by Tony Hayden
Mike tried again. DuncanWinter. He paused for a moment and thought of the ghastly woman with the twelve-gauge shotgun pointed at his chest, then typed, Virginia. The same error message appeared again in red.
Mike shuffled through some papers on the desk and held a utility bill up close to the screen so he could read it. The propane company billed to DWinter Towing.
Mike typed again. DWinterTowing---Virginia.
This time a message appeared; You have been locked out of this system. Please contact customer support to re-set your credentials.
“Dammit!” Mike said out loud. He sat back in the chair, unsure what to do next. Several questions ran through his mind. “How the hell am I going to get access to these records now? Duncan Winter will probably never talk to me again after my outburst at the restaurant. Sheriff Barnes will never request a warrant to look at the records. I can ask for the Attorney General to review the case and investigate Sara’s disappearance properly, but that will take weeks. Who the hell do I know that could access these records?”
Mike stood in a flash and slapped the desktop with both hands. “Harry Pennington!” he said. His mind began to race. He hadn’t seen Harry since the two of them stopped a hired killer from murdering Carol Iverson and her son Taylor, four months earlier. There was a strong rumor that Harry Pennington worked for the Central Intelligence Agency, and he had told Mike that if he ever need anything, “Just call.”
Haller watched as photos of Duncan and Virginia began fading in and out across the computer’s screen. He thought for a second then turned the volume up on the two-way radio. Not sure what to do about the broken light bulb, he set the lamp back on its side. He hoped this would explain the damage and not raise too many red flags that an unwanted out-of-towner had visited after hours.
Jean was meeting Mike early in the morning to organize the volunteer search for Sara. When that ordeal was over, he would track down Harry Pennington and hopefully get the information he needed to find his daughter’s…what?...body?
“No!” Mike scolded himself. “Sara is still alive. I can feel every breath she takes.”
Mike opened the door to the trailer and stepped out, making sure it locked behind him.
“I’m coming, sweetheart,” he said to the night air.
twenty-five
The sun peeked above the eastern horizon to burn through a biting chill left by the retreating darkness. Twelve members of the University of Wyoming’s Army ROTC, Cowboy Battalion, stood at Wyoming’s southern border with Colorado on Highway 287. It was roughly an eighteen mile hike to Ranch Springs, Colorado, and the cadets were determined to do it in less than six hours.
A member of the UW family was missing and even though these young men and women held no responsibility in the disappearance of Sara Jean Haller, they shouldered the burden of one of their own unaccounted for, because that was the type of Americans they were. Selfless. Dedicated beyond extraordinary. Protectors of all who could not protect themselves.
They divided six and six on each side of the highway, eyes trained to search for anything out of place; a piece of clothing, a discarded purse, a lifeless body hidden among the sage and short pine that covered the landscape.
News vans from Casper and Cheyenne and Denver jockeyed for position in the narrow lanes, cameras rolling to record footage for their evening broadcasts. Vehicles passed by slowly, gawking at the spectacle, honking their horns to offer support, or simply to interrupt a reporter’s monologue.
And so the search for Sara Haller began.
Mike Haller was out of bed before daylight. Energized with the information he had recovered at the office of DW Towing. He sat in a chair in his room at the Sightseer Inn with his cell phone glued to his ear. The phone number Harry Pennington had given to him this past Spring was now on its sixth ring. Harry didn’t pick up and there was no answering machine to take a message.
“Dammit!”
Mike closed his phone and thought for a moment. Carol Iverson, Harry’s niece, was on a book tour promoting her story of a massacre in Chiapas, Mexico. He grimaced when he remembered that her number had been stored in his phone that was destroyed by Sheriff Barnes. He didn’t have it written down anywhere.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit!” he said out loud.
Mike snapped his fingers and dialed information. Getting the phone number he requested, he quickly called the Lake County Sheriff’s Department.
A young man’s voice greeted him. “Lake County Sheriff, Deputy Madsen.”
“Hey Aaron, this is Mike Haller from Eagle County. Gottcha on the early shift today?”
“Early hell! My shift ends in ten minutes. I gave the Sheriff’s wife a speeding ticket last week, so I’m on late shift until further notice. How are you holding up, Mike? Any word on your daughter?”
Mike paused for a second before answering. “Nothing concrete, Aaron. Thanks for asking. Hey, I’m trying to reach an old fart by the name of Harry Pennington who lives there in Leadville. Do you know him?”
Deputy Madsen laughed. “Know him? I’ve arrested him twice this summer for public intoxication. The governor owns a little place over on Poplar Street and about a month ago I caught Harry pissing on his doorstep. He was drunk as hell and hollering something about the governor not allowing firefighters to unionize. I slapped the cuffs on him and took him to the drunk tank and sat with him all night listening to his stories. What a hoot! I love that guy!”
Mike smiled. “We’re definitely talking about the same Harry. I’m trying to reach him and not having any luck. He might be a big help finding my daughter and I was wondering if I could talk you into sending a deputy over to his apartment to ask him to contact me. Please tell him that it’s urgent.”
“I’ll do you one better, Mike,” Deputy Madsen said. “My shift just ended so I’ll swing by his place on my way home and rustle him out of bed for you.”
Mike breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks Aaron. I’ll owe you one.”
Madsen scoffed, “You don’t owe me anything, Mike. I’ll call you back when I make contact, okay?”
“Outstanding!” Mike said before closing his phone.
A plate of untouched scrambled eggs sat before Jordan Barnes. Next to it, a stack of lightly toasted sourdough, buttered on both sides. Jordan sipped at a mug of coffee made syrupy by an abundance of sugar and heavy cream.
“The GPS on your truck is becoming a problem.” Pop removed a skillet from the stove and placed it in the sink to soak. “Tell me again what Duncan shared with you this morning?”
Jordan slurped loudly at the hot coffee. “Mr. Winter told me that he thinks someone broke into the office last night and looked through his files.”
“And he knows this, how?”
Jordan shrugged. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “He said a lamp was broke and his computer was locked up.”
“So, how does this tie into the GPS system on your tow truck?”
Jordan poked at his scrambled eggs with a fork and sighed heavily. “Mr. Winter said that the website for the company that services the GPS was up on the screen this morning, and that it had some message that three login attempts had failed or something like that.”
Pop finally sat at the table and took a piece of toast from Jordan’s plate. He covered one side with homemade cherry jam and took a large bite. Red syrup ran from the corners of his mouth, so he used a knuckle to push the sweet liquid back where it belonged.
“This afternoon,” he finally said. “You and I are going back up the mountain and we’re going to move that little girl’s body. That satellite tracker is going to be our downfall if we’re not careful.”
Jordan froze at the thought of going back up to the spot where he and Pop left the Haller girl. He had lied to Pop when he claimed to have buried her properly and he knew that a beating would result from his deceit.
“I don’t want to go back up there, Pop,” he whined. “Maybe the coyotes have dug her up by now and scattered her remains all over kingdom c
ome.”
Pop finished his toast and picked up another. “Not if you did your job properly, son.”
Jordan tried another tactic. “Well, there’s that search for her going on today. You have to be there for that, don’t you?”
Pop seemed to be enjoying Jordan’s discomposure. He finally pulled the young man’s plate of food across the table and began eating his scrambled eggs. “The search should end around three this afternoon,” he said, spitting bits of egg across the table. “Ask Duncan if you can borrow his Bronco for a couple of days. We can’t take my car, and we sure as heck aren’t going to take the tow truck back up there.”
Jordan was bordering on panic. “I’ll go alone,” he spouted. “You shouldn’t have to mess with that girl’s body. I bet she’s smellin’ something fierce by now. I’ll take her up by the cabin and cut her up with the axe and bury her all over the forest.”
Pop stopped chewing and peaked his eyebrows. “The cabin is a good idea, son. We’ll stay there tonight and spend all day Monday disposing of the corpse properly.”
Jordan deflated. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll ask Mr. Winter for his Bronco and take tomorrow off work. I’ll tell him we’re going up to the cabin to shoot an elk.”
“Good,” Pop said, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin. “This will be a good experience for you. Every man should know how to properly dismember a body.”
twenty-six
Sara blew into the cook stove but no embers showed promise. The matches had run out and a search of the cabin revealed no other means of starting a fire to ward off the early morning chill. She hugged herself tightly and cried out at the sharp pain in her left arm that ached deeply from wrist to elbow. The ibuprofen had run out as well.
She considered leaving the cabin today. The food was running low, medical supplies were all but exhausted, and the thought of one more night, huddled in a dark corner trying to sleep but jumping at every little sound, was more than she thought she could bear.
Her plan had been to spend this day packing the few remaining supplies into a daypack she had found in the cabin, collecting and boiling some water to carry with her on the long hike out of these mountains, and most importantly, fashioning some sort of footwear that would protect her bare feet and hold up to the pressures of the task ahead. No, she would spend one more night in the cabin, prepare herself properly, and improve her chances greatly for surviving this ordeal.
Sara was grateful for the distractions that kept her mind from reliving the rape and attempted murder. The memory was always there, like a belt strapped tightly around her chest, making it difficult to breath---reminding her constantly that she had been so personally violated.
When she allowed herself a quiet moment, her emotions swung toward overwhelming guilt; “Why did I take that shortcut?” and, “I should have fought harder,” or, “I shouldn’t have tried to be so damn independent.” Then, paralyzing anger would flood over her; “How dare those bastards do this to me!” She would reenact the abduction in her mind. This time, she would have a handgun or a knife, and she would exact her revenge in a blinding rage. She would stir from these visions, drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and she would lapse into depression from the realization of her true helplessness.
Shoes! Sara put away all thoughts and concentrated on the best way to fashion a pair of shoes. The sturdiest material she had found was an old army duffle bag, half filled with tools for making repairs to the cabin. She dumped the tools on the floor and used a razor knife to cut the duffle bag apart, turning it into two large squares of durable canvas. Sara then stood and placed her right foot on one of the squares. She concentrated hard on visualizing where cuts would need to be made in the canvas to provide flaps for covering her feet and straps for tying the material securely. She finally opted for a “cross” pattern, using leftover material to be cut into strips for laces which she would weave through holes cut in the flaps. Three hours and several adjustments later, Sara had a workable pair of coverings for her feet.
With a bit of bounce in her step because of her accomplishment, she grabbed two sauce pans from the stove and headed to the creek to retrieve water. It only took a few steps outside the cabin for her to realize that she needed some sort of padding for the soles of her feet. Sara smiled when she thought of the perfect solution. A woven kitchen mat on the floor could be cut to fit as insoles. Rubber backing on the mat would keep them from slipping around inside the canvas shell she had designed.
“Dad is going to love this!” she thought to herself.
The thought of her father compelled her to pause. He would be worried sick by now. Sara’s mother would be frantic, as well. Sara always thought it was odd how the two of them reacted so differently to stress. Her father seemed to calm down just when things were coming apart. He had always impressed her as a man of great wisdom and patience. She remembered telling him this after his close call with death a few months back, and he just scoffed at her. “I am just an ordinary man,” she remembered him saying.
Her mom, on the other hand, became animated when hardship reared its ugly head. She seemed to fret and tried to organize and glue everything back together, like life was a giant jigsaw puzzle---every piece had its place---and if she could only fit the pieces methodically back into their places, then everything would turn out alright.
Sara smiled. She realized that she had both her parents’ attributes when faced with adversity. She wanted so badly to just go back to her bedroom in Eagle, and listen to her iPod, and do her homework for advanced chemistry, and call her best friend, Rachel, to see if she was finally going to muster enough courage to ask Greg Schriber to the spring dance.
The belt tightened around Sara’s chest and she gasped for breath. She grieved for her lost innocence. She doubted that she would ever be able to put the pieces of this puzzle back together. She would now be known as “Sara; the girl who was raped.” She would have the physical scars to remind her every single day for the rest of her life. She would wrestle with the mental scars every time she found herself alone, or around men she didn’t know.
The blood from her father took control and Sara calmed. “I’m alive,” she told herself. “And that is so much better than the alternative.”
twenty-seven
A large crowd gathered outside the Ranch Springs Community Hall on the western edge of town. Jean Haller and students from the University of Wyoming were handing out bright orange safety vests to volunteers. Sheriff Barnes was standing in front of a news reporter relating his account of the disappearance of Sara Haller.
Mike was feeling on edge after a phone call from his friend, Deputy Aaron Madsen from Lake County. Madsen had shared that Harry Pennington’s apartment was empty and neighbors had said that they hadn’t seen him for almost two weeks.
Mike’s stomach felt as if someone had poured hot lead into it and let it harden. He wasn’t sure what direction he would take next. He thought about the stories he had heard of Jim and Carol Iverson while they were searching for their missing son in southern Mexico. Rumors that Jim had tortured a man to death to find his son had run rampant through the sheriff’s department. Jim was dead now, shot down by a Mexican police officer because of that alleged torture, but his son was miraculously rescued and was now alive and well. I would make that trade, Mike thought to himself. I would happily give my life to save my daughter.
Mike looked around the crowd of over one-hundred people to see if he could spot Jordan Barnes. He found his wife, Jean, hugging individuals as they came to her to offer solace. Larry Jents, the dispatcher from Eagle County, was gesturing dramatically and openly crying while he stood at Jean’s elbow. Rachel, Sara’s best friend, stood by with roses to be placed at a memorial near the steps of the community hall. Many of Sara’s teachers and friends from high school were there, as well as nurses from the hospital where Sara volunteered. Mike continued searching down the line forming to speak with Jean. Lots of people he did not recognize, some he did. Pastor G
ary Popineau stood among a group of his parishioners and read from a Bible. Their heads were bowed in prayer and Mike took comfort from these perfect strangers.
“How are you doing, Mike?”
He turned to see Carol Iverson standing behind him. As always, his breath seemed to disappear whenever he found himself in close proximity to this woman. She had changed her hair color to a light brown and her face glowed even more than he remembered.
“I, uh…oh, well…I’m a little overwhelmed, I guess.” Mike blinked. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Carol.”
Carol Iverson stepped closer to Mike and touched his arm. “As soon as I heard the news, I canceled my book tour and flew home to see if I could be of any help.”
Mike settled a bit. “You didn’t have to do that, Carol.”
“Yes I did,” she said. “You saved my life. You saved my son’s life. I owe you more than you will ever know.”
Mike blushed. “I was just doing my job, but actually, you can help me tremendously. I am trying to reach your Uncle Harry. He’s not at home and I can’t seem to locate him.”
Carol laughed quietly. “That’s Harry, always off somewhere trying to save the world. You’re in luck though; I’m picking him up at the airport in Denver tomorrow morning. He’s been down in Mexico and he called me last night and told me that he has a big surprise for me.” A skeptical look crossed Carol’s face. “I think he went down there to break Sergio Salinas out of prison. I wouldn’t put anything past Harry.”
Mike smiled and recalled the story of the Zapatista rebel confessing to a murder so that Carol would remain free. Harry had mentioned to Mike that he had “unfinished business” in Mexico.
Looking around Carol, Mike asked, “Where’s Taylor? I bet he is taller than me by now.”
