Trace Evidence (The Heir Hunter Book 2)

by Diane Capri

  “If you stay near the lake, follow the shoreline until you come to a driveway, maybe ten miles or so.” Neville cocked his head. “Do you know Mr. Wilcox?”

  “We’ve met a couple of times,” Flint said. Which was true enough, if Neville should check. But the times they’d met were large public affairs, and Boyd Wilcox would neither remember Flint nor care to. It was Wilcox’s brother, Mark, who would remember Flint all too well.

  Neville nodded. After a few operating instructions, they were belted in and headed back down to the lake, Flint behind the wheel.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Red Maple Lake, California

  Six Years Ago

  Josh moved deeper into the woods toward the voices, but he didn’t see them in the darkness until they were only ten feet ahead. Three average-looking guys dressed for hiking. Midforties, maybe a decade older than Josh. Their hiking equipment was of the weekend warrior variety rather than paramilitary or survivalist or something frightening like that. Totally normal.

  Josh staggered when his foot tripped on a thick root and he nearly lost his balance. But he reached for a tree trunk and kept upright. His luck was changing. Maybe things were going to work out after all.

  He hurried over to the three hikers and held out his hand. “I’m Josh Hallman.”

  One of the guys said, “I’m Ruben.” He pointed to the other two. “This is Mark. That’s Kevin.”

  They seemed wary, Josh thought. But he must have looked scary as hell, appearing out of nowhere, clothes wet and dirty, cuts and bruises on his face and neck. Hair plastered to his head. He shook hands all around and nodded and tried to look friendly so they wouldn’t feel threatened. “We were flying in to go fishing at Red Maple Lake Resort and our plane went down. My two buddies were hurt. We need a doctor.”

  The three men looked at each other and some sort of meaning passed between them. Josh didn’t blame them for being skeptical, if that’s what they were. The situation seemed surreal to him, too. But they seemed to believe him. Maybe they’d heard the Cessna before it hit the water. It was certainly loud enough to be heard for miles.

  “Dr. Kevin Hayes. I’m a pediatrician.” One of the men nodded. He must have seen the relief on Josh’s face. He frowned and his tone was somber. “Believe it or not, dispensing vaccines and treating kids for colds and flu is not the same medical skill set as adult trauma care. But maybe I can help. Where are they?”

  “This way.” Josh led the way back to the shore, covering ground as quickly as he could. He answered their questions about the crash and the injuries his friends had suffered. They seemed to get more comfortable with him as his story unfolded. At least, they didn’t seem to be as cautious about him.

  He thought he might have lost his sense of direction, but when they emerged from the trees onto the rocky beach, Josh looked westward down the shoreline and saw Dan’s flashlight, shining weakly in the distance.

  “There,” Josh said, and trotted toward the beam. The three men followed.

  It was full dark by the time they reached the pair. Dan was lying on the rocks, exactly where Josh had left him. Skip was still semiconscious and moaning in the life raft.

  But Josh had made it back. And he’d brought help. Something like hysteria was probably responsible for the stupid grin he felt as it consumed his face.

  Kevin immediately began to triage the injuries. He checked Dan first. “Get this guy up and warmed. His scalp wound is probably superficial. We can stitch it up when we get back.”

  Josh already knew Skip’s injuries were severe. He didn’t need to see the expression on Kevin’s face to confirm his fears.

  “We’ll have to carry him,” Kevin said.

  Josh nodded. “He needs a hospital. Can we get him airlifted out of here?”

  Ruben, Mark, and Kevin exchanged glances again. The silence lasted longer than it should have before Ruben shrugged. “Weather’s coming in. We’re guests at a private lodge not far from where we met you. Let’s get back and figure out how to get your friend some help.”

  Ruben and Mark lifted Dan to his feet and encouraged him to stand. He yelped and lifted his left foot, in obvious pain.

  Kevin knelt down and examined his leg. He glanced up at the others. “It looks like he’s got a bad sprain on that left ankle, too. He shouldn’t be walking, but there’s no way we can carry both of them.”

  “I can manage,” Dan said, but his voice was weak.

  They organized a makeshift stretcher out of the deflated life raft to carry Skip. Each of the four men took a corner and heaved the raft into the air. They struggled to keep Skip flat in the canvas bottom.

  Skip was heavier than he looked, or maybe Josh’s muscles were already too fatigued. Either way, the third trek along the rocks threatened to overwhelm his meager energy reserves.

  Dan followed along behind, hobbling on his sprained left ankle, but there was nothing more anyone could do for him now.

  They stayed on the shore until they reached the break in the trees Josh had used before. When they ducked into the darkness of the woods, the terrain seemed impossible.

  They trudged forward, making slow but steady progress. After a while, Josh saw a clearing ahead and a long dirt driveway. About halfway along the drive, a split-rail fence encircled the grounds surrounding a large luxury log cabin. An archway made of logs joined each side of the fence.

  At first he thought this was Red Maple Lake Resort, where they’d been expected to check in a few hours ago for their six-day fishing vacation. Then he saw the sign above the entrance drive. “Wilcox Lodge,” it said. On the fence was a “No Trespassing” sign, and Josh wondered who would possibly travel all the way out here to trespass.

  “This is the place,” Ruben said, as he led the way to the front of the big house. Josh’s body began to shake with relief.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Red Maple Lake, California

  Tuesday

  Flint was at the wheel of the smaller two-seater Polaris, which drove exactly like a tractor. He and Drake were buckled into the front seats and headed east, the setting sun behind them. The rock beach was not particularly comfortable for long-distance riding, but Flint preferred to be doing something, even if it turned out to be the wrong thing.

  “This feels like a lead,” Drake said.

  Flint scowled. “It feels like a setup.”

  Drake glanced across the Polaris. “How so?”

  “Certain wealthy businessmen travel in packs, like wolves. Hallman wasn’t one of the pack. How would he be involved with Wilcox?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Drake said. “But the Wilcox place sits between Hallman’s crash site and the resort he was trying to reach. He might have noticed it from the air, like we did. It makes sense that he would have gone there first, assuming he could find it.”

  Flint shrugged. His instincts said the connection was something else. “Floatplanes are loud. Out here, it’s quiet. Mountains keep the noise inside the basin. Wilcox could easily have heard the Cessna flying in. Could have heard the crash.” The Polaris moved faster now that they’d emerged from the forest, but the ride was still too rough to pick up speed. “Wilcox might have gone out to help. Brought Hallman back to his place.”

  Drake said, “I’ve never met Boyd Wilcox and you have. Does he seem like the good Samaritan type to you?”

  Flint laughed. “Not in the slightest.”

  “So if he did go out to check on the crash, you’re thinking he’d do what?”

  “There aren’t many options, given this location. And the weather was bad that day. Cold, sleet turning to ice during the night. He’d probably have taken Hallman and his passengers in overnight. Planned to go out in the morning.”

  “Right. The FAA report’s final conclusion on Hallman’s crash was pilot error. But he would probably have landed okay in the absence of the storm conditions.”

  The Polaris bounced and groaned over the rocky terrain. “This is a pretty hard slog, if Hallman was injured.”r />
  Drake pulled up the preloaded GPS tracker. “Looks like about two miles from the crash site to the Wilcox place. Then, if you knew where you were going, about ten miles to the Red Maple Resort. But if Hallman tried to make it to the resort without GPS or even a map, he could wander around for a long time.”

  Flint glanced at the GPS briefly and returned his full attention to the treacherous drive. “There’s no trail or road or anything he could have reached?”

  “Farther up the mountain there’s a road, like Neville said.” Drake pointed to the road on the GPS screen. “Not likely he’d have made it that far, but if he did, he could have hitched a ride, maybe.”

  “To where?”

  “Closest real town is Tahoe to the north. Southbound, it depends on which way he went.” Drake moved the GPS images around, zooming in and out on the screen. “The highway, if you want to call it that, splits about twenty miles south. He could have continued south or taken either offshoot, west or east. Looks like there’s three options, all about the same distance from where the highway splits.”

  “Any of them have airports, train stations, bus stops, car rentals?”

  “Hard to say. Bus stops, maybe, in all three of those towns. No indication of a train station. The closest commercial airport is Reno, which is north and east. But that’s quite a hike from here.”

  Drake held out the map on the GPS screen. Flint glanced at it. The flashing blue dot was their location. The Wilcox place was another three miles away, inside the forest and up the mountainside. Nothing that looked like a clear path between the trees to get there.

  He drove into a small opening that might have been a path at one time, maneuvering the Polaris in a zigzag pattern, roughly headed toward the red dot that should be the Wilcox compound.

  “What do you know about Boyd Wilcox?” Drake asked.

  “He’s an eccentric, but a wealthy one.” The Polaris landed hard in a hole and climbed out again. “Like other wealthy eccentrics. You know, Bill Gates and Warren Buffet types.”

  “Guys with more money than God, you mean.”

  “Yeah, but not only that. Wilcox is probably on the autism spectrum, if I had to guess. A genius at some things and totally inept at others. Socially awkward, to say the least.” Flint steered the Polaris around a fallen tree trunk. “And he’s always the most important man in the room.”

  “How do you know?”

  Flint frowned. “I had a case a while back.”

  “What kind of case?”

  “Missing person. His brother’s wife. She was kidnapped down in Las Vegas. A twenty-million-dollar ransom was demanded. The husband, Mark Wilcox, hired me to find her, but in the end, it was Boyd who paid my bill.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “Not exactly.” Flint scowled and steered the Polaris around a thick branch on the ground. “I found her severed head.”

  Drake’s eyes widened. “Say what?”

  “It was staged to look like an honor killing.” He jerked the wheel hard to the right to avoid a deep rut. “She was Saudi. Her family was against the marriage. They had another husband in mind.”

  “Jesus.” Drake swiped a palm over his face. “I saw some beheadings during my service in Iraq. Grisly stuff. Why do you say this one was staged?”

  “She was killed first—strangled—then beheaded later, according to the medical examiner. The head was frozen for a while.” Flint shook his head again, eyes straight, fighting the uneven ground. “A few weeks after she disappeared, her severed head was found in a dumpster in a Las Vegas neighborhood near where she was last seen.”

  “Kidnappers ever found?”

  “No.”

  “What about the ransom?”

  “Boyd Wilcox paid it. His brother didn’t have the money, but it was loose change to Boyd.”

  “Something like that could really make a man crazy.” Drake shook his head. “How’d the husband take it?”

  “About as well as you’d expect. He blamed me. He said I should have found her before they killed her. It was one of my first cases, and let’s just say I didn’t handle it as well as I would now. The situation was pretty ugly for a while. But after a year or so, he created a foundation to fund efforts to find kidnap victims like her. He’s made quite a crusade out of it. Got a reality TV show and everything.” Flint glanced over toward Drake for a moment before he focused again on the driving. Speed was slower than five miles an hour. “You’ve never watched The First Two Days? It showcases unsolved murders and kidnappings and the like? That’s Mark Wilcox’s life now.”

  Drake whistled. “Powerful enemy, that guy.”

  “Two powerful enemies instead of just one, now that Mark is a worldwide celebrity like his brother. Hasn’t been a problem because we’ve steered clear of each other.” Flint shrugged. “But yeah, let’s just say that I don’t expect them to invite me to dinner anytime soon.”

  He struggled with the steering wheel in a losing effort to keep the Polaris flat on the ground. He tugged the wheel to avoid trees and boulders. Every now and then, the big tires hit a hole and struggled to climb out. It was slow going.

  The blue light on the GPS beeped a couple of times and veered farther west.

  “This would have been treacherous walking, if Hallman came this way,” Drake said. “Maybe he had a good flashlight. Maybe he wasn’t injured. Maybe he had some idea which direction to head.”

  “Hard to guess how he’d have made it out of here on his own.” Flint’s gaze didn’t leave the windshield, but the view was the same in every direction. Nothing but tree trunks and rocky outcrops and thick vegetation blocking the daylight. “If that’s what happened.”

  Before the words left his mouth, the unmistakable roar of a helicopter’s rotors filled the quiet. The tree canopy was dense. He couldn’t see the helicopter overhead, but he heard it pass. The noise increased as the helo’s altitude dropped for landing.

  Drake looked at Flint and raised his eyebrows.

  So the best way into the Wilcox compound was to fly. And there must be a helipad nearby.

  He continued to struggle with the Polaris, but he headed toward the deafening roar of the helo. Only about two more miles, according to the GPS. Without the GPS, he’d have been lost for weeks. He could see nothing but forest in all directions.

  The helo landed and the engines shut down. Now it was the quiet that deafened him.

  The GPS said another mile, straight ahead. Flint felt like his entire body had been viciously pummeled. After the return trip, he’d be sore for days.

  Drake pointed to the right. Flint squinted through the darkness. He saw a fenced area where the trees had been cleared, creating a large green space. A gravel driveway led to a substantial log house. “The Wilcox compound, no doubt.”

  The GPS showed that the fence enclosed several buildings. The helipad must be located behind the house because the helicopter was not visible from the front.

  Ten more minutes to maneuver the Polaris to the driveway. Flint drove through the archway and up to the house, parked the Polaris, and shut the engine off. When his feet hit the ground, his legs felt wobbly. He stretched the kinks out of his body and glanced around the premises.

  Drake was doing his own stretching on the other side of the vehicle. No one came out of the house to greet them, which was odd.

  “Wait here.” Flint took the steps two at a time and reached the front door with his fist raised, poised to knock. Before he had the chance, the door opened.

  “How can we help you?” The man sounded friendly enough. He was probably about fifty, Flint guessed. Dark hair, gray at the temples. His body suggested regular use of a good gym. Well dressed, in the kind of bespoke outdoor casual clothes that city fashion magazines advertised and no real outdoorsman would ever wear. Only his boots were practical, designed to cover the uneven ground outside of the fence.

  “I’m Michael Flint.” He extended his hand and the man shook it but didn’t offer his own name in return. Flint gestur
ed toward the Polaris. “This is Drake. We drove over from Red Maple Lake Resort. We understand Boyd Wilcox lives here.”

  The man neither admitted nor denied it. Nor did he invite them inside.

  “I’d like to speak with him.”

  “Wait here.” He closed the door. His boots echoed along wood floors toward the back of the house.

  Flint walked the length of the porch and looked around the property as well as he could from this vantage point. On the west side of the house, beyond the green space was nothing but thick forest. The front drive continued about a hundred feet beyond the archway and then turned east, away from Red Maple Lake Resort. There were outbuildings on the east side of the main house.

  Perhaps the only way in and out of this place was by helicopter. But then, why have a driveway at all? No, it was more likely that the driveway hooked up with another gravel trail of some kind on the east side.

  Five minutes passed before the front door opened again. Mark Wilcox stood there, tall and solid and frowning. “What do you want, Flint?”

  He held his temper. Clients were rarely satisfied when Flint found missing loved ones only after they’d been murdered. How could family be satisfied with that result? Flint promised to find people dead or alive. But dead was rarely anyone’s first choice. And Aludra Wilcox’s murder had been particularly gruesome. She and Mark were newlyweds. The sick bastard who killed her remained at large, despite all of Mark’s considerable efforts to find him. No reason why Mark Wilcox would have any lingering affection for Flint. None at all. And the feeling was mutual. If he’d known Wilcox was involved with Hallman, he’d have refused Beaumont’s pleas right from the start.

  “Any chance you’ve got a place to sit and a cup of coffee?” Flint asked. “This one’s a long story.”

  “I’m not really interested in your story.” Mark Wilcox scowled. “I don’t have anything to say that you’d be interested in, either. And Boyd isn’t here.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Call his office. His assistant can help you.” Wilcox pushed the door and Flint put his booted foot between the door and the jamb and pushed back hard with his shoulder.