Blake Crouch: Snowbound

“I wouldn’t object to a whiskey.”

Will poured a pair of whiskies and led Swicegood through the sliding glass door. There were a half dozen people on the deck, most of whom he didn’t recognize, sitting on chairs dragged out from the breakfast table and eating off paper plates like they were at a cookout.

The two men walked down the steps and crossed the grass to a weathered fence that ran the length of No-Water Lane and separated the backyards of Oasis Hills from the desert.

Will leaned on the fence, steeling himself, and said, “Just tell me. Don’t beat around—”

“We’ve got APBs out everywhere across the Southwest and we’re working with the Mexican authorities, as well.”

“You haven’t found her?”

Swicegood shook his head.

“But you think she’s alive.”

“I don’t know.”

“Your opinion?”

“Mr. Innis, it’s just too early to be—”

“Please. Take off the fucking kid gloves.”

“That’s a bad stretch of highway she disappeared on. Notorious for drug running, human trafficking. It doesn’t look good.”

The words hit Will like drops of acid, and it struck him that following a tragedy, grief comes in waves, each bigger than the previous, each carrying a new component of pain. They stood there drinking bourbon, looking south across the desert toward Mexico, where only a tinge of light lingered in the sky, lying across the horizon like the last thread of day.

Then it vanished and stars appeared, numerous and vivid. A coyote cried. He heard the rustling of a large animal, probably a mule deer, running through the sage. Will thought about Rachael, somewhere out there, maybe alive, maybe not, and he knew he wasn’t even close to the pain yet. But he could sense it lurking on the outskirts. It would be waiting for him in the morning when he opened his eyes to face this nightmare all over again.

A match flared. Swicegood lighted a cigarette, blew out the flame. He licked his thumb and forefinger and squelched the heat from the glowing match head before flicking it into the grass. He took a deep drag and sent a train of smoke curling into the desert.

“I was wondering, Mr. Innis, is there someone who could watch your daughter for a little while?” Will had been leaning on the fence. Now he turned and faced the detective. His head wasn’t clear. It took a moment to locate the exact words he wanted.

“Why would she need to be watched?”

“I thought you and I could ride over to the station. Have a little talk.”

The air between them turned electric.

“What about?”

“I’ll be waiting in my car. It’s parked behind the news truck with the satellite on top. You go make sure your daughter’s taken care of, then come on out.”

Will knocked back the whiskey and set the empty glass on the fence post. The darkness seemed to tilt. He felt clammy, sweat beading on his face.

“Shit.” He staggered ten feet away and retched into the grass, stood hunched over, looking back toward the house at all the silhouettes moving like ghosts behind the windows. He took in the dark stillness of the desert, the wet chill of the grass blades brushing at his bare ankles. He wiped his mouth. “You’re serious?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Do I need to bring a lawyer?”

“I don’t see why at this point. I just need you to answer a few questions. Help me sort something out. So, my car. Five minutes.”

SEVEN

Javier wanted coffee—strong and scalding—and as if his desire had conjured its own object, the sign for a freestanding Starbucks appeared a quarter mile ahead, beside a gas station just off the interstate.

It made him nervous, leaving the woman alone, but she was reasonably secure, more than reasonably drugged, and if he was going to reach Idaho without drifting off and killing them both, caffeine would be required.

Into Starbucks and the intimate odor of the beans and the chromed shine of mugs, French presses, and espresso machines as world music throbbed through speakers in the ceiling.

He counted nine people in line ahead of him.

Rachael floated in a warm, dark sea. It seemed to take years just to open her eyes, and when she did, the world was awash in blinding streaks of light, echoes of jumbled sounds. She moaned softly, though not from pain, but a burning euphoria.

She sat in the front seat of the Escalade, restrained only by a seat belt. The car was stationary but idling. She managed to rotate her head toward the empty driver’s seat.

Looking through the tinted window in front of her, she tried to get a handle on her surroundings, but the slightest movement blurred light and distorted objects beyond recognition. With her head swimming, it took extraordinary willpower to keep her thoughts from derailing into dreamy and meaningless directions. She possessed a dim awareness that she was in trouble, but she couldn’t remember what kind, or the events that had preceded this moment. All she knew was that she needed to get out of the car before the driver came back.

As Rachael stilled herself, the outside world eased into focus. She made out the bright lights of a familiar chain, the Escalade parked near the entrance.

Inside, she spotted a line to the cash register. The man who had been driving the Escalade stood at the end, watching her.

From his place in line, Javier had a view through the storefront glass, saw the woman was no longer draped unconscious in the front passenger seat, but struggling to sit up.

A customer collected her drink, the line shuffling forward.

The next couple ordered lattes and items from the pastry case, beside which he now stood, watching the hands of the heavyset barista reaching for two pieces of crumb cake.

He glanced outside. The woman was looking down, having probably noticed what he’d done to the seat belt.

Next customer, a truck driver.

“Just coffee, darlin’.”

Good man.

Then a woman after some high-end water, a twenty-second transaction, swipe of the credit card, Javier feeling a jolt of anticipatory excitement at the caffeine coming his way and getting back on the road again, as that redneck with the braids loved to sing.

She reached to undo the seat belt, but the button had been wrapped several times in duct tape. Too groggy and weak to tear it off, she lifted her arm instead, and on the fourth attempt, she touched the switch on her door that lowered the automatic window.

The tinted glass descended quickly into the door. Night air swept in, reeking of gas and oil. In the near distance, an interstate droned with the ceaseless hum of traffic. The air was far too cool for southern Arizona, and through the fog of the drug, she wondered how far she was from home.

Just a family ahead of him now—mom and dad, teenage girl, young boy who’d been stealing glances at Jav ever since he’d walked into the store.

Dad: coffee.

Boy: hot chocolate.

Girl: latte.

Javier glanced at his Escalade, saw the window sliding down on the passenger side.

Mom: “I’ll have an iced, skinny, venti, ten-pump chai latte, hold the whip.”

Javier glared in the general direction of the register as a tremor of murderous irritation pulsed between his temples.

The barista, grinning, said, “Could you say that one more time, and just a tad slower.”

“Iced. Skinny. Venti. Chai latte. Ten pumps. Hold the whip.”

“I have to charge you for the extra pumps.”

“That’s fine.”

“It’s my second day, so let me be sure. When you say ‘skinny,’ you mean—”

“Nonfat milk.”

The barista grimaced, bracing for the deliverance of bad news. “We just ran out.”

“Oh no.” Mom slumped in devastation as Javier calculated that his BP had risen to 130/90, the tips of his ears tingling.