ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE

by Cindi Myers

  “No. She’s in interview room two. I told you that.”

  The sergeant swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The interview room is empty, sir. Mrs. Giardino is gone.”

  Chapter Three

  Stacy wasn’t about to wait around for Sergeant What’s-his-name to haul her off to a hotel room that would be little better than a prison. She’d had enough of men telling her what she could and couldn’t do and where she could and couldn’t go. Now that Sammy was dead, she had a chance to start life over, but she was going to do it on her own terms.

  She checked the hall to make sure the coast was clear, then woke Carlo. “Time to go, honey,” she said, hoisting him onto one hip.

  “Where are we going, Mama?” he asked.

  “We’re going to stay in a hotel. Won’t that be fun?” She kept her voice to a whisper, but tried to sound excited for Carlo’s sake. “They’ll probably have a pool and you can go swimming.”

  “Will Daddy be there?”

  His face was so serious—too serious for a little boy. “No, Daddy can’t make it. But you and I will have a good time, won’t we?” Soon, when things were more settled, she’d have to tell him about his father. Though Stacy had long ago ceased to like, much less love, her late husband, Carlo adored his daddy, even though Sammy had spent less and less time with the boy in the past months. She wasn’t sure a three-year-old would understand death, but Carlo would be devastated once he accepted his father wasn’t coming back. She’d postpone that pain for him a little longer.

  Once in the hallway, she headed for the door marked Stairs. Less chance of running into anyone than if she risked the elevator. Fortunately, she only had to go down two floors and there was a back door. Probably where all the smokers went to sneak a cigarette, she thought, and slipped out, praying an alarm wouldn’t sound.

  The door opened into a parking lot at the back of the building. Only a few cars sat in the glow of overhead lights. A stiff breeze blew swirls of snow around her feet as she hurried across the concrete. She needed to find her way onto the main drag and lose herself in the crush of tourists.

  She followed the sounds of voices and music to Telluride’s main street, where she fell into step behind a crowd of adults and children—a big family group on vacation, she guessed. A quick check over her shoulder told her the brawny marshal wasn’t following her—he was tall enough she’d have spotted him, even in this crowd. And he had the clean-cut good looks and alert attitude that pegged him as law enforcement from half a mile away.

  She checked the shops along the street and spotted one that advertised children’s clothing. A woman with a kid wouldn’t stand out in there. She set Carlo down and pretended to look through the racks of clothing while he headed for the toy box against the wall. She needed a plan.

  “Can I help you find something in particular?” an older woman in a black wool skirt, pink blouse and boots asked.

  “You have such great stuff here,” Stacy gushed. “I wish I had more time to shop. I just ducked in here while I’m waiting for my husband. But I’ll be back tomorrow when I have more time.”

  “Your son is adorable,” the woman said, and she and Stacy both turned to watch Carlo fitting big foam blocks together.

  “Thank you.” Stacy offered her most dazzling smile. “He’s going through that phase where he just loves trains and buses and airplanes. Does Telluride have a bus station?”

  “Not really. Some of the hotels run shuttle buses to the airports, and there are buses to the ski area.”

  “Thanks. I was just curious.” She could rent a car to get away, but that required a credit card and ID and would be easy to trace. She pulled out her phone and pretended to read a text. “Got to go. Come on, son, we have to go.”

  “But I want to stay here and play,” Carlo said.

  “We’ll try to come back tomorrow and stay longer.” She held out her hand and Carlo took it.

  On the sidewalk once more, she tried to think of her next move. Maybe she could catch an airport shuttle. Anything to get out of town. She set off walking toward a high-rise on the corner where she could see several tour buses and a crowd of cars waiting for their turn to unload beneath the portico.

  As she’d expected, the building was a hotel, and a busy one, crowded with people coming and going. Perfect. She’d just be one more anonymous woman in the crowd. She threaded her way through a line of tourists unloading luggage and skis from a shuttle bus and entered the lobby. She made her way to the front desk and turned on the charm for the clerk, a harried-looking young man with thinning blond hair. “What time is the airport shuttle?” she asked.

  “Telluride, Montrose or Durango?” he asked, not even looking up from his computer screen.

  She hesitated. “Um...”

  “The bus to Durango leaves in ten minutes, but the one for Telluride will be right behind it.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Durango it was.

  She took a seat behind a potted plant and gave Carlo her phone to keep him occupied. She was showing him how to get to the games she’d downloaded for him when the phone rang, startling her.

  She stared at the number. A 303 area code—Denver. Those marshals were probably based in Denver, weren’t they? She hit the button to ignore the call, but a few seconds later, the chime sounded, indicating she had a message.

  She hesitated, then decided to listen to the message. Maybe it wasn’t the marshal at all.

  Patrick Thompson’s deep, velvety voice filled her ears. “Running away is not a good idea,” he said. “Call me back at this number and I’ll send someone to pick you up. I promise you’ll be safe with us.”

  “Right.” She was supposed to trust the people who had shot her husband. At least that was the story Thompson himself had given her. Apparently Sammy had killed his father, then turned the gun on his sister, but still, it was a federal agent who’d put the bullet in his back that killed Sammy. And though this Patrick Thompson guy had been nice enough when he was interviewing her, he was probably like all the rest—he thought she was like Sammy—a lowlife mobster, or even worse, his tramp of a wife. Why would they be so concerned about her safety? They really wanted her to tell all she knew so they could pin the Giardino family crimes on someone. But after today, no one was left to blame, except maybe for a few thugs who’d been following Sam and Sammy’s orders.

  She switched off the phone, hoping that would keep them from being able to trace its signal or GPS or whatever the feds used to keep tabs on people. She was tempted to leave the phone behind, but being that cut off from any resources felt too dangerous.

  A deluxe passenger van pulled up and the driver announced the Durango airport shuttle. Stacy and Carlo joined the line of people climbing on board. “Name, miss?” The driver was checking off names on a list on a clipboard. He was a middle-aged man with a round face and an underdeveloped chin.

  “I’m not on your list,” she said. “I was hoping I could buy a ticket on board.”

  “I’m only supposed to take advance reservations.”

  Stacy shifted from foot to foot. Everyone was staring, the people behind her starting to grumble. She leaned toward the man, keeping her voice low, and at the same time giving him a look down the V-neck of her sweater—hey, she’d use whatever she had to pull this off. “Please,” she said. “I just found out my mother is in the hospital and I was able to get a flight out of Durango to see her and I’ve got to get there. I can pay cash.” And he could keep the cash and never tell anybody, if he was so inclined.

  “Fifty dollars.” He didn’t even hesitate to bark out the sum.

  She opened her purse and fished out two twenties and a ten. One thing about living with a mobster—they believed in paying cash and kept a lot around.

  “Where’s your luggage?” the driver asked.

  “I already put it back th
ere.” She nodded toward the back of the bus, where a porter was loading suitcases.

  On board the bus, she settled into a seat near the back, Carlo beside her. “Where are we going, Mama?” he asked.

  “To that hotel I told you about.” Once at the airport, she’d head to baggage claim and call one of the hotels that offered a free shuttle. She’d pay cash for a room and give a fake name. After dinner and a good night’s sleep, she could decide what to do next.

  Carlo settled with his face pressed to the glass, looking out the window. Stacy leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She was on her way. Not safe yet, but she would be soon.

  * * *

  “SHE’S HEADED TOWARD Durango.”

  Patrick leaned over the tech they’d assigned to trace Stacy’s cell phone signal and studied the laptop screen and the little green dot that pinpointed her whereabouts. His last two calls to her had gone straight to voice mail, so he assumed she’d turned off her phone. Apparently she hadn’t realized it still sent out a signal, even when switched off.

  “What’s in Durango?” Agent Sullivan asked.

  “Maybe this Uncle Abel?” Stacy had said he had a ranch in Colorado, but she’d been vague about where.

  “Someone else is in Durango today,” Sullivan said. He held out his smartphone, which showed the front page of the Durango paper, with a story about Senator Nordley’s speech to a political group in town.

  Patrick’s stomach churned. He’d wanted to believe Stacy’s innocent victim act. Had everything she’d told them been a lie? “That’s a little too convenient for coincidence,” he said.

  “Should we call Durango police and ask them to intercept her?” Sullivan asked.

  “No. I’ll go.” He reached for his jacket. “I want to watch her, see what she does. And the fewer people who know about this, the better for security.” He turned to the tech. “Keep tracking her. I’ll stay in touch by phone.”

  The night was bitterly cold and blustery, big flakes of snow swirling in the parking lot security lights as he made his way to his Range Rover. He threaded the vehicle through the crowds on Main, then took the highway out of town, turning on the road up to the ski resort. This would take him over Lizard Head pass, through the small towns of Rico and Delores and into Durango. Stacy probably had a forty-minute head start on him, but he wasn’t worried about following her too closely, not as long as she had her phone with her.

  Provided she hadn’t been smart enough to stash the phone, maybe in a bag that was now on board the shuttle while she ran the opposite direction. But he was going with his gut and the belief that she was headed to Durango herself.

  He’d learned to trust his gut in his years with the U.S. Marshals, but things didn’t always play out the way he wanted. Most recently, he’d agreed to allow Elizabeth Giardino, who’d been in Witness Security as Anne Gardiner, to go to the house where her father had been holed up with the rest of the family. The opportunity to catch a man on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list after he’d been on the loose for over a year had been too tempting, especially since Elizabeth had been so determined to take the risk.

  But her brother had almost killed her, and Patrick blamed himself.

  He wasn’t going to risk losing another woman in his care; he wouldn’t let Stacy Giardino get the better of him.

  When he reached the outskirts of Durango, he phoned the tech back in Telluride. “You still have her on radar?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. She was at the airport for a little bit. Then she was on the move for a bit, but she’s stopped again. If you give me a moment, I can pinpoint an address.”

  “All right. I’ll hold.” He guided the car past well-lit shopping complexes down a main street lined with bars, restaurants and hotels. Like Telluride, Durango was filled with tourists celebrating after a day at the nearby ski area. It was the kind of place where it would be easy for a stranger to get lost in the crowd.

  “Sir, I’ve got an address for you.”

  “Go ahead.” Patrick leaned over and switched on his GPS.

  The tech rattled off an address on Second Street. “I show it’s a motel. Moose Head Lodge.”

  “Got it. Thanks.” He hung up, keyed the address into his GPS then did a U-turn and headed back toward Second Street.

  The Moose Head Lodge was a low-slung log-and-stone structure set back from the road. Two long wings stretched out from the central building, with doors for each room opening into the parking lot. Patrick parked the Range Rover across from the entrance and went into a lobby straight out of a Teddy Roosevelt nightmare, complete with a stuffed grizzly bear by the front counter.

  “May I help you, sir?” asked the clerk, who looked scarcely old enough to shave.

  “I’m looking for a young woman who just checked in. About five-two, short, pale blond hair. She probably had a little boy with her.”

  “I’m not allowed to give out information on our guests,” he said.

  “You can give me the information.” Patrick flipped open his credentials on the counter.

  The boy’s eyes goggled. “Y-yes, sir. A woman like the one you described checked in about fifteen minutes ago. She’s in Room 141—out back.”

  “What name did she register under?”

  The boy turned to a computer and rapidly typed in some information. “She registered as Kathy Jackson. And she paid cash for her room.”

  “I need to reserve the closest vacant room to hers I can,” Patrick said.

  “That would be 142—right next door.”

  “I’ll take it.” He handed over his government credit card and filled out the reservation information.

  “That room has two double beds and a microwave and minifridge,” the clerk said as he handed over the card key.

  “Is there someplace I can order in food?” He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was beginning to catch up with him.

  “There’s a pizza place that delivers. The menu is in your room.”

  “That’ll do.” He drove the Rover around and parked in front of his room. There was no reason Stacy should recognize it, but in case she was looking out the window to see who had arrived, he kept the vehicle between him and her door and entered the room quickly.

  Once inside, he made his way to the wall that separated his room from hers and pressed his ear against the sheetrock. The muffled music and voices from the television obscured any other sound at first, then he heard what he was sure was a child, and the unintelligible answer in a woman’s voice.

  They were there, probably in for the night, but he’d stay alert just in case. If anyone came to see her, or if she left to go out, he’d know. In the morning, he’d follow her and see where she went. Who she talked to.

  He ordered pizza and listened to the sounds of splashing from the bathroom next door. Probably the boy getting a bath, but the disturbing image of Stacy in the shower drifted into his mind. Though she was petite, she had a good figure. Was he a creep for fantasizing about a woman he was supposed to protect? Or merely human for thinking about an attractive woman who was separated from him by only a wall?

  And her own resistance to having anything to do with him. Maybe her years with the Giardinos had made her wary of trusting anyone, especially those on the right side of the law. But he couldn’t take the chance that some offshoot of the family—or their enemies—would come after her. The other women were in protective custody, and agents were busy tracking down everyone connected with the family and piecing together evidence for a multitude of crimes. Stacy was the only loose end at the moment.

  After the pizza was delivered, he wedged the door open an inch, the better to hear any activity next door. He ate, then lay on the bed fully clothed, his weapon on the blanket beside him. All was quiet next door, even the TV silenced. He didn’t expect to sleep much, if any, but he was used to long nights.
He’d learned how to get through them and catch up on his rest later.

  In spite of Patrick’s resolve to stay awake, he must have drifted off. He woke to the sound of a woman screaming in the room next door.

  Chapter Four

  Instinct propelled Patrick out of bed, weapon drawn and ready. A dark sedan idled in front of the room next door, a bulky figure at the wheel. A woman’s wails and the crying of a child shattered the predawn stillness and sent a jolt of adrenaline through the marshal.

  He slipped out of his room, keeping to the shadows, out of reach of the parking lot lights. The door to Stacy’s room stood open and just as he started to move toward it, a man ran out, Carlo clutched to his chest.

  “Halt!” Patrick shouted, and shot wide, in front of the man. He didn’t dare aim directly at him, too fearful of striking the child.

  The kidnapper scarcely slowed as he returned fire, the shots muffled by a silencer. Patrick ducked into deeper shadow as bullets splintered the brick to his left, shards stinging the side of his face. The man tossed the boy into the backseat of the car and dived in after him and they took off, tires squealing.

  Patrick fired, aiming for the vehicle’s tires, but the car raced away too fast. Breathing hard, blood running down his face, he stared after the kidnappers, trying to make out the license plate number or any identifying marks on the car. But the plate had been obscured with mud, and the car was like a hundred other sedans in the city.

  Heart pounding, he raced to Stacy’s room. “Stacy?” he called when he reached the open doorway.

  The silence that greeted him turned his blood to ice. He groped for the light switch and light illuminated chaos. The covers lay in a tangle, half off the bed, and a chair and a lamp were overturned.

  “Stacy!” he called again. “It’s me, Patrick Thompson. Are you all right?”

  A whimper drew him to the bathroom. Weapon at the ready, he advanced toward the room. The overhead light glowed harsh on white tile and porcelain. He leaned into the doorway and found Stacy in the shower, fully clothed but slumped against the tile, blood running from a gash above her left eye. She moaned as he knelt beside her. “Stacy, can you hear me?”