While she petted Trixie with one hand, she marked off on her map where Chuck said they’d searched. “Why didn’t you search south of the camp?”
“Like I said, we focused north and east because of the terrain and where the truck was parked. We also covered a mile perimeter from the campsite during the initial search. We had more than a dozen people the three days after we were notified—though we only had a couple hours each day where we could be out.”
“So the perimeter was defined based on information those three boys from Cheyenne gave you.”
He hesitated. “You sound suspicious.”
“I am.”
“Do you think Scott was murdered?”
“No,” she said immediately, but then she wondered. “It would explain a lot, but at the same time, eventually the body will be discovered, and if it’s clear he was murdered, a more thorough investigation would put those three under more scrutiny. But intent to kill is not the same thing as being responsible for a death. What if there was an accident and some reason the boys didn’t want to admit to it?”
“Like if they had been drinking? Doing drugs?”
She nodded. “Maybe. Scott dies and they fear getting in trouble, so they leave him and make up a story about how he left without them.”
“One of my first encounters with a corpse was finding a pair of young lovers who’d dropped acid about a hundred miles north of here. They hadn’t brought any provisions, no sleeping bags. They were so wasted, they wandered off and we found them buried in leaves. Died of exposure in below-freezing temperatures. Even in the summer, it gets really cold at the higher elevations when the sun goes down.”
Tim said, “Ann and I were up here during the initial search. Chuck and his team covered more ground than anyone thought possible, considering the storm. If there was an accident, it wasn’t at the campground.”
That validated Max’s theory. “Maybe,” she said cautiously, not wanting to offend the three, “you were searching in the wrong place.”
Chuck turned off the winding paved road onto a well-packed dirt and gravel road. Any remaining snow was deep in crevices and under trees, where little sunlight reached, but it looked like spring was fully blooming in the Rocky Mountains. They bounced around in the cab more than Max’s stomach liked, so she put her map away and focused on the terrain.
About a mile later, Chuck pulled over in a clearing. There were deep rivets from other vehicles that had come and gone, and several marked paths. “This is where the boys parked,” he said. “It’s a two-mile hike to the campground. We’ve covered everything around this area both six months ago and this past week.”
Max stretched her legs and brought out her map again. “This is the trail map that’s downloadable from the National Park Service Web site,” she said. She pointed to an area southeast of the campground. “What’s over here? This looks like a marked path.”
Chuck studied it, nodded. “It leads to an abandoned Boy Scout camp.”
“It also looks like a direct route to the highway.”
“It’s not—it’s treacherous, and the trail is impassable in winter.” But he studied the printout that Max had brought. “I can see why the route appears direct. But why would he go that way?”
“The question is, why would the others lie about the direction he took?”
Chuck considered for a long minute. “Ann, Tim, can you take this quadrant?” He pointed to a section west of the campground. “It’s the only area we haven’t covered in the last week. I’m going to take Trixie to follow Ms. Revere’s hunch about this trail.”
“No problem,” Tim said. He checked his watch. “It’ll take four hours, give or take.”
“We’ll meet back here, at the truck, at one thirty,” Chuck said. “Unless any of us find something. We’ll use the emergency band, keep the chatter to a minimum.”
“Be safe,” Ann said. She and her husband left, each with their own backpack and radio.
They walked down the trail that led to the campground. It took them thirty minutes, walking at a brisk pace, but the trail was relatively flat, making it easy. Trixie stayed with them until they reached the acre-size campground. Max looked around. There were two fire pits, neither of which had been used for months, if not years. The snow had completely melted, but there were some remnants in shaded areas. The clearing was nearly perfectly round, the west bordered by huge boulders that, when scaled, would likely reveal an amazing view. The rest of the clearing was framed by trees. To the west, they were spindly; to the east, thicker and taller as they went down the mountainside. They were still below the tree line and seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, but less than two miles from where campers could park. From far in the distance came the sound of running water.
“Peaceful,” Max said. “But when I was researching, there appear to be more popular—and populated—places to camp.”
“Many,” he agreed. “This is off the beaten path, so to speak. But it’s on the map, so it’s not unusual to have people come here. Because of the old Boy Scout camp, there’re visitors who like to hike the area.”
“Is that camp still viable?”
“It closed seven, eight years ago. It’s accessible only via a bridge over a narrow canyon, and it was destroyed one winter. There’s a newer camp a few miles north, and the local troop decided not to rebuild the bridge. You can still reach the camp, but it’s a long trek.” He hesitated. “If Scott went that way, it’s treacherous with steep drops.”
Chuck didn’t have to elaborate. Max could easily picture a scenario where Scott died of injuries he sustained while trying to find his way out of the forest.
Chuck let Trixie off her lead and gave her a command. The golden retriever delighted in her freedom and raced ahead, down a narrow, overgrown path. They followed. Less than fifty yards off the campground, the trail was covered with slushy snow while also dipping steeply down. Max couldn’t see Trixie anymore.
The temperature also dropped dramatically as the canopy of towering pine covered them.
“This is going to sound like a dumb question, but will Trixie just keep going until she finds something?”
“She’ll come back every five to ten minutes and get a confirmation from me to continue.” As if on cue, Max heard a rustling, and then Trixie appeared at a point where the trail seemed to disappear. Chuck gave her a hand signal, and the dog ran off again.
Chuck said, “This isn’t much of a trail at all, and if he went this way, I can easily see how he’d get lost. Some hikers like to go back to the scouting camp, but with the bridge out, most avoid it.”
“Could Scott and his friends have found it?”
“Yes, but why wouldn’t they have told us that was where they’d been?”
Max could think of a half dozen reasons, none of them innocent. An accident, murder, violence, drugs, drinking—any number of things. She’d become so jaded over the years that she wasn’t surprised at what people said or did to each other. Her instincts told her that those three boys had lied to the police about something; whether they were capable of murder was another question.
“Watch your step,” he said. “There’s a stream that cuts through up ahead. It shouldn’t be too wide yet, but with the melting snow, it’s going to be running and the ground’s slick. We cut off the search there, since there was no evidence he’d gone this way.”
They turned another sharp curve, and a stream came fast down the mountain in a twenty-foot waterfall and went under the path. A makeshift bridge had been built over it—but it didn’t look stable.
“One of the scout troops did that,” Chuck said. “Probably safe, but step over it if you can.” He went first, then held his hand out for Max. She took it and stepped over. Trixie showed her head, Chuck signaled her, and the dog ran off again.
The vast beauty of the mountains could turn to a nightmare—in the dark, in the winter, during a storm. Scott was out here, alone. Angry. Scared. Had he really walked off? Gotten lost? Why? It didn’t mak
e sense, knowing what she did about him.
They continued on, more than a half mile past the stream. They’d already been walking for an hour. The only sounds were dripping water, birds, a faint rustle of leaves. There was no wind, no voices, no traffic.
Max could handle only so much silence before she started getting nervous. Chuck was ten feet in front of her because the path was too narrow for them to walk side by side. “If—” she began when Trixie barked.
The steady barking cut through the subtle sounds of the forest. Max slipped and fell on her ass. “Shit,” she muttered.
Chuck turned, smiled, and offered her a hand again, which she gratefully took. He pulled her up with strength she wouldn’t have expected from his trim frame. “Trixie found something.”
“Could it be an animal?”
“She knows the difference. And if there was a threat, she has a different bark.”
They continued down the path, an even steeper embankment than before, but Max managed to keep her balance by holding on to the tree trunks as she went. Then the path leveled out. “The old scout camp is through there.” He pointed straight ahead. “You can see where the bridge collapsed.”
At first Max didn’t see; then it was clear that it had been a rope bridge. Thick ropes were tied to a tree trunk on either side of a steep cavern that looked at least a hundred feet deep and twenty feet across. An echo of rushing water came up from the depths.
Max never considered that she was afraid of heights, but it would take a lot of cajoling for her to take a rope bridge over that cavern.
Trixie’s steady barking came from the right. Away from the scouting camp.
They turned and walked steeply up a trail twenty yards before they found Trixie standing, her head facing into a grove of trees. Chuck called her back with a whistle, and she immediately came to him and stopped barking. He gave her a scratch and a treat, then some water.
Max tried to be patient, but it didn’t come naturally. She inched forward, and Chuck followed.
Just off the trail, a black sleeping bag was bunched up against a tree, partly buried in leaves and dirt. There was some snow that hadn’t melted, but as they approached, the ground was soft and muddy.
At first, Max didn’t see anything other than the dark bag. Then she saw the fingers of a hand, barely exposed through the opening.
“Stay here,” Chuck told her. He walked over, bracing himself against the tree trunk to keep from sliding down the slick mud. He pulled back the top of the sleeping bag and peered inside. A foul stench hit Max, and Trixie whimpered, then lay down with her head on her paws. If a dog could look sad, Trixie was miserable.
Max squatted down and scratched her behind the ears. “You’re a good girl, Trixie,” she said. Her voice cracked.
Scott Sheldon was most certainly dead, his body remarkably preserved in the cold climate.
“Well, shit,” Chuck said. “You always hope they ran off with their girlfriend.”
He knelt to inspect the body. “No obvious signs of injury. No visible blood—if there was blood, I suspect the animals would have found him long ago.”
“Their statements were identical,” Max said, anger rising. “They claimed that they were hanging out at the campsite, drinking beer, and joking around. Scott got mad and stomped off toward where they’d parked, two miles away. At night. But on the map, where they parked was in the opposite direction from this trail. So either they lied about the direction—”
“Or were too drugged up to notice,” Chuck suggested, and Max agreed that it was a possibility.
“Or,” she continued, “they lied about him leaving in the first place.”
“Before you jump to conclusions, Ms. Revere, let’s see what the coroner has to say. She’s a fine doctor. If there was foul play, she’ll figure it out.” He pulled out his radio and contacted Tim and Ann. “Tim? Go back to the truck and retrieve the gurney and body bag. Meet us at the campground. We’ll lead you to the body.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“What happened?” Adele Sheldon asked Max.
Max was in her room at the Broadmoor, sitting at her desk. She didn’t know what to say—a first for her.
“Detective Horn called me,” Adele said, a hitch in her voice. “I knew he was dead, I knew it, but…,” Her voice trailed off on a sob.
“Would you like me to drive down and see you?” It was almost a two-hour drive. She didn’t want to go tonight, but she would, for Scott’s mother.
“No, I want you to find out what happened. You were there. You saw him.”
“We need to wait for the autopsy results.”
“That’s what the detective said.” Adele took a deep breath, worked to control her emotions. Max let her; she didn’t need to rush this. “I wanted him to be alive, but I knew in my heart that he wasn’t. I’m his mother; I think I’ve always known.”
“Though we can’t be sure until after the tests, there were no visible injuries.” To preserve evidence, Chuck and Tim had bagged Scott’s body while still in the sleeping bag. They examined him for visible head and chest wounds, but there were none.
“Did he suffer?” she asked, her voice small.
“It doesn’t appear so.” Max didn’t know what to say, so she said what she thought was accurate. What might give Adele a modicum of comfort. “If he died of exposure, he most likely fell asleep and then just didn’t wake up.”
Adele didn’t say anything. She probably knew that dying of exposure wasn’t as peaceful as Max implied. But would it help anyone to know if Scott had been in pain?
“I’m sorry, Adele.”
“It’s okay. Why did it take you to find him? They would never have found him if you didn’t light a fire under them.”
“We don’t know that. I spent the day with Chuck Pence, the head of search and rescue. He looked as long as he could after Scott’s disappearance, but we found your son in a different area than where they initially focused.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“They had time against them last fall. The storm was getting worse, and they concentrated on the area between the camp and where the boys had parked their truck. Scott was found on the opposite side of the mountain, nearly two miles southeast of the campground; they parked two miles north of the camp. I suspect that Chuck and his team would have found Scott in the next couple of days. I met them; they weren’t going to give up. I just—made it go faster.” She didn’t mention at this point that it had been her suggestion to check the other trail, because that really didn’t matter—not to Adele. It would matter when Max talked to the three boys who left Scott alone on that mountain.
“Are you leaving?” Adele asked.
Max had thought about it. She didn’t know why seeing Scott Sheldon’s thawing body had disturbed her so much. She’d viewed an autopsy before, seen crime scene photos, once researched a child abuse case that left a little girl in a coma. That small, unconscious body had unnerved Max on multiple levels.
But this—she’d never seen a body so exposed. So … vulnerable. So dead. An autopsy was clinical and scientific. She could separate the procedure from the person. Crime scene photos were two dimensional, violent and grotesque, but again, she could view them as a reporter and not with undue emotion.
But Scott … he was right there, and had been for nearly six months. In his sleeping bag, suggesting he knew he couldn’t get back to the campground where his friends had pitched a tent. He’d curled up against the tree, in his sleeping bag, and died. Had he known? Had he thought he would wake up in the morning and find his way back? She’d already checked—the average temperature in Colorado Springs that night was fifteen degrees. Chuck told her that would mean in the mountains where the boys had camped it would have been even colder, likely below zero. Scott’s sleeping bag wasn’t designed for subzero temperatures.
Had he wandered around and gotten lost? Why?
“I’m going to wait until the autopsy results come in, talk to the detective,
then talk to the boys again.”
“Do you think—something else happened?”
“I don’t know, Adele. I think—” Max didn’t want to share her theories with Adele. Not until she had proof. “I’m not sure that the entire story has been told.”
“Call me. I—I’m going to have a funeral for him. Detective Horn said a few days and I should be able to…” Again, her voice trailed off.
“Let me know about it. If I’m still here, I’ll come.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” Adele hung up and Max was relieved. The grief of parents twisted her stomach in knots. She had a headache—she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She wasn’t hungry, but knew she needed to eat something or she wouldn’t be able to sleep. Especially when she couldn’t get Scott Sheldon’s dead body out of her mind.
She made a reservation at the Tavern, her favorite restaurant at the Broadmoor. She’d been to the resort many times in the past—it was one of her favorite places to relax—only this time, she didn’t feel relaxed.
Chuck called her cell phone as she was leaving for dinner. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. You were very quiet during the drive back.”
“It’s been a long day,” she said. “I’m dining at the Tavern, if you’d like to join me.”
He didn’t commit. “I’ll see.”
“You know where I am,” she said, and hung up. She didn’t want small talk; she didn’t really want to talk at all.
The restaurant was across the courtyard from the main building. She stepped out into pouring rain. The doorman handed her a complimentary umbrella, and she smiled her thanks, but had no energy to talk. Her thoughts were filled with images of Scott Sheldon dying alone—buried in snow, pounded with rain, covered with layers of mulch. Her melancholy turned to anger. There was no reason he should have died on that mountain.
She was seated immediately and ordered a crab cake appetizer and wine before she looked at the menu. The wine, thankfully, arrived first.
She stared at the fire across the room, sipped her wine, and tried to force her mind to go blank. It was something she had a hard time doing, turning off her thoughts. Either her mind had to be working or her body—preferably both. But today all she felt was cold, even in the warm restaurant and wearing her favorite cashmere sweater and snug wool slacks. She shouldn’t be cold, but even the hot shower after she returned from the mountain hadn’t warmed her.
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