Rick Mofina - Every Second

Along the route to the cabin, Dylan updated them on Dan Fulton’s condition. Then they arrived at the SUV, which was consistent with the vehicle in the footage. Crime scene technicians were photographing it, swabbing and analyzing the interior, bagging shell casings and marking their locations.

Varner was confident evidence would surface that would bring them even closer to the suspects. He was optimistic that the fake bomb vest would yield leads. Crime scene experts were also at work down the hillside where Dan Fulton had been found and at the second vehicle, the van, which was parked near the cabin.

“It’s a rental,” Dylan said. “A man named Robert Smith paid cash to have it for a month. We suspect that’s an alias.”

The cabin’s interior was being processed, but what Varner and Tilden saw inside pushed their concerns to a higher level. In the corner were mattresses, chains and a tripod.

“We believe the family was held here,” Dylan said.

“Looks like someone left in a hurry,” Tilden said.

Varner noticed the large knife resting against the wall near the tripod and lowered himself to study it without touching it.

“Is that ceremonial, like the one they used in Northern Iraq to behead that aid worker?” Tilden asked.

As Varner nodded slowly, they heard the yip of a dog with one of the K-9 units and two-way radios crackled.

“…we might have a trail…”

What was now clear was that the suspects, and possibly Lori and Billy Fulton, were out there somewhere in the Coyote Mountains.

Now it’s a manhunt-hostage-rescue, tied to plans for an attack.

Varner studied the vast mountain forests.

And we’re running out of time.

Coyote Mountains, New York

“That’s as far as you go. All press over there.”

The state trooper standing on the road at the intersection directed Stan and Kate to the parking field. It was beside an abandoned church, which investigators had designated as the media center.

The lot was filling with news vans and TV satellite trucks, more than at yesterday’s scene when they’d found the car. Today’s discovery of Dan Fulton had pushed the story to a national lead and Kate knew that meant she had little time to tie up the loose ends on her exclusive and get it out. Lori’s connection to Jerricko Blaine and his brother, Malcolm Samadyh, was a huge scoop. But the most chilling aspect that she’d uncovered was the possibility that Jerricko, driven by his brother’s death and his mother’s call for jihad, was tied to an extremist group plotting an attack.

Kate had written most of the story on the drive along the Thruway but she hadn’t sent it to the desk yet, nor had she alerted them. She had to be doubly sure of her facts. She needed more confirmation and she needed it fast.

“I don’t like this setup.” Strobic nodded to the mountains as they left his truck and walked to the media center. During the latter part of the drive, while Kate wrote, he’d used an earpiece to listen to one of his emergency radio scanners, which allowed him to monitor parts of the investigation and search as they were unfolding. “We’re three miles from the scene up there.”

“That’s not going to work for me,” Kate said. “I’ve got to get close to the action. We’ve got to figure something out, Stan.”

Kate’s phone rang. It was Reeka.

“The Daily News says Dan Fulton’s dead.”

“What?”

“The Post has him on life support. Which is it? Can you confirm?”

“We’re working on it, we just arrived.”

“We’ve got to keep leading on this, Kate. We need another exclusive angle or our subscribers will turn to AP and Bloomberg.”

“I’m aware of that, Reeka, and I’m working on it.”

“What’re you working on? I want to put it on the sked to interest subscribers.”

If I tell her what I have, she’ll go crazy and oversell it. I can’t let the story go yet without solid confirmation, I just can’t.

Phone pressed to her ear, Kate searched in vain for Nick Varner and Marv Tilden.

“Did you hear me, Kate? What’re you working on?”

“Just some background.”

“What sort of background? Do you have a lead on something?”

Kate had to stall.

“Sorry, Reeka, you’re breaking up. Service is weak up here.”

“I can hear you fine.”

“What? What? Sorry, Reeka. Hello?”

“I’m here.”

“Hello? I can’t hear you. Sorry. I’ve got to go.”

As soon as Kate hung up she put in a call to Varner but it went to his voice mail. She left an urgent message before entering the center.

Inside the reception area of the old church, amid the sound of radio cross talk, a few rangers, deputies and state troopers were hunched over wooden tables studying maps. Others were at a table with a coffee urn and boxes of donuts. Newspeople were coming and going. Technicians were on the phone to their stations, while some helped themselves to the refreshments.

Varner and Tilden were not there.

To one side, several reporters had encircled a man wearing a nylon FBI jacket. He was explaining information while passing out sheets of paper. Kate held up her hand for one. It was a press release confirming that Dan Fulton was alive but in critical condition in an Albany hospital. It added that a search was under way for Lori and Billy Fulton and the suspects wanted in connection to the robbery, kidnapping and assault arising out of Queens.

“It’s just like I told CBS,” the FBI agent said, “the airspace over the crime scene and search areas is restricted.”

“But we need to get our people up and over it,” a woman wearing a FOX ball cap said.

“No TV or still news cameras can fly over the area because it’s dangerous to aerial search operations.”

This angered the networks who were arguing with the agent about establishing elevation levels for the press, or at least pool access. In addition to protecting the crime scene, law enforcement and search officials were contending with other challenges.

The Coyotes bled into the Blackhead Mountains, which were part of the Catskills. In all, they had a potential area of nearly one million acres to search. They were bringing in more planes, helicopters, dogs and people on horseback. In much of the rugged region, cell phone service was spotty, satellite phones were unreliable and even radios had their limitations.

“We’ve essentially got a needle-in-a-haystack search for armed, dangerous suspects, a missing mother and her son,” the agent said. “We’re alerting the residents who live here. The press can travel the perimeter roads, but be advised we’re setting up checkpoints as fast as we can and wherever we can.”

Strobic was shaking his head.

“This sucks,” Kate said. “We can’t just sit here. We need to get closer. Want me to talk to somebody?”

“Leave it to me. I’ll meet you back here, Kate.”

Like Strobic, Kate was experienced in shaping order out of chaotic situations. She found a chair in a quiet corner and worked on her story while her deadline and her dilemma with the story hammered in the back of her mind.

She read over her piece; it had everything. It was dynamite and ready to go but she couldn’t send it, not yet. Yes, she was certain of her facts but at the same time her information was so significant it scared her as a parade of journalistic screwups blazed by her.

In the Boston Marathon bombing, a New York newspaper identified the wrong suspects. In the bombing of the Atlanta Olympics, news organizations identified an innocent man as the bomber. In the Oklahoma City bombing, a Chicago news organization identified a Middle Eastern man as the suspect and was completely wrong; and there were many other massive mistakes. In each one, they ruined lives, damaged criminal investigations, led to firings and lawsuits.