The Search Read online

  “If they kept south, they’d head into the Bighorn Wilderness Area,” James pointed out.

  “That’s right.”

  “There’s some rough going in there.”

  “And Ella is an inexperienced hiker.”

  She moved on, pointing out the areas the search had covered, laying out the sectors for each team, using, Simon noted, natural barriers and landmarks as borders.

  “Additional data. The witnesses say Kevin’s an overachiever. He’s competitive. Both he and Tod wore pedometers and had a bet going. Whoever clocked the most miles won, and the loser bought drinks and dinner tonight. He likes to win. He’d have pushed it.

  “I know it’s late, but we’ve got the weather and the moon in our favor. It’s a go for a sector search. As OL, I’ll go in, inspect the PLS. I think it’s good data, but a spot on a map can’t replace eyeballing it.”

  She checked her watch. “They’ve been out about fourteen hours, had their last real meal nine hours ago. They’ve got water and some power bars, some trail mix, but the water situation was geared toward a late-afternoon return. Let’s have a radio check, then I’ll pass out the scent bags outside.”

  Once they were outside, Fiona hitched on her pack. “Are you sure about this?” she asked Simon.

  He scanned the dense, primal dark of the surrounding forest. “I’m sure you’re not going in there alone.”

  “I don’t mind the company, but it’s a stretch to think a crazed killer heard about a couple of missing hikers, and our unit’s call-in, managed to get here and is now lying in wait.”

  “Do you want to argue about it, or do you want to find these people?”

  “Oh, I can do both.” She gave Bogart the scent. “That’s Ella. That’s Ella. And Kevin. Here’s Kevin. Let’s go find them! Let’s find Ella and Kevin.”

  “Why are you doing that now? I thought you were going to the PLS?”

  “Good—and yeah, we are. He needs to start the game now, get revved. Maybe they got lost or turned around on the way back. Maybe one or both of them got hurt and just can’t make it back in the dark.”

  “And sniffing socks is going to do the trick.”

  She smiled, using her flashlight to add more illumination to the trail. “You like cornflakes, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I hope this doesn’t put you off them. We shed cornflake-shaped skin cells. Dead cells, called rafts, constantly shed and carry a scent unique to the person who sheds them. They’re carried off by the air, by wind currents downwind in a scent cone. The scent cone’s narrow, and it’s concentrated at the source.”

  “The person.”

  “Exactly. It widens with distance, and Bogart can and will find that scent. The problems with following it to the source can be too much wind, too much humidity, looping, pooling, a chimney effect—various ways wind and air work depending on the climate conditions and the terrain. That’s my job—judging that, outlining the search plan, helping the dog stay on scent.”

  “Complicated. Tricky.”

  “It can be. You get a hot day, no air movement, heavy brush? The scent’s not going to disperse out, and that’s going to limit the range. I’d have to adjust the search sweeps. A stream, a drainage, those can funnel scents, so the OL, then the handlers, may have to adjust for that.”

  So it was science, he concluded, as much as training, as much as instinct. “How do you know the dog’s working it and not just out for a stroll?”

  The reflectors on her jacket, and the ones she’d slapped on his, glowed eerie green in the moonlight. The beam she carried swept over trail and brush and odd clumps of wildflowers.

  “He knows his job. He knows the game. See, he’s moving pretty briskly, but he checks behind, to make sure we’re in sight. He scents the air, moves on. He’s a good dog.”

  Reaching out, she took Simon’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “Not exactly dinner out.”

  “We’re out. The sandwich was pretty good. What are you looking for?”

  “Signs.” She continued to sweep her light. “Tracks, broken brush, candy wrappers, anything. I don’t have Bogart’s nose, so I have to rely on my eyes.”

  “Like Gollum.”

  “Yes, my precious—but I think that was a lot of nose work, too. God, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? One of my favorite places in the world. And now, with the moon filtering through the canopy, all the shadows and sparkles, it’s just amazing.” Her light skimmed over gilded mushrooms, exotic jack-in-the-pulpit. “One of these days I’m going to find time to take a course in botany so I know more of what I’m looking at.”

  “Because you’ve got nothing but time on your hands.”

  “You can always squeeze out a little more for something you really want. Sylvia’s taking up crocheting.”

  He paused, couldn’t find the connection. “Okay.”

  “I’m just saying you can always make time for something if you want it. I know the basics on flora and fauna—and I know what not to touch or eat when I’m out on a search like this. Or if I don’t know, I don’t touch it or eat it.”

  “Explain why we’re hauling crappy hiking food in the packs.”

  “You won’t care if it’s crappy when you’re hungry.”

  Each time Bogart alerted, she stopped, marked the spot with tape. Everything they knew said the lost hikers had passed this way hours before, but the dog followed the trail.

  Knew his job, Simon concluded, just as Fiona claimed.

  “We found a hiker a couple years ago, not all that far from here,” she told him. “Dead summer, steaming. He’d been wandering around for two days. Dehydrated, infected blisters, and he had poison ivy in places you really, really don’t want poison ivy.”

  They walked, endlessly it seemed to Simon, lit by moonlight, along the trail with her scanning light. She’d stop, call out, listen, use her radio to check with her unit. Then move on after the dog. Tireless, he noted. Both of them. And there was no doubt the pair of them took the work seriously, and enjoyed every minute.

  She pointed out things she knew. The busy life of a nurse log, the strange and fascinating pattern of lichen.

  When Bogart stopped to drink, she refreshed the scent for him while owls and night birds filled the air with calls.

  Bogart alerted, and began busily sniffing air and ground.

  “This is it, where they stopped for lunch. Where they separated. Lots of tracks.” She crouched down. “They were respectful, I’ll give them that. No litter.”

  The dog wandered off to relieve himself, and, deciding it was a fine idea, Simon moved deeper into the trees to do the same while Fiona cupped her hands around her mouth and called.

  “We made good time,” she said when Simon came back. “It’s not quite midnight. We can take a break here, start again at first light.”

  “Is that what you’d do if I wasn’t here?”

  “I’d probably give it a little longer.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Short break first.” She sat on the ground, dug a bag of trail mix and a pouch of kibble out of her bag. “It’s important to keep the energy up, and stay hydrated. Otherwise, they’ll be sending someone out for us.”

  She handed Simon the trail mix, then fed the dog.

  “Have you ever not found who you were looking for?”

  “Yeah. It’s horrible to go back empty. The worst. Worse than finding them too late is not finding them at all.”

  She dipped her hand into the bag. “These two, they’re young and strong. I’m guessing they—or he—misjudged their endurance, got disoriented. Probably a combination. The phones are a concern.”

  “Dead battery. Or they can’t get a signal. Dropped them. Lost them.”

  “Any or all,” she agreed. “There’s wildlife, but it’s unlikely they ran into something that wouldn’t walk away. The thing is, a twisted ankle out here knocks you back, especially if you’re inexperienced.”

  In the dark, he thought, probably disoriented, certainl
y tired, possibly injured. “It took them, what, four hours to get here?”

  “Yeah, but they were meandering, stopping, taking photos. Kevin wants to pick up the pace, win the bet when they head south. He probably only planned to go another hour, maybe two—which is too damn much in one day when your hiking’s mostly done on Fifth Avenue. But then they could shortcut it back—at least in his head—and get back to the lodge by cocktail time.”

  “Is that how you see it?”

  “From what I got from his friends. He’s a good guy, a bit of a know-it-all, but funny. He likes a challenge, and he can’t resist a dare. She likes trying new things, seeing new places. It’s chilly.” Fiona drank from her water bottle while she searched the shadows and moonlight. “But they have jackets. They’re probably exhausted, scared, pissed off.”

  She smiled at him. “Do you think you can handle another hour?”

  “Kevin’s not the only one who’s competitive.” He rose, held out a hand for hers.

  “I’m glad you came.” She rose up, moved into him. “But I still want that dinner out when we get back.”

  They stretched the hour to ninety minutes, zigzagging on the trails as the dog followed the scent. Fiona’s calls went unanswered, and clouds drifted over the moon.

  “The wind’s changing. Damn it.” She tipped her face up, and he’d have sworn she scented the air like her dog. “We’re going to get that storm. We’d better pitch the tent.”

  “Just like that?”

  “We can’t do any more tonight. Bogart’s tired. We’re losing the light, and the scent.” She pulled out her radio. “So we’ll take a couple hours, get some rest, stay dry.” She looked at him then, holding the radio. “It’s not worth going back to base, getting drenched, exhausted, then heading out again at dawn. A bed and a hot shower’s a cheap trade for warm, dry and rested out here.”

  “You’re the alpha.”

  She cocked her head. “And you’re saying that because you agree with me?”

  “It helps that I agree with you.”

  She called their status and location in to base, coordinated or took updates on the other searchers. No chatter, Simon noted. Straight business.

  After she shed her pack and began setting up the tent, he found himself again in the position of taking direction. He didn’t have a clue, he was forced to admit. The last time he camped out in a tent he was probably twelve—and the deal she called a hyper-light didn’t work anything like the ancient pup tent he’d used.

  “It’ll be cramped, but we’ll be dry. You first,” she told him. “You’re going to have to sort of angle yourself, given your height. Bogart and I will maneuver ourselves in after you.”

  Light it might’ve been, but cramped was a kind word for it. By the time he had the dog curled at the small of his back and Fiona shoehorned beside him, there wasn’t an inch to spare.

  “I think your dog has his nose in my ass.”

  “Good thing you’re wearing pants.” Fiona shifted a little. “You can scooch over toward me a little more.”

  Scooch, he thought, but realized he was too tired to think of a sarcastic comment. So he scooched, muttered and found if he got his arm under her—which he’d probably have to amputate in the morning—he gained a fraction of space.

  Thunder belched violently seconds before the skies opened. The rain sounded like a monsoon.

  “This would be romantic,” Fiona decided, “if we had a bigger tent, were doing this for fun, and there was a nice bottle of wine involved.”

  “The dog’s snoring.”

  “Yes, he is, and he will. He worked hard tonight.” She only had to turn her head a fraction to kiss him. “So did you.”

  “You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “You’re shaking,” he repeated.

  “I just need to settle down. I have a problem with closed-in or tight spaces.”

  “You . . .” It struck him immediately, and he cursed himself for an idiot. She’d been bound, gagged and locked in the trunk of a car, heading for death. “Jesus, Fiona.”

  “No, don’t.” She grabbed on to him when he started to move. “Just stay right here. I’m closing my eyes, and it’ll pass.”

  He felt it now, the way her heart beat against him, as violently as the rain. “We should’ve gone back for the night.”

  “No, it wastes time and energy. Plus I’m too tired for a full-blown panic attack.”

  What the hell did she call the shivering and heart-banging? He drew her closer, wrapping his other arm around her to stroke a hand up and down her back. “Is that better or worse?”

  “It’s better. It’s nice. I just need a minute to adjust.”

  Lightning slashed wildly, illuminating the tent. He saw her cheeks were pale, her eyes closed. “So, is Tyson banging the vet?”

  “I don’t think it’s progressed to banging, Mr. Romance. I think they’re just starting to get to know each other on a personal level.”

  “Banging’s personal, if you do it right.”

  “I’m sure she’ll let me know if banging becomes part of the arrangement.”

  “Because you’ve told her we’re banging.”

  “I suspect she could’ve come to that conclusion all on her own, but yes, of course I told her. And in specific and minute detail. She wishes you’d banged her first.”

  “Huh. An opportunity lost.” Her heartbeat was slowing, just a bit. “I could backtrack and make it up to her.”

  “Too late. She’d never have sex with you now. We have codes and standards. You’re no longer on the menu when it comes to any of my friends or relations.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair when you consider you’re friends with everybody on the island.”

  “That may be, but rules are rules.” She tipped her face again, touched her lips to his. “Thanks for taking my mind off my neurosis.”

  “You don’t have any neuroses, which is annoying. You have quirks, which make up for it a little. But you’re mostly irritatingly stable and normal. You’re still not my type.”

  “But you’re still going to bang me.”

  “At every opportunity.”

  She laughed, and he felt her fully relax against him. “You’re rude, socially stunted and cynical. But I intend to be available for said banging whenever possible. I’m not sure what that makes us, but it seems to be working.”

  “You’re who I want to be with.”

  He wasn’t sure why he’d said it—maybe the forced intimacy of the tent, the rain beating its fists down on it, his concern for her even as her trembling ceased. Whatever the reason, he thought, it was truth.

  “That’s the best thing you’ve ever said to me,” she murmured. “Even more, given the current circumstances.”

  “We’re warm and we’re dry,” he pointed out. “And they’re not,” he added, echoing her thoughts.

  “No, they’re not. It’s going to be a terrible night for them.”

  This time he turned his head and brushed his lips over her hair. “Then we’d better find them in the morning.”

  PART THREE

  Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?

  THE BIBLE

  TWENTY-ONE

  She woke in solid dark, unable to move or see or speak. Her head throbbed like an open wound, while nausea churned choppy waves in her belly. Disoriented, terrified, she struggled, but her arms remained pinned behind her back; her legs felt paralyzed.

  She could do no more than worm, buck and struggle to breathe.