Gone Missing

by T. J. Brearton

  Cross waited, holding Bouchard’s eye.

  “Go,” the captain said.

  “Dana, I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Katie watched Hoot investigate Carson’s body on the rocks below. She heard the oscillating pitch of a plane passing overhead and looked up. It was a commercial jet, at least 20,000 feet up, pulling a perfect white streak.

  Were there any aircraft searching for her now? Or anyone on foot? Did anyone have even the slightest clue where she was? And now she was leaving. If a low-flying plane saw her SOS, she wouldn’t be here.

  When Hoot finally came back up the ridge, she was exhausted from searching the cabin yet again. But no mirror, not even a shiny belt buckle for signaling planes. She had the hatchet, though, and thought the blade could potentially reflect light.

  The wristwatch attached to her rope belt read two fifteen. Precious hours slipping away.

  She fell in step with him as he wordlessly crossed the clearing, barely seeming aware of her.

  “Are we ready to leave? Everything good?”

  She braced for his response – Ah-nope, we’ll wait for tomorrow – but was pleasantly shocked when Hoot said, “Yah. Get yer stuff.”

  “I’ve got everything. Just one thing I need to do.”

  She hurried back to the cabin. Hoot kept on moving toward the woods, like it made no difference. If she wanted Hoot to get her out, it was going to be on his schedule, apparently, and she needed to hustle.

  She set the sat phone down on the gas range and pressed the SOS button. While she’d waited for Hoot she’d written a note on the inside of a piece of box board from Carson’s snacks using a piece of charred wood from the fire. It read, simply, Katie Calumet.

  She didn’t know where she was going, on what route Hoot was going to take them out of the mountains. Even if she had, she wouldn’t want to leave the information to fall into the wrong hands. Just her name, just an indication that she was alive, and if there was a chance any emergency services were monitoring, it would lead them here.

  She found Hoot already into the woods and caught up to him.

  She’d bathed again, even washed out her running skirt and top, redressing herself in wet clothes. Maybe not the best idea as they were still damp and she could feel her skin chafing, but if the lingering scent of blood meant coyotes on their tail, she could live with a damned rash. It was the rest of her aches and pains that made the going rough.

  Hoot moved fast. He seemed to know right where he was going, even though Katie didn’t register any sort of trail. She glanced back through the trees and caught sight of the cabin.

  She drew a shuddering breath and felt the sting of tears.

  Fuck you, cabin.

  Maybe, if she got out of this, she’d come back one day and see it burned to the ground.

  For now, she was once again plunging headlong into the unknown.

  The thought occurred to her repeatedly – if she made it out of this – when she made it out of this – she would never look at the mountains in the same way again.

  Following Hoot, it became even clearer to her that she’d made the right decision. It was wrong to think the woods were a trifle compared to other extremes in nature.

  They were not.

  Ten minutes after they’d left the clearing, Katie was utterly lost. She’d gotten her bearings back there, able to orient herself to basic directions. She had planned to use a sun dial along the way, which, by scratching a clock in the dirt with noon as due north, was how to create a compass. Even then it had only been a guess which way she would travel. She’d settled on east, but, of course, she’d never left.

  Hoot made his way confidently along, but even he stopped several times, seeming to ponder his next move. The stout balsam firs were accompanied by taller trees, blocking much of the afternoon sun. The ground was often rock, crusted with black and yellow lichen, or the short berry shrubs. But then it changed, the ground was softer, and they descended in elevation.

  Hoot stopped again. “Someone’s followin’.”

  Katie caught up with him and halted. “You’re sure?” She spoke in a whisper.

  “Yah.”

  She saw nothing but green, barely even a trace of their own passing. There were sounds, like pine cones falling, birds, and squirrels. How Hoot discerned human noise in the soundscape, she had no idea.

  But then she heard it. A puffing sound, like someone hurrying along, short of breath. Faint, but there, beneath the rustling of the breeze.

  She held the hatchet tightly as something cold flashed through her. She glanced at the rifle Hoot was holding.

  “What do we do?”

  He didn’t answer. How very like Hoot not to answer.

  If it was Leno following them, he’d be livid, desperate. His prime asset had escaped custody and his partner was dead.

  Hoot got going again, changing direction.

  They moved perpendicular to the slope for a while, then ascended, back to where the ground was mostly rock. Gaining elevation was terribly discouraging. She wanted to be going down, not up. She wanted out of these woods, endless and disorienting and misleadingly benign as they were.

  She’d never paid much attention before but now recalled the statistic about how hikers went missing nearly every weekend in the Adirondacks. It was surprising people didn’t talk about it more. They lived in the mountains or visited for pleasure, and once a week someone slipped into oblivion and hardly anyone noticed.

  Hoot was going even stronger now. He seemed to have an unlimited reserve of energy. He made almost no sound but stopped frequently to look and listen.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Goan go up there ta chapel. Can see all around from there.”

  “The chapel?”

  “Yah.”

  “Is he still following?”

  “Yah.”

  Hoot kept moving. In a few minutes they started down again, and Katie realized they’d crested a summit and were descending the other side. In the valley was a small cabin.

  There were still no trails to speak of, not even something worn down by Hoot, let alone hikers.

  How was Leno following them? If it was Leno, anyway. The short time she’d been around the man, he hadn’t struck her as a particularly outdoorsy person. He’d sounded like a thug, barking at Carson to knock it off and shut up, driving the hell out of the minivan like someone more accustomed to city traffic than wilderness navigation.

  But she really had no idea about him. He could be an accomplished woodsman; he could be Daniel fucking Boone for all she knew.

  She focused on her footing. They were rapidly descending into the valley between peaks, the ground a scree of rocks, as if from a landslide.

  At last they reached the log cabin. Ensconced in evergreens, it was even smaller than the other.

  A rank smell emanated from inside that Katie identified as dead animal.

  Hoot opened the front door and the stink worsened. She glimpsed the interior and saw animal skins hanging. Hoot was tanning hides. They looked like coyote, and one smaller fox.

  She stayed outside as Hoot rattled around, perhaps getting more bullets for the rifle. He slung a pack over his shoulder that looked like one a soldier would own, dark green, with a crude peace sign stenciled on the flap. Her own pack was getting heavy, despite its few contents.

  He shut the door and hustled away, and Katie followed, glancing around the property at Hoot’s things – sawhorses, a pile of hand-hewn lumber, even a homemade wheelbarrow fitted with two bicycle tires.

  Behind the cabin was a small clearing and a section of garden, surrounded by a high netting. Hoot was living off the land, hunting for meat and hides, growing vegetables, building his little world. Who knew how long it had been since he’d set foot in hers.

  He led them up a trail. Katie was fatiguing – they’d been going non-stop for the past hour at least. She was scared and getting frustrated not knowing where Hoot was leading her. She w
anted him to tell her the way out.

  She wondered if he even knew. How long had he been out here? When had he last ventured into civilization? A few months ago? A few years?

  The terrain grew steep, and she slipped on the mossy ground. She had to crawl in places, almost like rock climbing, clutching small outcroppings like handholds, hoisting herself up.

  Hoot scrambled apace, widening the distance between them. She gritted her teeth and moved faster but tried to stay nimble, not slip and fall.

  They finally reached a bare spot on the mountainside near the summit. Bare rocks like huge platelets, weeds sprouting from the sutures. She took a handful of tough bramble and yanked herself to her feet.

  Nestled into the trees at the top of the rock face was a lean-to, a log cabin like the others but with an open face. There was nothing in it except for a blanket and a small statuette of the Virgin Mary in the corner.

  She realized this was what Hoot called the chapel. And once she’d dropped her bags and heaved a few breaths so she wouldn’t pass out, she gazed back over the landscape and understood.

  The view was spectacular, a rolling range of mountains cupping a deep cirque inclusive of several small ponds and a larger lake. More importantly, it overlooked Hoot’s cabin in the valley below, with good sightlines on the approach.

  But, she thought, whatever she could see, someone there could see her, too.

  Hoot grasped her hand, making her jump. He led her into the trees alongside the lean-to, where they hunkered down. Now they had the view but were hidden.

  Before she could speak, the man following them reached Hoot’s cabin.

  He came in slow, crouched down, and he could’ve been holding a weapon. He was far away, but she thought she recognized the dark hair, the way he moved.

  Then as he drew a bit closer, she could see the boots and pants – he’d been wearing them when he’d taken the cell pic of her.

  She was sure it was Leno.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Cross turned off Route 30 and onto Jessup River Road, the sedan kicking up dust. He was just northwest of Speculator; the pot-holed road was enclosed with trees, but then a break revealed a range of mountains stretching off into the distance.

  Katie. Hang on.

  He glanced back at the road.

  “Shit!”

  Cross slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop behind a tangle of parked cars and trucks. An angry sheriff’s deputy in a brown uniform came running up, waving his arms.

  Cross flashed his badge as he got out. “Sorry.”

  The Hamilton County deputy eyed the badge. “Your people are back there.”

  He pointed to where Dana Gates and several others huddled around a civilian near a trailhead sign. Laura Broderick was among the group.

  Cross dove back into the sedan, grabbed his topo maps, and hurried over.

  Gates saw him and made introductions. “Investigator Cross – Todd Sloan. Mr. Sloan is from Philadelphia. He comes up here every summer to take his family hiking.”

  Sloan was a fit, muscular man in his fifties. He had a firm grip and offered Cross a wan smile.

  “Mr. Sloan just took us in to where he could approximate hearing the scream.”

  Laura Broderick had her own map spread out on the hood of a trooper vehicle. She showed Cross where Sloan had led them.

  “Here is the Northville-Placid Trail. You can see where it connects to all these others. Sloan heard the scream here, he thinks. You still feel that’s accurate, Mr. Sloan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.” Laura placed her finger on a black dashed line on the topo map that twisted and turned but ran mostly north–south. To the west of it, there was nothing but green, indicating thick vegetation. Pure wilderness.

  “This is about 300 square miles of nothing,” she said, brushing it with her hand. “No hiking, no snowmobile trails, nothing. Just bushwhacking. Very few people venture in.”

  Cross walked away from the group and took out his cell phone. He turned the camera on and then swept it around the clearing.

  There were too many vehicles in view. He moved beyond them, trying to get an image with only trees.

  “Cross?”

  He rotated around, looking at the screen. Gates and Laura caught up to him.

  “What’s the matter?” Gates asked.

  “I don’t know. This is a heavy-use trail? The Northville-Placid Trail? Right?”

  “Yeah.” Laura scanned the area as if trying to see what he did.

  “They wouldn’t take Katie into the woods from here,” Cross said. “Too many people around. In the picture Montgomery sent, there’s nothing but forest. And the trees are different.”

  He could tell Gates and Laura were giving each other looks.

  Laura said, “This is the second-largest wilderness in the Preserve. A hundred and seventy thousand acres…”

  “You wanted ‘remote,’” Gates chimed in. “This is remote.”

  “What’s the terrain like?”

  Laura answered. “It ranges. Swamp flats, rolling hills, steep rugged mountains, some sheer cliffs. The topography rolls west to east and rises south to north. Most of the mountains are 2,000 to 3,000 feet in elevation. In here you got Panther Mountain, Jones, and West Canada. Up here Cellar Mountain. Down here, Fort Noble, Lewey. Lots of streams, lots of lakes, ponds, beaver flows, and wetlands.”

  Cross looked back at the road. The deputy was still there.

  “I saw a couple turn-offs,” Cross said. “I want to go check them out.”

  He looked at Gates.

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  They headed back east on Jessup River Road, Gates riding shotgun, Laura in the back.

  “This has got to be enough to do it,” Cross said. “Move incident command from Bakers Mills to Speculator; expand the search.”

  “I think so,” Gates agreed.

  “We need to cut David Brennan loose.”

  “Justin, he’s… Bouchard told me what happened at the inn. What’s going on with this guy and Katie’s family?”

  “I don’t know. But maybe he’ll tell me. Maybe it tumbles out if we let him do what he wants – let him help. He’s got a phone and we can tag him.”

  Gates thought about it. “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Any word on Gebhart?”

  “They can’t operate on him because of his brain swelling, something like that. Still comatose.”

  “Well his brother knew something. Gebhart gave Jonathan Montgomery the location of a cabin, and it’s out there. Hey, here we go…”

  Cross cranked the wheel and fishtailed onto a dirt road. He righted the course and noticed Gates grabbing on to the handle above the door. “Ride ’em cowboy,” she said.

  The dirt road was short, and they came to a stop – a grassy clearing. Cross leaned over the steering wheel and peered out the windshield. “Why’s this here?”

  “It’s private,” Laura said from the back seat. “You might’ve seen the posted signs if it wasn’t for all the dust in the air.”

  Cross glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror. She smiled, then they stepped out.

  Laura walked toward the trees, gesturing. “This goes back to Otter Lake. This whole wilderness is surrounded by private land. Where we are, this is some of it – but then once you get in there it’s all Adirondack Forest Preserve.”

  Cross turned to Laura. “You been in there?”

  “Oh sure.”

  He waited, inviting her to share more.

  “It’s pretty down and dirty. Beautiful. Like I said, a little bit of everything. Peaks, valleys, swamp, you name it. Not for the faint of heart. People who dive in there really like to be off the beaten trail. We pull a few of them out every summer. No cell phone coverage.”

  “How do you find them?”

  The forest ranger made a crooked smile. “We look.”

  Cross held up his phone and swung around in a circle. He stopped and centered the scr
een on Gates.

  If she had been roughed up with her hands tied, she could’ve been Katie Calumet.

  This was the place.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Katie crouched beside Hoot, close enough to see the wiry gray hairs sprouting from his ears. Hoot watched Leno like a hunter observing prey. He looked through the scope of the rifle, his burly beard twitching occasionally as he perpetually chewed at something, mashing his lips.

  In the valley below, Leno finished checking out the cabin then looked up toward the lean-to. Katie tensed, though she was sure the foliage concealed her. Either Leno would move off, or he would start up the hillside. He’d tracked them this far, so Katie wasn’t surprised when the kidnapper made his decision and began coming her way.

  “What do we do?” she whispered.

  Hoot took his eye from the scope but kept the rifle ready. There was a small knob he twisted upward then pulled back, revealing a breech.

  “This has a built-in magazine,” he said. “You gotta manually load each round.”

  She didn’t know why he was telling her; he just seemed to do it automatically.

  “Takes five rounds.” He loaded in the first bullet with calloused yet nimble fingers. “Push it down’ta the magazine; it fits with the follower plate. Doan try to fit an extra round inta the breech. Just fill it with the five.”

  “I don’t… Okay. I see what you’re doing.”

  “All five are in. Push the bolt forward far as you can; close it. Yah. Bolt-head strips a bullet from the magazine. Now she’s ready to fire.”

  “Okay.”

  Katie swatted at the insects swarming her head. The bugs were bad – the way they seemed to get worse just before a storm, when everything hung thick and still.

  “You grab it ’ere, like this. Don’t touch the barrel. When you’re ready, there’s the safety. This is fire; this is safe. Slide it back’ta fire, like this. Then put your finger inside the trigger guard, right dere. Use the scope for long range. When you’re ready’ta fire, take a big breath, let it out part way. Then hold and squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it; squeeze it.”