Supernatural Fresh Meat - By Alice Henderson Page 0,56
right.”
“Do you remember my partner? Early thirties, short brown hair?”
The ranger knitted his eyebrows together. “I remember him, but he wasn’t among the folks who were escorted out. So far we’ve just had a couple and a woman with her dog.”
Bobby pulled out his F.B.I. credentials, too. “I’m Special Agent Cash. Our colleague’s out there following the trail of a serial killer.”
The ranger lifted his eyebrows and his jaw dropped a little. “Oh, jeez. You’d better come in.” He opened the door wider and they stepped into the warmth of the building. He ushered them over to a small vinyl couch in front of a coffee table that doubled as the crew’s break room. McGovern perched on the corner of a desk and gave a low whistle. “So he’s out there right now, in this blizzard, trying to bring a man in?”
“That’s right,” Sam told him. “We were supposed to join him, but we couldn’t get through the road block.”
“So those questions you asked me earlier, about the animal killings, that’s your guy?”
“Yes.”
“I knew it! Knew it wasn’t some rogue bear.”
“Agent Plant is out there alone right now,” Bobby told him.
“Wow. That’s rough.” McGovern took a sip of some coffee from a mug sitting on the desk. “But no way can we let additional people up there right now. We’re still waiting to see what avalanche control can pull off. If we can force it to slide in the right direction, we could alleviate the tension before a massive avalanche takes out the whole side of the mountain and everything in its path. They’ve got a team of guys up at Tahoe Summit Ski Lodge. They’ve got hand charges and even a howitzer up there. Thing is, the cloud ceiling’s too low for them to know if they’re hitting the right places.”
“Listen,” Sam said. “We really need to reach our colleague. Is there another access point to that area of the forest?”
“I’m afraid not. That’s the closest and most direct route. Any other way would take you twice as long and make you go over far more rugged and dangerous terrain.”
Bobby tried another tack. “His cell phone died out there. Is there a radio we can use? Are there any backcountry rangers in the area, still trying to find people to bring out?”
McGovern looked doubtful, then turned and checked a list of names on a clipboard. “Nope, nope,” he said, scanning through them. “Our last ranger came in forty-five minutes ago.”
Sam stood up. “Well, can we talk to Grace? She knows him and may have even seen him last.”
The ranger raised his eyebrows. “Grace?”
“Yeah, Grace Cumberlin, the backcountry patrol ranger?”
McGovern wrinkled his brow and looked thoughtful. “We don’t have a Grace.”
“But we’ve run into her,” Sam insisted. “More than once.”
“Well, all I can tell you is we don’t have a Grace here.”
“Could she be part of another Forest Service branch?” Bobby asked.
“Not if she was patrolling out where your friend is. She’d be with the Tahoe National Forest.”
Bobby and Sam looked at each other, then Sam noticed an employee board where everyone’s photos were tacked up. “May I?” he asked the ranger.
“Be my guest.”
Sam walked to the board, Bobby following. Some twenty-four rangers smiled back at them. Each had a headshot, a list of interests beneath, and how long they’d been with the Forest Service.
Grace was not among them.
Sam clearly recalled her Forest Service uniform, the distinct logo on the upper arm of her jacket. She certainly wasn’t working for a different branch of the government.
“Bobby.”
“I know.”
“It would be a perfect disguise. People would feel safe. People would trust her.”
Bobby looked grim. “I know.”
THIRTY-FOUR
As snow cascaded down over Truckee, Sam and Bobby drove up an old fire road. Sam gripped the armrest as the van rumbled over the rough ground, jostling them and their gear. The road had been washed out so many times that huge gullies created dangerous pits along its entire length. Bobby was doing the best he could, but the heavy snowfall masked the location of the potholes and ravines, and they lurched and skidded all over the place. Sam’s snowshoes slid off the backseat and skittered around in the back.
He aimed his flashlight at the topographic map on his lap. “Okay, there should be another road coming up on the right.”
In a few more minutes, the headlights shone on the intersection, which was marked only with a small metal sign bearing the fire number 145GPH24. Bobby turned onto it and they rumbled on.