His cell phone rang. He snatched it up. Davy. 'Yeah?'
'That license plate is a 2002 Ford Explorer, color black, which belongs to a guy named Roy Fitz. A sixty-two- year-old divorced used car salesman in Coos Bay, Oregon. He has bad credit. Does that help?'
Connor let out a long, silent sigh of misery. 'Uh, no. Not really. But I appreciate the help. Later, Davy.'
'Goddammit, Con, what the hell is—'
'I can't talk about it right now,' he snarled. 'I'm sorry. Good-bye.'
Great. Now he could feel bad about being rude to his brother, too.
Erin tidied the Mueller papers into a neat sheaf, folded them, and tucked them carefully into the glove box. The map rustled as she opened it up. She switched on the interior light and peered at it for a couple of minutes. 'We can take this road up to Redstone Creek, and then connect with the Paulson Highway north until we reach Bonney. Then we'll make our decisions as we go. Sound good to you?'
Her voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. He was so grateful to her for that, he could've burst into tears and kissed her feet. 'Sounds fine.'
She flipped off the light. 'Shall we listen to some music?'
'Anything you want.'
She spun the dial until she found some classic blues. Probably she remembered that he'd settled on blues the day before. She was trying to chill him out with his favorite music. Detail oriented.
'Thanks,' he muttered.
She reached out, stroked his cheek with her fingertip. Smoothed a hank of his hair back behind his ear.
The sweet, soft caress unknotted the tension that clenched his body. Air finally started to go back into his lungs.
He just might make it back to Seattle with his sanity intact.
Chapter Thirteen
Chuck Whitehead pulled to a stop at the wide spot in the deserted road, not far from the Childress Ridge Lookout. He kept focusing on irrelevant things, like the colored plastic ribbons that the Forest Service tied around the trees. His hands were clammy. He felt the constant urge to pee. The last ten hours kept running through his mind like an endless video loop, ever since he'd gotten home from his job at the DNA lab. He'd said good-bye to the hospice home health aide who looked after his wife Mariah while he was at work, headed upstairs to check on her —and found a gun shoved up beneath his chin.
The man who held the gun had told him what to do, and he had done it. Every last detail. He had the proof inside his jacket. He could show them. He was cooperating.
He flipped off the headlights so as not to run down the battery, and was horrified by the near-absolute darkness. The hills hunched over him were black, the sky barely lighter. It was overcast tonight.
The man had told him that this was where they would give Mariah back to him, but how could they have transported someone as fragile as Mariah to such a deserted place? She'd been on oxygen support with a morphine drip for over two weeks now.
But the man had told him to come here, so here he was.
No police, the man had said. One word to the police, and Mariah would die.
Time crawled by, marked by his thudding heart, by his labored breathing, by the digital clock blinking on the dash. Someone knocked on the back window. He jumped and screamed.
He had done what was asked of him, he reminded himself. No one could fault him. He opened the door, forced himself to stand. The dim light shed by the interior car light blinded him and revealed nothing.
'Shut the door, please,' said a soft, cultured voice. An older man. Upper crust, Englishy-sounding foreign accent. It was the same guy who had come to his house. South African, maybe. He shut the door. He had dated a South African girl once, his brain offered, hysterically irrelevant. Her name had been Angela. Same accent. Nice girl. His life was flashing before his eyes. Not a good sign.
His eyes were beginning to adjust. He made out a tall, thin figure in black. He appeared to be wearing a device that covered his eyes.
'Are you South African?' The words popped out, and he cursed himself. He might have just killed them both, asking useless questions.
The man was silent. 'No, Mr. Whitehead,' he said finally. 'I am not. Because I do not exist. Do you understand?'
'Yes,' he said quickly. 'Of course.'
The man came closer, reached for him. Chuck flinched, and then realized he was being patted down for weapons. What a ludicrous idea. Him, and weapons. The man satisfied himself as to Chuck's unarmed state, and headed off into the darkness. 'Come with me,' he said.
'Is Mariah here?'
The man did not answer. The gate creaked as he pushed it open. His feet crunched in the gravel. Chuck stumbled after him. If he lost the sound of those footsteps, he would lose Marian forever. He was losing her anyway, but not so horribly, so inconclusively. Not like this.
'Excuse me? Uh, sir? Please wait up. I can't see anything. Excuse me! Sir? I don't know your name—' Chuck tripped and fell, scraped his hands bloody, and got up. The steady, crunching footsteps were getting further away. He forced himself to a lurching run.
'You may call me Mr. Dobbs,' the voice said gently.
Chuck followed the voice through the dark, ahead and to the right. Mr. Dobbs. His nightmare had a name. The lookout tower loomed above him. The trees made the darkness even denser. He stumbled into a pole, bashed his face, and whimpered. He would never find the road out again without help.
'Mr. Whitehead?'
The voice came from ahead of him, to his left. Dobbs must have night vision goggles to negotiate this pitch darkness.
'Hold out your left hand. You will find a wooden plank. Follow it toward my voice.'
Dobbs's voice was helpful, encouraging. He caught himself feeling grateful, like a whipped dog that licked its tormentor's foot. He groped around, knocked his knuckles against a plank, and stumbled forward.
An eternity of splinters and shuffling.
'Stop, now. Put your hands in front of you,' Dobbs commanded. 'You will feel the rungs of a ladder. Climb it.'
Panic weakened his knees. He was getting further, not closer, to any sort of place that his wife might conceivably be. 'Is Marian here?' He felt like a sheep, bleating out his plaintive, repetitive question.
'Climb, Mr. Whitehead.' Dobbs's voice was gentle and pitiless.
He climbed, straining toward darkness, with darkness pulling him from below. His aching muscles struggled against it.
He hated himself for how easily he had been unmanned, almost more than he hated Dobbs for doing this to him. Higher, impossibly high. The air felt thinner. It moved around him, cold against his neck.
'You have reached a platform. Put your foot out, at two o'clock from your body.'
Dobbs was below him, on the ladder. If he let go, he might knock him off and kill him. And himself, too, not that it mattered.
And then he would never know what had happened to Mariah.
He groped with his foot, found the platform, and flung himself onto what he hoped was a surface that could take his weight. He landed like a sack of rocks and huddled there, weeping silently.
Dobbs climbed the rest of the ladder. 'Do you have the documentation for the work you were requested to do, Mr. Whitehead?'
'Put the cell pellet and the documentation down on the platform,' Dobbs said. 'Then walk ten paces straight ahead.'
He paced. Wind whistled by his ears. He felt a sense of huge, empty space before him. 'I printed out the test
