Murder on the Horizon Page 3

  “How are ya, stud muffin?” Gracie said as she walked over to the commercial dishwasher, slipped an apron over her head, and tied it behind her back.

  Allen threw the flattened box on top of a pile on the floor. “As fine as if I had good sense, sugarplum.”

  Gracie sprayed a tray already stacked with dirty dishes with scalding water, sending a plume of steam billowing around her, then pushed it along the rollers into the stainless steel dishwasher, slid the door closed, and flipped the On switch.

  She grabbed a towel and dried her hands. “Anything I can do for you?”

  “Not a blamed thing. What’d you do last night?”

  “Nothing much. Search and Rescue business meeting. Boring, but necessary. Then a beer after with some of the team at the Saddle Tramp.”

  “A beer?”

  “A as in one.”

  “Tell me, buttercup, what do you find appealing about that Search and Rescue business?”

  Gracie reached back to hang up the dish towel, then turned back, leaning against the counter. “It’s never the same thing. Kind of like that Forrest Gump thing. You never know what you’re going to get. Every mission is different, depending on who shows up, what the circumstances are. Could be a missing mountain biker or a downed airplane or a car over the side. Could be on San Raphael. Could be down in the desert. Could be snowing. Could be a billion degrees.”

  “And you like that.”

  Gracie nodded. “I do. Not always pleasant. In fact, sometimes it’s downright unpleasant. But that’s part of the job. I like the challenge. The variety. It’s never boring. It’s a way of life. Well, it’s my way of life. Even though I’m only a volunteer . . .”

  “No one’s ever only a volunteer.”

  “Even though I’m a volunteer,” she amended.

  “Thank you.”

  “The team infiltrates everything I do, impacts every decision I make. It’s who I am, how I see myself, how I define myself.” She stopped, realizing she had revealed way more of herself than she would have deemed prudent to someone she knew well, much less to someone she had only recently met, an ex-con with unknown history, unknown connections, unknown friends. “Okay, then. Guess I’ll go up to the Gatehouse.”

  “Thanks for sharing that part of yourself with me, Gracie. I know it’s not easy for you.”

  Gracie frowned over at Allen. Sometimes he saw a sight more than she liked.

  Beep! Beep! Beep! Her Search and Rescue pager shrieked from the waistband of her shorts. She unclipped it and squinted at the tiny screen.

  “Another search?” Allen asked.

  Gracie nodded. “Missing juvenile.” She clipped the pager back onto her waistband, then stood unmoving, undecided.

  “So what are you waiting for?”

  “There’s a buttload of work to do in the office.”

  “You got a missing kid. Nobody’s due in camp until tomorrow.”

  “Do you mind watching Minnie again? I could be out all night.”

  “Leave the little lady with me. I could use the intelligent conversation.”

  Gracie shot Allen a look. He stood, box in one hand, box cutter in the other. “Well, go already! We’ll all survive without you for a day.” He winked at her.

  “Ha. Ha. Minnie’s on her bed in the closet. She’s got food and water.” She lifted the receiver of the wall telephone, stopping again. How long would it take her to respond to the Sheriff’s Office out of which Timber Creek SAR operated? Her twenty-four-hour SAR pack and everything else—radio chest pack, GPS, floppy hat, fleece jacket, leather gloves, water bottle—were ready and waiting in the bed of the Ranger. All she needed to do was change into her SAR uniform, which hung behind the driver’s seat of the truck, then drive the twisting five miles down Cedar Mill Road and another four miles across town.

  She dialed the number for the SO squad room and told the deputy who answered, “Kinkaid responding to the search. ETA twenty-five.”

  With a wave and a “Thanks, snickerdoodle!” she trotted out of the kitchen.

  “Go get ’em, Tiger Lily” drifted down the hallway after her.

  CHAPTER

  4

  FROM the time Gracie flew out of the back door of the camp kitchen to the time she turned into the parking lot of the Sheriff’s Office substation, twenty-three minutes had elapsed.

  Standing next to the Ranger in back of Serrano Lodge, she had pulled on her newly washed orange SAR uniform shirt, camo pants, and hiking boots while keeping one eye on the road into camp lest an unexpected visitor be treated to an impromptu peep show. With a quick stop at the office to tape a note and hastily drawn map on the front door to take any inquiries down to Allen in the camp kitchen, she careened out of camp and down steep, winding Cedar Mill Road at a hair-raising speed of fifty-seven miles per hour. Multiple stoplights and slow-moving traffic in town added another nail-chewing eleven minutes.

  Gracie swung the truck into a parking space alongside the Sheriff’s Office building—long, two story, painted off-white, and trimmed in dark brown. Grabbing up her radio chest pack from the passenger’s seat, she walked over to where Warren was climbing down from out of the team’s ton-and-a-half utility truck behind which, hooked up and ready to go, was the mobile Incident Command Post, or ICP—a donated travel trailer refurbished and equipped with everything the team could possibly need to manage a search: maps and whiteboards, Incident Command System forms, laptop, copy machine and printer, office supplies, handheld radios and batteries, water and blankets.

  Idling next to the utility truck was the team’s Ford F-150 pickup pulling a trailer carrying two ATVs. Both vehicles and the Command Post trailer were white, emblazoned with the Department’s signature chevron.

  “Hey, Warren,” Gracie said, threading her arms through the straps of her radio pack.

  With graying rust-colored hair and a mass of freckles, Warren was a big man of few words and many talents, working behind the scenes, doing whatever needed to be done for the team without thought or need for thanks or acknowledgement.

  As Gracie clipped the radio pack on and untwisted the straps, she scanned the other vehicles in the parking lot. Her spirits drooped. Ralph Hunter’s bright red F-150 pickup was nowhere in sight.

  Ralph was Gracie’s rock, the one person to whom she could talk, the one person she could rely on to always be there for her, to always care.

  At least he had been in the past.

  But several months earlier, Gracie had met Ralph’s rare display of emotional vulnerability with not love and compassion, but pity. Ralph’s response had been a cold fury and Gracie had been afraid she had lost her best friend forever. But Ralph had forgiven her and all was right with Gracie’s world until, unwittingly, she had hurt him again. That time he hadn’t forgiven her, freezing her out of his life and leaving her sick at heart.

  Normally, Ralph clocked more hours and responded to more calls than any other member on the team except for Gracie. He had been on the team longer than anyone else. His leadership and experience were the mortar holding together the disparate set of personalities on the team. But, in the past six weeks, he hadn’t responded to a single callout, his absence from the last two team business meetings the topic of much speculation.

  But Ralph not responding to searches or attending meetings because of a tiff with Gracie was an impossibility. He was too much of a professional to let personal squabbles get in the way of the job.

  Something else is going on, she thought. He hadn’t returned any of her calls about SAR business and the five times she had driven past his house, his pickup hadn’t been parked at the top of the driveway. Ralph was a building contractor for high-end homes. Maybe his absence was as simple as his business picking up.

  Worry and anxiety about Ralph pricked at Gracie. If he didn’t show up for this search, she decided, she would drive over to his cabin and camp
out in front until she found out what was going on.

  Gracie jolted back to the present. If Ralph didn’t show up for this search, managing the operation would fall to her. She looked around at the people and vehicles in the parking lot, taking stock of who had responded, thinking ahead to which assignment could be given to whom. Most of the core group—the diehards who showed up for almost every search—were there: Carrie, Jon, Warren, and Lenny.

  “Kinkaid!” Jon called as he walked across the parking lot, backpack over one shoulder. “You in the ICP?”

  “Unless you want it,” she called back.

  “Hell, no!”

  Carrie emerged from the employee’s entrance of the SO followed by two new team members, a married couple about whom Gracie knew nothing. Carrie conferred with the man and woman for a moment, then walked across the parking lot to hand Gracie a Dispatch printout of the original missing person call and a heavy Sheriff’s Department radio. “Gardner’s Watch Commander,” she said. “He basically said, ‘You’re on your own.’”

  “Of course he did,” Gracie said, snapping the radio into her chest pack, perfectly content to conduct her own briefing, especially if it meant not having to deal with her nemesis on the Sheriff’s Department, Sergeant Ron Gardner.

  Carrie held up a half-inch-thick sheaf of paper rubber-banded together. “MisPer flyers?”

  “Hang on to ’em until we get on-scene, will you?” Then she looked up and yelled, “Okay, everybody, circle up for a briefing.”

  When everyone had gathered around and the small talk had dribbled away to silence, Gracie said, “To those of you for whom this is your first search, welcome and thanks.” She looked down at the Dispatch report in her hands. “Our MisPer is a missing juvenile. Baxter Edwards. Eleven years old. Blond over—”

  “Hey, that’s—” Lenny interrupted.

  “—the same kid,” Jon finished.

  “That’s two times in two months.”

  “Three.”

  “Months?”

  “Times.”

  “Kid’s a runaway,” Warren offered.

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to be called out for runaways,” Lenny said.

  Gracie frowned. “I’m not familiar with him because I was—”

  “Sitting at home eating bonbons,” Jon interjected.

  “Loafing,” Warren added.

  “Um, recuperating from a broken ankle?” Gracie said.

  “Wimp.”

  “Slacker.”

  Gracie acknowledged the good-natured ribbing with a smile, and continued. “We’re not usually called in for runaways, especially chronic ones. My guess is it’s because of the boy’s age and the fact that he’s been missing for over twenty-four hours.” Her eyes moved over the printout. “Anyway . . . physical description. Blond over brown. Four foot seven. Sixty-six pounds. Black glasses.”

  “He looks like Mr. Peabody,” Lenny said.

  “Mr. Peabody’s the dog,” Carrie said. “The kid’s Sherman.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Okay,” Gracie said, forging ahead. “Last seen wearing woodland camouflage pants and jacket. Carrying a black backpack. Went missing from his home in Pine Knot sometime yesterday afternoon. Family’s been out searching for him.”

  “Ain’t that just peachy,” Warren said.

  “They’ll have trampled all over any tracks,” Lenny said.

  “Grandmother finally called the SO this morning,” Gracie continued.

  “Why would they wait over a day to call it in?” Carrie asked.

  “Let’s just say the family doesn’t like law enforcement,” Jon answered.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” Warren added in a low voice.

  “They all live in a big, like, fortress in the woods,” Lenny said, his blue eyes shining.

  “Compound,” Jon amended.

  “Yeah. I heard they have an underground bunker and everything. Like on TV. They’re . . . what do you call ’em?”

  “Doomsday preppers.”

  “Yeah! Doomsday preppers!”

  “Friggin’ wing nuts.”

  “Hey, I watch that show.”

  “Let’s stay on task here,” Gracie said, shifting her weight to the other leg to ease her aching ankle. “A missing eleven-year-old is an emergency, regardless of whether he’s a runaway or not. What happened with this kid the last two . . . three times?” She looked up. “Anybody know?”

  “First time,” Jon said, “Baxter showed up over the river and through the woods at Grandma’s house a half mile or so away from home. They don’t all just get along. Kid told the debriefing SAR member—that would be moi—he was holed up at his fort the entire day. Close mouthed about where said fort was. Second time, he was spotted walking along the Boulevard by Maple. He was picked up by a deputy. Third time, who knows?”

  “Third time,” Carrie said, “janitor at the high school found him scrounging in one of the Dumpsters for food.”

  “Okay then,” Gracie said. “Warren’ll drive the ICP up. Set it up in the parking lot of the park next to the fire station. Corner of Spruce and Clampett.” She looked up. “Who’s driving the ATVs up?”

  Lenny raised his hand.

  “Good. You and Warren on ATVs. You both okay with that?”

  Lenny pumped the air with his fist. “Sweet.”

  “Okay, boss,” Warren affirmed.

  “Jon and Carrie. Since the family’s uncooperative, we won’t be able to interview the parents. Grab an MPQ and go talk to the RP, the grandmother.” She looked down at the briefing sheet. “Sharon Edwards. 1058 Oak Street.”

  Jon and Carrie scribbled down the information in pocket-sized notebooks.

  “At least until things get set up in the ICP, Warren is Comms. Mr. Towne?”

  Warren cleared his throat. “MAC10 talk group. I’ll distribute radios to teams when we get on-scene. Those of you who are new on the team and haven’t had the radio training yet, get with a more-experienced member who can show you how to find the right channel.”

  “Standard safety message,” Gracie said. “Wear hats and sunscreen.”

  “I’ve got mine!” Lenny announced, holding up an enormous economy-sized bottle of generic-brand SPF 110.

  Gracie laughed. “Drink lots of water. Even though it’s an urban environment, keep an eye out for snakes. Don’t forget to sign in. And out. Sheet’s on the table in the squad room. See you all up there.”

  * * *

  USING HER MOSTLY full water bottle and the heavy HT radio, Gracie anchored opposing corners of a large laminated street map of the mountain community of Pine Knot, then carefully sat down on the teetery secretarial chair, knowing from past experience it was prone to easily tipping backward. The last thing she needed was for someone—her favorite sergeant, for instance—to walk into the trailer and find her lying on her back on the floor with her legs waving in the air with girlish glee.

  With colored sticky arrows, she indicated on the map the location of the Command Post, then the Last Known Point and Point Last Seen—both the Edwards family compound. “On Gorgonzola?” Gracie said aloud. “Who thinks up these street names?” Using a dry-erase marker and working her way out from the compound, she drew out search segments to which teams would be assigned, numbering them in order of priority.

  She was aware of her heart pounding, feeling the pressure of multiple people standing around chomping at the bit, waiting for assignments, eager to be out in the field. The responsibility for the life of a child weighed heavily on her. A miscalculation in search segments or any other mistake might affect the outcome of the search—whether or not they found the boy alive.

  Once everyone was in the field, then, maybe, she could catch up on filling out the myriad Incident Command System forms.

  The trailer door opened and Warren stuck his head inside
. “What do you need, Gracie?”

  “A list of who’s already here with what vehicles and what equipment and ETA of who’s still on their way.”

  “On it.” He ducked back out of the trailer.

  “And ICP coordinates,” she yelled after him.

  “On it,” Warren yelled back from outside.

  Gracie dug into her black plastic file box, pulled out a stack of 204 forms, and began filling in the boxes with Case Number, Incident Name, Date, Time, Operational Period. Then following the search segments she had drawn, she began making search assignments.

  The door flew open again and Warren climbed inside, tipping the little trailer with his weight. “On-scene personnel,” he said, laying a list on the table next to Gracie. He pressed a yellow sticky note on top. “And coordinates.”

  “Thank you!”

  Using the information Warren had just provided and the search segments she had drawn on the map, Gracie began making team assignments.

  Four hours later, there was still no sign of the missing boy.

  CHAPTER

  5

  ANXIETY had tightened the knot in Gracie’s stomach. In another couple of hours, Baxter Edwards would have been missing for thirty-six hours. She would give it until then to call in help from neighboring teams—more ground pounders, a dog team or two, aviation.

  Two hours into the search, Carrie and Jon had returned from interviewing the boy’s grandmother, Sharon Edwards, and turned in a completed Missing Person Questionnaire, or MPQ. Immediately they had received another assignment, joining another team of ground pounders going door-to-door, street-to-street.

  The MPQ had both brought new information and confirmed information already known. For only eleven years old, Baxter Edwards was impressively self-sufficient, never going anywhere without a backpack containing homemade snacks and water, but, it had been noted with a circled star, only water from the family compound, all other water believed to be tainted or poisoned by “the government.” The boy was homeschooled, well-trained in survival, and very familiar with the area. Fights with the father were frequent, often physical, according to the grandmother, mostly because the father hated his son’s preference of books to guns. The family was reclusive and, as had been already discussed, demonstrably hostile to law enforcement with prior run-ins with County Code Enforcement officials and inspectors. “Terrific,” Gracie muttered.