The Disappeared (Joe Pickett Book 18) Page 28

  Gordon wheeled around, concerned. “He hasn’t let us know he was coming back late, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I’m starting to get worried.”

  “I don’t blame you. There’s a lot of snow out there. Do you want me to call the sheriff’s department?”

  She shook her head. “To ask them to do another blind raid on a mountain cabin? They might not be real excited to do that again.”

  “I see your point.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to borrow one of the snowmobiles to see if I can find him.”

  Gordon enthusiastically agreed. He said, “Take a satellite phone and call me every hour to check in. I don’t want two of my people lost. Do you know where his cabin is?”

  She looked down at her boots. “Yes.”

  “Oh,” Gordon said simply.

  He handed the keys over without further comment and she took them and trudged back through the snow toward the Activity Center.

  So now Gordon knew. She hoped he wouldn’t remind her of what a bad idea it was for senior employees to fraternize, because she and Lance were well aware of it. Both of them had counseled junior employees against it.

  Still, it had happened.

  It was important to her to know that her dad seemed to genuinely like Lance. The next test would be to see what her mother thought of him. That time would come.

  But first she had to find him.

  *

  SHERIDAN STUMBLED A BIT when she saw that a beige three-quarter-ton GMC pickup was parked outside the Activity Center. Large opened gearboxes filled the bed of the truck. Stenciled on the driver’s-side door was YOUNGBERG FARRIER SERVICE. She knew they often used the old stalls in the building for putting on new horseshoes in the winter, but she hadn’t heard they were scheduled for today.

  In any other circumstance, she would have turned on her heel and walked back to the arena to wait them out. But this wasn’t any other circumstance and she put her head down and kept going.

  Inside the long building was a central walkway with storage room doors on both sides and horse stalls at the far end. Cold white winter light poured down through the overhead skylights inside and lit up the floating dust from the farrier activity. She could see Ben and Brady in silhouette outside the stalls. Ben was bent over an iron anvil, holding up a horse’s leg clamped between his knees, and tapping nail after nail through the shoe into its hoof. Brady was preparing to do the same procedure with a different horse when he saw her come in.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Brady said.

  “Who?” Ben asked through a mouthful of nails. He put them there for easy access.

  “Little Miss,” Brady said.

  Ben paused in mid-swing of his hammer and looked up.

  “Li’l Miss,” he mumbled through the nails.

  She didn’t know they called her that. She said, “I don’t want any trouble with you two. I’ll only be here long enough to get a snowmobile and trailer out of here.”

  “She don’t want no trouble,” Brady said. “Little Miss don’t want no trouble.”

  His tone was mocking and amused.

  She narrowed her eyes at them and vowed to herself not to say anything that would provoke them. Not now.

  Brady asked, “Do you have your daddy with you? And where’s Lance Romance, your bodyguard?”

  So they had names for them both.

  “I seen your picture on my phone,” Brady said. “Were you standing over that poor guy in the snow telling him he better watch out or your daddy and Lance Romance would come beat him up?”

  Ben laughed and several nails fell out of his mouth into the dirt. His whole body shook when he laughed.

  She could still hear him laughing when she went through the door into an oversized storage garage and closed the door behind her. Then locked it.

  Ten Polaris snowmobiles were lined up on individual trailers. Eight were 550 WideTraks for getting around on the ranch and two were 800 Titans big enough for two or three riders. Shallow tubs were attached to the Titans for hauling junk and equipment from place to place on the ranch in the winter.

  She filled a pack with emergency blankets, a first-aid kit, and a handheld GPS unit and a satellite phone that both sat in charging stations.

  The keys Gordon had given her were for the lockbox mounted on the wall where the keys for each machine were hung. She selected keys for one of the Titans, thinking that if Lance were injured she could bring him out in the tub and call ahead for the EMTs to meet her.

  Sheridan was grateful that there was an overhead garage door on the far side of the room. That way, she could back her truck in and drive away with the snowmobile without having to confront the Youngbergs and their taunting again.

  But the first thing she saw when she began to raise the door to the outside were four heavy boots in the snow.

  The door rolled up smoothly and there they were. Brady wore his sloppy grin and Ben stood with his hands on his hips and his chin raised. There was a dribble of brown tobacco juice hanging from his chin.

  “Do you need some help hooking that trailer up?” Brady asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you one of those ‘I can do anything a man can do’ type of gals?”

  “One of them feminists?” Brady added.

  “No.”

  “Which one of these snow machines do you need?”

  She nodded toward the Titan. “Please step aside. I need to go get my truck.”

  To her surprise, they did. But she could feel their eyes on her backside as she made her way to her pickup. There was a lever-action .30-30 just inside the door if she needed it.

  She didn’t.

  *

  BEN GUIDED HER as she backed up to the open garage and Brady was strong enough to lift the snowmobile trailer and roll it forward on its wheels so they could hitch it up easily.

  “Thank you,” she said out her driver’s-side window.

  “Anything for you, Little Miss,” Brady said to Ben’s laugh.

  She kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  It did as she started to pull away, when Brady jogged alongside her open window and waved for her to stop.

  She did, but she kept her finger poised on the button that would close it.

  “Maybe when you find him you’ll figure out why we call him Lance Romance,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Brady didn’t answer. Instead, he looked over at his brother and the two of them exchanged wide smiles as she drove away.

  Then she thought: How did they know Lance was missing?

  29

  WYLIE FRYE LIVED IN A TWO-STORY WHITE CLAPBOARD HOUSE ON THE corner of Freeman and 8th Streets in Encampment. The streets weren’t paved, but they’d been plowed to their frozen gravel surface and the excess snow bordered the lanes like tall white cornrows. The Sierra Madre range loomed blue and sharp over the entire town to the south and west.

  Pryor pulled his truck parallel to the left-side wall of snow and got out. Nate pulled in behind him.

  Wood was obviously the heating fuel of choice in the little town, Nate observed. A layer of smoke hung above the houses at treetop level.

  A curl of it emanated from Frye’s chimney, and Pryor pointed it out.

  “Looks like he’s home,” Pryor said in a near-whisper.

  “You knock on the door,” Nate said. “I’ll go around back.”

  Pryor hitched up his jeans and waited to give Nate time to go around. Condensation from his breath hung about his head like a thought balloon.

  Nate high-stepped it through knee-high snow across the front lawn and around the large garage. It was obvious the garage wasn’t used to store Wylie’s vehicle, which was parked on the side of the building with an extension cord plugged into the engine block to keep it warm. Nate glanced through a window on the side of the structure to see inside.

  The interior was a work in progress; a shop, den, and man-cave rolled into one. There were b
ig-game mounts on the walls, a pool table covered with loose plastic, a woodstove, a bar that looked like it had just been installed, a seventy-inch Vizio television, an overstuffed lounge chair. Stacks of two-by-fours and wood scraps on the floor indicated that Frye was still working on the room.

  He peered around the corner toward the back of the adjacent home. There was no back fence but Nate could see a porch and back door. He unzipped the front of his parka so he could access his weapon.

  In a moment, he heard a heavy rapping from the front of the house and Jeb Pryor shout, “Wylie, it’s Jeb. Open up. I need to talk to you.”

  Nate waited. He could feel the cold of the deep snow start to seep into his boots and through his trousers. Then he heard footfalls inside the house and the sound of the back door being opened.

  The secondary storm door pushed out toward the porch and Nate saw a rotund man with a heavy beard come out and step heavily down the concrete steps. He wore an insulated Carhartt coat and a Stormy Kromer cap with earflaps and he turned toward where Nate was located near Frye’s pickup.

  Nate stepped out from the corner of the garage and leveled his .454 at Wylie Frye’s chest.

  “Where are you going?” Nate asked.

  Frye stopped so quickly he nearly toppled over forward. His eyes widened on the large O of Nate’s muzzle.

  “Aren’t you going to invite us inside?” Nate asked.

  Frye straightened up and sighed. Nate hoped the man wasn’t stupid enough to reach for a gun of his own. No doubt he had one. Everyone in Encampment did.

  “Do I have a choice?” Frye asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong,” Frye said. “You’re on private property, you know.”

  “Turn around,” Nate said. “That’s quite a workshop you’ve got going here. It’s hard to believe Jeb pays you enough for all of that.”

  “Are you some kind of cop?” Frye asked.

  “The worst kind,” Nate said. “The kind without a badge or rules.”

  Wylie Frye started to say something, but apparently thought better of it. He turned and shambled toward his back door.

  Nate followed him inside and found himself in the kitchen. The place was a mess; dishes piled in the sink, a tall garbage can overflowing with empty beer bottles, a linoleum floor caked with dried mud and snow so thick the original design was obscured.

  “Don’t tell me,” Nate said. “You live alone.”

  “Ever since Ginny left with the kids,” Frye said. “It’s hard to maintain the place with the hours I work.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Nate stepped around Frye, but kept his eye on him as he opened the front door.

  Jeb Pryor entered, along with a blast of cold air from outside. Pryor closed the door and stood off to the side of the doorjamb, indicating it was Nate’s play. He looked like he was unsure of the situation he was now in.

  “Take off your coat and let it drop to the floor,” Nate told Frye. “Then your gun.”

  Frye hesitated for a second before removing the coat and doing what he’d been instructed to do. The grip of a semiautomatic was shoved into the front of his waistband.

  “Take it out using your thumb and index finger and lower it to your coat. I don’t want it going off by you dropping it on the floor.”

  Frye grunted as he placed his weapon on his jacket. He wasn’t flexible enough to bend all the way over.

  “Okay,” Nate said. “Thank you.”

  He stepped forward and pinned the sleeve of Frye’s coat under his boot and slid it and the gun toward him. It was a shiny new Smith & Wesson model 1911 in .45.

  “This is a thousand-dollar pistol,” Nate said. “Jeb must be paying you pretty well.”

  Frye and Pryor exchanged glances. Frye looked guilty.

  Nate handed the pistol to Pryor, who looked it over.

  “Not this well,” Pryor said. There was disappointment in his voice. He lowered the muzzle to the floor.

  Nate riffled through the pockets in Frye’s parka and found two cell phones—a Samsung smartphone and a cheap prepaid flip-phone.

  Frye said, “You’ve got no business going through my coat.”

  “Call the cops,” Nate said.

  Frye didn’t move.

  “Why do you need two phones?” Nate asked.

  Frye didn’t answer.

  “Why do you need a burner?” Nate asked, flipping the device open and turning it on.

  “Please, mister,” Frye said. There was desperation in his voice. He turned to Pryor. “You can’t just let him do this, boss.”

  Pryor shrugged.

  Nate found a single text thread on the flip-phone with a lone text that read: He knows. It had been sent the day before to an unknown number.

  “Who knows?” Nate asked Frye, who screwed up his face like he was going to cry.

  He simply glared at Frye. Nate often found that silence was the best way to get someone to talk.

  Finally, the man nodded toward Pryor. “He knows,” he said in a near whisper.

  “I know what? You never fessed up what was going on,” Pryor boomed. He couldn’t help it.

  Frye looked helplessly toward his boss, then to Nate. He said, “These guys scare me.”

  “I’m going to scare you worse,” Nate growled. To Pryor: “Hold him here.”

  Nate went out the front door to his SUV and found the brown trout. It had frozen solid into the shape of a four-pound club. It looked like an oversized prehistoric billy club. Nate grasped it in front of the tail and took it back inside.

  Frye was saying to Pryor, “I don’t want to be involved with them anymore.”

  Nate raised the trout club and swung it at Frye like a baseball bat. It landed hard on his rib cage and Frye’s knees buckled and he dropped to the floor. Pryor stepped back as if to distance himself from the act as much as he could.

  Nate swept Frye’s hat off his head with a backhand, then grasped the man’s left ear. He was so close Nate could smell wood smoke on Frye’s clothing.

  “Sometimes, I pull these right off. They make a popping sound.”

  “Please, mister...” Frye begged.

  “So you told them the delivery is off,” Nate said.

  Frye nodded as best he could. He hugged himself and struggled for breath.

  “Have they responded to you?”

  “You can see they haven’t,” Frye said in a wheeze.

  “I’m going to give you back your phone and you’re going to text them and tell them you made a mistake. Tell them the delivery is back on.”

  “I think you broke my ribs,” Frye moaned.

  “Your nose is next,” Nate said. “I’m just getting started.”

  When Frye looked up Nate handed him the flip-phone.

  “Don’t screw it up.”

  “What if they don’t believe me?”

  “Then you’ll have both of us to worry about,” Nate said. “It’s your job to make them believe you.”

  Frye reached up gingerly and took the phone. Nate watched as he tapped out the message.

  “Let me see it.”

  Frye held up the phone. He’d written: False Alarm. I was being caushus. It’s still a go at the usual time.

  Nate said, “Send it.” He figured if he corrected Frye’s spelling it might appear suspicious.

  Frye sent the message. “Can I get up now? I done what you said.”

  “There’s more. Show up to work tonight like normal,” Nate said. “Play your role and don’t do anything clever like trying to contact them again. You don’t seem like a very clever guy.”

  “I don’t want no part in this anymore,” Frye whined.

  “Too late,” Nate said. “You took the money and betrayed your employer. The only way clear is to do your job. Right, Jeb?”

  Pryor reluctantly agreed. He asked Frye, “Who are these guys you’ve let into my mill?”

  Frye shot a panicked look toward Nate when the grip tightened on his ear. “I don’t
know their names—I really don’t. Part of the arrangement is I walk away from the burner when they show up and don’t come back until they’re gone. I’ve heard their voices but I’ve never seen them face-to-face.”

  “You’ve been letting them use my burner as a crematorium,” Pryor said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “They pay in cash.”

  Pryor’s face reddened and he narrowed his eyes. “You’ve earned whatever’s coming to you, Wylie.” As he said it, he glanced toward Nate.

  “Don’t even think about running,” Nate said to Frye. “Just show up for work like you always do.”

  “What then?” Frye asked.

  Nate shrugged. “We’ll figure that out.”

  Nate and Pryor left Frye on the floor. Pryor kept the handgun.

  *

  PRYOR WALKED STIFF-LEGGED toward his truck. He said to Nate, “I’m not real comfortable with what’s going on around here and what went on in there.”

  “It could have been a lot worse,” Nate said. “I let him keep his ears.” He tossed the trout club into the back of his vehicle.

  “Personnel is the hardest part of running a business,” Pryor said. “I could use a guy like you at the mill.”

  “Thanks—but I’ve got a business of my own.” Then:

  “Keep your cell phone on tonight. We might need you.”

  *

  JOE CALLED BACK just as Nate was turning the ignition on in his SUV.

  “You actually called me on my phone?” Joe said.

  “Yes. You need to get the hell back over here as fast as you can,” Nate said. “It’ll happen tonight.”

  “What will happen?”

  “I already told you,” Nate said, and punched off.

  30

  SHERIDAN PULLED THE SNOWMOBILE TRAILER IN HER TRUCK UP THE old two-track road into the mountains as the frozen trees closed in on her from both sides. She’d remembered to check in with Mark Gordon on the satellite phone after the first hour.

  “Did you find him?” he’d asked.

  “I’m not there yet,” she’d replied.

  She was concerned that the sky hadn’t lightened up much and that the forest was still muted in shadow. It looked and felt like more snow was on the way and she wanted to get to Lance’s cabin and back out before a new storm hit.