Tempting Fate: A Colorado High Country Novel, Page 3

  Taller than the others, he walked over to Deputy Marcs, shook her hand, and introduced himself. “Chief Deputy US Marshal Zach McBride.”

  Marcs shook his hand. “Deputy Julia Marcs, incident commander.”

  The other two were from the FBI. Chaska respected McBride because of his past contact with him, but it was in his DNA not to trust the feds, especially the FBI. “You need anything else from me?”

  Marcs glanced down at her notes. “I’ll call if anything comes up. Good work today, Belcourt.”

  “Thanks.” Chaska was about to walk away when McBride held out his hand.

  “You’re the member of the Rocky Mountain Search and Rescue Team that cuts sign. You helped with the capture of a fugitive a couple of summers back.”

  Chaska was surprised McBride remembered. “Yes, sir. Chaska Belcourt.”

  Marcs cut to the chase, clearly not happy to have feds at her crime scene. “Is the Marshals Service or FBI claiming jurisdiction on this one?”

  McBride shook his head. “We’re hoping to partner with local law enforcement. You all know the area. We know who you’re looking for.”

  He drew two photos out of his jacket pocket and held them out for Deputy Marcs and Chaska to see.

  Chaska leaned in and found himself looking at the mug shots of two hard-faced middle-aged men. One of them grinned at the camera, a cruel glint in his soulless eyes.

  “Arlie Harding and Clem McConnell.” McBride handed the photos to Marcs. “They murdered two correctional officers two weeks ago while en route to the hospital with faked injuries and escaped from a private prison outside Fort Worth. I’ll have my team send over their records. They’ve both got a long list of priors that include assault, sexual assault, armed robbery—you name it. The victim is damned lucky she got away. I doubt they would have left her alive when they’d finished with her.”

  A jolt of rage shot through Chaska to think of these two bastards intimidating Naomi, planning to violate her, hurt her, kill her. “It wasn’t just luck. She was smart.”

  “Belcourt is the one who found the victim and called it in,” Marcs explained.

  “I’ve been hoping to run into you again, Mr. Belcourt. Every once in a while, the Marshals Service here in Colorado encounters a situation where someone with your skills could come in handy, our current case included. Would you be willing to consult with us, help us out?”

  Consult with the U.S. Marshals Service?

  Little in life surprised Chaska these days, but this did. “Don’t you have your own people for that, or a canine unit?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got dogs, but they can be misled. We’ve gotten so dependent on technology that basic skills like tracking have largely been lost. I spent some time working with the Shadow Wolves along the U.S.-Mexico border, learned from members of the Tohono O’odham nation, but I don’t have your skills. I’ve seen you work. While the dog followed a false scent trail, you found the real one.”

  Chaska’s respect for McBride rose a notch. He’d used the word nation instead of tribe, and he’d pronounced Tohono O’odham correctly. On top of that, he’d spent time with the Shadow Wolves. They were legends in the Native community.

  Still, could Chaska see himself working for the feds? He glanced at the FBI agents, who watched him from behind mirrored lenses. “I’ll help you track these bastards, but I answer to you and not the Marshals Service or the FBI. After that, we’ll see.”

  “That works for me.” McBride seemed to study him. “Are you acquainted with the victim?”

  It was a fair question. The last time he and McBride had spoken, Chaska had failed to disclose the fact that the man they were tracking had attacked and drugged his sister. McBride had not been amused when he’d found out.

  Chaska couldn’t help but smile. “Not this time.”

  Chapter 3

  Naomi drifted in and out of consciousness on the way to the hospital, oxygen mask on her face, Erik’s reassuring voice an anchor. Once she arrived at the ER, she found herself at the center of a whirlwind. She was examined, X-rayed, and given a CT scan. After that, the bullet wound on her shoulder was injected with anesthetic and cleaned by a kind RN whose name was Lolly.

  “Dr. O’Brien will be in to stitch you up soon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m sorry this happened to you. It must have been terrifying.”

  Until now, Naomi had done a pretty good job of keeping it together, but the nurse’s sympathy cut through the gratitude she felt to be alive to the lingering horror inside her. She had come so close to being raped and murdered.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat, fought to hold back tears. “It’s not what I was expecting from my Colorado vacation.”

  “It’s certainly not what we put in our tourist brochures.” Lolly rested a reassuring hand on her forearm. “You just rest, and push the call button if you need anything.”

  Naomi was exhausted, but the emergency room was no place to catch up on sleep. A woman arrived who was about to have a baby, her cries making Naomi swear she would never have kids. She’d just managed to drift off, when Dr. O’Brien stepped into her little exam room.

  Dressed in blue scrubs, his long blond hair in a ponytail, he couldn’t have been much older than she was. He was tanned from lots of time outdoors and ripped, too. “How’s that arm?”

  “It’s sore.”

  He took a look at it, touched it. “Can you feel any pain?”

  Naomi shook her head.

  “I’m ordering IV antibiotics, and we’ll give you a tetanus shot, too. You had a lot of dirt in the wound, and I want to be careful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your CT scan came back normal—no skull fracture or bleeding. The headache is a concussion, the result of your fall into the ravine. It will take time to heal, but heal it will. The X-rays showed a broken tibia. Also, one of your tendons was torn from the bone and took a flake of bone with it. You’re going to have to have surgery.”

  “What?” She couldn’t afford that. She had health insurance, but it was useless. She had a deductible of almost twelve grand before it would pay a penny. “Can’t I just wear a cast for a long time or something?”

  “Nope.” Dr. O’Brien turned and typed something into a computer keyboard, calling up her X-rays, which filled the monitor. “Your tibia is slightly displaced. You can see that it doesn’t quite meet up with the rest of the bone. Also, there’s no way that tendon is ever going to reattach itself. The surgeon will align the two parts of your tibia with some hardware and then put the tendon back with more hardware.”

  The full impact of her situation struck home, leaving her dizzy, panic making her pulse spike. She’d come to Colorado to celebrate her success, and this trip was going to strip her of every penny she had in savings. Everything she’d worked so hard for might be ripped away from her because those bastards had attacked her. She would be in debt for years. She couldn’t let herself end up on the streets again.

  Dr. O’Brien noticed her distress. “It’s going to be all right.”

  “No, it isn’t. I can’t afford any of this—the rescue, the ambulance, the ER, and now surgery.”

  Dr. O’Brien gave her an understanding smile. “The good news is that the rescue was free. The Team doesn’t charge.”

  She stared at him. “Really?”

  Something beeped.

  He pulled a pager out of his pocket, scanned the message. “All rescues are free, regardless of who’s at fault. That is our hard and fast rule. If we were to charge people, they might not call until the situation was dire. That would lead to loss of life. I’m a primary Team member—though I rarely get out of the ER these days.”

  That explained the tan and the biceps.

  “So those people today—”

  “They were all volunteers.” He stuck the pager back in his pocket and pushed the call button for the nurse. “As for the rest of it, you’re the victim of a violent crime. Colorado has a program that h
elps cover the medical costs of people who are victims of violent crimes. The victim’s advocate from the Sheriff’s Department will tell you about that when she comes to visit. Now, let’s get your arm stitched up. Are you squeamish about needles?”

  “I don’t know.” She’d never gotten stitches. She’d never even had an IV.

  Then Lolly stepped in and helped Dr. O’Brien set up a tray that included a wicked curved needle that looked like an enormous fish hook.

  Holy shit.

  They were going to use that on her?

  “Okay, so maybe I am afraid of needles.”

  Lolly walked around to the other side of Naomi’s bed and took her right hand. “Just close your eyes and breathe nice and even. You won’t feel a thing.”

  Chaska called the office to say he wouldn’t be in today, then waited by his pickup for McBride, who was inside the Scarlet Springs Police Department, arranging things with the locals. He sent a quick text message to Winona to tell her what he was doing.

  She texted back right away.

  Be Safe. I hope you find the bad guys.

  So did he.

  He’d never thought of himself as a violent man, but the image of Naomi lying in the dirt, semi-conscious, blood-spattered and in pain, made him want to take these bastards apart. Men who hurt women didn’t deserve to keep their balls.

  McBride emerged, wearing black BDUs, a black T-shirt, and black body armor that said U.S. Marshals Service in big white letters on the back. He had a mean-looking M4 in one hand and a spare set of body armor in the other. “This is for you.”

  He tossed the body armor to Chaska.

  “Are you serious?” It was heavier than it looked.

  “Dead serious. The perps are armed. Need help getting it on?”

  He hoped not. “I’m a mechanical engineer.”

  A minute later, the vest was in place and the Velcro secure.

  “Let’s go.”

  Chaska followed McBride to his Ford SUV, climbed into the front passenger seat, and buckled his seatbelt. “Where are your FBI buddies?”

  “They’re off with a sheriff’s deputy to question the victim.” McBride kicked the vehicle into drive and headed out of the parking lot.

  Chaska’s rush of irritation was instantaneous. “Couldn’t they wait?”

  McBride shook his head. “We need to find these assholes before they kill or assault anyone else. You don’t like the FBI.”

  It was a statement, not a question—and it was true.

  “I don’t trust feds. My grandfather helped occupy Alcatraz in 1969 and Wounded Knee in 1973.”

  McBride nodded, apparently needing no further explanation. “I had the sheriff’s department cordon off Ms. Archer’s campsite to preserve whatever sign they hadn’t already trampled.”

  “Good call.”

  They arrived at the campground twenty minutes later to find it evacuated and a handful of squad cars parked near Naomi’s campsite, including a K-9 unit. Deputy Marcs waited by the yellow tape with five other deputies, one holding the leash of a big bloodhound. They all wore body armor and carried rifles. Chaska recognized most of them from his work with the Team.

  Deputy Marcs smiled. “You let him rope you into this, Belcourt?”

  “I want to find these guys so they can get what’s coming to them.”

  McBride introduced himself then outlined the plan. “We had rain last night, and I don’t want to risk losing these bastards’ trail. I watched Belcourt track a couple of years back. He found the real trail while the tracking dog was misled and followed the scent in rainwater in the wrong direction. Thanks to Belcourt, we were able to save a young woman’s life.”

  It had been fortunate for the asshole who’d drugged Winona and abducted Lexi that he’d been dead by the time they’d found him. Chaska would have ended him.

  McBride motioned toward the campsite. “Belcourt, it’s all yours.”

  Chaska ducked below the yellow crime-scene tape, his gaze on the ground. Deputies had trampled the hell out of the place, but as he walked carefully through the site, what had happened here was slowly spelled out in dirt and duff.

  He crouched near the fire pit, her account of the story written in sign all around him. “Naomi said she tossed burning embers on one of them. These bits of charcoal scattered here would be consistent with that. Over there, you can see that someone was knocked to the ground and struggled to get up. That’s a palm mark. These two depressions are probably knees or the tips of his boots. There’s the piece of firewood she hit him with. Part of it is charred, which is consistent with her story. And these dark spots on the dirt—blood. His nose or forehead must have been bleeding.”

  McBride knelt beside him. “I wonder if the dogs can get a scent off that.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  McBride motioned for the bloodhound to be brought up. While McBride spoke to the officer with the dog, Chaska followed the men’s footprints toward the forest.

  A moment later McBride joined him. “Got something?”

  “They followed her.” He pointed with his chin. “That way.”

  Naomi looked at the photos Special Agent Price handed her. She recognized the two men immediately, the smirk on Arlie’s face making her stomach knot. She handed the photos back. “That’s them.”

  “You’re sure?” Special Agent Price held them out again as if he thought she hadn’t looked at the photos long or hard enough.

  Naomi drew back her hand, refused to take them. “Yes, I’m sure. I was forced to cook for them and listen to them for at least an hour.”

  Didn’t these agents believe her?

  “Why didn’t you call for help on your smartphone?” Agent Biggs stood at the foot of her hospital bed.

  “I already answered that question. It was in my tent with my backpack. I couldn’t get to it.”

  “Did they ask you to drive them anywhere—maybe hint at where they were headed?”

  “No—nothing like that.”

  “You said they had planned to steal your vehicle. Did they tell you that?”

  “Not exactly. Arlie told Clem that my Honda would come in handy. I figured they were going to take my keys and steal it—or force me to drive them.”

  “How did you know they were fugitives?”

  “Do I have to answer all your questions twice? You might not have noticed, but I’m in the hospital.” She wasn’t in a lot of pain, thanks to the drugs they were giving her, but she was weary to the bone, her body aching for sleep.

  Special Agent Price spoke up. “Sometimes the smallest details make a big difference in an investigation. When we ask a question more than once, we often get slightly different answers with details that were overlooked before. I’m sorry about what you’ve been through, but we want to find these guys and lock them up before they can hurt anyone else. You’re lucky to be alive, Ms. Archer. They would have sexually assaulted you, maybe even abducted you. In the end, they would have killed you.”

  The weight of that pressed in on Naomi, turning her stomach. “Thanks. I feel so much better now.”

  The door to Naomi’s hospital room opened, and a tall woman in green scrubs entered, carrying a clipboard. “Hi, Naomi. I’m Doctor Thorne. I’m going to be your anesthesiologist. I have some questions I need to go over with you before your surgery. If you gentlemen could please step outside…”

  “We were about to go.” Special Agent Price took a card out of his suit jacket pocket. “If you think of anything else—any details that might be helpful—call.”

  “I will.” She took the card, and the two men turned to go. “Wait! Arlie and Clem said something about an abandoned ranger cabin. That’s where they’d been hiding.”

  Special Agent Price shared a look with his partner, then gave Naomi a nod. “Thanks. Good luck with your surgery.”

  At the word surgery, Naomi’s heart gave a hard knock.

  When they’d left, Doctor Thorne stepped up to Naomi’s bedside. “You know, I’ve always wo
ndered why they call themselves ‘special agents.’ All FBI agents are special agents. Apparently, there are no ordinary agents in the FBI, but no one’s special if everyone’s special.”

  For the first time all day, Naomi laughed.

  “I made you smile. Good.” Dr. Thorne asked her a dozen health-related questions, which Naomi did her best to answer. “Everyone is hammering you with questions. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

  A half dozen questions raced through Naomi’s mind, butterflies filling her stomach. How much pain would she be in afterward? What were the chances that something could go wrong? What if she woke up in the middle of the operation?

  She’d never had surgery before and the idea of being helpless and unconscious terrified her. “How long will I be out?”

  “This is a pretty simple procedure. You’ll probably be under for about thirty minutes and in the recovery room for maybe an hour.” Dr. Thorne reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m going to take good care of you. I promise. I need you to read and sign these consent forms.”

  Naomi took the pen and clipboard, wincing at the soreness in her shoulder. She hoped she wasn’t signing away her life.

  Chaska followed the men’s tracks as they moved away from the campsite, the bloodhound a few paces ahead of him. One of the men he was tracking wore boots with a heavy tread—maybe hiking boots—while the other wore what looked like cowboy boots with a small piece missing from the heel of the right foot in the shape of the letter D. They’d jumped up and run after Naomi, her smaller tracks spaced far apart as she’d run for her life.

  The bloodhound followed the men’s scent downhill.

  Chaska stopped, turned to McBride. “This is a waste of time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They ran after her, but we know they didn’t catch her. If they were right behind her like she said they were, that means they couldn’t have had time to slash her tires or try to hotwire her car. They must have given up trying to find her, turned back, and then tried to steal her vehicle. When they failed, they slashed her tires.”