Rock Harbor Series - 01 - Without a Trace Read online

  “The last time I checked, my bank balance was screaming for mercy, Hilary.”

  Hilary sighed, and she gave a smile that seemed forced. “I’ll pay for it. You promised you’d find them, Bree. It’s been nearly a year. Rob’s birthday is the day after Thanksgiving. I’m counting on giving him a decent burial by then.”

  Bree wanted to run away from the admonishment. The graves at Rock Harbor Cemetery were as empty as her heart. Even if she found the bodies to fill those graves, it wouldn’t change things, but at least maybe then she could bring herself to go there to mourn. Besides, Bree was tiring of Hilary’s constant harping on her failure to find them.

  “Samson and I are doing the best we can, Hilary. But they could be anywhere. Here in the Kitchigami or maybe even down in Ottawa.”

  “My patience is running out.”

  Bree had trained her temper to stay on its leash when she was around Hilary, but some days were harder than others. “I want to find them just as much as you do, Hilary. But I’m not Superwoman.” A muscle in Bree’s jaw jerked. Hilary didn’t understand how hard a task Bree had set up for herself. At least there was still a chance for Donovan’s kids. “Look,” she finally said, “I need to get on with the search for the O’Reilly children.”

  She turned and rushed into the woods then hurried along the pine-needle path toward Naomi and the group of rangers under the trees. The rush of cool air soothed her hot cheeks. Would she never find them? Never, never, her footsteps answered.

  A dark-haired man was giving directions. About six feet tall and stocky, he gestured with broad hands that looked tanned and capable. When Bree approached, he stopped talking, and his gaze settled on her. Bree smiled and nodded a hello as she stepped forward with an outstretched hand.

  “You look like the man I need to see,” she said. He looked vaguely familiar, and she wondered if she’d seen him around town. His brown park service uniform matched his hair, and his blue eyes were as keen and intelligent as an Australian shepherd’s. She guessed him to be in his early thirties. “I’m Bree Nicholls with my dog, Samson, and this is Naomi Heinonen and her dog, Charley.”

  The blue eyes narrowed when they saw the dogs. “Who called in the SAR?”

  “The sheriff did,” one of the men said.

  The man pressed his lips together then nodded with obvious reluctance. “I’m Ranger Kade Matthews. I wouldn’t have called you in yet, but since you’re here we’ll try to use you.”

  Kade Matthews. Bree had heard talk of him at the coffee shop. Rumor said he’d given up a promotion that would have taken him to California when his mother died and left him as guardian of his sixteen-year-old sister. It was to his credit that he’d followed his mother’s wishes to have his sister finish school here, though Bree pitied the poor girl. Who would want him as a guardian? She’d run into his kind before, law-enforcer types who wanted to run the show their way even if it cost lives.

  “Has anyone found a trail yet?” Bree’s gaze wandered toward the gloom of the thickly wooded forest, and she shuffled her feet. The setup always took too long, in her opinion. While people stood around discussing where to start and how to begin, Samson could be homing in on the scent. She knew organization was important, but there was a limit.

  Ranger Matthews shook his head. “Not a hint of one. But we’re down to the wire here. The little boy’s diabetes is a bad case. I’ve divided the search area into quadrants. The board is over there.” He pointed to the trailer set up as a command post. “You and your team can take quadrant two.”

  “We find our dogs more effective if they’re allowed to scent on an article of the victim’s then follow where the scent leads. Donovan already gave us—”

  The ranger interrupted with another shake of his head. “It’s not an efficient way to search. I need to know who’s where.”

  Bree hunched her shoulders and gave Naomi a helpless look. Why did she find it so impossible anymore to speak her mind? When she had first met Rob, her nickname at school was “Brassy Bree” because she had the nerve to do anything she was dared to do. Now she wavered when asked what she wanted to drink. She wanted to argue, but her mouth refused to open.

  “We’ve only got a few more hours of daylight left,” Ranger Matthews said. “The sheriff is in the camper briefing the searchers. Please join them.”

  Thank goodness Mason was here. Bree left the arrogant ranger and went to find her brother-in-law in the camp. Naomi trailed behind her, pausing to say something to Donovan, and Bree wondered at her friend’s reluctance to leave him.

  The camper sat along the side of the parking lot. It hadn’t been leveled and tilted heavily to the right. The silver siding bore scratches and gouges from its many brushes with tree branches and thorny shrubs. The door to the camper opened as Bree approached and Mason stepped out.

  “Oh good, you’re here,” Mason said. Sheriff of Kitchigami County, Mason was thickly built and good-natured, a mellow, golden retriever sort of man instead of the pit bull some in Kitchigami County thought a sheriff ought to be.

  “Who’s Attila the Hun?” Bree asked.

  Mason frowned. “Who?”

  “The ranger honcho. Kade Matthews.”

  “He’s a good man. You have a problem with him?”

  “He’s insisting on a grid search. That will take forever,” Bree said. Naomi joined her finally, and Bree thought she looked a little flushed.

  Mason shook his head. “I’ll handle Kade. You two take this insulin for the boy and find those kids.” He handed Bree a syringe.

  Bree took the insulin and tucked it into her ready-pack. The hormone was a stark reminder of the urgency of the search. Tomorrow wouldn’t be good enough—they had to find those kids tonight. She knelt beside Samson and Charley and held the jackets Donovan had given her under their noses. The jackets had been contaminated with other scents, but Samson had worked under these kinds of adverse circumstances before, and she had confidence in her dog. To help the dogs, she had them sniff the insides of the jackets where there was a greater likelihood of strong scent untainted by handling.

  Samson whined and strained at the leash. Bree released his lead and dropped her arm. “Search!” she commanded.

  Samson bounded toward the trees. Charley plunged his nose into the jacket again then raised his muzzle and whined. Naomi unclipped Charley’s leash, and he raced after Samson. Both dogs ran back and forth, their muzzles in the air. The dogs weren’t bloodhounds but air scenters. They worked in a “Z” pattern, scenting the air until they could catch a hint of the one scent they sought. Samson’s tail stiffened, and he turned and raced toward the creek.

  “He’s caught it!” Bree said, running after her dog. Naomi followed Charley. Bree heard the ranger shout as he realized they were disobeying his instructions, but then the sounds of people and cars fell away as though they had slipped into another world. The forest engulfed them, and the rustling of the wind through the trees, the muffled sounds of insects and small animals, and the whispering scent of wet mud and leaf mold all welcomed Bree as though she’d never been away. In spite of their familiarity, Bree knew the welcome was just a facade. The North Woods still guarded its secrets from her.

  After nearly two hours, Bree was hot and itchy. She started to sit on a fallen log, then the drone of honeybees inside alerted her, and she avoided it, choosing instead to rest on a tree stump to catch her breath. Though the bees were sluggish this time of year, she didn’t want to take any chances. Naomi thrashed her way through the vegetation as she rushed to catch up with Bree and the dogs.

  Samson had lost the scent about ten minutes ago, and he crisscrossed the clearing, searching for the lost trail with his muzzle in the air. Bree unfastened a canteen from her belt and took a gulp of water. Though warm, the water washed the bitter taste of insect repellant from her tongue. She dropped her backpack onto the ground and pulled out a small bag of pistachios. Cracking the nuts, she tossed the shells onto the ground. She munched the salty nutmeats and took ano
ther swig of water.

  Naomi came up behind her, short of breath. “Anything?” She pushed away a lock of hair that had escaped her braid. Naomi was like a cocker spaniel with her soft brown hair and compassionate eyes—and like a spaniel, just as persistent. Her spirit never flagged, and she always managed to transfer her optimism to Bree.

  Bree shook her head and held out the bag of nuts to Naomi. “Want some?”

  Naomi wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know how you can stand to eat those things. Give me walnuts or pecans, not those funny green things. You eat so many of them, we’d never need search dogs to find you; we’d just follow the shell trails.”

  Bree grinned and put the bag of nuts back in her bag. She screwed the lid back onto the canteen and fastened it to the belt around her waist. “Time to get moving again.”

  “Charley’s lost the trail,” Naomi said. Charley nosed aimlessly among a patch of wildflowers while Samson thrust his head into the stream running to their right.

  “Maybe the other searchers are having better luck.” Bree snapped her fingers, and Samson came to her. He shook himself, and droplets of water sprayed her jeans. She knelt and took his shaggy head in her hands and stared into his dark eyes. “I know you’re trying, buddy,” she whispered. “But can you try just a little harder?” Samson’s curly tail swished the air, and he licked her chin as if to say he’d do what he could. And Bree knew he would. As a search dog, Samson was in a class by himself.

  Bree knew dogs. From the time she could barely toddle, she’d had a dog. When she and Rob had lived in Oregon, she’d been introduced to K-9 Search and Rescue, and she knew it was what she was meant to do. Margie, her first dog, had been a pro too, but she’d had a stroke three years ago, about six months after Samson had come along.

  She’d never seen a dog with as much heart as Samson. His markings and size betrayed his German shepherd lineage, but his curly coat was all chow. Since the day she’d found him in a box by the river, barely alive and not yet four weeks old, his gaze had spoken to her more clearly than any human words could. When he’d turned his head that day and tried to lick her hand, she lost her heart. There was a special bond between her and Samson, and he loved search and rescue as much as she did. Together they’d been on search missions all over the country as part of the FEMA team.

  He whined and sniffed the air as if determined not to let her down.

  “If Samson can’t find the kids, we might as well all go home,” Naomi muttered. “He could find a flea in a hay field.”

  Bree grinned. “The fleas seem to find him.” But she knew Naomi was right. Samson was special. She wanted him to prove it today.

  Up ahead, Samson began to bark and then raced away. Bree’s adrenaline kicked into overdrive. “He’s found the scent again.” Her fatigue forgotten, she followed the dogs.

  2

  Twilight cast deep shadows in the little clearing in the woods, but Rachel Marks had no trouble picking out the shack with the stack of split logs beside it. She could find everything in this meadow with her eyes closed. As she shuffled through the thick carpet of leaves and pine needles toward the woodpile, her feet kicked up the sharp scent of pine. Sam limped along beside her, and she slowed her pace to match his.

  She frowned. His thin arms stuck out from the sleeves of his blue jacket, and his pants didn’t even come to the top of his socks. He could barely squeeze into them anymore. Thank goodness he was almost well enough to take to town. Otherwise, she’d have to buy him some new clothes. His pinched white face beneath the blue stocking cap he wore showed a tinge more color than it had last month. Day by day he grew stronger.

  He was quiet, as always. Too quiet. Of course, there was no one for him to talk to but her and his pet squirrel, Marcus. She couldn’t put off the inevitable much longer.

  But not yet. He’d only been walking for twenty minutes, yet his limp had grown more pronounced over the past few yards. He needed to rest. She beckoned to him, and he followed her toward the cabin.

  Just outside the door, he stopped and tilted his head to one side. “I hear something.” Sam’s hushed voice seemed unnaturally loud in the still night.

  Rachel stopped, her booted feet settling into the soggy leaves on the ground. Had they been found out? Her adrenaline surged and she tipped up her head and listened. “It sounds like a little kid crying,” Rachel said.

  Sam turned his face up to hers, his eyes glowing. “A kid like me?”

  “You stay here, Sam. Let me check it out.” She’d heard of cougars sounding like a child, but this sounded like no painter she’d ever heard. Just to be safe, she grabbed the ax as she passed the woodshed. Stepping cautiously toward the sound, she hefted the ax to her shoulder.

  She caught her breath as the sound came again. That was no wild animal; it was a child. A crying child. She pushed aside the brush and peered into the tangle of shrubs then stepped into the fir grove. It was darker here than in her clearing but still bright enough to see the two children who sat on the ground. The little girl was weeping, her arms around a smaller child, a boy. Her woebegone face was streaked with mud, and she rocked back and forth, shudders wracking her small frame.

  “I’m sorry, Timmy. It was my fault,” the girl sobbed. “Now you’re sick, and it’s all my fault.”

  Rachel looked around warily until she was sure there was no danger of discovery. Could these children possibly be alone this far from town? “Hello,” she said, stepping near the children. “What’s your name, little girl?”

  At the sound of her voice, the little girl whipped her head around and stared up at Rachel through saucer eyes. Twigs and debris matted her dark curls. She looked about seven or eight.

  Rachel saw the fear in the child’s face and realized how frightening she must seem to the children, a fifty-year-old woman with braided gray hair topped with an old leather fedora.

  “It’s all right; I’m not as mean as I look.” Rachel stepped closer. “Is this your brother?”

  The little girl wiped her face and nodded. “His name is Timmy, and he needs his shot. I’m Emily. Daddy is going to be awfully mad at me.” Her voice was doleful. “We just wanted to see the raccoons.”

  “I’m sure your daddy will be too glad to be angry when he gets you home safe and sound.” Rachel surveyed the little boy and frowned. He looked about Sam’s age, maybe four or five. She needed to get him inside where she could see him better.

  She slid her bony arms under the little boy and lifted him up. Heat radiated off him like hot coals, and he shook like the few leaves still clinging to the trees above her head. She hoped he was as tenacious. His sister had mentioned a shot. Could he be diabetic? Rachel’s nurse’s training kicked in, and she leaned forward and sniffed. A fruity scent issued from his open mouth, and she winced. Yep. Poor kid. She had no insulin here, and town was miles away.

  “Come with me,” she told Emily. “We’ll get you something to eat and drink.” Then she had to get them out of here. Without drawing attention to herself. The last thing she needed was the law on her tail.

  Emily followed her into the clearing. “Is that your house? It’s sure little.”

  “It suits us,” Rachel said shortly.

  Sam was still standing where she’d left him. Motionless, he watched her come toward him. His gaze darted from her and the child she carried to the little girl who followed them.

  “Sammy, open the door for me,” she said. He limped to the cabin and fumbled at the latch then swung the door open. He held it wide while Rachel carried the little boy inside.

  The cabin wasn’t much, but it had been home for over a year. Only one room, but they made do. Sam’s cot was pushed up against one wall, the colorful log cabin quilt she’d made for him now faded but still serviceable. A battered table, four chairs, and a braided rug, faded and worn, completed the furnishings.

  It was all scrupulously clean. She might live in the back of beyond, but that was no reason for slovenliness. Laying the little boy on the bed, she studie
d him. His face was flushed beneath the numerous scratches, and his breathing was labored. This little guy needed his insulin, now. Looking at the sunken areas under his eyes, Rachel saw he was dehydrated as well. A saline IV would come in handy, but that wasn’t something Rachel kept on hand.

  “There’s a pitcher of water on the table,” she told Emily. “Pour some water for you and the lad. I’ll fix you a peanut butter sandwich, and we’ll get you back to that daddy of yours.”

  Emily looked weary, but she stepped to the table and poured two cups of water. She drank thirstily from her cup, but Timmy turned his head and closed his eyes when Rachel offered him a drink.

  As quickly as she could, Rachel slathered some peanut butter on slices of homemade bread. The law would be searching for these kids, and she had to get them out of here before the rangers found her cabin. Timmy refused to eat, and Rachel waited until Emily finished her sandwich. “You ready to go back to town?”

  The little girl didn’t answer. She was too busy inspecting Sam. The food and drink had calmed her, and her eyes were inquisitive. “Are you his grandma?” Emily gave Sam a tentative smile.

  Rachel searched for an answer. “I’m his mother,” she said, struggling against the irritation she felt at the girl’s assumption. It wasn’t only twenty-year-olds who were blessed to be mothers. She’d seen plenty of women who’d waited until later in life to have children. Her own grandmother had given birth to her last child at fifty-two. Thank goodness Sam wasn’t as inquisitive as this child.

  Emily sidled closer to Sam. “What’s your name?”

  Sam ducked his head and didn’t answer.

  “He’s shy,” Rachel said. She fought the panic clawing at her belly. All these questions! She could only hope the kids would remember little of what they saw here. Luckily the stocking cap still covered Sam’s hair. The children wouldn’t have much of a description.