Nowhere to Run Page 19

When the receptionist asked who was calling, Joe gave his name. When she came back, she said Agent Coon was in a meeting and would have to get back to him. So Joe called Coon’s private cell phone number.

  “Hello?” Coon said.

  “It’s me, Joe.”

  “Damn, I didn’t recognize the number. If I knew it was you, I would have let it go to voice mail.”

  “You gave me this number last year, remember?” Joe said. “You said to use it if I couldn’t get through to you.”

  “That was last year,” Coon said.

  When they were both working on the Stenko case, Coon wanted Joe to be in contact. Joe pictured the agent on the other end of the conversation. He had close-cropped brown hair, small features, and a boyish, alert face that didn’t jibe with his tightly wound manner. He had a young son and another child on the way. He’d worked for several years under Tony Portenson before Portenson got his wish and got reassigned. Joe assumed Coon and the entire FBI office had sighed a collective sigh of relief when Portenson walked out the door.

  Joe asked about the baby on the way (she was due in a month) and Coon’s son (four and starting preschool), and he briefed the agent on his family and how things were going now that April was back with them. It all took two minutes. Then: silence.

  Which said to Joe that Coon was being very cautious.

  “You know why I’m calling,” Joe said.

  After another pause, Coon said, “Why don’t you tell me just so, you know, I don’t start giving national counterterrorism secrets away or something like that?”

  “The Grim Brothers,” Joe said.

  “I was afraid that was what you’d say.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “There’s nothing to be said.”

  “Which means exactly what?”

  “Joe,” Coon said with some finality, “the Grim Brothers don’t exist as such.”

  Joe’s stomach hurt. “Please translate? As such?”

  “Exactly that. They don’t exist.”

  “Are you saying I made them up?”

  “Not exactly. But I can’t go much further than what I already said. Let’s just leave it at this: it’s a matter we’re keeping our eye on. The bureau doesn’t comment on ongoing investigations. You, of all people, should know that.”

  “Man, I’m confused.”

  “So,” Coon said, “how is that dog of yours? Tube, wasn’t it?”

  “Not so fast,” Joe said. “I need to get something straight. Are you saying they don’t exist because you can’t find them in your database? Or that you think I made them up?”

  Coon sighed. “They’re not in the database, Joe. Caleb, Camish Grim, or G-R-I-M-M, or Grimmengruber, or any combination thereof. They gave you a false name, Joe.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Coon exhaled, as if he were going to answer Joe, but he caught himself. “I’ve already said enough, I think.”

  “But I’m investigating them, too. So’s the governor and DCI. I thought we shared information these days?”

  Coon laughed, “When did you come up with that one? Nice try, though. Besides, at some point in this conversation, were you going to let me know you’re on administrative leave? Did you think I wouldn’t know that?”

  Said Joe, “Chuck, what is going on here? Why are you guys so interested in what happened up there? From what I know, it’s purely a local or state matter on the surface unless you got asked to assist. I know the state didn’t ask you to come in on this, and I doubt Sheriff Baird would. So that means there’s some other reason. I don’t buy it you have nothing else to do and you’re bored.”

  “As I said, the FBI doesn’t comment on ongoing . . .”

  “Sheesh, I know, I know. But why is there federal interest?”

  “I’m sorry, Joe. That’s the best I can do.”

  Joe said, “You’ve done nothing.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Joe. My best to Marybeth and the girls. And don’t call me on my cell again.” With that, he punched off.

  Joe closed his phone and stared out the window. Ed Nedney was back outside putting fertilizer on his lawn.

  Despite what Coon withheld, he’d inadvertently confirmed a couple of things. There was an investigation going on, and it was obviously big enough he’d felt the need to play it coy. That the bureau hadn’t tipped off DCI or the governor of their investigation was suspicious. Even so, Joe was heartened they believed him and his story after all.

  JOE SPENT THE AFTERNOON walking aimlessly though the house with his bucket of tools, but his mind was back up in the Sierra Madre. He tried scenario after scenario and came up with nothing plausible. When he tried to link up the Grim Brothers, the FBI, Terri Wade, the mystery woman, the UP . . . he got nowhere.

  He realized he’d forgotten about dinner, and he looked at his watch. There was an hour before Marybeth and the girls got home. He’d told Marybeth he’d cook burgers on the grill, but he’d forgotten to get the meat out of the freezer and he hadn’t been to the store to buy buns or the other things on the list she’d left him. On the way to the kitchen to see what he could scramble up, the doorbell rang.

  It was Jenna Shober. She was alone and crying.

  20

  “HOW MANY MORE OF THESE ARE THERE?” SMITH ASKED, gesturing toward the perfectly round lake in the bottom of the alpine cirque. Vertical rock walls rose sharply on three sides of the water, and the fourth side was sloped and grassy. A trout nosed the surface and concentric rings rippled out across the still water until it finally flattened again.

  “There’s at least two more cirques,” Farkus said. “They kind of stair-step their way down the mountain. The cirques trap the snowmelt so it can’t flow anywhere. We used to fish these lakes.”

  The sky had cleared and morning was warming up. They’d been riding for five hours on the western side of the mountains, rimming the series of spectacular cirques Farkus had surprised himself by knowing about. He’d fudged his knowledge a little, because he hadn’t visited the area since way back in high school with some friends who’d backpacked up from the valley floor to fish the mountain lakes. He’d been drunk approximately the whole time, so his recollections were vague and imprecise. He remembered falling off a rock into one of the lakes while drinking a half a bottle of sloe gin. The water was bone-chilling. His lone trip up here was years before the Forest Service had shut down access roads into the area, but at last he had an idea where he was. He knew that if they kept traveling in a westerly direction, they’d eventually hit the creek and trailhead where he’d originally met Joe Pickett.

  Farkus had actually become useful to Parnell, Smith, and Campbell. Plus, his tales of the Wendigo had helped distract Smith and Campbell, he could tell. Of course, he’d just made up the part about Wendigos being able to see in the dark, but they’d never know that. Smith and Campbell now seemed jumpy. Farkus could tell Parnell had picked up on that, too, and he no doubt feared a loss of control over his team.

  For the first time since they’d stopped him and forced him out of his truck two days before, Farkus felt he might just have a chance after all. Since he knew vaguely where he was now and his companions were becoming less vigilant by the hour, he might be able to escape.

  Problem was, it was this area where the game warden was headed to investigate the stolen elk. Which meant this is where Joe Pickett had encountered the Grim Brothers.

  Parnell’s tracking device chirped. He read the display and announced they were practically on top of their target.

  “How close?” Smith asked.

  “Half a mile, maybe. Over the next ridge, I’d guess. We’ve been closing the gap all morning.”

  “Are they still going the other way?”

  “No,” Parnell said. “He’s coming at us right now.”

  Smith drew his AR-15 rifle out of his saddle scabbard and laid it across the pommel of his saddle. Campbell checked the loads of his rifle, even though Farkus had seen him do it at least twice befo
re.

  “So,” Farkus said to Parnell, “are you gonna finally tell me what this is all about?”

  “No.”

  FARKUS FELT a knot build in his stomach as they got close to the ridge. Whoever they were after, if Parnell’s equipment was reliable, was just over the other side. Parnell had veered from the established trail into a thick stand of gnarled pine trees. When they were in the cover, Parnell dismounted, and Smith and Campbell did the same. For a brief moment, Farkus considered kicking the horse and riding away while the three of them were down. But which direction? If he went back the way they’d come, he’d be in the open for a hundred yards and a well-placed shot could pick him off, borrowed body armor or not. And if he thundered over the rim, he might ride straight into the Grim Brothers.

  He sighed and dismounted with the rest of them.

  Parnell motioned for them to come close and listen. He whispered, “Let’s get our weapons ready and tie up the horses here so they can’t see them. When we’re locked and loaded, we’ll crawl through the trees to the edge of the ridge and scope it down. Remember, those boys have body armor, too. So go for headshots.”

  Farkus said, “They do?”

  “At least that’s what we were told.”

  Then: “Smith, you ready?”

  Smith nodded once.

  “Campbell?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned to Farkus. “You stay here and don’t even think of trying to get away like you were a minute ago. If you try to run, I’ll shoot you so fast you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

  Farkus swallowed and looked away.

  “So,” Smith said to Parnell, “you’re thinking they’re down in this cirque?”

  “That’s what I think,” Parnell whispered.

  “Let’s not miss,” Smith said to the others. “The last thing we need is a wounded Cline brother coming after us.”

  Farkus said, “Cline? I thought their name was Grim?”

  “Shut up, Dave,” Parnell said, shooting Smith a punishing look.

  FARKUS STOOD off to the side with the horses, thinking Cline? Where had he heard that name? Something about Michigan . . .

  When Parnell’s tracker chirped again, he read it and appeared startled. His scalp twitched above his forehead even though his face was a mask.

  “What?” Smith asked.

  “He’s on top of us,” Parnell whispered. “He’s coming up the rim right at us. He’s running up the side of the cirque.”

  Farkus quickly dropped down to his hands and knees, wishing he could make himself even less of a target.

  Parnell and Smith raised the barrels of their AR-15s, pointing them through the trees toward the lip of the rim. Campbell quickly slung his scoped rifle over his shoulder, because his scoped weapon wasn’t useful at close range, pulled his Sig Sauer, and steadied it out in front of him with two hands.

  Farkus heard the rapid thumping of footfalls and saw a flash of spindly movement from the other side of the rim and then a full set of antlers. The big five-point buck mule deer with a satellite phone wired to its antlers came lurching up over the side in a dead run.

  Parnell and Smith turned it into hamburger.

  21

  “WE DIDN’T KNOW DIANE WAS MISSING UNTIL SHE’D BEEN gone for four days,” Jenna Shober said in a low, soft voice rubbed raw with sandpaper from two years of crying. “Can you imagine that?”

  “No,” Joe said.

  They were in the living room. He assumed she’d head back to his office but she only made it as far as the couch. She’d folded into the far corner of it with her back against the armrest and her hands clamped tightly between her legs. Her head was tilted slightly forward, so when she talked to Joe she had to look up. But she spent most of the time staring at her knees, recalling what happened from a script so obviously seared into her being that at times she seemed to be reading from it.

  “If we’d known right away—even a day after—we could have done something,” she said. “Brent would have done everything in the world to find her. She couldn’t have been that far from the trailhead in just one day—only as far as she could run. So at least we would have had a known radius where to look. She usually ran four miles in and four miles out—eight total. Sometimes when she was in hard training, she’d double that. But because the trials were just a month away, her training schedule was pretty regular and eight miles total would have been about right. She loved to run in the mountains. She’d rather run in the mountains than in the best facilities in the world.

  “She started her last run on a Tuesday. We didn’t find out she was missing until Friday night, when her fiancé finally called.”

  “Tell me about him,” Joe said.

  She looked up. “His name is Justin LeForge. He’s a triathlete, one of the best. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him or not. He’s placed in the top three at the Hawaiian Ironman, and he won a big race in Nice, France, and the Wildflower in California.”

  Joe shook his head. “I’m not familiar with triathlons, sorry.”

  She continued, “Anyway, Justin and Diane seemed like the perfect couple. They were beautiful—thin, fit, athletic, attractive. Ken and Barbie in track clothes, one of my friends said. A little odd when it came to politics and worldview, but young people can be like that. They met down in Colorado Springs at the Olympic Training Center. Brent thought Justin was the greatest, and he bragged constantly about his future son-in-law. But everything wasn’t as it seemed.”

  Joe said, “What do you mean when you say they had odd political beliefs?”

  She laughed a dry laugh. “They were certainly counter to her father’s, for one. Brent has always been very involved politically. We give a lot of money to candidates, and as a big developer he is used to being, um, close with them. There’s a lot of federal money these days, you know. It has to go to somebody, is the way Brent puts it, so it might as well be him. Anyway, Justin was a big fan of that writer Ayn Rand. You know her?”

  Joe said, “I read Atlas Shrugged in college. It was pretty good until that last speech. I never could finish it because of that ninety-page speech at the end.”

  “Justin said he was an Objectivist, like Ayn Rand. You know, staunch capitalism, anti-big government. Lots of kids go through that.”

  Joe nodded, urging her on.

  “Justin and Brent butted heads a few times, and Diane was right there in the thick of it. I always wondered how much of her new philosophy she truly held and how much was because of Justin. And how much of it was simple rebellion, mainly against her dad. They’re both strong-willed people, Brent and Diane. The funny thing is Justin is just as bullheaded as Brent, but Diane never seemed to see the similarity.

  “They were selfish, both of them. Part of it came from Objectivism, I guess. I’ve never been around two people more self-absorbed than my daughter and her fiancé. They lived in the same house but they never really lived together, if you know what I mean. She did her thing and he did his. It was all about running, working out, eating food as fuel. It was all about their bodies—how they looked, how they could trim a second off their best time. They looked at their friends, relatives, families—and the rest of the world—as their support team. I used to complain about it, how Diane would only talk about herself when she called and never ask about her brother or sister or me, but Brent just sloughed it off and said that’s how athletes had to be when they reached a certain level. And as you could see, Brent is a little like that.”

  Joe said, “Back to the four days between her disappearance and you finding out about it.”

  “Oh,” she said, squirming farther back into the couch, making herself smaller. “I’m sorry. I went on a tangent.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, stealing a look at his wristwatch and deciding: Pizza tonight. Delivered.

  “Well, as I said, we didn’t hear from Justin until Friday night. It was a maddening conversation. He said he didn’t have much time to talk because he had to catch a flight fo
r a race in Hawaii. It was like, ‘By the way, I’m not sure where Diane is. I haven’t seen her since Tuesday. Gotta go, wish me luck.’ ”

  “Man,” Joe said, sitting back.

  “That’s how he was. That’s how he still is. Cold as a fish.”

  “How did he explain it?”

  “He didn’t, really. He said she’d left him a note Tuesday morning saying she was going to drive north of Steamboat Springs and go for a run in the mountains. This in itself wasn’t unusual. Her car was gone, of course. Later, much later, he said he figured she decided to get a room in Steamboat and use it as her base to train from for a few days. He said they’d been fighting and she probably needed a little time away, that it had happened before and it was no big deal. Can you imagine that?”

  “No,” Joe said, deciding if he ever met Justin LeForge he’d smack him in the mouth.

  “That’s when Brent contacted the authorities. We didn’t have much to go on, and you can imagine how angry and scared we were. At the time, we didn’t even know which mountains or in which state. On Monday, the sheriff in Walden, Colorado, got a report that her Subaru was reported at a trailhead across the border in Wyoming. That’s when things finally started to happen. Search-and-rescue teams, helicopters, news alerts, all of it.”

  Joe nodded. “I was on the search team.”

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely. “A lot of good men and women spent days trying to find her. But by that time, she’d been gone over a week. All I could think about was that she’d fallen and broken her leg and was waiting for help that never came. I was terrified she was suffering up there somewhere. I was horrified that she wouldn’t be found at all or that her body would be found. I can’t even tell you how awful that week was. Or how everything is coming back now.”

  Joe said, “About Justin . . .”

  She waved her hand. “I know what you’re probably thinking—that maybe he had something to do with it. We did, too, eventually. Especially when he just stopped caring and calling. But according to the police, his alibi was airtight. He was training all Tuesday and Wednesday with his coaches. The note she left him was in her handwriting. When my husband hired Bobby to investigate, the first thing we asked him to do was to check out Justin’s alibi. But Bobby said there was no doubt Justin’s story held. In fact, Justin found a girl—another runner—who testified Justin was with her from Tuesday through Thursday. He was cheating on my daughter, Mr. Pickett.”