Roarke
Roarke had slowed way down to navigate the unpaved road. It had branched early on, one path leading off to a farmhouse with barn. He’d hesitated over it, then caught the flash of the lights of Strauss’s truck ahead, down the other fork.
He followed. The night, and the road, got darker.
Suddenly there was a pale streak of movement in his headlights. A wraith, darting across the road.
Roarke slammed on the brakes, fishtailing the Tundra. The SUV skidded to a halt at the side of the road.
He stared out the windshield into the dark. The headlights shot into the trees beside the road, two white beams. His heart thudded in his chest.
He drew his service weapon, got out of the SUV, staying behind the open driver’s door. The woods felt alive: an icy wind breathing through the trees, rippling branches. The stars were brilliant, pulsing.
And there was someone out there. He could feel… Her? Could that be?
In his mind’s eye, he called up the figure he had seen on the road. Young. Feminine. Not the size of a grown woman. A teenager?
He lowered the Glock. “Hey. Are you hurt?” He listened into the silence. It felt loaded, occupied. “Do you need help?”
The feeling of presence receded.
He twisted around to move back toward the driver’s door….
And stopped in his tracks, staring toward the back tire, opposite.
He moved up to the vehicle, shined his phone light at the tire… and saw the deep cuts. Slashed.
Damn.
There was no way to follow Strauss on foot. Not without knowing where he was going, or how far he was going.
And whoever had slashed his tires was in the vicinity, watching him.
He turned and shouted into the darkness. “I’m armed and I’m pissed. You should move along.”
No answer came back.
He set his jaw, checked his service weapon, then pulled the tire jack and spare out of the back of the truck and got to work.
He was angry, and he was very aware that being outside the ATV, changing the tire out here on the road, made him vulnerable. He had no idea who might be out there in the dark.
He wasn’t going to sit cowering in the car. But all his senses were on high alert as he jacked up the vehicle, unscrewed the nuts and switched out the tire. He kept stopping to look out into the woods.
It felt weird. It felt wrong...
A tremendous explosion rocked the night, shook the ground beneath his feet.
Instantly he could feel the heat of it, like a tidal wave in the air. Trees in the near distance went up in flame, orange fire crawling up the trunks, seeking the upper branches.
Without stopping to think, he sprinted in the direction of the fire. Then some force whooshed through the dark. Suddenly he was on his back on the ground, the wind knocked out of him.
Before he could regain his senses, another explosion rocked the night. This time the wave of heat rolled right over him. For one endless moment of terror he thought he was in the center of the fire…
But it was just air, blazingly hot air. And through the ringing in his ears, he could hear rapid popping.
Gunshots.
Chapter 100
Snake River, Montana - 2011
Snyder
Snyder felt the buzz of his phone against his hip, but kept his eyes on the sheriff, kept talking in a casually professional tone. “Apparently the Whitcomb family stopped here in town before Timothy’s disappearance.”
Preston wasn’t giving him anything. “I’m sure they stopped a lot of places. Doesn’t mean there’s some pervert in my town. Everyone knows each other here. It’s good people.”
Snyder answered mildly, “We have no reason to suspect anyone in town. But in the last few years, have there been any other disappearances? A preteen boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen?”
The sheriff’s lip curled in hostility. “You think I somehow forgot about some child abduction?”
“Not an abduction, necessarily,” Snyder suggested. “Might have looked like a runaway situation.”
A sound came from under the table between them: the radio on Preston’s hip crackling. The sheriff ignored it, but the crackle came again, insistent. He stood and stepped away from the table to answer.
Snyder couldn’t hear details, but the Sheriff’s face seemed to pale under the fluorescent lights.
Without a word or a look back at Snyder, he was striding out the door.
Snyder watched him with an elevated heart rate.
Something just went down.
He put money down on the table to pay for his meal and easily, casually, walked out the door.
From the porch of the diner, he watched Preston squeeze himself behind the wheel of his official ATV. The vehicle started off with a roar of engine.
Snyder was just reaching for his phone when it buzzed again. He hadn’t known how tense he’d been until he heard the sound of Matthew’s voice, speaking fast, words jittery with adrenaline.
“I’m out on a private offshoot of Lenzie Road, about a mile in. There’s been an explosion. A major blast—”
Snyder didn’t wait for the end of the sentence. “Are you safe?”
“I’m some distance from the origin. I can see the fire, maybe half a mile away. Trees are blazing. I had a tire blowout. Best luck of my life, it turns out—” His voice stopped. “I can hear—”
His voice dropped off for an alarming moment, and Snyder felt himself age ten years in the silence. And then Matthew was back.
“Popping. Like fireworks. Ammunition, I think.”
“An explosion the size you’re talking about—it could be the militia stockpile.” Snyder glanced back toward the diner. “I was deep into a very interesting and evasive conversation with Sheriff Preston when he got a radio call and rushed off without explanation.”
He could hear the tension in Matthew’s voice. “He’s coming here, then. Unless there’s some other back road from town, he’s going to run right into me.”
“Is your tire fixed?”
“Just.”
“Then drive now,” Snyder ordered. “When you’re stopped, show your credentials. Say you’re consulting on the Timothy Whitcomb case. You were on your way to West Glacier when you saw the explosion and drove toward it as a first responder. I’ll be there as soon as I can—”
“Hold on. There’s someone coming….”
“Matthew,” Snyder said quickly.
But the phone had disconnected. Matthew’s voice was gone.
Roarke turned to face the approaching headlights. All he could see against the brights was the dark shape of an ATV.
It pulled up beside him and the passenger door opened. And he stared in at a male shadow, crowned by a duckbill cap.
Chapter 101
Kalispell — present
Snyder, Singh, Ziskin
Singh leans tensely forward in her seat. “It was Sheriff Preston?”
“It was me,” Ziskin says. “We got word of the explosion through the National Forest Service. I was on my way three minutes after the fire started.”
And though it is years after the fact, the action long concluded, Singh lets out her breath in relief.
Ziskin continues, “We figured it was an explosion of stockpiled armaments. I say ‘figured’ because the sheriff didn’t let us anywhere near the fire or the investigation. His deputies were in there immediately, blocking off access that night. But whatever happened with the explosion, it’s a good bet Strauss had something to do with it, because he disappeared that night.”
Singh looks to Snyder, startled. He is perched on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, intent, nodding.
He remembers, she realizes.
“The mercantile was closed the next day, mid-week, and folks at the diner and on the street were buzzing about it. An employee was there manning the cash register later that afternoon, saying Strauss had to leave town on business. We took a look around his house. His truck was gone, no answer
at the door. We followed up several times. Never a sign of him.” Ziskin shrugs. “He had no relatives to speak of. Within a month his store got taken over by the Colonel, the snowmobile chain owner.”
Singh raises her eyebrows.
“Yeah. So. Strauss may have been killed. He may have absconded with some of the arms. He may have been responsible for the detonation, either deliberately or through negligence, and the militia eliminated him. Whatever happened, Sheriff Preston made sure it was kept under wraps. County sheriffs in isolated areas are the masters of their own little domains. But April nineteen came and went and there was no attack or attempted attack on any government officials or buildings anywhere in the Pacific Northwest. We had a strong suspicion the explosion took out whatever arms cache the Brigade had, or at least a good bit of it. When there was no April nineteenth action, and nothing for months afterward, we moved on to more active threats.”
Singh finishes softly for him, “And no one ever heard from Strauss again.”
It is late in the day when Ziskin returns Singh and Snyder to their vehicle, and Singh drives them back in to Kalispell to find a hotel for the night.
She concentrates on the dusky road, but she is brooding as she drives, turning over Ziskin’s narrative in her mind. Suddenly she pulls off to the side of the road and turns to Agent Snyder.
“The case was about the potential militia attack. But your deep recollection from that time is of the missing boy. Timothy Whitcomb. Who is still missing, to this day.”
In the seat beside her, Snyder nods, intent. “True.”
“In your recollection, you superimposed the details of the attack and murder of Young John Doe. You said the missing boy was hurt in the same way. But the missing boy you described was actually Aaron Light, the five-year old boy who disappeared from Glacier National Park in October. You have been connecting not just two cases, but three. Young John Doe, Timothy Whitcomb, and Aaron Light.”
It is heartbreaking to see confusion back on Agent Snyder’s face after his confident certainty of the day. “I suppose... I may have been thinking that Snake River is so close to Glacier…”
She prompts him. “And you were thinking of the forensic evidence on Young John Doe. The gray wolf fur and the calcium carbonate.”
“Yes,” he says more firmly. “All of that felt like Glacier.”
“And also that Aaron Light was a similar abduction to the Whitcomb case: a boy taken from his family in a wilderness park. Your investigative mind is connecting Aaron Light to the other two cases.”
“Yes,” Snyder says.
“So my question is: Was there a boy of Young John Doe’s description missing from the Snake River area in 2009?” Before he can speak, she continues. “I realize there are none listed in the Missing Children database. And Sheriff Preston told you that there was no missing boy in town in 2009. But if Preston was the investigating authority… “
“He may never have entered Young John Doe into the database.” Snyder says, and Singh hears the electric realization in his voice.
“Precisely.” She looks at him, her eyes alight. “And what I am wondering is, what might Jean Lange have to say about Young John Doe?”
Chapter 102
Portland - present
Roarke and Epps
On the sidewalk outside the TV station, Roarke fished for his phone and called Epps. He was met by stony silence on the other end of the line, and he knew he owed his agent more than an apology.
“I lost it,” he said into the phone. “I couldn’t deal. But I need to apologize to you on the road. We need to get up to Montana. Pick me up and I’ll explain on the way to the airport.”
He paced the sidewalk while he waited for Epps.
Brandi Hughes had been all the confirmation he needed. He was now sure: Cara had been in Portland during the Street Hunter investigation.
Was she also in Snake River in 2011, the night of the explosion. The night of the fire that might have killed him?
The wraith he’d seen on the road that night…
Not Cara.
He didn’t think so, anyway. She would have been younger, it was true, but not that much younger.
It hadn’t been a vision. There had been a girl.
She was real.
The sound of a horn pulled him from his thoughts. Epps pulled up to the curb in the rental SUV.
Roarke pulled open the passenger door, climbed up into the seat and turned to face his agent. Epps didn’t wait until Roarke was buckled in before he was pulling back out into traffic. His face was set and he didn’t wait for an apology or explanation.
“Tech called back with the location of Tara’s and Snyder’s texts. They’re in Kellogg, Idaho. I’ve booked two flights to Spokane. We’ve got an hour and a half to takeoff.”
Epps pushed his foot down on the gas, and spoke no more.
But Roarke’s mind was racing.
Kellogg was where their militia investigation had started. And Spokane was the closest airport to Kellogg.
But those texts that got traced were from two days ago.
And in our investigation in 2011, Kellogg was just a pit stop. What if they’ve moved on to Snake River?
His mind ranged quickly over the options. Spokane Airport was closer to Kellogg, but the airport in Kalispell would be closer to Snake River.
He spoke aloud. “Not Idaho. We need to go to Montana.”
Epps glanced at him in consternation. Roarke reached for his phone to dial the airline.
He hoped to God he was right.
PART SEVEN
Chapter 103
Snake River, Montana – present
Singh and Snyder
Global warming is on full display as Singh and Snyder arrive in Snake River.
The surrounding peaks still have plenty of snow, but the towns she and Agent Snyder have driven through en route from Kalispell are showing signs of green. On the hills, at the side of the road, ice is melting everywhere. Not just rivulets of water, but whole crashing waterfalls. Another early spring. Good for them, bad for the planet.
The agents know Jean Lange still lives just outside of the town, but they do an initial drive through the town center. It is quaintly picturesque, but the first word that comes to Singh’s mind is “sleepy.” Post office, pawn shop, general store.
Agent Snyder stares out the window. “It’s still here.” He nods out to a shop. “Strauss’s store. And the store name is the same: Snake River Mercantile.”
Singh looks to the other side of the street, and sees the Huckleberry Diner, advertising “World Famous Pie.” All as in Agent Snyder’s story. As if time has stood still.
She parks the SUV on the street and the agents get out to walk toward the diner. They are dressed casually, she in jeans over silk leggings and a lightweight parka. More cover, like the ski racks.
But she gets sideways looks on the street, from a couple of older men sitting on one of the wooden benches outside the diner, from a truck full of teenage boys slowing at a stop sign. In this place, her skin is exotic. She has not seen any non-white persons since they drove into town.
Which is a problem right away, in terms of anonymity, Singh can see. The town being too far off the highway to be a tourist stop, every stranger appears neon-lit, and herself even more so.
She is acutely aware of the gazes as she and Agent Snyder enter the diner.
Inside it is exactly as he had described. They are able to seat themselves at a table in front of a huge plate glass window looking out on the street, with a perfect view of the mercantile just across it.
They have worked out their roles, their topics of conversation. They are headed to Whitefish, a ski town that is the most logical destination in the area at this time of year, with rustic charm, views of the Rockies, authentic dining, a historical railroad depot.
As their waitress hands them menus and pours them coffee, they use their phones to look at websites and chat about what Whitefish attractions are open, which restaura
nts require reservations, about the ski conditions and recommended microbreweries.
Singh glances up at the waitress, half expecting Jean Lange, but Snyder gives her a barely perceptible shake of the head and continues their tourist talk. “I’ve also heard the Bonsai Brewing Project is excellent, and they have live music. Let’s see…” He scrolls on his phone.
The bells tied to the door jangle and someone enters behind them. Singh hears not steps, but a sound of metal thudding against glass before she turns.
And sees a man in a wheelchair, piloting himself into the diner.
She is frozen for a moment in horror and pity.
Most of the flesh on one side of the man’s face has been melted away, and the burn scars continue down his neck, disappearing into the neckline of his coat. His hands on the wheelchair arms have been burned into claws.
She quickly reminds herself, The body is a shell, a container for spirit, no more.
But her revulsion does not diminish. Rather it grows stronger.
Help me out of my fear, she prays. Help me to see this differently. She is so intent on her inner struggle she nearly jumps out of her skin when Snyder’s hand closes around her arm.
She looks at him. He meets her gaze, and releases her. “Nothing live at the Brewing Project tonight,” he says. “Maybe at the hotel.” He types a bit, and Singh’s phone flashes a text.
His eyes direct her to take it.
She picks up her phone to see a two-word message that chills her to the bone.
That’s Strauss.
Chapter 104
Snake River, Montana – present
Singh and Snyder
Agent Snyder pays their bill unhurriedly, thanks the waitress, and the agents leave the diner, heading for their vehicle.
As soon as Agent Snyder shuts the ATV’s door behind him, Singh turns to him from the driver’s seat and blurts, “Are you sure?”
The burned man had been barely recognizable as human, much less as a specific human being.
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