by Matt Goldman
“Joaquin Maeda hosted Call of Duty private lobbies so he, his cousin Miguel in Mexico, and Linnea could chat online.”
“Linnea left a note for her aunt, Mel Rosenthal. It gave the GPS coordinates of where we might find her body if she doesn’t contact Mel by June.”
“Linnea gave Guy Storstrand money to buy Miguel Maeda outdoor winter gear. He’s sneaking across the border. Linnea plans to meet or has met him at the rendezvous point designated by the GPS coordinates.”
“We found the same GPS coordinates written on a Post-it in Ben Haas’s room at The Patch Motel.”
We returned to Ben Haas’s Highlander and scanned the field for a bow hunter in wait. If he’d camouflaged himself, he’d be tough to spot, even if he lay in an open field. In the woods, he’d be invisible. I put my full faith and trust in Ellegaard’s thermal binoculars.
He panned the landscape then said, “Clear.”
I looked at the map on my phone and pointed. “That way.” We headed for a forest of tall pines through a field of frozen dirt clumps and wheat stalk that had been churned into the soil.
Ellegaard said, “We have pieces of the puzzle. But we’re missing some. Big ones.”
“Like how could Ben Haas have the GPS coordinates?”
“Maybe he knows the Instagram code.”
“What about the timing? What are the odds Linnea and Miguel would have planned to rendezvous now?”
“They can’t be meeting at a time,” said Ellegaard. “Too many variables. It has to be a window.”
I stepped into a pile of thatch. I heard a rustling, then a bird popped into the air.
“Hen!” said Ellegaard. The pheasant flew straight away from us. Its wing beats sounded like peeping baby chicks. It stopped flapping after a hundred yards and glided into a descent and turned to land near the forest’s edge.
I looked at Ellegaard. “Hen?”
“Sorry. Pheasant hunting habit. You only shoot the roosters, so when a bird flushes, someone yells out the gender before anyone pulls the trigger.”
“The things I learn from you.”
“You’ve never been pheasant hunting?”
“No one’s ever invited me.”
Ellegaard laughed. “You’re going to regret saying that.”
Ellegaard grew up hunting with his father and grandfather and brothers. Last year he sat in the duck blind with Emma for the first time. He’d bought her a 20-gauge shotgun for her birthday. She downed a male wood duck on its descent toward a flotilla of decoys. She wouldn’t stop talking about how beautiful it was, the thing she’d killed.
My father grew up hunting in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, but he’d quit before I was born and never offered to take me. Returning to his rural upbringing never interested my father. He spoke fondly of his childhood and the people he grew up with. He visited once every summer. But he strived to never relive it.
“Shap?”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you stop walking?”
“Sorry. Didn’t realize I had.”
“You okay? You look like you’re somewhere else.”
“I’m good. Let’s keep going.”
“Wait.” Ellegaard unzipped his coat and withdrew his Glock. “We’re almost in archery range from the edge of the forest.” I pulled my Ruger out of my pocket. Ellegaard said, “You got to get a bigger gun, Shap. That thing’s ridiculous.”
“If it’s big and heavy, I’ll never take it with me. Just like a camera.”
“You never take it with you anyway.”
“And,” I said, “it’s the perfect weight for a guy with one functional arm.”
Ellegaard had forgotten about that. He said, “Can you shoot?” It wasn’t a straightforward question. What he was really asking was Can you cover me?
“I’m right-eye dominant. I’ve always held a gun with my right hand.”
He thought about that for five seconds then said, “Let’s pick up the pace. We’re too exposed in this field.”
We continued toward the forest. The shooting range at the Minneapolis Police Academy provided my experience with guns. I know how to load my Ruger, shoot it, clean it, and, to a lesser degree, aim it. I have a permit to carry it but rarely do. But I was content to feel it in my hand as we lumbered across the frozen field.
Ellegaard lifted his binoculars to his face and panned the forest.
I said, “You want a second pair of eyes?”
“Please.”
I focused my binocs on the forest’s edge. “What are we looking for?”
“An archer. Or at least a deer stand. Your opticals can see it better than my thermals. About twenty feet up from the ground. The bow hunter’s favorite spot, because deer rarely look up.”
“So hunters sit up there and wait for a deer to just walk underneath them?”
“Or at least come into range.”
“Challenging sport.”
“Not now, Shap.”
When we entered the forest the ground underfoot felt softer, and Ellegaard said something about the trees holding heat. I checked my phone. The rendezvous point was less than half a mile away. Couldn’t get a cell signal on one side of the coat factory but I got one in the woods near the Canadian border. We walked in a hundred yards then crouched and looked through our binoculars. The pines grew close to one another. The trunks had gray bark and few branches except for the fifty-foot-high tops that formed a canopy of green needles. The treetops blocked most of the sunlight. Dead pine needles, fallen branches, and pinecones covered the ground, creating a sepia-tone world. The density of trees made it impossible to see far, fifty yards at most points with tiny windows of greater distances. The dense forest also made it impossible to shoot far, whether with gun or bow.
We saw no one through our binoculars then walked in another hundred yards, knelt, and panned the forest again. We repeated the process for twenty minutes until the GPS coordinates on my phone matched those of the rendezvous point. A strip of land running east-west and the width of a two-lane highway had been cleared of trees.
This was the US/Canadian border. It’s known as the slash—it runs from Maine to Alaska.
The forest opened up on the Canadian side to make room for several small lakes. Their dull, gray frozen surfaces sucked what little light seeped through the cloud cover. It was an unremarkable spot. Just like a million others in the north woods. I pointed and said, “Footprints.” We saw a few, half covered and half imbedded with pine needles. Ellegaard knelt and swept away the debris. He crawled around like an archaeologist, exposing a circle of bare ground ten feet in diameter. Footprints everywhere. Not just a few but hundreds made in soft earth then frozen hard like fossils.
But no sign of Linnea Engstrom or Ben Haas or Miguel Maeda. “Maybe they’re in Canada.”
Ellegaard said, “It’s possible.” We looked through our binocs to the Canadian side but saw no one.
I said, “This has to be some kind of soft spot in the border. The canopy is thick here. It could block out the drones’ optical and infrared cameras.”
“What about the slash? The drones have that covered.”
“Yeah, good question. I don’t have the answer.”
We spent a few more minutes thinking and saying nothing then started back toward the car. Each hundred yards we knelt and panned the forest with binoculars. The third time we spotted them.
A person lay on the ground, dead still, about 150 yards ahead of us. It wore olive green pants, a camouflage jacket, and hiking boots. A camouflage pack lay on the ground, blocking a view of its head.
Another person stood over the fallen person. He or she wore a long gray hooded coat and carried a backpack. Tubes like those to carry fly rods were strapped to each side of the pack. The hood obscured the person’s face. The density of trees between us made it difficult to see much detail. Ellegaard dropped to his belly, keeping the binoculars pressed to his eyes. My slinged arm prevented me from doing the same so I moved behind a tree for cover and leaned
out to look. We spoke in whispers.
Ellie said, “Can’t ID either one of them.”
“Impossible to guess a height and build with the coat and backpack from this distance.”
“How far is Kozy’s cabin from here?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t conscious on the trip there and it was pitch-black on the way back. I saw the gravel road in front of us and that was it.”
A breeze pushed the treetops around, but the air on the ground remained still. My breath condensed in front of my face then hung in a cloud before disappearing. The standing figure turned and revealed a small compound bow in its hand. A red arrow with yellow fletching was loaded but not drawn. The figure knelt near the fallen person, but the trees prevented us from seeing what was happening.
Ellegaard said, “That’s our archer, Shap.”
“I’m trying to see if there’s an arrow stuck in the person on its back.”
“Me, too. Not seeing one.”
The bow looked small in comparison with the archer. Either the archer was huge or the bow was tiny, maybe eighteen inches long. That was small enough to fit into the pack, and I understood how the shooter could carry it through a city without anyone noticing. Maybe under a jacket or in a day pack or even in a large messenger bag.
Ellegaard said, “They’re a hundred yards out of range. We can try to sneak up on them, but if the archer spots us, we’ll be in his range well before he’s in ours.”
“We should have brought rifles.”
“You’re gun’s smaller than your phone. Now you want a rifle?”
The archer stood, adjusted his pack, and started toward the road.
Ellegaard said, “Let him go. As long as he’s holding that bow, we can’t take a chance. If Ben Haas’s car is gone when we get to the road, we’ll call the police. He won’t get far.”
We waited for him to walk out of sight then headed toward the fallen person. The camouflage pack continued to block our view of its head. Not until we were fifteen feet away did I see the auburn hair. Linnea Engstrom lay motionless. Her torso looked rock still. Ice clung to her clothing.
“Good Lord,” said Ellegaard.
I ran to her and put a hand on her neck. It felt like winter.
33
I kept my hand on Linnea’s cold neck and shut my eyes. The wind jostled the treetops. A pinecone bounced off the needle-covered earth a few feet to my right. I felt her pulse beat weak and slow. “She’s still alive.”
Ellegaard said, “Get her pack.”
I grabbed the camouflage pack and slung it over my right shoulder. Ellegaard scooped Linnea Engstrom off the ground and into his arms and we headed toward the road, Ellegaard twisting his shoulders left and right to weave Linnea’s body through the trees. We reached the clearing and stopped. Ben Haas’s Highlander was gone. Or he’d moved it and was waiting for us. If we wanted Linnea to have a chance at survival, we had no choice other than carrying her across the open field.
Ellegaard dropped to his knees. “Take my thermals.”
I did and panned everything in front of us. Nothing warm registered. “Clear.”
We continued over the frozen field. I told myself Ben Haas had left Linnea to die. He had no idea we were in the woods. He’d mostly likely moved forward. But I kept checking with the thermals. We reached the road then continued to 580th Avenue. I started the Volvo and cranked the heat. Ellegaard lay Linnea across the backseat, found a space blanket from my winter travel kit, unfolded the three-inch square package, and draped the shiny sheet over Linnea’s body. He got in back, cradling her head and pinning the space blanket against her body so it didn’t blow away.
I pulled a U-turn and sped back toward Highway 313. My first call was to Jameson White.
He answered the phone. “What’s all that noise?”
“Sorry. Missing a window.”
“Little early for your second changing, isn’t it?”
“We found Linnea Engstrom. She’s unconscious and barely has a pulse. Probably hypothermia and frostbite.”
“Damn.”
“So here’s my question: small town urgent care or you?”
“I’ll call urgent care and see what equipment they have. Call you back in two.”
I took a left on 313 and floored it. Mel Rosenthal answered the phone on the first ring. I filled her in and said I’d call her back when I knew where we were taking Linnea. She hung up to call Anne and get her on the first flight north.
Jameson called back. “Take her to urgent care. I’ll text you the location and meet you there.”
The speedometer said ninety-five miles per hour, and the Volvo wasn’t even breathing hard. I called back Mel. She’d meet us at urgent care in five. I had a minute with nothing to do but drive. I caught Ellegaard’s eyes in the review mirror. He was far away from his office on the thirty-second floor of the City Center Building.
I said, “Any change?”
He caught my eyes in the mirror and shook his head. “She barely has a pulse.”
“Maybe that’s what they used to cross the border.”
“What are you talking about?”
“A person could walk across the slash undetected carrying a big heat-blocking umbrella. Like a patio umbrella, but lined with a space blanket and covered in thatch. That could fool optical and thermal cameras, especially at night. It’d be a pain to carry, but it’s only a twenty-foot expanse.”
“Maybe,” said Ellegaard. But he wasn’t thinking about how to cross a border without being detected. He was thinking about Linnea Engstrom and whether she’d die in his arms.
We turned left on Mom’s Way—yes, that’s the name of the road—followed the bend to Gladys Street—yes, that’s the name of the road—then took a quick right on Main Street. I pulled into urgent care where Jameson White, Char Northagen, and Mel Rosenthal stood waiting next to a dark-skinned woman wearing a white doctor’s coat. Two paramedics rolled a gurney toward the Volvo as I parked. They moved Linnea inside urgent care in less than a minute.
Dr. Sana Bhatt was about thirty years old, had caramel skin, bright brown eyes under heavy lids and spoke with an East Indian accent. She wore gold rings in her ears and stood four feet ten inches tall. She and the behemoth nurse practioner and giraffe-like medical examiner looked like cartoon characters working together. Most of the hospital’s support staff were attending Haley Housh’s funeral.
Linnea Engstrom had a pulse of eighteen beats per minute and a body temperature of sixty-two degrees. I didn’t know someone could survive those vitals, but Jameson said he’d seen worse. Dr. Bhatt hooked Linnea up to a machine that removed her blood and exchanged the carbon dioxide for oxygen, warmed it, then pumped it back in. She gave Linnea a fifty-fifty chance of survival. I looked at Jameson for confirmation. He didn’t have to say a word for me to understand Dr. Bhatt was being optimistic. There was nothing for Ellegaard or Mel or me to do, so we left Linnea and sat in the urgent care waiting area on plastic chairs near vending machines filled with food that will kill you. Ellegaard wandered away to make a phone call. Mel couldn’t stop crying. I offered a shoulder but she didn’t want it.
Ellegaard said, “I just got off the phone with Warroad PD. They’ll look for Ben Haas’s Highlander and contact border patrol, state police, and nearby municipalities. We’ll get him.”
Mel said, “I don’t understand. Ben Haas did this to Linnea?”
“No,” I said. “But he found her just before we did. He either thought she was dead or knew she was close and left her to die.”
“But why would he—”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t make—” My cell rang. It was Waller. I stepped away and answered it.
Waller said, “Why’s my phone blowing up with APBs for Ben Haas?”
I told her what happened in the forest while Ben Haas’s Highlander was parked on the shoulder of 410th Street.
“Are you sure it was his Highlander?” said Waller.
“I don’t know his plate number. Why?”
“Because Ben Haas has been at Haley’s funeral since 10:45 A.M. He sat in front of me at the service then went to the reception. I’m looking at him right now.”
I stepped outside through the automatic doors. The gray overcast had given way to pockets of sunshine. The snowplow-made mountain of ice and dirt in the corner of the parking lot had darkened the pavement with a few feet of wet. I couldn’t see my breath anymore. The temperature was on the rise.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. You think he has a twin?”
“Is his blue Highlander in the parking lot?”
“I don’t know. Flynn’s outside checking right now.”
“Don’t let Haas leave. I’ll be right there.”
“Warroad Police just escorted him out.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“You’re upset that he’s in police custody?”
“I’ll see you at the police station.”
“Go to hell, Shapiro.”
I walked back inside. Ellegaard said, “What was that about?”
“Ben Haas has been at Haley Housh’s funeral and reception since 10:45. Warroad PD is bringing him to the station right now.”
“There’s no way he could have got there by 10:45.”
“Then we had eyes on someone else in the forest. Mel, are you okay if we leave?”
She nodded. “I hired a private plane for Anne. She’ll land at the Warroad airport within the hour.”
“If there’s any change with Linnea let us know.”
She nodded.
“If Jameson comes out, tell him Ellie and I are at the police station.”
I drove north on Mom’s Way and called Char from the Volvo. “How are things with you and Officer Stensrud?”
“I’m playing my part,” she said.
“Good. Meet us at the police station. It’s a two-minute walk from the motel.”
Ellegaard and I got there a few minutes before Warroad Police pulled Ben Haas out of a squad car. He wore handcuffs and the black suit I saw hanging in his room at The Patch Motel. Waller ran ahead with Flynn and met Ellegaard and me at the door.
Waller said, “Get out of here, Shapiro. You found your girl. Your job is done.”
