by Rob Phillips
“Better come armed,” Williams said. “We’re assuming he is.”
“Roger that,” McCain said and hung up so he could call his boss.
Twenty minutes later, outfitted in his hunting clothes and boots, with his emergency to-go pack on his back and his personal .257 Weatherby rifle slung over his shoulder, he whistled for Jack to come load up.
“Where you headed, Luke?” Austin Meyers yelled from across the street. “You going hunting?”
“Sort of,” McCain said. “I’m going to try to help catch that Cascade Killer guy.”
“Cool!” Austin said. “And Jack’s going too?”
“Yep, Jack’s going too,” McCain said.
He told Austin goodbye, jumped into his Tundra, and they headed toward the mountains.
When McCain pulled up to the end of Forest Service Road 1902 there were two sheriff’s SUVs parked there. The men were looking at the motorcycle.
McCain jumped out of the truck, followed closely by Jack. They walked over to the deputies, and Williams said, “Hey, Luke, thanks for coming. I know you’ve already had a busy twelve hours or so, but we can really use the help.”
“No problem,” McCain said. “Have you found any fresh tracks?”
“We think so,” Williams said. “We found some about the size of my boots. I remembered when you tracked me and Stratford to that body and made a comment on our boot sizes.”
Williams walked him over to where the tracks were, and McCain took a good look at them.
“Yep, these are pretty fresh,” McCain said. “And they’re the right size. Were there any other private rigs up here when you guys found the motorcycle?”
“I got up here first and spotted the bike,” Paul Garcia said. “No other rigs were here.”
“Were there any articles of clothing around the motorcycle?” McCain asked.
“Just his helmet,” Garcia said and pointed to the helmet sitting just off the road.
McCain went, grabbed his pack, loaded his emergency sleeping bag and tent and a couple more bottles of water, and set it on the ground. He then got his rifle out, put a cartridge in the breech, loaded four more in the magazine, and threw another ten rounds in the front pocket of his pack.
Williams didn’t want McCain to go by himself, so he told Garcia to gear up.
McCain wasn’t crazy about the idea of having someone else along, especially Garcia who was, at best, a little out of shape. He really didn’t need someone slowing him down.
Garcia had a small pack himself, and he had a YSO-issued .223 rifle slung over his shoulder.
“You got a day’s worth of supplies in that pack?” McCain asked Garcia.
“I’ll be fine,” the short, round deputy said.
“Give us a radio,” McCain said to Williams.
“Paul has one. You guys stay in touch.”
Williams told McCain that the state patrol was working on getting a helicopter in the air, and they would come and help with the search.
“At some point,” Williams said, “the helicopter pilot will make contact with you.”
Finally, McCain took Jack over to the helmet and let him get a good sniff. He put his arms into the shoulder straps of the pack, buckled in to the chest and waist belts, shouldered his rifle, put his binoculars over his neck, gave Jack one more good snoot full of the helmet, and then walked the dog to the track.
“Find him, boy,” McCain said, and off they went, McCain following Jack, and Garcia following McCain.
Jack had never tracked a man before, and so McCain was a bit skeptical. It was certainly worth a try, however. He figured it would be like tracking the bear that LeRoy Johnson Jr. wounded. McCain could certainly track the man by looking for and following the boot tracks, but if Jack could do it by scent, it would go so much faster.
It was a little after one o’clock in the afternoon. McCain figured Stratford had a big head start. This wasn’t going to be an easy task.
McCain had to get Jack back on the track a couple times, but after he’d corrected the dog twice, he seemed to figure out what scent it was that McCain wanted him to follow. It helped, too, that Stratford pretty much stuck to a rough horse trail that led from the end of the road to the Pacific Crest Trail. There were small trails that diverted off the main trail, and McCain would have Jack check each of those out, but usually within seconds the dog would move back to the main trail.
It seemed the only time Stratford left the trail for any distance was to go down to Crow Creek, probably for a drink of water. That told McCain a couple of things. First, Stratford was not equipped to be spending days in the mountains, and secondly, if he was drinking the creek water without some kind of filter, he’d most likely be feeling the effects of giardia before long. Also known as beaver fever, giardia is a parasite that is found in many of the streams in the Cascades, and if a human is infected with the bug, it can cause nausea, fatigue, and serious diarrhea.
As Jack worked the trail, McCain thought about everything that had gotten him to this point. He started thinking about last night and how grateful Sinclair had been. And then he thought about what day it was.
“Crap,” he said to Garcia. “Tonight’s the new moon.”
“Yeah, so what?” Garcia asked, breathing hard from the hard hiking.
“When it gets dark, it’s going to get very dark.”
McCain started pushing harder. As he did, Garcia fell farther and farther behind.
Finally, Garcia cried uncle. “I can’t keep up, McCain. Here’s the radio. You go ahead. I’m going to head back.”
“Thanks, Paul. Be safe.”
“You too. Go get him.”
He and Jack pushed even harder, only stopping for a few minutes every hour or so for a little snack and some water. They had stopped following Stratford’s tracks to the creek because each time they had, he had come right back up to the trail.
McCain did a radio check each time they stopped, telling Williams roughly their location and that they were still on Stratford’s trail. The helicopter finally arrived around five o’clock, and when McCain heard the aircraft overhead he radioed up to the pilot. McCain knew the trail stayed generally in a westerly direction, so he asked the pilot to search that way.
About forty-five minutes later the helicopter was back. The pilot radioed down to tell McCain he was running low on fuel and probably wouldn’t be back due to the time of day.
“Besides,” the pilot said over the radio. “We can hardly see a thing through the trees, so we’re just kind of wasting our time up here.”
“Roger that,” McCain said, and the helicopter turned and was gone.
Occasionally McCain would take a close look at the tracks in the trail, especially if there was some wet ground or soft dirt. It looked like the tracks were fresher than when they had started. McCain figured that meant they were gaining on Stratford.
About a half hour before dark McCain and Jack came to a ridgetop. The trail followed the ridgeline for about sixty-five yards and then dropped down into a big canyon. McCain figured the trail had to go down through the canyon and come up over the hillside to the west. If Stratford had slowed, which McCain believed he had, and if he was now fighting some of the symptoms of beaver fever, he might still be on the trail going up the steep hill opposite where McCain and Jack now stood.
It was worth spending a few minutes to look across the canyon. It reminded McCain of big game hunting. Search with your eyes. Find what you were hunting, before it spotted you.
He searched hard and finally saw what looked like a trail cutting across the hill at a 45-degree angle. He searched every inch of the trail and was just about a third of the way from the top of the next ridge when he saw something black moving slowly through the trees. At first McCain thought it was a black bear, but a closer look showed it to be none other than Jeremy Stratford, the Cascade Killer.
About the time McCain spotted him, Stratford dipped below the brush, out of sight. McCain couldn’t believe he had been seen b
y Stratford, so he stayed on the binoculars and watched for Stratford to reappear. And he did. The fugitive took a couple steps and disappeared again.
McCain wondered just what he was doing. Then it dawned on him. Stratford had diarrhea and was having to stop every few steps to drop his pants so we wouldn’t soil himself.
McCain was tired of tracking this guy, and he figured at the pace Stratford was moving, even with the emergency stops, he couldn’t catch him before dark. He decided to try something different. He got his rifle ready, lay down on his belly, put his pack down as a rest, and found Stratford in his scope. McCain figured the killer was a little less than 500 yards away. Not the easiest shot in the world, but one he had made before.
He put the crosshairs just above Stratford’s right hip and then yelled loud and clear, “Freeze, Stratford!”
McCain watched as Stratford stood straight up and looked his way. Then he dropped right back out of sight again.
“How’s the beaver fever?” McCain yelled. “It’s the shits, isn’t it?”
McCain stared carefully at where Stratford had been and didn’t see anything.
“You can keep running.” McCain yelled. “But I caught up to you pretty quickly. You’re not going to feel any better any time soon. Let’s end this.”
“Go to hell,” Stratford yelled.
That’s ironic, McCain thought to himself. If anyone was going to hell it was Stratford.
McCain caught a movement just up the trail. When he saw Stratford again, he had a rifle and was pointing it toward McCain and Jack. Stratford had no clue where he was, but he fired his rifle in McCain’s direction anyway.
That’s all McCain needed. He again put the crosshairs just above Stratford’s hip and touched the trigger, sending a 100-grain bullet across the canyon.
A .257 Weatherby has very little recoil, so McCain clearly saw the bullet hit its mark. At impact, Stratford rolled to his left and went down. McCain stayed on his target for a couple minutes, and when he was sure Stratford wasn’t going anywhere he picked up his stuff, radioed Williams, told him he had Stratford down, and then he and Jack headed toward the downed man.
When McCain got up the trail on the other side of the canyon it was close to dark, but there was still just enough light to see. The Vortex scope he had mounted on his rifle picked up extra light which helped. He carefully walked up the trail, Jack at his side, watching the downed man dressed all in black through his rifle scope to make sure he didn’t move.
McCain didn’t want to kill Stratford and had aimed to hit him in the thigh or possibly the knee. When he got to Stratford, McCain could see he had, in fact, hit him in the thigh. He wasn’t sure what damage the bullet had done, but it had incapacitated Stratford completely.
To add insult to injury, Stratford had also clearly messed his pants.
McCain checked around, found Stratford’s rifle down off the path about ten yards, and let it stay there for the time being. He checked Stratford for any other weapons, and finding none, grabbed the handcuffs out of his pack and cuffed Stratford’s hands behind his back.
The wound was a bad one, and McCain did what he could to stop the bleeding and clean it up.
Stratford was conscious, but in a lot of pain, moaning and writhing around.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Lucky guess.”
“I wish you’d just kill me.”
“Naw, you can just lay here in pain. You might die, but you might not. You never gave those women the same option.”
Williams radioed a couple minutes later and asked for a situation report. McCain told him that he had Stratford in custody, but the killer was in serious need of medical attention.
“We’ll do what we can,” Williams said. “We have a medivac helicopter from the Yakima Training Center on the way.”
McCain got out his GPS, and once it had the satellites acquired to get a good mark, he radioed Williams the coordinates.
“I’m afraid to move him much,” McCain said. “I might be able to get him to the top of the ridge. That would be the best place to try to pick us up.”
“Roger that,” Williams said. “I’ll let you know.”
McCain had Stratford almost to the top of the ridge when the medivac helicopter arrived. It had been a struggle. He’d basically carried the man up the hill. The chopper found an opening in which to land, and one of the medics came down the trail to help move Stratford the rest of the way to the aircraft.
Once Stratford was loaded, McCain said, “Thanks guys,” and turned to walk away.
“You’re not coming with us?” the medic asked.
“My dog’s afraid of flying,” McCain said, and he and Jack started back down the trail.
He radioed Williams again, told him Stratford was on the helicopter, and that he and Jack were going to spend the night in the mountains.
“Roger that,” Williams said. “Have a good night.”
The view was spectacular from the ridge where McCain set up their bivouac. With basically no moon, and no city lights for fifty miles, he could see just about every star in the galaxy. Some looked close enough to reach out and touch. McCain used a small Pocket Rocket backpacker’s stove to heat up a sealed meal of beef stroganoff, which Jack ate in an instant. McCain cooked a second one for himself. They shared a couple bottles of water, and then man and dog climbed into the tiny tent and fell fast asleep.
Chapter 27
Stratford was taken to Harborview Medical Center in Seattle via the helicopter where FBI agents were awaiting him. Surgeons operated on the killer twice after he arrived, and the doctors were still not sure they were going to save his leg.
During the days that followed the kidnapping, and the shooting in the Cascades of the serial killer, both Sinclair and McCain had been interviewed by the media about fifteen times. Of course, local reporter Simon Erickson was on McCain’s doorstep the day after he and Jack had returned home.
“Dis is da officer who tracked down da suspected serial killer,” Simon said. “His name is Luke McCain, and he is also da man who saved da FBI agent from da killer. Can you tell us what happened at da house and up in da mountains?”
McCain obliged with all the interviews playing down the part of the hero. He was just lucky, he told them all.
“Besides,” he said. “Jack did all the hard work.”
After any shooting involving a police officer in the State of Washington, the officer is put on administrative leave until they are cleared by an investigative team. One day, as he waited to be cleared to go back to work, McCain was driving through Naches and spotted Kingsbury’s old pickup at the café. He hadn’t talked to Kingsbury or Dugdale in a few weeks, so he thought he’d go in and chat with the old boys.
He walked in and headed to the men who were seated in a booth.
Dugdale was eating a piece of apple pie, and Kingsbury was enjoying a slice of chocolate cake. Kingsbury’s shirt of the day was peach with black lettering reading: MARRIAGE IS GRAND, DIVORCE IS 100 GRAND.
“Wow, that sounded like quite the ordeal,” Kingsbury said. “You and that dog of yours tracking down the Cascade Killer. And we heard you shot him at a thousand yards.”
“No,” McCain said. “It wasn’t nearly that far. And he was shooting at me, so I just did what anyone would do.”
“Yeah, right,” Dugdale said. “And that was after rescuing that pretty FBI lady.”
McCain decided to change the subject.
“Say, have you guys been doing any fishing lately?” he asked. “I’ve got a little time off and would like to go catch some trout.”
“I heard they are catching some trout up at Lost Lake,” Kingsbury said.
“But they are running on the small side,” Dugdale said.
After talking for a few minutes more, McCain told the two men goodbye and headed for the door. A couple at a table looked up from their meal and smiled. McCain didn’t recognize them.
“Thank you for what you did,” the woman said
as McCain walked by.
Chapter 28
McCain and Sinclair had been spending quite a bit of time together in the three weeks following the capture of the serial killer. It seemed talking about the different aspects of the investigation and the night at Stratford’s helped them start to get past that night and the next day.
McCain again told her all about how he had tried to figure out who the killer was, which had led him to Stratford’s house on the night before the new moon.
One evening as they were out in the back on the patio at McCain’s house, she asked again about tracking down Stratford and the shot he took. Once again, he went through all the details.
“I guess you really are the rifleman, Luke McCain,” she said.
“Could we please just let that go?” he asked.
She was going to razz him some more, but the doorbell rang.
“Saved by the bell,” she said.
McCain went to the door, and when he opened it an eight-week-old yellow Lab puppy ran through his legs and pounced on Jack. The big yellow dog had been sound asleep on one of the AC vents, and all of a sudden he was a hundred-pound plaything.
“What do we have here?” McCain asked as he saw the smiling face of Austin Meyers standing there.
“That’s Bear,” Austin said. “He’s my new puppy. I named him Bear because I want him to track bears like Jack does. Will you help me train him?”
“You bet I will,” McCain said.
Sinclair came in a second later, and in an instant Bear was wiggling and waggling around her feet. She picked the puppy up and was immediately having her face licked all over by a tiny, pink tongue.
“Oh, you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said.
McCain turned and looked at Jack, who looked like he would rather be anyplace else in the world, and said, “See how she is, boy? What are we, last week’s leftovers?”
Sinclair oohed and ahhed over the little yellow ball of happiness.
McCain went over to his big yellow dog and said, “Just ignore her. That’s just how Oregon Ducks are.”