Noah's Rainy Day

by Sandra Brannan

  “Well, not a rope, really. More like thick twine or something, but strong enough to hold. We don’t know where he got it or how. We’ve seen sheets ripped before, but he didn’t even have any bedding yet. This guy wasn’t on suicide watch according to the chart. Should he have been?”

  Irritated, Streeter answered, “Well, obviously he should have been, Riley. The man committed suicide. But if you were asking if there was a mistake made on his chart, the answer is no. We had no idea that Fletcher was suicidal when we brought him in earlier. Was he frisked?”

  “Yep. But no one found the twine.” Riley continued past Streeter’s long pause. “I don’t think there were any mistakes made in security. Not that you guys make mistakes or anything. You know what I mean,” Riley fumbled with his words. “We did follow procedure. I mean, we did take away his belt when we locked him up. He deserved to die, the nut job.”

  Annoyed, Streeter asked, “Why would you say that? No one deserves to die.”

  “It was the way he did it. He jacked himself off before or during the hanging. Who does that shit?” Riley asked. “Nut jobs. He had his khaki pants around his ankles, his boxers around his shins, and his pecker sticking out for the whole world to see. There was a puddle of semen beneath him and a goofy grimace plastered on his dead face. His eyes were still open and everything. Looks like he died a happy man.”

  “Could he have hanged himself accidentally? Was it autoerotic asphyxia or something?”

  “You mean that oxygen deprivation thing that some weirdos get off on? Maybe,” Riley considered.

  Streeter closed his eyes and asked, “You haven’t touched anything, have you?”

  “Not no, but hell no.”

  “Are you sure it’s been within a half hour?”

  “Yeah. Within thirty-five minutes, for sure. That guy from Control Ops, the bigwig who escorted Fletcher to his cell about an hour ago, stayed with him about twenty minutes longer than the rest of us. Was the last one to see him alive, as far as we know.”

  My stomach flipped.

  “Control Ops. Jack Linwood?” Streeter asked.

  “Yeah, that’s the guy.”

  “What was he doing down there?”

  “Beats me,” Riley answered. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean that as a joke or anything.”

  “Get the techs in there, then cut him down and clean him up. And send the report directly to me. No one else,” Streeter said before ending the call. Streeter mumbled, “What is going on? First the nanny loses it, then Fletcher. What a mess.”

  Worried, I said, “Fletcher was alive after Linwood left. He would have told us, right?”

  Streeter said nothing.

  I remembered the last thing Jack whispered to me was that I shouldn’t worry a thing about Fletcher. And now Fletcher was dead. No worries.

  I wondered.

  I also remembered the last thing Fletcher had said to me as he sat handcuffed in the backseat, in the driveway next to my sister’s house. “I’ll be thinking of you tonight.”

  Had he intended to commit suicide? It made sense why he had become so peaceful, placid, calm as we put him in the squad car. I wouldn’t lie to myself. I was glad Fletcher was dead. Spared us all a trial. Spared me from ever having to look at him again.

  “No matter how loathsome, he shouldn’t have been allowed to commit suicide. That was too easy. And where did he get the twine?” Streeter asked.

  I didn’t answer, knowing it was a rhetorical question.

  After a long moment, Streeter said, “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  I did not take my eyes away from the Rocky Mountains that loomed around us. My voice was strong, but cold. “Yes, it does. He told me that he would be thinking of me tonight. He would be imagining what I was like when I was Noah’s age.”

  Streeter had started to protest and I knew he thought better of it. His initial reaction was to protect me and I appreciated that. But in the end, he knew this was my battle to fight. And I appreciated that even more. I wasn’t going to let scum like Fletcher win. Streeter knew that.

  “He knew I’d find out. He wanted to get into my mind and then into my nightmares. Seep under my skin like a fungus.”

  “He’s a sick bastard.”

  “Was a sick bastard. And it does mean something.” Streeter put one hand on my elbow. I neither resisted nor responded to his touch. Instead, I continued to stare out into the distance. I’d been through worse than Fletcher.

  After several moments, I turned to face Streeter. With defiance, I said, “I won’t let him. I won’t. He can’t win.”

  The silence that followed my statement was as loud as a crash of cymbals.

  Eventually, as we wound along the mountain road, I vowed, “Instead, I am going to go out there tonight and hope for a miracle. We’ll find little Max and Noah and give them the proper homecoming they deserve. Fletcher can’t keep me down.”

  My lips tightened with resolve and indignation.

  In his deep, gravelly voice Streeter said, “Guys like him never win. People like you and little Max are too strong for creeps like him. And Noah’s the hero in all this. He kicked Fletcher’s sorry ass. So let’s focus on finding him.”

  He was right.

  CHAPTER 59

  EVEN THOUGH IT LOOKED different at night than it had yesterday morning when I was up there working with Beulah to find my brother-in-law Michael, I knew we had found the right campground area. I would have known we were in the right place even before I saw the faint indents in the snow from a single set of tire tracks going off the road into it. Fletcher had been here. I could feel it. He had dumped the kids an hour ago, maybe two, before heading back home where we were waiting for him. I just knew it, even though in my headlights I could see the tire tracks had long since been covered by the falling snow.

  Gates and Streeter directed the search party to park their cars along the unimproved gravel road that led to the area, instructing them to line up single file. Michael’s GPS coordinates would lead me to where I’d found the camo backpack, several yards up into the woods to the north. My brother-in-law had decided he would stay at Frances’s house, helping her and Gabriel manage their grief and allowing Elizabeth to spread the news to our large family about what had happened. I was grateful Michael still had the coordinates in his GPS from yesterday morning when we’d been out tracking.

  The faint stars shining through the sparse clouds lighted the dark night. Large snowflakes slowly descended. It was a peaceful evening—the type of evening that reminded me of home in the Black Hills as a child with my brothers and sisters, sitting on the front porch with our nine sets of tiny fingers wrapped around our individual cups of hot chocolate.

  Streeter leaned forward, studying the landscape that shone in our headlights. I looked back over my shoulder at the line of cars and the dozens of search and rescuers pouring from them, donning layers. I could hear the humming of my engine and the beat of my windshield wipers as I studied the landscape, grateful that Michael hadn’t deleted the coordinates from his GPS where I found Clint’s backpack. Chief Gates had set up in the right place.

  Within seconds the thrum of a light generator plant sounded and a shower of light spilled across the snow, the campground lit up like a miniature baseball field. Everyone hung back awaiting Streeter’s next order, most huddling around Gates’s cluster of official vehicles just behind us.

  “There’s Tony,” Streeter said, looking in the rearview mirror. I turned back and saw Tony’s handsome black face as he leaned up against a midnight blue pickup with his arms folded across his wide chest. He appeared annoyed. Not just a bit. A lot.

  Streeter mumbled, “I wonder what he’s miffed about.”

  Streeter jumped out of my SUV into the below-freezing temperature and greeted Chief Tony. I made sure Beulah was okay, put on my coat, and followed him.

  “Fletcher wasn’t any help,” Tony said to Streeter. No hello, no how ya doing. Straight to the point. “Your team just told me he committed
suicide.”

  They both cut their eyes my way. To see how I’d take the news.

  “How many do we have for the search?” I asked, ignoring the rising dread I felt.

  “We’ve got twenty-eight guys out here, including the three of us,” Gates continued. “I lost a guy. His wife went into labor.”

  “Twenty-eight is good,” Streeter said.

  “It’s snowing,” Gates said sullenly.

  “Let’s go look,” Streeter said, and the three of us started off toward the campground parking area alone as everyone watched.

  The trees near the road had preserved the tire tracks, but the farther we walked into the campground, the more the fresh snow had been free to cover the tracks.

  “Not good,” Gates said.

  By the time we made it to the large clearing, the snow fell in blankets, and the tracks of Fletcher’s vehicle had been completely erased. There were no tire tracks, no footprints, and too many humps and lumps in the snow that could be rocks, logs, or bodies.

  “Shit,” I said. But deep down I knew Fletcher had been here. Sensed it. Likely comfortable with his chosen dump site, even if Clint had survived.

  Streeter said, “Here’s the plan. Gates, get everyone to fan out and check this area first. Lock arms and uncover every inch of snow in swaths to make sure nothing’s been buried.”

  The “nothing” meant my nephew and little Max. The thought made me sick.

  “Snow is a concern. For all of us. Because if we don’t get moving, it won’t just be Fletcher’s tire tracks that are covered.” His eyes flicked toward me. “It will cover up any fresh footprints, too. Let’s move.”

  I knew he meant the boys’ bodies, not just their footprints. Noah could not walk. And little Max had no hope of carrying him. Noah was slowly being covered in snow as we spoke. And he would freeze to death if we didn’t get moving. Our only hope was to find little Max’s tiny footprints, hoping he’d taken off to find help for Noah.

  Within seconds, Gates had a search party gathered and walking in step along the opening that was the campground, kicking at mounds of snow and shoveling off layers from the picnic tables, outhouse, benches, and stumps that surrounded the area.

  Stunned at the sight of it all, my mind still reeling from the thought that Noah might be out here in this frigid cold, I melted into Streeter, who held me upright. Within minutes, Gates had converted one of the picnic tables into a makeshift command center. A light plant—powered by a noisy generator nearby—was relocated closer to illuminate the entire area.

  Gates swept his arm across the table, brushing all the freshly fallen snow from the surface. Laying the map on the clean table, he showed us the nearby terrain using the topography lines.

  “This is where we are. On our initial search, we send out three teams to the north, where Liv found Clint’s backpack yesterday.” Gates turned and pointed over to the hilltop. “It’s the most difficult terrain, but that’s where we’ll start. I’m assuming the child would have run from Fletcher, who headed out to the road in the opposite direction.”

  The searchers kicked at and quickly stamped down the fluff of freshly fallen snow.

  “I think the opposite side of the road to the campground area, to the south, might prove more lucrative for our search, because it’s the easiest terrain and has fewer trees. Assuming Fletcher led them in a direction. He wasn’t in the best shape, so he’d take the easier route. We’ll search that on our second sweep.”

  “How long will the teams be out?” Streeter shouted over the generator.

  “Once they finish up here, I’m sending the teams out and telling them to turn back in an hour and a half.”

  “No tracks, no footprints,” Streeter said.

  Gates shook his head. “And it’s still snowing.”

  “Not good,” I said.

  The falling snowflakes were small and fast. That meant it was going to snow for a long time. Tolie Sharpfish, a Lakota Sioux, taught me that when I was a little girl. Flakes large and slow, the snowfall wouldn’t last long. Flakes small and fast, prepare to get buried.

  “On the second sweep, they should be able to complete their search of the area south of the road. After that, we can send them out on sweeps to the east, and then west.”

  For the first time, Gates noticed me staring at him. I had been admiring Gates’s focused determination. He reminded me of my little brother, Jens. Tall, smart, determined, soft on the inside, steel on the outside. Knapp and Gregory, who had followed Streeter and me from Wheat Ridge and who had parked their car down the road, emerged from the dark shadows beyond the light plant and walked over to the picnic table.

  After shouted introductions—the generators too loud to hear much else—Streeter suggested to Gates, “Liv brought Beulah. Want her to try the north before everyone starts tromping out the scent? If there is one?”

  “It’s your crime scene.”

  I hoped Beulah and I didn’t blow this.

  “Besides,” Streeter added, “We have a half hour or so before the search team finishes their campground area sweep, wouldn’t you guess?”

  We all watched as the searchers tromped through the snow, brushing off even the smallest of mounds and buried objects.

  “Can she do that? In the dark?” Tony hesitated and studied my face. Looking up at his face, I smiled back at him and nodded respectfully. He frowned. “You best get started. I don’t want you out there on your own.”

  “We’ll get started right now,” Streeter agreed. “Keep the rest of the searchers in the lot or out on the road so she can get a clear trail determined. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Gates said reluctantly.

  Preparing for the search, I grabbed bolt cutters, a shovel, and a crowbar.

  “What are you doing, Liv?”

  “Nothing’s getting in Beulah’s way. Or mine. Come hell or high water, I’m finding Noah.”

  CHAPTER 60

  “READY?” I ASKED.

  Streeter nodded. Gates gave us a wave and leaned against my SUV with Knapp and Gregory at either side of him. Streeter called to him, “Keep the search teams in the campground or on the road, okay?”

  Gates waved his hand in agreement.

  “Stay right behind me the whole time, okay?” I said to Streeter, who nodded in response. “Oh no, Streeter.”

  “What?”

  “I gave Jack little Max’s beret. I don’t have a target scent for Beulah.”

  “I kept the sock I found at Fletcher’s house. Will that help?” Streeter searched his coat pocket and pulled out the plastic bag.

  “Let’s hope it’s little Max’s and not some other kid’s,” I said. I extracted the sock and knelt beside Beulah. I held it away from the dog’s nose and commanded, “Beulah, find.”

  Beulah trotted around the packed snow of the parking lot and circled a small area several times. The lead was loose between the dog and me. I looked back at Gates. Gates nodded his encouragement.

  Over the sound of the generators, I yelled to Streeter, “It’s definitely little Max’s sock.”

  I could see the word form on his lips, “What?”

  “His sock. This is most definitely little Max’s sock,” I shouted.

  I jerked my head in Beulah’s direction to explain. Beulah had lowered her nose for an instant, and then she lifted it up in the air and was circling a small area repeatedly. She started pulling on the lead straight into the campground area.

  Over the rumble of the generator, I shouted the command as support, “Find!”

  The lead went taut. Beulah strained against the harness to follow the scent. I stepped through the deep snow as quickly as I could with my snowshoes. Beulah only went a few hundred yards, directly to the outhouse, and bayed excitedly. Her front legs were stiff and the hair on the scruff of her neck was standing on end.

  Streeter looked at me. I gave him a beats-me look. “She only does that when she’s found the target.”

  Streeter asked, “Let me look inside.” />
  “Go ahead,” I said, as I shortened the lead and knelt beside Beulah, encouraging her with long strokes and kind words.

  Streeter slowly pushed the door of the outhouse open. His headlamp swept across the inside of the outhouse. He looked behind the door and peered cautiously down the black hole and up at the ceiling beams. He came out of the outhouse and shrugged his shoulders.

  I suggested, “Look around.”

  Streeter circled the outhouse twice. With his headlamp sweeping across the dark woods, he knocked the snow off each mound he encountered with his boot, only to find mostly rocks and a few pieces of wood. He climbed on top of the outhouse to look on the flat roof and found nothing.

  When he returned to where I knelt, he asked, “Now what?”

  “Well, it could mean little Max stopped to use the outhouse and then went right back to the car,” I explained. “But normally, Beulah would have backtracked on the same course, following from the oldest to the newest scent. And she wouldn’t bay like she did. She only does that when she finds the actual person. I’ve seen her do it several times before. I’ll restart Beulah. There may be several different trails. Or maybe the snow is bothering her.”

  Or maybe it’s the mountain lion incident on Christmas Eve. Although she did fine in the airport and with the garbage in the parking lot, Beulah’s confidence in the woods might be shaky.

  We walked back to the parking lot with Beulah, where we were met with rumbles of chatter coming from Knapp and Gregory. I couldn’t hear them over the generator, but I could tell they were concerned about Beulah. Rumor at the field office of her downhill slide as the best search-and-rescue dog in the country started circulating the second I’d set foot in the office three weeks ago as a new agent and assigned handler for Beulah. My self-confidence waned. Ignoring them, I knelt in the middle of the parking lot beside Beulah again and scratched behind her long, droopy ears.

  “Good girl, Beulah,” I encouraged her. “You’re a good dog. Now, let’s try again.”

  I extracted the sock from the plastic bag in my pocket and held it several inches from Beulah’s nose. I ordered, “Beulah, find.”