Текст книги "Crash & Burn"

Автор книги: Lisa Gardner

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Kevin didn’t have an answer. It was all hypothetical, after all, and the Brain preferred stats.

“Cell phone?” Wyatt asked.

That Kevin could handle: “Recovered one from beneath the dash, registered in the driver’s name. That’s it.”

Wyatt considered the implications. “Do you know any kids who don’t have cell phones?” he asked Kevin.

“Me? You’re assuming I know kids.”

“Your nieces, nephews . . .”

“Sure, they all have iPods, smartphones, whatever. Generally speaking, it’s in our own best interest to keep some kind of electronic device in their hands. Otherwise they might talk to us.”

“So assuming our kid is a nine– to thirteen-year-old girl, it’s probable she also has a phone, in which case . . .” He tried to think of how to best put it into words. “Why not use it? Why not simply stay inside the car, where at least it’s relatively dry, and call for help, for herself, for her mom, instead of heading out into a storm? We have a cell signal?”

Kevin nodded. “Driver’s phone shows the service provider to be Verizon. Same as me, and I have four bars.”

“So it’s not that she couldn’t call. But maybe . . .”

He was trying to think it through, put himself in a scared girl’s shoes. Kids could be resourceful, tougher than you thought. He knew that from both professional and personal experience.

“Poor girl’s adrenal system had to have been screaming fight or flight,” Kevin offered up. “Maybe she chose flight.”

“Or maybe she’s hurt, too. Hit her head, disoriented.” Frankly the possibilities were endless. Which made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t help but picture Sophie, nine years old, already been through hell and back, with her thousand-yard stare. In this situation, what would she have done? Given her reputation, probably retrieved her mom from the front seat and dragged her up the muddy ravine with her bare hands. She was that kind of kid.

And she didn’t hate him. She just didn’t smile at him. Or talk to him. Or acknowledge his existence in any meaningful manner. But that was okay. The battle was still early and he had many more tricks up his sleeve. Maybe.

“Let’s follow up on a possible cell phone,” Wyatt said. “Contact the driver’s service provider, see if there’s any other names attached to the calling plan, you know, like a family plan or something. Because if she has a phone . . .”

“We can track it,” Kevin filled in.

“And where there’s a cell phone . . .”

“There’s a teenage kid attached to it.”

“Exactly.”

Happy to have finally offered up something useful, Wyatt continued with his cursory inspection of the wreck. He passed around to the driver’s side door, where the spiderwebbed glass had shattered out, onto the ground. Maybe hit by the driver’s elbow from the inside. Or pounded out by her fist as she desperately sought escape.

He peered inside. As was consistent with most front-end collisions, the dashboard had been compromised, the steering column shoved into the driver’s seat. He could make out a tangle of unspooled seat belt, which would indicate the driver had been wearing one at the time of impact, then removed it in order to make her escape. Must’ve been tricky for the driver to extricate herself from such a mess, he thought. Especially given her own likely injuries—foot or ankle fractures from stomping the brakes in a futile attempt not to go sailing into the abyss, knee damage from the collapsing front dash, or even bruising to the stomach, ribs, shoulders, from the seat belt. He’d seen drivers burn their hands on the deploying airbags, break their thumbs on the steering wheel, crush their sternums against the steering column.

And this crash had been a hard one. He could tell by one more distinct clue: blood. Lots of it. Staining the steering wheel, smeared across the dash, printing the back of the light-silver seat, the top of the door. The driver had been bleeding, probably lacerated in several areas given the large shards of broken clear glass—the scotch bottle—and smaller tinted pebbles from the shattered safety windows. He could make out entire bloody handprints where she’d obviously sought leverage, grabbing the dash, the edge of the seat, something, trying to haul herself out.

He wondered if she’d been unconscious for the bulk of the crash. Passed out driving one moment. Woke up wrecked the next. Or had it been worse than that? Had she regained consciousness just as her vehicle went airborne? Screamed? Tried frantically to apply her brakes? Or reached back reflexively for her daughter, as if at this late date, she could somehow undo the terrible mistake she’d obviously made?

Wyatt couldn’t decide. Maybe he respected the driver’s efforts to drag herself out of the wreckage and crawl back to the road in order to seek help for her child. But then again, wasn’t that kind of like respecting the arsonist for escaping the burning building?

He frowned, his gaze falling on the gear shift, which sat in neutral, instead of drive as you’d expect. He glanced over his shoulder at Kevin.

“Anyone been inside the car?”

“No.”

“Turn off the engine?”

“Nah, must’ve stalled out. I don’t know. Todd was first one on the scene. Once he heard about the kid, that’s been our focus.”

Wyatt nodded; protecting life always took precedent. “Gear’s in neutral,” he commented.

Kevin’s turn to think. “Shifter might’ve been bumped? Lots of things bang around during impact. Loose objects, purses, elbows. Or maybe the driver, while trying to wriggle herself free, knocked it into neutral.”

“Maybe.” Wyatt straightened, not completely satisfied, but now was not the time. Later, after the vehicle had been towed from the site, when entire doors and whole seats had been meticulously removed and sent to the state’s lab for testing, then they’d get down to it. The position of the driver’s seat. The mirrors. Imprint from right hand here; imprint from left hand there. Not to mention the Total Station analysis as well as the stats recovered from the electronic data recorder. An accident like this wasn’t reconstructed in a matter of hours, but in a matter of days, if not weeks.

But they would do it. Thoroughly. Meticulously. So the whole world could know what a Glenlivet-swilling mother had done to herself and her child one dark and stormy night.

As if on cue, Wyatt heard barking from above. Canine unit had arrived.

He straightened, stepping away from the vehicle, glancing at his watch instead.

Eight twenty-two A.M. Approximately three hours and fifteen minutes after first callout, they had an accident still to investigate and, more important, a child yet to find.

In the end, he decided, all paths led in the same direction. Back up the muddy ravine, to the silver ribbon of road, where this tragedy had first started and where the search dog now waited.

He and Kevin started climbing.

Chapter 3

L OOK AT ME , Mommy! Look! I can fly.”

She runs away from me, arms stuck straight out from her sides, rosebud mouth supplying the appropriate airplane noises. I admire her long dark hair bouncing behind her, as her little legs chug around the tiny space.

I wonder if I’d been this energetic when I’d been her age. Or this brave as she leaps over one obstacle, weaves expertly around the next.

I think somewhere in the back of my mind, I already know the answer to this question and it’s better off left alone.

Enjoy this moment. Four-year-old Vero, learning to fly.

She giggles, revving up now, gaining momentum. And the sound of her joy lifts the weight off my own chest. She turns a corner, around the ragged brown sofa—stuffing coming up through a tear, someone should fix that, should I have fixed that?—and I can see her face, chubby cheeks flushed pink, gray eyes bright beneath thick lashes, as she zeroes in on her target and heads straight for me.

“Mommy! I can fly, I can fly, I can fly.”

I love you, I think. But I don’t say it. The words don’t come out. I stand there, bracing for impact as she barrels toward me.

Slow down. Take it easy. It’s almost as if I know what’s going to happen next.

At the last second, her tiny foot catches the leg of the coffee table, and for a moment, she is genuinely airborne, body stretched out, hands and feet grappling in empty space.

Vero’s eyes, widening.

Her mouth, forming a perfect startled O.

“Mommy!” she yells.

Shhh, I try to whisper. Don’t make a sound. Don’t let him hear you.

She lands hard. Thump. Crack.

Then the screaming begins in earnest.

Shhh, I try to whisper again.

As those gray eyes well with tears, bear into mine.

A man’s shout from the bedroom of the apartment. Followed by footsteps, heavy and ominous.

“Mommy, I can fly,” Vero says, and she’s no longer crying. She is providing a statement of fact.

I know, I want to tell her. I understand.

I wish I could reach out, touch her hair, stroke her cheek.

Instead, I close my eyes, because somewhere in the back of my mind, I know what’s going to happen next.

*   *   *

I WAKE UP to machines beeping. Bright lights, strong enough to hurt my eyes. I wince reflexively, turning my head away, then immediately wish that I hadn’t, as fresh pain explodes in my forehead.

I’m in a hospital bed. Lying straight on my back, hands tucked to my sides by scratchy white sheets topped by a thin blue blanket. I examine the metal bed rails framing each side of the bed, then the wires sprouting from an attachment on my finger leading to all kinds of monitors. My mouth is dry, my throat parched. I would moan but don’t feel like making the effort.

I hurt . . . everywhere. Head to toe, knees to elbows. My first thought is that I must’ve fallen from a twenty-story building and broken every bone on impact. My second thought is, why did they bother to put me back together again? If I finally got the courage up to jump, couldn’t the rest of them leave well enough alone?

Then I see him, head slumped forward in the chair next to the foot of my bed.

My heart constricts. I think: I love you.

My head explodes. I think: Get the fuck away from me!

Then: What the hell is his name again?

The man’s face is weathered, heavily lined with worry and stress even in sleep. But it gives him a lived-in look that is far from unattractive. Closer to early forties than late thirties, dark hair shot through with liberal streaks of gray, body still lean after all these years. I like that body; I know that with certainty.

And yet, I don’t want him to wake up. Mostly, I wish he’d never found me here.

“Mommy, I can fly,” Vero whispers in the back of my mind.

I think of that old pilots’ joke: It’s not the flying that’s the hard part; it’s the landing.

The man opens his eyes.

It comes as no surprise to me that they are brown and somber and deep.

“Nicky?” he whispers, arms already springing out, body on high alert.

“Vero?” I croak. “Please . . . Where is Vero?”

The man doesn’t speak. His body collapses back, my first words having already taken the fight out of him. He places a hand over his eyes, maybe so I won’t see the answers lurking there.

Then this man I love, this man I hate—what the hell is his name?—whispers heavily, “Oh, honey. Not again.”

Chapter 4

HER NAME’S ANNIE. Good girl, too. Four years old, a little rambunctious, but has the drive. Won’t find a better worker; that’s for sure.”

The handler, Don Frechette, reached down and scratched his dog affectionately behind the ears. In response, Annie, a high-spirited yellow Lab, waved her tail so hard she nearly whacked her own face.

Wyatt liked dogs. Last cold case he’d worked, the cadaver dog had found a fifty-year-old bone in a dry creek bed. The bone had looked like a desiccated twig and smelled like dirt. One of the younger officers had nearly cast it aside before the accompanying forensic anthropologist had caught his arm. This old thing? the officer had asked. But it’s just a stick.

The forensic anthropologist had found it funny. Later, however, she’d confessed to Wyatt that she considered the whole thing amazing as well. The bone had long since lost all organic matter, she explained. What was left for the dog to scent? But the dogs always know, she mused. Forget the latest advancement in GPS tracking and forensic analysis; anytime she was out in the field, she just wanted a good dog’s nose.

Tessa had expressed an interest in getting a dog. Maybe he could take her and Sophie puppy shopping this weekend. Visit the local animal shelter, bring home a new addition to the family. Surely that’d earn him some points with the kid.

Or would that be trying too hard? Tessa had made it very clear the worst thing he could do was try too hard.

It wasn’t that Sophie hated him, he reminded himself. Maybe.

“Conditions?” he asked Frechette, gesturing to the man’s light rain jacket, then the dog’s thin coat, given the low-forties chill.

“Not a problem. We’ll warm up soon enough. I don’t mind the cold. Pools the scent, keeps it low, easier to track for the dog. And Annie fatigues faster in heat. Morning like this, clear skies, low temps, she’ll be raring to get to work. Now, you said it’s a car crash.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Glass?”

“Quite a bit around the vehicle.”

“She’ll need her boots, then. Other terrain?”

“Mostly mud, one briskly moving stream. There’s some prickly shrubs, the usual mess of random rocks and broken branches. Getting down is a little tricky, given the grade. But once you’re in the ravine . . . Decent hiking, actually. God knows the Fish and Game officers have probably already made it to Maine and back.”

“Fish and Game? Who’s working?”

“Barbara and Peter.”

“Oh, I like them. Good people. And they came up with nothing?”

“We’ve all come up with nothing.” Wyatt wasn’t surprised the dog handler knew the Fish and Game officers. New Hampshire was big on woods and short on people. Sooner or later, felt like you knew everyone you met and had met everyone you knew.

“Need any more information on the child?” Kevin was asking. “We believe she’s female, approximately nine to thirteen years of age.”

Frechette gave Kevin a funny look, then peered down at Annie, who was nearly dancing with anticipation. “Hey, girl, you need a description? Plan on calling the kid’s name? Or maybe use your color-blind eyes to find a pink coat?”

Kevin flushed.

“We don’t need vitals, Detective. All we need is Annie’s nose. Trust me, if there’s a child out there, Annie’ll bring her home.”

After a bit of discussion, they settled on a search strategy. Having worked with several different dogs in different situations, Wyatt already knew most handlers had their own opinions on the best way to get the job done. Given that their search area was relatively small, and now scent contaminated by dozens of officers who’d already been swarming the scene, Frechette wanted to approach it like a tracking case. Start Annie in the back of the car, last suspected location of the child, and see if she could pick up a trail from there. A strategy better suited for a bloodhound than a Lab, Frechette confessed, but he remained sold on his girl’s skills. His dog had the training, had the drive; she’d find their missing child.

A little yellow Lab puppy, Wyatt thought. Red bow around its neck. Here, Sophie. Got this for you.

Most likely Sophie would accept the puppy, while continuing to regard him with her thousand-yard stare.

Wyatt was in trouble. He’d figured it out six months ago. He hadn’t just fallen in love with an amazing woman, Tessa Leoni; he’d fallen in love with her kid. And while dating in your twenties was all about hoping the parents liked you; dating in your forties was all about hoping her kids accepted you. In that regard, nine-year-old Sophie was proving a tough nut to crack.

Not that she hated him. Maybe.

They headed back down the ravine.

The other officers were dropping back, per the handler’s request. Wyatt had issued the command by radio. It was a tough call to make, pulling back the human searchers in order to bring in a canine. But the rule of thumb was that one dog was worth 150 volunteers. Meaning Annie was the best hope they had, and for her to do her job, she needed all the searchers and their various scent profiles out of her way.

Some of the state and local officers were already passing them, heading up as they headed down. Now Barbara and Peter from Fish and Game paused on their return to scratch Annie’s nose. Not having been issued her work command yet, Annie responded by preening happily.

The searchers all looked tired, Wyatt thought, but not dispirited. The search hadn’t been going on long enough to be considered a failure but, at the four-hour mark, was becoming more concerning. How much ground could a young child have really covered in the early hours of the morning? And why wouldn’t she backtrack at the sound of their voices?

They had passed from an easy search into the land of more troubling. These officers, especially Barbara and Peter, were experienced enough to know it.

They arrived at the crashed Audi. Frechette whistled low under his breath as he took it in.

“Damn. Talk about a nose dive. It’s like the thing sailed over a cliff or something.”

Wyatt didn’t comment. Without any results from the Total Station, he wasn’t sure about the “or something.”

Annie took in the wreckage as well, whining low in her throat. She was no longer dashing about, but regarding her handler fiercely. She knew, Wyatt thought. With a dog’s unerring sense, she understood it was time to work.

Frechette told the dog to stay. She whined again but did as she was told. The handler walked around the scene, taking in the broken glass, the bloodstains, the pieces of warped metal. He was looking out for his dog, Wyatt realized, as was his job.

The handler came around, peering in the rear passenger’s side window. “Think the kid sat back here?”

“That’s our assumption,” Kevin spoke up.

“Clean,” Frechette commented.

Wyatt frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, most of us carry a lot of shit in our cars. Extra jacket this time of year, snacks, bottles of water, I don’t know. Mail we haven’t taken into the house yet, dog leashes, random junk. At least, my vehicle has most of that stuff. Bet yours does, too.”

Wyatt couldn’t argue with that. He stepped closer. First time around, he’d been focused on the damage in the front. This time, he saw Frechette’s point. The floor of the rear of the vehicle contained some shards of glass, most likely from the broken whiskey bottle or dragged from the front as the driver had crawled through. But, yeah, the normal detritus of everyday life—old coffee cups, bottles of water, snacks for the child, iPad for playing in the car . . . Nada. The rear seats, cargo area, held nothing at all.

Apparently, the only item the driver thought you needed for a road trip was a bottle of Glenlivet.

“That a problem?” Wyatt asked the handler.

“Not at all. Good news, really. I was worried the back might have more glass, be hard on Annie’s paws. Way I see it, we can load her into the cargo area, have her jump into the rear seats and get to work. Hey, Annie!”

The yellow Lab, still obediently sitting next to Kevin, whined in response.

“Wanna work?”

A single enthusiastic bark.

“All right, honey. Let’s go to work. Come, Annie. Come!”

The dog bolted to his side, a yellow bullet that paused only long enough to home in on her handler’s face, awaiting the next command.

“Up!”

She leapt into the cargo area.

“Go!”

She was in the passenger’s seat, not sniffing, not exploring, big brown eyes still riveted to Frechette’s face.

“Okay, Annie,” Frechette called through the open rear hatch. “Here’s the deal. There’s a missing girl and you’re gonna track her. Track, do you understand?”

Wyatt thought this was a pretty colloquial approach to dog training, but what did he know? Annie certainly seemed to understand, ears pricked, body on high alert.

“Scent up!”

The dog dropped her head, began snuffling over the seat, the door handle, the window. Her lips were peeled back slightly, as if she was taking the scent not just into her nose but into her mouth and tasting it.

“Go find, Annie. Go find!”

The dog whined, now working the rear seats in her own grid pattern, back and forth, back and forth. She was on the hunt, no doubt about it, her attention no longer on her handler, but 100 percent focused on catching scent.

She backtracked. Moved from behind the passenger’s front seat to behind the driver’s seat. More anxious sniffing, another low whine. Exploring both rear car doors thoroughly, up and down, side to side. Then a first exploratory paw, stepping off the seat onto the glass-studded floor.

Thank God for dog boots, Wyatt thought. He couldn’t have watched it otherwise.

More whining, anxious, distressed. Then Annie was back on the seats, side to side, back and forth. Then with a graceful hop she was over, in the rear cargo space, diligently working that space inch by inch.

Some dogs lie down to signal they are on scent. Others barked. Wyatt wasn’t sure of the nuances, but best he could tell, Annie wasn’t having any luck yet. And it was pissing her off.

She glanced at Frechette, whined again, clearly frustrated.

“Scent up!” he repeated.

The dog dropped her head, back to work. She leapt from the cargo area to the rear seats. Then, after another few minutes of careful exploration, backtracked to the middle of the bench seat. She snuffled, paused, snuffled.

Then, facing forward, she leaned forward toward the glass-strewn center console, her movements slow and careful. She understood glass, Wyatt realized. Or at least had enough experience with it to know to proceed with caution. More sniffing, above the glass. And then.

Woof.

She retreated to the center of the bench seats. Woofed again. Jumped over the seat backs to the cargo area. Another bark, tail up, eyes back on Frechette as she ran to the rear bumper, body on high alert.

Frechette got the message. “Track, Annie. Track!”

She sailed out of the car, a tad too enthusiastically, then had to backtrack to recover the trail. But within a matter of minutes, she was on scent, head down, sleek body moving effortlessly over the ground as she jogged from side to side, bush to bush. She began to ascend the ravine; they followed.

Moving in the dog’s wake, Wyatt began to notice things he hadn’t spotted before. The way this one bush had a broken branch. Another offered up a long strand of dark hair caught between two leaves. A person had come this way, and to judge by the freshness of the snapped twig, very recently.

Tracking was never completely linear. They stayed ten feet back, allowing Annie plenty of space to work as she jogged forward, eased back, raced right, then regrouped to the left. An older, wiser dog might have paced herself, whereas Annie had clearly thrown herself into the chase. Come hell or high water, she was gonna find her target.

They worked their way up the ravine in a slow zigzag pattern, as if the initial person hadn’t known where she was going. Had been stumbling around in the dark.

More evidence: a dislodged rock, trampled grass, a scrap of torn fabric. Wyatt flagged each item for future collection. They’d have to map this trail, sketch it up, then retrieve all evidence for testing.

Two-thirds of the way up, they came upon a large boulder, streaked on one side with a reddish-brown substance. Blood, Wyatt realized. Heavy enough not even the rain had been able to wash it away. They paused as Annie worked the base of the boulder, whining anxiously. The girl had been injured, then. Maybe, as they’d discussed, she’d regained consciousness before the mother and gone in search of help.

A lone child, standing roadside in the middle of the night . . .

They didn’t talk anymore. Annie moved forward. Wordlessly, the three men followed.

Cresting the hill, Annie began to bark. Now she dashed into the road, racing straight ahead, then right, then left, then around and around in a twenty-foot circle, nearly frantic. She crossed the road, darted back. Headed back down the ravine ten feet, came leaping back.

“Track!” Frechette commanded, frowning at his charge. “Told you she was young,” he muttered under his breath, half excuse, half explanation.

Annie didn’t look at him anymore. She continued running in circles with growing frustration.

Abruptly, the dog sat. She stared at Frechette, barked twice, then lowered her head and lay on the ground. She was no longer a friendly, eager canine. In fact, she wouldn’t look at them at all.

“What does that mean?” Wyatt asked.

“She’s done. Not only lost the trail, but she’s worked herself into a state over it. She’ll have to rest before we can try again. Give us thirty minutes.”

Wyatt nodded at the handler, who stepped forward to tend his despondent charge.

“Dogs don’t take failure well,” Kevin commented.

“Neither do I.” Wyatt headed back to the edge of the ravine, peering down at the meandering trail they’d just followed. So someone—the missing child?—had made it this far, and then . . .

“Sir.”

Wyatt turned to see Officer Todd Reynes standing by him. “Todd,” Wyatt greeted him. “Heard you were the first responder. Thanks for taking the lead in looking for the missing kid.”

“Not a problem. Sir, that’s the search dog, right?”

“Yep. Her name’s Annie. Young, we’re told, but did a good job tracking the trail this far. Now, however, you can tell she’s a little frustrated.”

“She’s lost the scent?”

“Apparently.”

“I think I might know why.”

Wyatt arched a brow. “By all means, Officer,” he said, indicating for the man to explain.

“See that sign there?”

Wyatt turned toward the roadside. Sure enough, fifteen feet down was a yellow caution sign warning of the sharp turn ahead.

“When I first arrived on scene, I noticed the caution sign because Daniel Ledo, the man who placed the initial call, was standing beside it. While right about there”—Reynes pointed to Annie, still lying on the ground, gazing up at her handler mutinously—“was the ambulance.”

Wyatt straightened. “You’re saying—”

“That’s where the EMTs loaded the driver onto the stretcher.”

Wyatt closed his eyes. He got it now. The scent the dog had picked up, the trail they had just followed up the ravine. Not the missing child’s after all, but the driver’s.

“Always the risk,” he muttered. “I mean, you can tell the dog to track, but you can’t tell her who to follow.”

He crossed to Frechette to break the news. Frechette reiterated that his dog needed a break, but in twenty or thirty minutes, they could try again.

Which they did. Twice, with the same results.

According to Annie, one scent came out of the vehicle. One scent trailed up to the road. They circled her around the wreck. They brought her to the fast-flowing stream.

Annie grew increasingly sullen and resentful. She’d done her job.

One scent. One trail. One person, who mysteriously disappeared in the middle of the paved road.

That was Annie’s story, and she was sticking to it.

“Houston,” Wyatt declared shortly after 10 A.M., “we have a problem.”