Chaska stopped, turned to McBride. “This is a waste of time.”
“What do you mean?”
“They ran after her, but we know they didn’t catch her. If they were right behind her like she said they were, that means they couldn’t have had time to slash her tires or try to hotwire her car. They must have given up trying to find her, turned back, and then tried to steal her vehicle. When they failed, they slashed her tires.”
That was the only way the pieces fit together.
McBride seemed to consider this. “Solid analysis. Let’s search the periphery, find which way they headed when they left the site.”
The bloodhound quickly found the place where they’d come out of the forest. Chaska backtracked a few yards from there to the spot where the two men had stood and watched Naomi, disgust fueling his anger as he glanced back toward her campsite. From here, they would have been able to see every move she made without being visible themselves.
Chaska glanced around. “They came from that direction.”
But where had they gone after Naomi had gotten away?
While the bloodhound sniffed the periphery, Chaska circled the camp slowly, doing his best not to step on sign, looking for that heel with the missing D-shaped chunk. He found what he was looking for not far from Naomi’s tent—tracks leading out of camp. “This way.”
With the bloodhound in the lead, they moved fast, following the tracks through a long stretch of ponderosa pine forest. Chaska kept his gaze on the ground. In places, the duff—mostly old pine needles—was so deep that there were few tracks to follow, and that was where the bloodhound was especially helpful. At one point, the tracks crossed a dirt road, then disappeared into a grove of chokecherry bushes.
A black search helicopter passed overhead, tree branches dancing in the rotor wash, the noise it made eliminating any chance that they’d take these guys unawares.
McBride held a hand to his earpiece, then spoke into his mic. “Copy that.”
“News?”
“The victim told Price that the suspects said something about hiding in an abandoned ranger cabin. The chopper spotted a structure up ahead.”
A few minutes later, they saw it—an abandoned cabin, its log walls bleached by the sun.
“The scent trail leads right up to it,” said the bloodhound’s handler, who’d drawn the dog up beside him.
McBride nodded and motioned for everyone to stop. “Keep out of sight.”
But rather than approaching the cabin, they waited for other law enforcement teams to arrive. It seemed to take an eternity.
Chaska pointed out what ought to have been obvious. “We don’t know for sure that they’re still there. With that helicopter flying overhead, they must know we’re closing in on them.”
“True, but I won’t risk them opening fire, killing a few of us, and getting away in the confusion.” McBride studied him for a moment. “You’re not going in.”
Chaska covered his disappointment. What had he imagined—that he would go charging in, his pistol drawn like some kind of action hero? “I knew that.”
“No, you didn’t.” McBride grinned. “You’ve been a huge help, but I can’t let you go any farther.”
Chaska found himself standing with the bloodhound and its handler while McBride and a dozen sheriff’s deputies and deputy marshals got into position.
“Did you learn this growing up—you know, cutting sign?” the dog’s handler asked. “I thought McBride was full of shit when he brought you into this, but I can see how it comes in handy.”
“Thanks—and, yeah. I learned from my grandfather.” The old man had been determined to make sure Chaska and Winona had a true Lakota upbringing, and both of them would forever be grateful.
“What tribe?”
“Oglala Lakota nation.” Chaska watched as McBride gave the signal and the officers moved toward the cabin.
When Naomi wokeup in the recovery room, it took her a moment to remember where she was and why she was there, her mind fogged by anesthesia and morphine. Arlie and Clem. That terrible night in the forest. Winona and Shota. Chaska.
A nurse came to stand beside her, touched a hand to her right arm. “Hey, Naomi. How are you feeling?”
“My leg hurts.”