He reached into his pocket and removed two cell phones. One was hers, the other one of the prepaid devices he’d bought, both obviously returned by their captors. He reached around with his hand and slid hers into her back pocket, then theatrically put the other in his own. “They’re going to take you away now. They’ll drop you in a public place and turn you loose. When that happens, when you’re certain you’re safe, call me. The number is already loaded.”
She nodded to say she would.
“There’s one catch, though — they insisted on it.” He held up the black hood.
Again she nodded, understanding. Lund had so far seen none of these men, and it made sense they would want to keep it that way. It also reinforced the prospect that they would hold up their end of the bargain — a no-strings-attached release.
DeBolt lifted the hood, and in the moment before sliding it over her head he paused and beamed a confident smile at her. Lund did her best to mirror it. Then her world again went black.
38
One hour later Lund was counting, just as they’d instructed. When she reached a hundred, she pulled the hood from her head.
She found herself in the parking lot of the Hilton Hotel, almost the very spot where she’d been standing this morning when they’d abducted her. She looked all around, but saw no sign of the silent man who’d ushered her here, nor the car she’d heard pull away. Lund had played by their rules, and she was glad for it. She was free again.
Now she was going to do her damnedest to return the favor to DeBolt.
She breathed deeply on the chill night air — after a full day of captivity she allowed herself that much. Lund turned on her phone. It booted up, and she poised her finger over the screen, ready to tap on DeBolt’s number. Before she could do so, her phone chimed a handful of times as it collected the business of the day. Three voice mails, two texts, and a half-dozen emails. Back to the old captivity, she thought.
Lund made the call, and as the connection ran she began walking. She was almost to the lobby entrance when DeBolt answered.
“You okay, Shannon?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Right back where we started.”
“No issues?”
“Don’t worry. I’m back in the hotel lobby and there are people all over the place. I’m safe. What about you?”
“I’m good, but I can’t talk for long. Listen closely — there’s a flight on American, it leaves at nine fifteen, connects in Chicago. It’ll have you back in Anchorage by noon tomorrow. From there you can catch the C-130 and be back to Kodiak in time for dinner. There’s plenty of room on all the flights.”
“How do you know all … oh, right.”
“Yeah, I know. It takes some getting used to.”
“Are you going to keep the phone you’re using?” she asked.
“No, I’ll have to ditch it. But I’ve got your number. I’ll call if I need anything.”
She didn’t respond. The contrast between their situations could not have been more stark. She would be home for dinner tomorrow. He had no idea where he would be in a day or a week. Didn’t know if he would ever be able to reclaim the life of PO2 Trey DeBolt.
“I can still help,” she said. “I have access to information too, things you might not be able to find.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. But for now the risk is too high, Shannon. I don’t want you involved.”
Instead of arguing, she said, “Take care of yourself, Trey. I mean it.”
“You too.”
The connection ended, and Lund lowered her handset. She stared at the hotel’s front desk, and it dawned on her that she’d only booked the room for one night. She wondered how they handled it when a guest disappeared but left their things in a room. Guess I’m about to find out.
She nearly pocketed her phone before remembering the messages. Lund checked them one by one. The texts were from friends wondering where she’d gone. The emails were all work related and none pertained to DeBolt. The second voice mail sent her finger straight to the call back button. Jim Kalata answered right away.
“Hey, Shannon. Did you get my message?”
“Yes. You said you made some headway on the William Simmons case.”
“I did. First of all, Matt Doran came in and showed me the pictures he took on the scene. There was definitely somebody else up there, maybe even signs of a scuffle. I also checked Simmons’ home laptop and found some pretty heated email exchanges. He was getting sideways with some kind of patient advocate over at the big hospital in Anchorage. Simmons was upset that nobody there would admit to knowing anything about Trey’s case.”
“So he was ruffling feathers.”
“Big-time. Along with what Matt came up with, it bugged me, and it seemed to go beyond the island. So I did one of your arrival searches.”
Lund had devised the procedure. Most crimes in Kodiak, like any place, were local in nature — victims and perpetrators were residents. But occasionally the involvement of outsiders had to be considered. Kodiak being an island, and a small and remote one at that, there were few avenues by which anyone could arrive and depart. If a date could be approximated, it was a simple task to go over the manifests for the few scheduled flights and see if any names stood out.
Kalata said, “I threw in as many discriminators as I could. I looked for a male who arrived and departed within two days either side of Sunday, the day of the accident. I screened out anybody less than twenty years old, and because Matt said that path up the mountain was really challenging, I also tossed anybody over fifty.”
“And?”
“Honestly, it’s a reach. But I really busted my butt on this, so you’re gonna owe me.”
“Dammit, Jim—”
“A beer — I just want a beer. Maybe two.” He let her stew a moment longer, then, “My best find was a guy who flew in Sunday morning, then left that same night. He wasn’t here more than eight hours. Never booked a room or rented a car, nothing. And get this — he flew in all the way from Vienna, Austria. That’s four flights each way, like thirty hours of travel. Does that make sense to you? A guy flies halfway around the world to spend eight hours in Kodiak — as far as I can tell, to do nothing.”
“There could be a lot of explanations, Jim. He might have been closing on a house or visiting a sick parent.”
“I know, it’s not much. I cross-checked his last name with the local phone directory — no matches. Same with county arrest and property records. I even called the hospital here. As you know, it’s not a big place. There were only nine logged visitors that day — none were our guy.”
Lund put some thoughtfulness in her voice. “You have been busy. Thanks for going the distance with me on this, Jim.” She immediately regretted her choice of words, and before he could respond, she asked, “What’s his name?”
“Douglas Wilson. The airline had an address for him in Missoula, Montana. I tried to look it up, but drew blanks — I’m pretty sure the street address doesn’t exist. Oh, and there was one other thing. According to Doran, the second set of footprints on the mountain were really deep.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning this guy was nimble enough to get up a mountain, but he’s one large individual. Altogether, it wasn’t much to go on, but since I knew the flight times I went to the airport and looked over their surveillance video. One fuzzy image stood out — I’ll send it to you now from my iPad.”
Lund took the phone from her ear, and twenty seconds later it arrived. She opened the image and pinched it wider. When she did, the resolution suffered. There were three people in the frame, but she had no doubt which one Kalata was talking about: bald, unsmiling, massive build. His head was down as he parted the thin crowd. The human equivalent of an icebreaker.