Rick Mofina - Full Tilt

I believed with all my heart I’d have my sister back. Kate continued to watch the white-suited forensic experts conducting their work on what was a killing field.

Twelve more victims.

Her phone rang.

“Kate, it’s Nancy.”

“Hey.”

“I’ve been watching the news coverage and I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”

“No, to be honest, not really.”

“I’ll be right over.”

Maybe it was her nursing background but upon arriving, Nancy seemed to know what to do. She turned Kate’s TV off, turned the lights up, put away the wine and made tea.

“All the fight’s gone out of you, Kate.”

She struggled to explain to Nancy how she’d felt defeated in the face of the cruel reality that the monster she was pursuing had killed fifteen people.

“It’s like the earth shifted under my feet.”

Nancy thought for a moment before she took Kate’s hands in hers.

“You listen to me.” Nancy stared hard into her eyes. “You’re not going to curl into a ball and give up. You’re going to pull through this. I guarantee it.”

“You guarantee it?”

“Look back on your life. You’ve faced every hardship I can think of and you’ve endured. You have a right to the truth and there’s no way you’re going to let this creep stop you. It’s not in your DNA, Kate. Do you hear me?”

Nancy squeezed Kate’s hands hard.

“Do you hear me?”

Before she realized it Kate was nodding slowly and her concentration went to a file folder on the table nearby and a photo of Nelson.

“You know I’m right, Kate.”

Kate continued nodding, bigger nods with more confidence. Yes, Nancy is right. Kate’s eyes were welded to Carl Nelson’s. No way are you going to get away with this, you evil son of a bitch. If my sister’s dead, or I can’t find her, then I’ll find you.

Lost River State Forest, Minnesota

There it is!

Deep within the thick woods of tamarack and black spruce there were flashes of gray throat and gray breast, of yellow belly.

Careful.

Dan Whitmore was a patient bird-watcher who knew not to be in a hurry to raise the binoculars to his eyes, or to page through the guidebook to identify his subject.

It could vanish on you.

Experience had taught him to focus on the bird, study its shape, its bill, its colors and markings. If the situation allowed, he’d lift his binoculars in a smooth, practiced motion while never losing sight of the bird. Then, when it winged away, he’d consult the book to identify it.

Dan watched for several minutes before finally looking through his binoculars. He was rewarded with a long, gorgeous view before the bird took flight.

“That was a Great Crested Flycatcher.” Dan turned to his partner, Vivian Chambers, who’d flipped through the guide and nodded.

“Yes, it had beautiful primaries.”

“That’s six more today, Viv.”

Dan noted the sighting, confident he’d hit five hundred on his life list by the time their trip ended.

“Let’s go over there,” Vivian said, “near the edge of that bog. It looks like a great spot for owls.”

Dan, a doctor, had retired from his family practice in Omaha fifteen years ago. He and Vivian, a retired elementary school principal, lived alone in the same condo complex. Each had lost a spouse and after meeting through one of Omaha’s birder clubs they’d become partners.

They’d gone out on many group outings but for the past five years, upon discovering how much they’d enjoyed each other’s company, they’d traveled alone together to different parts of the country to look at birds. Birding had given them a sense of order, and their relationship had helped them survive some of the hardest times of their lives. Their mutual understanding and respect for what they’d both endured had grown into a nurturing, healing kind of love. They counted their blessings and birds as they journeyed along the back roads together.

This section of the park bordered Manitoba and was the most isolated. It was dense with white cedar, jack pine and aspen trees. There were thickets of willow and alder. The hiking trails were rugged, but Dan and Vivian often ventured wherever the birds led them. As they neared the fringes of the peat bog, Vivian grabbed Dan’s arm and stopped.

“Listen,” she said.

Birdsong filtered through the distant trees.

“Tzeet. Kip. Tzeet kip.”

It repeated in a harsh, sputtering series.

“That’s a kingbird. I recognize that from my CDs,” Dan said.

“Eastern or Western?”

“Could be either, given our location.”

Dan scanned the forest for any telltale signs but saw nothing. After giving it a full five minutes, he tried again, this time with the binoculars, zeroing in on the area most likely to be the bird’s location.

“Anything?” Vivian said from behind her binoculars.

“Nothing.” As he lowered his glasses he glimpsed a low pale flash but lost it. “Wait,” he repositioned his binoculars.

“Something?”

“I think.” Dan hesitated, unable to find it again. “Actually, I think we’ve got company. I think I saw someone waving to us. I lost them.”

“Let’s get closer, say hello and compare lists.”

Stepping carefully through the thick woodland, they forged their way closer to the beginnings of the bog and to what Dan had reasoned was the spot where he’d last seen the person waving.

“There’s nothing here. Let’s take a break.”

A large fallen alder tree served as a natural bench seat big enough for both of them. He reached for his water bottle and Vivian pulled a small towel from her backpack. She was using it to pad her face when she froze.

Dan followed her gaze, which was locked on a sight in a clearing some twenty feet away.

At first he thought that what they were seeing was a trick of light and shadow.

Dan couldn’t believe it-it couldn’t be real.

Without realizing it, he stood.

He’d closed his eyes but the image burned before him, refusing to leave until Vivian started screaming.

Lost River State Forest, Minnesota

The textbooks, Tactical Investigation , Deductive Assessment and Scene Work , bounced with the course binder on the passenger seat of Klassen County deputy Cal Meckler’s patrol car.

Since his girlfriend was visiting her sister in Wisconsin he’d decided he would put in a few hours of study when his shift ended. Gotta keep working on the dream. He sipped coffee as he drove, reviewing his life plan to leave Klassen County for the Minneapolis PD, make detective, then ultimately go to the FBI.

He was twenty-three and policing for the county was fine, for now. But, as his old man used to say each day after working the farm in Moss Valley, a man needs to keep looking down the road.

Meckler’s shift was nearly over and he was on his way to Blake Fossom’s place to issue a summons for noise. Blake liked to party, play his heavy metal and tune up his Harleys, all at the same time, something his neighbors didn’t exactly embrace.

As the Dodge pickup rusting on cinder blocks came into view, the signpost for the Fossom property, Meckler’s radio crackled with a call for his unit.

“Seventy-five. From LR, a couple of birders reported a ten-sixty-two that the COs are verifying as a ten-ninety-one.”

Catching the subtle emotion in the dispatcher’s voice, Meckler sat up. The conservation officers had a corpse that was a homicide at Lost River State Forest.

This takes priority over Blake Fossom.

Meckler keyed his microphone.