The Search by Nora Roberts
Her eyes, wide and wild, wheeled in her head. She heard the hum, steady, forceful, and thought—fresh panic—she was in the cave of some wild animal.
No, no. An engine. A car. She was in a car. In the trunk of a car. The man. The man on the jogging path.
She could see it all so clearly, the bold morning sun, the dreamy blue sky like a canvas against the rich hues of fall. That hint of autumn spice on the air like a flavor on her tongue.
Her muscles had warmed. She’d felt so loose, so limber. So powerful. She’d loved that feeling, the heady rush of being alone in a world of color and spice. Just her and the morning and the freedom to run.
Then the man, jogging toward her. No big deal. They’d pass, he’d be gone, and the world would be hers again.
But . . . did he stumble, did he fall, did she stop for a second to help? She couldn’t remember, not exactly. All blurred now.
But she could see his face. The smile, the eyes—something in those eyes—an instant before the pain.
Pain. Like being struck by lightning.
It spun in her head as the rhythm beneath her changed and the floor vibrated under her. Rough road, she thought in some dizzy corner of her brain.
She thought of her uncle’s warnings, and Greg’s. Don’t run alone. Keep the panic button handy. Stay alert.
So easily dismissed. What could happen to her? Why would anything happen?
But it had. It had. She’d been taken.
All those girls—the girls she’d seen in the paper. The dead girls she’d felt sorry for—until she’d forgotten them and gone on with her life.
Was she going to be one of them, one of the dead girls in the paper, on the news reports?
But why? Why?
She wept and struggled and screamed. But the sounds drowned against the tape over her mouth, and the movements only cut the bands into her skin until she smelled her own blood and sweat.
Until she smelled her own death.
SHE WOKE IN THE DARK. Trapped. The scream burned up her throat only to be bitten back when she felt the weight of Simon’s arm tossed over her, when she heard the steady breathing—his, the dog’s.
But the panic was spiders skittering inside her chest, under her skin.
So the scream stayed in her head, piercing.
Get out! Get out! Get out!
She shoved herself toward the flap, fought it open and crawled out where the cool, damp air slapped at her face.
“Hold on. Hey. Hold on.”
When Simon gripped her shoulders she pushed at him. “Don’t. Don’t. Just need to breathe.” Hyperventilating—she knew it but couldn’t stop it. A boulder pressed on her chest, and her head began to swim in long, sick waves. “Can’t breathe.”
“Yes you can.” He tightened his grip, yanked her up to her knees and gave her a quick, shocking shake. “Breathe. Look at me, Fiona. Right here. Breathe! Now!”
She sucked in air on a short, shaky gasp.
“Let it out. Do what I tell you. Let it out, take it in. Slow it down. Slow it the hell down.”
She stared at him, wondered at him. Who the hell did he think he was? She shoved at his chest, met an unmoving wall even as he shook her again.
And she breathed.
“Keep going. Bogart, sit. Just sit. In and out. Look at me. In and out. Better, that’s better. Keep it up.”
He let her go. Focused on inhaling, exhaling, she sank back to sit on her heels as Bogart nudged his nose against her arm. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
“Drink. Slow.” Simon cupped her hands around a water bottle. “Slow.”
“I know. I’ve got it. I’m okay.” She blew out a long breath first, then sipped carefully. “Thanks, sorry, whatever altogether. Wow.” She sipped again. “I guess I wasn’t too tired for that panic attack after all. I had a flashback. It’s been . . . God, a really long time since I had one, but I guess the circumstances were pretty fertile ground.”
Breathing steadier, she draped her arm around Bogart’s neck. “You were mean,” she said to Simon. “And exactly what I needed to snap me out before I passed out. You could give lessons.”
“You scared the fuck out of me. Goddamn it.”
Before she could speak he held up a hand to stop her, then spun away to pace over the soggy ground. “Goddamn it. I’m not any good at this kind of thing.”
“Beg to differ.”
He whirled back. “I like you better tough.”
“Me too. Panic attacks and hyperventilating to the edge of unconsciousness are embarrassing moments.”
“It’s not a damn joke.”
“No, it’s reality. My reality.” She swiped her arm over her clammy face. “Fortunately, it’s not something I have to deal with regularly anymore.”
“Don’t,” he said when she started to rise. “You’re white as a sheet. If you try standing by yourself, you’ll fall on your face.”
He moved to her, took her hands to help her up. “You’re not supposed to be pale and fragile,” he said quietly. “You’re bright and bold and strong.” He pulled her close. “And this makes me want to kill him.”
“It’s probably wrong, but God, I appreciate that. Still, Perry’s worse off than dead.”
“That’s a matter of opinion. But maybe beating him half to death would be more satisfying.”
His heart, she realized, beat harder and faster than her own. And that, she realized, was another kind of comfort.
“Well, if you want violence, I broke his nose kicking him in the face when he opened the trunk.”
“Let me focus on that a minute. It’s good. Not complete, but not bad.”
She eased back. “Are we okay?”
He stroked her cheek, his eyes intense on hers. “Are you?”
“Yes. But I’m glad it’s nearly dawn, because I’m not going back in that tent. If you could get my pack, I’ve got some bouillon cubes we can heat up.”
“Bouillon at dawn?”
“Breakfast of champions, especially when you add a power bar.” Better, she thought, so much better to focus on what came next than what had happened before. “Once we eat and break camp, I’ll call in to base for the status, and a weather report.”
“Fine. Fiona? On the off chance I ever do this with you again, we’re getting a bigger tent.”
“Bet your ass.”
The bouillon was bland, but it was warm. As far as her nutrition bars, or whatever the hell you called them, Simon vowed if he ever came out again, he’d bring Snickers.
She broke camp as she did everything else, he noted. In an organized and precise fashion. Everything had to be put away exactly where it had come from.
“Okay, the forecast is good,” she announced. “Sunny, low seventies for a high—and we won’t reach that until this afternoon—light winds from the south. We’re moving into the northern section of the wilderness area. It’s not too rough. We’ll have some hills, slopes, some rocky ground. The understory may get thick in places, especially off the marked trails. I’m guessing after the hike they’d already put in, they wouldn’t choose the more mountainous terrain, or have kept going southeast into the higher elevations and rougher ground.”
“I can’t figure out why the hell they’d have come as far as this.”
“Again, I’m guessing, but he’s competitive, he’s pushing. Even if he was a little turned around, he probably wouldn’t admit it at first. And that type wouldn’t take the easier ground—wouldn’t necessarily head downhill instead of uphill.”
“Because he’s got something to prove.”
“More or less. I asked the woman they’re traveling with if he was the type who’d stop and ask directions—and she laughed. Nervous laugh, but a laugh. He’d drive to hell before he’d ask for directions. So you figure by the time he, or they, realized they were seriously screwed, it was just too late.”
“A lot of space out here to get lost in.” Which would he have done, he wondered, uphill or down, call for help or push on?
“And if you’re not familiar with it, one fir or hemlock looks like the other hundreds. Anyway, we’re expanding the search area.” She glanced up. “Do you want me to show you on the map?”
“Do you plan on ditching me in the wilderness?”
“Only if you piss me off.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Then we saddle up.” She shrugged on her pack, gave Bogart the scent and juiced him up for the game.
Watery sunlight sparkled on mists and filtered through to shine on leaves that shed their rainwater from the night’s storm. Simon couldn’t say what Bogart smelled, but for him, it was clean and damp and green.
The ground roughened and rose, and still wildflowers, tiny stars of color, carved their way through cracks to bask or ranged themselves along skinny streams like waders about to dip their toes.
A downed tree, hollowed out by weather, tooth and claw, had him crossing over.
“Do you see something?”
“A bench,” he muttered. “Curve the seat, just like that. Back and arms, all out of one log. Carve a mushroom motif maybe on the base.”
He surfaced to see both her and Bogart waiting for him. “Sorry.”
“Bogart needed water anyway.” She offered the bottle to Simon. “I could use a bench.”
“Not that one. Too solid, too hefty for you. It wouldn’t—”
“Suit me. Got it.” Shaking her head, she checked in with base.
Despite the strengthening sun, Fiona continued to use her flashlight, running the beam over brush and trail as the dog trotted along.
“He’s picked it up. The rest did him good.”
“Isn’t the world basically a banquet of smells for a dog? How come he doesn’t get distracted? Hey, a rabbit! Or whatever. Jaws’ll chase a blowing leaf.”
“It’s training, practice, repetition. But basically, that’s not the game. The game’s to find the source of the scent I gave him.”
“The game’s moving off the trail,” Simon pointed out.
“Yeah.” She followed the dog, climbing the rough slope, maneuvering through brush. “They made a mistake here. Bogart may not get distracted, but people do. They left the marked trail, maybe they saw some deer or a marmot, or wanted to take a photo. Maybe they decided they’d try for a shortcut. There’s a reason the trails are marked, but people veer off anyway.”
“If the dog’s right, so were you. Competitive Kevin would go up instead of down.”
Bogart slowed down for the humans as they negotiated the climb. “Maybe they figured they’d get a cool view if they went up this way. But . . . Wait. Bogart! Hold!”
She turned her light on a berry bush. “He caught his jacket,” she murmured, and gestured to a tiny triangle of brown cloth. “Good dog. Good job, Bogart. Flag the find, will you?” she asked Simon. “I’m going to call this in to base.”
She’d shown him how to mark the finds early on the search when they’d come across tracks or other signs. Once he’d tied the flag, he gave Bogart water, took some for himself while she shouted for Kevin and Ella.
“Nothing yet. But this understory sucks up the sound. It’s warming up, and the wind’s still light, still good for us. He wants to go. He’s got a good scent. Let’s find Kevin and Ella. Go find!”
“What’s the longest you’ve ever been on a search?”
“Four days. It was brutal. Nineteen-year-old boy, pissed off at his family, walked away from their campsite after they’d bedded down for the night. Got lost, wandered in circles and took a bad fall. High summer—heat, bugs, humidity. Meg and Xena found him. Unconscious, dehydrated, concussed. He’s lucky he made it.”
Bogart zigzagged now, moving east, then west, turning back to the north.
“He’s confused.”
“No,” Fiona corrected, watching Bogart’s body language. “They were.”
Ten minutes later Simon spotted the cell phone—or what was left of it—in a huddle of rock. “There.”
He quickened his pace to reach Bogart, who stood at alert.
“Good eye,” Fiona said. “It’s cracked.” She crouched to pull it out. “Broken. Look here. Bandage wrappers on the ground, and this looks like blood—the rain didn’t wash it all off in here.”
“So one of them fell? Hit the rock, phone dropped, hit the rock?”
“Maybe. Only a couple bandages, so that’s a plus.” She nodded as he took out a flag without her asking. Once again, she cupped her hands and shouted. “Damn it. Damn it. How much farther would they go after this? I’ll call it in.”
“And eat something.” He dug into her pack himself. “Hey, you’ve got Milky Ways.”
“That’s right. Quick energy.”
“And I ate that crap bar. Sit down for five minutes. Eat. Drink.”
“We’re close. I know it. He knows it.”
“Five minutes.”
She nodded and, sitting on the rocks, ate a candy bar while she talked to Mai.
“We’re realigning the search. We’ve hit two finds, and Lori hit one that indicates this direction. Air search will sweep this way. It’s a red phone, and I’m betting hers. Mai’s going to check on that, but I don’t see Kevin with a bright red phone.”
“So that’s probably her blood.”
“Probably. He’s nuts about her, according to the friends. Just nuts about her. She’s hurt, he’d panic a little. Or maybe a lot, considering. You panic, you make it worse most of the time.”
“He could’ve called for help from right here.”
Fiona pulled out her cell. “Nope. Dead zone. That’s why they call it the wilderness. He probably tried to find a signal, ended up more lost, more off any kind of trail.”
They headed out again. Bogart was deep into the “game,” Simon concluded, trotting ahead, sending what could only be impatient looks over his shoulder as if to say, Hurry the hell up!
“Lost,” Fiona said half to herself. “Scared now—not an adventure anymore. One of them injured, even if it’s minor. Tired. New boots.”
“New boots?”
“Ella. New boots. She’s bound to have blisters by now. The instinct would be to take easier ground whenever they can. Downhill, or level ground, and they’d probably stop often to rest if she’s hurting. The storm last night. They’re wet, cold, hungry. They—Hear that?”
“Hear what?”
She held up a finger, concentrated. “The river. You can just hear the river.”
“Now that you mention it.”
“When you’re lost, scared, people often try to find high ground—to see more, to be seen. That might not be an option with an injury. Another instinct is to head for water. It’s a landmark, a trail, a comfort.”
“What happened to the deal about staying in one place and somebody’ll find you?”
“Nobody listens to that.”
“Apparently not. He’s got something.” Simon gestured to Bogart. “Look up. There’s a sock on that branch.”
“Once again, good eye. It’s a little late, but far from never. He’s started marking a trail. Good dog, Bogart. Find! Come on, let’s find Ella and Kevin!”
When they found a second sock in roughly a quarter mile, Fiona nodded. “Definitely the river, and he’s thinking again. He could use his phone here, see?” She showed Simon the service on hers. “So