Stolen(27)

Always under the watchful eye of Cayman and her parents.

Medicated.

Protected not only from the outside world, but from the dangers of her own mind.

She stared at a lonely red flower, amazed it had somehow survived the cold and wind and altitude, then she lifted her face to catch the warmth of the sun’s last rays. Life was a gift and though hers, like the little red flower’s, had been a struggle, in this moment she knew for certain she would never willingly relinquish it.

Her stomach growled, and that made her happy. Her appetite had returned—yet another miracle. All that fresh air and exercise, she supposed. She didn’t dare chance a fire, so she poured cold water from one of her canteens into a bag of freeze-dried beef stroganoff. The meat was chewy, and the noodles turned to powder on her tongue, but the flavor was good—downright tasty even—and the meal satisfied her clamoring stomach. Deciding she wouldn’t wait for night to sleep, she zipped her coat tight and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.

The more rest she got, the more her strength—and hopefully her ability to read a map—would be restored. She folded a shirt for a pillow and half lay, half sat with her back propped against a low, smooth rock. She closed her eyes, but her mind refused to slumber. Her thoughts kept returning to the locks of hair in her backpack.

And to that horrible note.

She’d bolted so suddenly she hadn’t had time to burn it.

She had no idea what had become of it, or what might happen to her if it were found.





Chapter 14





Thursday, October 24

4:30 P.M.

Near Frank’s Cabin

Eagles Nest Wilderness area

Colorado



Pandora McBain from the Dillon Ranger District met Spense, Caity, and Hatcher at the foot of the county road leading to the Angel Rock trailhead, which in turn led to Frank’s Cabin—part of the Eagles Nest Wilderness’s hut system. The road was closed yearly between winter season and summer season. In other words, now. However, though wet, the road was still passable to four-wheel-drive vehicles.

Also present, having arrived separately, were eight other men and women: an eclectic group made up of crime-scene techs, detectives, and a local cop. Some had extensive training in wilderness search and rescue.

Most did not.

Ranger Pandy, as she’d introduced herself, headed up the junior park ranger program and the Seniors Gone Wild volunteer program. She’d also been personally responsible for the location and rescue of more lost hikers than any other official in Colorado history.

Spense estimated the redheaded ranger’s stature to be a few inches shy of five feet. By her take-charge manner, he estimated her wallop to be a couple of sticks shy of a keg of dynamite. “Who here doesn’t know jack about wilderness search and rescue?” she barked to the assembly.

Several hands rose.

“Okay then, unless Detective Hatcher needs you at the cabin . . .” She paused, waiting for him to speak now.

He held his peace.

“You folks are officially assigned to containment.”

The uniform from Dillon shot his hand up again. “What does that mean exactly?”

“It means you and the tall dude in the Broncos shirt have the incredibly important task of parking your butts halfway up this road and waiting for our subject to come to you. There’s a spooky old house about three quarters of the way up, so keep a ways below that marker. The rest of the rookies will set up track traps once we figure out where to put them.”

“We aren’t going to search at all?”

“You’re going to contain. It’s not glamorous, but in a situation like this, containment reduces the area we have to search. And that increases our POD—probability of detection.”

“Track traps?” another novice asked.

“So you really don’t know jack.” But there was no impatience in Pandy’s voice. She was simply a very straightforward individual, and Spense liked straightforward individuals. Especially when they were dedicated and smart. “We’re gonna dump sand over key spots on the trails and what-have-you. If our subject crosses that way, we’ll know it.”

“What if they attempt to conceal their footprints?”

“Then we’ll see evidence of that, too. Now if you’ll hold your questions, I’d appreciate it. Everyone else, unless you’re needed to process the crime scene, you’ll pair up for a hasty search. If you haven’t done one of these before, it’s just like it sounds. Hasty. No grid. No coordinates. It’ll be dark soon, so we gotta move quick. We’ll fan out and stay in touch by radio. Move fast. Jog—that’s right, I said jog—the trails and check the most likely spots. Anywhere you think a victim might be. Look for clues. Stuff that’s out of place. Our PLS—point last seen—is Frank’s Cabin. We believe the subject to be female. Likely weak or injured. Even if she can only cover one mile an hour, we have no idea which direction she headed. A one mile 360-degree radius is still a lot of area to search, and we won’t get it done before the sun goes down, but let’s give it our all just the same. Somebody’s life depends on it.”