“Robert Henry Whipple served twenty-one years in prison iii South Dakota. He was convicted of two counts of rape and one count of attempted murder. He was paroled in 1994. One of the conditions of his release was that he seek treatment as a convicted sex offender.”
“So much for treatment,” Joanna muttered.
While Frank handled the radio, Joanna dealt with the road. From the highway to Portal the washboarded surface had been had enough, but the five miles from Portal to Paradise were even worse. Several times the winding dirt track climbed in and out of the same dry wash and around bluffs of cliff that made for treacherous blind curves on a road that was little more than one car width wide. At last a brown-and-gold Forest Service sign announced that they had arrived in Paradise. Despite the sign, there were no houses or people in sight, only a long line of twenty or so mailboxes that stood at attention on the far side of the road. It was just after five o’clock in the afternoon, but the false dusk created by being in the shadow of the mountains made it difficult to read the numbers on the boxes. Naturally, Box 78 was the last one in the row.
From that T-shaped intersection, San Simon/Paradise Road veered off to the north. Following the directions Frank had obtained from Dispatch, Joanna followed a new stretch of road that was only slightly worse than the previous one had been. Both of them made her long to be driving her sturdy Blazer rather than picking her way around rocks and boulders in Frank’s relatively low-slung Civvie.
“There,” Frank said, pointing. “Turn left here. From what I was told, the house is just beyond that ridgeline.”
“How about if we stop here and get out and walk?” Joanna suggested. “I’d rather our arrival be a surprise. If we drive, we’ll show up trailing a cloud of dust. He’ll see us coming a mile away.”
“It’s okay by me,” Frank said. “But before we leave the car, let me radio our position one last time.”
Joanna drove up the rutted two-track road until she reached a point where a grove of trees crowded in on the roadway. By parking in that natural bottleneck, she effectively barricaded the road, making it impossible for anyone else to drive around. Setting the parking brake, Joanna stepped out of the car and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She wasn’t at all surprised to find that once again there was no signal. For the third time in as many hours, the high-tech world had let her department down. Sighing with disgust, she turned off the useless device and shoved it back in her pocket.
When Frank finished with the radio and got out, Joanna locked the doors and passed him the keys. “From here on out, you’re driving,” she said.
“The DMV says Whipple drives a ‘97 Dodge Ram pickup,” Frank told her. “I’ve got the plate number. I told Larry to go ahead and post that APB.”
“Good,” Joanna said. “What about your phone?”
Frank checked his. “Still no signal,” he said.
“I know that,” Joanna told him. “All the same, turn the useless thing off. We may not be able to talk on them, but you can bet they’ll still be able to ring just when we don’t want them to.”
Frank complied, and the two of them set off up the road. As she walked, Joanna was grateful that on this particular day she had chosen to wear a uniform complete with khaki trousers and lace-up shoes rather than office attire, which most likely would have included heels and hose, neither of which would have cut it for this rocky, weed-lined hike.
It turned out that Rob Whipple’s house was set much farther back from San Simon/Paradise Road than Dispatch had led them to believe. Joanna and Frank hiked the better part of a mile, crossing two ridges rather than one. Between the two ridges lay another sandy creek bed. This one showed signs of numerous tire tracks, but there was no way to tell which ones were coming and which were going. Signaling silently for Frank to follow, Joanna skirted the tracks, leaving them intact for later in case the need should arise to take plaster casts.
At last, panting and sweating, they topped the second steep rise and saw a house—little more than a shabby cabin—nestled in a small clearing below. No vehicle was parked outside, but for safety’s sake they took cover and watched silently for several minutes before moving forward again. There was no sign of life. Even so, when Joanna set out again, she did so by dodging carefully from tree to tree.
Moving and consciously maintaining cover, Joanna was all too aware of the danger and of their vulnerability. Her breathing quickened and she heard the dull thud of her own heart pulsing in her ears. Once again she found herself utterly aware of
