He was twitching with impatience by the time he got back outside into his car and raced toward the airport, and he had to keep wiping off the sweat that collected on his forehead.
Metcalf, he thought. Metcalf would realize that Mase wasn’t testifying. Would he contact Berry and tell him to release Joey? Could it be that goddamn simple? No, he thought, no way, Metcalf wasn’t going to contact Berry—if he even knew exactly where Berry had taken Joey. There was only one way Mase was going to find his son, and that was to do it himself. He pressed down the accelerator and clamped down on the fear that was rising in his throat.
Hold on, Joey. Hold on, son.
* * *
HANK BERRY HAD NEVER SPENT a more miserable day in his life. He stoked the half-rusted potbellied stove in the sheepherder’s cabin and felt a shiver seize his limbs. He was freezing, tired from the long trek through the storm, and he was hopping mad. How in hell could they put a road on a state map when there was no road? At least nothing any sane man would call a road.
“Mister?” came the kid’s whiny voice. “Mister, I’m wet.”
The Hitman shoved some more sticks he’d collected into the yawning mouth of the stove. All it did was smoke. “Yeah, well, kid,” he said, “I’m just as goddamned wet as you. Think I like it?” He’d have told the kid his Gucci loafers were ruined, too, but hell, the boy wouldn’t know a Gucci loafer from an Armani suit.
The brat peered around him and looked into the stove. “You put too many twigs in there,” he said. “It’s smothering the fire.”
“Will you shut up? What are you, a Boy Scout or something?”
The kid subsided into a corner of the old, abandoned shack, shivering, hugging himself. The Hitman threw him a look of pure malevolence. Stupid cop’s kid.
After an hour or so the stove finally began to give off a little heat. The Hitman cracked an already-broken chair over his knee and shoved the splintered pieces into the pitiful fire. He didn’t shove in too many, though, ’cause maybe the kid was right about smothering that puny flame.
The worst part about his car sliding off the road—other than having to march through the storm for God knows how many miles—was that he was out of communication with Metcalf. Out of communication with the world. Out of warm, dry clothes, out of food and water, and pretty much out of luck.
It was still daylight, though. He spread out the map on the dusty, tilted table and tried to figure out where they were. How many miles had they walked? And in what direction? For all he knew, just over that next ridge might be a road or even a town. But he couldn’t very well hitchhike with the kid, now, could he? Every law enforcement agency in the state was on the lookout for him. He was in a real fix. And he was beginning to wonder if there was any way out of it.
The sheepherder’s cabin was tiny. Maybe only twelve feet by twelve feet. When the kid moved to the fire, he had to edge around Hank.
“’Scuse me,” the kid said.
The Hitman made a grumbling sound.
What was he going to do with him? The plan had been to drive back to Denver via the western corner of Nebraska. Both he and Metcalf had figured that by the time he reached Denver, the cop would already have testified that he hadn’t seen anything, and the Hitman would let the kid off on a street corner with a quarter to call the cops.
But now… What was he going to do? Until he talked to Metcalf and got the okay to let the kid go, he was stuck. Stuck, lost in the wilderness and starving to death. It was a helluva mess. And outside, the storm just kept moving across the high prairie. It looked as if it could go on for days. Great.
The kid finally took a nap on the broken cot, and the Hitman stared at him. He could leave him right here. The trouble was, if anything happened to the kid, LeBow would never stop searching for him, not to mention the fact that every other cop in the nation would be looking, too.
Right now the money Metcalf was paying him wasn’t half enough.
The kid woke up sometime that afternoon and blinked sleepy eyes, not quite sure for a minute where he was. Then he looked as if he were going to cry.
“You start whining,” Hank said, “and I swear I’ll…I’ll give you a spanking you won’t forget, kid.” He glared at him.
That worked for a while, but then the kid started pouting. “I’m really hungry, mister,” he said in a small voice.
“So? You think I’m not? You’re so smart, why don’t you figure out how we’re going to eat. Huh?”
“You’d tell Callie,” the boy said then, reluctantly.
“What?”
“That I’ve got—” the kid reached into his jacket pocket “—these.” He produced a bag of M&M’s. “You won’t tell Callie, will you?”
The Hitman’s eyes widened. “Where did you get those, kid?”
“Francine gave them to me, but I’m not supposed to tell Callie.”
“Well, hell, kid,” Hank said, “I can keep a secret.” He felt his stomach growl in anticipation.
Joey was smiling, a little smile that lit up his whole face. He tore open the bag and the Hitman held his hand out. “Red are my favorites,” Joey said. “What’re yours?”
Hank took a few from the boy’s hand and said, “Hey, red are my favorite, too.” He didn’t know it, but he was smiling right back at Joey LeBow.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MASE HARDLY REMEMBERED the flight to Casper or the drive to the ranch in the rental car. All he knew was crushing fear and overpowering impatience.
He drove up the familiar ranch road under pewter-gray skies. There was a stiff wind blowing, and the ranch looked entirely different, bleak, the color washed from the countryside, the horses standing rumps to the storm, heads hanging dispiritedly. As if they knew.
He got out of the car and started up the walk to the house, but before he could raise a hand to knock, the door opened and Tom Thorne stood there, his face a study in solemnity.
“You got here fast,” he said.
“Any news?” Mase asked tersely.
“There was a note. Reese found it, and he’s going to get it checked out.”
“What’d it say?”
“That they’ll return Joey safely after the trial if you say the right thing.”
Mase swore. “Anything else?”
Tom shook his head.
He hadn’t expected any more, but still, his gut twisted at the evidence of their helplessness.
Walking into the living room, he saw that everyone was gathered there, all those familiar faces. But they, too, were tainted with fear and anxiety.
“What’s being done?” Mase began.
“Sheriff Hatcher’s called the state patrol and the Casper police. He’s got an APB out on that man,” Tom said.
“Hank Berry.”
“That’s the one.”
He heard Callie’s voice before he saw her. She was coming from the kitchen, saying, “Has Mase…?” When she saw him, she stopped short, then she rushed to him and he took her into his arms.
“Oh, Mase, oh, I’m so, so sorry,” she cried, and he held her and stroked her hair, unaware of the audience, aware only of the pain they were all sharing.
With some effort he disengaged himself and held her at arm’s length. “It’ll be all right,” he said with a lot more confidence than he felt. “We’ll find Joey.”
Mase forced aside his own fears and sat with the group—all business now, the cop again. He asked the same questions as Reese Hatcher had
that morning, but added a few of his own. Were there footprints found outside the bunkhouse, a broken window, car or foot tracks leading anywhere? What time had the storm begun? Had the dogs barked?
“Stupid dogs hide when there’s a bad storm,” Liz told him. “If it hadn’t been raining so hard…”
“It’s okay,” Mase said, “just bad luck. No one’s to blame. I’m the one who underestimated Hank Berry.” Then he looked at Callie. “Tell me about those tire tracks you saw,” he said, and she told him everything she knew, including Reese Hatcher’s theory that Berry had driven down the old county road for a few miles, scouting it as an escape route.
“Someone is checking it out?” Mase asked, but he saw a lot of eyes drop.
Tom Thorne spoke up first. “The road is most likely impassable. Especially after this storm.”
“What about checking it by helicopter?” Mase began, but as soon as he’d spoken, he realized that was impossible in such a storm.
“Too much wind in the canyons up there,” Tom said in corroboration.
“So how do we check it out?” Mase asked.
Callie cleared her throat. “On horseback. But not till first light.”
“First light!” Mase was aghast. “That’s crazy.” He shook his head. “No,” he objected, “there has to be another way.”
But in the end there wasn’t. The search along the old road was going to have to wait till dawn. Hours and hours and hours away.
They spent the evening touching base with every law enforcement agency in the state. Reese came by twice. And it was Mase and Jarod who discovered the tracking device Hank Berry had placed on the underside of Callie’s pickup.
Mase dropped it into a plastic evidence bag, his jaw locked. He should have known, should have checked, should have guessed. Should have, should have… Easy to say now, he thought, furious with himself.
On the porch, the storm still swirling around them, Callie laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You took every precaution, Mase,” she said softly. “Please don’t keep blaming yourself.”
“Goddamn it, I screwed up. Can’t you see that? Can’t you accept the truth?”
“Mase…”
“No,” he said in a hard voice. “If I’d have trusted you, you and your parents and everyone else, maybe… Hell, Joey would be fine right now.”
“Anger isn’t going to help.”
But he only laughed without humor. “It beats being scared, Callie.”
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING they were up before dawn. Mase wondered if anyone had slept; they all looked haggard.
Francine had breakfast ready and bag lunches for those who would be out searching for Joey, lots of hot coffee and trays of food ready to feed any deputies or townsfolk or state troopers who might stop by.
Sylvia was going to man the phones—a cordless that she carried around in her pocket and a cell phone. She was Communications Central, she said. The Browns, Rebecca’s parents, had returned and were helping with the kids and everyday chores that had to be done.
Reese Hatcher came by at seven and sat hunched over Forest Service topographical maps spread out on the dining room table.
Mase stood at a window, every nerve in his body jumping with impatience. It was still raining out, vertical lines of rain that stitched the gray sky to the earth. A scene that accurately reflected the misery filling him. Joey, he thought, I’m coming. Hang in there, son.
A thousand times he’d pictured Berry’s cadaverous face looming over Joey, doing unspeakable things, torturing him. Then reason would reassert itself, and Mase would remember that Joey had been taken hostage to assure Mase didn’t testify. He had to believe Joey was safe or he’d go out of his mind.
Callie was already in the barn saddling horses, gathering slickers.
Sheriff Hatcher finally stood up and hitched his belt. “Okay, this is how we’ll do it. I got my men still out scouring the roads, everyone statewide is still on alert. Tom, Liz and Marianne have volunteered to cover all the ranch roads in a truck. Me and Jarod will cover the neighboring ranch roads in my Blazer. Mase and Callie are taking horses to follow the county road. And Peter insists on going with them.” Hatcher eyed Peter. “It’s gonna be rough goin’, son.”
“I know,” the twelve-year-old said, “but I have to go. Callie and I already talked about it.”
Mase fixed Peter with a hard gaze. “You, my boy, are staying here.”
Peter began to argue, but just then Callie dashed in to announce the horses were saddled and ready, and he was too impatient and too worried to argue with both of them. He let it drop.
All three were dressed warmly when they left the house—down vests, waterproof gloves and boots. Long slickers awaited them in the barn. They had full saddlebags: food, water, grain for the horses, extra rain gear. First-aid kits. With Beavis and Butt-Head running alongside the horses, they headed across the fields on a diagonal to join up with the dirt road. It was cold and wet, although the rain had quit for a time, and the roadway was slippery. It was slow going, the horses laboring upward, their sleek hides wet with a mixture of sweat and rain.
Mase felt his skin chafing against the saddle, and he was tempted to get off and walk, but he was afraid he’d hold them up.
“You okay?” Callie asked more than once, seeing him shift his position.
“I’m fine,” he said, tight-lipped.
They went on, the land rising. The road was barely passable, and Mase kept an eye out for tire tracks, but the rain had washed away any sign of a vehicle’s passage.
“Do you really think he could have driven this?” Mase asked.
“So far, sure. It’d be slow, but the road’s intact. And yesterday it didn’t rain as much, so the road wasn’t as muddy. He could have made it.”
“He might not have taken this road at all,” Mase said quietly. “We could be on a wild-goose chase.”
“We’re not the only ones looking,” Callie reminded him. “Someone will spot him.”
By late morning the sun was breaking through the clouds, and the puddles sparkled in the brightness. They stopped for lunch by a stream, where they watered the horses, loosened their girths and let them graze a bit.
Mase couldn’t bear the halt. He couldn’t eat, couldn’t sit down. He paced, studying the ground for tracks, unfolding the map Hatcher had given him, trying to pinpoint their location.
“You mean we’re only this far?” he asked when Callie consulted the map.
“We’re close to the top, then it starts descending toward the highway. Will you sit down and eat something, Mase?”
“No,” he said. “My butt’s too sore, anyway.”
“These sandwiches are good, Mase,” Peter said. “You should try one. Francine makes good sandwiches, you know? Here, you want to try mine?”
“No, thanks,” Mase said.
Callie looked at Peter, raised her eyebrows and shrugged. She did, however, protest when Mase tried to feed his lunch to the dogs.
Peter started acting strangely when they got under way again. Mase only noticed when he heard the sharp note of alarm in Callie’s voice.
“Peter,” she said. “Peter? Why are you stopping?”
Mase turned and saw that Peter had reined in his horse and was sitting there, his head hanging between his shoulders.
“Peter, honey, are you okay?” Callie rode back to where the boy was sitting so still. “Peter?”
Mase turned his horse
, impatient. Never should have let the kid tag along, he was thinking, when Peter sat bolt upright.
“I see it!” he yelled, his voice shrill with excitement.
“What? What do you see, Peter?”
Peter cocked his head. “The black car. Joey in the black car,” he said, and he blinked and pointed ahead.
Mase had never believed in the kid’s clairvoyant ability. But he did now. He had to. “Where?” he demanded, his heart racing.
“Up there. Up there ahead.” Peter spurred his mount and led the way.
Mase looked at Callie, and she at him, but there was nothing either dared to say. They simply followed, hope springing in their breasts.
The rain returned with a vengeance before they’d gone far, and was accompanied by a bone-chilling wind. The horses hated walking into the storm; they had to be urged on, their instincts telling them to turn their backs to the elements. Cold water trickled down Mase’s neck despite the slicker, and his hands ached as they gripped the reins.
He gave Callie a sidelong glance. Her hood was pulled tight around her face, a few strips of hair plastered wetly on her forehead. Her shoulders were hunched. They were all soaked, cold, miserable. And it was his fault. He closed his eyes, felt the rain stinging him, and told himself he deserved it. But Callie and Peter didn’t.
They rounded a curve. The road snaked along ahead of them, a stream flowing beside it. The day had darkened with the rain, and the sky was low and oppressive, the horizon blotted out. Mase was starting to think that maybe they should give up, turn around. Nobody had driven up here with Joey. There was no car, no black car. Peter was just a hyper kid with a questionable imagination.
“There!” he heard Peter yell.
He raised his head and peered through the gloom. Peter was cantering ahead on his pony, and Callie galloped past him. Mase spurred his tired horse into a trot and felt his sore rear hit the saddle with a lurch. Then he saw it. A black car, streaked with mud, lying nearly on its side where the road fell away to the stream.
Courting Callie Page 19
