Gabe decided to call his friend Portland police detective Alan Cullen before he did a single other thing. Fortunately, Alan returned Gabe’s call within ten minutes.
“You’re the last person I expected to hear from,” he said. “I thought you were still in rehab at Fort Benning.”
Sitting out on the front porch in an Adirondack chair, Gabe grimaced. Alan had been a good enough friend, he should have gotten in touch sometime in the last year. Loner that he was, he’d resisted even depending on Boyd. “I’ve been at the ranch for a couple of months. The damn rehab has dragged on.”
“Then what’s with the license plate number?”
Gabe gave him a synopsis of events, and even that took a few minutes. Voice changing as he shifted into cop-mode, Alan asked a few questions.
“Damn,” he said at last. “Joseph Marr’s sister. Lucky you were available. Although I suppose Joseph could have called Boyd instead.”
Feeling instant resistance, even repugnance, Gabe ground his teeth before forcing himself to say, “I guess so.” He’d seen the way Boyd looked at Trina the first time he and she had met. Hell. What if she and Boyd—
He shook off the possibility because it made him so angry.
“Okay, what’s the license plate number?” Alan asked.
Gabe read it off.
“I can run it right—” The silence didn’t last long. “Huh.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It’s tagged. Belongs on a charcoal gray Audi RS7. Was it fast?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Six hundred and five horsepower engine.” The remark was absent; it wasn’t what Alan was really thinking about. “Registered owner is a guy named Craig Jarvis. He’s ostensibly an importer, but the DEA has their suspicions about him.”
Drug Enforcement Administration? Gabe felt as if a critical puzzle piece had been inserted. Dark corners were suddenly bathed in harsh white light.
“Does he live on this side of the mountains?” he asked.
“Yes, Bend.” Alan paused. “You know central Oregon has become a hotbed of drug trafficking, don’t you? Lots of small airfields, rural sheriffs’ departments that don’t have the manpower to monitor odd comings and goings. There are several drug task forces over there, although—” he paused “—it doesn’t look like your county is included. Attention has focused on the major highways—I-5, of course, but also Interstate 84 and highways 97 and 20. You’re not on any of those, but a county with so little population might be ideal for bringing drugs in from Mexico and Central America. Distribution could be tricky, though.”
“I have a good idea how the drugs are getting distributed,” Gabe said tightly. He told Alan what he was thinking, and how drug trafficking might well have led to the murders.
“You need to contact the Oregon HIDTA Investigative Support Center. They coordinate information for federal, state and local law enforcement within their counties.”
“Granger County is outside their jurisdiction.”
“You think they won’t jump on this?”
“Maybe.” Sometime during this conversation, he’d risen to his feet, too tense now to sit. He stood at the porch railing, looking at the dry forest surrounding his cabin. “I need to think about this. Tell me you don’t have any obligation to contact anyone.”
There was a short silence. “What’s your hesitation?”
“First, why hasn’t Sadler PD brought in some help?”
“You so sure they haven’t?” Alan asked.
“Not positive,” Gabe admitted with reluctance. “I did pass on the same license plate tag to one of the detectives. But damn it, there hasn’t been so much as a hint that they’re considering a drug trafficking angle. Even I’d begun to feel uneasy when several people mentioned the conflict at Open Range Electronics over whether they ought to maintain their own trucks versus shipping through other companies.”
“What’s your real problem?” That was like Alan—get to the point.
“Trina and Chloe,” Gabe said without hesitation. “If either of us talks to any law enforcement agency, they’re going to get right back to the investigators in Sadler. With my name. It would mean moving Trina and the girl, at the very least. I’m not letting them out of my sight. So then all three of us would be AWOL and hunted, and I’ll tell you, Alan, I think Sadler PD has a leak.”
“It wouldn’t be a shock if a major trafficking organization had bought themselves a cop or two,” his friend conceded. “But...hell. How are you going to handle it on your own?”
“Don’t know yet. No, I realize we’ll have to trust someone, sooner or later, but right now all I have is speculation. If those two detectives aren’t wondering the same thing you and I are, then they’re even more incompetent than I believed.”
“I’ll give you that.” Alan gusted a sigh. “This is your call, not mine. But if I can do anything, I will, even if it’s bailing you out of jail.”
Gabe’s grunt was almost a laugh. “What are friends for?”
“Keep me informed.”
They left it at that. Gabe stayed where he was for a long while, even though Chloe must be bouncing off the walls with impatience for the promised horseback ride.
What if Michael Keif had somehow discovered that his company trucks were being used to transport illegal drugs? Drugs that might even be packed in O.R.E.-labeled boxes? Everything he’d worked for would be at risk of going down if even one truck was searched and the drugs were found. The feds would have descended like army airborne troops on a known terrorist hideout.
Pearson was the executive whose responsibilities included the trucking fleet. He was also the one who resisted suggestions that it was too expensive to maintain compared to alternatives.
Gabe also had to consider the possibility that someone lower on the org chart had set up a deal with traffickers. It didn’t have to be Pearson.
Either way, Russell Stearns could have learned what was going on, and wanted a slice of the pie. He might have felt confident that if Keif were out of the picture, he’d be asked to take his place—and would then be in a position to enrich himself by abetting, or at least turning a blind eye to, any and all illegal activities, for a payoff.
Damn, Gabe wished he trusted either of the two detectives. He’d had a better feeling about Deperro...but not enough to risk giving away Trina and Chloe’s whereabouts.
Maybe Boyd knew of someone well-placed whom he trusted. Worth asking. Otherwise... Gabe gave his head a hard shake, trying to stir thoughts, worries, ideas, in hopes they’d resettle in a new arrangement.
They didn’t.
His next step...
The front door opened behind him and a small voice said, “Can’t we ride now?”
He gave a rueful smile. Keeping a promise came next.
* * *
TRINA ENJOYED TODAY’S RIDE even more than she had the other day. Gabe chose a different route, one that allowed them to ride side by side much of the time. They passed through several gates and pastures, cows and calves watching them from a distance. Apparently, he’d decided that since neither had been sore from the last ride, they were up to a longer one today.
They hadn’t had a chance for him to tell her about the conversation with his cop friend. She’d worried when he first came back into the cabin with Chloe, though. The lines scored on his forehead looked permanent, and she’d swear the grooves in his cheeks hadn’t been that deep before. But he had gradually relaxed after saddling the horses, lifting Chloe up and then swinging up behind her.
He proved willing to talk about the ranch, and even a little bit about his teenage years in Texas. “Hooked me on the life,” he admitted. “I’d hate being trapped indoors every day, stuck behind a desk.”
Trina learned this was an enormous operation, and Boyd and Gabe fully intended to expand it. Literally, since they were keeping an eye out for any land bordering theirs to go on the market, and also because both men were interested in breeding and training horses on a larger scale than they were currently doing.
“Boyd’s waiting for you to retire?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Gabe paused, perturbation momentarily reversing the relaxation she’d seen on his face. “No hurry, though.”
This wasn’t a man who’d let a mere injury stop him, she realized anew. That grim determination was to her benefit right now, hers and Chloe’s, but it also meant he wouldn’t let a hookup with some woman prevent him from returning to what really mattered to him.
Her trust that he might actually feel more for her than he wanted to admit dissipated into near nothingness.
“I want to be a horsie rancher,” Chloe announced, proving she’d been listening. “’Cept, I’ve never seen a baby horse.”
“They’re called foals,” he said, with a gentleness that always made Trina’s heart feel as if it were developing fissures. “And since they’re usually born in the spring, we have some right now. We can go look at the mares and foals tomorrow, if you want.”
Planning happy activities laid a veneer over the reality that they were hiding out, waiting for... Trina hardly knew anymore. Chloe to tell them who had killed her daddy? Would they really be safe once that happened?
She realized they’d made a gradual circle and were nearing Gabe’s cabin and barns again. Probably just as well; her thighs were starting to ache.
Today, Gabe let her unsaddle her borrowed mount and turn him out in the paddock. Still holding the bridle, Trina heard a distant buzz. Puzzled, she swiveled in place, trying to identify the source of the sound. It was a motor of some kind. An ATV, maybe? She knew that ranchers did sometimes use them in place of horses to herd cattle.
“Into the barn,” Gabe said suddenly. “Now.”
The sound was increasing in intensity and volume. Maybe it was the crack of his voice, maybe some subliminal fear, but she scooped up Chloe and ran. Gabe was right behind. In seconds, they reached the shadowy interior of the barn that had several stalls, hay storage above and a tack room.
He pulled the sliding door almost closed, leaving a three-inch gap to admit sunlight and give him a view out.
“It’s a helicopter,” Trina whispered, as if they might be overheard.
“It is.” He stood where he could see out, his face set, his body still but the furthest thing from relaxed. This was the soldier, coiled to take action.
An unarmed soldier, she realized in sudden alarm. Trina clutched Chloe tight.
Gabe started to swear, not quite under his breath, but then he glanced at Chloe and clamped his mouth shut.
The sound of the whirling rotors became deafening. Chloe cried out and clapped her hands over her ears. Trina held her breath, as if she were a small animal caught in the open when the shadow of a falcon swept over her.
Gabe never moved, but she swore the band of light dimmed. Was the helicopter hovering right overhead? Or landing? Images from war movies flickered in her head. No wonder that sound had seemed so ominous.
And then the roar began to recede. Trina sagged, stepping back to allow herself to lean against the rough board wall of the tack room.
“Where’s it going?” Her voice was too loud.
“The ranch center.” He sounded remarkably normal. “Let’s dash for the cabin.”
Trina smiled for Chloe’s benefit. “Okeydoke. That was noisy, wasn’t it?”
Trembling, Chloe asked, “What was that?”
Halfway across the open ground, Gabe reached for Chloe and lifted her into his own arms. “It was a helicopter passing overhead. Have you ever seen one?”
Puckers appeared in the high, curved forehead. “I think so,” she said uncertainly. “It landed on top of the hospital. Daddy—” her voice hitched “—said sometimes sick people ride in one ’stead of an ambulance.”
“That’s right.” Gabe had the back door open and ushered Trina in. She heard the dead bolt snick behind them. “Helicopters are faster than ambulances. They fly right over stop signs and red lights.”
Chloe decided then and there that she needed the bathroom. Trina hurried her to the one on this floor, then settled her with one of her new puzzles, promising lunch in a few minutes.
Just as she returned to the kitchen, Gabe’s phone rang.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, seconds into the call. “Did you get a look at it?”
Boyd, she realized. Unfortunately, Gabe’s end of the conversation wasn’t very illuminating.
He concluded the call and dropped the phone on the counter. Standing a few feet from her, he said, “The helicopter stampeded some cattle and horses. Boyd is seriously pissed. He grabbed binoculars but insists there were no visible markings. The windshield was tinted. Had to be private. I’ve seen the sheriff’s department search and rescue helicopter. It’s bigger than this one, white with green stripes and the department logo. Medic helicopters are conspicuously marked, too. I’ve sure never seen one locally that was black.”
“Black seems sort of...” Trina searched for a word.
“Covert?”
“Well, yes.”
“It definitely was. All aircraft are required to have what’s called an ‘N’ number painted in a conspicuous place. There are rules about how tall the letters and numbers have to be. Boyd thinks the number must have been taped or painted over.”
She was almost surprised to see that her hand was steady as she chopped hard-boiled eggs in preparation for making egg salad sandwiches. “So, does that mean they know we’re here?” They were more frightening because they remained faceless, their numbers unknown. Bad enough when she’d thought there was a killer, singular.
Gabe touched her, his knuckles light on her cheek. She let herself lean into the touch, just for a minute.
“No,” he said huskily. “Boyd made some calls. We know for sure the damn thing flew over several other ranches out here, at least. Could have been a dozen or more. Having it go over that low scared the crap out of a lot of cattle and horses. The sheriff’s department and the FAA are getting some irate phone calls.” He smiled slightly. “Boyd is joining them.”
“Good!”
“Won’t do any good, of course, when nobody can identify the damn thing. Whoever was flying it had to know there’d be an uproar. My guess is the helicopter will be grounded for a while.”
“I wonder if O.R.E. has one for the executives.”
“That’s an excellent question.” Gabe leaned against the cabinet. “I’ll do some research. If they do, it has to be registered.”
“This is my fault.” She looked toward the kitchen window but was aware of it only as a bright rectangle. She’d already been brooding about this but had comforted herself that the men would have no way of narrowing their search. She’d been wrong. If Gabe had left his truck outside today, or had been returning from one of his expeditions, they’d have been located. “They know Chloe and I are hiding out near here because I insisted on going to work. It was so stupid.” Shaking her head, she rinsed her hands, then stood with them dripping into the sink. She hated having to see his expression but finally turned her head. “You didn’t have a gun out there. If they’d landed...”
His eyes were warm, nothing like she’d expected. Gripping her shoulders, he said, “Okay, one thing at a time. First, I’ve been keeping a rifle in the barn. If that damn thing had looked like it was settling on the ground, I’d have had the rifle in my hands. I didn’t want to scare Chloe.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He drew her toward him, not seeming to care that the hands she flattened on his chest were still wet. She was vaguely surprised they didn’t steam, given his body heat.
“Second,” he said sternly, “yeah, they have a geographic fix on us because you and I were going back and forth to town. But we were doing that for good reason. Two reasons. You do good working with those kids, Trina. And something I didn’t tell you. Risvold claimed if you didn’t show up for work, he’d assume you’d skipped the area. He made some threats. No matter what, if I hadn’t agreed that the risk was justified, I’d have said no.”
Guilt morphed into annoyance, even though she should be glad he was accepting responsibility, too. “So I had no real say?”
“You had a say. My decision would have been final.”
“Does the word arrogant ring any bells?”
He smiled slightly.
She was being absurd. This wasn’t a battle of the sexes. It was survival.
“Will you show me where you keep that rifle?” she said steadily, stepping back. “In case...”
“Yes.” Gabe frowned. “Damn, I should have already done that. Have you ever handled a gun?”
“Are you kidding? Joseph has done his best to prepare me for any of life’s eventualities. Riots, earthquakes, muggers, zombies, you name it, I’m ready.” But not a house fire, she thought. Not arson. And he hadn’t covered the unit on evasive driving.
Leaning a hip against the cabinet, Gabe laughed, as she’d intended. “I don’t suppose you target-practice?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t in a while. Brother dear would disapprove if he knew how lax I’ve been. But I do know what I’m doing with a hunting rifle or a handgun.”
“Good.” Leaning forward, he brushed his lips over hers, kissed her forehead and released her. “I hear the munchkin coming.”
“Oh! I need to get these sandwiches made.”
Quietly, he said, “I’ll show you while she’s napping.”
Trina became aware of the tension between her shoulder blades and creeping up her neck. They wouldn’t be making passionate love during Chloe’s nap time, they’d be inspecting available armaments.
Because this was war, wasn’t it?
* * *
GABE TOLD TRINA the combination to the gun safe, then had her handle the smallest handgun he owned, the one best suited to a woman, as well as a black hunting rifle. She loaded magazines and unloaded them. He’d have liked to have her do some shooting, but they couldn’t afford for anyone to hear the barrage of gunfire, so he settled for satisfying himself that she appeared competent with a weapon in her hand.
Then, unhappy, he vowed to do his damnedest to be here 24/7 to protect her and Chloe. For all he knew, Trina had the skills of a sharpshooter, but he had a lot of trouble imagining her pinning a man in her sights and pulling the trigger. She was a woman of warmth and compassion, one who’d chosen to work with traumatized children. He suspected she would be able to pull that trigger if she believed it was the only way to save the little girl she so obviously loved. And then she’d have to live with what she’d done.
Gabe had killed often enough, he ought to be utterly hardened to the necessity and the aftermath. In one way, he was. He’d learned to compartmentalize, a term one of those damn therapists at the army hospital liked to throw around. It wasn’t a bad description, he’d decided. For the most part, he put those memories in a drawer rarely opened. He’d never discussed it with any of his friends and teammates, but he suspected they did the same, whatever imagery they used.
That didn’t mean he didn’t dream, wasn’t blindsided on occasion by a memory of the face of a man just before he died—or as he died, which was worse. His drawer didn’t seem to have a secure lock holding it closed.
If Trina had to shoot to kill, she’d be haunted by what she’d done for the rest of her life. She wasn’t him. She saw the humanity in everyone, believed in the possibility of goodness.
The minute the gun safe was securely locked, he left her. He didn’t let himself look back, even though he knew she watched him go. He could work out and still be close by if someone showed up. Slacking off the way he had been wasn’t acceptable. Nothing had changed. He had a goal.
Once in the makeshift gym in the other half of the outbuilding where he parked his truck, Gabe warmed up, then did some squats and lunges while holding weights. He welcomed the burn of straining muscles and ignored the deeper, more ominous pain in his pelvis and thigh. He added ten pounds to the barbell, lay back on his weight bench and began a methodical series of presses, sweat stinging his eyes and soaking his shirt.
Finally, he let the barbell crash onto its stand and swore, long and viciously. His ability to focus had always been unshakable. So why couldn’t he get Trina out of his head?