Montana Hero (24 page)

That
Kat believed. Juggling one kid, a wildly emotional mother, and a disgruntled husband had kept Kat’s life on a permanent roller coaster ride for years.

Sarah reached into a side compartment of her bag and pulled out an oversize envelope. “I need you to know that my husband categorically denies having been involved with your mother. He remembers her. He called her pretty and vivacious, but they didn’t have an affair. And, because he’s a man who has always prided himself on doing the right thing, he’s been highly offended that anyone would think otherwise of him. Even though both his lawyer children have urged him to take the DNA test to put the matter to bed, he refuses because….” She lowered her voice as if she didn’t agree with his stand but felt compelled to support it. “Robert feels he shouldn’t need to
prove
his innocence.”

Kat’s heart sank. She hadn’t given the matter any thought since Brady disappeared, but, if she had, maybe, she’d hoped that once her son was home safe, everyone might agree that the best way to end this stalemate would be for Kat and Robert to get tested.

“That said,” Sarah added, “he agreed to help me try to figure out why your mother would say such a thing. And the only way to do that was to dig through our old records.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes. We still have boxes of paper journals stored in Big Z’s warehouse. Maybe after this gets settled he’ll let Paul get rid of them.”

She handed Kat the envelope. “There isn’t much. She only worked here ten months. From February to December. There’s a notation on her last paycheck, December 18, that the final sum included a store bonus—something we did for every employee in lieu of a canned ham or frozen turkey. It was mailed to a forwarding address in South Carolina.”

Kat glanced at the photocopies the woman handed her but a squawk from the radio made her heart jump. “Thank you. I’ll look at this later.”

Sarah nodded. “I know. We should be praying. I plan to head to church and light a candle on my way home. But, quickly, one more thing.” She dug into the bag again and produced a photograph. “I found this in a family photo album last night. I believe it was taken during the fair. Big Z’s sponsored a float and the younger employees built it. That’s her, isn’t it? Your mother? On the back, it says:
Grace A
.”

Kat’s hand shook as she stared at the beautiful, smiling woman in cut-off shorts and a loose T-shirt with the Big Z logo across the chest. With her hair pulled into a ponytail, she looked fresh-faced and filled with hope. Her arms were thrown carelessly over the shoulders of two strangers, a broad-shouldered, good-looking guy and a woman who looked vaguely familiar.

“Wow. Mom looks so young, but she must have been twenty-nine at the time. She was thirty when I was born.” She slipped the photo into her hip pocket. “Thank you. I can’t wait to show Brady.”

Sarah reached out with both her hands to clasp Kat’s free hand. “Soon. You’ll have your boy back soon. I can feel it.”

Kat wanted to believe that, but trust was not her strong suit. Neither was waiting, and Kat had a feeling she was in for the longest wait of her life.

*

Flynn had been
searching for two hours when an odd configuration of rocks caught his eye. Not an elaborate directional “duck” by any means but the sort a ten-year-old boy might create if he wanted to be found.

He couldn’t be sure but his gut said, “Call it in.” If they could narrow the field of search before darkness fell, they’d up their chances significantly of finding Brady.

“Unit one, this is Flynn. I may have a duck here. A few broken twigs that look fresh, but the shale isn’t leaving footprints.” He consulted his compass and gave his coordinates. “I’ll keep following this trail and let you know what I find. Looks promising.”

He shoved his walkie-talkie into the side compartment of his pack and took a swallow of water before shoving off. The walkie-talkie squawked and Mia Zabrinski’s voice came over the line. “Flynn, Dad says we have enough fuel to make a pass or two above your location, then we have to pack it in. Big Z One, over.”

Flynn looked skyward. He could hear the drone of an engine but had no visual on the bird. “I hear you but I don’t see you.”

“I’m getting some powerful gusts sweeping down the mountain side,” Bob Zabrinski said. “I may not be able to get as close as I’d like, but I’ll give it a try. Over.”

“Sounds good. His mom said Brady was carrying a Spiderman backpack, so keep your eyes open for a spot of red.”

“Will do. This is going to take two hands. Over and out.”

Flynn took off along the barely discernible trail. The climb wasn’t steep—Brady might not have even noticed the incline until he became short of breath. He paused to check for more breakage. Nothing. Crap, he thought, looking around. The drop-off to the creek below would have scared the pants off a ten-year-old.
No way a kid would have made this climb.

Before he could decide whether to turn around or keep going, he heard the airplane as it dipped downward. The workhorse motor complained as Bob banked left. Flynn hurried to an open spot on a slight precipice to watch, praying the experienced search and rescue pilot and his spotter might see something.

The plane’s roar increased as it came closer. A gust of wind nearly took off Flynn’s cap. He grabbed it with one hand and held his breath as the plane danced in midair. Bob turned sharply into the wind and leveled out.

“That wasn’t fun,” Mia said over the intercom system, her tone terse. “I think it’s time to—”

Flynn saw the nose of the aircraft swing around, like a bloodhound on the scent of an animal gone to ground. Flynn held his breath as he watched the dangerous maneuver.

“Where? What? Oh, yeah, I see it. Red or orange. Can’t tell in this light. Almost looks like it’s in a tree. Could be a cap or jacket leftover from a hunter last fall, but it’s worth checking out, Flynn. Maybe a hundred yards ahead of you and straight down by the river. No movement. Might not be anything, but—”

Bob let out a low, sharp curse, interrupting her. “These damn gusts are getting worse. We’re heading in, Flynn. The horse crew is about a mile behind you. Good luck, buddy. We’re praying for the best. Big Z One over and out.”

Flynn gave a wave, even knowing they wouldn’t see it. A hundred yards ahead?
Shit.
Even experienced hikers lost their footing on these non-trails and went tumbling. Some to their death. He’d helped with extractions more often than he cared to remember while working in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

As he climbed, he paid careful attention to the brush. Since nothing was budded out yet at this elevation, he couldn’t easily identify any of the thick undergrowth. He was nearly to the snow line, and the bite of the wind made his hands burn but he didn’t want to put on his gloves until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He gained something from the tactile sense—whether it was minute traces of the child he was tracking or merely his imagination, he couldn’t say.

His palm tingled as his hand brushed across a waist-high boulder. Flynn paused and looked around. The rocks leading to the top were scuffed, but that could have been the natural weathering from the winter snows and melt. He let out a long sigh that ended on a quick inhalation.

“Damn.”

Just ahead, to one side of the mostly non-existent trail, Flynn spotted a definite depression. Several broken limbs of a scruffy-looking bush told him someone or something had picked this place as a resting spot.

He put his hands to bracket his mouth and called, “Brady. Brady Robinson. Brady. Where are you?”

He bent over and strained to listen. The only answer a distant gurgle of the snowmelt, which for a few months would be a fast-moving creek. Since he wasn’t familiar with the area, Flynn couldn’t say whether or not it posed a danger to a small boy. He went to his knees and leaned over the edge of the drop-off to see how far down it was to the bottom.

“Oh, God.”

A child’s mitten—too new, too clean to have wintered here—dangled like a Christmas ornament from a leafless branch about fifteen feet down the embankment. Flynn couldn’t reach it without risking a headfirst tumble down the mountainside, but he didn’t need to touch it to know it was Brady’s.

He got to his feet and called in his find before backtracking to a less perilous angle of approach. The loose shale and compost from the trees and bushes turned the ground beneath his feet to snail slime. He leaned backward into his pack and hoped like hell he didn’t break something on the way down—or worse, shower Brady in small stones and debris.

He grabbed a sturdy-looking limb and held on with both hands until the slide stopped then edged downward on his bottom. The steep sides of the ravine trapped the cold. The only benefit of the setting sun was its reflection on the face of the sheer cliff above him. “Brady,” he called again.

Nothing.

He reached for his walkie-talkie to report his position but when he depressed the send button nothing happened. He brought the unit into the thin, shadowy light. “Rookie move, Bensen. What the hell were you thinking?”

In his haste to find the trail and, hopefully, find Brady, he’d hooked his communication device on his backpack instead of tucking it safely inside. The antenna wobbled like a limp dick. He shook his head and groaned. Now, he had no way of calling for evac help if he found Brady hurt and unable to walk out.

“Brady,” he called, picking his way through the thick underbrush.

The sound of the creek was louder here. He caught a glimpse of the water every once in awhile, but the angle of the car-size boulders blocked his view for the most part. And the quickly growing nightfall added to his anxiety. “Brady. Come on, kiddo, answer me. You’re not in trouble. I promise.”

A part of him knew if Brady was in shouting range he would have responded. The wishful thinking side of him wanted the little boy to be as stubborn as his mom claimed. His mom. Kat.

Flynn tensed. He couldn’t think about Kat right now. He could imagine how wracked with guilt and fear she was feeling. He could kick his own ass for thinking with his dick instead of giving even a glimmer of thought to Brady this afternoon when he barged into her life for a quickie.

Just like Dad
, he thought. Why am I surprised? His father seemed to think he could ignore his sons nine months out of the year as long as he spent a few weeks of quality time with them each summer.
Quality being a subjective term.
A fact Flynn’s hero-worshipping brother conveniently seemed to forget.

Flynn pushed the memory out of his mind so he could focus entirely on not slipping on the damp rocks while he kept one eye out for a red and blue backpack. He squinted through the trees so thickly entwined they nearly made a canopy above him. A color that didn’t belong in this time in nature winked at him with every gust.

“That’s it,” he cried, stepping up his advance. The color took on substance. Fabric. Shape. “Spiderman. Thank God.”

As the eagle-eyed Zabrinskis had predicted, a nest of branches held the bag hostage. The fact the bag was not on Brady’s back seemed like a bad omen. No way was that kid letting this bag out of his sight. Brady wasn’t wired that way. He took his things—and his relationship to certain things—very seriously.

Flynn released the band across his chest and the one at his waist so he could shrug off his pack. The chilly breeze hit the swatch of sweat that must have penetrated his outer jacket causing him to shiver. If the searchers on horseback didn’t reach them soon, Flynn would need to think about building a fire and making camp.

But, first, he had to find Brady.

He grabbed his small but powerful flashlight to penetrate the gloom. “Brady,” he called, starting a grid search he set up in his mind. Outer left quadrant first. Closer to the hillside if he’d tumbled over the ledge.

His guess paid off. A dark lump that most searchers would have assumed was a log, turned out to be a little boy, battered, bleeding and unconscious, but alive, thank God. His coat and jeans were both torn in numerous places. His hands were a bloody mess from trying to stop his fall, Flynn assumed, as he very carefully and gently examined the boy for broken bones.

His hands shook as he felt Brady’s neck. One wrong move on Flynn’s part and Brady might never walk again. Or worse, a shard of bone would sever his spinal cord and he’d stop breathing—just like Flynn’s worst nightmare.

‡