ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE

by Cindi Myers

  “Turn this car around now! I want to talk to her.”

  The intensity of her anger hit him like a wave. He held on to the steering wheel more tightly, half believing she’d rip it from his hands. “Will talking to her really make you feel better, or only upset you more?” he asked, trying to make his voice as calming and gentle as possible. “It would definitely upset you. Isn’t it enough to know we’re on the right track?”

  She wilted back against the seat. “Nothing will be enough until he’s safe again. But if I could just talk to her....” She looked back again, twisting her hands in her lap.

  Common sense and all his training told him turning around to talk to the clerk again would be a waste of time they could better use finding the uncle’s ranch. But her longing to cling to even this tenuous contact with her son tore at him. He slowed the car, then pulled to the side of the road and headed back the way they’d come.

  He pulled up to the front of the building and Stacy had unhooked her seat belt and opened the door before he’d even shut off the engine. He followed her into the store, where a pasty-faced young man looked up from behind the front counter. “Where’s the woman who was working here a few minutes ago?” Stacy asked.

  The man shook his head. “There’s no woman working here,” he said.

  “Her name was Marne.” Patrick approached the counter and showed the clerk his marshal’s ID. “She was working a double shift. I spoke to her for several minutes.”

  “You must have the wrong store,” the clerk said. “I don’t know any Marne, and I’m the only one working today. I came on at seven this morning.”

  “You’re lying.” Stacy gripped the edge of the countertop and stood on tiptoe, leaning toward the taller young man. “We were just here and Marne was here. If this is your idea of a joke, it isn’t funny.”

  “I swear, there’s no one named Marne here. There’s no one else here at all.”

  Patrick glanced at the camera mounted over the front camera. “You have security tapes. I want to see them.”

  “You’ll have to talk to the manager about that. And he’ll want a subpoena.” The clerk raised his chin defiantly, but his gaze didn’t meet the marshal’s.

  “Where’s the manager?” Stacy asked. “I want to speak to him.”

  “He isn’t here. He won’t be in until tomorrow. But if you want to leave a name and number, I’ll tell him to call you.”

  Patrick gently took Stacy’s arm. “We’re wasting our time here,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “But he’s lying! I know that woman was here. I saw her. You talked to her. Why is he lying?”

  “Come on.” Patrick urged her toward the door. “We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

  Back in the car, he locked the doors, half-afraid Stacy would rush back into the store and physically attack the clerk. “He’s lying,” she repeated, sending a murderous look toward the clerk, who watched them with a sullen expression.

  “Yes, he is.” Patrick started the car and backed out of the parking space.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. “Are you just going to let him get away with that? Maybe he’s holding Marne hostage in a back room. Maybe she’s in trouble because she talked to you.”

  “I think Marne is probably fine,” he said. “Though her name likely isn’t really Marne.” He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial button for his office.

  “Who are you calling?” Stacy asked. “What are you going to do?”

  “Give me Special Agent Sullivan.” He pulled the car into a lay by about a mile from the store. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” he said to Stacy. “Give me a little bit.”

  “Sullivan.” The lieutenant’s voice was brisk and confident.

  “Thompson here. I need you to send a team out to Lakeside Grocery in Lakeside, Colorado, about two hours outside of Durango on Highway 50. Get a subpoena for the front counter surveillance tapes. I want to know the details and background on every clerk who worked there last night and today, and anyone who came in. I’m especially interested in an older female clerk with a name tag that says Marne, and a man who may have come in with the little boy we’re looking for, Carlo Giardino. While you’re at it, you should also get a team out to County Road 7N in the same area. We had a shootout with a couple guys who tried to kidnap Stacy.”

  “Any casualties?”

  “Two.”

  Sullivan swore under his breath. “What is going on with this case?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Focus on the gas station first—those guys in the canyon aren’t going anywhere.”

  “Sure thing,” Sullivan said. “What’s up?”

  “I talked to the clerk, Marne, a few minutes ago, and she told me she was working this morning when a man brought Carlo into the store to use the restroom. But when Stacy Giardino went back there to talk to her just now, there’s a clerk—with no name tag—who swears there’s no one named Marne there, and he’s the only one on duty.”

  “You think someone set you up?”

  “I do. See what you can find out and let me know.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “We’re headed to Crested Butte. I’m more and more convinced the boy is there.”

  “You could be headed into a trap,” Sullivan said.

  “It feels that way, but I’ll be careful. Something big is going on here, and I want to know what.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket, then turned to Stacy. “You should have threatened that clerk,” she said. “Made him tell you where Marne was.”

  “I’m sure that’s what Sammy would have done.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “It would have worked. The clerk would have talked.”

  “Maybe. Or someone watching in the back room would have opened fire and killed us all.”

  She pressed both palms to her forehead and moaned. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” she said.

  “I’m not sure,” Patrick said. “But I think Marne was a plant. Someone told her to tell us about seeing Carlo and one of the kidnappers. Once she’d done her job, she was paid off and sent away.”

  “But why do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to make sure we headed in the right direction. To lure us. All of this seems orchestrated to keep us eager to get to Crested Butte.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. Those men in the canyon tried to kill us. They must have been waiting to ambush us. And before that, we got the phone call warning us away.”

  “They tried to kill me. They wanted you alive. They tried to kidnap you. And maybe the warning was really to get me away—they still wanted you, but they needed to find a way to separate us.”

  “They threatened me. I think they wanted to take me away and torture you.”

  “Men like that think threats will make a captive more compliant and easier to handle. I’ll admit, I’m impressed you got away from them.”

  “I’ll do anything to save my son.” She shifted in her seat and looked away.

  “Since they couldn’t kill me and they failed to bring you in, maybe plan B is to lure us to where they can try again.”

  “Are you saying the kidnappers want us to find them?”

  “I think they want us where they can pick us off and shut us up,” he said. “Whether or not Carlo is being held at his great-uncle’s ranch, a remote property in a rural area sounds like an ideal place to get rid of the two people who have been interfering with the kidnappers’ plans.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “Are you saying the woman was lying, too—that she never saw Carlo?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she saw him and maybe she didn’t. Her job
was to make us believe Carlo and the kidnapper passed through here so we’d keep following the trail of breadcrumbs.”

  “And are we going to keep following it?”

  “I think we have to, but I want more information first.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “I want to know who’s behind this, for one thing.”

  “I thought we’d decided Uncle Abel was behind it. Isn’t that why we’re headed to Crested Butte?”

  “But why would Abel want Carlo? He doesn’t need him to step in and take control of the Giardino business. He’s the only surviving Giardino male. He could just show up and start giving orders.”

  “I don’t care why he’s doing this—I just want my son.”

  “I want your son, too. But we can’t go barging into an ambush. We need to know more about what we’re dealing with.”

  “You’re dealing with an old man who hasn’t had anything to do with the family for years.”

  “But you said Sam threatened to turn the business over to him, passing over Sammy. That could mean the brothers had been in touch.”

  She shifted in her seat. “Maybe. Or maybe we’re looking at this all wrong and Abel isn’t the one behind this at all.”

  “If not Abel, who do you think it is?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the old woman—his mother.”

  “You think Carlo’s great-grandmother kidnapped him?”

  “I think that woman is capable of anything.” She shivered. “The one time I met her, she gave me the creeps. She was a regular witch, and she ordered everyone—including Sam—around like they were slaves.”

  “Maybe, but my instinct is that someone bigger is behind this.” An eighteen-wheeler rocketed past on the highway, shaking the car.

  “What do you mean, bigger?” Stacy asked.

  “Think about it. Someone is going to a lot of trouble here—planting witnesses, tailing us. That takes manpower, and vehicles and weapons—all that adds up to a lot of money.”

  “Abel and his mother have money, I’m sure.”

  “Not that kind of money.”

  “So who do you think is behind this?”

  “Do you remember I asked you about Senator Nordley?”

  She nodded. “You think a senator masterminded all this? Why?”

  “Power? Money? Because he has secrets he wants to stay secret?” Patrick shook his head. “I don’t know, but word is that Nordley was behind Sam’s escape from prison last year. And Anne—Elizabeth Giardino—said she saw him at the house right before our raid.”

  “But if Nordley was working with Sam, whatever secret he had died with Sam.”

  “Maybe. But maybe it’s not about secrets. Maybe it’s all about money. Politics is an expensive business. If an ambitious man like Nordley wanted to, say, run for president, he’d need a great deal of money to do so. The Giardinos have that kind of money. If he did a favor for the family, they would want to reward him.”

  She considered this. He was glad now he’d brought up the subject. He’d been a little worried she’d become hysterical, or more distraught, but he should have known better. She was sharp, and talking with her was helping him to organize his own thoughts and theories. She’d said she wanted to be a lawyer, but she would have made a good agent, too.

  “So you think Nordley helped kidnap Carlo for Uncle Abel? But why? It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it’s doesn’t,” he admitted. “But I’m going to keep working at it until it does make sense. After that, we’ll know the best move to make.” He put the car into gear.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “We need to find a place to hole up for a while, to plan our next move.”

  “No!” The fierceness of her objection—the sudden change from calm to agitated—unsettled him. Yes, she’d been through a lot, and her emotions were on edge, but she’d never struck him as the hysterical type. He hesitated, his hand on the gearshift.

  “The more we delay, the more danger Carlo may be in,” she said. “We have to go to him now.”

  “We don’t even know for sure he’s at the ranch—or where the ranch is, exactly,” he said. “We’ll be putting him in greater danger if we barge in without a plan. And we’ll be putting ourselves at risk, too.” He turned his attention back to the road and prepared to pull the car out onto the highway.

  “Stop!”

  He groaned. This was not an argument he wanted to have. What had happened to the reasonable woman he’d been admiring only seconds before? “Look, Stacy—” He turned to her and the words died on his lips.

  She held a gun in both hands and it was aimed right at him. “I won’t let you keep me from my son,” she said.

  Chapter Nine

  Patrick had faced down his share of desperate men and women with guns, but the sight of Stacy holding a weapon on him made his blood run cold. Her hands shook so badly she could scarcely keep the weapon still. He wasn’t so worried that she’d deliberately shoot him, but that the gun would accidentally go off. At this close range she’d be unlikely to miss. “Stacy, put the gun down,” he said, his words soft, each one carefully enunciated.

  “No. Not until we’re in Crested Butte. Drive.”

  “We’re still hours away. Are you going to hold the gun on me the whole way?”

  “If I have to.” Her gaze met his, defiant—but he glimpsed the fear behind her bravado.

  “Stacy, I don’t believe you really want to kill me. I’m on your side, remember?”

  “You say that, but why won’t you take me to where you know Carlo is?” Her lip trembled. “Why are you keeping me from my son?”

  “We don’t know where he is. We still have to find the ranch and then we need to determine he’s there. We can’t just go barging in. He might be hurt. I know you don’t want that.”

  “I just want my boy!” The words ended on a wail and the barrel of the gun dipped lower. Great. Now if she fired she’d blast him right in the crotch.

  He shifted in his seat. “I want to find your son,” he said. “I want to see the two of you safely together. But I won’t do anything to jeopardize his life. Or yours.”

  “At least in Crested Butte we’d be closer. We could find him. I might see him on the street.”

  “Crested Butte is still two hours away, at least. We’re both exhausted. We’re dirty and cold and you’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’ve got cuts and scratches and bruises all over your face and hands. Your clothes are filthy and neither of us has had six hours of sleep in the past forty-eight. If we’re going to help Carlo, we need to be strong and rested and sharp.”

  She looked away, the gun dipping farther. He kept his eyes on her, waiting. “When will I see him again?” she asked.

  “Maybe as soon as tomorrow. It depends on what we learn.”

  “Then why can’t we go to Crested Butte and look for him now?”

  “That’s what the people we’re dealing with seem to want us to do. I think we’d be safer if we stopped somewhere more out of the way. We can rest and come up with a plan—one that will keep Carlo safe and alive.”

  She brought the gun up once more. “I just want this to be over,” she said softly.

  “So do I. But shooting me won’t bring back your son. I really do want to help, if you’ll trust me.”

  She wet her lips. “I haven’t had a lot of people in my life I could trust. You’re a lawman. Why should you be any different?”

  From what she’d told him, every man she’d ever known, from her father to her husband, had betrayed her. He wouldn’t add his name to the list. “You can trust me because I haven’t let you down so far. Have I lied to you or done anything to hurt you?”

  Sh
e bit her lip, then shook her head.

  He held out his hand. “Will you give me the gun?”

  She hesitated, then nodded and let him take the weapon from her hand. Only when he held the gun did the tension drain from his shoulders. Exhaustion buffeted him and he had to fight to tuck the gun safely under the seat and put the car in gear. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes and swayed a little in her seat. She was so pale, the scratches and bruises on her face standing out against her ivory skin. “As all right as I can be.”

  Twenty minutes later, he turned in at a blue neon sign that advertised Motel. The old-fashioned tourist court was a low-slung row of rooms with doors painted bright turquoise, opening onto a gravel lot. Patrick paid cash for a room to an older man who wore suspenders and a checked shirt. No more flashing his credentials unless it was absolutely necessary. He and Stacy needed to fly under the radar now.

  “You want ice, it’s a quarter,” the man said.

  Patrick fished a quarter from his pocket and slid it across the counter. The old man shuffled off to a back room and returned shortly with a plastic bucket of ice. He handed it over while frowning at Stacy, who’d insisted on coming inside. “You sure you’re okay, miss?” he asked.

  She gave him a wan smile. “I’m just tired.”

  “You look like somebody beat you up.” The clerk scowled at Patrick.

  “I was in a car wreck,” Stacy said. She took Patrick’s arm and leaned against him. “I’ll be fine. My husband is taking good care of me.”

  He was aware of her warm body pressed against his all the way back to the car. He parked in front of the room and carried both suitcases and the weapons inside, wrapping the guns in the blankets to hide them from anyone who might be watching. “Why did you tell the clerk I was your husband?” he asked.

  “I thought he’d be less suspicious if he thought we were married. He was looking at you like he wanted to call the police. I had to do something.”

  “A car wreck was quick thinking.”

  “I’m sorry about before,” she said. “When I pulled the gun on you. I wasn’t thinking. I—”

  “It’s all right. You’ve been through a lot. Come here and sit down.” He motioned toward the bed.