Last Track, The

The Last Track

A Mike Brody Novel

by

Sam Hilliard

Buddhapuss Ink LLC Edison, NJ

Copyright © 2010 Sam Hilliard

Published in the United States by Buddhapuss Ink, LLC. Edison, New Jersey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover Design by Elynn Cohen

Interior Book Design by The Book Team

Author Photo by Charissa Meredith Carroll

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009944195

First Edition

ISBN 978-0-9842035-1-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-0-9842035-2-9 (Kindle/ebook)

First Printing February 2010

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher has no control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Buddhapuss Ink LLC and logos are trademarks of Buddhapuss Ink LLC.

www.buddhapussink.com

For my Mother
and her new birthday,
February 11, 2009

Day One

07:14:32 AM

Sean Jackson counted to four and exhaled. Deep in flight mode, his heart pounded furiously. One thought drove him: he had to make it to the Pine Woods Ranch without being seen.

Because he had been spotted on the main road earlier, he needed an alternate course. Eight miles in the opposite direction was a gas station near the highway on-ramp. Inside were a phone and an attendant. But Sean figured that eight miles could take an hour, which made the filling station hardly an option at all. The ranch, however, was less than a mile out. Even if someone was waiting at the gates for him, heading toward lots of people was much safer than banking on a solitary clerk. And once he explained to his parents what had happened, everything would be fine. They would understand.

Until then, the fewer chances he might be spotted, the better. Facing west, twin mountain caps caught his attention. Their shape was familiar. For the last six days, each time he had seen them from the ranch, he had wished he was back in Brooklyn.

Sean pushed his glasses back up along the bridge of his nose. Usually when he shifted them around, his fingers smudged the lenses. This time they stayed clean.

Committing to his course, he tore through the trees, one eye on the mountains. He stuck tight against the tree line, away from the road. A voice deep inside said not to run full out yet, to save the reserves until he drew closer.

Minutes passed. His inhaler rattled in his pocket. Sean thought he would be near the gates by now. Questioning his chosen route, he hesitated. He stared up at the towering Douglas firs; the pines were so much taller than the maples in Grove Park. Everything about Montana seemed larger.

He glanced behind, mentally retracing his path to this point. In his mind’s eye he had moved just as he had planned. He ran again. Swung left, gunned for the road, and burrowed deeper into the woods. But something had gone wrong. He was not where he had expected to be.

Five more minutes elapsed.

Every direction he turned, every step he took, only led to more trees.

07:14:32 PM

Mike Brody inhaled. He was tired from the drive to Montana, too tired for the red and blue lights flashing on the row of police cars. Past the lights and vehicles, a sawhorse blocked the entrance to the Pine Woods Ranch. After a sixteen-hour road trip, this was the last straw. For the sake of his son napping in the back and his ex-wife riding in the passenger seat, Mike checked his displeasure. He kept quiet and rolled up slowly.

An officer with a clipboard hailed them. Since Mike’s ex-wife had made the arrangements, the reservations were in her name. The number of people in the truck matched the number of guests listed under Jessica Barrett: three. Jessica, like many women, had never changed her name when she married.

Satisfied there was nothing to worry about, the officer removed the sawhorses and let the truck pass. As they started through the gate, the officer’s eyes locked on Mike Brody’s side of the truck.

“S&B Outfitters,” the officer said, reading the decal on the side of the truck out loud. “You’re Mike Brody?” Mike nodded. Facing away from them, the officer called to a plainclothes officer in khakis. “Lisbeth! It’s him.”

Jessica sighed, leaning toward the driver’s-side window.

With a face that put strangers at ease, people often thought they had met Mike Brody before. A feature last month in
News Story
made his face even more recognizable.

“Fantastic. Just who I was looking for.” The plainclothes officer offered Mike a card: Lisbeth McCarthy, Detective. She had shoulder-length black hair and the look of someone not afraid to get dirty.

Lisbeth said, “After you check in, let’s talk.”

“What’s this about?” Jessica asked before Mike could. There was just enough tension in her voice for Mike to notice, yet not enough to put off a stranger.

“I just have a few questions for Mike,” Lisbeth said. “My cell number is on the back.”

The tires scattered dust and stones on the dirt road as he drove away. Mike knew what Jessica was thinking. Was he planning to meet Lisbeth or not? Right now all he cared about was the deadline for check-in, and after that, taking a hot shower. Sixteen hours split across two days was half a lifetime road-tripping with an ex-wife and an eight-year-old.

“Are you going to speak with her?” Jessica asked.

Mike answered by glancing back in the rearview mirror at their son.

At the main lodge, an error in the computer system had morphed their reservation for two rooms with two doubles into a single room with two twins. The mistake—the attendant apologized repeatedly for it—was unfortunate. But because of overbooking, a proper resolution had to wait until the morning. The attendant promised to bring a cot to their room. An hour later, it still hadn’t arrived.

On the plus side, the accommodations matched the description in the ads. The lodge itself was a massive ranch-style building. Thick, exposed wood beams supported a vaulted ceiling, giving the rooms a log-cabin feel. Hand-carved furniture—oversized, as if scaled for giants—lined the walls. A bearskin rug covered the floor between the beds. A generous window directly opposite the door offered a stunning view of the landscape, which included a snow-tipped mountain range.

The idea for the trip started right before Mike and Jessica had separated. Both had agreed this was a vacation they wanted. Even as the marriage dissolved, each detail of the trip fell into place effortlessly, as if the vacation was immune to their marital problems. While many things had changed with the divorce—longstanding rituals terminated, assets redistributed—part of their relationship survived. When it came to their son, they avoided conflict and agreed on what made sense for him. So they had kept their promise to Andy and each other. Now they were in Montana at a dude ranch for a week, under the big sky, a twenty-five minute drive from any decent-sized city.

A gray-and-white striped cat slept on a couch near the main entrance of the building. Once they unpacked and settled in, Andy stepped into the lobby to pet it, leaving his parents alone for a moment. The door remained open so they could see him.

“I really like the looks of this place,” Jessica said. And then she added more quietly, “Sorry about my tone with Lisbeth before. These obstacles at the last minute get me.”

“You and me both,” Mike said.

Seated at the edge of the bed, Jessica flipped through pamphlets about the ranch. “There’s an article here,” she said. “I can see it. Twenty-first century meets cowboy. Wireless Internet access, and lunch from a cast-iron pot over a fire. Modern luxuries and nature’s wonders. The best of both worlds.” She jotted the last bit in her planner. Anything important to her found its way to the pages, sooner or later. “And I can’t wait to ride the horses.”

When Andy returned, Mike showered. The hot water relaxed his muscles. Lisbeth’s invitation wandered into his thoughts.
After you check in,
let’s talk,
Lisbeth had said. He had checked in. That left the conversation.

After he dressed, he said, “Think I’ll go find out about that cot.”

“Is that your cover?” Her question sounded nothing like a question at all. Jessica was good at making questions sound like statements, and statements like questions. The mark of a journalist.

“It’s better than sleeping on a hardwood floor,” said Mike.

“This missing cot is a bit convenient,” said Jessica. She had Mike’s number. She always had Mike’s number.

Relenting, he said, “I may pop by and chat with Lisbeth.”

“Please stay out of this one,” Jessica said. “Not for me. For Andy. We’re on vacation.”

“It’ll be fine.” He stood in the doorway. “They just want to talk.”

“Mike, this is not the first time it’s started like this . . .”

08:39:52 PM

Finding the check-in area closed, Mike left the Navajo artifacts and moose head hanging from the stone walls and headed for the main gate. Cool air nipped at his bare arms. Sunset was near.
Only doing this as a courtesy,
he thought.
Besides, Jessica wants the inside story.
He almost laughed aloud at his rationalization. As he reached the front gate, Lisbeth waved him toward her.

“Up for walking a bit?” Lisbeth said. “I move around when I’m problem solving. Helps me think.”

“What problems might those be?” Mike said.

“My vacation is coming up. I was thinking about taking an excursion. Figure I have you here, an established sports outfitter, might as well ask a few questions.”

Mike played along because he had few questions of his own for her. Although he didn’t buy her ruse, sloughing off a potential client out of pride—or other reasons of ego—was risky. He wanted his business to thrive, not go bankrupt. “I can always spare a few minutes,” he said.

They headed away from the ranch along a dirt road, with Lisbeth dictating the brisk pace. “A long drive for you,” Lisbeth said. “You’ve got California tags. Where do you live?”

“Maddox. Northeast of San Francisco. My son is very excited about this trip.”

“My dad sure wouldn’t have made a drive like that when I was Andy’s age. You’re a good man, Mike. What do you think about this place?”

“It seems like a lot of fun. Can’t wait to learn how to be a ‘dude.’ Andy can’t wait either.”

“The ranch has always enjoyed an excellent reputation.” She paused. “So, S&B Outfitters—the decal on your truck—how long have you been leading tours?”

When asked about his business, he kept the answers short. To Mike, the less market speak, the better. He considered beating his own drum to be arrogant, but, like any small-business owner, sometimes he had to. “Seven years. My partner and I run tours to different countries. Each package is a little different. We go where no one else does. Take the clients just a little bit farther out than the competition would, without pushing them beyond their physical abilities. We cater to the middle-aged man looking to prove he’s still got what it takes, and the adventure photographer. All are welcome, however.”

“You lead the tours personally?” Lisbeth asked, as if the prospect intrigued her.

“The ones that interest me,” Mike said. “I scout out every package beforehand and coordinate safe passage with the local officials. Don’t want my customers stumbling into the middle of a coup.”

“You mentioned a partner.”

Mike nodded. “Erin Sykes. She’s the S in S&B Outfitters. Much better with details than I am.” A vast understatement. Bookings always increased when he was out of the office. He preferred deals that sold themselves with minimal involvement from him, while Erin worked hard at closing sales.