The Watchman (24 page)

Bill's voice cracked. “We discovered him missing a little while ago. I moved back home since I considered Rachel and Cody were safe. Mom asked me to pick up a few things for her in town. I checked on Cody before I left. He was in the barn. I asked if he'd like to come along, but he wanted to stay with the foal.” The line was silent for a moment. Bill cleared his throat. “When I returned, I couldn't find him—.” His voice dropped, almost inaudible. “There were signs of a struggle in the snow outside the barn. Rachel's hysterical. She swears Harry took the boy.”

A scalding mixture of guilt and helplessness curled like a tight fist inside my chest. My fault. I told Rachel they were safe. She let down her guard. And she was right. Harry London had taken the boy and could be anywhere. A stupid move on my part. I should've known it ain't over, ‘til it's over. And it wouldn't have been over until Marshall was behind bars.

I ran my fingers through my hair and shook myself mentally. Couldn't allow my emotions to shut down now. I needed to be at the top of my game. “Rachel's right. Who else would take the boy? Have you notified the sheriff?”

“Not yet. Rachel's still wanted for jailbreak. I did ask Dr. McCall to give her something to calm her. What do you want me to do?”

Phone in hand, I headed upstairs to get dressed. “Take Rachel someplace safe and keep her out of sight until the authorities leave the ranch. I'll get in touch with Jake and with Amos Horne, a detective here in Hebron. We'll come down and Amos will deal with the sheriff.”

I hung up and dialed Amos's number. “Why didn't you guys pick up Marshall?”

“I tried to reach you yesterday.” Amos shouted into the phone. “When we arrived at the judge's office, he'd cleared out. Knew we were coming. Someone tipped him off. We put out an APB.” He exhaled into the phone. “No leads so far. He could be anywhere.”

My voice rose, even though I knew it wasn't Amos's fault. “I don't know where Marshall is now, but I can tell you where he's been. Cody's missing from the ranch.”

“When and what ranch?”

“About an hour ago at Emma Hand's ranch near Green River, where he's been staying. Call the sheriff down there. Tell him what's happened.”

“Is Rachel London there, too? The woman is wanted for jailbreak, Noah. I'd be jeopardizing my job.” The line was silent for a moment, and then he heaved a deep breath. “But we now know she had reason.”

“Rachel isn't there now, so you didn't know where she was, and you still don't. The boy was spending a week with Emma.”

Amos signed into the phone. “I know the sheriff there. He may not tie her into the jailbreak since the kidnapping charges were dropped. How'd Marshall find them?”

“He must have traced Rachel's cell calls. I should have moved them a week ago. Can you get a chopper to fly us down, see if Marshall left any clues?

“No problem. The D.A. wants Marshall in the very worse way. Meet me at the airport helipad in thirty minutes.”

Marshall hadn't grabbed his son out of love. He wanted to hurt Rachel. If he managed to take Cody out of the country, Rachel would never see him again, and the boy's life would become a living nightmare.

 

Hand Me Down Ranch

I peered out the helicopter window at the sparsely populated terrain below. White on white with patches of farmhouse roofs barely visible under a blanket of snow. The chopper noise kept conversation to a minimum.

The sun was out, making the landscape even brighter, but it wouldn't stay that way. Already snow clouds formed in the east.

The pilot set the bird down gently in the road about fifty yards from Emma's ranch. Amos ducked his head and jumped down first, and I followed. Wind gusts from the rotors kicked the fresh powder into a man-made blizzard, leaving us momentarily blinded until the blades eased to a stop.

The scene was a replay of every cop show I'd ever seen. The sheriff had arrived and strung yellow tape around Emma's barn. Uniformed men stood in groups with foam cups in hand, the hot liquid billowing steam.

Two men stepped forward.

Amos hurried to greet them. “Hey, Jason.” Amos clasped the sheriff's hand and then shook hands with the deputy.

Amos waved a hand in my direction. “Jason, this is Noah Adams, a P.I. who's been working this case. He's responsible for discovering Judge London's real identity. Noah, this is Sheriff Jason Billings.”

He nodded and shook my hand. “Nothing much here to help find the boy. We found tire tracks that don't belong to any of the vehicles on the property, and fresh footprints outside the barn—a size thirteen man's shoe, the same size Ben Marshall wears. Not positive proof Marshall took the boy, but it squares with your suspicions. Two FBI agents are on their way from Cheyenne. We've set up road blocks, but we may be too late and we don't know what Marshall is driving.”

It was a start. But too little, too late.

I gave Amos a wave and set off for the ranch house to find Bill.

He must have watched my approach. He opened the door, his face gray and somber.

“How's Rachel?”

“I took her to my place at the church. Emma's with her. She was asleep when I left, thank God. This is awful for Rachel and Cody, after all they been through.”

I nodded and patted his back. I had no words of comfort to offer.

“Come in. I'll get you some coffee.”

“Thanks, Bill, but I don't have time. We need to find Cody before Marshall gets so far ahead of us we can't catch him.”

 



 

Hebron, Wyoming

After the chopper returned to Hebron, I drove home. Events of the past few hours brought back waves of old memories and grief I didn't want to revisit. The deaths of my mother and brother, my inability to stop the carnage. The past was an old wound, unhealed. The slightest probe and it started to bleed. I dragged myself into the kitchen and called the only person I knew who might point me in the right direction.

“McKenna, can you talk?”

Slight hesitation. “Yes.”

“Someone tipped London off. He's on the run and he's taken his son. I need your help.”

“I knew he skipped. But how would I know where Harry London, sorry, Ben Marshall is?”

“I know you don't have personal knowledge, but your father might. Will you ask him?”

“You know I'd help—”

“McKenna, I believe Marshall plans to take his son out of the country. It's the only logical move for him with the FBI taking over the case.”

A sharp intake of breath came through the phone. “I'll check with Dad. If he does know, I'll find out where. That's a promise. I'll call you back.”

I couldn't. I wouldn't accept Cody was gone forever from Rachel's life. Not as long as I breathed. I failed miserably once. I paced and waited. Inactivity drove me mad.

Finally, the phone rang.

“Dad doesn't know where Marshall is. I told him about the boy. My father has his faults, but I believe him. He wouldn't hold back where a child's concerned. He suggested you try London's lake cottage.”

“Where? Pine Lake?”

“Yes. He said he'd been there two or three times.”

“Does he have directions to the place?”

McKenna read off detailed instruction to find the cabin. I hoped Thornton leveled with his daughter. She had more faith in his scruples than I did.

“Noah, just FYI, this morning I received an anonymous package in the mail. It contained security tapes from Judge London's home. They were...brutal. We've dropped the jailbreak charges against Rachel London. She should never have been in jail to begin with.”

Thornton must have decided they were no longer good for blackmail purposes, since London's real identity became known.

“McKenna, if you were close enough, I'd kiss you.” The phone went silent. “Anyway, thanks for telling me and for the lead on Marshall.”

There was an audible click, and she was gone.

McKenna's tip was the only place to start. I had no place else to go. The police probably hadn't discovered the cabin's existence, and I didn't have time to wait for them to mount up a posse. To take Cody to the lodge wouldn't be the smartest move Marshall could make, but his decisions hadn't shown stellar wisdom. He'd succeeded so far on lazy police work and dumb luck.

Try the cabin. I had nothing to lose.

I didn't enjoy the trip. Not surprising. I had ignored the media blizzard warning to stay indoors. Dressed in snow gear and boots I regretted returning Jake's Jeep so soon, even more so when my SUV slid across the street and bounced against the neighbor's curb. My four-wheel drive didn't handle in icy road conditions like the Jeep.

Snow fell in a curtain of white as I drove west. The weather worsened with each mile. Wiper blades struggled to push snow from the windshield and failed miserably.

Images of Cody filled my mind. His shyness when he first arrived at the ranch, his love for the animals, his growing self-confidence. Because of my stupidity, his life rested in his father's merciless hands.

Because of the weather, the drive took twice as long. Finally, in the distance, a shaped loomed into view of what I hoped was the cabin. My headlights penetrated the near white-out conditions to illuminate the outline of a log structure. Nothing moved. No lights, no smoke from the chimney. A wide expanse of fresh powder erased any footprints there might have been.

The only sound—that of my own labored breathing. Snow blew sideways as I mounted the steps and tried the door.

It was open.

That didn't square with what I knew about Marshall, the security camera freak. Wary, I eased inside the vestibule.

The stench of an unwashed body was my first signal of danger. I dodged to my right just as a fire poker missed my skull by millimeters.

 

 

 

 

20

 

Judge London's Cabin, Pine Lake

Reflexes and adrenalin kicked in at the same time. Every muscle in my body tightened. I grabbed the poker and twisted. A yelp of pain sounded behind me and I turned to face my assailant.

A shabby, dirty man knelt on the floor in front of me, right hand pressed against his chest. “You broke my wrist.”

I took in great gulps of air as tensed muscles unwound, and then I glanced around. Papers and burnt matches lay on the fireplace and in front of the hearth. I had interrupted the old man trying to ignite logs in the fireplace.

I gazed down at him. “Let me look at your hand.”

He shook his head and scooted away.

“Come on. Give it to me. I won't hurt you.”

Currents of fear deepened the wrinkles in his weathered face, but he stayed put. “What do you want with my hand?”

“I want to see if it's broken. What's your name?”

His gaze roamed past me, not making eye contact. “People call me Bonehead. Just came in—trying to get out of the storm. Didn't intend to harm anything. You startled me—I wasn't leaving without a fight. I'd freeze out there.”

I glared at him. “I can see where you got your nickname. That was a stupid move swinging the poker at me. I could have killed you.” Holding his hand in mine, I pushed back the frozen fabric of his coat sleeve and moved each of his fingers.

The horrors of Vietnam, street life, hunger and extreme cold flowed through his fingers into mine, leaving me physically ill. I dropped my grip and moved away. “You don't appear to have any broken bones. Most likely, it's just a sprained wrist. Sit tight and I'll try to get some heat started.”

In a closet near the entrance, I locate the circuit box, flipped on the master switch, and then turned on the lights. Recessed lamps cast a soft glow over the room. Encouraged, I located the thermostat and inched the heat bar up to seventy degrees. The welcome sound of ignited flames soon followed.

I hurried back to the hearth and started a fire. That and the central heating would warm the old man up quickly.

Bonehead tried to stand and stumbled.

I hurried to steady him. “Why didn't you turn on the furnace? That would have been quicker than building a fire.”

He shrugged. “I hadn't been here long when you arrived. Didn't even look for a thermostat. Just wanted to get warm as fast as I could.”

I strode toward the kitchen. ”When the water warms up, I want you to take a shower. I'll see what I can find to eat.”

He touched my arm and suspicion wrinkled his brow. “Why are you being so nice?”

I shrugged. “I've had to depend on other people's kindness a lot lately. I'm just returning the blessings.”

Bonehead moved in close to the blaze in the hearth. Sparks crackled and floated in wispy waves up the chimney, filling the room with a woody fragrance. “I don't have any clean clothes, you know. Won't do any good to bathe without clean clothes.”

“Perhaps I can find you something.”

The old man hovered near the fire while I found the bedroom and swung the closet doors wide. Marshall had great taste. I pulled down a designer fleece-lined jogging suit and jacket and then grabbed clean skivvies and thermal underwear from a drawer. The items were too large, but I didn't think Bonehead would complain.

Back in the den, I handed the outfit to the old man. “The bathroom is down the hall. The water should be getting warm soon. This place has a tankless water heater.”

“A what?”

“A tankless water heater. Great invention.”

“I don't need a bath. I'll just get dirty again. “

“Trust me. You need a bath.”

He mumbled and obediently shuffled down the hallway.

In the kitchen, I heated frozen pancakes and pre-cooked sausage and then made a pot of coffee. I left the food in the warming drawer while Bonehead showered.

Back in the den, I picked up the papers the old man had scattered on the floor.