Big Thicket National Preserve was located two hours east of Houston. It was called a preserve, as opposed to a national park, since it permitted hunting, which I was sure Mad Dog and his father went there for. It was also the national preserve whose sticker Shooter had found on the RV in Rawlings, New Mexico.
I made my way up Highway 287, past Lumberton and Kountze, the navigation on my phone telling me I was minutes from arriving at the preserve’s visitor’s center.
My goal was to get there before the place closed. I pulled into the parking lot at 4:58 p.m.
Inside, the center was part gift store and part educational facility. A woman in a National Parks uniform stood by a desk to my right. Along the wall behind her was a rack of books about the ecology of Big Thicket.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m a federal agent, and I’m searching for my partner,” I said. “He took off after a suspect, and I haven’t been able to locate him.”
The woman hesitated, and I took out my phone. On the drive over, I had gone onto my cloud server and retrieved images of my FBI badge, which Frank had kept. I showed these to her, explaining that my credentials were with my partner.
“Is your partner real handsome?” she asked. “Late forties? Black?”
I nodded.
“He showed me a sketch,” she said. “Told me he was on the lookout for a vehicle.”
“A white RV,” I said.
“That’s the one. He wanted to drive through the parking lots at the trailheads, but I told him we’re not set up that way.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The preserve is spread out across a hundred miles. A lot of these trails are hard to find unless you hunt here. There aren’t really formal parking lots or trailheads like you see in other national or state parks. I recommended two or three spots for him to start with.”
“Where?” I said.
She unfolded a map on the counter. “First one was Turkey Creek, east of Warren. Next was Lance Rosier in the opposite direction, south of us.” She pointed to the far right side of the map. “Lower Neches was the last. Jack Gore Baygall Unit.”
I stared at these names. The different hunting units of the sprawling preserve were separated by dozens of miles of private roads, houses, and the tendrils of the oil and gas industry. Small cities, even. I had driven past parts of the preserve along the way and hadn’t even noticed.
“What direction was he headed first?”
“Turkey Creek,” she said.
I found it on the map, north of the visitor’s center, and hustled back to the rental car. Barbed wire marked the edges of private property, and the sun was dropping. The phone’s navigation was on, but the volume was down. I missed the turn for Turkey Creek and flipped a U-turn in the parking lot of a restaurant. On their storefront, the word country was spelled with a k.
In a minute, I found my way along a road with four-story beech trees leaning at angles so close to the pavement that it felt like driving through a downtown. Three miles farther, I turned in at Turkey Creek and slowed. Right off the highway was a parking area, where I saw Frank’s Crown Vic.
The driver’s side door was swung open.
I cut my engine and glanced around, weaponless. Under the trees, the light was fading, and the night was getting cool. I backed the rental car in beside the Crown Vic, ready to gun the engine if a shot rang out.
But no shot sounded.
The only noise was the hum of insects.
I moved into Frank’s car.
Atop the dash were his car keys.
But Frank was gone. Taken by Mad Dog.
I examined the inside of the sedan. My Glock was missing, but my badge and phone remained on the center console. Left for me to find.
An invitation to come after him.