Twelve

The smell of old cigarettes and wet dog permeated the air surrounding Hatch. Evidence of both was littered about the interior cabin of the parole officer's pickup truck. He reached to the backseat and knocked a half-eaten donut off a file, much like the one he'd used as a makeshift umbrella. "Sorry 'bout the mess. I'm gonna tell you what I told your boss when I sent him the digital copy of this file. I'm not sure what you think I can tell you that you don't already know. Hell, I've only met MacIntosh once, during his out processing at Spring Creek."

Hatch wiped the wetness from her hand and extended it toward the file folder. "Mind if I take a look?"

"He's a two-time loser looking at his third and final strike." Case handed over the file. He grimaced and looked at the clock on the car stereo. It was nearly half past midnight. "Do you know how long this is going to take?"

"Hot date?" Hatch said.

"Hey look, I get a call from my supervisor telling me to meet up with agents working on a case with one of my guys and I'm gonna go. But I also don't like wasting my time. What use am I to you now?"

"I won't take any more time than I need. Something about MacIntosh doesn't sit right." Hatch perused the contents of the file. He had two arrests nearly one year apart. The first for assault. The second for manslaughter. "Tell me about these arrests."

"The first one was actually three different assaults rolled into one case. He messed up three gang bangers. Bad. One of them is blind in one eye."

"Weapons?"

"Nope. Unless you count hands and feet."

"Why was he only sentenced to one year?"

Case's glasses fogged, and he cleaned them on his shirt. "Never got a chance to ask him. MacIntosh skipped out on his first official parole meeting outside the walls a week ago. That's where I usually do the deep dive with these guys to see if they're going to make it on the outside. Civilian life is different once you've been in. Situations, you know. You don’t act the way you used to. Everything that happens does so through a different filter. It’s…tinted, if that makes sense."

Hatch nodded along. "Sounds a lot like leaving the military."

"Never served myself, but I imagine so. It's a major adjustment. I can say I've seen far more who can't adjust than can. Looks like our friend MacIntosh is proving this to be true."

"Maybe." Hatch continued to stare at the file.

"Maybe? He may have been justified when he busted those three guys. I don't know. He may have truly been defending himself and ended up killing the guy inside. I'm less inclined to believe that one. Again, I wasn’t there, so I don't know.” He adjusted his glasses and waited for Hatch to look up at him before continuing. “What I do know is survival. Inside, that means one thing, joining a gang."

Hatch had begun to surmise this about MacIntosh. She fished for more information. "What about the manslaughter charge? If I'm reading this right, MacIntosh had one month before he was scheduled for release. Why ruin that?"

"Three weeks." Case shook his head.

"How does a guy get that close and suddenly hit the reset button, adding another five years? Fear of the outside? I mean, does that make sense? He wasn’t in the system that long. Right?"

"Killed a guy by snapping his neck." Case tapped out a cigarette from a crumpled American Spirit box that had been resting atop the dashboard. He rolled the cigarette around his stained fingers.

"Who did he kill?"

"An inmate, Baron Dyson. He came at MacIntosh in the yard. He had a shiv. MacIntosh did not, but in the end stood victorious."

Hatch imagined the scenario playing out a few different ways but, in the end, came to the same conclusion about each. "Sounds like an open-and-closed case of self-defense."

Case shrugged and turned his hands palms up. "I guess the judge didn't see it that way. MacIntosh proved him right."

“What’s that even mean?” Hatch said. “Proved him right.”

"MacIntosh joined up with The Way shortly after killing Dyson. Personally, I think MacIntosh was tasked with killing Dyson by fella named Red Winslow. Red was Grizz's right-hand man until he got locked up. Now his brother Frank's stepped up."

"You know a lot about The Way."

"Working in parole, you hear everything."

Hatch flipped through the folder again. "Doesn’t sound like a two-time loser to me."

Case laughed and looked up at her from under his glasses. "You gotta be kidding me, right? He crippled three men and killed another. Regardless of the circumstances, this guy shouldn’t be out and about. And now look, we’ve got a dead marshal and the gang he’s tied in with is responsible. Trust me lady, MacIntosh is going back in and he's never going to see the light of day again."

"You mentioned you didn't serve. But this is a DD214?" Hatch held up a single sheet of paper.

"I saw."

"Nothing stood out as odd to you?"

"Lots of criminals have served in the military."

"True. There're bad apples in every profession."

Case rubbed his brow in frustration and stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth. "What makes him so different?"

"For starters, he was honorably discharged. Secondly, he was a combat medic with two tours overseas with a Force Recon unit. It just doesn't jibe. Why would somebody who's spent his life saving people be involved with a violent group of murderers? Something doesn't add up."

Case offered a slight smile. "You're looking for something that isn't there. I've seen it a thousand times before. The bars change people and not for the better. Recidivism is on the rise. And here in Alaska it's no different."

Hatch continued to look at the copy of MacIntosh's military discharge paperwork. One word stood out from all the rest. Honorable.

"If there's nothing else…" Case shot an eye toward the clock and fumbled with his lighter. "Nasty habit, but it's about time for my nic fix."

"Thanks for your time."

"I can tell you're not convinced. Whatever his reason, mere association automatically violates his parole. When Chris MacIntosh comes down that mountain, it's gonna be in cuffs. Good luck."

"Luck favors the prepared." Hatch exited the vehicle into the swirling wind and sleet. The frigid air worked its way into any opening it could find. She made her way back to Tracy's Land Rover. The Talon commander turned when she entered and looked at her with raised eyebrows.

"Anything good?"

"Case has written off Macintosh as a byproduct of the prison system."

"And you don't?"

"No."

"Well, Cruise can ask him that in about fifteen minutes. The team's on the ATV trail now. Should be on foot shortly."

Case drove off as a rust covered Ford E350 van pulled into the spot where Case's pickup had been only moments before. Radars and satellite dishes and antennae of varying lengths poked out from the roof top like a porcupine having a bad hair day.

The wiper blades cleared the windshield and Hatch stared out at the man who had exited a storm tracker vehicle wearing an old Navy flight suit and a red and black plaid wool-lined hat with the flaps pulled down. He got down on all fours and put his head near the muddy road.

"You get a lot of crazies living up in these parts. Recluses, lost touch with their sanity."

Hatch thought of Jed Russell who lived near Hawk’s Landing, and how wrong she’d been about him when she'd first rushed to that conclusion.

The windshield filled with the slushy sleet, obscuring the crouched man. Hatch returned her attention to the monitor in front of them. The drone image showed thermal signatures as the skies darkened. Cruise and his team moved toward their objective.

"We've left the main road. The ATV trail is a mud run." Cruise came through the car's speaker system. There was heavy static and the comms dropped.

Tracy made some adjustments to the digital tablet he was tracking them on. "We've still got you on visual. State police have the drone up. All heat signatures are still showing at the target location."

"Pour me a beer and we'll be back before the head settles. Cruise and team out for now."

The screen flickered. Thunder louder than any Hatch had ever heard rumbled. A second later, the strange man and his van disappeared.

The windshield disintegrated. Bits of glass showered Hatch and Tracy as the Land Rover was swallowed by the churning ground.

Tracy grunted in pain. She saw his left leg had been trapped awkwardly under the brake pedal. His shin was twisted in the opposite direction of his thigh.

The front end was pulled deeper. The shattered screen of the tablet flickered like a strobe light and then went out. The silence that followed was short lived.

Nose down fifteen feet below where the road had once been, Hatch heard a new sound. The loud rushing sound of water filled the air.