Hannah Alexander - A Killing Frost

“No need to come looking for us.” Tyrell pointed to the gravel exit, directing Agent Sydloski to turn into the creek-side area where his SUV was parked. “But you have to understand that there was no roadblock when we arrived. You should reserve your surveillance for the killers.”

Agent Sydloski parked in front of Tyrell’s vehicle. “Our job is to protect United States citizens. Your best chance of seeing your niece alive again is to let us do that job and not distract us from our objective. Go home and stay out of our investigation.”

With a final thanks for the lift-Jama could hear nothing but respect in his tone-Tyrell climbed from the car, opened the door for Jama and gave a half salute to Sydloski as he escorted Jama to the passenger door of the Durango.

“You knew it could happen,” Tyrell said as she slid inside.

“They didn’t have to be so rude.”

“It’s the FBI, Jama. You just don’t smart off to a federal agent.” He closed the door, walked around the front, got in, his profile outlined by the lights from the agent’s car. When the SUV’s engine was running, the agent pulled back onto the highway. The man drove slowly away, making it obvious that he was still watching for Tyrell and Jama to leave.

“I didn’t smart off,” she said at last. “I simply explained that we saw no roadblock. You told him the same thing.”

“Not with your flair,” he said dryly as he pulled onto Highway 94 and headed toward River Dance.

“How were we supposed to know this section of the Katy Trail and the road were cordoned off?”

“If we hadn’t entered by an alternate trail we would have been warned away. You should be glad we got to keep our pistols.”

“Why did we?”

“Renee probably paved the way for us. Having our permits probably made an impression, as well.”

“Slow down,” Jama said.

“Excuse me? I’m not stopping. We could still be thrown into jail.”

“I didn’t tell you to stop, I told you to slow down. We could get ticketed for speeding, couldn’t we?”

He released pressure from the accelerator. Jama smiled to herself.

“I wasn’t breaking any speed limits,” he said. “Why slow down?”

“I want to check the river.”

“For what? I’m pretty sure there hasn’t been any flooding since we saw it at dusk.”

They saw the promised roadblock up ahead, and a deputy sheriff stepped out, waved them down, hand on his weapon.

“Okay, this is too weird,” Jama said. “That can’t be Tim Holloway. I graduated with him.”

“He’s back in River Dance, was sworn in as deputy a few months ago.”

“This isn’t right. He couldn’t hit a single target in school to save his life. What’s he doing with a gun?”

Tyrell shushed her.

Tim beamed a bright light through the windshield at them, recognized them both, then waved them through with his old, crooked smile.

“He’s going to get himself killed if he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Jama said.

“He knows how to handle a gun now. He joined the Coast Guard after graduation. Spent ten years out in San Diego and got tired of the overcrowding and high cost of living.”

“Oh. Guess I’ve been out of the loop for a while.”

Tyrell shot her a look. “You think?”

“I should know better than anybody that people can change.”

“Sure they do. And sometimes it takes a lot of tries to get it right. Remember Carla Haines? We thought she’d be a doctor or attorney, maybe run for office someday. Who would believe she would drop out of college her first year, lose her scholarship and become a professional dancer in Vegas?”

“Don’t forget Mark Richland,” Jama said. “I went steady with him for two weeks in eighth grade. He goofed off all through school, totaled two cars, barely graduated, and was told he’d never amount to anything. Now he has his own business with five hundred employees.”

“People falter,” Tyrell said. “That doesn’t mean they’ve failed. It just means they’ve learned from their mistakes.”

She caught sight of the bridge over Fern Creek. They were nearing the river. “You know the boat landing at Carson’s Crossing?”

He didn’t answer.

She looked at him, and saw the suspicion on his face. “We’re out of the blockaded area,” she said.

“And you’re reminding me about this because…?”

“When we saw that first broken branch, after it became obvious Doriann was following her abductors?”

“Yes?”

“I thought I saw those same small shoeprints aimed in the other direction, toward the river, cutting through the woods almost willy-nilly. I told myself at the time that it had to be a simple case of Doriann attempting to find a better place to hide as she followed them.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about it then?”

“You found more tracks going the other way, which seemed to confirm my reasoning.”

“And you knew I wouldn’t agree to our going separate directions.”

“Exactly, but now it appears I might have been wrong.”

“Why? The tracks obviously led to the barn, where the Feds had found abundant evidence that Doriann and her captors had been there.”

“Okay, but isn’t it possible we could have missed a separate set of tracks that led away from the barn? She wasn’t there, and she must have gone somewhere.”

“So you’re saying she would have tried to return to the river.”

“The shoeprint I saw was dug deeply into the mud, as if she’d been running. There were leaves scattered, also as if someone had run through them.”

He looked at her.

“Maybe she was caught tailing her captors,” Jama suggested. “Maybe she stepped on something like a limb or rustling leaves, and they heard her and made chase?”

“That’s possible.”

“And she’s a smart girl. She would know she could follow the river to safety eventually.”

“We didn’t see any other shoeprints coming from the opposite direction.”

“We weren’t looking,” she said. “Think about it, Tyrell. We were focused on those particular prints, headed that particular way. It’s the same reason I didn’t seriously consider following tracks headed any other direction, because those tracks kept going north from the river. We both know that other people follow that old tractor path, and so we weren’t expecting anything else.”

Tyrell braked at a low spot in the road and turned right. The tires shifted onto gravel that popped and crackled in the cold evening stillness. The SUV’s headlights plunged into fog that blanketed the great river.

Tyrell eased to the very edge of the concrete ramp and parked, switching off the headlights.

“I blew it,” she said. “I should have mentioned the tracks to you the first time I saw them.”

“You did fine.”

“But no Doriann.”

“What’s on your mind, Jama?”

“We start from here and follow the river west, the direction Doriann might be coming from.”

“We should notify the FBI of our suspicions-”

“They’re covering the blockaded area, and with only a skeleton crew.” Jama said. “I mean, my goodness, Tim Holloway’s been pressed into service. There’s no way the FBI will be able to cover the acreage that needs to be covered. We’ve still got our guns, we know how to shoot, and we’re already here. What’s a little jail risk when Doriann’s life is on the line?”

Tyrell put the truck back into gear and reversed.

“What are you doing?”

“If we’re going to do this, we can’t park in plain sight.” He shifted and eased the vehicle into the deep shadows to the right of the boat ramp, where a path led from the Katy Trail to the river’s edge. He parked behind a stand of cedars. “They can’t see this from the road.”