenty-five pounds. She has blue eyes and shoulder length blonde hair.”
Deputy Watts asked, “Is her hair naturally blonde or is it dyed?”
Mike laughed a little to himself. “It’s natural,” he said. “In fact, I made fun of her just before she left, for putting in brown highlights.” Mike looked at Watts, “Oh yeah, she has brown highlights in her hair.”
Deputy Watts smiled and wrote it down. “Do you remember what she was wearing?” he asked.
Mike thought for a moment before answering. “She was wearing a short denim skirt that was beige in color and a white cotton blouse, short sleeve.”
Mike closed his eyes to concentrate, “She was wearing beige sandals with little leather straps crisscrossing all across the top of her foot. She had two or three thin rings on her fingers and a silver charm bracelet I had given her for graduation. It had several hearts around it of all sizes and shapes and they each had one word on the back.” Mike shook his head. “I can’t remember what they said though.”
