Chapter 25 The Hunt
The Hunt
Shane sat in his Sierra behind the general store, listening to the radio while he tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel with his thumb. Amy should have been here ten minutes ago, even allowing for a delay.
He pulled out his phone and checked for messages, though he’d looked only seconds before. He’d texted her when he had first arrived in the parking lot to let her know he was there and waiting. Five minutes went by, ten, twelve, with no return texts.
She’d probably changed her mind. She’d decided he was an irredeemable asshole, she was still pissed, and she wanted nothing to do with his ass.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let her walk away,” he grumbled aloud. “That gave her time to think, and now she’s going to ignore me until she figures out how to let me down.” No, that wasn’t like Amy. She would give him the benefit of the doubt and hear him out while he tried to explain.
Wouldn’t she?
“Sure she will. Then she’ll shut me down.”
He dialed her number. It went straight to voicemail. He left a message. “Hey, Barista Amy, where are you? Thought you’d be here by now. Call or text me and let me know when you’re on your way.”
Two, three, five more long minutes stretched.
“Fuck this shit,” he muttered as he threw the truck into gear and nosed it out of the parking lot.
Mountain Coffee was only a few blocks away, and it took three minutes to pull into the parking lot.
His headlights swept the lot, but it was empty.
Her Explorer wasn’t there, and neither was anything that could be considered a delivery.
He threw the truck into park, leaped from it, and tried the door. It was locked.
Figuring they’d passed each other, he climbed back into his pickup and returned to his place.
She still wasn’t there. Had they gotten their wires crossed?
He checked his phone again. Nothing. Panic bloomed in his gut.
He gunned the engine and drove to the Vogue Vault.
The parking lot behind that store was also empty. So were the slots out front.
Next, he sped toward Micky’s garage. Nothing stirred. When he cruised past Micky’s house, the place was dark, and Micky’s truck was nowhere in sight.
Shane rolled slowly along Bowen Street, head on a swivel as he checked the side streets for any sign of her SUV. He passed Miners Tavern and didn’t see it parked out front, so he turned into the back parking lot. Not there either.
He tapped the number for Dispatch. “This is 431.”
“Isn’t it your night off, Deputy?” He could hear the smile in Donna’s voice.
“You’re working a little late yourself.”
“You know how it is. Election time and suddenly the sheriff wants us all neat and polished and pretending we’re a big-time department. Good thing it’s a slow night,” she chuckled mildly. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to know if you’ve gotten any calls regarding a blue-gray late-model Ford Explorer.” He rattled off the plate number.
“Not a thing. Do you need me to issue a BOLO?”
“Not yet. Thanks, Donna.” He hung up and cruised past the three parking lots again—the general store’s, Mountain Coffee’s, and the Vogue Vault’s—coming up empty.
“Where are you?” he mumbled. An idea struck, and he drove to Luanne’s house, where he knocked on the front door.
Luanne was working at Miners tonight, but she wasn’t the one he was looking for.
Cade whipped open the door, barefoot, in sweats and a T-shirt with tomato-sauce stains on it.
He smelled like skunkweed, and his eyes reminded Shane of one of those old Dracula movies.
Over Cade’s shoulder, Shane noticed a TV with a video game paused on the screen, cans of beer, and one of Cade’s buddies sprawled against the couch, holding a controller in his hand.
The guy obviously recognized Shane, and he gaped at him. “Oh, fuck!”
“I’m not here for you, buddy,” Shane assured him.
Cade stepped outside and pulled the door closed. “What can I do for you?”
“Have you seen Amy?”
Pleats mirroring Cade’s confusion formed between his brows. “No. Why would she be here?”
She wouldn’t. “I meant since you left Miners. Like, did you go somewhere and happen to see her?”
Cade shook his head. It was obvious he’d come home, gotten stoned, and eaten pizza before settling in to play games with his pal, so Shane had no reason to disbelieve him. “She comes over to see Mom once in a while, but Mom’s at Miners.”
The kid seemed to be grinding his gears over why Amy would be at his house, so before he could sprain his brain any further, Shane thanked him and climbed back into his truck.
He headed back to the tavern, where he parked out front, killed the engine, and dialed Micky’s number. The call went straight to voicemail.
He balled up his frustration and stuffed it into a back corner of his mind before strolling inside the bar, where Dixie greeted him.
“Have you seen Amy?” He kept his tone low so no one else would hear.
Dixie blinked. “I thought she left with you.”
So much for Amy and him being stealthy when they’d left.
From behind the bar, Noah lifted his chin. “Aw, you missed me.”
“He’s looking for Amy,” Dixie announced.
Shane might have cringed at Dixie’s lack of a filter, but he was getting desperate. If anyone in the tavern piped up to tell him they’d seen Amy in the last ten minutes, he could relax. No one did.
Icy fingers of dread crept up his spine. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
He approached the bar, where Holt Gunderson sat in the same seat. Shane leaned past him and asked Noah if he’d seen her.
Noah glanced at Hailey, who cocked her head. “Didn’t she leave around the same time you did?”
“She did. We were supposed to meet, but we must’ve gotten our wires crossed. I thought she might have come back here.”
Hailey raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Meet, huh? No, but I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”
“Better yet, will you text her for me?” If Amy was pissed and wanted to punish him by ignoring him, it wouldn’t stop her from replying to Hailey. Then he’d know she was all right, and he could stop stressing.
“Uh, sure?” Hailey pulled out her phone and tapped.
Gunderson turned his head toward Shane. “Hey, you know that picture you were showing me? The map with the trailheads?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“You still got it?”
Shane found the image on his phone and handed it to Gunderson, who moved his fingers over the screen, zooming in, zooming out. He pointed at the blue square with the C inside the box. It was kind of off by itself, and Shane didn’t think Gunderson had noticed it earlier.
Apparently he had because he tapped it. “This spot has been bugging me ever since you showed me this map, and I think I finally figured it out. I’m pretty sure that’s where the old Allen cabin sits.”
Shane didn’t hide his surprise. “Allen, as in Micky Allen?” He’d never heard of it.
“Well, his grandpa’s cabin. Or maybe it was his great-grandpa.
Anyway, they had one of those shoestring claims up there.
I don’t think it ever amounted to much, but while they were mining it, they put up a rough one-room cabin.
The C could stand for ‘cabin,’ but what would the St at Mountain Coffee stand for? ”
Shane thought he knew.
Hailey held up her phone. “Message sent, but no reply so far.”
Shane gave her a nod of thanks and turned back to Gunderson. “Is the structure still standing?”
“It was when I was up there earlier this year, but it was in sad shape. More of a shack or a lean-to. Could be a pile of timbers by now.”
“How do I get to it?”
Shane’s urgency must have been obvious because Gunderson’s relaxed expression shifted in a heartbeat. “Dude, what are you onto?”
“I’ll tell you in a sec. What road do I take to get to the cabin?”
“County Road 352.”
Shane’s phone rang. “Dispatch” glowed on the screen. “I’ve got to take this.”
Noah had been following their conversation, and his demeanor, like Gunderson’s, had transformed from humorous to stony. He signaled for Shane to follow him, and Shane did. Noah unlocked his office and threw open the door. “Take as much time as you need.”
Shane thanked him and answered the phone as Noah shut the door behind him. “This is 431, Deputy Shane O’Brien.”
“431, Central.” Donna’s tone was brisk, clipped. Shane’s heart stopped.
“Be advised, Unit 346 just called in a blue-gray Ford Explorer, northbound 550, high rate. Vehicle turned east on County Road 352, mile marker four-seven. Plate confirmed.”
Shane’s pulse spiked. “Did he give occupant info?”
“Negative on occupant count or gender. He did report a silver Chevy Tahoe followed Explorer off-road, tight enough to bump. No rear plate visible. One occupant observed. 346 broke off to divert to a 10-50 fatal, marker six-three.”
A hunch made his mind whir. “Central, details on that 10-50?”
“Affirm. Single-vehicle, beige pickup. No further at this time.”
Shane thanked her and tore back into the bar, where he hailed Gunderson. “How much have you had to drink?”
Gunderson gaped at him before recognition dawned. “It’s strictly a Coke night. What do you need?” He whipped out a few bills he smacked on the bar top and began yanking on his parka.
“I need backup.”
“I’m in.”
Minutes later, Shane and Gunderson were hurtling north out of Fall River into the inky night in Shane’s GMC Sierra.
Gunderson had grabbed a few extra supplies from his own personal vehicle, including his GLOCK 19 and extra magazines.
Shane had liberated his full-sized service weapon, a Sig Sauer P320, from its in-car gun safe and made sure his Daniel Defense AR-10 was stowed below his back seat before they’d started out.
Like other first responders in these desolated mountains, his pickup was outfitted with a radio similar to the one in his service vehicle. Right now, he barked into that radio.