Innocents Lost by Michael McBride Page B

than twin ruts in the tall grass. When they finally reached the terminus, Preston parked his car next to one of the police cruisers, a pine branch resting on his windshield. He stared across the impromptu parking lot toward where the trail led up the hillside. Over the crown of evergreens, sharp blue peaks cut the sky.
    He killed the engine and hopped down to the dirt. Dandridge met him around the front of the car, and together they struck off toward the path.
    Something wasn’t right. He could feel it, an uncomfortable sensation of foreboding that caused the hackles on his shoulders and the base of his neck to stand painfully erect. The current in the air was almost electric, alive with potential.
    “If we guess wrong and your daughter isn’t here, we might as well be killing her ourselves,” Preston said. He glanced at the sheriff, whose hand already hovered anxiously over the grip of his pistol in its holster.
    “She’s up there somewhere,” Dandridge said, breaking into a jog once they rounded the ERT van. “I can feel it.”
    But that didn’t mean she was still alive. Preston sensed that his daughter was up there as well. He only hoped they hadn’t met the same fate. In his mind, he saw a small dark room with cinder block walls and a bloodstained worktable. Was it possible that it was up here too, in some remote survivalist’s cabin? The mental snapshot shifted, and the girl in the picture he had driven all the way from Colorado to save appeared on the table, bound in the same fashion as Savannah had been. A hideous shadow leaned over her from beside a tray of wicked implements and softly shushed her. Preston’s jog became a sprint, and together he and the sheriff hurtled through the forest toward the clearing where he would finally be reunited with what remained of his little girl.

    VII
    22 Miles West of Lander, Wyoming

    Dandridge didn’t know what he would do if anything happened to Maggie. Too much time had already elapsed. Even if they guessed right and the killer had brought her here, the window of opportunity had been more than long enough for the man to do whatever in the world he wanted to do to her. What kind of father did that make him? Unable to protect his daughter in his own home where she should have been safe and sound? Emotions warred inside of him—anger, fear, helplessness, panic. He could barely focus on the ground as the path rose and fell over the alternately rocky and eroded terrain. Every second that passed brought him closer to the clearing, but they were seconds he simply didn’t have. He tripped and fell repeatedly, only to rise and stumble into a sprint again. His palms and knees bled, his chest ached from the exertion, and the physical reality had begun to set in. He was going to have to slow his pace to catch his breath or he was going to collapse.
    Special Agent Preston lagged behind, but Dandridge could hear him huffing, struggling to stay close enough to maintain visual contact. Dandridge wasn’t sure if he trusted the man. His appearance had been too well-timed, too convenient. However, he did feel a certain kinship to the man, who had lived through what he now endured. Assuming he was telling the truth. He believed everything the agent had told him so far—either that or he was one hell of an actor—but blind trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
    He fell again, only this time his trembling arms could barely push him up to all fours. Gasping for air, Preston caught up to him and helped haul him up. They both doubled over and sucked at the air as they walked.
    “How much farther?” Preston panted.
    “There’s a valley just beyond that rise ahead. We’re going to the top of the ridge on the other side. Maybe twenty minutes if we hurry.”
    “Then we’re wasting time,” the agent said, breaking into a jog.
    When they reached the crest of the knoll, the agent suddenly ducked off the path and threw himself to the ground on his belly. Dandridge was just about to