by Sandra Brown
Some of the peace officers had arrived with saddled horses, ready to mount. Others had brought four-wheel ATVs. But Ski doubted their usefulness. The only possible way to get through this part of the Big Thicket was on foot, and even then there were sections that were impenetrable. In addition to the impassable terrain, they'd be subjected to the dangerous wildlife, biting insects, and the sweltering heat. The search wouldn't be a picnic.
Ski got everyone's attention and announced that the search dogs were on the way. "One of the best and most experienced trainers, I'm told." He urged them to use the downtime to check their gear, apply sunscreen and insect repellent, and make sure their water bottles were full.
Then he rejoined Dodge where he stood in the shade of a tree. Dodge took a last pull on his current cigarette, then conscientiously ground it out against the tree trunk and rubbed it between his palms until it had shredded and posed no threat of igniting a fire.
"I can't figure it," he said.
"What?"
"Starks."
"Be more specific."
"Everything. All of it. Nothing he's done fits a pattern."
"I'm with you," Ski said. "Yesterday, after tying up the Mittmayers, he drove all the way to Houston just to place a call on Sally Buckland's cell phone. Why?"
"Maybe that's when he moved her body. He wanted to draw us down there, scare the daylights out of Berry. He wanted to cause us to scratch our asses, just like we're doing. Don't forget his little hummed song."
"Okay. But then he came straight back here. What kind of sense does that make?"
"Fuck if I know. He'd eluded capture. He was driving a car we didn't know about. Why come back?"
Ski thought on it for a moment. "Refuge? He was relatively safe inside the RV. He had a well-stocked pantry. Refrigerator. TV, so he could keep track of what we were doing."
"Advil," Dodge said, picking up Ski's thought.
"He had all the comforts of home at his disposal. The Mittmayers had the camping spot reserved for three nights, and they posed no threat to him. Starks could have holed up there, got some rest, allowed his leg to heal."
"Or rot off."
Ski smiled grimly. "Neighbors are temporary and constantly changing. The inactivity around that RV could have gone unnoticed. He could have stayed hidden until he felt it was safe to make another run at Berry."
Dodge frowned. "Okay, let's say that was his plan. What was he doing out here in Mercury-like-the-car's backyard?"
"He got lost."
Dodge shot him a dubious look.
Ski shrugged. "On his way back from Houston, he missed a critical turn. It could be that simple."
"It could," Dodge said, "but not for a guy who's an expert on mazes."
"Shit." Ski removed his sunglasses and wiped at the sweat dripping off his forehead into his eyes. "We're missing something."
"Or somebody."
Ski gave him a sidelong look. "That's what I'm thinking, too. He's had help."
"I figured Amanda Lofland," Dodge said.
"So did I. But she hasn't left the hospital since she arrived. She's even spending the nights in her husband's room."
"You checked?"
"Early this morning, before the Mittmayers were discovered," Ski said. "I went to the hospital to talk to the Loflands about Sally Buckland's murder. I brought up the calls to and from her on Amanda's cell phone."
"And?"
"She said she barely knew Sally Buckland. Had only met her a few times at company parties."
"Then how'd she explain all those calls?" Dodge asked.
"They'd played phone tag. She'd been calling to get Buckland's address so she could mail her an invitation to a fortieth birthday party she's throwing for Ben in the fall."
"How did she react when you brought this up?"
"Pissed. The party was supposed to have been a surprise."
Dodge's laugh sounded like he was gargling phlegm. "She's a piece of work, that one. But she couldn't have been two places at once. So if she's not Stark's partner in crime, then maybe it was Sally Buckland."
"She'd served her purpose? He killed her to tie up a loose end?"
"Maybe. Hell, I don't know." Dodge reached for his cigarettes.
"Put them away," Ski said. "Dogs are here."
He and Dodge made their way over as the trainer alighted from a pickup truck that had dog crates in the back. "I'm supposed to be meeting Ski," he said to the group.
Ski threaded his way through the other lawmen and shook the man's hand.
"I brought an extra trainer." He introduced Ski to the man accompanying him. "Also two extra dogs. Just in case."
"Thanks. We may need them. How many do we start with?"
"Three. They're my best."
The dogs were released from their crates and put on heavy-duty leashes. The trainer took two black Labs, the other guy got a bloodhound. The dogs were eager. Ski let them smell the filthy clothes that Starks had left behind in the Mittmayers' RV.
"Okay, they're good to go," the trainer said.
One of the FBI agents said, "Let her roll."
Ski hid his smile. If there was one word that inaccurately described how one navigated this part of the Thicket, it would be roll.
Which they soon discovered. They hacked and clawed and slogged their way through. Within half an hour those who hadn't heeded the advice to apply strong insect repellent were fighting their way back to escape thick swarms of biting species. Even sturdy boots were sucked into mud the consistency of tar.
Clothing and skin were ripped by thorns that were as thick as thumbs or as fine as human hairs. While searching for Oren Starks's tracks, they also had to be on the lookout for alligators, mountain lions, razorbacks, cottonmouths, copperheads, and rattlesnakes that didn't like to be disturbed.
Ski couldn't imagine more hostile terrain anywhere in the world. After an hour, they had progressed no farther than a hundred yards. The strong men were made weak by the brutal heat. Those who had stamina in the gym were left gasping for breath. Even the energy of the search dogs began to flag. But they had Oren Starks's scent, and instinct and excellent conditioning made them determined. They strained at their leashes, pulling their trainers into bramble bushes that had to be hacked down with machetes.
Ski kept pace with the dogs, and when the assistant trainer stepped into a hole and twisted his ankle, he passed the leash to Ski. "She should do all right with you if you keep praising her."
Ski managed the dog. He was more worried about Dodge, who'd had difficulty keeping pace the night they walked through the woods at the lake house. That had been a stroll in the park compared with this. But the older man remained close on Ski's heels, wheezing heavily, cursing elaborately, but plowing purposefully forward.
"Changed your mind about deputizing me?" he asked when they paused to drink from their water bottles.
"You can't shoot him, Dodge."
"Hell I can't. My aim's excellent."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant." He recapped his bottle and pushed aside a thorny branch that was in his path. "But when we find him, he better have his hands on top of his head, praying out loud for mercy."
"Or what?"
"Or I'm gonna consider him a fugitive in flight."
The afternoon wore on. The temperature rose, and water bottles emptied. One by one searchers surrendered to the elements until only a few diehards continued on, and then that number dwindled.
When the remaining troop stopped again to rest, Ski sidled up to Dodge, who was laboring over every breath. "You've gotta call it quits."
"When hell freezes over." He mopped his florid face with a handkerchief. "Which sounds pretty damn good right now."
"Look, Dodge," Ski said angrily, "I don't want you dying on me."
"Have you developed a crush?"
Ski didn't take the gibe. "You croak on my watch, and those two women in your life will never forgive me."
Dodge seemed on the verge
of making a stinging retort when he thought better of it. He replaced the handkerchief in his pants pocket. "I'm not quitting."
Ski gave him a level look, then said tightly, "Have it your way."
The going got even rougher. One of the dogs on the trainer's leash began to limp. "She's picked up a thorn," the trainer told Ski after an inspection of the dog's front paw.
"Can she make it back?"
"She'll have to. It'll be slow going."
"You see to her. I'll take the other one."
The trainer transferred the second dog's leash to Ski. "Those two usually don't like each other. But maybe they're too tired to give you any trouble."
By now the group had decreased to only a handful. Dodge was still with them. When one of the FBI agents suggested they call it a day and resume tomorrow, Dodge said scornfully, "You can puss out. I'm not going to."
Ski told them he was in for the long haul, too. "The dogs haven't quit. They're still on Starks's trail."
The Rangers wouldn't quit, either, although one was regarding Dodge with concern. It was almost painful to watch him breathe. Ski made another attempt to get him to stop. "I know you want to be in on the capture, but--"
"Lead on, Deputy."
"I could order you to go back. I could get one of these Rangers to take you back."
"You'd have to kill me first."
"You're about to save me the trouble."
He motioned Ski forward. "I'm right behind you."
And he was, even when others couldn't keep up. Ski's threat to have him escorted back seemed to have imbued Dodge with strength. But the elements and the terrain were more powerful even than his fierce determination.
He and the few remaining fell farther behind until Ski was alone out front with the two dogs, whose past differences seemed to have given way to their common goal. They continued to thrash through the underbrush. They dragged Ski through marshes.
And finally they caught up with their quarry.
Oren Starks didn't have his hands on top of his head, praying out loud. He was sitting on the edge of a swamp among the knees of a giant cypress tree that jutted out of the murky water. His back was against the main trunk of the tree. He was slumped to one side, his forehead almost touching his thigh.
The dogs, barking in wild delight over their achievement, splashed through the water, separating the duckweed that covered the surface like a film of pea soup. When within a few yards of Starks, Ski reined them in and securely wrapped their leashes around a tree branch. He fired his pistol into the air three times to signal those men behind him that the search had ended, then waded through the knee-deep water, stumbling over tree roots concealed by the opaque surface, until he reached Starks.
There was a bullet wound just above his cheekbone at the outside corner of his eye. Obviously self-inflicted. The pistol was still in his hand, submerged in three inches of swamp water.
Ski went down on his haunches to get a closer look. The blood around the flyblown wound was congealed but not completely dry. His face was crisscrossed with scratches and swollen from numerous insect bites.
He'd lost one of his new shoes. Burrs were embedded in his sock. He was wearing the clothes of the man he had killed. Ski recognized them from the description Mrs. Mittmayer had provided. The gray Dockers were almost black with grime. The green and blue striped shirt was torn, covered in filth, and stank of body odor.
The remaining searchers gradually caught up and began collecting in a semicircle behind Ski, who remained squatting beside the body. Each murmured a comment on the grisly sight.
Ski heard Dodge's wheezing as he came near. He said, "Well, shit." Ski supposed he was disappointed that Starks had robbed him of the satisfaction of killing him.
Birds, whose primal environment was being disturbed by the barking dogs and interloping human beings, flapped their wings and squawked noisily in the treetops. The dogs were happily panting, their tongues hanging from their mouths, dripping slobber.
The first of the Texas Rangers to arrive was talking to the pilot of the DPS helicopter through a transmitter. Shouting to make himself heard, he was telling the pilot to watch for a flare that would mark their location and advising him that they would need a stretcher lowered so they could strap the body onto it and lift it out.
Ski was taking all this in subconsciously. His focus remained on Starks. He watched a large ant crawl across the bridge of Starks's nose and down his cheek. A small fish was nibbling at a finger on his submerged hand.
The Ranger on the radio was saying, "To get the body out of here--"
"It's not a body," Ski said suddenly. "He's still alive."
CHAPTER 23
THE DEPUTY ASSIGNED TO GUARD BERRY AND CAROLINE INSIDE the lake house was the woman who'd been questioning the recalcitrant Walmart cashier before Dodge took over. She introduced herself as Deputy Lavell, and she was all business.
Never more so than when she came into the living area, where Berry and Caroline had been killing time while anxiously awaiting news, and announced that Oren Starks had been apprehended and was in custody.
The two assailed her with questions, but she remained as starchy as her uniform. "I don't have any details. Ski said for you to sit tight, and he'd be in touch."
Berry wanted to leave immediately for the sheriff's office, but Caroline kept the cooler head. "What could we do except get in the way? The important thing is that the man is in custody and you're safe. We'll hear more from Ski when he has a chance."
"Why hasn't Dodge called? He must know we're going nuts here."
"I'm sure he's caught up in the maelstrom, too. This is a police matter, Berry. Show some patience."
"I'll give them an hour."
They were fifty-three minutes into that hour when they heard a car approaching. Berry rushed from the living room, Caroline right behind her. They squeezed through the front door together just as Dodge brought an unfamiliar car to a stop and got out.
"What in the world?" Caroline exclaimed. She started down the steps at a run.
He held up a hand to halt her. "Don't come too close. God only knows what I picked up in that godforsaken place."
"Where have you been?"
"To hell and back. A.k.a. the Big Fucking Thicket."
Berry was astonished. "That's where you found Oren?"
"At the edge of a swamp in a grove of cypress trees with a self-inflicted gunshot wound." His last four words silenced them. "Same place he shot Sally Buckland. Apparently he favors the temple."
Berry was too stunned to speak. Caroline said, "He's dead?"
"Good as. Broken tibia from when he fell down your stairs had caused massive infection. Until the swelling in his brain goes down, they can't really assess the level of damage there. In bad shape is our friend Oren Starks."
No one moved or said anything for several seconds, then Caroline waved Dodge up the porch steps. "Get cleaned up. What is that smell?"
"Swamp gas. Dog shit. Armadillo shit. God only knows. I'd be a lot worse off if Ski hadn't loaned me these boots." When he got to the porch, he worked his feet from the rubber hunting boots, then, without any ceremony, undid his pants and shucked them. He took off the rest of his clothing, dropping it to form a stinking heap on the porch. He went into the house wearing only his undershorts.
Standing in the entry was Deputy Lavell, not a hair out of place, staring at him with stern disapproval.
"Ski said for me to tell you to return to the sheriff's office."
"How come he didn't tell me himself?"
Dodge held their eye contact for fifteen seconds, then repeated what he'd said word for word. She shrugged, then walked out without a backward glance.
Berry was indifferent to the deputy's rudeness. She wanted to pump Dodge for information, but he insisted on taking a hot shower first. "Before any bugs can lay eggs on me. Pour me a bourbon, please," he said over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs.
He was back down in ten minutes, scrubbed and smelling
of soap, his wet hair combed back off his face. He was carrying his sport jacket and was wearing a pair of Dockers and a short-sleeved shirt. With all the muck now washed off, the scrapes and scratches on his exposed skin were visible.
"Did you put some antiseptic on those?" Caroline asked as she passed him the requested drink.
"No." He took a gulp of the whiskey.
"Don't say anything till I get back."
"It better not sting," he called to her as she rushed toward her bedroom.
He sat down in the bentwood rocker that he'd sat in the day he arrived. That had been Saturday. This was Monday. Berry was amazed at how familiar to her he'd become in that short span of time, how many monumental events had occurred, how much she had shared with a father she hadn't known until forty-eight hours ago.
"Is Ski all right?"
"What, the hero of the day?"
"He is?"
"Last man standing. Made even the Texas Rangers look like little girls." He took another slurp of whiskey. "He's worse for wear, but fine."
"Where is he now?"
"Last I saw him, he was at the entry to the hospital emergency room, fielding questions from reporters. All the Houston stations. One from Tyler. Lafayette, too, I think. People still like hearing about a posse running the bad guy to ground. Especially in the Thicket. Adds to its mystique."
Berry shook her head in wonderment. "I can't imagine Oren venturing into a wilderness."
"I can't imagine him doing a lot of the things he did." He warily eyed the bottle of antiseptic that Caroline carried in along with a plastic sleeve of quilted cotton pads. "Is that gonna burn?"
"It won't hurt as much as an infection would," she said. "You probably should get a tetanus shot."
"Don't hold your breath."
Frowning at him, she knelt down beside the rocking chair and doused a cotton pad with the liquid, then applied it to a nasty puncture wound on the back of his hand.
Between curses over the stinging antiseptic, he talked the women through the previous few hours.
When he finished, Berry asked, "What are Oren's chances?"
