The Interrogation

by Adira August

  Trowbridge looked back outside. In front of the building, a plow and catcher truck rumbled through the already-cleared intersection between headquarters and the old courthouse.

  “Are you saying maybe they found him?”

  Hunter stood. “I wish I could. I'm simply saying we don't know anything yet. And it'll be a while before we do. Plowing out the road to the search area is Jefferson County’s number one priority now.”

  Ben Trowbridge got up and met Twee coming over with the coffee he’d abandoned. He took it and sipped. “Not bad for designated emergency coffee,” Trowbridge said, trying not to think of his son.

  “Your tax dollars at work.” Garza dunked a donut half into his own cup. “Maybe have a bite. Blood sugar is a good thing.”

  “Maybe I’ll find the men’s first.”

  Fulton tipped the last of his coffee into his mouth. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Gotta get that prostate checked, old man,” DiMato called across the room.

  They left the room.

  “Where’s Diane?” Twee asked Hunt.

  “Still sleeping when I checked a few minutes ago. Better than worrying.” Hunter tilted his head back and blew out a breath.

  She laid one of her small, warm hands on his wrist. “He’s Camden fucking Snow. That”—she stabbed an index finger at the white world outside—“cannot kill him.”

  “He said he’d go get Brian.” His face was stark. “He has no limits, Carol. Do you understand? None. It doesn’t have to try and kill him. He’ll offer himself up.”

  A SNOW-COVERED WINDSHIELD, from the inside.

  Snow slumped down the glass, warmed by the heat of bodies inside. It was light, but there was no brilliance here; the sun hadn't topped the foothills.

  The SUV was a white bump in five feet of snow with a strip of red on the passenger side where the roof met the side.

  A massive ten-foot drift buried the driver’s side of the pickup.

  “I gotta take a piss,” Vargas said.

  “Use one o’ the water bottles. Be a while before we can get out.” Avron offered Vargas a liter bottle half-full of yellow liquid.

  “Give me the other one too.”

  Lonny Vargas lowered the window a few inches and beat at the short wall of white left behind. The snow tumbled away. He stretched up and peeked out through the slit.

  “Good. It slopes down.”

  “Not on this side. And this bottle’s no good, it’s full.”

  Lonny Vargas finished opening the window, punching the snow away as he did. He took the two plastic drink bottles and flung them yards away from the vehicle.

  “Dammit, Lonny! What the hell are you doin’?”

  They’d landed silently, only partially buried in the layer of white.

  “They stunk,” Vargas said. “That surface is going to be great for the snowmobiles. But now I really have to go.” He shoved his legs out first and folded himself over, using his hands to pull himself through.

  He stopped when his butt was still in the opening and aimed an arcing golden stream at the bottles. He revolved himself and stood with his feet on the bottom of the open window.

  “Looks like the drift on your side’s nine, maybe ten feet. But it’s skewed to the front,” he called so Avron could hear him. “There’s only maybe eighteen inches on top of the tarp. We’ll get to the snowmobiles easy.” Vargas twisted around to look out over the landscape. “I think outside the drifts, this is only about thirty, maybe thirty-six inches of accumulation.”

  Avron scooted over to whap Vargas on the calf. “Well, get out the way so we can go find everybody.”

  BEN TROWBRIDGE HAD taken his coffee and a couple donuts back into the captain’s office to call his family on the landline.

  The detectives took to the desks for a briefing in front of the whiteboard.

  “I know it’s hard to focus, but let’s get this wrapped up as much as possible,” Hunter said. “Davidson, the assault charge written up?”

  “It is. The file's complete except for copies of the video.”

  Ed Chang handed her three thumb drives in an evidence bag. “Here you go.”

  Deedee Davidson gave Hunt a thumbs-up.

  “And just to make sure kudos are delivered: Davidson, you make one hell of an airhead!” DiMato slow-clapped her, and the others joined in, Merisi whistling through his teeth.

  Ben Trowbridge came out of the office.

  Hunter spotted him first and waved everyone quiet.

  “I'm sorry, Mister Trowbridge,” Hunt told him. “We were just thanking Detective Davidson for all her help. There's no news.”

  Fulton tried to usher Ben back inside, but he pulled away. “This is about Brian, isn't it? The work that was done? What’s happening this morning?”

  Everyone looked at everyone else.

  “Sir, if bad news comes in, and I have no reason yet to expect that, it might be delivered in some terms that will be harsh or graphic,” Hunter said. “And work decisions have to be made objectively, which will sound callous, and cause you pain. But I need to do my job. So I’d really prefer it if you left the room.”

  Trowbridge settled on the edge of a desk and crossed his arms. “I’ll tell you Lieutenant, one of the hardest parts of this was remaining … courteous, I guess, while everyone handled me. You can’t ‘handle’ my rage or my fear. If Brian’s dead, the way I hear about it isn’t going to make one iota of difference to me.”

  “I’ve been doing this awhile, and I think it will make a great deal of difference to you,” Hunter said. “But I’ll let you decide if you want to find an empty desk. We're talking about the man who took Brian, right now. Making the case against him.”

  Natani came out of McCauley’s office.

  “Good timing,” said Hunter. “Natani, let’s go ahead and prepare charges in all the cases. Each of the detectives can take a victim. If we have another death, or more than one, it could be days before they're found. Also the other homicide detail will be coming into work as soon as side streets are cleared. I’m moving this whole operation to our offices this afternoon. DiMato, any problem with transferring the feed?”

  “No problem.”

  “What’s the feed?” Ben Trowbridge asked. “What exactly is going on?”

  THEY STOPPED BEHIND a huge cedar-framed triplex with multiple decks. Large brass numbers by the door: 87.

  “Ferriter's,” Vargas said.

  “Okay. See the siren switch?” Avron asked.

  Vargas did. He threw it with his gloved thumb. A high sharp wailing ensued. He cut it off.

  “We'll do that if we find anything or get into trouble,” Avron told him. “Sure, but it’s a little crude. You have walkie-talkies, I’ve seen them.”

  “I only have one ‘cause Hans was too lazy to learn how to use the damn thing.”

  “Right.” Vargas got it. Neither of them expected to be out overnight.

  “I’m savin’ what’s left of the battery for later. Probably be some folks come looking for us couple hours from now. I’ll try giving them a holler.”

  Vargas took what looked like a modified ski pole with a hooked end from a clip mount. “What's this for?”

  “Pulling back branches and stuff, in case there's someone underneath. You can push them into a snowbank to see if there's a body.”

  The deputy snapped it back into place near the rescue litter he pulled. Avron had one, also. “If you find anything, wait for me. Remember it's a crime scene. I've got a camera, scene tape”—he showed Avron gloves and evidence bags—“bolt cutters and a body bag. Here, take some gloves.”

  Avron did and stuffed them into his pocket.

  “How exactly do we do this, Avron?”

  “We don’t have much but this spot as a start point. No intended route or likely direction. I’m thinking we traverse the slope in opposite directions. Criss-cross each other, make our own switchbacks.”

  “Got it. Makes sense he'd use his own property for access,” Vargas sai
d. “But it's risky to leave the victim on it. We should cover properties on either side too.”

  “Sounds right. Remember, there'll be huge drifts, trees and limbs down. In some places the snow'll be six feet deep. You'll be running over what looks like flat ground and find yourself on top of a boulder. Or driving over a victim.” He started his machine back up. “And remember, under no circumstances dismount unless we're together.”

  Avron led Vargas over the side and motioned him right, while he took the left. They threaded their way slowly through the trees, each focused on his immediate surroundings.

  Vargas detoured a long way around a fallen tree. The sled dropped suddenly underneath him and left him looking up from a hidden creek bed.

  He cranked it hard and blasted up the side at an angle, hoping he got over the top before he tipped over.

  AVRON MOVED SLOWLY down a depression through the trees, checking lower branches. Vargas had told him to look for the camera, since the man wouldn’t have carried in a ladder as well as the boy. He would have left the camera five to seven feet above the ground.

  But Avron knew the surface of the snow after the storm was varying feet above the ground, and that camera could be below him. He poked his pole carefully into an eight-foot drift.

  VARGAS STOPPED BETWEEN trees and shut down the sled. The sudden deep silence enveloped him. He pulled off his helmet and opened his coat. The sun was well up, the air still, the shadows of the trees ink on alabaster. Part of the plan was to stop and listen in case anyone was calling.

  Loud caws startled him. Two camp robbers chased each other through the branches of a tree. The big birds shook loose drifts and globs of snow. Vargas hung the helmet on the hitch handle of the stretcher rig behind him and got a water bottle and some trail mix from a saddlebag.

  He tossed a handful of raisins and nuts onto the snow where a branch stuck up from beneath. The big birds zoomed down, tossed the bits of food back like tequila shots at a bar.

  Vargas ate the mix and examined the branches and trunks of nearby trees. A habit so ingrained in the last forty minutes he thought it might last a lifetime. When he tipped the remaining contents of the bag into his mouth, something on one of the trees further on caught his eye.

  It was actually part of a long shadow cast by the tree. A solid swath of black with straight edges and a ninety-degree angle.

  He started the sled and let it carry him slowly to the shadow, along the shadow to the tree, and stopped within touching distance where the branches were sparse.

  His gloved hand closed around a thick branch a foot over his head. He shook it hard. Snow tumbled down, some on his unprotected head. He brushed it off, eyes traveling along the branch to a beige metal box.

  It wasn’t a box.

  He hit the siren.

  “I’M TELLING YOU there’s nothing to see. If there were, I would not allow you to see it,” Hunt said for the third time.

  “It’s been hours. You can see where he is. That's my son, I want—I need to see him again. I didn’t know the last time was the last time. You have to show me.” Ben Trowbridge grabbed his hair in both hands and pulled, as if he'd fly apart if he didn't hold on.

  Hunter was certain he would. This man was on the verge of breaking. What that would look like, he’d only know when it happened. But Trowbridge was desperate and exhausted. Hunt would never allow him to look at a blank white screen, which was all the snow-impacted lens showed.

  The danger was the sun reaching the camera causing the lens to be abruptly unimpacted. That the picture would—in a split second—reveal his dead son.

  A HIGHER DRIFT ON THE FAR side of the tree had trapped some of the branches. On Vargas’ side, chunks of sun-warmed snow fallen from the branches above had created an irregular depression around the trunk.

  The faint brrrrruuuuppppprupprupp of Avron’s sled reached him.

  Closer, a scraping. The faint noise came from the far side of the tree trunk under the snowdrift.

  Vargas guided the snowmobile around the trunk, heeding the warning not to dismount alone. He knew the snow was at least five feet deep here. People had been known to step off into snow so deep they sank over their heads and smothered.

  The scraping sound was irregular. An animal digging for bugs to eat? Something moved under the drift.

  Leaning far over, hanging on with one hand, he scooped away the snow. A sharp metal spike appeared. It moved in a circle. Thunked against the tree. Vargas used Avron’s modified pole to reach out and grab it. He pulled hard, tilting it. He unhooked. It stayed in place for a few seconds and then, it tilted back.

  Cam.

  Vargas repositioned the snowmobile and climbed onto the litter. “I’m here! Avron’s coming!”

  The tip of the ski pole tapped the tree trunk twice.

  The deputy stretched out on his stomach and dug into the drift. His gloves were a blunt hindrance, and he took them off, digging with his bare hands.

  Let him have the boy … Let him have the boy ... Let them be okay.

  Then Avron was on the other side, also on his litter. He had a small pointed shovel. He scraped instead of dug.

  They were uncovering a tree from halfway up its height. Branches were in the way. Dug around. More branches with … a belt on?

  Avron’s shovel clunked against something dull but hard. “A ski?”

  A slick silvery surface. Vargas touched it. It was crinkly. A space blanket.

  “Get back!” A muffled order from beneath the silver thing and a buck knife blade thrust up and cut a slit the full diameter of the hole they’d excavated. Two hands tore it open and Cam Snow’s dimpled grin greeted them.

  “Tell me you have bolt cutters.”

  Vargas retrieved them from the pack and handed them over.

  “Cam—”

  “Standby. Don’t move.” He disappeared into the hole in the snow.

  Avron looked over at Vargas.

  “He tends to order people around,” Vargas said.

  Muffled clinking and swearing. “It’s okay, come here.”

  A small sandy-haired head appeared.

  “Is my dad here?”

  It was Avron who reached and pulled Brian Trowbridge to his litter and the safety of his arms. He wrapped him in blankets and felt all his limbs and examined his fingers and toes.

  Brian’s neck was cushioned in a white cloth that turned out to be a man’s t-shirt. Underneath, his neck was badly scraped and bruised by the chain. Blood had dried on a series of wipes layered around his neck. The kind of antiseptic wipes that came in packets. Avron left it all in place.

  Other than his carefully protected neck and a deep furrow in his forehead at the hairline, Brian was fine and very dirty. But mostly, Brian was alive.

  “Avron!” Cam’s head was half out of the hole. “Brian’s good. Whistle up your dog, would you? He needs motivating.”

  “Holy Christ, Cam, you have Hans?” Vargas asked.

  “He had us,” Cam said. He saw Avron’s stricken face. “Listen, I think his legs just went to sleep, you know?” Cam ducked down.

  “Hans!” A weak woof-rowl followed. Avron wiped his eyes. “Let’s go! To me, now.” He let out a whistle, a weak one. Coughed once and whistled loudly.

  They heard Cam encouraging Hans.

  “C’mon, big guy, you can do this. … Avron! If I grab him and pull, will he bite me?”

  “I’m coming down.”

  Cam was almost instantly at the opening. “No, you’re taking care of Brian. This isn’t a real igloo; it’s barely a lean-to. And not much of one. Nobody else comes in.”

  “You come out too,” Vargas told him. “It’s too dangerous with the sun warming everything. Too unstable.”

  “You guys bring some rope?” Cam asked.

  “Goddammit. Snow, I swear to God I’ll arrest you if you don’t follow my orders and come out of there now!”

  “Okay,” Cam agreed. “So what about the rope?”

  “No,” Avron said. “And t
he straps on the litters are short and attached.”

  “Then give me your shovel. This’ll take a minute.”

  Avron slid it over, and Cam went back down.

  Vargas leaned over and shouted into the hole, “Goddammit, get back up here!”

  “Watch the language. There’s a little kid around,” Cam called back.

  “I’ve got rope!”

  Vargas sat up and sorted through the pack behind the seat, swearing under his breath. When he found the 150-foot coil of red climbing rope, he also found Cam peeking over the edge of the hole at him.

  “Toss it over.”

  “Up yours.” Vargas got himself down on the litter and offered Cam the rope.

  “You wish,” Cam grinned as he took it. With one eye on Avron who was speaking quietly with Brian, Cam pushed himself up, motioning Vargas closer. Vargas leaned in.

  “Give me your belt so I can muzzle him. I have to stabilize his legs and hips. I think something’s broken, and could hurt like hell getting him out. He’s not doing so good, Lonny.”

  “Cam. Be serious. This thing can collapse any second. Hans is a terrific dog. But he’s a dog.”

  “Belt.”

  Vargas recoiled slightly from the sudden frigidity of those ice-blue eyes. He gave Cam his belt.

  “Get over here and drop your arm down the hole. When I put the ends of the rope in your hand, get back in the seat and tie them down. We’ll both pull at once, slow and steady, on my signal.” He dropped out of sight.

  AVRON COULTER WAS no fool. He knew something must be very wrong with Hans. He knew the insane ski kid was risking injury and death to get Hans out. Avron loved Big Hans. But he and Hans were dedicated to saving people. He would have ordered Cam out himself if he thought there was any chance Cam would obey.

  Instead, he tucked Brian up in another blanket and tried his walkie-talkie. Nothing.

  “Do you think anyone can find us?” Brian asked. “Nobody knows where we are.”

  “You don’t think three grown men and two snowmobiles can rescue you?” Avron pocketed the two-way radio. “Everyone knows where we are. We’ll leave as soon as Hans gets out and drive on up to the meeting place. They’re plowing a way in right now. Just not in range yet.”