I tried Heinrich again. Five rings and then voice mail.
A familiar, years-old worry ignited in my gut. The sense that things weren’t going down the way they should. The faith that they would only get worse. My time in the Marines serving in Mortuary Affairs had honed my natural sixth sense for trouble into the psychological equivalent of a map and a road sign: DISASTER AHEAD.
I reminded myself that my early warning system was as likely to trigger on a missed dentist appointment as any real threat.
“Just breathe,” I said out loud.
Clyde glanced at me. I ruffled his ears.
“It’s me, buddy. You’re breathing fine.”
Five minutes later, I spotted a diffuse glow that morphed into the twin beams of stationary headlights. As I drew nearer, I made out the shape of a blue SUV with the words DENVER PACIFIC CONTINENTAL RAILWAY POLICE stenciled in reflective paint on the side. Heinrich’s Expedition. No other lights or vehicles were visible. I eased off the road into the weeds and parked a short distance away, mindful of not disturbing any tracks or footprints. Just in case my gut was right.
“Special Agent Heinrich,” I whispered. “If you are out taking a dump in the weeds, I am seriously gonna hurt you.”
I slid on a headlamp, flicked the switch to low beam, then did a press check on my Glock to confirm I had a round chambered. I holstered the gun and unbuckled Clyde before I stepped out into the morning’s frosty soup. Clyde hopped down beside me. He pricked his ears, and his tail came up. I watched him for a moment, but he didn’t go into high alert.
“Gib acht,” I said softly in German as I snapped on his lead. Watch out.
I scanned the road for evidence that someone aside from Heinrich had been here, but a dry winter and spring had turned the ground to hardpan.
My headlamp picked out a few shapes. On the far side of the SUV, a stand of winter-chewed cottonwoods thrust bony fingers through sections of rusting, broken-down fence. Beyond the fence ran an empty stretch of train tracks—two faint lines of water-beaded iron that gleamed when my light struck.
All around, frost glittered in the field’s dips and hollows. The musty-tart smell of juniper mixed with the cold damp, as bracing as a lungful of menthol.
Clyde and I approached Heinrich’s vehicle. The outside of the SUV sparkled with moisture; the mirrors threw back only a glaze. The driver’s door was flung open, the engine still running. Beyond that persistent purr, the world was still and silent.
I shone my light through the Expedition’s passenger-side window.
A DPC baseball cap. Leather gloves. An open can of Red Bull in the drink holder. And my badge.
Clyde and I walked around the front of the vehicle. I reached into the cab, turned off the engine and headlights, and grabbed my shield. I clipped it on my belt and pocketed Heinrich’s keys.
Into the dark, wet silence, a crow croaked.
Then the radio on the Expedition’s console static-buzzed into life.
“Unit One, what is your status?”
I leaned in and keyed the mic. “This is former Special Agent Parnell. I’m at Heinrich’s vehicle now. The officer has vacated the vehicle. I’m going to look for him.”
“Roger that. Good to hear your voice, Sydney. You need backup from Denver PD?”
I sure hoped not. “I’ll let you know.”
After I signed off, I watched Clyde for a minute to make sure he hadn’t transitioned into red alert. He was taking in the world—an aromatic smorgasbord of jackrabbits, prairie dogs, pronghorn. But nothing of concern. He met my gaze as if to ask when we were going to get a move on.
“Greg!” I shouted.
On the cottonwood trees, moisture collected and dripped, the world caught between freeze and melt. The air bit through my wool jacket.
I leaned again into Heinrich’s vehicle and grabbed one of the leather gloves. Then I pulled Clyde’s Kong from my pocket, waving the hard rubber toy that signaled it was time to get to work. Clyde wagged his tail.
“Let’s do this, boy.” I held out Heinrich’s gloves and gave Clyde a good whiff. Then I raised my arm.
I often used a mix of English, German, and Hebrew commands with Clyde—it was a good way to confuse the bad guys. Now I cried, “Seek!”
Clyde thrust his nose into the air. He was an air-sniffing dog, not a ground tracker. But he soon lowered his head and began to sample closer to the ground. Humidity pushed odors toward the earth. Foggy, windless days distributed a person’s scent over a wide area. Not ideal conditions.
But a minute later Clyde had something and took off.
The cotton-shrouded world jumped and swayed in the beam of my headlamp as I followed him, his long lead firmly in my grasp. He made a beeline for the tracks, then just before the fence he veered right, his path paralleling the rails.
Night and fog swallowed our vehicles. Clumps of winter-gold grass crunched beneath our feet. Although it was March, Mother Nature cared nothing for a human’s idea of springtime. The fog was denser here than on the highway, a gray-white clot reflecting a mysterious luminescence. Trees and hillocks popped up like fright-house wonders and vanished almost as we walked by.
Clyde slowed. He trotted forward, then back, then struck off at an angle. He disappeared into the fog, his lead trailing after him like one of those toy leashes that seemed linked to an invisible pet. Then his lead quivered and went slack.
He’d found something.
I plunged into the white shroud after him, the beam from my headlamp bouncing against the fog and refracting at weird angles. The light caught Clyde first, then illuminated the sprawled, motionless form of a man lying on his back. Particles of light hit on the Denver Pacific Continental patch on the sleeve of his jacket.
Greg Heinrich.
I closed the space
