Edgar,
Had to go check out a lead—your radar may be right on target. Be back for dinner. Hope you had fun downstairs. I may be buying you those Jimmy Choos after all. See you soon.
Love,
Dutch
I smiled as I set the note down. God, I loved that man. I switched on some lights and curled up on the couch. Flipping on the television, I got comfortable and occupied myself with pay-per-view.
An hour later my stomach was rumbling and I was checking the time. It was six thirty. ‘‘Where are you, cowboy?’’ I wondered. I got up and pulled my cell out of my purse. I hadn’t missed his call or a reply text from him—not that I was expecting one, but I was anxious to hear from him all the same.
I sent him another text, saying, You on your way? and set the phone on the coffee table by the couch to wait for a reply. Another half hour passed and I got up off the couch and clicked off the TV. Picking up my phone, I dialed his cell. It rang four times and went to voice mail. ‘‘Hey, cowboy,’’ I said. ‘‘Sorry if you’re in the middle of something, but I’m hungry!’’ I threw in a laugh to let him know I was joking with him and then added, ‘‘Okay, so call me and let me know you’re okay and when you’re coming back.’’
I set the phone down and stared at it, willing it to ring. Nothing happened. I got up and began to pace the room again, glancing at the cell phone periodically, but another hour passed and still no word from Dutch.
I was working hard to convince myself that things were fine—just because he hadn’t had a chance to call me back didn’t mean anything. The man was trying to work the case to find his cousin. He might be in the middle of something really important and might have put his cell on silent.
I called down to room service and ordered dinner for both of us, chicken noodle soup for him and a club sandwich for me. The food arrived: I kept his plate covered to hold in the heat. I checked my cell again to make sure the battery was still holding its charge—it was.
I picked at the fries and twirled the phone on the tabletop. By nine p.m. I was growing frantic and I made a call to Detective Brosseau. I didn’t have his cell number, so I called the local PD and they forwarded me to his voice mail. I left him an urgent message to call me, then got up to pace the room again.
At eleven p.m. I was a total wreck. I’d left Dutch two more messages, and finally I’d dialed 911 call me! into a text message, but there was no response. And that’s when it hit me. My cell phone was actually FBI regulation issue. Dutch had gotten me the phone as a Valentine’s Day present and the little thing had really come in handy—in fact it had saved my life a few months back.
Being approved for use by the bureau meant that it came with all the bells and whistles, including a GPS location chip that allowed agents to link together and pinpoint one another’s locations if the other’s serial number was encoded into a matching phone. I knew that Dutch had linked our phones together when he’d purchased them, which meant I had the means to see exactly where he was!
I just had to figure out how to use the little gadget and I’d be able to find him. I didn’t have the manual, but I didn’t think it would be too hard to figure it out.
I was wrong about that. It took me over an hour, and as the clock struck midnight, I finally had a small blue dot on my screen and a little text box that read Dutch. Using the scroll function, I could see a red dot some distance away labeled Abby.
‘‘Gotcha!’’ I said, grabbing my key card and my purse and heading out the door. When I reached the street level, I had to stand in line for what felt like forever in order to catch a cab, but eventually my turn came up and when I hopped into the cab, I leaned over the armrest and showed the driver my cell phone. ‘‘See this blue dot?’’ I said.
‘‘Cool phone!’’ he said.
‘‘Yes,’’ I said impatiently. ‘‘I need to find that blue dot.’’
‘‘The one that says Dutch?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ I said. ‘‘He’s my boyfriend and I’m worried about him. Can you drive me to the blue dot?’’
‘‘Come sit up front,’’ he said kindly. ‘‘It will be easier to track it if I can check your display.’’
* * *
We made our way into the long line of taxis working their way slowly down the driveway of the Wynn. ‘‘Lots of traffic tonight,’’ the driver said.
‘‘How long do you think it will take us to make our way out of this mess?’’ I asked. The last thing my frazzled nerves needed to deal with was a traffic jam.
‘‘Not long,’’ he said. Looking at me and noticing how anxious I must appear, he said, ‘‘Don’t you worry. We’ll find your boyfriend.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ I said, but my intuition was screaming that something was really wrong. I kept my focus on the blue dot at the top of my cell’s display, and millimeter by millimeter our red dot crawled closer to it.
Once the driver had made his way onto the Strip, traffic did lighten up. He squinted at my cell a few times when we were stopped at a red light. ‘‘He’s out off of I-Ninety-five,’’ he said. ‘‘But he’s off the road, it looks like.’’
I pulled my cell close and squinted at the screen again. ‘‘You’re right,’’ I said, then used the zoom option on my phone to get a closer look. Sure enough, Dutch’s blue dot was just off the highway. Maybe he’d pulled over and was meeting with someone who had some information about Chase. Maybe he didn’t want to interrupt the meeting and that’s why he wasn’t calling me back. And maybe pigs were flying these days, said my radar.
‘‘Can we hurry?’’ I asked the driver.
He hit the accelerator and we raced along to the highway. ‘‘I hope I don’t get a ticket,’’ he said.
I glanced at the taxi license posted on the visor above my head. My driver’s name was Ralph Sawyer. ‘‘I’ll pay for your ticket, Ralph,’’ I said. ‘‘I just have a terrible feeling my boyfriend is in trouble.’’
Ralph nodded and focused hard on his driving. Out on the highway there wasn’t much traffic to contend with, so we moved rapidly toward Dutch’s blue dot until we hit a traffic jam not a quarter mile away. ‘‘Damn it!’’ I swore as we came to a big pile of gridlock.
‘‘Must be an accident or something up ahead,’’ Ralph said, craning his neck to see around the bulk of cars. ‘‘I can see lights up there. Must be a doozy.’’
My knee bounced with impatience as the cars in front of us inched forward. We were being pushed to the far-righttwo lanes and ahead we could see half a dozen swirling red and blue lights. Whatever had happened was bad.
Trouble was, the closer we got to the fire trucks and police cars, the closer we got to Dutch’s blue dot. It dawned on me slowly, even though, looking back, I should have known right away that Dutch was the focal point of all that attention up ahead. Five hundred yards from the accident I felt the world begin to swirl around me. ‘‘Oh, God,’’ I said. ‘‘Oh, no, please, no!’’
Ralph looked at me. ‘‘You all right?’’
My hands began to tremble, but I managed to hold up the display of the phone. He knew the moment I turned it toward him. ‘‘Aw, man,’’ he said with compassion. ‘‘Hold on, little lady. Let me get you up there.’’
Ralph edged over to the shoulder and began to blow his horn wildly. We scurried precariously along the right shoulder, nearly hitting a few cars along the way. Just before we were within shouting distance of the first fire truck, an angry patrolman stepped out onto our path and waved his flashlight at us. Ralph punched the brakes and we skidded to a stop. I jumped out of the car and ran toward the cop. ‘‘Please!’’ I yelled. ‘‘It’s my boyfriend! I think he’s here!’’
‘‘Get back in your car!’’ he yelled at me.
‘‘You don’t understand!’’ I sobbed. ‘‘My boyfriend, Dutch Rivers, didn’t come back to our hotel. I’ve been trying to call him, and this is him!’’ I said, pointing to my cell phone and shoving it at him.
‘‘Lady, I said—’’
‘‘Is there a white Lexus involved in this accident?!’’ I screamed. ‘‘Please, just tell me what kind of car was involved!’’
The cop blinked at me—it was sinking in. I was bordering on hysterical, shaking from head to toe, and shoving my phone at him. He finally glanced at my display, noticing it was a GPS indicator, and he looked behind him over the hoods of the block of cars. ‘‘She just wants to know if her boyfriend has been injured,’’ said Ralph from right behind me. ‘‘She means no harm.’’
The cop turned back to me. ‘‘Come with me,’’ he barked.
I turned to Ralph and shoved my hand in my purse, fishing for some money to give him. ‘‘No,’’ he said kindly, his eyes pinched with concern. ‘‘I’ll wait here for a little while in case it’s not your boyfriend’s car and you need a ride back to your hotel or to continue looking for him. If you’re not back in a half hour, then I’ll head back to town. For now, you go with the policeman, and don’t worry about me, okay?’’
I was crying so hard I couldn’t catch my breath enough to respond. Instead I just nodded and turned back to hurry up to the cop. We wound our way through the cars and as we got closer, I could see that the other side of the road dropped off into a deep ravine. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I felt dizzy and faint as I looked at a tow truck that was using a winch to pull a battered and nearly unrecognizable white Lexus up onto its ramp.
I stumbled when I saw the car. It was smashed and broken, and I didn’t think anyone would have been able to survive the tumble it appeared to have taken. I sank to the ground and began to sob. Strong arms reached under me and helped me to my feet. ‘‘Come this way, ma’am,’’ the patrolman said. ‘‘Yo! Jimmy! Get me a paramedic!’’
I tried to walk a few more paces, but the nightmare that was around me was too much. My senses were overloaded and I sank to the ground again. The world closed in around me to a small pinpoint, and I could feel my chest heaving as I tried to pull in air and stay conscious. Again I felt strong arms under me, but this time I was lifted completely up off the ground and carried over to a platform. Disembodied voices filled the air and I heard snatches of conversation. ‘‘. . . says that’s her boyfriend’s car...’’
‘‘. . . we’re still looking for the vic...’’
‘‘. . . found the wallet near the car...’’
A mask was put over my face and another voice ordered me to breathe slowly but steadily and someone held my hand. I was freezing in the cool desert air and began to shiver. A blanket was placed over my shoulders but gave me little comfort. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of agony, one of the voices around me was getting through. ‘‘Abby?’’ it said gently.
I willed my eyes to focus. ‘‘Bob?’’ I said. My voice sounded muted from the mask.
‘‘How are you feeling?’’ he asked me, and I could see that his eyes were pained.
Fresh tears streamed down my cheeks. ‘‘Please,’’ I said, pulling the mask down off my face. ‘‘Tell me where he is.’’
‘‘We don’t know,’’ he said soberly. ‘‘We haven’t been able to locate him.’’
‘‘Over here!’’ someone shouted from the ravine, and a flurry of rescue-team workers hurried to the voice. Bob moved away from me and I yanked the mask up over my head and threw it behind me. The paramedic who had been tending to me yelled, ‘‘Hey, come back here!’’ but I ignored him and ran to the edge of the ravine.
The scene caught my breath. A guardrail had been smashed apart and the imprint of the car had been left in a single grisly descent down the ravine. Sagebrush had been torn and flattened; rocks bore the scars of metal and paint and small bits of plastic; steel and glass were strewn everywhere. To the far left of the path three firefighters crouched over something hidden by the sage. A stretcher was being carried along the top ridge over to them and there were shouts to call in a medevac helicopter.
Again my heart was racing. If a helicopter was being called in, that meant Dutch could be alive! I raced along the ridge, cutting in and out of rescue personnel. I even dashed past Bob, who shouted at me to stop. I ignored him too and jumped over the guardrail to the side of the steep slope. Slipping and sliding, I scuttled along and behind me I could hear shouts from several men chasing after me. I didn’t care.
I came closer and closer to the three firefighters, one of whom had looked up as I approached and got to his feet to intercept me. ‘‘Dutch!’’ I screamed as he caught me and pulled me back. ‘‘Dutch!’’
‘‘Stop!’’ the firefighter said as I struggled against him.
‘‘That’s my boyfriend!’’ I pleaded. ‘‘That’s my boyfriend!’’
The firefighter took me by the shoulders and shook me hard. I was so stunned that I stopped fighting him. ‘‘That’s not your boyfriend over there, okay, lady?’’ he insisted.
I looked at him blankly. What he was saying made no sense. ‘‘His name is Dutch Rivers,’’ I said. ‘‘He’s an FBI agent from Michigan.’’
‘‘Lady,’’ the fireman said gently, staring into my eyes, trying to get through to me. ‘‘That ain’t no guy. That’s a woman. If your boyfriend is here, we haven’t found him yet.’’
Brosseau reached us at that moment and took over for the firefighter. ‘‘I got her,’’ he said, wrapping a protective yet secure arm around my shoulders. I didn’t speak—I couldn’t—but neither did I move and Bob seemed to recognize that I couldn’t be pried away until I saw it for my own eyes.
As the stretcher reached the victim and she was safely transferred onto it, then lifted from the scrub, I could see that it definitely wasn’t Dutch. It was an unconscious woman with silver-blond hair, scratched and bruised and bleeding from her head. One arm was swollen and most certainly broken, and in the other hand I saw her clutchingsomething small and black, just like I was. I lifted my cell and looked at the display. The blue dot and the red dot had almost merged and were only about ten yards apart, the distance from me to her.
I sank to the ground again and put my head in my hands. I couldn’t take seeing anything more.
Chapter Six
I waited in the bay of the ambulance into the early-morning hours without speaking to anyone. I was in a sort of numb haze that surrounded me like a soft cocoon. The paramedic who waited with me in case they found Dutch alive shoved an IV into my arm and wrapped me in blankets. He tried everything he could think of to get me to agree to go to the hospital. ‘‘Ma’am, you’re in shock,’’ he said. ‘‘I’d really prefer if you allowed us to take you to the hospital.’’
I shook my head no.
‘‘It’s cold out here,’’ he reasoned. ‘‘If you go to the hospital, I promise, as soon as we hear anything, I’ll make sure they get word to you.’’
Again I shook my head no and continued to survey the rescue workers and the face of the ravine, my eyes darting around every rock, bush, and outcropping, looking for Dutch. Bob came over to sit with me after a time. He held my hand, which he gave a gentle squeeze every once in a while. ‘‘People survive these kinds of crashes all the time,’’ he said. ‘‘If one passenger survived it, then so could Dutch.’’
But I knew the truth. The miracle had already been handed off to that woman who’d been clutching his cell phone. If Dutch had been in that car, he was dead, and we both knew it. There was only one way I could tell for certain—I could ask my crew—but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I would wait to be told by the search team, and then I would wait to be shown. Proof positive would be with my own eyes—I’d accept nothing less.
But as the hours dragged on and the firefighters searched through the scrub, and a team of rescue dogs was dispatched to sniff him out, no sign of him was revealed. It was as if he’d vanished off the side of the ravine.
I shivered again in the cold morning air and thought for the umpteenth time about using my radar to find Dutch. And I wanted him found—believe me—but if my radar said he was here, I knew I’d likely find him dead, and I
just hadn’t been ready to face that.
While I was working up my courage, a black sedan with tinted windows pulled up near the ambulance where I was sitting. A man in a black suit got out and held the door open for another man, whose profile looked familiar.
I blinked a few times to clear my eyes and focused hard on his face. Where had I seen him before? He must have sensed someone was staring because he turned briefly in my direction and the breath caught in my throat as I realized I was looking at Raymond Robillard, Dutch’s boss and the man I’d seen murder Cynthia Frost in a vision from beyond the grave she’d shared with me some months ago.
I felt Robillard’s gaze settle on me. It was an icy glare, but not one of recognition. He turned away when Detective Brosseau moved toward him and introduced himself, and the two men walked along the edge of the road as Bob talked, waving his hands down the ravine and no doubt discussing the details of the accident.
I made up my mind quickly and turned my eyes to the ravine. Squinting in the morning sunlight, I focused on projecting my intuitive radar out along the ridge and down the ravine, attempting to feel out any trace of Dutch’s energy. I came up completely empty.
A tiny bubble of renewed hope made its way into my numb mind. Maybe Dutch wasn’t here after all. Perhaps he hadn’t even been in the car!
I had to know for sure, so I closed my eyes and called out to my crew. I felt them immediately, and I could also detect a sense of urgency coming from their energy.
Show me where Dutch is, I said to them. Tell me what’s happened to him.
There was a long dramatic pause—unusual for my crew—then an image formed and as it developed in my mind, my lower lip quivered and I felt fresh tears sting my eyes. I was looking at the unmistakable image of a gravestone. Carved into the surface so that they could be sure to remove all doubt was
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