Blake Crouch - Snowbound

“I only mean that sometimes I wonder. Not that I think you did it. And I haven’t wondered in a long time.”

“Baby girl,” he said, “look in my eyes.” They’d sheeted over with tears. “I’m not sure if I ever said this to you, but I’m going to say it now. I did not kill your mother. My wife.”

“I know, Dad.”

“I loved her. And if I thought for a second there was anything I could do to get her back, I would.”

“I believe you.”

They embraced. As they pulled away, she said, “Is there a chance Mom’s still alive?”

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.”

“But anything’s possible, right?”

“It’s been five years. I don’t want you walking around with your hopes up, okay?”

The phone rang. She grabbed it, glanced at the caller ID. “I have to take this, Dad.”

Will chuckled at that. “I love you, Devlin,” he said.

“Dad,” she whispered, “you just said my old name.”

“I know. It’s okay now.” Will got up and walked out of the room, shut the door softly behind him as Devlin said, “Hey, Lisa, what up, girl?”

He walked through the old farmhouse, closing windows. There would be a heavy frost in the morning.

Just the possibility of closure, of returning to some semblance of his old life, thrilled him. He hadn’t seen his parents, his sister, or any of his friends since he and Devlin had fled Arizona, and the pain their disappearance must have caused was always with him. Every day, he’d check friends’ blogs, Facebook and MySpace pages, Google his and Devlin’s name to see if people still searched for them. If they were still mentioned. Still thought of. Still remembered and missed.

And he desperately missed his work, his real work—practicing law. He missed being in a courtroom, missed picking a jury during voir dire and the nerves of verdict day.

Though he knew it wouldn’t return Rachael to him, he still wanted all the vestiges of his old life back. Perhaps going down to Phoenix with Kalyn would be a step in that direction.

He sat at the kitchen table, sipping his cold green tea, couldn’t stop thinking, Tomorrow, you face the man who killed Rachael. He was nervous, but more than anything, just anxious to put it all behind him. Figured he and Devlin were due a little peace.

FIFTEEN

At 2:30 P.M., after a seven-hour drive down from the high country of southwest Colorado, Kalyn pulled her Buick Regal beside an overflowing Dumpster and turned off the engine. They all stepped out into the potent October heat, crossed the parking lot, and stopped at the cluster of mailboxes so Kalyn could collect her mail.

Four cinder-block buildings boxed in the dirt courtyard where Devlin stood, each containing eight apartments, four on top, four below.

A rusted swing set had collapsed nearby. One roller skate and a deflated soccer ball sat in a sandless sandbox. Between the constant drone of air conditioners and the roar of the nearby interstate, peace and quiet did not appear to thrive here.

They approached the north building and entered the stairwell.

A jet airliner thundered overhead on its descent toward Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport.

Their footfalls clanged up fourteen metal steps and they emerged onto the open second-floor walkway, where Kalyn stopped at the third door. Apparently, the brass lettering had fallen off or been stolen, because the number 22 was scrawled above the peephole in red Magic Marker.

She unlocked the dead bolt and led them in. Even from the foyer, Devlin could tell it wasn’t much of a home. Small living room. Smaller kitchen. White walls in desperate need of several coats of paint. Cramped hallway leading back to the single bedroom.

It must have been over ninety degrees inside.

“Sorry about the heat,” she said. “My AC went out two weeks ago, and I just haven’t been around to replace it.” Sheaves of paper had been spread across the coffee table, the sofa, in numerous piles on the floor. Devlin counted three bulletin boards in the living room alone. One had been covered with what appeared to be crime-scene photos. Another displayed the organization of the Gulf Cartel, with maps of various corridors of the United States, certain highways and interstates highlighted.

“I apologize for the mess. As you can see, I’m a bit of a workaholic.”

Devlin was already sweating. Kalyn grabbed three diet Cokes from the fridge, and they sat on the sofa, fanning themselves with sheets of paper, sipping the cold soft drinks.

“So here’s the plan,” Kalyn said. “We leave Devlin here, and Will, you and I drive over to Mr. Estrada’s residence, see if you can’t make that identification.”

“I thought I was just going down to look at a lineup. That’s what you—”

“No, you’re going to do what we call a ride-along. Don’t worry. You’ll be up front with me. It’ll be fine.”

“But I thought you already—”

“Look, we can’t pick him up unless you ID him.”

Devlin looked at her father.

“Will my daughter be safe here?” he asked.

“She’ll be fine. She can watch TV. I don’t have cable, but you can get the network stations.”

The last thing Devlin wanted to do was sit in this hot, disgusting apartment all afternoon.

“I want to go with you,” she said.

“You heard Miss Sharp.”

“Dad!”

Her father stood up, said, “Come with me, Dev.” He glanced at Kalyn. “I need to talk to her for a minute in private.”

Devlin followed Will outside and shut the door. They stood by the railing overlooking the downtrodden courtyard.

“Listen to me,” he whispered. “I know you don’t want to stay here, and I don’t blame you. The thing is, I’m not exactly sure what’s going on yet. This just feels off, but she has us in a bind. If you get scared, if anything happens while we’re gone, you call me on your cell. I’ll come back here and get you.”

“I just wanna go home. I’m missing a sleepover at Lisa’s tonight.”

“I know, baby. I’m gonna take care of this, and then we’re out of here. We’ll fly back to Colorado if we have to.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. You’re earning major points today.”

“You’ll take me shopping in Durango?”

“Yes.”

“On a spree?”

“Okay.”

“Three hundred dollars.”

“Two fifty.”

Devlin smiled, said, “All right. I’m not gonna let you forget.”

SIXTEEN

Fifteen minutes from her apartment, Kalyn turned into the driveway of a five-story office building and pulled into a parking space near the entrance.

“He’s here?” Will asked.

“No, this is the Phoenix Field Office. I just have to run in and grab something.”

Kalyn left the Buick running and hustled into the building.

She returned five minutes later, hopped in the car, sped out into traffic.

The road into Scottsdale was lined with palm trees.

“So how’s this going to work, exactly?” Will asked.

“I have to be honest,” she said. “I’m not wild about doing it this way.”

Will laughed nervously. “Makes two of us.”

“First, we have to see if he’s home. If he is, I’ll arrest him, bring him out to the car. You can give me a thumbs-up, thumbs-down on whether or not you recognize him.”

“What if I don’t?”

“This is the guy,” she said.

“But what if I can’t—”

“Can I trust you with something?”

“I guess.” They were passing strip malls at the rate of ten per mile.

“Here’s the dilemma. Mr. Estrada is wanted for a whole host of things, many of them much easier to prove than human trafficking. You ID him early on, we can go that route. Maybe we get some answers. If you don’t, well, somebody else gets a crack at him. Border Patrol. Phoenix PD. DEA. Mexican authorities. And then we can forget about ever getting him prosecuted for what he did to your wife, or finding out what happened to her. I really don’t like where that leaves you in terms of the pending charges.”