by C. J. Box
Joe said, “I was wondering how long it would take for you to say that.” He still couldn’t get over the shock of finally finding April, only to find out she was someone else.
Marybeth took both of Joe’s hands in hers and looked deeply into his eyes. “We’ve got to help her, Joe. Even if she’s not conscious, she needs to know we’re here and we care about her. Can you imagine waking up in a hospital and having no one—I mean no one—there to hold you?”
He shook his head. It was unimaginable.
She said softly, “Maybe it was supposed to happen this way. Maybe we’re being given a second chance to make up for what happened to April.”
Joe didn’t know what to say. The implications of Marybeth’s statement made it suddenly hard to breathe.
“Are you here for Janie Doe?” someone asked.
Joe and Marybeth looked over to find an overweight woman in an ill-fitting business suit carrying a clipboard. Her face was a facsimile of sympathy and understanding. Joe didn’t resent her for her show of false concern and expression of faux familiarity. He thought it must be tough to be her.
“Yes,” Marybeth said. “We’re here for her.”
“So you’re the parents?”
“We’re not her parents,” Marybeth said, shaking her head. “We’re here as, well, what are we, Joe?”
Joe shrugged. “We thought she was someone else,” he said to the hospital staffer.
The staffer, whose hospital ID read SARA MCDOUGAL, waited for more explanation with her eyebrows arched.
“I’m sorry,” McDougal said, finally, “so you’re not related or friends with Janie Doe in any way?”
Joe and Marybeth shook their heads, but Marybeth said, “We want to be here for her, though.”
“Even though you say you don’t know her?” McDougal said gently, trying to tamp down the doubt and suspicion that lurked beneath her question.
“That’s correct,” Marybeth said.
“Well, that’s interesting.”
Joe said, “Yup.”
McDougal made a point of reading the document on her clipboard studiously, although it was apparent she was really trying to figure out which way she wanted to go with the discussion. She said, “I hate to ask you at a time like this, especially given your, um, lack of a relationship with Janie Doe, but do you know who is responsible for paying for her medical care? Does she have insurance?”
“We have no idea,” Marybeth said flatly.
“Is she a resident of the county?”
Marybeth said, “I doubt it. We heard a rumor she might be from Chicago, but we’ve got no proof of that.”
“Does she qualify for Medicare? Medicaid? Does the State of Illinois have some kind of insurance for its residents?”
“I don’t know,” Marybeth said, steel in her voice.
“How are we going to resolve this?” McDougal asked. “Someone’s got to be responsible.”
“I’m losing my patience with you,” Marybeth said to her. “I know you have a form to fill out, but this is a very difficult situation without easy answers. We’ll work something out, I’m sure.”
After McDougal walked away, her heels clicking down the hallway, Joe asked Marybeth, “Work it out how? This is going to cost thousands of dollars. And if she requires long-term care . . . how can we help her?”
He was surprised when Marybeth responded with a slight conspiratorial smile. “I’ve got an idea,” she said.
Before she could explain, Coon stormed down the hallway. “Joe, there you are. Stenko and Robert’s trail has gone cold and we need to talk. Do you have a minute?”
“Slow down,” Joe said to Coon. “Let me introduce my wife, Marybeth. Marybeth, this is Special Agent Chuck Coon of the FBI.”
Coon took a breath and said to her, “I’m sorry I was rude. I have better manners than that.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Thank you for what you did to rescue the . . . girl in here.”
Joe could tell she struggled through the last few words.
Coon was confused and looked to Joe for an explanation.
“It’s not April Keeley,” Joe said. “We don’t know who she is and we won’t know unless she comes out of her coma.”
“What?” Coon cried, and bent forward at the waist with his palms out, as if someone had delivered a blow to the back of his neck. “I was hoping she could help us find Stenko. She’s the only one who knows what they’re up to or what they might do next.”
“She can’t talk,” Joe said.
“She may never talk,” Marybeth added softly. “She has very little brain activity. They don’t know if they can bring her back.”
He turned and walked away, cupping the top of his head with his hand, saying, “Jesus, help us.”
Joe said to Marybeth, “I’ll just be a minute.”
“Take your time,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
JOE FOLLOWED COON down the stairs and out through a heavy door marked EMERGENCY EXIT—DO NOT OPEN into a side parking lot of the hospital. The night was crisp and cool, the stars beaming through light cloud cover.
Coon fished a pack of cigarettes out of his sport coat and tapped one out.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Joe said.
“Officially, I don’t,” Coon said, lighting up. “I haven’t for the past year. Want one?”
“No thanks.”
“So did she say anything at all before she went under?” Coon asked. “Anything at all?”
Joe shook his head.
“Man, this is terrible. Portenson sent me here to question her. We need to know what she knows.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. Like I said, Stenko’s trail has gone cold. Portenson’s pulled out all the stops to find him as fast as we can. His name and photo is out nationwide, and he’s doing press conferences and interviews one after the other. We’ve got the national cable news networks interested, and they’re lining up.”
Joe said, “I saw it on the news. I was surprised you guys went so high-profile so fast.”
Coon nodded and sucked on his cigarette. “Yeah, me too. We’ve really got our necks out there this time. With all the stuff that’s been happening with the Bureau in general and our incident this morning in particular, we can’t afford to screw this up worse than it’s already been screwed up. And my boss is nearly crazed. He knows if he doesn’t deliver Stenko within twenty-four hours and make that incident this morning peripheral to the big arrest, he’ll look like an idiot. We’ll all look like idiots.”
“But if you find him,” Joe said, “it may turn out to be Portenson’s ticket out of here.”
“That’s what he’s thinking,” Coon said. “You know how the bureaucracy works. He doesn’t even want to consider any other outcome at this point. Which brings us back to the situation at hand. Is there anything we can do to get that girl to talk?”
Joe said, “You’re starting to piss me off, Chuck. There’s an unknown teenage girl in there fighting for her life. As far as we know she’s completely innocent—maybe even a kidnap victim. My family’s been turned upside down. Show a little compassion, will you?”
Coon stopped pacing and looked Joe over. He said, “I’m sorry. You’re right. But I’m not sure what to do. Every minute Stenko is getting farther away and we don’t even know what direction.”
Joe leaned back against the brick wall of the hospital and bent a knee so his boot rested against it as well. “Are you searching the area of the crash?”
Coon said, “The sheriff has his people all over it. Your governor agreed to send troopers and DCI personnel. So far, no one’s reported anything.”
“Have they checked with all the local ranchers? Found out if they saw Stenko or Robert?”
“Yeah, all of that. Not all the ranchers were there, though, which leads us to believe that maybe the Stensons found a vehicle somewhere and took the owner with them.”
Joe whistled. He knew it would be a matter
of time before someone local reported a missing person. But given the isolation of the area where residents might not see each other for days—or realize someone was not there—the delay could be fatal to the investigation.
“The pressure’s on,” Coon said needlessly, tossing the cigarette aside and digging for another. “When we left the crash scene with the injured girl, we might have lost our chance to get on top of Stenko and Robert. They couldn’t have gotten very far at that point. We might have been able to run them down.”
“You did the right thing,” Joe said. “You saved her life bringing her here.”
Coon snorted. “Fat lot of good that’s going to do me now.” Then, looking up, “I’m sorry I just said that. Really. You’re right, Joe. But you don’t have to be the one to tell Portenson what’s happened.”
“I’d like you to find them, too,” Joe said. “The only way we might be able to learn about who is up there in that hospital room is to find out from Stenko.”
“I might need a couple of drinks before I tell Portenson,” Coon said. “I’ve seen him blow up a couple of times and it’s not a good experience. I think my skin actually blistered the last time.”
Joe barely heard the last part of the sentence. He was recalling what Marybeth had asked him about Nate, and how he’d assured her Nate would be just fine. But would Nate, being Nate, seek sanctuary so he could hole up? Or would he . . .
Joe said, “Give me your cell phone. I might know how to find them.”
27
South of Devils Tower
EARLIER THAT AFTERNOON, AS THE THUMPING BASS BEAT OF the FBI helicopter faded away into the sky miles behind him, Nate Romanowski crossed a shallow creek and saw that someone had been there before him.
He was halfway across the creek, hopping from one exposed river rock to another to keep his boots dry, when he noticed that the side of the basketball-sized rock he was about to step on was glistening with moisture. It had been splashed as if someone had stepped on it, slid off, and wetted it. He paused and looked carefully downstream and up the creek. The water was cold and clear if not more than four inches deep, and there were sandy pockets downstream from the cluster of river rocks he was using to cross. The creek was perfect habitat for brook trout. He should have seen them shooting from the sandy pockets to the shadows like small dark comets as he loomed above them. But there were no fish to be seen. Which meant someone had already spooked them.
And in the mud on the far bank was a fresh footprint with chocolate-colored water swirling in the depression of a half-moon-shaped heel.
He bent down and studied it. The shoe that had made the print had a smooth sole and a squared-off toe. Not cowboy boots or Vibram hikers. A city shoe.
He stood up and rubbed his chin.
His intention before seeing the footprint was to continue down the creek until it joined a stream and to follow that stream to Sundance. He had an old friend in Sundance, a falconer and Special Forces operative he’d not seen in years but who would take him in.
But when he thought about it, and he looked at the moisture on the rock and the city shoe print in the mud, he changed his mind and his destination. And he checked the loads in his .454 Casull.
ONCE HE WAS ON THEM, their tracks became more glaring. Aspen leaves covering the trail were crushed into the ground by the prints, and spider’s webs that had been spun knee high had been breached and halved so that the threads seemed to reach across the opening in an effort to rejoin. There were two men ahead of him, all right. They were taking an old game trail south, mashing old and new deer tracks and mountain lion tracks. Different shoes; the square-toed hipster shoe that had left the track on the creek bank and a more traditional businessman’s shoe—worn heels, a rounded toe—that sank deeper into the ground because the wearer was heavier. The businessman’s stride was inconsistent, the right foot flaring off the game trail with regularity, while the square-toed shoe proceeded relentlessly down the middle of the trail.
Stenko and Robert.
As he tracked them and observed their path, Nate paused often to stop and listen. They weren’t that far ahead of him. But he heard no voices or sounds.
The tracks stopped at a rusted three-strand barbed-wire fence stapled to gnarled pitch wood posts. On the base of the nearest post there was a collection of old C-shaped staples on the ground in the grass, indicating that they’d stepped on the wires like stairs to climb over the barrier, but weight—probably Stenko’s—had overburdened the staples and popped them out. Because the wires were now free, it was easy to press them down and throw a leg over and continue.
The boughs of the old-growth pine trees closed over his head, and he walked in shadow. Following their trail was easy now, as the forest floor was carpeted with dry yellowed pine needles that had scattered on the periphery of every footfall.
Ahead, less than a quarter mile, sunlight poured through the trees. There was an opening.
The afternoon suddenly filled with the sharp barking of dogs. Nate dropped to his haunches. The eruption of barks echoed through the timber and originated a quarter mile or so ahead of him. Nate imagined the scenario: Stenko and Robert had just broken from the trees and were approaching a ranch house. Most ranches had a small pack of dogs roaming the premises whose purpose was to alert the rancher to the appearance of strangers.
THROUGH THE SCOPE of his .454, Nate watched the proceedings. He was looking for a good shot.
The ranch itself was ancient. Front and center was an unpainted clapboard house with shutters and shake shingles on the roof so weathered they were the color of concrete. There were several dark and sagging outbuildings to the side of the main house and a post-and-rail corral. In the corral near the barn three steers and a swaybacked blue roan grazed on haphazard piles of hay. The barn on the grounds sagged as well, and what little white paint remained on it curled from the siding like dried worms. The dogs he had heard barking all sat in front of the ripped screen door on a porch, looking at the opening as if awaiting someone to open it and throw food to them. He could see no human activity.
Next to the barn, in sharp contrast to the buildings, was a new-model black Ford F-350 pickup crew cab.
He thought: Stenko and Robert are inside with whoever lives here. And like all ranchers, no matter the circumstances, the owner drove a state-of-the-art pickup truck. Priorities.
THE DOGS backpedaled comically as the screen door was pushed out, clearing the way for whoever was inside to exit. Nate thumbed back the hammer on his revolver and squinted through the scope.
The first person he saw was an older bald man in his sixties or seventies wearing a pearl-snap-button yellow shirt, suspenders, and worn Wranglers. The man was unshaven and bespectacled in yellowed horn-rimmed glasses. His bald head was paper white on top and there was a clear line mid-forehead where his absent hat shielded the sun, while the rest of his face and neck were nut-brown. He held his hands out in front of him like he didn’t know where they should go.
Nate swiveled his weapon slightly to the right and his scope filled with the handsome, square-jawed face of Robert Stenson, who was immediately behind the rancher. But as he swept his weapon, he saw the pistol Robert held and the muzzle of it was pressed into the back of the neck of the rancher as he guided him outside. Nate’s finger tightened on the trigger but the rancher stopped on the porch and backed up into the crosshairs.
“Shit,” Nate whispered to himself.
The rancher was saying something over his shoulder to Robert. Nate peered above the scope. He couldn’t hear what the discussion was about, but he knew it was an argument. Without the aid of the telescopic site, he could see that Robert and the rancher were nose to nose, yapping.
“Step aside,” Nate whispered to the rancher. “Give me a clean shot and I’ll lend you money for paint.”
But the rancher kept it up until Robert closed in and lowered his gun and shoved the rancher ahead of him toward the pickup. Immediately behind them, an older man appeared in the doorway:
Stenko.
Nate rotated his weapon again and peered through the scope. For a moment, the crosshairs kissed Stenko’s forehead. Until he ducked and Nate could see only the shadowed interior of the ranch house.
Again, Nate sat back and glared.
Stenko was doubled over, both hands on his belly. Nate could hear him moan. Despite that, Robert pushed the old rancher toward the pickup, staying so close behind him they looked like their belts were fastened together. Whatever dispute they had was over. Robert was in charge.
The two of them were now blocked by the pickup. Nate heard the door open and saw Robert push the rancher into the cab. Stenko was right behind them, still bent over, and he vanished into the back seat of the cab before Nate could fire.
The motor ground and took, and the pickup did a fast turn in the ranch yard toward a weathered two-track.
And they were gone.
NATE HOLSTERED HIS GUN and jogged across the ranch yard toward the barn and outbuildings. Ranchers always had extra vehicles, and in his experience the keys were usually in them. His boots crunched through the gravel and he got a glimpse of machinery in the shadows of the barn so he veered toward it.
Which was when he heard a muffled squeal, and a crash inside the house.
He paused. In the barn was a vehicle he could borrow so he could stay close to Stenko and Robert and the kidnapped rancher. But someone or something was in the house. The dogs watched him from the front porch as if wondering what his decision could be. That they didn’t bark at him seemed unremarkable at the time. For his entire life, he’d had an odd, tranquilizing effect on some animals. He had no explanation for it.
