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Special Agent Fallon Baxter

The drive to Aspen Heights feels as if we’re transitioning into another world, a polished world filled with heavenly landscapes peppered with socialites. And a world where the Colorado summer night unfolds in its most extravagant form.

Air blows in from the open window with a mix of pine and fresh mountain coolness, and it’s a scent I can’t get enough of.

I missed this back in Reno. If I could bottle it, I would in a heartbeat.

Moonlight dapples through the dense canopy of trees lining the road, casting freckled patterns of light and shadow as we ascend the winding roads leading to the neighborhood at hand. The hum of the city fades, replaced by the tranquil sounds of nature. The farther we drive, the more pronounced the silence becomes, save for the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze.

Aspen Heights itself is a testament to opulence. Each home is basically a secluded palace nestled on sprawling acreages with the promise of privacy and exclusivity. The lawns are impeccably manicured and every hedge and flowerbed has been arranged with precision.

It’s the kind of place I had hoped I would live in one day, but now that I’m back in Pine Ridge Falls, living in Whispering Woods, an enclave of cozy rustic cabins by the lake, I wouldn’t trade it for any of this.

The house we’re headed to sits majestically at the top of a hill and I can see the architecture taking shape against the night sky as Jack pulls into a makeshift parking lot filled with sheriff’s vehicles, an ambulance, and CSI.

Although I doubt the architectural wonder before us qualifies as a simple house. It has all the appeal of a log cabin with the size and the girth of a mansion. It’s a perfect blend of rustic elegance and timeless luxury. It’s hard to imagine it was the scene of a shooting and a violent abduction just hours ago.

“We’re here,” Jack says, taking the place in for a moment before we get out of his truck. We leave the windows down for Buddy who seems to be more than content napping in the back seat.

It’s a beehive of deputies and the CSI team here at the scene, as bodies swarm in and around the grand house.

The scent of pine and earth fills my lungs as I take a deep breath, and the weight of the unknown lingers in the air as well. As much as I get a rush of adrenaline when I arrive at the scene of a crime, I never get a rise out of it. I’m about justice, not getting off on someone’s misfortune.

It’s because of Erin. She’s the reason I can empathize with the victims and their families. I can feel their pain because I know it. I own it every single day. It keeps me up at night, and it drives me to work a little harder during the day.

Jack and I thread through the melee as we make our way to whatever waits for us.

“It’s too nice out tonight for this,” Jack says, nodding at the chaos. “I should have been a forest ranger. Less kidnapping, more fishing.”

A dark chuckle strums through me. “And miss out on all the fun of chasing down a suspect?”

“Point taken. But you have to admit, a view like this beats the office any day.”

He’s right. The majestic mountains stand like the shadows of soldiers guarding the land, their peaks reaching to the stars, while the greenery of the forest stretches out like a lush, dark carpet.

“In a lot of ways, this is our office,” I say. “Tell you what, you behave and I might just go fishing with you at the lake.” Jack’s cabin is just a short distance from mine and he happens to have a better view of the lake at that. I’m a little bitter about it but I’m not sure why.

He inches back to inspect me. “It’s a date.”

“It’s not a date. It’s fishing. Buddy will be there. I bet he out-catches both of us.”

“That’s probably true.”

We flash our badges at a couple of deputies and they point us straight to the sheriff, a man in his fifties, graying hair, deep tan, stocky build.

“Special Agent Stone,” Jack says to the man. “This is my partner, Special Agent Baxter. Our SAC filled us in, but we’d like to hear it from you.”

“Sheriff Diaz,” he says with a low rumble. “Glad you could make it. Busy night. We’ve got a mess on our hands here.” He gestures toward the magnificent structure that somehow feels a lot more imposing rather than inviting. “Three shot, none fatal, thankfully. A realtor was showing the property, three of the women were out back when a masked gunman arrived. He shot two, took the realtor. Headed out front and shot the third victim before taking off. Brittney Walker is the name of the realtor. She’s pretty popular around these parts, so it’s a bit of a shock. No witnesses to the getaway vehicle so far. No one saw the abductor’s face, no cameras in place. It’s as if they vanished into thin air.”

I glance up at the ambulance and note a woman sitting in the back, tall, medium build, shoulder-length wavy light brown hair, hollow looking eyes with dark rings around them. She’s wearing a blue sundress, and by the looks of it has a wad of gauze wrapped around her left thigh.

“Who’s she?” I nod her way.

Sheriff Diaz spins around. “That’s one of the women that was hit. The other two were taken to Aspen Heights Memorial. You could start with her if she’s up for it. When you’re done, take a tour. We have everything marked out where the bullets landed.”

I scan the scene and note the meticulous work of the CSI team. “Any leads on where they might have taken her? Tire tracks?”

“No idea,” Diaz says with frustration evident in his tone. “But we’re combing through everything, tire tracks included. Anything you folks can do to help would be appreciated.”

We split ways with him and Jack and I make a beeline for the woman in the back of the ambulance. A paramedic removes a blood pressure cuff from her arm and walks away, leaving her to scan the vicinity as the officers and technicians invade the space.

“Hello.” I force a smile to come and go. I’m not friendly by nature, but I know enough to warm up when a victim is concerned. “We’re with the FBI.” I flash our badges and omit any other formalities. The last thing I want is for her to feel as if she’s to blame. “The sheriff filled us in a little. Would you mind telling us what happened? We’d like to hear it from you. How about we start with your name?”

“Vanessa Copeland,” she says, shivering as she holds herself despite the summer heat in the air. “My mother owns this place. Everything was going pretty good right up until the end and then things went to hell pretty quickly.” She offers a half-smile our way before doing a double take at Jack. I can’t blame her. Most women do.

“Jackie?” She inches back and her mouth squares out with a slight look of horror.

Now there’s a look most women don’t give him.

And Jackie?

Now this I’ve got to hear.