Nowhere to Run

Joe walked to the front window in his apron with a spatula in his hand, just in time to see the passenger door open and Bobby McCue swing out. McCue was talking with someone inside. Although the windows were darkened, Joe could see at least two other heads besides the driver.

Marybeth joined him at the window, and they both watched as a man and a woman got out of the Expedition. The man was tall and red-faced, and his movements were swift and purposeful. He slammed the door shut and strode around the front of the vehicle. He wore an open safari jacket, jeans, and heavy boots, as if he planned to traverse the Outback later in the day. The woman, in a knee-length navy blue jacket, wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to make herself smaller. She was short, thin, dark, and furtive. She appeared uncomfortable or nervous, and she looked to the red-faced man for their next move. He gestured toward the house with a brusque nod and walked right by her, swinging his arms. She followed him up the concrete walkway in front of Bobby McCue.

“Do you know them?” Marybeth asked.

“I know the guy in the back. He’s the one who came to see me in the hospital and lied about being from DCI.”

“What do you suppose they want?”

“I don’t know,” Joe said, “but if they want to talk, I’ll steer them into my office. Do you mind feeding the girls?”

Marybeth said, “That’s what I do every day, Joe. I think I can handle it.”

THE RED- FACED MAN SAID, “Brent Shober” and stuck out his hand.

Joe reached out and shook it. “I was wondering when I might hear from you.”

“This is my wife, Jenna.”

“Hello, Jenna. I’m Joe Pickett.”

She smiled tightly and looked away from him.

“And our investigator, Bobby McCue.”

“We’ve met,” Joe said, nodding toward McCue. McCue shrugged and winked, as if he and Joe were brothers in arms in law enforcement subterfuge. Joe shook his head, denying the bond.

Joe had to clear papers from his two office chairs and fetch a folding chair from a hall closet so all three could sit down in his cramped home office. They filled the room. He closed the door and sidled past them and around his desk and sat in his office chair. Joe didn’t want any of them seeing his girls as they went about their morning routine getting ready for breakfast and school.

“You gonna wear that?” Brent Shober asked, indicating Joe’s apron. Joe flushed. He’d forgotten about it. But he didn’t feel like taking it off, either. He put the spatula on his desk next to his pen and pencil set.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

Brent snorted and sat forward, putting his elbows on Joe’s desk. He glanced quickly toward McCue and Jenna before forging ahead. “We’re here because Bobby got a hold of the statement you made to the sheriff in Carbon County, right?”

Joe said, “Now before you jump to conclusions, I never said I positively identified your daughter. I’m sorry to say that, but . . .”

“Look, Pickett,” Brent said, cutting Joe off. “I’m not one to beat around the bush. We’re here because we need you to help us locate Diane.”

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?”

Brent shook his head as if it didn’t matter. “We’ve spent the last week in agony while that search team went up into the mountains to check out your story. We waited for any kind of word from them. When they found nothing— nothing at all—it was like another twist of the knife in my back, right? And I’m getting sick and tired of having my hopes raised up and smashed back down. You’re the only one, apparently, who knows where to find her. We need you to do just that. If necessary, I’ll hire you. Just name your price.”

“It isn’t about money,” Joe said.

“Everything’s about money, right?” Brent said. “I can see how you live here,” he said, gesturing vaguely around Joe’s cluttered office. “I also know your personal situation from Bobby here. You’ve been put on the shelf. You’ve got nothing to do and who knows if you’ll even get your job back. Right?”

Joe didn’t like talking to people who ended statements with the word “Right?” for the reason of preempting any possible disagreement. But before he could speak, Brent said, “For two long, hard years, Jenna and I have done everything we could to get the word out that our daughter was missing and doing everything we could do to find her. I personally spent two weeks this summer talking to law enforcement to remind them she hadn’t been found and putting fliers in every public place I could in northern Colorado and southern Wyoming. Finding her is my obsession, Pickett. I know she’s alive and well. I just know it, right? And up until Bobby got a hold of that statement of yours, I was starting to think about giving up hope. Not that I did give up, but I was considering the possibility, if you know what I mean, right?”

Joe had learned not to even try to talk to Brent Shober, so he didn’t.

Brent stood up. He clearly wanted to pace, but there was no room. So he bent over Joe’s desk so his face was even closer.

“My little girl was on a schedule to go to the Olympics, something her old man barely missed out on. I was a one-thousand-meter man. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of me or not, but no matter. A month before the trials, I screwed up my knees. Still, I missed qualifying by only six seconds. Diane, though, she was on track. She was getting stronger by the month. That’s why we moved part of our company from Michigan to the mountains out here, so she could train at high elevation and gain endurance and strength. She was on track, right?”

“Right,” Joe said.

“Then she goes for a long run and never comes back. We haven’t seen her or talked with her in two years. Think about that. It’s been eating us up, Jenna and me. I nearly lost my company—I build superhigh-end office parks—because I spent so much time talking to local yokels and listening to