Читать книгу The Guardian - Cindi Myers - Страница 9

Chapter Two

Lieutenant Michael Dance had a low tolerance for meetings. As much as they were necessary to do his job, he endured them. But he’d wasted too many hours sitting in conference rooms, listening to other people drone on about things he didn’t consider important. He preferred to be out in the field, doing real work that counted.

The person who’d called this meeting, however, was his boss, Captain Graham Ellison, aka “G-Man.” Though Graham was with the FBI and Dance worked for Customs and Border Protection, Graham headed up the interagency task force charged with maintaining law and order on this vast swath of public land in southwest Colorado. And in their short acquaintance, Graham struck Michael as being someone worth listening to.

“National park rangers found an abandoned vehicle at the Dragon Point overlook yesterday,” Graham said. A burly guy with the thick neck and wide shoulders of a linebacker and the short-cropped hair and erect stance of ex-military, Graham spoke softly, like many big men. His very presence commanded attention, so he didn’t need to raise his voice. “The Montrose County sheriff’s office has identified it as belonging to a Lauren Starling of Denver. Ms. Starling failed to show for work this morning, so they’ve asked us to keep an eye out. Here’s a picture.”

He passed around a glossy eight-by-ten photograph. Michael studied the studio head shot of a thirtysomething blonde with shoulder-length curls, violet-blue eyes and a dazzling white smile. She looked directly at the camera, beautiful and confident. “Do they think she was out here alone?” he asked, as he passed the photo on to the man next to him, Randall Knightbridge, with the Bureau of Land Management.

“They don’t know,” Graham said. “Right now they’re just asking us to keep an eye out for her.”

“Hey, I know this chick,” Randall said.

Everyone turned to stare. The BLM ranger was the youngest member of the task force, in his late twenties and an acknowledged geek. He could rattle off the plots of half a dozen paranormal series on television, played lacrosse in his spare time and wore long-sleeved uniform shirts year-round to hide the colorful tattoos that decorated both arms. He didn’t have a rep as a ladies’ man, so what was he doing knowing a glamour girl like the one in the picture?

“I mean, I don’t know her personally,” he corrected, as if reading Michael’s thoughts. “But I’ve seen her on TV. She does the news on channel nine in Denver.”

“You’re right.” Simon Woolridge, with Immigration and Customs Enforcement, grabbed the picture and gave it a second look. “I knew she looked familiar.”

“Like one of your ex-wives,” quipped Lance Carpenter, a Montrose County sheriff’s deputy.

“Lauren Starling is the evening news anchor for channel nine,” Graham confirmed. “Her high profile is one reason this case is getting special attention from everyone involved.”

“When did she go missing?” Marco Cruz, an agent with the DEA, asked.

“The Denver police aren’t treating it as a missing person case yet,” Graham said. “The car was simply parked at the overlook. There were no signs of a struggle. She took a week’s vacation and didn’t tell anyone where she was going. Nothing significant is missing from her apartment. That’s all the information I have at the moment.”

“Are they thinking suicide?” asked Carmen Redhorse, the only female member of the task force. Petite and dark haired, Carmen worked with the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.

No one looked surprised at her suggestion of suicide. Unfortunately, the deep canyon and steep drop-offs of Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park were popular places for the despondent to end it all. Four or five people committed suicide in the park each year.

“There’s no note,” Graham said. “The Denver police are on the case right now. They’ve simply asked us to keep an eye on things. If you see anything suspicious, we’ll pass it on to the local authorities.” He consulted the clipboard in his hand. “On to more pressing matters. State police impounded a truck carrying a hundred pounds of fresh marijuana bud at a truck stop in Gunnison last night. The pot was concealed inside a load of coffee, but the drug dogs picked up the scent, no problem.”

“When will these rubes learn they can’t fool a dog’s nose?” Randall leaned down to pet his Belgian Malinois, Lotte, who’d stretched out beneath his chair. She thumped the floor twice with her plume of a tail, but didn’t raise her head.

“The logbook indicates the truck passed through this area,” Graham continued. “That’s the second shipment that’s been waylaid in as many months, and another indication that there’s an active growing operation in the area. We know from experience that public lands are prime targets for illegal growers.”

“Free land, away from people, limited law enforcement presence.” Carmen ticked off the reasons wilderness areas presented such a temptation to drug runners. “I read the first national parks had problems with bootleggers. Now it’s pot and meth.”

Graham turned to the large map of the area that covered most of one wall of the trailer that served as task force headquarters. “We’re going to be flying more surveillance this week, trying to locate the growing fields. We’ll be concentrating on the Gunnison Gorge just west of the park boundaries. The counters we laid last week show increased vehicle traffic on the roads in that area.”

In addition to the more than thirty thousand acres within the national park, the task force was charged with controlling crime within the almost sixty-three thousand acres of the Gunnison Gorge National Conservation Area and the forty-three thousand acres of the Curecanti National Recreation Area. It was a ridiculous amount of land for a few people to patrol, much of it almost inaccessible, roadless wilderness. In recent years, drug cartels had taken advantage of short-staffed park service to cultivate thousands of acres of public land. They dug irrigation canals, built fences and destroyed priceless artifacts with impunity. This task force was an attempt to stop them.

A pretty feeble attempt, Michael thought. He thumbed a butterscotch Life Saver from the roll he kept in his pocket and popped it into his mouth. They were wasting time sitting around talking about the problem, instead of being out there doing something about it.

“If we want to find the crops, look for the people who take care of the crops,” Simon said.

“You mean the people who plant the weed?” Randall asked.

“The people who plant it and water it and weed it and guard it from predators—both animal and human,” Simon said. “Illegals, most likely, shipped in for that purpose. We find them and put pressure on them, we can find the person behind this. The money man.”

Here was something Michael knew about. “Human trafficking in Colorado is up twenty percent this year,” he said. “Some sources suggest a lot of victims who end up in Denver come from this area. We could be looking at a pipeline for more than drugs.”

“So the guys in charge of drugs offer a free pass into the country to people who will work for them?” Lance asked.

“More likely they work with coyotes who charge people to bring them into the country, but instead of going to their cousin in Fort Collins or their aunt in Laramie, they end up prisoners of this drug cartel,” Michael said. “And once they’ve worked the fields for a while or learned to cook up meth or whatever the drug lords need them to do, they take the women and the younger men to Denver and turn them out as prostitutes. It’s slavery on a scale people have no idea even exists anymore.”

“So in addition to drugs, we may be dealing with human trafficking,” Carmen said.

“We don’t know that.” Simon’s voice was dismissive. “It’s only speculation. We do know that if these people have workers, they’re probably illegals. Deport the workforce and you can cripple an operation. At least temporarily.”

“Only until they bring in the next load of workers.” Michael glared at the man across the conference table. “Rounding up people and deporting them solves nothing. And you miss the chance to break up the trafficking pipeline.”

“End the drug operation and you remove the reason they have to bring in people,” Simon countered.

“Right. And now they take them straight to Denver, where no one even notices what’s going on.”

“Back to the discussion at hand.” Graham cut them off. He gave each of them a stern look. “As a task force, our job is to address all serious crime in this region, whether it’s human trafficking or drugs or money laundering or murder. But I don’t have to tell you that in this time of budget cuts, we have to be able to show the politicians are getting their money’s worth. A high-profile case could do a lot to assure we all get to keep working.”

And drugs were worth more to federal coffers than people, Michael thought grimly. The law allowed the Feds to seize any and all property involved in drug crimes, from cash and cars to mansions.

“Tomorrow we’ll begin five days of aerial patrols, focused on these sectors.” Graham indicated half a dozen spots on the map. “These are fairly level spots with access to water, remote, but possible to reach in four-wheel-drive vehicles.”

“What about the private property in the area?” Michael asked. Several white spots on the map, some completely surrounded by federal land, indicated acreage owned by private individuals.

“Private property could provide an access point for the drug runners, so we’ll be looking at that. Most of the private land is unoccupied,” Graham said.

“Except for Prentice’s fortress,” Simon said.

Michael didn’t ask the obvious question. If he waited, someone would explain this mystery to the new guy; if not, he’d find out what he needed to know on his own.

“Richard Prentice owns the land here.” Graham pointed to a white square closest to the park—almost on the canyon rim. “He’s built a compound there with several houses, stables, a gated entrance, et cetera.”

“But before that, he tried to blackmail the government into buying the place at an exorbitant price,” Carmen said. “He threatened to build this giant triple-X theater with huge neon signs practically at the park entrance.” Her lip curled in disgust.

“He’s had success with those kinds of tactics before,” Graham said. “He threatened to blow up a historic building over near Ouray until a conservation group raised the money to buy the place from him.”

“At an inflated price,” Carmen said. “That’s how he operates. If he can figure out a way to exploit a situation for money, he will.”

“But the government didn’t bite this time?” Michael asked.

“No,” Lance said. “And the county fought back by passing an ordinance prohibiting sexually oriented businesses. He built a mansion instead, and spends his time filing harassment complaints every time we drive by or fly over.”

“So do we think he has anything to do with the crime wave around here?” Michael asked. Greed and a lust for power were motivation enough for all manner of misdeeds.

Graham shook his head. “Prentice likes to thumb his nose at the government, but we have no reason to suspect he’s guilty of any felonies.”

“Which doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty,” Carmen said. “Just that we can’t prove it—yet.”

Michael studied the map again. First chance he got, he’d check out this Prentice guy.

“Next on the list.” Graham scanned the clipboard again, but before he could continue, a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” Graham called.

The door opened and a woman stood on the threshold, eyes wide with surprise. A fall of long honey-blond hair obscured most of her face, but she appeared young, and pretty, with dark eyes and a well-shaped nose and chin. She wore canvas cargo pants, hiking boots and a long-sleeved canvas shirt, open at the throat to reveal a black tank top trimmed in lace, and a hint of tanned cleavage. Michael’s gaze locked on the holstered weapon at her side—a .40-caliber Sig Sauer. He had one like it at his hip. So was she some kind of law enforcement? A new member of the team no one had mentioned?

“I, uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said. “I was looking for the park rangers. Their office was closed, and I saw the cars over here...”

“The park rangers go home at four,” Graham said. “They’ll be in at nine in the morning if you need help with camping permits or something.”

Her eyes narrowed, focused on the tan uniforms, then on the name badge pinned to Graham’s shirt pocket. “Captain Ellison. Are you a law enforcement officer?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

She pressed her lips together, as if debating her next move, then nodded. “I need to report a crime. A murder.”

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees, Michael was sure, and the group around the table leaned forward, all eyes—including the dog’s—focused on the petite woman in the doorway.

“Why don’t you come in and give us a few more details.” Graham motioned the woman forward.

As she moved past him, Michael caught the scents of wood smoke and sweat and something lighter and more feminine—a floral perfume or shampoo. An awareness stirred in his gut, a sense of familiarity, and the hair rose on the back of his neck. Where had he seen this woman before?

“I’m a biologist,” she said, speaking primarily to Graham, but casting nervous glances at the rest of them. “Or rather, I’m working on my master’s degree in biology. I’m studying several plant species found in the park for my thesis. I was out collecting specimens this morning when I heard people approaching. They were shouting in English and in Spanish, and they appeared to be searching for someone.”

“Did you get close to them?” Simon asked. “Did you talk to them?”

She shook her head. As she did so, her hair swung away from her face, revealing a jagged scar diagonally bisecting one cheek. The scar was bizarrely out of place on such a beautiful face, like a crack in an otherwise pristine china plate. Michael’s gut tightened, and he struggled to control his breathing. He was sure he knew her now, but maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. Post-traumatic stress throwing up some new, bizarre symptom.

“They were some distance away—maybe two hundred yards,” she continued. “I hid behind a large boulder and waited for them to leave.”

“Why did you do that?” Simon asked.

“Because she’s smart,” Carmen said. “A woman alone in the middle of nowhere sees a group of rowdy men? Of course she hides.”

Simon flushed, like a kid who’s been reprimanded. “She looks as though she can take care of herself.” He nodded to the weapon at her side. “You got a permit for that thing?”

“Yes.” She turned away from him. “I couldn’t see what they were doing—the terrain is rough out there. But I heard gunshots. Then they quieted down and left.”

“You’re sure they were gunshots?” Graham asked.

She nodded. “I was in the army, stationed in Kandahar. I know what gunfire sounds like. This was a semiautomatic. A rifle, not a handgun.”

Michael gripped the underside of the conference table until his fingers ached. This was no trick of a war-stressed mind. This was her—the woman who’d lingered in the back of his mind for the better part of five years. The one he could never forget.

“All right.” Graham leaned against the table, his pose deceptively casual. “What happened next?”

“I waited ten minutes to make sure they were gone, then I resumed collecting the specimens I’d come for. I headed back toward the road where I’d parked my car. I had walked less than half a mile when I stumbled over something.” Her face paled and she swallowed hard, her lips pressed tightly together, holding in emotion. “It was a body,” she said softly. Then, in a stronger voice, “A young man. Latino. He’d been shot in the chest.”

“He was dead?” Randall asked.

“Oh, yes. But not for long. The body was still warm.”

“So you think the men you heard shot him.” Simon couldn’t keep quiet long. Clearly, he liked playing the role of interrogator.

“It’s your job to decide that, not mine,” the woman said, a sharp edge to her voice. Good for her, Michael thought. Put Simon in his place.

“Can you show us where the body is?” Graham asked.

She nodded. “I think so. I was collecting specimens near there and I made note of the GPS coordinates. I should have noted the coordinates for the body, too, but seeing it out there was such a shock...” She looked down at the floor, hair falling forward to obscure her face once more. But Michael didn’t need the visual confirmation anymore. This was her. And to think he’d thought he’d never see her again.

What were the odds that he’d run into her now—in this place half a world away from where they’d last met? Then again, his mother always said everything happened for a reason. Michael told himself he didn’t believe in that kind of divine interference—in fate. But maybe some of his mother’s superstition had rubbed off on him.

“We’ll want a full statement from you later.” Graham pulled out a pen and turned to a fresh sheet on his clipboard. “Right now, if you’ll just give me your name and tell me where you’re camped.”

“Abigail Stewart.”

Only when the others turned toward him did Michael realize he’d spoken out loud. Abby stared at him, too, her mouth half-open, a red stain coloring her previously pale cheeks. “How did you know my name?” she demanded.

He stood, forcing himself to relax, or at least to look as if he didn’t have all these turbulent emotions fighting it out in his gut. “Hello, Abby,” he said softly. “I’m Michael Dance.”

“I don’t know a Michael Dance,” she said.

“No, you probably don’t remember me. It’s been a while. Five years.”

She searched his face, panic behind her eyes. He wanted to reach out, to reassure her. But he remained frozen, immobile.

“You knew me in Afghanistan?” she asked. “I don’t remember.”

“There’s no reason you should,” he said. “The last time I saw you, you were pretty out of it. Technically, you were dead—for a while, at least.”

He’d been the one to bring her back to life, massaging her heart and breathing in her ravaged mouth until her heart beat again and she’d sucked in oxygen on her own. He’d saved her life, and in that moment forged a connection he’d never been quite able to sever.