The Love of a Lawman, The Callister Trilogy, Book 3 (41 page)

"Darlin', do you know where he is?"

"No. I told you, I haven't seen him in days. I'd have to think back when I last saw him."

"He'll have to come in. Or be brought in—"

A sob burst out and her hand flew to cover her mouth. She sprang to her feet. "They won't bring him in! They'll kill him! Isn't the game warden a cop? That's how it is when a cop gets killed, isn't it?"

"They can't do that, Isabelle."

"Out in the mountains all by themselves? They can do anything they want to. Who'll stop them?"

"They're officers of the law, darlin'. They have ethics and morals."

"Oh yeah? Well, I happen to think a lot of them are as bad as the criminals they chase."

"Izzy, if he gets in touch with you, you'll have to tell me—"

Her fists clenched. "You stay away from me, John. I won't help you and those maniacs out there kill my brother."

She lunged toward the door. John grabbed for her arm, but she was too quick. She pushed her way through the throng of assorted volunteers who were yammering and drinking coffee and milling like a bunch of cattle in the office. As she raced up the stairs, reporters followed hot on her heels. John started after her, too, but was stopped by Walt Cassidy's gravelly voice.

He turned and saw the old sheriff standing in his office doorway motioning to him with a tilt of his chin.

"Fuckin' reporters," John muttered, returning to his office.

Cassidy closed the door. "That the sister?"

"Yeah." John's heart thumped in his ears. Izzy was too distraught to have to deal with a bunch of vultures. He stared at the door as if he expected her to run back to him for sanctuary, though he knew better.

"She'll go to him if she can."

The fear that Cassidy could be right set off a new panic within John. "I don't want her in the middle of this, Walt."

"You can't stop her. The best you can do is keep an eye on her. Meanwhile, let's give that mob outside this door something to do. Might as well take advantage of all this manpower."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." John reached for the doorknob.

Cassidy stopped him again. "Let me say one more thing, John. Just remember Callister is your county, your jurisdiction. This is
your
investigation. You take the lead and don't let the big boys run over you. You're capable of doing as good a job as anybody and you've got an advantage."

John made a sarcastic huff. "In what way?"

"You know the terrain and you know the perps."

Unconvinced that Cassidy's opinion was well founded, John could only stare at the old lawman. He had never been a control freak, but he had to become one now.

He couldn't be more unprepared for what lay ahead.

* * *

Isabelle raced to Paul's travel trailer. Though his boat was parked in its usual place, when she banged on the trailer door and called Paul's name no response came. Having no key, she moved around the outside, peering through the windows.

The owner of the house behind which the trailer was parked came out into the backyard and told her the sheriff had already been there but Paul hadn't been in the trailer in days.

At home, Isabelle skidded to a stop by the barn and practically fell out her truck door before the engine died. She ran inside the barn calling Paul's name. Getting no response, she dashed to the house and tramped through the rooms, calling to her brother. She even climbed the stairs to the attic room.

She returned to the kitchen, trying to remember the last conversation she and Paul had had. After the court hearing, he had told her he intended to spend the days remaining before he went back to work in the woods fishing for steel-head. So his boat, instead of being parked, should be on a river somewhere.

"Get a grip," she mumbled, stopping in the kitchen. She ran a glass of water from the tap and drank it. As her thoughts assembled, they traveled back to childhood and all at once she knew where to find her little brother.

She set down her glass, returned to the Sierra and drove to the far end of Dancer's pasture, where a copse of evergreens and thick brush grew.

And there she discovered Paul's silver dually truck parked, so well hidden in the brush no one would ever find it.

The door was unlocked and the keys were in the ignition as if he expected
her
to find it. She searched the interior for a note, some kind of sign, but found nothing that told her his whereabouts or how long his pickup had been parked there.

She looked up, above the tall pines, at the gray precipice toward the top of Callister Mountain and knew—knew without a doubt—where her brother was.

She was in no shape to make the ten-mile climb on foot, but she could ride the distance easily. She returned to the house, put on long underwear, old jeans and her riding boots, packed enough food to last a couple of days. She called Nan Gilbert and asked her to pick up Ava at school and keep her overnight.

Then she went to the barn and saddled Dancer. With any luck she could be at the miner's cabin by dark.

Chapter 27

John and Cassidy organized the volunteers into teams, outfitted them with maps and Cassidy lectured them on "going by the book." No shoot-outs, no unnecessary heroics. The teams set out on foot and in four-wheel-drive vehicles, armed to the teeth and itching to be challenged. What John knew that they didn't grasp was that if Rondeau and Keeton didn't want to be found, most likely they wouldn't be.

After the searchers and reporters cleared out of the courthouse, Cassidy left town to see to his own county. Taking advantage of the first calm and quiet he had known in twenty-four hours, John sat down at his desk with his notes. He set Dana to looking up recent photographs of Paul and Keeton and working on getting a flyer out to other county sheriffs' offices.

A loud argument erupted in the anteroom and John thought he recognized Art Karadimos' voice. He got to his feet and made for the door, saw Rooster with his hand pressed against the sheepman's chest and a TV cameraman standing on a chair filming.

When Art saw John in the doorway, he shoved Rooster aside and strode in John's direction. He carried a rifle and a pistol was strapped on his belt. The cameraman came right behind him.

A new adrenaline rush streaked through John's body. A visual of Isabelle's border collie lying in her truck bed flashed in his memory. Without a second thought, he grabbed Karadimos' rifle with one hand, his collar with the other and pushed him through his office doorway. The cameraman attempted to follow, but John slammed the door in his face. Karadimos stumbled across the room and landed against the desk.

"What the hell are you doing?" John shouted.

The sheepman drew himself up to his full five feet eight inches. "I know how to deal with those fuckers," he shouted back. "That Rondeau outfit's nothing but vermin. It's time somebody cleaned 'em out for good."

"Rooster," John yelled.

The deputy's head appeared through a crack in the doorway.

John handed the rifle behind himself, glaring into Karadimos' eyes. "Rooster, take these goddamn guns and lock 'em up."

The deputy stepped into the room and grabbed the rifle and John began to yank Art's belt loose. The older man fought John's hands, but John had his belt and pistol off before he could defend himself. John handed the pistol, too, back to Rooster.

"I oughtta lock your ass in one of those cells," he said to Karadimos.

The sheepman crossed his arms over his chest as if John had stripped him of clothing. He backed away. "Your dad says—"

"Shut up!" John loomed over him. "You don't know what my dad says. And if I ever see you again with any kind of a gun in your hands, you're toast. Got it?"

Karadimos tucked back his chin. His eye twitched at the corner. "You can't take my guns! I'll get my lawyer. I'll—"

"Go home! And don't even come out for food 'til this is over."

Art stomped out of the office muttering and swearing. John flopped in his chair, his pulse pounding, his head buzzing.

A reporter appeared in the doorway. "Do you have a statement, sheriff?"

"Get outta here," John shouted.

Rooster and Dana rushed into the office and Rooster hustled the reporter back to the anteroom. Dana stood in front of the desk, wide-eyed. John drew his hands down his face, aware that neither Rooster nor Dana had ever seen him have such an outburst.

"Want me to get you a cup of coffee?" Dana asked.

"No. Thanks, Dana, but no." He leaned forward and rubbed his scratchy eyes. "Christ, I'm wore out."

"You should go home, John, and get some rest."

"Yeah. I will. Soon."

He spent the next couple of hours calling pilots he knew who owned airplanes and asking if they would fly the valley and search the vast mountainsides and hidden vales from overhead. He found only a few who were willing. The siege mentality that had always existed in Callister had kicked in. Already the citizens were choosing sides.

John didn't have much confidence in flying the landscape, anyway. His thoughts kept drifting back to the immensity of Callister County's two mountains, the density of the forests and the memory of a crashed small plane that had been lost for four years before a hunter stumbled onto the wreckage.

And he recalled the old saying about looking for a needle in a haystack.

* * *

By late afternoon, Isabelle could see the old cabin in the distance. She spotted smoke, so she knew the woodstove inside still functioned. Snow lay in patches in shady spots and under trees, but the south side of the mountain was mostly bare, though wet. Still, she knew the temperature was cold because her breath and Dancer's made little puffs of vapor. Dancer had carried her well, considering his hooves had never before touched mountainous terrain.

Then Isabelle saw him waiting for her, standing in front of the cabin, his hair disheveled and shaggy, his jaws whiskery, his hands stuffed into the pockets of a ragged coat. Childhood memories flooded into her brain and it was all she could do not to break into tears.

"What're you doing here?" he asked, reaching for Dancer's headstall as she swung out of the saddle. "What'd you bring that horse up here for?"

Relieved to see him, she pressed her head against his hard shoulder. Words gushed out. "Oh, Paul. You have to go back. Please. It'll be so awful if you don't. There must be a hundred people from everywhere searching for you and Merle."

"What makes you think it won't be awful if I do go back?"

She remembered a small corral attached to the back of the cabin and led Dancer to it. "I've brought food. Have you eaten?" She unlashed her sleeping bag from behind her saddle and swept her saddlebags from Dancer's back.

"I've got a little," he said and helped her as she began unsaddling.

"You have to trust John, Paul. He's the only chance you've got." She didn't add
of staying alive,
though she thought it.

"I didn't do nothin', Izzy. I was sober and everything. But Merle—hell, I think he's gone crazy."

"Dancer needs water. Is the spring still flowing? I hope it isn't frozen."

"That's where I've been getting my drinking water." Paul walked with her as she led Dancer to the water.

An old trough sat near the spring at the base of a huge granite boulder some hundred feet away.

"What happened? And if you didn't do anything, why did you run away?"

"That crazy bastard Merle. He threatened to kill me, Izzy, after I've knowed him all my life and all we've been through together. I didn't know but what he might do it. That's how come I come up here. I don't think he knows where this place is."

"I heard in town Frank was shot with his own gun."

Paul nodded. "I don't know how Merle got his hands on it. Frank must have drawn, but I was back at the truck. I didn't see what happened."

They reached the spring and Dancer drank. "But why did Merle shoot him? Was he drunk? Were you drunk?"

Her brother shook his head. "I wasn't. Merle had been drinking a little beer maybe. I had it made up with him to meet him at the boat launch with some food and whiskey. When I got there, Frank was there, too, and him and Merle was arguing over Merle hooking a sturgeon."