CHAPTER
FIFTY-FOUR

Savage River
Detective Darren Fletcher

The darkness cut across the sky like a heavy blanket. Fletcher regretted his choice to ride in one of the four-wheel-drive Jeeps the forest rangers used. He regretted insisting they set off in the dark. He regretted not waiting until morning and letting a helicopter fly him up the mountain, instead of this jolting, thumping canter up the tiny switchback roads. Each bump felt like a hot poker was being shoved into his arm, over and over and over, and his head was aching in time. Sweat had broken out on his forehead, and he felt a bit like vomiting.

But he wasn’t about to admit he was wrong, so he gritted his teeth and sucked it up.

They’d been on the road for an hour. Before they decided which camp to take, Fletcher had practically knocked the teeth out of the forest ranger, making him give his best guess as to where Sam would be. He had the distinct impression the kid knew, and he threatened and cajoled until the boy chose the site they were headed to.

He could only hope his instincts were right. Whitfield had to have friends in these hills, people who would do him a favor or two, like distract a tactical team trying to find his place. Someone young and idealistic, maybe. Someone like a young forest ranger.

Fletcher’s phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket, thankful he’d remembered to charge it back at the lodge, and that he had a signal. It was Roosevelt. “Tell me you have good news.”

“I do. We found Susan Donovan. Poor thing’s pretty beat up, but she’s alive. Guess where we found her?”

“I have no idea,” Fletcher said.

“Tied to a chair in Allan Culpepper’s living room. He wanted the journal pages. Smart girl, she told them they’d been stolen, that no one knew where they were, and he believed her. But she had them in her back pocket and didn’t give them up.”

“Wait a minute. Culpepper is in Iraq. I saw the billet. Are you sure it wasn’t Rod Deter? That bastard was lying to me,” Fletcher said.

“No, not Deter, and Culpepper isn’t in Iraq. He’s definitely in the U.S. I’m thinking probably up there running around the woods someplace close to you.”

“Fuck. Son of a bitch played me.”

“Apparently so. DOD gave us the info we needed at last. His passport hasn’t been stamped in the past month. He’s been in the States the whole time.”

Fletcher resisted the urge to smack his forehead. The documents he’d seen were forgeries, and damn good ones, at that.

“Why lie, though? He gave me a big song and dance about hitching a ride with the sultan of … Just … Fuck.”

“Yep, again. We got confirmation that he’s your dude. Crime scene found a cigarette butt at the Croswell crime scene, in the garden behind the house. Matches the brand we found in his condo. DNA tests are under way, expedited, but it will be a couple of days at least.’’

Fletcher slapped the dash with his open hand.

“Son of a bitch.”

“You could say that. There are weapons galore at his place. No telling if one of them will match the hole in Taranto, or you, or Hart.”

“Or William Everett’s mother. Jesus, how could I be so stupid. Bastard lied to my face and I took it like a man, believed every honeyed drop from his lips.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You know now. Problem is, he’s off the radar. We got a BOLO out on his car. The Garrett County folks are looking hard at anything that closely resembles him. Highway patrol’s been alerted, too.”

“You think he’s up here?”

“All the last pieces of the puzzle are in those woods. That’s where I’d go.”

“Good to know you can still think like a criminal, Cap.”

Roosevelt laughed. “If you only knew. Now, go get him, tiger. And by the way, Hart’s been upgraded to stable. He’s gonna be just fine. We got a guard on him just in case. Thought you’d want to know.”

“Got it. Appreciate that. Now I’m going hunting.”

“Fletcher. Be careful. This guy doesn’t have anything to lose anymore.”

Fletcher hung up the cell and turned to the kid driving, used his most frightening voice. It was the one that always worked on Tad when he was lying.

“It’s time to tell me the truth. You know Alexander Whitfield, correct?”

“Sir?”

“Listen, kid. He’s no longer a suspect. He’s now the target. We’ve got a grade-A assassin somewhere nearby who’s gunning for Whitfield. If you know which camp is his, now’s the time to be honest with me. Because if you don’t tell me, you could be responsible for his death—you feel me?”

The kid gulped. “We’re heading to the right one. Xander just wanted a delay. He wanted you up there. Just not before daylight. You kind of messed with the plan.”

Suckered again. “What the hell’s the plan?”

“I don’t know that, sir. I just do what I’m told.”

Fletcher did his best not to clock the kid, and braced himself.

“Then step on it. Because we don’t have all night anymore.”