Page 73 of High Velocity

Instead of driving all the way up to the trailer, I pull off to the side of the driveway a few hundred feet away. I’d rather walk the rest of the way in and keep my eyes open, but I don’t want Alex to leave the safety of the car.

“How am I supposed to back you up if I stay in the car?” she objects.

“We can exchange phone numbers, and you can keep an eye on me from here.” We swap phones and enter our numbers. “And if anything happens, I want you to get out of here,” I add as I take my phone back, and leave the keys in the ignition for her.

The last thing I want is to put Jonas’s wife and Jackson’s mother in any danger.

She doesn’t look too pleased with me, but I ignore her as I slip my cell in my pocket and the borrowed gun in the back of my waistband, and get out of the vehicle.

Something is not sitting right with me.

The whole drive over here my mind has been going a mile a minute, trying to come up with some kind of theory that would explain everything that has happened. But some of the pieces simply won’t fit.

Then, as I pulled into the driveway and saw the trailer in the distance, something hit me. If Tracy’s phone is pinging around here somewhere, it doesn’t bode too well for her because it would indicate she’s either hurt, dead, or taken against her will. But if that’s the case, then where is her car? Why isn’t that gray Pontiac Vibe still parked in front of her trailer?

Unless she, or someone else, moved that vehicle to support the story about her leaving for Helena. Still, if that were the case, why would she toss her phone out somewhere around here? If she was afraid someone would use it to track her, wouldn’t she try to destroy it? Take the sim card, toss it in the lake. Anything but leave it lying around near her trailer. It wouldn’t fit with the story she’d be trying to create.

No, wherever Tracy is, I don’t think she went voluntarily. Everything I’ve learned so far would support that. Which means I need to watch my back, because I have no clue what the endgame is here. I don’t know how it ties in with the fire or even the tires on Jackson’s truck, but my gut tells me those things are connected, and it feels like I’m in the middle of it.

Except I have no idea how I got there.

Without losing track of my surroundings, I scan the ground for a phone or anything else that might give me a clue of what happened to Tracy. Ten minutes of that and I realize I’m looking for a needle in a haystack. I pull my cell phone from my pocket to study the image Wilcox sent me.

The red-shaded circle covers a larger area than just this property. It includes the surrounding land and a scant handful of homes—mostly trailers like this one—spread out through the woods. Unless I stumble over it, I’m never going to be able to find the phone by myself.

On a gamble, I hit redial on Tracy’s phone number, hoping perhaps I can hear it. It rings once and then the call is dropped. When I check my phone, I see I only have one bar. Dammit. With so many mountains around, it’s always a bit of a crapshoot whether you get decent reception or not. I guess no shortcuts for me.

I keep searching, checking the number of bars on my phone every so often as I slowly make my way around the house. I’m afraid if I dial the number too often, I’ll drain the battery on her cell and then I won’t be able to get a bead on it at all, so I try to pace myself.

At the back of the property, I stumble onto what looks like a game trail; a narrow path through the fairly dense underbrush. What draws my attention though is the sight of shoe prints in the still damp earth between the ferns. The ridged edges and distinct pattern hold my attention. Opening the photo library on my phone, I locate the image I took by Jackson’s truck, right beside one of its deflated tires.

The shoe print—boot print is probably more accurate—looks identical, up to and including the small imperfections, likely made by gravel stuck between the treads.

I stick out my women’s size eight foot, hovering it over the print, confirming the boot that left the imprint is about a twelve. Too big for Tracy, I’m sure. I would’ve noticed if she had men’s size twelve feet. Besides, she doesn’t seem the type to wear hiking boots. I snap a few quick pictures.

These prints haven’t been here that long. Someone has been here within the past day or two at most.

Glancing back, I can’t see the driveway from here, which means Alex can’t see me either. I don’t want her to worry, so I try to call her, but this time I don’t even get a ring before the call is dropped. Often times text can still get through since it requires less signal strength for transmission, so I quickly shoot off a message.

Checking out a path behind trailer. Won’t be long.

I don’t wait for a response and slip the phone back in my pocket. Reaching around the small of my back, I check to make sure I can easily reach the gun I tucked back there. Then I set out on the path, following the direction of the prints and making sure I don’t step on them.

I pass the rear of a few houses, but I’m still spotting a print here and there, continuing on the trail. When I reach the back of another property—this one looks more like a junkyard than a home—I no longer see any prints ahead. Checking out the place, I notice several old vehicles, an old motorhome, rusted bedsprings, a couple of big drums, stacks of old tires, and even an ancient tractor scattered around the property. There are even some raised garden beds, at one time probably used to grow vegetables or something, but they are wildly overgrown with weeds. The trailer home itself doesn’t look much better than the sorry state of the yard. The only exception is the green tarp covering some vehicle right behind the building.

The folds in the clean plastic still look crisp and new, and my interest is piqued, but so is my sixth sense. It feels like I have eyes on me, and I furtively glance around me, my hand finding the butt of my gun at the small of my back. The fact I don’t see anyone doesn’t necessarily mean anything, there are plenty of opportunities to hide in this junk-riddled yard or the trees beyond.

I stand still for a minute or two, simply listening for any movement, but I don’t hear much beyond the expected muted sounds of nature. Nothing moves.

Standing still won’t find me Tracy though, so—staying alert—I slowly approach the covered vehicle.

Part of me already knows what I’ll find underneath. Call it intuition or a gut feeling, but when I lift the edge of the tarp and reveal the distinct red logo against gray paint, I’m not surprised.

Instinctively I sniff the air for the scent of decomposition. It wouldn’t be the first time we find a vehicle, only to discover the victim inside. I don’t smell it though, and I have a sharp nose. The scent is distinctive enough not to be confused with the smell of damp or rotting vegetation, which there is plenty of. No guarantees until I get a good look, but that’s going to have to wait until Vallard gets here.

He didn’t seem in too much of a hurry when I spoke to him earlier, but I bet he’ll put his foot on the gas when he hears I found her car. I drop the tarp and produce my phone, hoping for a pocket of decent cell reception. The two bars staring back at me are encouraging.

But before I have a chance to dial, a shot rings out. I drop the phone and duck down, but it’s not until I try to reach behind me for the gun, I notice my right arm won’t work. When I look down, I see blood dripping down my hand.

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