Sutton Lee

by Christa Wick

  Calling Caiden's name, I jump into the shallows and drag the boat's front third onto the stony ground. I tie the dock line around the trunk of a young willow. Nygård joins me on shore, helping me secure the abandoned boat.

  I call Siobhan on the radio while he scans the visible portions of the lake with the binoculars. I pray he doesn't spot a lifejacket floating on the current.

  "Found the boat about a mile and a half north of the docks," I tell my cousin. "Divert all the boats upstream."

  When Siobhan comes back, I can hear Delia's questions, her voice ragged.

  "No sign of Caiden. Siobhan, get everyone on an open channel."

  She tells me to switch to channel seven and gives me the frequency. I glance at Nygård when he lowers the field glasses. He shakes his head.

  Talking to Siobhan, I slowly walk the edge of the shoreline looking for where Caiden might have exited the boat.

  "What are we working with?" Siobhan asks.

  "Boat was untethered. I'm looking for where he got off."

  One of the many prayers I offer up is that he left the boat under his own power instead of falling out. If he was unconscious when he hit the water, the current could have carried him near an inlet. An eddy could have redirected him into the inlet and a sunken log or fallen tree could have snagged him.

  Hearing another outboard motor, I look down the lake and wave my arms at Gamble. He must have stopped at Mama's dock because there are two ranch hands with him. Reaching my position, he idles the engine.

  "Nothing," I say. "No telling how far the current pushed the boat back toward Mama's or which side of the lake he crawled up on."

  Looking at the sky, I feel its weight pressing down on me. We have maybe an hour of light left, less under the cover of trees. There are creatures in the woods that the boy wouldn't survive a meeting with in daylight, let alone in darkness. Adler shot at two of them this afternoon.

  I speak into the hand radio. "Coordinate thirty-yard intervals starting at Belle's Inlet, each side of the lake. Two-man teams. Maintain visual contact."

  Gamble nods his approval of the instructions.

  "Got it," Siobhan says. "Anything else?"

  "Get Teddy in the air," I answer. "I don't care how much money the old man wants to fly in this wind, get his chopper in the air now."

  Signing off, I tether the abandoned boat to mine then motion Nygård to climb in.

  "Take it back to the docks for the search teams to use."

  "What do you want me to do after that?"

  "Stick close to the house. When we find the boy, I don't want the only doctor in a thirty-mile radius bogged down halfway up the mountain."

  He gives me a short, earnest nod then starts the motor. Standing in the shallows, I push the boat further from shore.

  Gamble throws a look at the trees behind me.

  "You going in?"

  I nod, take out my phone and try texting Siobhan.

  I want the search teams armed. Relay the order away from Delia.

  For a few seconds, I'm not sure whether the message will reach her over the phone. Then a thumbs up emoji appears on my screen.

  "You carrying?" Gamble asks.

  "Nope."

  Surprising me, he reaches into his boot and pulls out an ankle gun.

  "Seven rounds," he says, handing me the M&P Bodyguard 380. "Hope you don't need it."

  For Caiden's sake, so do I.

  Light disappears from the sky. I walk alone through woodland I have explored since childhood. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of another searcher's light. More frequently, I hear someone call Caiden's name. Teddy has buzzed by twice in his helicopter, the big light he can shine casting an eerie twilight for a few seconds before he flies out of range. The dogs are running with their handlers. The hounds have been given a snout full of Caiden's backpack. But the wind is our enemy. It lifts the scent up off the ground, evading the dogs completely or whipping them in the wrong direction.

  Tripping over a log in the dark, I stay down.

  I need water. The crews around me came with canteens, protein bars, toilet paper, bug spray and more.

  Wiping my hands on my jeans, I think of Caiden, try to crawl into his mindset. In the short time I've known the boy, I have witnessed a level of intense focus that is rare in this world. He can spend hours in a single position. He can ignore everyone around him. Maybe that is what he is doing now, hunkered down a few feet from shore and not answering those calling his name because he doesn't recognize the voices.

  On the other hand, he could be twelve miles ahead of us, still walking despite the blisters and bug bites he's bound to have by now.

  Not twelve miles, I think. The dark and the trees will slow him down same as they are slowing down the searchers.

  I wipe my hands again and press the talk button on the hand radio.

  "Sutton to Base."

  Mama's voice answers. There's a shake to it.

  "Siobhan pick up the drone?"

  "Yes," Mama answers. "But…the winds…"

  I figured as much. "How many pieces is it in?"

  "Three. It didn't get that far off the ground."

  "Camera still working?"

  She tells me it is, then follows with more bad news.

  "Teddy's at his limit."

  "Tell him to refuel and wait for me. Get the drone's camera and tablet to him, tell Quinn I need Barrett's rappel kit."

  "The wind…" Mama starts.

  She sniffles, then draws a deep breath.

  "Sutton…I…"

  When she says my name, I hear the pain of a mother who has already lost one child, a mother who also lived through long days of uncertainty waiting to find out if she had lost me, too.

  "I'm sorry, Mama."

  "I know. I had a moment of weakness." Her breath rattles inside her throat as she exhales. "Kenneth Mays gave his life for everyone on this ranch. You won't let his son or wife down."

  Gaining my feet, I turn to face downhill. I press the talk button one last time before I turn the spotlight back on and sprint through the tangle of roots and rocks on my way back to the lake.

  "Love you, Mama. Sutton out."

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  An agent from our home office drops Emerson's car at the airport. By the time we touch down in Billings and point the vehicle toward Willow Gap, nearly seven hours have passed since Delia's call.

  I reach her on the phone. Her voice sounds like it did when she notified me of Ken's death.

  The news isn't that bad, not yet at least.

  There has been no sighting of Caiden. Search teams are still out. A helicopter is in use. There will be more air surveillance when the wind dies down.

  The call ends when one of the searchers returns with a sprained ankle and she leaves to help the man.

  It's a special kind of hell, I think. Delia can best help the search by helping the searchers. But, to do so, with her distant background as a paramedic, she has to bear witness to all the injuries that Caiden might also be suffering from at this moment.

  "Any sightings?" Emerson questions after I put my phone away.

  I offer a SITREP that includes the lone helicopter pilot.

  "Who the hell is flying in this?" Emerson asks as the same high winds plaguing the search bully his sedan from one lane to the next.

  "Teddy Raspell?" My tone turns the name into a question because I'm not sure exactly what Delia was saying between her intermittent sobs.

  "Civilian," Emerson explains. "If the wind is below fifty knots and Teddy stays five hundred feet above ground, it's hard to legally tell him he can't go out under visual flight rules at night."

  Another gust of wind jerks the steering wheel in Emerson's hands.

  "No way in hell are these winds below fifty knots," he rumbles.

  Feeling helpless, I offer no opinion, just clasp my hands against my lap, close my eyes, and pray.

  A message from Siobhan directs us to the stables instead of the main house. Dus
t hangs heavy in the air, reflecting the light of the car's headlamps back at us.

  "Is this from the wind?"

  "Not all of it," Emerson answers. "One of the pens is big enough to land Teddy's chopper. He may have just set down or taken off."

  I don't know which option I prefer. If the pilot has just returned, maybe he has good news. But, if that were true, my cell phone would be buzzing by now.

  "There."

  I follow the line of Emerson's outstretched finger. He turns the car in the same direction. A second later, the headlights illuminating the dust also light up Delia.

  Standing frozen by a horse pen with its wooden slats, she looks lost. Her face points up at the sky while her hands hang down around her hips, the fingers uncurled and limp. She must hear the drone of the sedan's engine, see the headlights on her, but she doesn't look our way.

  Just keeps staring up.

  The stable manager steps into view, squinting and waving at us. Emerson puts the car in park. I am out of my seat and shutting the door before he pulls his keys from the ignition. He exits the vehicle as I throw my arms around Delia.

  She stiffens, looks at me as if she doesn't recognize who I am.

  "I was trying to get her back up to the house," Royce tells Emerson.

  "I'm supposed to be better in a crisis," she whispers. "Lord knows, I've had plenty of practice."

  Her chest expands. The deep breath pulls in lingering dust from the air. She immediately starts coughing.

  "Maybe you want to use my office."

  I nod at Royce. I still don't know why Delia is at the stables, don't know why Siobhan's short message directed us here.

  "Come on, Del." Wrapping one arm around her waist, I coax her toward the interior of the stables and the brightly lit office. "Did a helicopter just leave?"

  She bobs her head as another round of coughing overtakes her. I ease her onto a couch that is pushed against one wall.

  "Stay here. I'll get you something to drink."

  Emerson has followed me into the stables. Standing outside Royce's office, he falls into step next to me as I head for the break room.

  "Sutton and Teddy went up about fifteen minutes ago."

  A rare flash of emotion crosses the face of my boss. My mind jumps to the worst possible conclusion.

  "Remains?" I whisper.

  "No, God…not that. There's still no idea where Caiden is. In these winds, at Teddy's fuel capacity…they maybe have two hours of searching."

  I grab his arm, nerves making me dig my fingers into the meaty bicep.

  "What aren't you telling me?"

  "Nothing."

  I squeeze harder, not caring that this is my boss. I like Emerson, but I will punch him in the face if he withholds information from me about my nephew—or his brother.

  Lucky for both of us, he relents.

  "Sutton took rappelling gear with him."

  My lungs seize, the contraction momentarily pushing out air and all of the concern I have for my sister and nephew. The FBI has special teams for things like breaching and hostage rescues. But, even as a special agent, I am only modestly familiar with rappelling. The outdoor obstacle course at Quantico is nothing like the training the agency's Critical Incident Response Group undertakes.

  "Isn't it too dangerous?" I ask despite already knowing the answer.

  I mean, it's not just dangerous—it's deadly. High winds, quarter moon, the ground either steep and rocky or hiding under a dense canopy of trees.

  "He's had experience…lots of training. And his feet won't touch the ground unless they spot Caiden."

  I want to grab the nearby garbage can and hurl into it the bagel I ate earlier and whatever else my stomach still contains. But Delia starts another coughing fit. Numb, I turn and open a cupboard door. I take down a glass, open the refrigerator and find three gallon jugs of Betty Rae's mint elixir.

  A barking laugh erupts from me.

  I bend over, still laughing. This is hysteria. I recognize the symptoms, but can't control them.

  Emerson rescues the glass before it fully slips from my fingers. He pours the mint water until the glass is half full. He keeps his back turned to me. My body rocks. My forehead veers close to the lip of the counter. I want to tap it—just once.

  Maybe twice.

  Maybe until it starts to bleed.

  How the fuck did I ever become an agent? I am falling apart. As soon as Emerson shuts the refrigerator and turns toward me, I will be unraveling in front of my boss.

  He pivots, I straighten like a whip and force my mouth into something other than the misshapen rictus of despair it had frozen into.

  Emerson hands me the glass. "Hold it together. I know you can, Maddy."

  I nod. Emerson rarely uses my first name. And never has he called me "Maddy." His use now is a gentle, calming slap.

  "Delia needs you."

  Another nod. There is something in the way he says my sister's name, especially the fact that he actually uses her name, that distracts me. But I don't have time to analyze it because Delia's coughing has turned to quiet sobbing.

  My step brisk, I return to Royce's office and shut the door behind me. Taking a seat next to Delia on the couch, I wrap an arm around her shoulder and urge her to drink some.

  "I should be out there," she rasps.

  I gently shush her and encourage another sip.

  She looks up at me, the gray irises vivid against the bloodshot whites of her eyes.

  "I don't know how you hold it together."

  I want to tell her that I'm not holding anything together, that I spent every second of every minute from her first call tonight to this moment right now silently pleading with whatever higher power the universe holds to safely deliver Caiden to his mother. I want to tell her that, mere seconds ago, I lost my shit some thirty feet away from her in the break room.

  But I have never believed misery loves company.

  At least not this type of misery. Delia wants and needs a rock, a steady presence, someone she trusts telling her everything is going to be okay.

  I can't tell her that, either. So I stay silent and composed and push more water down her throat until her shaking stops and she rests her head on my shoulder.

  "By the time you were two, nothing could make you cry." She wraps her hand around mine. Even in her current state, she remembers to keep her touch firm.

  "Made me feel like a whiny baby. Mom and dad with their sunshine and rainbows bullshit all the time and you stoic as a rock. I thought I had to be some kind of a train wreck."

  I disagree.

  "You were the only normal one," I tell her.

  Delia squeezes me hard. I return the hug with equal force. When we separate, she pulls a classic Delia move, pushing her face back into a smile, one I know she doesn't feel.

  "So many people out looking for my baby," she says. "He's going to be okay."

  I force a tight smile that pushes my cheeks up high and narrows my gaze.

  "Your son will come back to you."

  She hugs me at the reassurance. I don't deserve the affection she demonstrates—or the trust. What I just said was a dodge, the words carefully chosen and taught to me long ago by FBI trainers and field agents for situations just like this.

  It was drilled in over and over.

  Never promise what you can't control.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Eyes focused on the thermal display in front of me, I block out all but the loudest grunts and groans coming from Teddy Raspell as he fights the wind for control of his helicopter. A big gust punches at the chopper's nose. My grip tightens on the tablet. I shoot a look at the old man.

  Sweat pours down his face. I feel guilty at what I am demanding of him tonight, but the guilt is nothing compared to my need to keep searching for Caiden.

  A second glance lands on the instrument panel. Dawn is still hours away, while our fuel supply is rapidly running out. It's almost time to turn back.

  Shaking my head, I refoc
us on the tablet's display.

  "Track west," I blurt as a glowing dot disappears from the edge of my screen.

  The helicopter banks left. The dot reappears. So does a second dot.

  "Circle," I order.

  The two dots turn elliptical, their rough edges shifting.

  "Little lower—"

  "I'm at the floor already," Teddy protests.

  We are five-hundred feet above ground level. The top of the closest tree is at least two-hundred-fifty feet below us.

  "Little lower," I repeat. "Not like anyone is watching."

  After a disgruntled growl barely audible over the headset, Teddy obeys.

  "Circle."

  When the chopper hits just the right point in its path, my worst fears about the two moving heat spots are confirmed.

  "Cougars. Has to be the mother and juvenile Adler shot at earlier."

  "They on the move?"

  "Yes." I swipe at the screen, the gesture rewinding the video that has been recording the entire time.

  "On the hunt," I amend after studying the half minute or so of video that I had missed.

  I give Teddy new bearings that match the direction in which the big cats are headed.

  "They could be hunting anything," he says.

  "Then someone else will find the boy in a few hours," I reply.

  "Fuel is getting sketchy."

  I shake my head. "You don't have to make it all the way back to Willow Gap, just Mama's lawn. They'll bring fuel to you there."

  His snort filters through the headset.

  My gaze darts around the screen. The cats would have been following the scent of their prey, scent carried on the day's ill winds. A straight line might take us right past Caiden, leaving his little dot of light in the dark mere millimeters out of the camera's scope.

  "Bob and weave, Teddy. Bob and weave."

  He answers with another snort.

  "You know cougars can't smell for shit."

  Teddy's not wrong, but he's not exactly right. Their short muzzles make for a powerful bite, but lessen the big cats' olfactory tracking ability. Usually, they stay put and wait for their food to come to them. Still, their sense of smell is more advanced than a human's. They also have keen hearing that they hunt with.