by Webb, Peggy
Her posts and photos were rare, a few shots of having pizza with friends, a cute picture of her with the family pet, a picture of her hiking with her dad. Kate was the kind of girl who’d take naturally to the simple life—living in the woods, cooking his meals, washing his clothes and meeting his every need. He’d even imagined the babies they’d have together, chubby little cherubs with his intelligence and good looks and her sweet, pliable nature.
Maybe he could change Betty’s mind.
“She’s not like the others. Kate’s kind and sensible. I can bring her back, and you can talk her into seeing what a good life she’ll have with us. She’ll learn to love it here. I know she will.”
“How long do you think you can keep that little college girl happy in the backwoods?”
“She loves nature. She’s said so in her posts. Sweet little thing tags along behind her daddy all the time.”
“Are you insane? Do you know who her mother is?”
“Some mealy-mouthed housewife who loves dogs. Kate doesn’t talk about her much on social media.”
“She’s a search and rescue handler, you fool!”
“How do you know?”
“I did an online search last night after I dragged your sorry self out of her room. You really hit the jackpot this time! If Maggie Carter finds that girl alive to tell her story, she’s going to hunt you down like an animal. We’ll both spend the rest of our lives behind bars.”
Jonathan could feel the blood draining from his face. Betty was right. The old battle ax was always right.
“I don’t know which direction to hunt for her.”
“When I went out this morning to get the paper, I saw tracks going off toward the trail in the woods. Looks like she’s heading toward that abandoned trading post. Nothing out there but wilderness.”
Jonathan glanced toward the window. The sun was barely up and it would be freezing cold out there. He’d have to take a leak at least once before he got to that old wilderness trading post. He despised the idea of watching his own bodily fluids turning to icicles. And who was to say she’d be there anyway?
“That helpless little thing won’t survive the wilderness. And even if she does, the storm’s going to get her.”
“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take.” Betty stomped to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. “Get out there and take care of her the way you did the others.”
He stormed back to his room and jerked on his clothes. But he had no intention of following orders. He didn’t care what the old biddy said. Kate was different. And he was a grown man. He ought to be able to make his own decisions. If the old witch wasn’t careful, he’d leave her just like his daddy had.
He grabbed his bow and quiver of arrows then climbed on his snowmobile and waved at her standing in the doorway, watching. Always watching.
“Take care of her. You hear me, Jonathan?”
“I will.”
No sense arguing with the old fool. He’d learned a long time ago he could never win a war of words with Betty.
He headed into the woods and stayed on the trail till he rounded a corner out of her sight. Then he veered north in the direction of the truck stop. Kate wouldn’t get far on foot in the snow, especially without her winter coat.
He’d have some breakfast then figure out what he was going to do with his future bride once he found her. One thing was for sure; he wouldn’t take her back to the farmhouse where Betty would have her nose stuck into his business.
Chapter Eight
7:45 a.m.
Joe’s first glimpse of his daughter’s wrecked car made him sick again. He turned from Maggie and sucked in the frigid air. No matter what the state of his crumbling marriage, he had to be strong for her while she worked with Jefferson, strong for his daughter.
“Maggie. Joe.” Detective Roger Dillard strode toward them as they approached the wreckage, his bushy black hair pushing his cap upward so it sat on his head like a mushroom. His face was filled with concern. He’d known Kate since she was baby. He and his wife Claire were like second parents to her. “We’ve found her phone.”
“Where?” Hope surged through Joe.
“At a truck stop in Toronto.”
He glanced at his wife. Maggie was struggling with the same mixed emotions he had, despair, fear and a Herculean effort to cling to any shred of good news.
“What about Kate?” Maggie asked.
“She’s not there. The trucker swears he never saw any girls fitting her description. He also swears he doesn’t know how the phone got into his truck.”
“Do you believe that?” Joe didn’t. “My daughter’s phone didn’t get into his truck all by itself.”
“The authorities in Toronto believe he’s telling the truth. They did a thorough search of his truck and found no trace of Kate except for her cell phone.”
“Just because the trucker didn’t have my daughter…” Maggie choked up and turned away to control herself.
“Maggie’s right, Roger. On what basis did they eliminate him as a suspect?”
“They’ve still got him for questioning. He has volunteered to call his trucking buddies on his CB and see if they saw anything on the stops he made on his long haul from the U.S. to Canada.”
“And where was that?” Maggie said.
She now seemed fully composed but Joe knew better. His wife always internalized her missions. He’d watched her turn her heart inside out every time she searched for the lost. Most SAR handlers struggled to keep their emotions locked up, but both Joe and Maggie had found it impossible, particularly if the victim was a child.
The search for their own child had turned both of them into a walking bundle of nerves with one barely beating heart. Digging even deeper, Joe realized this was the first time he’d felt so close to Maggie in years. And that was a horror, all by itself, that it took a heinous act against his own flesh and blood to resurrect his emotions.
“The last two stops were in Chicago and Detroit,” Roger said. “The first was at a truck stop north of here. I’m heading that way to ask some questions.”
“Meantime, Kate could be anywhere,” Joe said.
Maggie didn’t wait around to hear Roger say, “We can’t rule that out.” She strode toward the truck, shouldered her backpack then let Jefferson out and hooked up his leash.
The big Lab went straight to their daughter’s car and began circling it, his alert behavior that indicated Kate’s scent was strong.
“Joe,” Maggie called.
He gave his wife a thumbs-up signal. “She’s set, Roger, and we’ve got less than seven hours to find our daughter.”
While Maggie let Jefferson continue his search around the car, Joe gathered his large backpack that held the bulk of their supplies then made arrangements to stay in touch with the detective via two-way radio.
The Superior wilderness loomed in front of him, a beautiful place to admire nature when the weather was tame--a brutal place to survive when the weather turned so dangerous that even the most skilled outdoorsman might not survive.
He glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock. Only six and half hours until the storm hit, if the weatherman was right. Storms changed directions, shifted, lost steam or picked up intensity. The one constant of nature was its unpredictability. Even the most sophisticated tracking tools couldn’t be a hundred percent sure what Holly would do next.
Kate had already been missing for twenty hours. The task of finding her, even with the best SAR dog in the U.S., was so daunting Joe felt as if his backpack weighed a thousand pounds. Every step he took might be his last. He might crumple to the ground, useless.
And hadn’t he been useless now for several years, drifting through his life like a sleepwalker, aimless and unaware?
“Joe?” Maggie touched his shoulder, and he tired to shake off his ridiculous and untimely introspection. “Jefferson is raring to go. She’s around here somewhere. I know it.”
Maggie was right. An air scent dog never lied. And th
e big Lab had his nose turned straight toward the deep woods.
“Let’s go,” he said, and Maggie took Jefferson off the lead. The Lab raced off at a pace that buoyed his hope.
Air scent dogs search best in the early morning and late evening when the heavier air keeps a person’s scent trail closer to the ground. It was barely an hour after sunrise and Jefferson already had a strong scent trail.
Jefferson barreled straight into the wilderness, setting a rapid pace. Within minutes they were out of sight of the wreckage. In the distance they could hear Roger’s search party tearing through the woods, calling Kate’s name. But as hard as he listened, Joe never heard the shout he wanted. We’ve found her!
Soon Jefferson was loping off toward an area Joe remembered from a trail he’d once scouted. If memory served, there had once been an old farmhouse in the vicinity, easily reachable by snowmobile. But on foot, even moving as rapidly as they were, it would be at least another couple of hours.
Last night’s heavy ground snow was already airborne, hampering visibility. It would only get worse. How much conditions would deteriorate, and how rapidly, Joe could only guess.
Maggie had moved ahead with Jefferson so he stopped to catch his breath and study the weather. Portions of the sky were still a startling and burning blue. Nothing foreboding. Nothing to say that his daughter had vanished somewhere in the vast Superior wilderness and he might never find her alive.
His two-way radio crackled and Maggie’s voice came through.
“Joe? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just studying the weather. You got something?”
“No. I was worried about you. Do you want me to wait?”
“No. Keep going. I’m following your trail.”
The radio went silent, but something she’d said echoed in Joe’s mind, I was worried about you. Over and over it played, like a record stuck in one groove--or the hint of a promise you never thought you’d hear.
Chapter Nine
8:20 a.m
When the law walked in, Jonathan was at his favorite corner booth in the Glen’s Crossing Truck Stop five miles north of where he’d lured Kate into her trap, enjoying his second order of pancakes with sausages and his third cup of coffee. It wasn’t unusual to see cops coming in here for coffee and doughnuts, but this one, a tall, burly man with black bushy hair and the build of a linebacker, didn’t order coffee. He started talking to the cashier.
When she hurried off toward the manager’s office in back, Jonathan felt the first twinges of alarm.
The manager, Ricky Gerard, was a no-nonsense man who minded his own business. Still, when Ricky came out and started talking to the cop, every one of Jonathan’s senses went on alert. He’d been here yesterday morning after he took Kate, trying to cover his tracks. He threw some money on the table then sauntered to the cigarette rack close enough to eavesdrop.
“Have you ever seen this girl?” The cop pulled a picture from his pocket and showed it to Ricky.
“Can’t say that I have.”
“She’s tall, blond, blue eyes. Name’s Kate Carter.”
Jonathan eased to the other side of the rack so his back was to them.
She’d been covered with a tarp, and he’d parked the snowmobile out of range of security cameras and prying eyes. But could the wind have whipped it aside? Had someone glanced her way and seen her face?
“Ever hear anyone mention her by name?”
Jonathan tried to remember if he’d ever let it slip. He loved saying her name, loved the sound of it in his mouth, like strawberry ice cream. Before he grabbed her, he used to walk about the house saying her name aloud, “Kate, Kate, Kate.” Finally Betty made him stop.
“No,” Ricky told the cop. “Not that I recall. But then my memory’s not as good as it used to be.”
“Yesterday morning a trucker by the name of Jerry Harris saw a man he described as six feet tall, about two hundred pounds wearing a black ski cap and black parka messing around a Northwest America/Canada Transport.” That stupid cop just wouldn’t quit. “Do you know anybody who fits that description?”
Jonathan felt like a rat trapped in a maze. The only good thing is that today his ski cap was green. Still, if he ran, he might as well put a sign on his back that said catch me if you can. But if he stayed too long, the cop was bound to notice that he fit the description.
“You’ve just described about a dozen of my regulars. And I can’t tell you which one. I never pay attention to what they’re wearing.”
“I need to take a look at your security tapes.”
“Sure. Right this way.”
Jonathan made himself wait until the cop was in the back before he got out of there. As he loped toward his snowmobile he glanced around the parking lot, trying to recreate yesterday morning’s scene.
The Northwest America/Canada Transport had been parked close to the toilets with the passenger side away from security cameras. Stupid trucker had raced into the toilets and left his doors unlocked. Jonathan had parked his snowmobile on the far edge of the parking lot where tarmac met forest. It was practically unnoticeable in the shadows of overhanging branches and the deep shade of thick trees.
And Kate was passed out from the date-rape drug. No chance of her rousing from under the tarp to attract anybody’s attention. Also chances of anybody looking under the tarp were slim to none. Folks in Minnesota minded their own business.
He’d counted on that when he sauntered toward the truck, not too fast, not too slow. He made no moves to attract attention, not even glancing around for watchers. That was a sure way to look guilty.
He’d been quick, too. Open the truck door like he owned it, toss Kate’s cell phone under the seat and be on his way. He’d walked on like he was heading in for coffee then circled behind the building, keeping out of camera range, and climbed back onto his snowmobile.
Deed done. Jonathan had chuckled all the way home.
Judging from the way that cop was nosing around, Kate’s GPS tracker had led them on a wild goose chase. Probably all the way to Canada.
Only problem was, somebody had seen him. Another trucker. Could have been somebody just pulling into the truck stop. Yesterday there had been only one truck on the lot when he’d parked the snowmobile.
And now the cop was too close for comfort. If the law got lucky, they might find Kate before he did. And what about Kate’s stupid mother with her search dog? Where was she?
That old bag had been right all along. He should have gone straight into the woods after his bride.
He headed south on the main roads, taking the shorter route home. Five miles from the truck stop he came upon Glen’s Crossing Road where he’d taken Kate. Her car had been pulled out of the small ravine, the wrecker was still there and cops were everywhere.
Jonathan shot past Glen’s Crossing then turned left onto a gravel road that eventually intersected the trail to Wayne’s Trading Post. Adrenaline shot through him as he raced through the woods. The thought of losing her made him furious. And reckless. He almost overturned his snowmobile taking a curve too fast.
And of all the stupid things, he had to take a leak. He’d had too much coffee. And no time to go to the bathroom. Stupid cop.
He slammed on the brakes and leaped off, roaring her name out of sheer frustration.
“KATE! KATE!”
The icy wind bit his bare skin and took his breath away. He couldn’t wait to zip up and be on his way.
Finally he was back on his snowmobile, racing off in the direction of that old falling-down store. She wouldn’t leave the trail. Scared little girl like her. He’d find her first. He had to.
But with the cops after him, he had to come up with an entirely different plan. It wasn’t enough to grab Kate and find some nice safe motel where he could tame her and house break her any way he pleased away from Betty’s prying eyes. He had to hide her where nobody could find her.
Or else, kill her like he had the others and then go home, play innocent and let Be
tty be his alibi.
“KATE!” he screamed. “I’M COMING!”
Grand Marsais 9 News
Stan polished off another doughnut and topped off his coffee cup. He was on a caffeine and sugar high. They kept a fresh pot brewing at Channel 9 at all times and an endless supply of doughnuts of every variety. His favorites were the cream filled. He could eat his weight in them. And had today.
Doughnuts were such a welcome relief. Jean was on a health kick and lately all she’d served were salads, an endless parade of greens with weird ingredients like tofu.
The only reason he wasn’t fifty pounds overweight is that he was only at the station for extended periods when storms like Holly made it necessary for him to stay at the station to give live updates.
His cell phone rang. It was his wife.
“Stanley?” He could already tell that she was beside herself. He chose to blame it on her pregnancy, her first. But he had a sneaking suspicion he was married to a woman who had inherited her Southern momma’s flair for drama. “Can you come home?”
“No. I already told you that.”
“Mother is crying that Christmas is ruined because the flight was cancelled and she didn’t even put up a tree, and Daddy can’t do a thing with her. I’m pulling my hair out dealing with them and wondering what to do with all this food.”
“Jean, they’re grown. They can handle this little setback. I’m down here saving lives.”
“Stanley should I go ahead and cook this food or freeze it?”
How should he know? He was a weatherman, for Pete’s sake, not some stupid Master Chef like the guy Jean had been dating before Stanley stole her away. “Do what you think best, hon. I’m on in five. Gotta go.”
He was more than happy to escape her and face the cameras, even with such dastardly weather news.
