A moment later McBride joined him. “Got something?”
“They followed her.” He pointed with his chin. “That way.”
Naomi lookedat the photos Special Agent Price handed her. She recognized the two men immediately, the smirk on Arlie’s face making her stomach knot. She handed the photos back. “That’s them.”
“You’re sure?” Special Agent Price held them out again as if he thought she hadn’t looked at the photos long or hard enough.
Naomi drew back her hand, refused to take them. “Yes, I’m sure. I was forced to cook for them and listen to them for at least an hour.”
Didn’t these agents believe her?
“Why didn’t you call for help on your smartphone?” Agent Biggs stood at the foot of her hospital bed.
“I already answered that question. It was in my tent with my backpack. I couldn’t get to it.”
“Did they ask you to drive them anywhere—maybe hint at where they were headed?”
“No—nothing like that.”
“You said they had planned to steal your vehicle. Did they tell you that?”
“Not exactly. Arlie told Clem that my Honda would come in handy. I figured they were going to take my keys and steal it—or force me to drive them.”
“How did you know they were fugitives?”
“Do I have to answer all your questions twice? You might not have noticed, but I’m in the hospital.” She wasn’t in a lot of pain, thanks to the drugs they were giving her, but she was weary to the bone, her body aching for sleep.
Special Agent Price spoke up. “Sometimes the smallest details make a big difference in an investigation. When we ask a question more than once, we often get slightly different answers with details that were overlooked before. I’m sorry about what you’ve been through, but we want to find these guys and lock them up before they can hurt anyone else. You’re lucky to be alive, Ms. Archer. They would have sexually assaulted you, maybe even abducted you. In the end, they would have killed you.”
The weight of that pressed in on Naomi, turning her stomach. “Thanks. I feel so much better now.”
The door to Naomi’s hospital room opened, and a tall woman in green scrubs entered, carrying a clipboard. “Hi, Naomi. I’m Doctor Thorne. I’m going to be your anesthesiologist. I have some questions I need to go over with you before your surgery. If you gentlemen could please step outside…”
“We were about to go.” Special Agent Price took a card out of his suit jacket pocket. “If you think of anything else—any details that might be helpful—call.”
“I will.” She took the card, and the two men turned to go. “Wait! Arlie and Clem said something about an abandoned ranger cabin. That’s where they’d been hiding.”
Special Agent Price shared a look with his partner, then gave Naomi a nod. “Thanks. Good luck with your surgery.”
At the wordsurgery, Naomi’s heart gave a hard knock.
When they’d left, Doctor Thorne stepped up to Naomi’s bedside. “You know, I’ve always wondered why they call themselves ‘special agents.’ All FBI agents arespecialagents. Apparently, there are no ordinary agents in the FBI, but no one’s special if everyone’s special.”
For the first time all day, Naomi laughed.
“I made you smile. Good.” Dr. Thorne asked her a dozen health-related questions, which Naomi did her best to answer. “Everyone is hammering you with questions. Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
A half dozen questions raced through Naomi’s mind, butterflies filling her stomach. How much pain would she be in afterward? What were the chances that something could go wrong? What if she woke up in the middle of the operation?
She’d never had surgery before and the idea of being helpless and unconscious terrified her. “How long will I be out?”
“This is a pretty simple procedure. You’ll probably be under for about thirty minutes and in the recovery room for maybe an hour.” Dr. Thorne reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’m going to take good care of you. I promise. I need you to read and sign these consent forms.”
Naomi took the pen and clipboard, wincing at the soreness in her shoulder. She hoped she wasn’t signing away her life.
Chaska followedthe men’s tracks as they moved away from the campsite, the bloodhound a few paces ahead of him. One of the men he was tracking wore boots with a heavy tread—maybe hiking boots—while the other wore what looked like cowboy boots with a small piece missing from the heel of the right foot in the shape of the letter D. They’d jumped up and run after Naomi, her smaller tracks spaced far apart as she’d run for her life.
The bloodhound followed the men’s scent downhill.