Page 6

Six

Stephanie

Startled by the sound of a car horn behind me, I jerk my eyes to the rearview mirror.

A large pickup with a pissed-off guy behind the wheel, gesturing wildly, is riding my ass.

Great, I’m already pissing off the locals.

I didn’t realize there was anyone behind me, I was too busy scanning the numbers on the mailboxes, slowing down each time I passed one.

Edging the wheels on the passenger side of my SUV as close to the ditch as I dare, I motion for the guy to pass me. I hold up my hand in apology and receive an extended middle finger in return.

Charming.

The address I was given is on the north side of the river in Troy, it’s a more remote, wooded area I’m not familiar with. The houses are spread out, and sometimes not visible from the road or each other, a good portion of them no more than ramshackle trailer homes. I’m starting to wonder if, maybe, I should’ve let someone know where I was heading.

The only person who knows is Ben Vallard, and he’s back in Michigan.

I wasn’t going to get involved—I don’t owe Vallard any favors—but he knew damn well, calling me to let me know the police officer Mitchel Laine shot had died that afternoon, he’d have me hooked.

I work hard on any case, regardless of who the victim or victims may be, but when it involves a fellow law enforcement officer, things get personal. Enough so I find myself looking for Tracy Elliston this morning.

Mitchel Laine’s girlfriend.

I didn’t jump in with both feet, mind you. Still, Ben explained he had to testify in one of his cases that went to trial in the coming days and wouldn’t be able to get away. Then he mentioned he’d tried to get assistance from the Kalispell office but was told they were swamped. That was a direct hit, since the reason they’re swamped is likely because I’m not there to do my job.

Ultimately, he had some valid concerns once news about the officer dying got out, Laine could well aim straight for the Canadian border. After all, Troy is less than eighty miles from the border. It wouldn’t take much for him to disappear from our jurisdiction.

In the end, I caved and told him I’d look into it.

He was able to give me an address for the woman, 254 Waterfront Road, and the name of her employer, Cuts ’n Curls, a hair salon in town. But, as he pointed out, he couldn’t guarantee that information was still correct.

I’d spent some time last night lying awake in bed, trying to come up with a credible cover. There’s no way I’m going to invoke the FBI. Aside from the fact she’d clam up immediately, I don’t want to risk my job by flaunting the Bureau without the badge to show for it.

This morning I’d looked up the hair salon online. No website, but they do have a Facebook page, which I scanned, finding a comment under a post from a woman who raved about the cut she got from Tracy. I made note of the customer’s name and waited until nine to call the salon. When I asked for an appointment with Tracy, I was told she wouldn’t be in until that afternoon and was booked up, but had space tomorrow.

My plan had been to go in—my hair could use a trim anyway—and see what I could find out. Most hairdressers are Chatty Cathys in my experience anyway. But since I couldn’t get in until tomorrow, and I didn’t want to waste today, I decided to have a look at the address Vallard gave me.

It wasn’t until I turned down this road and happened to spot a for-rent sign on the mailbox of a dingy looking trailer a mile or so back, an enhanced plan formed.

Most of the number has flaked off the side of the brightly painted mailbox, but I’m just able to make it out. The driveway is little more than two ruts winding through the trees. I only get a glimpse of an equally bright-colored trailer from the road. Confident my cover will hold up; I turn on to the trail to take a closer look.

The house looks to be a double-wide trailer, and it’s in better shape than either the mailbox or the driveway. Nothing is blooming yet, but I can see someone loves gardening. There are planters on either side of the steps going up to the house, and the small clearing in front of the house has a couple of flower beds, filled with dormant plants.

A gray Pontiac Vibe is parked on the right side of the trailer. I hope that means she’s home.

No sooner have I turned off my engine, when the front door of the trailer swings open and a woman with glasses perched on the tip of her nose and a mass of vibrant red hair piled high on her head steps outside. If this is Tracy, she’s changed quite a bit from the DMV image Ben sent through last night. She had blond hair and full makeup on in that picture.

“Can I help you?”

The question is friendly enough, but her tone has a sharp edge. This is not a woman to mess with.

“Yes, hi.” I plaster on my best smile as I walk up. From closer up I recognize her features. This is definitely Tracy, unless she has a twin. “I believe you have a place listed for rent?”

“For rent?” she echoes.

I pull out a scrap of paper and pretend to read something, squinting my eyes.

“This is 254 Waterfront Road, isn’t it?”

Her face registers confusion first, but then quickly relaxes.

“It is, but this isn’t for rent. There’s a trailer down the street a bit that is though. I think it’s 234 Waterfront, you must’ve written down the wrong number.”

I make it look like I’m scrutinizing the paper even closer before pressing a hand to my forehead.

“Oh my God, I feel so stupid. You’re right. It’s a three and not a five. How bad is it I can’t even read my own writing anymore?”

The woman chuckles and lifts her glasses off her face, holding them up.

“Believe me, I know only too well. These days I have to wear reading glasses for everything except driving.”

“I guess I have no choice, I’ll have to invest in a pair,” I return. “I was hoping to put it off for another, let’s say, decade or two.” I lift my hand. “I’m so sorry for bothering you. I’ll go find 234.”

“Not to worry.”

She’s already turned her back, pushing open the door, when she suddenly swings around, her eyes drifting to my CR-V.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t bother with that place. I don’t think it’s for you, it’s a bit of a dump and the owner is an asshole.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks. I’ve got a few more places to look at anyway.”

This time she disappears inside and I head back to my vehicle.

I didn’t see any movement inside, and Tracy did not strike me as nervous, the way I would expect if she were harboring a fugitive and some stranger came knocking on her door. I don’t think he’s here, at least not now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be at some point.

Still, I’m smiling when I turn back onto the road. My hook is set, and tomorrow when I coincidentally show up for my haircut, she and I will have lots to talk about.

* * *

Jackson

“How’s the leg?”

I look up from the computer screen to see Jonas stepping into the tent. We’d just loaded up the horses early this morning and were about to take off, when he received a notification he was expected to attend some kind of task force meeting at nine thirty. He’d been none too pleased.

“Better.”

I had to give my stump a little extra care last night before I rolled into bed. A good wash and some derma repair cream with vitamin E to do its thing overnight. Then this morning I put on a fresh, super-thin stump sock, and used a different prosthetic liner.

Still, I brought my crutch, and once we’d set up communications, and I was sitting at the monitor, I took my leg off to give the skin some air.

“What was that meeting about?” I ask him.

“A bunch of posturing and finger-pointing between agencies. The Argentinian government is not happy we haven’t been able to locate the ambassador’s son and feels not enough people are searching and more should be done. The reason they wanted me there was to explain why more searchers would not be helpful.”

People don’t realize this can be very unpredictable and treacherous terrain. Sending groups of inexperienced people on a search in these mountains is asking for trouble. We’d end up spending more time hauling out injuries or looking for missing volunteers than we’d be searching. It really is more trouble than it’s worth.

“And?”

He shrugs. “They were temporarily satisfied with my suggestion to call the dog team out again.”

“Jillian?”

“Yeah. But this time with Emo.”

Jillian is my teammate Wolff’s wife. She has a search-and-rescue dog team, but also handles a cadaver dog, Emo, who is trained to find human remains.

“I assume you’d have told me if you caught anything with the drone?”

“Nothing particular,” I share as I open the topographic map of the area on my screen. “I tracked the creek up the mountain and back down, and marked up the areas where I saw the collection of melt-off debris.”

I point at a turn in the river, where I’d spotted a substantial obstruction had formed, forcing the water out of its bounds to get around.

“That’s a big one. Let me find this section on the video from the Matrice, so you can see it yourself.”

As I was watching the live feed and marking the areas of interest on the map, I also noted the time tag on the video, making it easier to find.

“There was something else that drew my attention. Keep an eye on the trees at the east side of the creek about fifty or so feet from the water,” I point out as I cue up the tape to roll.

I lean out of the way, so Jonas has a clear view of the screen as the feed shows the drone’s path over the creek. I can tell from his reaction he saw what I saw, before he opens his mouth.

His mumbled, “Grizzly,” is followed by a healthy curse.

“Keep watching.”

“ Shit , are those cubs?”

On the screen two little dark blobs appear to bounce behind the bear.

“Yeah.”

Bears give birth during hibernation, usually in January or February. They stay in the den with the mother until anytime between the end of March and May, when the warmer weather coaxes them out. The cubs trail along with their mother who, by this time, is ravenously hungry.

Food is generally abundant at this time, but grizzlies will eat anything; from plants and fruits to fish and any and all kinds of animals. They’re opportunistic eaters, often foraging or hunting for whatever is in season, and in the spring it’s not unusual for them to feed on roadkill or other dead animals they come across.

Or dead humans.

A female with cubs is not going to turn up her nose at an easy meal like that.

I fast forward the video feed to the drone’s return trip to base camp. When I reach the same section in the creek, I let it play at normal speed. This time the grizzly looks to be rummaging in the debris that has piled up in the creek bend. Her cubs are just visible at the edge of the tree line. She lifts her head and appears to be looking right at the drone as the Matrice passes overhead.

“You think he’s in there?” Jonas asks.

“I think something got her attention. Could be anything, but it probably warrants a closer look.”

“It’ll be tough getting close if there is something she’s feeding on in that pile,” Jonas suggests.

The bear will be protective of her food and of her cubs, so yeah, it won’t be without risk.

“Send the drone up again,” he orders. “I want to have a good look around. See how close of a visual we can get before we call the team back.”

I supply the Matrice with fresh batteries and launch her from the clearing in front of the tent. Then, with the controller board in hand, I head back inside where the feed from the camera is up on the big screen.

As the crow flies, it takes the drone far less time than it would on horseback to get to that particular bend in the creek. It’s pretty rough terrain, and won’t be easy to access on the ground. Unfortunately, because of the rapidly moving water, as well as the debris washing down, it’s too dangerous to try and use the creek itself. We often use the path of water to get to places that are otherwise difficult to access, but that won’t be an option now.

“First scan the area. See if you can spot the bear.”

I steer the drone around, getting as low as I dare to the treetops without risking damage. The farther you get from the water, the denser the woods appear to be. With the camera angled straight down, you still only get glimpses of what is underneath.

I circle the area a few times, but we don’t see the bear or her cubs.

“Probably hiding out in her den until she needs to feed again,” Jonas comments. “Could be anywhere in that terrain.”

I grunt in agreement as I change the path of the Matrice and angle the camera toward the debris clogging up the creek.

“There’s a bit of a clearing right in that bend,” I point out. “I should be able to do a few flyovers right above the water.”

“Do it, but slowly.”

This close to the water, I have to concentrate on flying, while Jonas scans the camera feed. On my first pass I approach from the south. Nothing jumps out at me, and Jonas doesn’t ask me to slow or give him a closer look.

Things change when I approach from the north.

“What’s that?” Jonas asks, pointing at something on the screen.

I immediately slow down my approach and leave the drone hovering to get a better look. What looks like a scrap of green fabric appears stuck in some branches.

“Ball cap?” I ask, trying to identify what it is.

“Looks like it. He was supposed to be wearing one that color,” Jonas refers to the description we were given.

“Yeah, but the likelihood is, he would’ve lost that when he first hit the water,” I point out, playing devil’s advocate. “Just because his hat got hung up here doesn’t mean the rest of him did.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t either,” he returns.

“That’s fair.”

Jonas draws circles with his index finger. “Can you get around the pile to where we saw the bear? If there is something she was feeding on, we may be able to see.”

As instructed, I slowly maneuver the drone around the perimeter, keeping the camera focused on the debris.

“There,” he announces, pointing at something poking out from between a couple of tangled branches on the screen.

I carefully inch the drone closer to the spot he’s indicating, but it takes me a few moments to realize what I’m looking at is one side of a torso, still partially covered in camo, protruding from the pile. The arm is missing, clearly ripped off.

Suddenly the feed jerks with erratic movement; the camera spins, showing a slice of sky, fur, some trees, and finally dirt when it comes to rest on the ground.

The last image is of a large snout sniffing at the drone before the feed is cut off.

“We’re gonna need a new bird.”

Jonas’s response is predictable.

“Fucking hell.”