Page 23

Twenty-Three

Stephanie

“I need you to stay here.”

Instead of driving all the way up to the trailer, I pull off to the side of the driveway a few hundred feet away. I’d rather walk the rest of the way in and keep my eyes open, but I don’t want Alex to leave the safety of the car.

“How am I supposed to back you up if I stay in the car?” she objects.

“We can exchange phone numbers, and you can keep an eye on me from here.” We swap phones and enter our numbers. “And if anything happens, I want you to get out of here,” I add as I take my phone back, and leave the keys in the ignition for her.

The last thing I want is to put Jonas’s wife and Jackson’s mother in any danger.

She doesn’t look too pleased with me, but I ignore her as I slip my cell in my pocket and the borrowed gun in the back of my waistband, and get out of the vehicle.

Something is not sitting right with me.

The whole drive over here my mind has been going a mile a minute, trying to come up with some kind of theory that would explain everything that has happened. But some of the pieces simply won’t fit.

Then, as I pulled into the driveway and saw the trailer in the distance, something hit me. If Tracy’s phone is pinging around here somewhere, it doesn’t bode too well for her because it would indicate she’s either hurt, dead, or taken against her will. But if that’s the case, then where is her car? Why isn’t that gray Pontiac Vibe still parked in front of her trailer?

Unless she, or someone else, moved that vehicle to support the story about her leaving for Helena. Still, if that were the case, why would she toss her phone out somewhere around here? If she was afraid someone would use it to track her, wouldn’t she try to destroy it? Take the sim card, toss it in the lake. Anything but leave it lying around near her trailer. It wouldn’t fit with the story she’d be trying to create.

No, wherever Tracy is, I don’t think she went voluntarily. Everything I’ve learned so far would support that. Which means I need to watch my back, because I have no clue what the endgame is here. I don’t know how it ties in with the fire or even the tires on Jackson’s truck, but my gut tells me those things are connected, and it feels like I’m in the middle of it.

Except I have no idea how I got there.

Without losing track of my surroundings, I scan the ground for a phone or anything else that might give me a clue of what happened to Tracy. Ten minutes of that and I realize I’m looking for a needle in a haystack. I pull my cell phone from my pocket to study the image Wilcox sent me.

The red-shaded circle covers a larger area than just this property. It includes the surrounding land and a scant handful of homes—mostly trailers like this one—spread out through the woods. Unless I stumble over it, I’m never going to be able to find the phone by myself.

On a gamble, I hit redial on Tracy’s phone number, hoping perhaps I can hear it. It rings once and then the call is dropped. When I check my phone, I see I only have one bar. Dammit. With so many mountains around, it’s always a bit of a crapshoot whether you get decent reception or not. I guess no shortcuts for me.

I keep searching, checking the number of bars on my phone every so often as I slowly make my way around the house. I’m afraid if I dial the number too often, I’ll drain the battery on her cell and then I won’t be able to get a bead on it at all, so I try to pace myself.

At the back of the property, I stumble onto what looks like a game trail; a narrow path through the fairly dense underbrush. What draws my attention though is the sight of shoe prints in the still damp earth between the ferns. The ridged edges and distinct pattern hold my attention. Opening the photo library on my phone, I locate the image I took by Jackson’s truck, right beside one of its deflated tires.

The shoe print—boot print is probably more accurate—looks identical, up to and including the small imperfections, likely made by gravel stuck between the treads.

I stick out my women’s size eight foot, hovering it over the print, confirming the boot that left the imprint is about a twelve. Too big for Tracy, I’m sure. I would’ve noticed if she had men’s size twelve feet. Besides, she doesn’t seem the type to wear hiking boots. I snap a few quick pictures.

These prints haven’t been here that long. Someone has been here within the past day or two at most.

Glancing back, I can’t see the driveway from here, which means Alex can’t see me either. I don’t want her to worry, so I try to call her, but this time I don’t even get a ring before the call is dropped. Often times text can still get through since it requires less signal strength for transmission, so I quickly shoot off a message.

Checking out a path behind trailer. Won’t be long.

I don’t wait for a response and slip the phone back in my pocket. Reaching around the small of my back, I check to make sure I can easily reach the gun I tucked back there. Then I set out on the path, following the direction of the prints and making sure I don’t step on them.

I pass the rear of a few houses, but I’m still spotting a print here and there, continuing on the trail. When I reach the back of another property—this one looks more like a junkyard than a home—I no longer see any prints ahead. Checking out the place, I notice several old vehicles, an old motorhome, rusted bedsprings, a couple of big drums, stacks of old tires, and even an ancient tractor scattered around the property. There are even some raised garden beds, at one time probably used to grow vegetables or something, but they are wildly overgrown with weeds. The trailer home itself doesn’t look much better than the sorry state of the yard. The only exception is the green tarp covering some vehicle right behind the building.

The folds in the clean plastic still look crisp and new, and my interest is piqued, but so is my sixth sense. It feels like I have eyes on me, and I furtively glance around me, my hand finding the butt of my gun at the small of my back. The fact I don’t see anyone doesn’t necessarily mean anything, there are plenty of opportunities to hide in this junk-riddled yard or the trees beyond.

I stand still for a minute or two, simply listening for any movement, but I don’t hear much beyond the expected muted sounds of nature. Nothing moves.

Standing still won’t find me Tracy though, so—staying alert—I slowly approach the covered vehicle.

Part of me already knows what I’ll find underneath. Call it intuition or a gut feeling, but when I lift the edge of the tarp and reveal the distinct red logo against gray paint, I’m not surprised.

Instinctively I sniff the air for the scent of decomposition. It wouldn’t be the first time we find a vehicle, only to discover the victim inside. I don’t smell it though, and I have a sharp nose. The scent is distinctive enough not to be confused with the smell of damp or rotting vegetation, which there is plenty of. No guarantees until I get a good look, but that’s going to have to wait until Vallard gets here.

He didn’t seem in too much of a hurry when I spoke to him earlier, but I bet he’ll put his foot on the gas when he hears I found her car. I drop the tarp and produce my phone, hoping for a pocket of decent cell reception. The two bars staring back at me are encouraging.

But before I have a chance to dial, a shot rings out. I drop the phone and duck down, but it’s not until I try to reach behind me for the gun, I notice my right arm won’t work. When I look down, I see blood dripping down my hand.

Then the pain sets in.

I fight to keep a clear mind, and slip my left hand behind my back. It’s a bit awkward since the gun is angled the wrong way, but I manage to get my hand on the butt and pull it free. I guess those target shooting sessions my father subjected me to, where he made me shoot both right- and left-handed, are coming in handy now.

I try to peek around the vehicle to see if I can pinpoint the shooter, when another sharp gun crack forces me back down. Whoever is shooting at me is doing so from the far side of the trailer. Ignoring my injured arm, which feels like it weighs a ton and burns like it’s on fire, I slide down on my stomach, inching my way under the vehicle. Praying I don’t run into a snake, I crawl and claw my way to the back of the car, where I have a better view peeking out from under the bumper.

Someone used an old drum under the downspout on the back corner of the trailer to collect rainwater, probably to water those garden beds, but I’m guessing that was a good while ago. The rusted drum, full to the brim and spilling over, provides decent protection for someone trying to stay out of sight.

Ignoring the sweat and dirt stinging my eyes, I try to steady my left hand wrapped around the gun and line up my sight. It would be an awkward shot if I was taking it with my right hand, but even more so with my left and under these conditions. Still, the barrel is a large enough target.

I fire off two shots in quick succession. The first one is too high, clipping the top rim of the barrel, so I immediately adjust my sight and fire again. There is no reaction. No responding shot, no sounds of someone scrambling to get out of range. Odd, I would’ve bet the bullets aimed at me came from that direction.

With adrenaline fueling me, I scoot forward a little and push up the edge of the tarp to look for vantage points. Not a lot of alternative cover on that side of the trailer. Unless he was lying flat on the shallow roof of the trailer.

Shit .

If he was up on the roof, that would suggest he had time to prepare, which can only mean one thing; he was watching. I bet if I hadn’t been looking at the ground to look for tracks, I’d probably have seen game cameras or something like that mounted along the trail.

I scan the roofline, which only has a very slight pitch, but see nothing. No movement. If he was up there, he isn’t now.

Or she.

Somehow, I automatically assumed the shooter is a man, and in the back of my mind decided it’s got to be Mitchel Laine, but who’s to say it isn’t Tracy Elliston taking potshots at me?

I don’t have time to waste trying to figure out who has their finger on the trigger. I could stay put and wait for Vallard to show up but, as much as I dislike the man, I can’t have him walk in on an ambush. Not to mention, Alex is out there waiting for me in the car. I can’t risk her safety.

Taking a moment, I try to have a quick look at my shoulder. The entire right side of my torso is on fire, but all I can see is a relatively small entry wound almost on top of my shoulder, supporting my guess I was shot from above. At least the bleeding doesn’t seem too bad, it’s not gushing.

Rather than waste time trying to patch myself up, I decide to forge ahead. With the gun firmly clenched in my left hand, I wiggle my way out from under the car, keeping a sharp eye out for movement around me at all times. A brief and random thought flashes through my mind, wondering how my blood pressure is faring at the moment. Probably not too good. But on a brighter note, I’m not having a panic attack.

Clearing my head with a shake, I force myself to focus as I inch my way closer to the corner. Crouching down, I now use the rain barrel to shield me from view from the side of the house. The ground at my feet is saturated, making a squishy sound as I shift a little to find a more comfortable position. Then I slowly lift my head to clear the edge of the barrel in my vision.

Nothing, other than a few stacked flowerpots and a partial bag of potting soil that look like they’ve been here a while. At some point someone cared about this place, but now it reeks of neglect.

“Drop the gun in the barrel.”

Every hair on my body stands on end at the sound of a gravelly man’s voice right behind me. But it’s the pressure of a barrel at the back of my neck that has the fingers on my left hand open up. A couple of droplets splash up when the gun hits the water with a plunk.

“Cell phone too.”

My heart is heavy when I send that down to the bottom of the barrel as well.

If I had the use of both arms, I’d use this moment to attempt a tried and tested maneuver to disarm him, but it would be suicide to try with one arm. I will have to wait for another opportunity. If he wanted me dead, he could have easily killed me. The fact I’m still breathing means he still has use for me, and therefore there is time for me to plan.

The only time I ever heard Mitchel Laine speak, prior to today, was to ask for his lawyer. He never spoke during the numerous interviews or even during his trial, staying mum through the whole ordeal. That doesn’t mean I didn’t recognize his voice instantly.

“Where is Tracy?” I ask.

But instead of answering, he grabs hold of my ponytail, and with his gun still pressed in my neck, starts marching me to the front of the trailer. There, he forces me through the front door, kicking it shut behind us. But before I have a chance to take stock of my surroundings, he lets go of my hair and with a violent shove in my back, sends me sprawling face-first to the floor.

I’m given no time to recover when a dirty hiking boot is planted in my neck, keeping me pinned to the dirty linoleum.

“Get the zip ties,” he barks.

My eyes track the sound of shuffling and find Tracy bruised, naked, and on all fours, scrambling for a ratty backpack sitting on the floor by a threadbare couch. I watch as she digs through the contents and comes up with a pair of black zip ties. It’s not until she turns around I see the full extent of her injuries. She’s almost unrecognizable. That bastard used her as a punching bag. Her eyes are almost swollen shut, blood is crusted under her obviously broken nose, and a deep slice on her cheekbone probably should’ve had stitches.

When her barely visible eyes catch on me, her lips form an apology.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers on a sob as she crawls toward me.