When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(24)

“I’ll take a gallon.”

He leads me over to the meager breakfast offerings. Basically fresh coffee, a small basket of fruit, then anything that comes from a cellophane wrapper. I snag blueberry Pop-Tarts.

I’d just made my way through the first mug of coffee and one of the pastries when D.D. careered into the small lobby, looking bleary-eyed and cranky. For a city slicker, she’s still dressed better than us—gray outdoor pants, topped with a dark blue fleece embroidered with BPD on the upper left corner. She even has a backpack, with both sides sporting bottles of water.

“Coffee, black,” she grunts. Keith doesn’t question, just starts pouring.

“Why do you have outdoor clothes?” I ask her. “You said you didn’t do mountains.”

“Training exercises.” She takes the mug from Keith, downs the first half in a single gulp, even though it’s steaming hot. “Department keeps us outfitted.”

“Should I have a backpack?” I eye her supply of water, and start feeling nervous all over again.

“They’ll give you a light pack at check-in. Gotta carry marking flags, map, water, maybe a compass.”

I stare at her. “I don’t know how to read a compass.”

Keith raises a hand. “I have an app on my phone.”

“Of course you do.” D.D. downs the second half of her mug, holds it out for more. I wonder if we should just give her the pot.

“Food?” I ask.

This cheers her up. She paws through the slim pickings, selects two packages of Pop-Tarts, an apple, and a banana. One package of Pop-Tarts and the apple go into her day pack. The rest she tears into.

My lack of a backpack is bothering me more and more. I stick the remaining pair of Pop-Tarts into the front pouch of my hoody, then add an apple. I look like a kangaroo, but I tell myself fashion has never been my crutch.

Keith disappears, reappearing with a lightweight runners pack, with strings spooling over his shoulders. He adds fruit, two bottles of water.

Then that’s it. We have a runner, a thug, and a detective. The dream team indeed.

D.D. heads for the car, and Keith and I follow.



* * *



—

THE DRIVE TO THE TRAILHEAD is short enough. The volunteers are already pouring in, and D.D. has to work for parking. We follow the flow of humans—a mix of male and female, young and old, all more appropriately dressed than we are—to the check-in table, where SSA Quincy, in an FBI windbreaker, is clearly in charge, along with some older woman who is wearing a sheriff’s department fleece with the same aplomb other women wear cashmere.

D.D. checks us in. She doesn’t make small talk with Quincy. Given the long line and level of activity, now is not the time. On the table, Quincy has spread a huge map that is broken into brightly marked squares: the search grid. To the side, I see the key. Neon pink belongs to Nate Marles, bright green to Mary Rose Zeilan. Team leaders, I figure.

Quincy hands us a small map with notations. Our first assignment. I check it out on the larger map. We’re about a quarter mile up from where the body was first found. This disappoints me till I remember what the forensic anthropologist said—many predators like to retreat with their treasure to higher ground. So maybe this will be a good place to find a raccoon’s den or an abandoned squirrel’s nest. I need us to find something. Make some kind of difference.

At the next table there are cases of water and piles of bananas, then boxes of mesh gear bags filled with tiny surveyor’s flags.

“One bag per search team,” Quincy is saying now, voice brisk as the line builds behind us. “Should you see anything you think might be relevant, you stop and take out a flag. Write your grid coordinates in Sharpie beneath the flag number. Then mark the flag on your map and call it in to your team leader. Got it?”

“Got it.” D.D. almost sounds chipper.

“Run out of flags, send one of your teammates down for more.” Quincy glances up, takes in Keith’s outfit, pauses slightly. “Send him. He looks fast.”

Keith doesn’t bat an eye. “Like the wind,” he assures her.

Now D.D. is smiling, too.

“Pace yourself,” Kimberly warns. “Eyes open. Step steady. Good luck.”

Quincy looks behind us to the next guy. We move down the line of tables and finish picking up gear. The older woman from the sheriff’s department takes our names a second time, checks us off a list, and that’s that.

Up into the woods we go.



* * *



—

I DON’T MIND THE HIKING. I jog almost daily, though not in fancy clothes like Keith’s. But a woman who lives in my constant state of hypervigilance has to run endlessly just to burn off steam. Plus lift weights and scamper along buildings and swing my way around abandoned structures. I can’t reason my anxiety away by admonishing myself that the worst will never happen. Because the worst thing did happen to me, making all fears real, all terrors genuine. So I role-play my way through it. I find an old warehouse, I get myself untrapped. Samuel, my FBI victim advocate, first told me about the technique—easing anxiety by building strength—but I don’t think he expected me to take it this far.

Now, looking at the towering trees all around us, with a thick undergrowth of leafy green bushes—I think someone mentioned mountain laurel—it occurs to me all the new escape models I could be prepping for.