The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(112)

“Hey! Hey!” Tracy called out.

The deputy stepped over something on the walk and stepped inside, hand on his gun. “Are you Detective Crosswhite?”

Faz. Her message had gotten through. Faz had not let her down.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. Did you see anyone else out there?”

“No.”

“My badge is on my belt.”

The deputy stepped in. He looked midthirties, shaved head, well built. “We got a call from Seattle said there was an officer in need of immediate assistance.”

“That would be me. There’s a guy around here with a gun, so keep your eyes and ears open. You got a key to the cuffs?”

He holstered his weapon, moving quickly to undo her handcuffs while keeping one eye on the door and window.

Cuffs off, Tracy rubbed circulation back into her wrists. “Tracy Crosswhite,” she said. “Seattle PD.”

“Rick Pearson,” he said. “Inyo County Sheriff’s office. What’s Seattle PD doing way out here?”

“Came to talk to a witness. How many cars did you see parked out there?”

“Uh . . . two . . . and a Jeep. What the hell is going on?”

Fields was still here.

“Is it just you?”

“Yeah. We’re a substation in Independence. There’s another deputy working who I can call in. And I can call down to the main office.”

“Where’s the main office?” She moved to the porch but had to brace herself against the door frame when she became suddenly dizzy.

“That’s a nasty cut on the side of your head.”

Tracy touched the wound and shook away more cobwebs. “Where’s the main office?”

“Bishop.”

“How far is that?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“We’re going to need as many people as you can get.” She stepped onto the porch and retrieved her Glock. “And vehicles equipped for driving out in that terrain.”

“Vehicles won’t get far out here. Especially not with a storm rolling in.”

The storm was a problem Tracy hadn’t considered. She moved across the bridge, back toward the parked cars. “There are two women out there and a bad cop who’s going to kill them if he finds them. What kind of firepower do you have in the car?”

They approached the deputy’s white-and-green SUV.

“Shotgun and a rifle, extra rounds.”

“I’m going to need the rifle,” she said. “You radio for all the help you can get. When they get here, tell them we’re looking for two women, one is midtwenties and the other is midfifties. The guy with the gun is midfifties, gray ponytail, and mustache. He’s armed and extremely dangerous. You got a first aid kit?”

“First aid? Yeah, always.”

“Radio for help, then I’d appreciate it if you’d quickly bandage my head.”

“Where are you going?”

Tracy looked at the scrub and foreboding mountains. “Out there,” she said.

“That’s some wicked country out there, Detective.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” she said.



When Fields left the cabin, I turned to my aunt. “He’s going to kill us. He has to. He’s going to kill us all. We need to go.”

“Go where?” she said. I could see the fear on her face and hear it in her voice.

“The mountains. Come on.” I quickly grabbed the shotgun and a handful of shells and hurried to the back of the house. My aunt remained on the couch. “Come on,” I said, more urgently.

My aunt got up and followed me into the bedroom. I peered out the back window, but did not see Fields. “Hold this.” I handed her the shotgun and slid the window up, but weather and age had warped the sash, making it stick. I lowered the window, put both hands under the rail, and forced it up with all my strength. The window made a screeching noise and raised six inches higher before again becoming stuck. I wasn’t sure we could fit, but the window wasn’t going any higher.

I took back the shotgun. “You go first.”

My aunt ducked down and wriggled her body headfirst through the window. I grabbed the back of her legs to keep her from falling. She dropped the last foot onto the ground. I handed her the shotgun and slid through the opening, out onto a bed of rocks and pine needles. I got up, quickly brushed off my hands, and took back the shotgun.

I heard Fields say, “Don’t move.” For a moment, I thought he was speaking to us; then I realized he was standing around the corner of the house, talking to someone else. We needed to move, fast. My grandfather had cleared the trees around the cabin, a firebreak. The tree line and cover were about ten yards away. Overhead the sky continued to cloud over, what was sure to be an afternoon thunderstorm, which was not infrequent in the mountains. It got hot in the valley, and the hot air rose and met the cold air over the mountains. Day would become night in minutes; thunder would shake the house, and rain would become a torrent, turning the creek into a river. Hopefully, it would be enough to hide our escape. It was our one chance.

I grabbed my aunt’s hand and pulled her behind me, climbing the incline into the trees and hurrying along the footpath that I’d walked as a child, and daily since my disappearance on Mount Rainier.