Chapter 8
Paul met them at the landing pier at Long Lake, where they had seen the reverend off on her flight back to civilization. If it hadn’t been for the fact Flynn was out there in the wilderness with a bunch of freaking Confederacy cosplayers, Hadley would have been on the plane with her.
“So.” Paul joined them at the splintery gray picnic table. “Kicked out of Newcomb. That’s gotta be a first.”
“We were asked to leave the inn, not the town.” The chief sounded as if he were chewing on something nasty.
“And the lodge,” Hadley corrected. “She called the lodge to warn them about us, too.”
Paul sat on the table next to the chief and opened his thermos.
Hadley and Van Alstyne had already gotten their coffee from the general store—apparently their money was still good in Long Lake.
Although she wouldn’t count on that lasting.
“So, was the warning from some resident who thinks you’re part of the militia?
Or from someone involved with the militia, who knows you’re not? ”
“That,” the chief tipped back the rest of his coffee, “is the fifty-thousand-dollar question.” He tossed his go-cup into a nearby trash barrel. “We’re going to need to be extra cautious hiking up there today.”
Paul snorted. “I was planning on it. You can at least pass for a sympathizer, maybe with Hadley here as your child bride.”
“Hey!”
“No offense. It’s just they’re going to take one look at the color of my skin and know I’m not there to sign up for the Aryan Nation.”
The chief laughed. “That’s the truth.” He eased off the table. “Okay, let’s head out. The sooner we reach that truck, the sooner we know our next step.”
The ranger took his official vehicle, while Hadley and the chief followed behind in Van Alstyne’s pickup.
The way into the wilderness was painfully slow.
They ran out of paved road all too soon, continuing onto something more like a trail; barely wide enough for their vehicles, rutted, rocky, and full of holes that the chief’s truck would drop into and judder out of, shaking Hadley’s spleen and turning her stomach upside down.
She experimented with closing her eyes, fixing her gaze on the horizon, such as it was, and finally had to unroll the window and stick her head out like a dog.
“You need me to stop, Knox?”
“Not yet.” She couldn’t believe she was nauseous two days in a row. “I swear, I don’t get motion sickness. I didn’t even barf when I was pregnant.”
The chief looked at her, alarmed.
Despite feeling queasy, she laughed. “Unless God Himself reached down and undid my tubal ligation, I’m okay.”
“Jesus. I mean, sorry. Not meaning to be inappropriate.”
“As you keep reminding me, you’re not my boss anymore.” They lurched again and then jolted to a stop.
“Paul’s getting out. I’d better see what’s up.”
She stumbled out of the truck cab a beat behind the chief, and leaned gratefully against the non-moving, non-bouncing hood.
She breathed deep, steadying herself. The air was amazing up here, cold and sweet like well water.
Back home in California, people would have spent big bucks to suck it down at an oxygen bar. She laughed.
“You must be feeling better.” Paul came around the tail of his truck.
“Yeah, thanks. Why did we stop?”
“This is as far as we’re going to drive. We can still turn our rides around here, so we’re going to do that and then strike out on foot.”
She looked at where the forest was crowding in against the trail and thought, Turn around? What she said was “I thought we were going to drive to where we saw the truck?”
“We’re on a different road. We’re going to cut across to reach our target location. It’s not like Pierre to drive into trouble, but just in case, we don’t want to be trapped there as well.”
She waved at the so-called road they were completely blocking. “What if someone wants to drive past us?”
“The only vehicles allowed here belong to the Department of Environmental Conservation.” He tapped his black shoulder patch with its red lettering and green pine.
She got to wait outside while the men performed fifty-seven-point turns and got the trucks aimed downhill.
The chief checked her backpack again, despite giving it a go-over before they had left Millers Kill.
“Dried food, pot, a change of clothes, matches, headlamp, stove, where’s your water?
” She shoved the water bottle into a side pocket.
“Your sit pad and your cold-weather sleeping pad.” He cinched the straps holding it to the bottom of her pack. “Good to go.”
Van Alstyne’s pack was considerably larger, with a tent and two sleeping bags, while Paul emerged wearing a knapsack that looked just about big enough for a picnic outing. He slung a rifle over his shoulder. “Either of you carrying?”
She shook her head. The chief nodded.
“Okay, let’s put Hadley between the two of us, then. I’ll take point.”
Fortunately, it had been a dry winter so far, and Hadley had good, warm boots—policing had taught her the importance of footwear.
For the first little while, it was almost enjoyable—the crunch of their feet breaking the thin snow crusted over brittle leaves, the sunlight falling in shafts and lacy patterns between bare trees and pines.
In the quiet, she could hear birdcalls, far more than she would have thought, and she caught flashes of cardinal red and gleaming black flitting among the trees.
Then her shoulders began to ache. Her legs wanted to stop and sit down for just a while, her lips were chapping, and her cheeks and nose stung from the cold, despite the fact she was perspiring inside her wool and knit layers.
She was reminded, vividly, of why she avoided camping, and trekking, and really, any hike that was more than a pleasant stroll with the kids to a scenic overlook.
Paul kept pistoning on, though, occasionally consulting a compass without pausing, while behind her, the chief methodically trudged forward despite carrying twice or maybe three times the weight she had.
It was bad enough she hadn’t thought to bring her service weapon; honestly, she never carried it off-duty, and up to the moment their plane was fired upon she hadn’t considered the militia group might be really, actually dangerous.
So many of these groups were just disgruntled ex-jocks and guys who washed out of police training. Hard to take seriously as a threat.
She set her face and tried to concentrate on her breathing, determined she wasn’t going to be the weak link in the chain between Ranger Last of the Mohicans and Chief Behind Enemy Lines.
She focused on her feet, putting one boot in front of the other, until she was half-hypnotized and the pain in her back and hips seemed to belong to somebody else.
She nearly ran into Paul when he finally stopped. He motioned them to take off their packs, and she did so, suddenly so light she thought she might float up into the tangle of bare branches above. “The truck should be in sight once we’re over this rise.” He spoke in a quiet voice.
The chief answered the same way. “Low and slow, then.”
Even army-crawling felt good after being on her feet for so long. They crested the slight rise and could see the truck below them, not even on a rocky road like the one they had come in on, but rolled into a clearing.
She didn’t need Paul’s swift intake of breath to tell her they were looking at his uncle’s vehicle; the gold-on-black stripe and forest ranger medallion made that clear.
The chief pressed the binoculars into her hand.
“Knox, you’ve got good eyes. See if you can spot anything we need to worry about. ”
Scanning the forest around the truck didn’t reveal anything except trees, stone outcrops, and patches of snow. She pointed out the faint traces of where the truck had come up between two banks of pines.
“Probably a dry creek bed.” Paul rose from his prone position. “Pierre could always manage trails no one else would dare.” Hadley wondered if he noticed he was speaking of his uncle in the past tense. They hoisted their packs and followed the ranger down the slope.
The truck was empty and locked. Paul’s grim expression said that was bad news.
“Paul.” The chief was searching the ground near the driver’s door. “Look at where this grass is beaten down.” The long gold shafts were broken and flat, and lichen had been scraped off the stones nearby. Hadley went to the tailgate, covered and closed by a black truck cap. “Here, too.”
“And on the passenger side.” Paul’s mouth tightened.
“Could your uncle have lost his key somehow?” It didn’t sound likely, but Hadley had learned to consider all possibilities. “Tried to hike out when he couldn’t get back into his truck?”
Paul squatted next to the rear wheel and felt around under the vehicle’s carriage. He pulled out a narrow metal box and opened it to reveal a key.
“Magnetic lockbox.” The chief came around to see. “I’ve got one of those myself.” He kicked at the disturbed ground. “Which means someone who didn’t know the trick was trying to get in.”
“At least two, would be my guess.”
Hadley circled the truck and crossed the open area toward the trees on the other side.
Behind her, she heard Van Alstyne saying something to Paul in a subdued voice.
She scanned the ground, looking for more of those crushed grasses, and found what she was searching for at the edge of the wood.
A brown and brittle fern had been trampled, and beyond it, she could see the marks left in the leaves and snow of something, or someone, making their way through the trees.
“Guys.” She pitched her voice just loud enough to carry. “Over here.”
Paul reached her side first. “Oh, yeah.” He nodded at her. “Excellent work. You’re a natural tracker.” She could feel her face heating from the compliment, which was ridiculous.
“Good job, Knox.” The chief gestured behind him. “Let’s stow our gear in the truck and see where this trail takes us.”