The Trapped Girl (The Tracy Crosswhite Series Book 4)

by Robert Dugoni

  The altitude burned in her lungs. Lactic acid made the muscles of her legs ache, and the wound on the side of her head throbbed, making her even more light-headed and nauseated. After several hundred yards, she had to stop to catch her breath. The dark clouds over the sickly gray peaks had deepened in color, roiling like a frothing ocean about to unleash its fury. A burst of lightning lit up the clouds and a blue-white fork descended, crackling as it dropped to the ground. Almost immediately, an explosion shook the ground, followed by a low rumble, as if someone were beating a bass drum. If Fields didn’t kill her, the lightning might.

  Tracy pressed along a rocky ridgeline, but soon realized she was just running. Andrea Strickland had likely left the designated path, taken a different direction, maybe found a safe hiding place. Tracy did not have the skills to track her, but knew Fields, who’d spent a decade in the desert, could likely read the two women’s tracks. What she needed was to get to higher ground, to someplace where she’d have a vantage point on the surrounding area, and, hopefully, see them.

  She left the path, her ears fine-tuned to the sound of a shotgun or a handgun firing. She moved up the hillside, toward a rock outcropping beneath one of the jagged peaks. The ground beneath her feet became more and more unstable as the hillside steepened. Her boots slid in the rocks with each step, forcing her to bend over, like a bear, pawing her way up the mountain, breathing heavily, perspiring. Another burst of lightning caused the ground around her to crackle. Instinctively, she dropped to her belly, feeling the hair on her arms twitch and stand on end. She covered her ears as the burst of thunder clapped directly over her. Then she felt the first drops of rain, large pellets of water, hit her in the back and splash against the surrounding rocks.

  She got up quickly, continuing to climb, the rifle slung over her shoulder and hanging down her back. She had to be deliberate with her movements to keep from sliding down the hill. She reached the edge of the rock outcropping and estimated the rock formation to be thirty feet high. If she could climb it, she’d have a 360-degree view of the entire valley.

  The intensity of the rain increased, soaking her clothing. She pressed on, shaking the water from her eyes, climbing carefully.

  When she finally scaled the top, she could see the valley, but had to drop to her belly when another bolt of lightning crackled. This time the thunder was a deep, rolling rumble followed by a thunderous explosion that seemed to shake the mountains. When the noise had passed, Tracy scurried back to her feet, removed the rifle, and fit the lens of the scope to her eye, searching the valley for Andrea Strickland and Penny Orr, for any sign of movement.

  Not seeing any.

  My aunt, not acclimated to the altitude or to the physical exertion, was exhausted and having trouble catching her breath. I grabbed her hand and pulled her up the mountain, feeling her falter. Breathing heavily, she wheezed, the rush of adrenaline and anxiety no doubt making it more difficult to catch her breath. I had worked hard to climb Rainier, and I had spent every day since hiking these mountains. I needed to get us out of the valley and into the cover of the rocks, where we could hide, and where I might have a chance to use the shotgun. I hadn’t fired it since I was a teenager, but my grandfather had taught me well. He always said I didn’t have to be perfect. I just had to be in the vicinity of whatever I aimed at.

  My aunt slipped and gave a muffled scream, but I managed to keep a grip on her hand and stop her from sliding down the hillside.

  “You go on,” she said, sitting. “I’m just slowing you down.”

  “I’m not going on without you,” I said. “Get up.”

  “I can’t,” she said.

  I looked down the mountain and saw Fields hugging the ridgeline. I wasn’t certain he’d seen us, but he was following our path and he was closing ground. “Get up, Aunt Penny. Get up now!”

  She stumbled to her feet. I looked past her, back down the mountain. Fields had turned, looking directly at us. He lowered his head and started to climb the incline.

  “Come on,” I said to my aunt, “come on.” I yanked my aunt’s arm, pulling her. The rocks I hoped to reach were another thirty yards, but it was a sharp ascent. My aunt was never going to make it.

  Fields kept coming, legs churning, closing ground.

  My aunt slipped again and her hand ripped from my grasp. She slid down the loose rock, rolling onto her side, tumbling. She came to a stop halfway between me and where Fields had halted his progress. He looked up at me and smiled, knowing I couldn’t get down the mountain fast enough to reach my aunt before he would get to her.

  I dropped to a knee, took aim, and fired.

  Tracy used the scope on the rifle to scan the valley floor section by section. The clouds and the rain had created a gray shroud, making it difficult to see. Several times, she stopped her progress, focusing on what she thought might be people before realizing it was just an odd rock formation, or a plant of some kind. She lowered the scope and wiped the water from her forehead.

  She heard what sounded like another clap of thunder, followed by an echo, then realized there had been no lightning strike. The sound had not come from overhead, but down in the valley, somewhere behind her. She turned and repositioned herself on the rocks, raised the scope to her eye, and looked down the mountain. She saw Fields first. He’d dropped to his belly on the side of the hill. Perhaps fifteen yards farther up the hill lay someone else, Penny Orr. Tracy quickly scanned the area. Still farther up the hill she saw Andrea Strickland, the shotgun in both hands, its butt pressed underneath her arm and against her side.

  She watched the barrel kick up and heard the reverberation of the second shot. When she put the scope back to her eye, she saw Fields getting back to his feet. Strickland had missed. She’d have to reload.

  She’d never have enough time.

  Tracy slid to the edge and rested the barrel of the rifle on a rock. She lowered her body to a prone position and slid forward, pressing her eye to the scope, fighting to focus. The gun was too low.

  Fields was on the move again, up the hillside. She could only guess Andrea Strickland was frantically trying to reload.

  She grabbed a couple of flat rocks, stacking them, throwing others away, and repositioned the rifle. She pressed her eye tight to the scope. Fields closed ground on Penny Orr, who lay on her side, not moving. Tracy’s vision blurred from the rain rolling down her forehead into her eyes. She pulled her eye from the scope and blinked away the water, then fit the eyepiece tightly to her socket. She struggled to align the crosshairs on Fields, who continued to move. She’d never hit his head. A center mass shot to the chest was her only real chance. She hoped the deputy had recently calibrated his weapon. She would either be dead-on, or, at that distance, she could miss by two feet.

  Fields reached Orr, pistol in hand. He stood over her, alternately looking down at her and raising his gaze, presumably in the direction of Andrea Strickland. Then he smiled, a smug you’ve lost smile, raised his arm, and took aim.

  Tracy pressed the trigger halfway, released a low whistle of air, and pulled the trigger.

  I shot a second time. Fields fell quickly. For a moment I thought I’d hit him. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet. I’d missed. The shotgun was made for close range and only held two shells. Fields smiled. Then he raised his pistol and fired at me, causing me to drop to the ground. When I looked up, he was on his feet, moving up the mountain, toward my aunt. I sat up, groping in my pockets for the extra shells, but my hands had become cold and stiff from the rain and the drop in temperature. I was having trouble getting the shells out of my pocket. When I did, I realized I hadn’t cracked open the barrel of the shotgun.

  I looked up. Fields was within yards of my aunt. Close enough to kill her.

  I dropped a shell and watched it roll down the hill and out of reach. Shaking, I cracked the barrel, blew into my cupped hand to warm my fingers, and fumbled for the second shell in my pocket, but I was distracted, looking at Fields. He was nearly on top of my aunt. I could
n’t insert the second shell, fingers cold and fumbling. Fields looked up at me and smiled. I slipped the shell into the barrel. Fields took aim with the handgun, my aunt still lying prone on the ground. I wouldn’t be in time. I snapped closed the barrel and shouted.

  “No!”

  Tracy saw the burst of red, an explosion of blood.

  Fields’s upper body twitched, a spasm, as if he’d been struck by a jolt of electricity. The arm holding the gun swung wildly. She kept aim through the scope, prepared to fire again, but Fields pitched backward, rolling down the mountain, tumbling head over heels, then sliding and not coming to a stop until he was nearly at the trail.

  Tracy kept the scope trained on him, watching for movement.

  Seeing none.

  She moved the scope back up the hill. Andrea Strickland slid and sidestepped down the mountain to her aunt. When she reached her, she dropped to her knees, and they embraced. They stayed that way for a moment, then Andrea looked up to the ridgeline, to where she’d likely heard the shot, to where Tracy crouched.

  Tracy pulled the scope from her eye, watching the two women without the aid of magnification. She knew how they felt. Tracy’s mother had been her only relative after her father’s suicide, but they’d had too short a period of time together. Her mother died of cancer just two years after Sarah disappeared, leaving Tracy alone. She hoped Penny Orr lived a long time. She hoped the two women, both damaged, could be the support each other needed.

  She sat back against the rocks and tilted her head to the sky, feeling the rain on her face, hearing it splatter around her on the rocks. She thought of Penny Orr and Andrea Strickland. She thought of the sister she’d never grow old with. She thought of her mother and father and the life she’d once had, and the life she’d once lived.

  She wished she had one relative still alive, somebody to hug.

  Then she thought of Dan and the thought made her cry.

  She was glad Andrea Strickland would have a baby, a child of her own to adore, to spoil, to love. And in that moment, she realized it was never too late to bring a child into the world, not one you intended to love with every ounce of your being.

  In the distance, lightning crackled, a burst of blue-white light that lit up the clouds. Seconds later, thunder rolled, the storm drifting farther and farther away.

  CHAPTER 36

  The storm passed and the cabin was bathed in sunshine, though the porch remained damp and drops of water dripped from the metal roof to puddles on the ground. Water rushed down the swollen creek, flowing beneath the wooden bridge and making its way downhill. On the porch, Tracy talked with the deputy, Rick Pearson, and to the sheriff of Inyo County, Mark Davis. Davis had the build of a college lineman, but a youthful face, and a gentle, soft-spoken way about him. Tracy had told Davis where they’d find Stan Fields’s body, and Davis had sent a search and rescue team out to retrieve it.

  “She’s the woman who’s been in the news?” Davis asked. He looked through the front window at Strickland and Orr sitting inside. “The one they thought walked off the mountain?”

  “She’s the one,” Tracy said.

  Davis shook his head. “What’s she doing way out here?”

  “Trying to start over,” Tracy said.

  Davis looked from the window to the valley and the surrounding peaks. “And the body still out there—explain that to me again?”

  “Stan Fields,” Tracy said. “He’s a Pierce County detective in Washington. He had the case originally, realized there was a pot of money nobody might ever find, and came after it.”

  “And you’re investigating the death of the woman whose body was found in a crab pot?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Fields killed her and put her in the pot.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Andrea Strickland was just a possible witness.”

  “She and the woman were friends.”

  Davis’s brow furrowed. He gave Tracy an inquisitive, not-completely-believing look. “What the hell kind of cases do you people get up in Washington?”

  “Tell me about it,” Tracy said, giving them a tired smile.

  “So are you going to need me to swear out a warrant to take her back to Washington?”

  Tracy turned and looked again through the window at Andrea Strickland and at her aunt seated on the couch. She knew what taking Andrea back to Seattle meant—an unrelenting media that would hound her incessantly. They would report and speculate and speculate some more. She knew Graham would also come out of the woodwork, claim his allegiance to Andrea, despite everything . . . and to his baby. Andrea would have to fight him, fight for a divorce. Fight for her child. Fight for her trust.

  “I’ll let you know,” Tracy said.

  Davis blew out a breath and turned to Pearson. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to go see what progress they’re making on the body retrieval.”

  Tracy stepped inside the cabin as Davis and Pearson walked off, crossing the wooden bridge and moving to the rear of the house. When she stepped inside, Andrea Strickland looked up. Penny Orr appeared to be in a daze.

  “What happens now?” Andrea asked. “Am I under arrest?”

  Tracy sat on the love seat. “You suggested the trip up Mount Rainier?”

  Strickland looked surprised by the question and paused to get her bearings. “Yes.”

  “And your intent was to fake your own death and have your husband be a suspect.”

  Strickland nodded. “When I found out I was pregnant, I knew I had to go. I couldn’t raise a child with a man like that, someone abusive. I didn’t want that for my baby. I knew he’d be a suspect, but I also knew he’d never be convicted, not without a body. There’d be no way for anyone to be certain. I wanted it that way. I wanted him to know that I knew what he’d intended to do, and that I was still alive.”

  “How did you find out about him and Devin Chambers?”

  “Devin and I were out together one night. Graham had left for the weekend—at least that’s what he told me. I don’t know why, but I told her that I was using an alias to move the money. She got up to use the bathroom and left her purse on the table. Graham called her cell phone, or a cell phone. She had two. He had no reason to be calling her.”

  “How did she know about Lynn Hoff, and about the bank accounts?”

  “I went into her work computer that night and embedded all the information. My plan was to tell my boss I suspected Graham was having an affair and to implicate Devin. I figured when they pursued it, they’d search her computers and find the information, suspect her and Graham of plotting to kill me. She must have found the information on the computer. That’s likely the reason she took off. I didn’t know she was stealing the money until I saw the withdrawals from the bank account. I knew it had to be her and I figured she was going to run.”

  “So you moved the money.”

  “My aunt and I moved it overseas,” Andrea said. “I don’t have a lot of Internet access up here. We went into Independence. I thought that would be the end of it. My aunt told me they suspected Graham but couldn’t really prove anything. I didn’t know Devin had been killed, but I figured it out when my aunt told me they’d found a crab pot with a woman’s body in it and people were saying it was me.” She shook her head and wiped away tears. “I didn’t mean for anyone to die. I feel like I’m responsible for her death. I feel like I killed her.”

  “You’re not,” Tracy said. “Fields is responsible.” She thought about that. “And so is your husband, and Devin Chambers, to some degree.”

  “You reap what you sow,” Penny Orr said, lifting her head.

  “Something like that,” Tracy said.

  “How can I raise a child with a man who was going to kill me?” Andrea Strickland said, shaking her head. “And even if I divorce him, how can I let that man anywhere near my child?”

  “That’s not a legal question. That’s a moral question.” Tracy smiled.

  Andrea gave her an inquisitive look. �
�I don’t understand.”

  “It’s out of my jurisdiction.”

  Strickland continued to stare at her, disbelieving. Then she asked, “So what do I do now?”

  Tracy stood. “You live your life, Andrea. You just live your life. And love your child. And if you’re fortunate enough to meet someone down the road, someone who loves you unconditionally, who makes you laugh and smile and forget the bad parts of your past, you grab on to him, and hold on to him with both hands.”

  “My aunt told me you’ve been through this,” Andrea said. “She said you lost your family.”

  “I did,” Tracy said.

  “How did you get through it?”

  Tracy gave the question some thought. “One day at a time,” she said. “You focus on the good days. You focus on that child of yours.”

  “Do you have children?”

  Tracy shook her head. “No.”

  “But you found someone, someone who loves you?”

  “I did,” she said.

  Andrea Strickland smiled. “Maybe you’ll have kids.”

  Tracy returned the smile. “Maybe,” she said, and she stepped toward the porch.

  “Detective,” Andrea said.

  Tracy turned back. The young woman came close and embraced her. “Thank you,” she said. “And I’m sorry about your family, that you had to go through this.”

  Moments like these, Tracy realized what it meant to be without her family. “I’m sorry you had to go through it, too.”

  CHAPTER 37

  When Tracy returned to work, Johnny Nolasco summoned her into his office. He sat behind his desk, cheaters on the end of his nose, reading her draft report. Nolasco set down the report and removed the cheaters, holding them.

  “Am I to understand that you just let this woman go?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Are you kidding me?” When Tracy didn’t answer, Nolasco said, “She’s led two police departments on a wild-goose chase for more than two months that resulted in the wrongful prosecution of her husband and two deaths, and you just let her walk? You want to explain that?”