Page 17 of High Velocity

I make it look like I’m scrutinizing the paper even closer before pressing a hand to my forehead.

“Oh my God, I feel so stupid. You’re right. It’s a three and not a five. How bad is it I can’t even read my own writing anymore?”

The woman chuckles and lifts her glasses off her face, holding them up.

“Believe me, I know only too well. These days I have to wear reading glasses for everything except driving.”

“I guess I have no choice, I’ll have to invest in a pair,” I return. “I was hoping to put it off for another, let’s say, decade or two.” I lift my hand. “I’m so sorry for bothering you. I’ll go find 234.”

“Not to worry.”

She’s already turned her back, pushing open the door, when she suddenly swings around, her eyes drifting to my CR-V.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t bother with that place. I don’t think it’s for you, it’s a bit of a dump and the owner is an asshole.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks. I’ve got a few more places to look at anyway.”

This time she disappears inside and I head back to my vehicle.

I didn’t see any movement inside, and Tracy did not strike me as nervous, the way I would expect if she were harboring a fugitive and some stranger came knocking on her door. I don’t think he’s here, at least not now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be at some point.

Still, I’m smiling when I turn back onto the road. My hook is set, and tomorrow when I coincidentally show up for my haircut, she and I will have lots to talk about.

Jackson

“How’s the leg?”

I look up from the computer screen to see Jonas stepping into the tent. We’d just loaded up the horses early this morning and were about to take off, when he received a notification he was expected to attend some kind of task force meeting at nine thirty. He’d been none too pleased.

“Better.”

I had to give my stump a little extra care last night before I rolled into bed. A good wash and some derma repair cream with vitamin E to do its thing overnight. Then this morning I put on a fresh, super-thin stump sock, and used a different prosthetic liner.

Still, I brought my crutch, and once we’d set up communications, and I was sitting at the monitor, I took my leg off to give the skin some air.

“What was that meeting about?” I ask him.

“A bunch of posturing and finger-pointing between agencies. The Argentinian government is not happy we haven’t been able to locate the ambassador’s son and feels not enough people are searching and more should be done. The reason they wanted me there was to explain why more searchers would not be helpful.”

People don’t realize this can be very unpredictable and treacherous terrain. Sending groups of inexperienced people on a search in these mountains is asking for trouble. We’d end up spending more time hauling out injuries or looking for missing volunteers than we’d be searching. It really is more trouble than it’s worth.

“And?”

He shrugs. “They were temporarily satisfied with my suggestion to call the dog team out again.”

“Jillian?”

“Yeah. But this time with Emo.”

Jillian is my teammate Wolff’s wife. She has a search-and-rescue dog team, but also handles a cadaver dog, Emo, who is trained to find human remains.

“I assume you’d have told me if you caught anything with the drone?”

“Nothing particular,” I share as I open the topographic map of the area on my screen. “I tracked the creek up the mountain and back down, and marked up the areas where I saw the collection of melt-off debris.”

I point at a turn in the river, where I’d spotted a substantial obstruction had formed, forcing the water out of its bounds to get around.

“That’s a big one. Let me find this section on the video from the Matrice, so you can see it yourself.”

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