Max knew this was foolish, the dog wasn�t trained. But, �Let him try,� he said softly. �Keep him quiet.�
She had only to nudge the mare ahead and Rock�s nose was to the trail, then scenting up high, drinking in the still air-and like a shot he took off.
They booted the horses ahead, fast. What the hell were they doing? Max thought. This wasn�t a tracking dog, Rock had had no such demanding training. But Max shook his head.Give him a chance,let�s see what he has. He�s bred for it,and he�s sure as hell on to something. Max�s gut was churning, his mind filled with Charlie�s face; he daren�t blow it, bringing the damned dog. But they moved on quickly, following the ghostly dog; and the cop who never prayed was praying now, and was willing, tonight, to take any help they could get, no matter how off the wall.
They kept the horses to a fast trot, it was too dark to safely gallop, the trail too rough; he wasn�t going to cripple a horse, which would only slow them. He hoped to hell the trees were thick enough to hide their shielded lights. They followed Rock as fast as they dared, losing him sometimes, then catching a faint movement far ahead, the crack of a twig as he ate up the ground. Was he tracking the vehicle only because Ryan was following it, obviously distressed? Or could he be on a deer? But a deer wouldn�t stay to the trail this long. Max couldn�t believe Rock was following Charlie, but that was what it looked like: the big dog taking her scent from the air, moving fast and intently, never swerving from the narrow path.
They knew that Rock was exceptionally well-bred, from a long line of dogs developed to follow by scent as well as sight, to track and retrieve on land and on water. This was an all-around breed, intelligent and powerful, that Max had grown to admire. But, tracking without training? Watching him, Max could only speculate on what was happening in that intent canine mind. Rock was fond of Charlie, and he was keenly sensitive to Ryan�s feelings; clearly he knew that something was wrong. Before they set out, he had been attuned to their tension, watching them, nervous and alert, as they�d saddled up. Now, staying to the bridle path, repeatedly scenting the air above the tire tracks, Rock moved so fast he was leaving them behind. Ryan daren�t shout at him; she whispered to call him back but he paid no attention. Max was afraid he�d run straight into their quarry and give them away-but suddenly, at the top of a ridge, he slowed. Stood frozen.
They strained to see among the dense, dark trees, to hear the smallest sound. Approaching Rock, they could see him sniffing the ground in a circle, as if he�d lost the trail. They pulled the horses up at a distance so as not to disturb whatever he had-but the horses hardly had time to rest before Rock started again, stepping slowly now, his head raised to taste the wind. At the same instant, Max�s cell phone vibrated, sending unease through him and then a surge of hope that Charlie had been found, that he�d hear her voice. Snatching the phone from his pocket, he answered softly-and went rigid.
A female voice-but not Charlie.
�Charlie�s kidnappers are headed for the ruins,� she said, and the voice was so familiar that he shivered. �For the Pamillon estate. They plan to hide her there, leave her tied up in an old overgrown trailer, all covered with vines.�
�If you know where she is,then help her!� he whispered. �Where are you? Can�t you untie her, help her get away! Where-�
�I�m not there. I�heard them say that�s where they�d take her. I�m not anywhere near there.�
�Then how did you hear them? Who are they?�
�Cage Jones. And a younger man, slimmer than Cage. Long hair and faded brown eyes.�
�Will you tell me who you are? Tell me how you�?�
The caller hung up.
He knew who the woman was, as much as he could ever know. This snitch, who had given him so many tips, had never identified herself and very likely never would. Feeling numb, he punched in the code for Garza, got him on the first ring.
�Ryan and I are on the trail above my place,� he said softly, �headed up into the hills, following the tire tracks. The snitch just called-the woman. She said it�s Cage Jones and, from her description, I�d guess Eddie Sears. Said they mean to hide Charlie at the old ruins, that she overheard them. Some overgrown trailer up there. That ring a bell?�
A negative from Dallas.
�She said it�s covered with vines. Send four units up the old road, no lights, radios off. Have them wait at the edge of the ruins, stay in their cars. No radios, no noise.�
�They�re on their way.�
When Max hung up, he called Karen. She had nothing new, she was still taking prints while waiting for her casts to dry-tire casts and three good sets of footprints, one set that she thought would be Charlie�s. �Did Rock follow you? He got out of the pasture. I�m sorry, Max. He wouldn�t come to me. I didn�t know dogs could climb-I swear I saw him do it.�
�This one can,� Max said wryly. �He�s here. Damn dog�s tracking her.� He told her about the snitch�s call and that four units were headed for the ruins. �When you finish, Karen, get on back to the station, get those prints into the works.�
Hanging up, he pushed Bucky to a slow, sure-footed lope, catching up with Ryan. She�d dismounted and was holding Rock back, to wait for Max. When she turned the dog loose he took off again, tasting the air now with even sharper excitement, his four-inch tail wagging madly, wagging the way it did when he dug out a ground squirrel. Then suddenly he stopped again, dead still, noseto the ground and snuffling hard.
Ryan slid off the mare, threw her reins to Max, and pulled Rock away so he wouldn�t destroy the new configuration of tracks. �Shoe prints,� she said softly. She praised Rock and hugged him, and she and Max studied the torn-up ground, their coats wrapped over their lights.
The Jeep had stopped there, and the prints of two men were all around its tracks, in a confused tangle. Had Charlie made a successful try, and gotten away? Max searched for her footprints, his hands sweating, his belly in a knot.
The young officer who came to evict Greeley Urzey from the seniors� basement apartment took considerable verbal abuse in both English and Spanish. Jimmie McFarland was one of the youngest men on the force, baby faced, with soft brown hair and innocent brown eyes. Jimmie knew enough Spanish to greatly admire the grizzled old man�s vocabulary.
Greeley Urzey was not well educated, but McFarland knew he�d lived and worked most of his adult life in Panama. He�d apparently learned quickly what he needed to get along, including a nice repertoire of retorts. As Officer McFarland invited Greeley to quietly leave the premises of the seniors� house or spend the night in jail, Greeley told him halfin English and half in Spanish that he wasn�t sleeping in their jail and just what they could do with that facility.
McFarland had looked at Greeley steadily, trying not to smile.�You want a lift down the hill? It�s a motel or the jail, take your pick.� McFarland wasn�t about to leave Greeley hanging around the seniors� place and have to come back for him. No cop likes a domestic dispute, even an apparently nonviolent one-though he didn�t much want the old man in his squad car, either; he smelled like a drunk billy goat.
�I have a car!� Greeley had snapped, snatching up his wrinkled leather duffle and heading around the house to the street, to a new, green PT Cruiser that surprised McFarland. McFarland waited for him to start the car and head down the hill, then followed him, wondering if he should run the plates, see if the car was stolen. He pulled over, making a note of the plates, and watching as Greeley swung into the parking area of the first vacant motel he came to, parked the PT Cruiser, and carried his battered old satchel through the motel�s patio and into the lobby.