A Dark Lure (37 page)

Vancouver. Sunday around noon.

“You need to see this.” The forensics computer tech motioned for Sergeant Mac Yakima to come over to where he was going through Gage Burton’s system.

“Burton wasn’t just using an alias on these adoption sites that he’d been trawling, he was using the name of a real woman.” The tech sat back in his chair to show Yakima an image on his computer of an attractive, dark-haired woman with green eyes.

“Olivia West,” the tech said. “She works as a fishing guide at Broken Bar Ranch. In his last message, Burton, posing as West, told a child apparently searching for her mother, that he—Olivia West—had surrendered for adoption a daughter born July 17 at Watt Lake. He gave West’s address as Broken Bar Ranch. This photo is from the ranch website.”

Mac Yakima stared at the photo, his blood going cold.

“Watt Lake,” he whispered.

The tech glanced up at him.

“It’s her. That photo. Olivia is Sarah Baker, the last victim of Sebastian George. The woman who put him away. Burton was obsessed with her and that case.” He swore. “And Burton had to have known it, all this time, that she changed her name and was working up there. Jesus Christ. He’s been tracking her and creating fake accounts in her name, pretending he’s searching for the baby fathered by Sebastian George.”

Martinello came up to his side, peered at the image of the tech’s shoulder.

“Fuck,” she whispered, then glanced at Yakima. “What in the hell is Burton trying to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Yakima as another officer approached the computer station.

“Sarge,” said the officer, “we have two recent hits on Algor Sorenson’s credit card. It was last used in Clinton at a sporting goods and logging supply store three days ago to buy duct tape, a skinning knife, and what appears to be fly-tying equipment. It was used before that at the Broken Bar Ranch and Campsite about an hour north of Clinton. And we have records showing the card was used in Arizona, Nevada, Oregon, and Washington for food and drink items, colored contact lenses, hair dye, and several times to fulfill Algor Sorenson’s prescription for sleeping pills.”

Yakima swung to face Martinello. “Get the Clinton detachment on the line. We need to get someone out there stat. Put in a call for a helo.”

“There’s a major storm hitting the interior,” she said.

“Place the call anyway. We’ll be ready on standby.”

Cole left the snowmobile parked outside the lodge and ran up the stairs. Ace followed. But as he was about to open the door, he saw a figure staggering toward the lodge through the mist and snow. He lurched over to the deck railing, raised the shotgun stock to his shoulder, peered down the barrel.

“Stop right there! One foot closer, I shoot.”

Hands shot up into the air. “It’s me—Burton. Gage Burton. I . . . I need your help.” He stumbled forward onto hands and knees, crawled several feet through snow, then staggered back onto his feet.

Shock slaked through Cole. He lowered the weapon.

Burton wobbled drunkenly up to the deck. White-faced. Cheeks gaunt.

“What happened?” Cole demanded.

Burton pressed his hand to his temple, face contorting as if in great head pain. “It’s . . . my fault. I . . . I lured him here. The Watt Lake Killer. He’s on the ranch somewhere. I don’t know where. He’s got Tori.”

“What do you mean, the Watt Lake Killer?” Cole’s brain scrambled. The cops were looking for Sorenson, or possibly a man posing as Sorenson. “Sebastian George is dead.”

“I always believed they got the wrong man. I—” He reached up and grabbed the deck railing from below, holding himself up. “I was the staff sergeant up at Watt Lake when Sarah Baker was taken. I believe they put away the wrong man. I’ve been hunting for him since. I lured him here, using Sarah. He’s out there.”

Urgency sliced through Cole. “But the proof—”

He shook his head. “Help me, please. He’s got . . . Tori. She’s Sarah Baker’s child. God help me . . .” He fell into the snow.

Cole raced down the steps and hauled Burton up. He hooked Burton’s arm over his shoulder, supporting his weight. “Can you make it to the stairs, can you make it inside?”

Burton nodded.

Cole assisted the man up onto the deck.

“Talk to me,” he said. “How can you say they got the wrong man?”

“They buried something—the fact Sebastian couldn’t read, which means he couldn’t have written notes stuffed into the eye sockets.”

“What notes?”

“Notes with literary quotes about hunting . . .” Burton struggled for breath. “It . . . was holdback evidence. Press never learned about it. Only core investigators and I knew. Never . . . made it to trial.”

They reached the door.

“They wanted a clean conviction. They shut me up, shipped me out to Fort Tapley. My wife and I—we adopted Sarah Baker’s baby, took her to Fort Tapley. I . . . I
knew
one day the real killer might come looking.”

Cole leaned Burton against the wall. “You’re telling me you kept her baby all this time as a lure? You wanted him to come back for the child, for its mother?”

“It’s not like that—”

“What in the hell
is
it like?!”

Burton flinched.

“Tori’s safe,” Cole snapped. “She’s inside with my father. But whoever you’re hunting has got Olivia. And yes, I know she’s Sarah Baker.”

Burton closed his eyes. He was silent for a beat, as if saying a prayer of thanks for his daughter’s life. Then he said, “How did he get Sarah?”

“Olivia. Her name is now Olivia. He lured her into the marsh using her dog. She’s been hurt pretty bad, judging by the amount of blood on the trail. He’s taken her in a vehicle, probably that truck and camper that was in the campground. He’s gone north.”

“At the first scent of snow . . .”

“What?”

Burton’s eyes opened. “He always hunts right before a big snowfall. I know where he’s taking her. He’s going home, back to Bear Claw Valley. He’s going to finish the job.”

CHAPTER 23

“Where’s Bear Claw, exactly?” Cole demanded.

“About sixty klicks northwest of Watt Lake, in Indian territory. Deep valley, other side of Pinnacle Ridge.”

“Are you hurt, sick? What’s going on with you?”

“I get headaches. I have a brain tumor. The episodes come and go in waves. I’m dying.” He pushed himself off from the wall against which he’d been leaning. He swayed a moment, then managed to stand upright unassisted. “I need to see Tori.”

Cole’s gaze lasered the retired cop’s. “You lured a killer using Olivia and your kid?”

He swallowed. “I made a pledge to Tori when she was a baby.” His voice was thick, shaky. “I vowed to find justice, get this guy, make the world safer for her. When Tori’s mother died, I had to do something—Tori was acting out, violent. I feared that when she learned who her father really was, after my death, she’d be all alone in the world. She’d think the blood of a violent sociopath ran through her.” He stumbled forward, and Cole caught his arm, steadying him.

Gage took a deep breath, refocusing. “I . . . I needed her to meet her mother. I wanted her to see that she had a good half. A beautiful, kind, and just half. I needed her to see what else she
could
be. I also believed that once Sarah met her daughter . . .” His voice faltered. “What have I done?”

“You’re fucked in the head, you know that?”

“I do know. I have been for a long time. Maybe longer than I realized.”

Cole stared at the man. His brain spun. He glanced at the snow, the direction of the wind. In his mind he ran through the meteorological images he’d seen on television, the way the storm was moving. Could he risk it? Maybe once he got up, he could even outrun the worst of it.
If
he was lucky. He could also die, which was more likely.

For the first time in his life the thought of death terrified him—he didn’t want to perish. Not this time. He wanted to survive to save Olivia. He wanted that goddamn second chance. For her. And himself. For this ranch. He wanted it like he wanted air to breathe.

“How certain are you that he—whoever he is—is going to Bear Claw?”

“Even a gut-shot deer goes home—he told Sarah that many times. She said so in the interviews I watched. This guy is all about the ritual of the hunt, the kill. He’s going to want to finish his ritual where he started. Where he always kills. On First Nations land, preferably in his home territory. He’s animal in that way.”

He had to risk it. Doing nothing was worse than dying.

“You’re coming with me,” Cole said suddenly.

“Where?”

“We’re taking the dog. We’re going to Bear Claw. We’re going to stop him.”

“How?”

“My plane.”

Burton glanced at the swirling snow. Worry tightened his face. There was fear in his eyes. “Tori?”

“She’ll be safe here. You go get on the snowmobile. Take Ace. Wait for me. I need to tell my father where I’m going. I need to give him that ham operator’s plate number in case he can get word out.”

As he ran up the stairs to the library, Cole prayed to every god he could think of to protect Olivia from too much pain.

Hold on, Liv, just long enough for me to reach you. Hold on
. . .

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police SUV turned off the highway from Clinton at the sign to Broken Bar Ranch. The officer driving struggled to navigate through the snow on the logging road, his tires slipping as four-wheel-drive action kicked in. They made it only 2.4 klicks in before the vehicle stalled in a drift. Snow was falling thicker than ever, cloud socked low over the forest canopy.

The four officers exited the SUV and took the two snowmobiles from the trailer hitched to the back of their vehicle. One officer called in their location and new ETA for the ranch as the others donned helmets, thick gloves. The coordinating officer pulled on his own helmet and swung his leg
over the seat of one, tucking himself in behind the driver.

The four jetted along the logging trail, aiming for Old Man McDonough’s ranch.

They were responding to a call from Sergeant Mac Yakima of the integrated homicide team investigating the Birkenhead slaying. The credit card of Algor Sorenson, husband of the Birkenhead victim, had last been used at the ranch. There were stark similarities between the Birkenhead slaying and the Watt Lake killings, and the ranch manager was Sarah Baker, the Watt Lake Killer’s last victim. The one who got away.

Additionally, Detective Sergeant Gage Burton, one of IHit’s own, recently retired, was possibly on the ranch. He was a key person of interest in the Birkenhead murder. He’d been the staff sergeant in Watt Lake at the time Sarah Baker had been abducted. Burton apparently believed against all evidence that the RCMP had put away the wrong man, and he might have been hunting him since. Medical professionals, according to Yakima, felt Burton could now be psychotic. And dangerous. It was unclear at this point how it was all connected, but Burton had his child with him. Clinton RCMP were advised to proceed with every caution.

Cole crouched down and took the kid’s shoulders in his hands.

“You look after Myron, okay, Tori?” Cole knew Survival 101—caring for someone else in a life-threatening situation bettered your own odds a hundredfold. “Make him tea, something to eat. For yourself, too. Can you manage the kitchen?”

She nodded.

“Keep the doors locked. Keep putting wood on the fire. Anything you don’t know, or need, you ask him, you hear?”

Her eyes were big and dry, her complexion wan. She nodded.

He hesitated. “And his pills, only two at the top of every hour, no more. Understand? Even if he gets mad, okay? This is important.”

Because Myron needed to be here for Tori, too. He
needed
his father to hang on until he got back.

“Cole,” Myron called from his chair.

Cole glanced up.

“You’re only licensed for visual flying.”

“Yep.”

“It’s not safe.”

“We have to try.”

His father’s gray eyes lanced his from across the room. A beat of silence hung.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was a shit dad. I’m sorry I couldn’t let go, that I kept on trying to punish you.”

Cole went over to his dad, dropped to his haunches, hand on the wheelchair armrest. He was about to tell his father that Forbes and Tucker might have tampered with the brakes, but he backpedaled. It didn’t change the fact he’d driven drunk with his mother and Jimmie in his truck. He had to own that. And he would. Forbes and Tucker would get their comeuppance when Cole alerted the cops to the kickback scheme they were running with top government officials. That would be Cole’s justice. That would be his absolution for having pulled out of the deal he and Jane signed.

“Dad,” he said quietly. “I need you to know, before I go, just in case, I am so sorry. And your forgiveness . . .” His voice hitched. His eyes burned. “It means everything.”

Myron stared. Paled. He swallowed. Then slowly his eyes pooled with tears. They leaked from the corners, following wrinkled tracks in his skin, down his face. He reached out with his gnarled, liver-spotted hand. He placed it against his son’s cheek. Cold. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

“I need to go.”

Myron nodded. When he spoke his voice was hoarse. “Just fly that damn thing, okay. And come back in one piece. Bring Olivia home. You both get your asses back here, because I’m not letting Forbes have this goddamn ranch.”

A wry smile curved Cole’s lips. He made a small salute sign. “Yessir.”

He wanted to say something absurd, like
I love you, Dad
. He promised himself he’d do it when he got back.

And he headed downstairs to meet Ace and Burton.

There was not much room in the Piper Cub for both men and a dog, but he’d dump some other shit to lighten the load. He had to move fast to get the skis onto the wheels. He was going to need Burton’s help. And they had to get into the air before the wind switched again and started to howl north. They needed to stay ahead of the brunt of weather or they’d be tossed like a cork in the violent sea of cloud.

Not much light, either. Not much room for maneuvering at all.

His only trump card was that the Cub was an iconic bush plane, designed with pitched propeller blades for incredibly short takeoffs and fast climbs, and high-set wings for rough bush landings. It was also fitted with low-pressure tundra tires, which could handle rugged gravel bars. With the skis wrapped around them, he’d be able to tackle snow, ground, and ice.

But it all meant nothing if he couldn’t see. Or if the storm caught them in its grip.

“The Clinton guys are on their way. Our chopper is on standby.” It was Martinello. She had two mugs of coffee. She set one on the desk in front of Mac. “They found something in Burton’s files,” she said, perching her butt on the edge of his metal desk.

By the look in his partner’s eyes, Mac judged it was serious. He reached for his mug, watching her. “And?”

“Adoption papers,” she said. “Tori Burton is the child of Sarah Baker and Sebastian George.”

He stalled, the rim of the mug against his lips. Slowly he lowered the mug.

“Shit,” he whispered. “He’s taken her to her mother.” Yakima glanced up at Martinello. “Just how sick is this guy? What the fuck is he doing? And where is Algor Sorenson?”

“The techs also found something in Melody Vanderbilt’s laptop. A kind of memoir that she was drafting before she died. It appears to relate the whole story behind Tori’s adoption, and it details Sarah’s abduction. Most of it appears to be compiled from interviews she did in the hospital with Sarah Baker. The tech found all her notes. Apparently Melody was the only journalist granted interviews by Sarah, and it appears she never published a word of it. Instead, she and Burton adopted the baby and moved away.”

Crosswinds buffeted the Cub as Cole gave the engine full throttle, pulling the nose high as they climbed into thick cloud. Snow plastered the windshield, and for a heart-stopping instant he thought he’d be totally blinded. Then the wind and velocity began pushing snow off the windshield, running it in watery rivulets down the side windows, giving him a small window of visibility. He battled to steady the wings as higher crosswinds tossed them like a tiny boat on waves.