Proof Positive: A Joe Gunther Novel (Joe Gunther Series) Page 16

  “She’s a good cop, just like you.”

  Willy shook his head. “She’s an asshole, just like me. No wonder we’re an item.”

  * * *

  Vermont Game Warden Caitlin Holt was working her pickup truck slowly along Lewis Pond Road, north of Route 105 in the state’s Northeast Kingdom, under ten miles from the Canadian border. This region was as remote as it gets in New England—a smaller version of Maine’s hundreds of square miles of wilderness farther east. Surrounded by mountains, forests, lakes, and ponds, it offered few of the farms, resorts, quaint villages, and sweeping vistas that made Vermont so attractive to outsiders. Here was simply woods, allowing for only the occasional seasonal camp, and known primarily to loggers, hunters, fishermen, and the rare smuggler—the last of whom might be inclined to pursue their trade covertly and heavily armed.

  Which is what brought Caitlin to the area. Once every week or so, as part of her routine, she swung up into this abandoned piece of real estate and slowly patrolled its narrow, overgrown roads, trails, and pathways to metaphorically take its pulse. Her efforts were aided by the area’s hypersensitivity to the passage of any visitors—and her own ability to spot signs of them. The packed dirt surfaces could hold the telltale traces of ATVs for days, and things like footprints, cigarette butts, beer cans, and abandoned fire pits stood out as they didn’t in more populated spots. Caitlin had been in such environs all her life, had hunted here with her father and two brothers throughout her teenage years, and to this day, far preferred the company of trees and wild animals to anything she’d ever met among her own species.

  All of which helped her to notice a fresh set of tire tracks stamped on a thin layer of snow coating the edge of an opening to a narrow road just ahead.

  She slowed her truck to a stop, resting her hand instinctively on the butt of the .40 in her holster.

  She radioed dispatch that she was exiting the vehicle to investigate on foot, and gave her GPS coordinates rather than any physical address—privately thankful that she could do either, given that her predecessors had enjoyed neither good radio coverage nor fancy satellite-linked mapping devices. Times were slightly better than when one of her ilk stood a chance of simply disappearing into the wild during what had begun as a routine patrol.

  The tracks belonged to a large vehicle, as broad and heavy as a truck, and had entered and departed the trail, most recently the latter, which heightened her hopefulness that she was still alone. Less comforting, however, was that the signs were fresh. The regular hunting season had concluded weeks earlier, there was no local logging going on that she knew of, and it was becoming far too cold at night for people to be camping recreationally.

  She walked alongside the trail, keeping her prints among the underbrush. So far, there had been no indicators to make her specifically wary, but she defaulted to caution by nature, and always tried to leave wherever she was with minimum evidence of having been there.

  A half mile along a gentle, uphill curve, Caitlin caught her first glimpse of a cabin tucked deep into the woods like so many of its type. It appeared to be the standard one- or two-room structure, built to last a decade at best, and now probably much older than that. It had a rusty metal stovepipe protruding from its mossy roof, showing no smoke, and a single, small window.

  She paused by a tree that matched her dark green uniform, and trained her binoculars on the building—especially on the footprints marring the fresh snowfall on the closed doorway’s lip.

  “What’ve you been doin’, people?” she whispered, letting the barest wisp of vapor escape from her lips. She remained motionless for ten minutes, studying, before finally easing away from the tree to venture forward, slipping her weapon into her hand.

  Her own family’s backwoods cabin was substantial, solidly built, and afforded a wide view of a pond and distant mountains. Most of the ones like this—which Caitlin had always considered hovels—had the romantic appeal of an outhouse. Their advantage, however, was that the walls and nearest trees were often at arm’s length. As a result, Caitlin managed to keep cover all the way to within a few feet of the front door.

  There, she could distinctly see multiple sets of footprints heading inside—and two leaving.

  Moving soundlessly, she sidled up to the dark window and attempted to peer inside, half suspecting that all she’d see would be a pair of ragged curtains or a smear of impenetrable grime. Instead, she discerned two bodies sprawled out on the floor, each with one wrist handcuffed to the wall.

  She hesitated a moment. She knew she should call dispatch immediately, possibly even retreat and wait for reinforcements.

  But that wasn’t going to happen. At least one of those bodies belonged to an elderly female, and before her shift, Caitlin had read the law enforcement–only BOL listing an older couple and their daughter as missing.

  This was no time to wait.

  After a quick tour of the cabin’s perimeter—to ensure she was dealing with only one door and a window—she steadied herself behind a tree opposite the entrance and shouted, gun extended, “Inside the house, this is the police! Come out with your hands in plain view.”

  She waited, straining to see or hear anything, before repeating her order—to the continuing accompaniment of only the faint creaking of the trees, far overhead.

  Again, she considered retreat, and again rejected it, driven by excitement, determination, and a young officer’s too-common fear of calling for help prematurely.

  She slowly stepped free of her cover, crossed to the door, breathing quickly and with her gun slightly trembling, and rested her free hand on the knob.

  This she turned, fully expecting the sudden explosion of a shotgun or rifle.

  What she got instead, as if to mock her apprehension, was the door yielding easily to reveal the two bodies she’d glimpsed, along with the third of a younger woman propped up in a far corner. All three were alone and handcuffed to heavy cleats driven into the wooden walls—and all three appeared dead.

  Letting out a relieved puff of air, Caitlin twisted around to see no one outside, sneaking up behind her. She then moved to the side of the first body.

  There was a pulse. She pulled out her radio.

  * * *

  “Getting bored, Frank.”

  “Patience, my man. Just keep your head in the game.”

  “Got nowhere else to put it. That’s my problem. How much longer’re we gonna do this?”

  “Not much. Sooner than later, they’re going to lead us somewhere weird. That’s when we’ll know.”

  “Cops go to weird places all the time,” Neil argued, his voice sounding thin over Frank’s earpiece. “How’re we gonna know which weird is our weird?”

  “Bear with me, Neil,” Frank reassured him calmly, adding two seconds later, “Okay, I got another bogey hitting the sidewalk and heading for his car. Tan four-door Ford, the usual oh-so-subtle antenna sticking out of the trunk. Listen up for the plate number.”

  He rattled it off, turned on his ignition, and slipped into the light Cherry Street traffic driving by the VBI Burlington office, taking position a couple of vehicles behind the Ford. Frank didn’t know whom he was tailing—that wasn’t important. He only knew the man was VBI, and his fingers were crossed that this time, they’d be led to where Rachel had been tucked away.

  “East on Cherry,” he announced on his hands-free cell. Neil was in a car one block over, ready to swap positions to lessen the chances that they’d be spotted.

  “Roger that.”

  “South on South Winooski Ave,” Frank relayed. “He may be going for Route 2 East and the Interstate.”

  “Got it.”

  He was right. The Ford kept wending its way east, until it entered I-89, heading north.

  “Neil, take over for me. I’m dropping back.”

  As the three cars left the on-ramp and picked up speed, Neil passed by and swung in behind their target. Frank allowed half a dozen vehicles to come in between them.

  It was
well planned. Two exits later, Neil spoke up. “He’s signaling, Frank. We’re getting off here.”

  Frank kept his position, buried in traffic. He was able to see the Ford’s taillights as it pulled up to the intersection at the bottom of the ramp.

  “Goin’ right on Route 7,” Neil announced.

  “I see you.” Then Frank was caught by the red light and rolled to a stop, losing sight of the other two.

  “Whoa. Hang on,” Neil said almost immediately. “Left onto Mountain View.”

  Frank didn’t respond, trying to recall the area from his studying of the map earlier.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Neil groused, his voice losing its tension. “He’s pulling into the Shaw’s lot. Shit.”

  The light turned and Frank headed after them. “That’s good. What cop goes grocery shopping in the middle of the day? Could be he’s making a supply run for the girl.”

  “Do I follow him in?”

  “No. Keep his car in view. I’ll find you. Let me know when he heads back out.”

  “Got it.” Neil’s voice sounded happier, if marginally, which was enough for Frank.

  “So far, so good,” Neil said about fifteen minutes later. “He’s comin’ out with a couple of bags.”

  “Paper or plastic?” Frank asked, feeling heartened. They’d been at this—tailing VBI personnel around town—for several days, and it was getting old.

  “What?” Neil asked, not much given to humor.

  “Nothin’.” Frank started his car and waited.

  “All right. Headin’ out,” Neil radioed.

  “Turning left, back to Route 7,” he then said, and a moment later, “North on 7.”

  Frank craned to look up through his windshield, trying to locate a familiar chopping sound. He saw a National Guard helicopter pass overhead at an angle, probably aiming for its base at Camp Johnson, near the Burlington airport. He watched it carefully for a moment, wondering, but saw nothing unusual or suspicious. He also took comfort in its being military, knowing that cops and soldiers traditionally don’t play well together.

  Their small caravan continued toward Colchester, one of the cluster of satellite communities bordering Burlington, until it reached the junction with 2A, where they all veered right. By this time, both Neil and Frank were hanging far back, traffic having thinned considerably.

  * * *

  “You sure that’s them?”

  Willy didn’t bother responding over the chopper’s rhythmic chatter. He merely gave his boss a pitying look and returned to studying the traffic below through his binoculars.

  Given the man’s years of sighting in targets through rifle scopes, Joe was content to take Willy’s reaction as a yes. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder and said over the intercom, “Keep going as you would. If you alter your flight pattern, they’ll know we’re watching. You can start dropping down to the rendezvous with our vehicle.”

  The pilot nodded without comment, and Joe watched the slowly vanishing topography behind them. As was typical with him, he took time to look around and appreciate the mundane along with the job at hand. They’d asked the National Guard for the use of a helicopter, as cops had to in Vermont, there not being a single police chopper in the state. Compliance had been immediate and friendly, as usual. The pilots needed the flight hours, and the Guard could tout such interagency cooperation to Washington when annual budget negotiations came up.

  They hadn’t wanted to push their luck by overusing their eyes in the sky, and so had worked hard to figure out how their nemesis was going to identify Rachel’s hiding spot—or false hiding spot, as was the case. Joe and Sammie had finally won over Willy to her impersonating the girl at a dummy safe house located in Colchester.

  They’d had their choice of buildings, too, Joe mused, looking down. It had taken no time at all to fill the former farmland on Burlington’s edges with ever-expanding blooms of housing developments, which from the air made Joe think of undulating oil blots, spread across green water. But merely building such communities didn’t necessarily make them successful, as a recent economic slump had made clear. Joe’s team had easily located both a house and a neighborhood that they hoped would reel in the murderous twosome that Willy was calling Mutt and Jeff.

  “We should’ve borrowed an Apache helicopter instead of this thing,” Willy now half shouted over the intercom. “We could’ve just blown the fuckers up from the air.”

  “Except that we don’t know for sure that they are our fuckers,” Joe replied.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I got the memo.”

  Joe pulled out his cell phone and adjusted the plug-in device he’d been instructed to use with his headphones to overcome the ambient noise. He dialed Sam’s number.

  “Don’t tell me,” she answered. “You’re not on the ground yet.”

  “You should be a detective. Your keen-eyed other half is telling me that you have two vehicles tailing Tom Wilson right now, and he’s about to deliver your groceries. So you might want to check the monitoring equipment to make sure we get a shot of ’em.”

  “Give me the details,” she requested.

  Joe recited the make, model, and registration of the two cars they’d spotted on the ground earlier and from the air just now, adding, “Of course, the cars may be hot or just in use today. These two seem smart enough to mix things up regularly, and we already know they like disguising themselves. Try to get face pictures if you can.”

  “Got it. Tom’s coming into view right now.”

  She hung up to get to work. They’d mounted high-definition cameras—again, borrowed from another department—onto the roof of Sammie’s two-storied tract home, and hidden them among a false TV dish setup. They were hard-wired to a laptop that Sam controlled from inside the house. Joe knew that this entire ploy was a long shot, but they’d almost caught Mutt and Jeff once. It wasn’t unreasonable to hope that the two might stumble again to the cops’ advantage.

  Lester was waiting in a field where they’d earlier agreed to meet up with the car. “Success?” he asked.

  “Hope so,” Joe told him, walking quickly away from the helicopter in order to allow it to take off and head home. “I just gave Sam the heads-up that she and Tom had company. With any luck, she’ll get some pictures.”

  “I wish we could’ve just loaded the neighborhood with cops and jumped ’em, instead of all this razzle-dazzle.”

  Joe laughed and turned to watch the chopper fly away. “You sound like Willy,” he said. “If we’d done that, I doubt these boys would’ve showed at all. Plus, a neighborhood like that? How do you realistically seal it off without showing your hand? We’ll put people in after we think the bad guys are satisfied they’ve found Rachel’s hideout. Besides, for a surveillance like this, who’s to say the drivers of those two cars are even our guys?” Joe shook his head before adding, “Let’s just play this out. So far, so good.”

  Lester accepted it, just as Willy would have argued the point, and changed subjects. “So far, so good for the Filson family, too, by the way. About five minutes ago, we heard Fish and Wildlife found them in an abandoned camp in the Northeast Kingdom. They’re half dead with exposure and dehydration, but it looks like they’ll pull through.”

  Joe was genuinely relieved, remembering the family photos from Nancy’s house. “Where did they take them?”

  “Dartmouth-Hitchcock,” Lester told him. “They thought about taking them to Burlington by air, but wouldn’t risk it because of the old lady; she’s in the roughest shape. Plus, they didn’t want to break up the family.”

  “No, no,” Joe agreed. “That was right. After we’re all set with Sammie’s situation, let’s head over there and see what they’ve got for us.”

  In major cities, hospitals are as common as the neighborhoods they serve. In northern New England, the top-level centers are few and far between. Fortunately, for tricky cases like what Spinney had just outlined, Dartmouth-Hitchcock in nearby Lebanon, New Hampshire, was one of the best.

&
nbsp; The three men reached the car. Between the cool weather in general and the prop wash from the departing aircraft, they were grateful that Lester had left the engine running and the heater on.

  Once inside, Joe used his phone again. “Anything?” he asked Sammie when she answered.

  Her voice was flat. “No. Only one of the cars came within view, and I never got a look at who was driving. When Tom came up, I flashed the wig and that bracelet she wears at the door and kept my face in the shadow. I think it worked. But I guess it’s just watch and wait now.”

  Joe pursed his lips. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll move a few people in a little closer, just so you have company.”

  “What’s your guess on when they’ll make a move?” she asked.

  He paused before answering, “God only knows, kiddo. You’re going to have to keep on your toes.”

  In the rearview mirror, he saw Willy glowering at him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center is nicknamed the Emerald City by the medevac pilots that return to it like moths to a light, using its ethereal glow and its trademark green-and-white paint job as a beacon. In Joe’s mind, it remained “Mary Hitchcock,” which was its name when it was located in nearby Hanover, and a far humbler affair than the sprawling, forest-girdled complex it had become. Then as now, however, it was the preferred destination for those hanging on by a thread, as it had been for him when colleagues or family had come in need of its services.

  As a result of those memories, Joe entered the facility’s lofty, multistory atrium with a relatively light heart, if only because this time, he didn’t know the people he’d come to visit. His life had been so punctuated over the years by loss and grief, through death or trauma, that to visit a hospital to see strangers was almost a relief.

  He was alone, having left the others to coordinate the trap, and so decided that he’d speak with Henry Filson first—the paterfamilias. Reportedly, Henry was conscious and in the best shape, Joe having heard that Abigail, his wife, remained unresponsive, and Nancy, although awake, had apparently been seriously traumatized.