Carbon Dating

by Jerusha Jones

  There was a general murmur and shuffling among the searchers when Vaughn mentioned the possibility of weapons. They stood straighter, started rechecking the snaps, zippers, flaps, and laces on their clothing—cinching up, as it were. The law enforcement members of the group also patted around the places where extra gear was stored on their bodies—radios, guns, Tasers, handcuffs—taking inventory, processing a habitual mental checklist.

  “Any of you volunteers can leave at this point,” Vaughn said quietly. “While I don’t have enough information to officially label this incident as a kidnapping, we all need to have that mindset going in. I’m not asking you to be sitting ducks out there in the field. If you decide to stay on, there will be a law enforcement lead for each team, and the officers will give you instructions about positioning and progression.” He scanned the grim faces in the room.

  No one flinched; no one slipped quietly out the door. Just curt nods and squared shoulders. I wanted to hug each and every one of them.

  I waited until the few remaining teams were getting their instructions, huddled around their leads—two off-duty Portland Police Bureau detectives and an Oregon State Police lieutenant whom I assumed to be friends of Vaughn’s. An abduction of a child, whether officially designated as such or not, drew a huge response from the surrounding agencies. I was so very grateful, and tears burned against the back of my eyes.

  But I slipped up close to Vaughn and whispered, “Put me in. I hate being relegated to the bullpen.” I grabbed his arm. “Please. You know you’re not holding a press conference until daylight at the earliest.” I squeezed my eyes shut and gritted out the words, “I’m going crazy here.”

  When I opened my eyes, Vaughn was still studying me, his brown gaze intense. He lifted a hand, barely skimmed his fingertips along my jawline to a spot up under my ear. But then he nodded.

  “You’re the stubbornest creature I’ve ever met,” he murmured. “But head outside. Jack’s group is waiting for me. And my mother’s on that team. You can keep an eye on her.”

  I couldn’t decide between growling a little bit at his ulterior motives or flashing him a grateful smile for allowing me to participate. So I did both and shrugged into my classy black raincoat à la Roxy. I’d do whatever it took to get out in those foothills, searching for Willow. But if Vaughn really wanted to see the stubbornest creature ever, all he had to do was look in a mirror.

  CHAPTER 20

  Bettina fastened herself to my arm. “About time,” she hissed. “That boy of mine is all business. Of course you’d want to be out here.” She shivered into my side, and I wondered if she should be resting inside the warm farmhouse. Nighttime jaunts through the frigid countryside weren’t exactly on her list of frequent activities. She might be spry and in her young mid-sixties, but the night had to have been draining for her already.

  But I turned my attention to Jack Crockett’s instructions. He had a Multnomah County Sheriff’s Deputy badge pinned to his otherwise civilian coat and was dressed impressively for the task before him—streamlined and efficient, with all the necessities at hand. Between the timbre of his voice and the easy confidence in his demeanor, my own hope surged. If Jack said we could find Willow, then we would. He caught my eye above the group, and I returned his friendly smile.

  Vaughn stood beside the deputy, listening carefully, nodding along, his arms crossed over his chest. It was probably killing him, to some degree, to be the coordinator, which prevented him from having much time with his own boots on the ground out in the darkness, hunting for Willow himself. He must have been suffering from the same crazy urgency as I’d been when I was stationed inside the farmhouse.

  I angled my trajectory so I could brush my hand down Vaughn’s arm as we headed out, and he rewarded me with a meager smile. The team’s assigned sector was the northwestern quadrant of the foothill between the logging road where Heath’s vehicle had been found and the eastern boundary of the farm. Rough, hard terrain right in the thick of things. There was nowhere else I’d rather be.

  We clambered into a waiting white passenger van. Our shuttle driver was another reserve deputy. These highly-trained volunteers seemed to have come out of the woodwork to support the search, and a fresh wave of gratitude swept over me. I clutched the edge of the seat to keep from bouncing into Bettina as we trundled through potholes the size of moon craters.

  “Where are the others?” I bobbed near her ear to ask.

  She shook her head. “They’ve been portioned out to other teams. Vaughn didn’t want too many novices clumped together, probably because he thinks we would slow the teams down. Except Marcy, of course. At least she’s in shape.”

  “You’re doing just fine,” I said.

  “I won’t be fine until Willow’s home.” I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but her tone told me everything I needed to know. Bettina’s stubbornness would compel her body into acts of extreme perseverance if needed. Like son, like mother. No second thoughts or reservations.

  I squeezed her bony shoulder.

  But she started under my touch. “Who’s with Roxy?” she asked with a gasp.

  “A neighbor. Very matronly. Seemed to know exactly what to say and what not to say.” I pressed the soles of my boots hard against the floorboard to keep from sliding off the seat during a particularly washboarded stretch in the track.

  The neighbor had been a godsend, arriving with a no-nonsense demeanor and a pan of piping hot cinnamon rolls along with enough dough to roll out several more batches—at two o’clock in the morning. Of course I liked her. Mrs. Delgado. About the same age as Roxy if their similar hairstyles were anything to go by.

  I hated to admit it, but it’d been a relief to turn Roxy over to Mrs. Delgado’s care. That hollowness in Roxy’s eyes had been a prime factor in my own insurmountable restlessness.

  “She’ll be okay. Or as okay as she can be, given…” I didn’t bother to finish. Roxy was a survivor. But how many tragedies could one woman face without breaking?

  The van pulled into a staging area, bumper to bumper with another van that had just disgorged its passengers. Jack made sure each of us was outfitted with headlamps that fit securely on our noggins and extra heavy-duty handheld flashlights.

  “Remember what I said about calling Willow’s name. Give one another audible space so we can hear her if she responds. At any time you should be able to stretch out your arm and touch the outstretched fingertips of the person next to you in line. Two lost people are enough tonight.” He waited until he got a nod or murmur of understanding from each of us, then turned on his heel and led us into the woods.

  I thought it was telling that Jack was worried only about getting a response from Willow. It seemed the missing adult male—Heath—could fend for himself, that everyone’s number-one priority was getting the child home safely.

  In the briefing, neither Vaughn nor any others had said so explicitly, but I assumed they were concerned about putting too much pressure on Heath, not wanting him to act rashly in regard to Willow, if he’d abducted her. A hostage situation would make the current crisis a million times worse.

  They’d admitted that if Willow were injured or terrified (a safe bet, at this point), there was a chance she’d respond better to someone she knew than to a complete stranger, possibly even if that stranger was in a recognizable, respected uniform. Which was one of the reasons Vaughn had relented and placed me on a team.

  I panned my flashlight beam in tandem with my headlamp, creating a cone of illumination, my eyes peeled for blue hair. Electric-blue hair. I probably looked like a two-headed, walleyed cyclops in the dark—something Willow would’ve certainly had a comment about if she’d been able to see me. I’d have given anything to bear the brunt of one of her derisive snorts just then.

  oOo

  For the past hour, we’d been angling south-by-uphill, which also happened to be in a somewhat westerly fashion. Not in straight lines by any means. Because the hillocks and berms and slash piles and random, inexpl
icable knee-deep holes prevented any sort of neatly gridded endeavor. We had to circle back on our own paths to make sure we covered every square inch of forest floor.

  The teams were slowly trailing each other, moving on to the next sector in sequence as the group ahead of them moved out. Not only were we double-checking ourselves, we were double-checking other teams’ work. There were just too many places that were too easy to overlook, and Vaughn had taken that into account in his planning. The more fresh sets of eyes, the better.

  But my eyes were crossing. I staggered from weariness, sore joints, aching neck and shoulders, and a cold dampness that had permeated my bones. My toes were stiff stubs inside my boots, numb past the point of feeling the multiple blisters that had made their presence known a couple hours earlier. A headache was also beginning to manifest, pulsing against my temples. The headlamp wasn’t heavy, per se, but having an extra pound or two clamped to my forehead was taking its toll.

  Daylight was creeping in. There was no other term for its slow but steady progress. Tendrils of misty fog wafted between the trees and I could see deeper into the undergrowth than just moments before, even though the headlamp was still necessary. A batch of pesky crows fluttered and clucked in the canopy overhead, unsure of what to make of the humans scratching through the brush beneath them.

  But when one bird set up a raucous cawing alarm, the rest joined in immediately and with rusty enthusiasm. I almost didn’t hear my phone ring.

  It took precious seconds of patting and pawing to locate and extricate the phone from a deep pocket. “Yes?” I croaked, my heart hammering against my ribs.

  Good news? Or the worst?

  “I found it. Your detective’s line is busy, so I left a message.” The words tumbled out of Tanith, her breath coming in short spurts behind them. “But I just had to tell somebody.”

  I’d been elected—as somebody. Not that I was complaining. “What did you find?” My hand ached from clutching the phone so hard.

  “Motive.”

  Ever watchful from his place three searchers to my left, Jack was glancing at me over his shoulder, his headlamp beam bouncing until it came to rest on my stationary form. He waved his finger in the air, indicating that I needed to keep up with the search line. I lifted an acknowledging hand in response.

  But Tanith’s explanation suddenly had me hunching over with my free hand jammed into the top of a kneecap to keep from tipping into a copse of blackberry brambles. “It’s an ethics complaint. Several of them, actually, resulting from Heath’s handling of artifacts and leaking information to those who might profit by it over a series of projects. Absolutely hush-hush since none of the rest of us knew about it. Dr. Zales filed the initial grievance, but it looks like there are a few other registered members from outside the institute who filed in support of the complaint. Heath’s on the verge of having his membership revoked. He was supposed to file a rebuttal by the end of the week—” She wheezed as though her lungs were straining for air after the avalanche of information. “By today, I mean,” she finished breathlessly, “since it’s Friday.”

  “How big of a deal is this?” I asked. “Is it like being disbarred?”

  “Yeah. The discipline’s more fragmented, with several respected associations and accrediting bodies. Archaeologists are often members of more than one association, just to cover all their bases, and depending on which countries they’re working in or on behalf of. The associations usually have some, but not always comprehensive, regulatory authority. Which means that personal reputation is everything in this field. With a black mark like this against him, Heath would never get another archeology job, ever.”

  “Are you sure?” I blurted. It was a dumb question.

  Which didn’t bother Tanith in the least. She rushed on, “I found emails in the network trash folder, deleted by both Heath and Dr. Zales. Nobody’s passwords here are secure.”

  I bit back a soft snort. Chances were good that the passwords were insecure because Tanith likely had a list of everybody’s in her desk drawer. Nothing nefarious about it—that’s just the way a lot of small offices ran, based on well-intentioned and/or accidental redundancy up the wazoo.

  But Tanith was still barreling headlong into her torrent of pertinent details, oblivious to my silent cynicism. “It’s not something we’ve had to worry about before. So I don’t know for sure who did the deleting, but the good news is those emails sit on the network even after they’ve been removed from personal folders until the network does its automatic purging to clear memory space. I saved them to my hard drive.”

  “Conclusive?” A whole slew of ideas and suspicions were batting around in my brain. Would a few emails be sufficient? Especially since the institute’s network was so unsecured?

  “I can read between the lines. We made the mistake of searching Dr. Zales’ projects for bad blood when we should’ve been searching Heath’s.”

  She had a point—and had clumped herself together with Vaughn in that we statement. A Nosy Nelly after my own heart. “Can you check in Heath’s bottom file drawer?” I asked. “I think the draft of his rebuttal might be in there, or at least was—maybe—when I visited the office the first time. Just in case?” I added in a whisper.

  No one knew where Heath was at the moment. What if he doubled back to the institute to finish deleting evidence? Or encountered Tanith digging into his stuff?

  “You got it. I know all about the value of hard copies, honey,” Tanith whispered hoarsely.

  “Be careful,” I warned before hanging up. “I’m sure Vaughn will call you back soon and give you instructions. Are the doors locked?”

  But what did it matter? Heath would have a key.

  CHAPTER 21

  I’d lost my team. They were there, and then, a short but entirely engrossing phone conversation later, they weren’t. Like a good border collie, Jack had been herding us in formation, until he wasn’t.

  I was the lost sheep. I know those woolly creatures aren’t celebrated for their brilliance, but you do at least expect a modicum of common sense—even if manifested under the guise of self-preservation—from a domesticated animal in order for it to be reliably managed. My fault. Entirely my fault. I was supposed to have kept up with my flock.

  It was a surreal feeling, now knowing Heath’s ugly backstory, yet still being faced with the obscure abyss of what else he might have done more recently—or what his intentions might be toward Willow. Technology had brought me some facts, but it did nothing to ease my mind.

  The task directly in front of me—the only thing I could do in that moment—was most definitely low-tech. I scrabbled on the steep incline, grabbing at slippery clumps of roots and branches—whatever purchase I could find. Whatever handholds, whatever footholds. A whip-thin sucker branch clawed at my cheek, and I considered biting it for that added point of contact with something that had more grip in the loose soil than I did.

  But a flash of blue in my headlamp beam caught my eye, and I slid several feet before I could catch both myself and my breath.

  Blue.

  Blue. Where was it?

  There—under the twisted roots of a new tree growing over an old stump. But it was a dull, oxidized bluish-gray.

  Not a hank of Willow’s hair, then. I dug my fingertips into the duff, loosening the edges of the warped metal shard. It was part of the Navy bomber wreckage, most likely. So I was standing on the JPAC—or whatever their acronym was now—site. So many overlapping agencies. I was certain the specialized archaeologists of the military’s research and recovery branch would not be thrilled we’d been tracking all over their quarantined area.

  I hadn’t realized we’d made so much progress in our search pattern. I pivoted, squinting downhill into the lessening gloom. Below me would be the outer reaches of Heritage Farms. There should be smoke coming from the farmhouse’s chimney, but I couldn’t see any of those welcoming, pastoral vistas yet.

  At least I knew where I was—sort of—even if I was officially
separated from my team.

  I wiped the small piece of wreckage on my jeans. Despite its small size—no bigger than my hand—it looked like a gnarly weapon, its sharp edges flaking with a rusty raggedness that ensured the introduction of tetanus-causing bacteria to my bloodstream should I make the mistake of slicing myself with it.

  Part of the thin skin of a wing, maybe. The question was, to leave it or take it? I was pretty sure it was illegal to remove military artifacts, even if they were on private property. It wasn’t my property, in any case.

  I stooped to return the shard to its resting place, but a renewed swooping and clattering in the branches overhead jerked my attention upward. I couldn’t afford to dillydally—I’d already wasted far too much time as it was. The natives were restless—and eyeing me with increased curiosity.

  And bickering. And squabbling. As crows are wont to do.

  But this was different.

  I quickly dropped to my knees in the duff and flattened a palm over my headlamp as I probed with the fingertips of my other hand until I found the off switch.

  Because while crows might be obnoxious, they don’t swear. At least not in English.

  That old nursery stump became my new best friend. I pressed into the tangled mass of roots draped over the nourishing remains and held my breath. Somehow, the sharp metal bomber fragment ended up in my hand again, and I clenched it, flat side against my stomach in the rustling folds of my raincoat, my fingers just brushing those vicious jags.

  That’s the problem with nylon raincoats. There’s no being stealthy while you’re inside one.

  My flashlight was sitting where I’d left it, in a nest of ivy and pine needles. I’d turned it off too, but the shiny lens was facing up like a gigantic, surprised eye and a dead giveaway. Even if I’d been willing to risk the raspy noise I’d make if I moved, the flashlight was still about a yard out of my easy reach, so I left it where it was.