Chapter Thirty-Four

In the orange glow of sunrise, Lars Karsten turns the corner of the city block, light streaking between the buildings, blading the snow-bound streets.

The mini-mart opens at eight. Supplies are coming in, a load of groceries if the truck can make it through.

He guesses the delivery should be there mid-morning, with the weather. He thinks of the pressed cardboard and packaging waste at the back of the store. Left out in the snow the night before, it’d need moving before the truck made it in.

He skirts a low wall, reaches the rear lot—entirely covered now, amorphous, under a blanket of white.

A panel van from a neighboring store is in there. Plus one other vehicle that wasn't there when they closed for the night. It’s tucked in behind the panel van, right up next to the dumpsters. The recycling cage is behind it, the vehicle’s blocking the damn thing in.

Karsten crosses the lot, stares at it—an SUV, covered in a foot of snow.

He runs the edge of a boot along the frozen white powder masking the license plate. Walking down the side of the vehicle, he clears snow from the door.

In decals, he can read the words U.S. PARK RANGER.

He steps back. Reaches in his coat for his cell.

Five minutes pass before the police cruiser pulls in at the curb.

A uniformed officer is at the wheel—a woman beside him, dressed in plain clothes.

The woman climbs out first, takes a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her mountain fleece jacket. She sparks one up. “You the manager?”

“Lars Karsten.”

“It was you that called?”

The man nods. “Yes, I did.”

The woman sticks the cigarette in the side of her mouth, runs a hand through her black, ringlet hair.

She steps forward.

The uniform cop gets out of the car, walks around the hood.

“I just got here,” Karsten says. “I need to open up the store.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the mini-mart. “That thing’s blocking access to the loading bay.”

“Right,” the woman says.

“I took a look, saw it belonged to the Parks Service.”

“You think it's been here all night?” The woman eyes the piled up snow on the ground.

“I guess,” says Karsten.

“My name is Agent Rimes. With the city FBI. Did you touch anything?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you touch the vehicle yet?”

“All I did was move a little snow off of it.”

“Good,” she says.

“What the heck's it doing here?” Karsten says.

The woman nods. “That’s mainly the question.”

Belaski tries the rear tail-lift of the Yukon—it’s frozen. He can't get it to shift.

He clears snow from the back windshield, peers inside, into the trunk space; big enough.

He steps away, crosses back to the motel, opens up the room. Nothing is left in there from the night before. He checks a last time, feels for the gun in his coat pocket, the suppressor unscrewed.

He pulls the door closed. Fastens the parka up to his neck.

Walking out, he leaves the lot, leaves the motel forecourt.

The snow-packed sidewalk follows the highway straight out of town—its surface a mix of salt and snow and dirt, but vehicles are on it, moving slow.

Breakfast, he thinks. Plenty of it. The diner from last night would be open now. He leans into a whipsaw wind.

A half hour is all it should take. Half an hour, eat breakfast, walk across the road, check the outdoor store he’d seen.

Anthony would be alright. Wrapped up in all that winter fishing gear. He was out of the wind and snow in that shack; sheltered. If he couldn’t get to Lauren, he was going to need him.

All the doors of the vehicle are open; nothing locked. Agent Rimes stands by the park ranger Explorer in the mini-mart lot, feet numb, in spite of the Timberland boots.

A basic visual examination has shown nothing to indicate a body. No sign an injured person has been transported. She's wearing black, nitrile gloves, she’s made a minimum of contact. Nothing untoward is inside the vehicle—no blood, no mud, no debris from the ground.

A streak of brass colored light paints the snow in the lot. She leaves the doors open, steps away.

Turning toward the uniform cop, she calls over, “Officer Stevens?”

“Ma’am?”

“I need the radio.”

The store manager, Karsten, watches her.

“Go right ahead,” Stevens says.

She squints into the sun, trudges to the cruiser. Yanks open the door, slides in.

Shaking off the cold, she shudders, lifts the radio transmitter from the console.

On the top floor of the hotel downtown, Inspector McBride talks fast into his cell. It’s the third call inside of ten minutes; Whicher glances at him from his place at the picture window.

McBride nods as he listens, then clicks off the call. “Agent Rimes is going to wait down there,” he says. “Kinawa’s calling in a crime scene technician.”

“At least we know they're not in that vehicle,” the marshal says.

The inspector stands, walks to the window. “Maybe,” he says. He peers out into the middle distance. “I have to say it’s not looking real promising.”

Whicher follows the man’s gaze to the wooded hills beyond the city skyline. “No need to search the forests,” the marshal says. “Or check on outlying properties.”

“Kinawa thinks they’ll be out of state, long gone.”

“He thinks they have another vehicle?”

“No reports have come in,” McBride answers. “Nothing’s been stolen. They’re going to check with the rental car places.” The inspector shrugs.

“If that park ranger SUV was dumped downtown,” Whicher says, “they could be in here now. Right here in Rapid City.”

McBride eyes the younger marshal. “There's no sign of blood. He could’ve just shot the poor son of a bitch and dumped him someplace in the woods.”

“He shoots Anthony, then drives to Rapid City?”

“Nobody would find the body, maybe not for months.” McBride scowls. “If he's in here somewhere, we’d have no way of knowing about it.” He runs a knuckle over the salt and pepper mustache. “If the guy drove into town, he could have picked up a phone, called for somebody to come get him. Kind of thing he might do if he was alone by that point...”

Whicher thinks about it. “You’re saying you think he killed him?”

“Explain it, if he didn't.”

The marshal turns to stare out over the rooftops, steam rising from flue vents and chimney stacks at the sides of buildings. “If the guy came to kill Lauren and Anthony, how come he waited this long?”

The inspector doesn’t answer.

Whicher shifts his focus onto a neighboring roof, thick with snow. “The guy’s boss wants them back alive.”

McBride steps away from the window, takes his coat from the back of a chair. “The only thing I know is I want you gone today,” the inspector says. “There’s a break in the weather, I want you out of here, you and Lauren, headed east. We get her back to Chicago. In time for the trial. After that, she’s the DA’s problem.”

“She’s going to retract.”

“You believe that?”

Whicher squares his hat. “Right now? I think she’d take back every word.”