Sheriff Jim Colcord watched the CSI team doing their thing. From what he could see, they appeared thorough and competent. The team leader, what was his name?—Romanski—had taken off his protective suit and was packing the evidence containers in canvas duffels. Sections of bloodstained turf were being cut from the ground and removed. It amazed Colcord to see what was taken as evidence these days, even bloody sod. No wonder the evidence warehouse back in Denver was vast—Colcord had seen it several times during the course of his two terms as sheriff of Eagle County. It was as big as a Sam’s Club.
They had gathered so much evidence that there was no way they could carry it out on their backs. Instead, they were strapping it into helicopter baskets, ready to be picked up by a hovering bird and flown to Denver. Meanwhile, Colcord had learned on the radio that the chopper carrying the dogs had dropped them with their handler off at the LZ and they were now hiking up. He had worked with the dog handler before—Acosta. The guy was first-rate. They’d track down these bastards in no time, he hoped. This was certainly one of the craziest murders he’d been involved in—and he was pretty sure it was murder, given what the doc had said.
While waiting for them to arrive, Colcord got on the walkie-talkie and checked on the status of the search. It was going poorly, apparently, over a hundred people beating the bushes for hours and coming up empty-handed. He could see some of them below, a line of them working their way through a meadow of tall grass. It was close to noon, and the day had turned into one of crisp fall clarity, clouds passing over the mountains, their shadows moving up and down as they traveled over the landscape.
His deputy, Sandoval, came from around the grove of trees, laying out a measuring string, the guide showing her the route he’d taken in responding to the scream. He watched Cash walking around, taking notes in a little notebook. He hoped the pain-in-the-ass CBI agent with the Red Sox cap and Boston accent—was it Boston? He wasn’t sure—wouldn’t come along on the dog tracking. It remained to be seen whether she was any good at her job. She was big and tough and apparently fit, if heavy. Short auburn hair, green eyes, no makeup except for a touch of lipstick, freckles, obviously some Irish in there, pugnacious expression on her face, lower lip thrust out. New to the job, he would guess, trying to prove herself.
He watched as the CSI guy straightened up from packing the evidence bundles, putting his hands on his hips and stretching his back, first one way and then the other, cracking it. Cash, standing next to him, winced.
“That can’t be good for you,” she said to him.
“Whaddya mean? It’s stretching. Like yoga.”
“That’s not yoga. You keep that back-cracking up and you’ll be using a walker with those little yellow tennis balls by the time you’re seventy.”
“It’s what the chiropractor does to my back.”
“Chiropractors are quacks.”
Romanski laughed. “You’re in an ornery mood, Frankie.”
“I’m always in an ornery mood—didn’t you know that?”
Annoyed by the banter, Colcord moved away so that he could think in peace. How could two bodies just vanish like that? They’d already looked into the lake—that was one of the first places they’d searched—nothing.
Sandoval came up alongside him, rolling up the measuring string. “Looks like the information we got from the guide was spot-on.”
Colcord nodded.
“Think they’re dead?” she asked.
Colcord shook his head. “I’d hate to speculate about that now, but … yeah.” He paused; he could hear the faint baying of the hound dogs from down the trail, gradually getting louder. The dogs appeared—two redbone bloodhounds, droopy ears swinging, tongues hanging out. The handler, a tall, unshaven man with long black hair, half-Arapaho, came up behind, holding the dogs on long leashes—Sam Acosta, well known to Colcord. He raised his hand in greeting and Colcord did the same. Acosta never shook hands—he claimed to be avoiding the transfer of scents.
Acosta ordered his dogs to sit, and they obeyed immediately.
Cash and Romanski came over.
“Agent Cash,” said Colcord, “Detective Romanski—Sam Acosta.”
Acosta gravely raised his hand again. “Do we have a scent article?” he asked, looking around to no one in particular. “I don’t mean to rush things, but the clock is ticking on that trail.”
“Bart?” said Cash. “Show Mr. Acosta what you got.”
Romanski pulled out two ziplock bags containing socks of each victim.
Acosta took them. “How old is the trail?”
“About fifteen hours.”
He nodded and took the two bags she offered. The dogs were sitting, hyperalert, their ears perked and mouths open, panting eagerly.
He turned to Colcord. “Sheriff, any idea where the trail goes?”
“No,” said Colcord. “You’ll need to start at ground zero—the tent site. It’s that flagged area there.”
“Who’s coming along?” Acosta asked.
“I will,” said Cash right away.
“And you, Sheriff?”
“Certainly,” Colcord said, trying to maintain a neutral expression on his face. He was relieved that Maximilian was off with his people, a cluster of men on walkie-talkies on the far side of the crime scene tape. He could see one of Erebus’s helicopters making yet another circuit farther up the valley. With all the people out there and three choppers no less, he wondered how at least four killers, burdened with two corpses, could get away without leaving a trail—and then stay hidden. And what the heck was the motive? The more he thought about it, the crazier this case felt.
“Okay, here are the rules,” said Acosta. “Stay at least fifty feet back. When the dogs hit a corner or a back track, they’ll start to circle. So stop when they stop and remain in the rear until they pick up the trail again.” He hesitated. “Sheriff, can you tell me how many suspects we’re pursuing and if they’re armed?”
“Four, at least,” said Colcord. “They’re probably armed with knives. I don’t know about firearms. When you think we’re getting close, or if we corner them, hold the dogs back while we call in reinforcements.”
“Sure enough. Let’s go.” Acosta led the dogs under the crime scene tape to the flagged area where the tent was, knelt, gave the dogs a good long sniff of the socks along with issuing a stream of soft commands. He then unclipped their leashes. The dogs sprang up and began circling fast, their noses to the ground. They immediately came to the two bloodstains, spent a few moments there, and then took off heading down the hill toward the pond.
Another soft command from Acosta stopped them. He went on to them and clipped back on their leashes.
“Do they have a scent?” asked Cash.
“You bet they do. These dogs don’t run deer or rabbits, only people, and they don’t bay while on a scent unless they tree a person.”
The dogs, now leashed, moved down the slope at a deliberate pace, sniffing vigorously. The incline was strewn with boulders. The meadow gave way to patches of brush and clusters of scrub oaks, the dogs weaving among the obstacles, moving decisively along the scent trail. Colcord followed with Cash behind him. This was really encouraging. They might wrap this case up by nightfall.
“These look like good dogs,” Cash said to Colcord.
“The best. Eagle County includes the Vail Ski Resort, White River National Forest, and the Flat Tops. And a long stretch of I-70. These dogs are working all the time. You wouldn’t believe how many people get lost in the mountains.” He hesitated. “You know, people from places like … Boston.”
She looked at him sharply and then laughed. “Oh yeah. Boston. I can believe it. Where I come from, people from Boston get lost there all the time.”
Okay, she’s not from Boston. He wanted to ask the next obvious question—where she came from and what that accent was—but decided not to.
The slope leveled out into a rocky basin and rose toward a ridgeline of traprock. They intersected a trail beaten down among the boulders, and the dogs followed it eagerly.
Cash leaned toward Colcord. “If they’re armed,” she said quietly, “we could end up in a shoot-out. What do you carry?”
Colcord liked being asked the question. “Beretta 92. You?”
“Baby Glock 9 millimeter.”
He nodded. That seemed like the right kind of firearm for her. He wondered if she could shoot. He was pretty sure nobody from back East could shoot worth a shit, but you never knew. Colcord, like many native Coloradans, had a suspicion of transplanted Easterners.
They continued along the trail, broad and as hard-packed as concrete. They halted as the dogs, up ahead, paused and took a sudden, intense interest in a low, greenish-brown rock.
“I’d guess we’re following a woolly mammoth trail,” said Colcord.
“Really? How do you know?”
“I’ve done a lot of tracking, and I don’t know any native animal that would leave a trail as beaten down as this one. And also—that.” Colcord pointed to what the dogs were sniffing, to the growing impatience of Acosta, who was murmuring disapproval and pulling on the leashes.
“That rock?”
“No. That pile of shit.”
Cash stared, then laughed. “Oh my God, it is a shit pile.”
“They’re all over,” said Colcord. “Just like a cow pasture, only mammoth pies are ten times bigger.”
The dogs finally abandoned the shit heap and continued up the mammoth trail, going up the ridge. When they reached the top, the blue lake sprang into view again, riffled by the breeze. As she looked down the face of the ridge they were on, she saw a big area of trampled dirt in the sheltered hollow below. There were many piles of dung strewn about, along with chewed and frayed pieces of wood and bits of bark and other animal detritus. At the edge of the lake was a giant mud wallow.
“This must be their stomping ground,” said Cash.
The dogs had hesitated at the top of the ridge and circled a bit—a “corner” in Acosta’s tracking jargon—and then headed quickly down the trail.
“I wonder where the mammoths are now,” said Cash. “I’d sure like to see one.”
“Right there,” said Colcord. He’d spotted a gigantic mammoth just emerging from an aspen forest across the lake, less than half a mile away. It stopped, having seen them too. It raised its trunk into the air and waved it about, furry ears flapping slowly. A second mammoth came out and halted. In the trees, they could see a few more, including a bull with tusks.
“Oh, wow,” said Cash. “They are big.”
Colcord stared. Seeing these animals in the flesh was amazing. Not even Africa had animals like this. And they were alive. He found himself entranced by these towering, shaggy beasts, hair springing from their heads like giant toupees, furry ears waggling, trunks swinging. He never would have believed it possible that an animal so large and powerful could be so cute and cuddly. Colcord had been reading and hearing about the Erebus Resort for years, but you really had to see these animals in the flesh, he thought, to understand why it had become one of the most popular destinations in Colorado.
The dogs halted in their tracks, frozen, staring at the mammoths.
“They’re supposed to be as gentle as puppies,” said Colcord.
“Unless you get stepped on.”
The mammoths, unperturbed by the dogs, continued feeding, tearing lower branches off the trees and stuffing them into their mouths, chewing them up, leaves, wood, and all. Even from half a mile, he could hear the racket they were making and the crunching and grinding of their teeth. Out of the trees bounded a little one, trunk swinging, making a high-pitched noise of distress, running to catch up to its mother.
“There’s Ping,” said Cash.
Colcord had no idea what she was talking about but didn’t ask.
The dogs, having recovered from their surprise, resumed tracking, moving faster now and more determinedly. Colcord felt even more encouraged; this was going to lead them right to the bodies, if not the killers. They’d have to be careful and call in reinforcements for the final approach.
At the bottom of the ridge, they turned right, heading for the heaviest concentration of mammoth activity, weaving among increasingly closely spaced piles of dung, much of it having been trampled and spread around into green puddles and skid marks and smears—the elephants walking around in their own shit. Did they also do that in Africa? Colcord wondered.
“Welcome to Uncle Woolly’s Watering Hole,” said Cash.
In the midst of the thickest area of mammoth activity, the dogs began to circle again. And circle. Acosta finally released them from their leashes, and they went loping around in widening gyres, this way and that, noses scanning the ground. Minutes passed.
Colcord watched as the dogs ranged ever farther afield. It was not an encouraging sight; they seemed to have lost the trail.
“I wonder how the dogs can follow the scent here, with all this dung around,” Cash said, wrinkling her nose.
“I believe,” said Colcord, “that’s the idea.”
“Idea?”
“The killers’ idea.”
“What do you mean?”
“A dung heap like this,” said Colcord, “is a perfect place to confuse and shake tracking bloodhounds.”