Cindi Myers - Rocky Mountain Rescue

“I’m not on your list,” she said. “I was hoping I could buy a ticket on board.”

“I’m only supposed to take advance reservations.”

Stacy shifted from foot to foot. Everyone was staring, the people behind her starting to grumble. She leaned toward the man, keeping her voice low, and at the same time giving him a look down the V-neck of her sweater—hey, she’d use whatever she had to pull this off. “Please,” she said. “I just found out my mother is in the hospital and I was able to get a flight out of Durango to see her and I’ve got to get there. I can pay cash.” And he could keep the cash and never tell anybody, if he was so inclined.

“Fifty dollars.” He didn’t even hesitate to bark out the sum.

She opened her purse and fished out two twenties and a ten. One thing about living with a mobster—they believed in paying cash and kept a lot around.

“Where’s your luggage?” the driver asked.

“I already put it back there.” She nodded toward the back of the bus, where a porter was loading suitcases.

On board the bus, she settled into a seat near the back, Carlo beside her. “Where are we going, Mama?” he asked.

“To that hotel I told you about.” Once at the airport, she’d head to baggage claim and call one of the hotels that offered a free shuttle. She’d pay cash for a room and give a fake name. After dinner and a good night’s sleep, she could decide what to do next.

Carlo settled with his face pressed to the glass, looking out the window. Stacy leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She was on her way. Not safe yet, but she would be soon.

* * *

“SHE’S HEADED TOWARD Durango.”

Patrick leaned over the tech they’d assigned to trace Stacy’s cell phone signal and studied the laptop screen and the little green dot that pinpointed her whereabouts. His last two calls to her had gone straight to voice mail, so he assumed she’d turned off her phone. Apparently she hadn’t realized it still sent out a signal, even when switched off.

“What’s in Durango?” Agent Sullivan asked.

“Maybe this Uncle Abel?” Stacy had said he had a ranch in Colorado, but she’d been vague about where.

“Someone else is in Durango today,” Sullivan said. He held out his smartphone, which showed the front page of the Durango paper, with a story about Senator Nordley’s speech to a political group in town.

Patrick’s stomach churned. He’d wanted to believe Stacy’s innocent victim act. Had everything she’d told them been a lie? “That’s a little too convenient for coincidence,” he said.

“Should we call Durango police and ask them to intercept her?” Sullivan asked.

“No. I’ll go.” He reached for his jacket. “I want to watch her, see what she does. And the fewer people who know about this, the better for security.” He turned to the tech. “Keep tracking her. I’ll stay in touch by phone.”

The night was bitterly cold and blustery, big flakes of snow swirling in the parking lot security lights as he made his way to his Range Rover. He threaded the vehicle through the crowds on Main, then took the highway out of town, turning on the road up to the ski resort. This would take him over Lizard Head pass, through the small towns of Rico and Delores and into Durango. Stacy probably had a forty-minute head start on him, but he wasn’t worried about following her too closely, not as long as she had her phone with her.

Provided she hadn’t been smart enough to stash the phone, maybe in a bag that was now on board the shuttle while she ran the opposite direction. But he was going with his gut and the belief that she was headed to Durango herself.

He’d learned to trust his gut in his years with the U.S. Marshals, but things didn’t always play out the way he wanted. Most recently, he’d agreed to allow Elizabeth Giardino, who’d been in Witness Security as Anne Gardiner, to go to the house where her father had been holed up with the rest of the family. The opportunity to catch a man on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list after he’d been on the loose for over a year had been too tempting, especially since Elizabeth had been so determined to take the risk.

But her brother had almost killed her, and Patrick blamed himself.

He wasn’t going to risk losing another woman in his care; he wouldn’t let Stacy Giardino get the better of him.

When he reached the outskirts of Durango, he phoned the tech back in Telluride. “You still have her on radar?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. She was at the airport for a little bit. Then she was on the move for a bit, but she’s stopped again. If you give me a moment, I can pinpoint an address.”

“All right. I’ll hold.” He guided the car past well-lit shopping complexes down a main street lined with bars, restaurants and hotels. Like Telluride, Durango was filled with tourists celebrating after a day at the nearby ski area. It was the kind of place where it would be easy for a stranger to get lost in the crowd.

“Sir, I’ve got an address for you.”

“Go ahead.” Patrick leaned over and switched on his GPS.

The tech rattled off an address on Second Street. “I show it’s a motel. Moose Head Lodge.”

“Got it. Thanks.” He hung up, keyed the address into his GPS then did a U-turn and headed back toward Second Street.

The Moose Head Lodge was a low-slung log-and-stone structure set back from the road. Two long wings stretched out from the central building, with doors for each room opening into the parking lot. Patrick parked the Range Rover across from the entrance and went into a lobby straight out of a Teddy Roosevelt nightmare, complete with a stuffed grizzly bear by the front counter.

“May I help you, sir?” asked the clerk, who looked scarcely old enough to shave.

“I’m looking for a young woman who just checked in. About five-two, short, pale blond hair. She probably had a little boy with her.”

“I’m not allowed to give out information on our guests,” he said.

“You can give me the information.” Patrick flipped open his credentials on the counter.

The boy’s eyes goggled. “Y-yes, sir. A woman like the one you described checked in about fifteen minutes ago. She’s in Room 141—out back.”

“What name did she register under?”

The boy turned to a computer and rapidly typed in some information. “She registered as Kathy Jackson. And she paid cash for her room.”

“I need to reserve the closest vacant room to hers I can,” Patrick said.

“That would be 142—right next door.”

“I’ll take it.” He handed over his government credit card and filled out the reservation information.

“That room has two double beds and a microwave and minifridge,” the clerk said as he handed over the card key.

“Is there someplace I can order in food?” He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was beginning to catch up with him.

“There’s a pizza place that delivers. The menu is in your room.”

“That’ll do.” He drove the Rover around and parked in front of his room. There was no reason Stacy should recognize it, but in case she was looking out the window to see who had arrived, he kept the vehicle between him and her door and entered the room quickly.

Once inside, he made his way to the wall that separated his room from hers and pressed his ear against the sheetrock. The muffled music and voices from the television obscured any other sound at first, then he heard what he was sure was a child, and the unintelligible answer in a woman’s voice.

They were there, probably in for the night, but he’d stay alert just in case. If anyone came to see her, or if she left to go out, he’d know. In the morning, he’d follow her and see where she went. Who she talked to.