by Tony Hayden
Watts leaned close and whispered, “What the hell happened out there?”
Mike tried to whisper, but the blocked nasal passages made it difficult.
“It’s all trumped up,” he said. “The Sheriff thinks I was stalking Jordan and it pissed him off.”
Watts blinked. “Were you?” he asked.
Mike looked around the room. He knew that anything he told Deputy Watts could be used against him in a court of law, but he needed a friend right now and something about this fellow lawman made Mike feel confident that he could trust him. He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice.
“I searched Jordan’s trailer while he was at work and found a shoebox full of girl’s panties; all different sizes, some stained with dirt.”
Deputy Watts leaned back and looked at Mike as if he were a crazy man.
“I don’t even have to ask if you had a search warrant,” he lectured. “Have you gone insane, Mike? You are damned lucky that you weren’t shot out there.” Watts shook his head, “What the hell were you thinking?”
Mike raised his voice considerably, “I know that little fucker took my daughter, Watts. And because he is the stepson of the sheriff in this county, he’s going to get away with it.”
Deputy Watts stood quickly and grabbed Mike by the shoulder lifting him from the chair. Pointing to a closed door, he pushed Mike into a small office and sat him in a chair. He flipped a sign on the door to read, “Interrogation in Progress” and closed it harshly.
Mike watched the deputy as he stood and leaned against the door.
“In my short career here in Red Feather County,” Watts said, “I have learned one truth that scares the living hell out of me.” Turning toward Mike, Watts continued in a hushed tone. “And that is the simple fact that you don’t challenge Sheriff Hunter Barnes. He is one tough old son-of-a-bitch, but I honestly think he is an honorable man.”
Mike scoffed, “Yeah, and he tattooed that honor all over my face and torso this afternoon for no reason.”
Watts pulled up a folding chair and sat in it, “He wrote that you turned and grabbed him as he was searching you.”
Mike laughed, “He pulled me over for no reason.”
Watts shook his head, “He pulled you over for talking on your cell phone while driving. That’s a class one misdemeanor in this county.”
Mike became defensive, “Is it a rule in this county to draw your weapon and rough up citizens who commit class one misdemeanors?”
Deputy Watts looked toward the door, “The Sheriff reports that you claimed to be carrying a concealed weapon.” He looked back to Mike, “Of course he’s going to search you and secure your weapon. It sounds like you overreacted.”
Mike lowered his head and thought for a moment.
“Maybe I did,” he finally admitted. “I’m scared to death for the safety of my daughter. Red lights are flashing at me, telling me that Jordan knows where she is. Call it gut instinct, or officer’s intuition, or just plain damned experience; I know that boy is involved in Sara’s disappearance.”
Watts sat silently for a moment, “Tell me about the box of panties you found in Jordan’s trailer.”
Mike looked up, relief splashed across his face. He knew that Watts was a good man.
“They were in an uncovered shoe box on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. Six or seven pair---different styles---some were torn, others had dirt stains on them. They looked like trophies, or…” Mike paused, “mementos.”
Deputy Watts sat silently and rubbed his chin in deep thought. After a few moments, he finally spoke.
“I’m going to tell you a story. When I am finished, I am going to turn you over to the jail staff for booking on the charges Sheriff Barnes has filed against you. I will not answer any questions you might have, and if you ever reveal that I shared this information with you, I’ll shoot you myself. Are we clear?”
Mike nodded.
“This past spring,” Watts began, “I pulled Jordan Barnes over for speeding down Highway 287. I clocked him at eighty miles per hour in a sixty-five mile per hour zone. He was driving a black, 1997 Ford Super Duty tow truck that was registered to Duncan Towing of Ranch Springs, Colorado.”
Mike asked, “The same truck he drives now?”
Deputy Watts glared at Mike, warning him not to interrupt again.
“Two days before the scheduled court date, the ticket was dismissed by an assistant district attorney. The order of dismissal stated that a global positioning system on the tow truck proved that the vehicle was traveling seventy miles per hour at the time in question.”
Mike shrugged and raised his hands.
Deputy Watts continued before he could ask, “I had my radar system checked and it was determined that it very well may have malfunctioned.”
Watts opened his eyes wide to stress his point, “The GPS on Jordan’s tow truck was accurate.”
Mike’s heart felt like it was going to burst, “There is a tracking system on that truck?” he asked incredulously.
Before Deputy Watts could scold Mike for asking, the sheriff’s voice boomed from outside the room.
“Where is my prisoner?”
Some men lead by example, others by inseminating apprehension and intimidation in those who are subordinate. Sheriff Hunter Barnes was the latter. As Mike stepped from the interrogation room, he could see the lobby emptying of all personnel, racing to avoid becoming a focus of the sheriff’s agitated attention.
“I apologize, sir,” Deputy Watts offered. “I was wrapping up some final questioning for the missing person’s report on Sara Haller.”
Sheriff Barnes didn’t respond; opting instead for a disapproving glare that could melt ice from the Alaskan Pipeline.
Mike was impressed that Watts never flinched. His military background had obviously trained him well for a leader like Barnes.
“I also had Mr. Haller checked over by the paramedics.” Watts smiled at the sheriff, “He’ll be uncomfortable for awhile, but there’s no permanent damage.”
Sheriff Barnes’ scowl disappeared and was replaced by a thin smile. Looking at Mike, he said, “I went easy on him.”
Taking Mike by the shoulder, the sheriff dismissed Watts and led his prisoner down a narrow hallway toward his office.
“I have been interviewing a witness who saw your daughter on the side of the road Wednesday afternoon. I want you to hear what he has to say.”
Mike’s step picked up. After two days of guessing and fumbling, a solid lead from an eye witness could result in Sara’s recovery.
A grizzled man, about the same age as Barnes, sat in the sheriff’s spacious office with his back to the door. He was tall and lanky, maybe all of a hundred and fifty pounds. Unkempt coal black hair with noticeable streaks of gray, shot out at odd angles from beneath a dirty baseball cap. He wore stained coveralls and smelled slightly of corn flakes and cow manure. As Mike drew closer to take a seat offered by Sheriff Barnes, the distinct smell of bourbon overpowered any odor a bovine’s digestion might offer.
“Mike Haller, this is Connie Lohr. He runs a few head of cattle on a small tract of land north of town.”
Mr. Lohr made brief eye contact with Mike before looking expectantly back to Sheriff Barnes.
“Connie was driving into town Wednesday afternoon when he says he saw a young girl standing next to a little foreign car near the location your daughter’s Honda broke down.”
“What did this girl look like?” Mike asked.
Mr. Lohr looked to the sheriff and waited for a nod before answering. Keeping his eyes focused on the collar of Mike’s shirt, he stuttered out his answer.
“Oh, she was a tiny little thing---light hair, short skirt---kinda pretty from what I could tell.”
Mike waited a bit before continuing, “Did you stop and offer assistance, or ask if she needed help?”
“No, no,” Mr. Lohr offered. “There was already someone there helping her.”
Mike felt a flash of anger through his chest. This old man
was about to reveal that he saw Jordan or Jordan’s tow truck at the scene with Sara, proving that the sheriff’s stepson was a damn liar.
Sheriff Barnes picked up on Mike’s line of thinking.
“Connie,” he said, “give Mr. Haller a detailed description of what you saw.”
“Well,” Mr. Lohr said, now looking at the sheriff. “Like I told you, there was two boys there with her. Farmer boys---rodeo types maybe. They were standing there talking to her, flirtin’ and carryin’ on like young boys do. The girl didn’t seem to be uncomfortable or nothin’. She was smilin’ real big and all.”
Mike sat back in his seat, shocked. Until this point, he had imagined an entirely different scene. He had created a picture in his mind of Sara, frightened beyond belief as she struggled with a lone attacker, being pulled against her will toward a dark and ominous tow truck.
“Tell Mr. Haller what type of vehicle these young men were driving,” the sheriff coaxed.
“It was a Dodge pickup,” Mr. Lohr offered. “1987 I think. Two-toned, silver on maroon with Larimer County plates.”
Mike leaned forward and tried to make eye contact with the witness.
“Did these boys seem suspicious at all? Did you see the young lady get into their truck, or appear to struggle at all?”
Mr. Lohr would not hold Mikes eyes. Instead, he found something more interesting on his own coveralls to ponder over.
“Well, no,” he said quietly. “Everything seemed friendly. The boys didn’t seem interested in helping her change her flat tire or anything like that. It looked to me like they was more interested in the girl, if you know what I mean.”
Mike’s jaw hung open for a moment. Lohr’s story seemed plausible. If the two boys snatched Sara, that would corroborate Jordan’s claim that she was not with her vehicle when he arrived.
Mike finally asked, “What time did you see these boys on the side of the road with the girl?”
The old man seemed confused for a moment and started fidgeting.
“Well,” he finally said. “I don’t---“
“It was after lunch,” Sheriff Barnes interrupted. “You told me earlier that it was between two and three in the afternoon.”
“Oh, okay,” Mr. Lohr said.
Mike looked at the sheriff and caught a hint of discomfort in his expression. His instincts kicked in.
“Where were you driving to, Mr. Lohr, when you saw this girl on the side of the road?”
The old man looked toward Sheriff Barnes, “Uh, into town I guess.”
“Picking up feed for your cattle, weren’t you, Connie?” the sheriff asked.
“Uh, yeah, I was picking up hay I guess.”
Mike jumped in, “Did you get a license plate number off the truck?”
The old farmer started getting nervous.
“No,” he said. “I never saw the plates.”
“I thought you said their truck had Larimer County plates on it?”
“Well, yeah,” Mr. Lohr stuttered. “I guess I saw the plates, but I didn’t get a number or anything. I drove by pretty fast.”
“How fast were you going?” Mike asked.
The old man made eye contact with the sheriff for a half-second.
“Fifty, sixty miles an hour, I’d say.”
Mike sat back and slapped his hands to his knees.
“So, let me get this straight, Mr. Lohr. You passed by this scene at highway speed and you were able to see a flat tire on the far side of the car---you got a good enough look at this girl to give us a fairly accurate description of her, including the ‘big smile’ on her face---you sized up these two boys as ‘flirting rodeo types’---you offered a fairly detailed description of their pickup truck, including the county it was from, but you can’t remember what time of day it was or where you were going or what you were going to do?”
Connie Lohr looked at Barnes, “I can’t understand half of what he is sayin’, Sheriff, with his nose all plugged up like that.”
Sheriff Barnes leaned back against his desk and smiled at Mike.
“I think Mr. Lohr was awfully gracious for coming forward and offering us this lead.”
The sheriff pushed himself off the desk and patted the old farmer on the back.
“Connie, stop by the front desk on your way out and sign the witness statement Lori typed up for us.”
Mr. Lohr stood, avoiding Mike’s eyes.
“Make sure you read it before you sign it,” the sheriff advised. “We need the information to be accurate and honest.”
The old man left the room, closing the door behind him.
“I’ll put out an APB on the boys with a description of their truck and list them as persons of interest in the disappearance of your daughter,” Sheriff Barnes offered. “If I were you, I would go back to Eagle County and wait for this lead to develop.”
Mike didn’t respond.
“Or,” the sheriff continued, “you could stick around here and I will see that charges are brought against you for that unfortunate incident this afternoon.”
Barnes opened the door to his office and stepped aside.
“I can’t imagine what a conviction like that would do to a young deputy’s career.”
Mike walked to the door and stopped when Sheriff Barnes stepped in his way.
Barnes said, “I sent a couple of deputies to pick up your Taurus. The keys are at the front desk with your wallet. Unfortunately, your cell phone was damaged during our scuffle so we went ahead and disposed of that for you.”
Mike frowned. The photos he had taken inside Jordan’s trailer were now lost forever.
“What about my handgun?” he asked.
Barnes chuckled, “We’ll package that up and FedEx it to your boss sometime next week. Lori will accept your payment for the shipping fees after she returns your wallet.”
Mike stopped outside the door and turned back toward Sheriff Barnes. “I would like to get a look at the GPS records for Jordan’s tow truck before I leave, if I could?”
Barnes stood quietly, mouth open slightly.
“Just to corroborate Jordan’s story,” Mike said. “It’ll help me feel a little more comfortable about your witness if I can see what your stepson did on Wednesday after he picked up my daughter’s car.”
Barnes turned red in the face, “Jordan Barnes is no longer your concern,” he seethed. “Unless you leave my county today, the only thing you are going to get a look at is the inside of my jail cell.”
Mike rubbed his hand through his hair.
“Well,” he said calmly, “I’ll be here at least through the weekend. My wife has organized a search on Sunday to look for Sara here in Ranch Springs. You know how big these things can get; lots of media attention and all. It wouldn’t look right if I wasn’t there.”
Sheriff Barnes stepped close to Mike until their noses were touching.
“Young man,” he said in a quiet but threatening tone, “you are trying my patience. If you so much as look at my boy again, this bull is going to give you his full attention. Do I make myself clear?”
Mike leaned closer, until the bridge of his nose ached with pressure from the contact.
“If you and I tangle again, Barnes,” he advised with contempt, “one of us will be going home in a body bag.”
twenty
The Ponderosa Pines stirred as wafts of late summer warmth explored their boughs. Sara Haller walked slowly, aware of every movement, analytical of every smell, ready to flee at the slightest intonation. The deep green hue of pine forest framed a large stand of Quaking Aspens; rigid like stark white soldiers ready to defend against all who might bring harm. A Steller’s Jay, brilliant blue with pointed crown, leapt from branch to limb, its playful caw trumpeting an invitation to join in its foolery.
Sara’s mood lightened at the sight of an Abert’s squirrel, methodically picking hidden treasures from a fallen pinecone; its tasseled ears twitching, its ample cheeks crammed with seeds for a promising meal. She drew in a deep breath of
evergreen and Wood’s Rose and ripened Currant, and closed her eyes to absorb the sweet song of a nearby Brown Creeper mixed with the interminable drone of a distant Nuthatch.
Checking to reassure herself that she had not wandered too far from the safety of the cabin, Sara stepped to the base of an old growth Ponderosa; its bark glowing yellow and red in a shaft of sunlight. She ran the fingers of her right hand over the smooth and jagged surface. She closed her eyes and leaned an ear against its substantial trunk and listened to the purr of life coursing through its veins as sugar and mineral and water was transported over a hundred feet to the Pine’s crown.
“What kind of tree is this one, Daddy?”
Sara’s father stepped close.
“That is a Ponderosa Pine, sweetie. Your momma thinks its bark smells like vanilla, and I say it smells like butterscotch. What do you think, Sara?”
Sara leaned in close and took a dramatic whiff of the tree’s trunk. Licking her lips, she looked to her father and said, “I think it smells like sugar cookies. Mmmmmm!”
Sara pretended to eat the tree then stepped back and peered into its boughs of soft needles.
“Giving Tree,” she whispered, “I am hungry. Will you please give me an apple?”
Sara’s father took her into his arms and hugged her closely.
“This kind of tree doesn’t have any apples to give to little girls,” he said. “It does give food to the squirrels and the chipmunks and even pack moths.”
“What does it give to little girls, Daddy?”
Lowering Sara to the ground, her father removed a day pack from his back and opened its zipper.
“Well, squeaky, this tree gives little girls a comfortable place to sit in its shade so they can enjoy the apple their mothers’ packed for them.”
Pulling two highly polished red apples from the pack, Sara’s Daddy sat in the soft bed of pine needles and leaned back against the tree.
Guiding her to his lap, he asked, “How’s that for a gift from the ‘Giving Tree’?”
Sara slid to the ground, sat and wrapped her right arm around the towering pine. Her physical wounds were beginning to heal. The infections were under control, and she grew stronger by the hour. Her fear and shame and anger were wrapped into an impenetrable cocoon, much like the sap of the Ponderosa Pine protecting the tree from deadly infestation. In a few days, when her strength allowed, Sara would walk out of these mountains, and the men who took so much from her would pay dearly.