Chapter 11 #2
Jericho took off after Orlando, the bell jingling.
Harley moved behind him, maybe yes, hurting just a little. But she wasn’t staying behind, thank you.
The dog worked in widening circles, nose down, then up, testing the air. Harley kept her eyes moving, searching for anything out of place in the pristine snow, any sign of passage.
Orlando ran across the field, then into the forest, some two hundred yards from the road.
“Don’t lose him!” she shouted ahead to Jericho. He’d looked back at her a couple times as he ran.
Where was the former track star in her? C’mon, Harley!
Jericho followed his dog into the trees, Harley not far behind. Thankfully, the man and dog had broken the trail through snow that reached her knees in places. The forest was different here than near town—older, deeper. More dangerous. The kind of place that kept its secrets.
A flash of something red caught her eye. She ran over to it, picked it up.
A hat, homemade. She confirmed it by turning it inside out. There, Daniel’s name was stitched inside the band.
“Jericho!”
Ahead, he stopped, turned. “What?”
She held up the hat, and he waited until she caught up. “It’s Daniel’s hat.”
He took it, searched inside. Made a face.
“I don’t understand,” Jericho said. “Orlando should alert on this. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless it’s not where they went.” He studied the ground, the trees. The wind had sculpted the snow into waves, obscuring any tracks from yesterday. “This could have blown here. The wind last night . . .” He looked after his dog. “Maybe he’s confused.”
Orlando barked—sharp, insistent—from twenty yards ahead. The sound echoed off the trees, startling a raven that took flight in a burst of black wings against the white sky.
He didn’t seem confused.
Orlando circled again, then kept moving, heading deeper into the trees.
“Trust him,” Harley said, her breath clouding in the frigid air. “He knows what he’s doing.”
Jericho hesitated only a second before straightening. The hat disappeared into his pocket. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Good. This isn’t a job for the weary,” she said.
Jericho glanced at her.
“Go.”
He ran ahead.
She marked the hat’s location on her GPS, then ran to catch up.
The afternoon light filtered through the bare branches, casting blue shadows on the snow that had drifted against the thick trunks of the spruce trees.
Orlando surged forward, and they followed. Somewhere overhead, Air One’s rotors beat a steady rhythm, but here in the trees, the sound was muffled and distant.
She caught up to Jericho.
“How are you so sure?” he asked her as they climbed a small rise. The snow was deeper here, unbroken except for the occasional snowshoe hare trail. “About Orlando. About me.”
Funny. He’d never . . . well, the man just didn’t doubt himself. Did he?
“Why?” she asked.
“Just . . . I don’t know. Ever since the avalanche . . .” His mouth made a grim line.
“You blame yourself.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t catch it—the bomb blasting. It was . . .”
She stopped, caught his arm. “Listen. You’re not omniscient, last I checked.”
He eyed her.
“And besides, right now I need you to be right. I need Orlando to be right.”
He nodded once, something shifting in his eyes. “We will be.”
“Base to Team Three,” Crew’s voice crackled over the radio. “Check in.”
Jericho keyed his mic. “Team Three, heading northwest from the last known point. We found a hat—not sure if it’s a help. Will advise when Orlando finds something.”
When, not if. Good.
They pushed on through the snow, Orlando leading the way. The dog moved with purpose now, weaving between the trees, nose working the air. Whatever he’d found, it had better lead them to her nephew.
She refused to consider anything different.
The wind picked up and then Air One made another pass, so low the downdraft shook snow from the branches.
“The sun’s setting,” Jericho said, and he checked his watch. “We’ve been out here for over an hour.”
She gave him a look.
“Calm down. We’re not giving up.”
The terrain changed gradually—less spruce, more birch, the white bark almost invisible against the snow. The ground sloped up, and Orlando began to follow what might have been an old game trail. Harley’s thighs burned from breaking through the deep snow, but she kept pace with Jericho.
“Base to all teams,” Crew’s voice came through again, tight with urgency. “Air One’s spotted vehicle tracks heading up toward Miller’s Creek. About two miles northwest of the ditch site.”
Harley and Jericho exchanged glances. Miller’s Creek was in the opposite direction.
“Maybe someone picked them up,” Jericho said.
She nodded. “Orlando’s onto something.”
“He’s not infallible.”
She picked up an edge to his voice. “Jericho—”
“Just saying that he’s got . . . he’s got a little PTSD from the avalanche, so . . .” His mouth tightened around the edges as he said it.
“Team Two to Base,” Sully’s voice crackled. “We’re closest. Moving to investigate.”
And it hit her then. “What didn’t you tell me about the avalanche, JB?” She kept her voice soft.
He shook his head. “Leave it.”
Orlando stopped suddenly, head up, testing the air. The wind had died, leaving the forest preternaturally still. Even the ravens had gone quiet.
“What is it, boy?” Jericho moved closer, watching his dog. “What do you smell?”
Orlando whined, then moved forward more slowly, deliberate.
And that’s when the hair rose on the back of Harley’s neck. Hello, she’d been a PI and a cop long enough to listen to her gut. “Jericho—”
“He’s caught something,” he murmured. “But it’s not what we’re—”
A branch snapped somewhere ahead of them.
Orlando froze and a low growl rumbled in his chest.
And right then . . . Why, oh why didn’t she bring her gun? Even her pellet gun. “Maybe it’s a moose.”
“That’s not funny.”
She wasn’t kidding, actually.
“Orlando, heel,” Jericho said in a low voice. The dog backed up slowly, still growling. Another branch snapped, closer this time.
“Base”—Harley keyed her radio, keeping her voice low—“we’ve got something up here. Orlando’s alerting, but not for our missing persons.”
Static crackled.
“What’s your position?” Deke.
She checked the GPS. “About a mile northeast of the ditch site, through the woods—”
Orlando’s growl deepened into a bark. Sharp. Warning.
Through the trees ahead, something moved.
A form detached itself from the deeper shadows of the spruce—too fluid for a moose, too deliberate for a bear. A human shape, bulky, in winter gear.
“Harley, get behind—”
“Sheriff’s department!” she called out, her voice carrying in the crystalline air. “Identify yourself!”
The figure stopped. Then, slowly, a man stepped out of the shadows.
Blood stained the left sleeve of his expensive snow gear—fresh, bright against the white. An open wound around a bruise sat on his cheekbone, visible even in the dim light.
“Don’t shoot,” he called back. “I’m just hunting.”
Then he raised his rifle, a .308 bolt-action rifle.
So she raised her hands too.
THIS WOMAN was going to get him—them—killed. Jericho had nearly grabbed Harley and clamped his hand over her mouth when she’d shouted out “Sheriff’s department.” What, she was going to arrest the man?
But Jericho didn’t react, just froze, stared at the man. He kept his voice low, tight, and then he patted his leg for Orlando to sit beside him.
The dog obeyed.
“Little far off the normal hunting trails,” Jericho said quietly, noting the way the man kept scanning, assessing. Military training, maybe. Or something less official. A fresh cut darkened his cheekbone—someone had put up a fight. “And nothing’s in season right now,” he added.
Orlando tensed at his side, a low growl lifting.
“Down, boy.”
Although with Harley standing beside him, maybe that was a command for himself too. Because he was trying to stand back, to not panic, to let her be . . . well, who she was. Capable. Smart.
But, of course, Jericho saw himself standing in front of Mars, his life flashing before his eyes.
This time, Sully wasn’t here to drag him away.
The man emerged into a shaft of sunlight. Tall, probably mid-thirties, wearing expensive Arc’teryx gear that looked too new. He wore a scarf, half concealing his face, but Jericho didn’t recognize him. That wound though . . . Jericho filed it away. It would leave a scar.
“Sorry to startle you,” the man said then, and he smiled, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Professional. Practiced. He lowered the gun, and Jericho caught sight of scraped knuckles. “Got turned around out here. Was just trying to find my way back to the road.”
“You’re pretty far from it. About a mile west.” Jericho gestured behind him. “You’re on Bridgeman land.”
The man’s expression flickered—not surprise this time. Frustrated. Like he’d been close to something and lost it.
Yes, down, boy.
“Didn’t realize. No signs posted.”
Jericho stepped just slightly in front of Harley. “Look, we don’t want trouble.”
Behind him, Harley keyed her radio. “Team Three to Base. We’ve got an individual up here, claims he’s hunting.”
C’mon, Harley! He wanted to grab the radio from her, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the man.
“What’s your name?” Harley asked. Wow, she had brass.
“Keith Smith.”
Sure it was.
“Listen. You say the road is west. I’ll just head that way.” He moved away from them.
Jericho caught the slight favor of his right leg.
Except, just like that, the guy took off into the trees. Not quite on their path, but away, southeast.
Orlando barked, but Jericho grabbed his harness.
“Stop!” The word burst from Harley as the man vanished into the spruce.
He wanted to put a harness on her. “Let him go, HT.”
She gave him a look, then keyed her walkie. “Base, suspect heading southeast. Male, mid-thirties. Has a wound on his left cheek, bloodstains on sleeve. Detain.”
“Copy, Team Three,” Deke’s voice cut through static.
Harley turned to follow him, but Jericho stepped in front of her. “No.”
“He might know something!”