High Intensity (High Mountain Trackers HMT 2G #2)

Chapter 8

Eight

Wolff

“We can’t have civilians stomping around the crash site.”

Greg Polman, the NTSB lead investigator, is clearly not on board calling in the dog team.

It’s not just my hackles that shoot up, but I can sense the guy’s callous dismissal garners a similar reaction from the others. But it’s Junior Ewing who pipes up first.

“Miss Lederman is as much a civilian as most of the men assembled here. Her dog team has extensive experience working with law enforcement agencies. Last year, she assisted with the investigation into a pair of serial killers, who used these mountains as their dumping ground, and was instrumental in finding the remains of their victims. We’ve all worked with her and she’s a consummate professional.”

Jonas decides to add a sobering reminder.

“And let’s not forget we’re talking about finding an eleven-year-old girl here.”

Polman focuses on him.

“Are you suggesting the kid is still alive?”

“No way to tell for sure until we find her,” Jonas fires back.

“Plus,” Ewing fills in, “You said yourself it looked like someone may have gone through the airplane pantry.”

Polman asked earlier whether any of us had opened the cupboards or the small fridge, since they were found empty when they examined the front section of the plane. The fact he even posed the question was an insult in itself, which didn’t exactly ingratiate the man to any of us. This whole discussion isn’t helping that.

“She could’ve raided it for supplies,” Junior continues. “Plus, these guys reported bumping into some winter sports equipment. Skis, snowboard, snowshoes and the like.”

“Yeah, the family was on their way back from a vacation in Whistler, British Columbia,” the investigator clarifies. “Surely you’re not suggesting the kid might’ve packed a bag, strapped on a pair of snowshoes, and taken off, are you?”

“It’s possible,” the sheriff proposes.

It’s clear Polman doesn’t agree.

“Why the hell would she do that? She stands a better chance of being found by staying with the wreckage.”

“Unless she thought she could go for help,” I suggest. “She may not have been the only one who initially survived the crash.”

“Or she doesn’t want to be found,” Fletch adds.

He would know, he spent years trying not to be found in the Canadian Rockies.

“We’re wasting time on assumptions,” Jonas intervenes, “when we should be out there getting answers, and the bottom line is; Jillian Lederman and her dogs could help us find some of those answers.”

Polman slaps a hand behind his neck and tilts his head back, looking up at the roof of the temporary shelter, before responding.

“Fine. Call her in, but you are responsible for her.”

The moment he leaves the tent, Jonas speaks up.

“One thing though, she should not go out there alone. Out here and under these conditions, she follows the same rule as the rest of us; always at least one other person within sight. Winter is dangerous in the mountains.”

“I’ll tag along with her,” JD offers.

He’s glancing at me and I know he’s trying to get under my skin, but I still can’t keep myself from reacting. Especially after that not so innocent, innocent kiss last night.

“In your fucking dreams,” I tell him, before turning to Jonas. “I’ll go get her. She’ll have a hard time finding us otherwise.”

Jonas shares a look with Ewing before nodding at me.

“Go.”

I call her on my way down the mountain, as soon as I have reception again, to give her a heads-up. When I pull up to her house a while later, she’s already waiting on the porch, with two of her dogs by her side. I note neither of them are Emo, her cadaver dog.

“I’ll follow you in my SUV,” she announces.

“You’re not gonna get up those roads without chains,” I point out.

“Shit, I don’t have any,” she admits. “I thought I could double my chances and bring both Murphy and Hunter, so I can search with one while the other rests.”

“Well, why can’t you?”

“Because the crate is in the back of my SUV.”

“Bolted down?” I ask.

“No.”

“In that case, we can throw it in the back of my truck and put it inside the shelter at our base camp. We’ve got a heater going in there for the equipment, so it’s probably more comfortable for the dogs than the back of your SUV.”

“That’ll work.”

She opens the rear passenger door to my truck and whistles between her teeth for the dogs. They respond instantly, jumping down from the porch, running over, and hopping straight into the back seat.

It takes us a few minutes to get the aluminum travel crate from the back of her SUV and secure it in the bed of my truck with some straps. While Jillian goes back to the porch to grab her backpack and snowshoes, I get behind the wheel and start the engine.

“I wasn’t expecting to get called out already,” she says, buckling herself in. “Guess you weren’t messing around this morning.”

“My team and the sheriff were on board right away,” I share.

“But?” I glance at her, and she flashes me a grin. “I could swear I heard one in there.”

Perceptive.

“The lead investigator for the National Transportation Safety Board, who’s in charge of the crash site, required a bit of convincing,” I admit. “What can I say, he’s government, but he saw the light in the end.”

“I hope you didn’t make an enemy out of him in the process.”

“Not me. I didn’t have to say a word. Ewing and Jonas did all the convincing.”

I catch a glimpse of a smile on her lips. I guess there are worse things than having those two tout your praises.

“Well, I appreciate the votes of confidence, and I hope to God one of my guys can pick up her scent.”

I tell her about this morning’s briefing, about the possible missing supplies, and the theories we were throwing around.

“I guess it’s possible, but she’d have to be an incredibly resourceful and courageous eleven-year-old,” Jillian points out. “I really hope she is all those things.”

Me too.

On my way here I was mulling over the likelihood the girl could be out there, still alive. You’d think we would’ve found some trace of her—tracks—but if she started moving while the storm was still going on, the snow and wind could well have obscured them. Especially if she had, say, a pair of snowshoes; the imprints she’d leave behind would be fairly shallow.

So yeah, even though the odds are getting slimmer by the minute, I’d love to find her alive out there.

“I notice you didn’t bring Emo?”

I turn my head to catch her looking at me, a shadow in her eyes I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Not as long as there is even the remotest chance this child survived,” she states firmly before aiming her gaze out the windshield.

Then she adds softly.

“There’s still hope.”

Jillian

“You wait here, sweet girl.”

I nudge Hunter into the crate. She whines softly but curls up in the blankets I keep in there, resting her head on her crossed legs. She’s a beagle mix and has a great nose, but she doesn’t quite have the same stamina as Murphy and takes a lot longer to recover, which is why I’m taking him first.

Murphy, a black Lab cross, is eager to get going when I walk him out of the large tent.

“Easy, boy,” I mumble when he starts pulling on the leash.

Wolff is already standing next to one of the snowmobiles parked outside. He’s going to give us a ride to the crash site, which apparently is a bit of a hike away.

“It’ll be cozy, but he should fit between us,” he suggests, indicating the dog. “I’ll strap your gear to the cargo rack.”

A few minutes later we head down a narrow trail. Murphy is enjoying the ride with his front paws on Wolff’s shoulders, tongue lolling, and his nose stuck in the breeze. There’s barely any direct contact between me and Wolff because the dog is wedged between us, but that doesn’t stop my heart from beating a little faster.

I like him. I like that he comes across as this somewhat reserved, controlled guy, but shows up on my doorstep last night looking everything but. It’s almost as if he seeks me out, despite his reluctance to get close. Call me an idiot, but I find that attractive.

He is attractive. Tall, built like a swimmer with wide shoulders and narrow hips. Not usually a fan of long hair on men, I really like it on Wolff. An almost rebellious contrast to an otherwise pretty buttoned-up guy. Same with the gray-speckled beard; facial hair is not normally my thing but, more than once in the past few days, I’ve found myself fantasizing how the neatly trimmed bristles would feel on my skin.

And then those steel-blue eyes…

You’d expect them to be cold, yet they’re anything but. In fact, I’ve caught more heat than I would’ve thought possible in those baby-blues on a few occasions.

It’s tempting. He’s tempting, and I’m not quite sure yet what to do with that.

Any musings on the subject evaporate from my thoughts when Wolff brings the snowmobile to a stop, and I catch sight of the debris field in front of us.

“Don’t touch anything.”

The order comes from an older man wearing a navy parka with NTSB initials on his chest, who walks up as we are getting off the snowmobile. I know the type: old-school, protective of his turf, suspicious of any outsiders, and maybe even disapproving of women in any professional capacity. In my experience, ignoring the attempts at intimidation and killing with kindness works best to disarm guys like this.

I slip my glove off and hold out my hand.

“You must be the investigator in charge.”

“Polman,” he confirms curtly, accepting my hand almost as an afterthought.

“My name is Jillian Lederman, and this is Murphy.” Before he has a chance to respond, I continue, “We won’t disturb anything, we just need to allow Murphy to pick up a scent. I’m sure you would be able to direct us to an item that belonged to the girl, maybe her seat. Something that is most likely to have her scent on it.”

He seems a little taken aback, and there’s a slightly awkward silence I’m happy to wait out with an expectant smile on my face.

“Right,” he gives in. “Would her suitcase be helpful? We started gathering up personal belongings from the site this morning.”

He points at an ATV with a small trailer attached.

“That would be perfect, actually.”

He starts moving in that direction while I clip on Murphy’s lead. The dog’s demeanor instantly changes; he knows it’s time to work.

“Nicely done,” Wolff whispers as we follow the investigator.

I flash him a smile and a wink.

Polman is already flipping back the brown tarp covering the small trailer and pulls out a hard-shell carry-on with country flags printed all over. One side looks almost as if it melted.

“Was there a fire on board?” I wonder out loud.

The investigator’s narrowed eyes snap to Wolff behind me.

“Hey, she didn’t get that from me.”

I point out the deformed edge of the suitcase. “I was just curious about this.”

Polman’s lips are tight when he answers.

“We have reason to suspect there may have been a small explosion. I would appreciate if you kept this information to yourself. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Of course,” I reassure him. “The reason I ask is because the smell of smoke can have a bit of an effect on Murphy’s ability to pick up a good scent.”

“No, no evidence of a fire,” he clarifies.

I reach for the zipper of the suitcase.

“May I?”

He gestures for me to go ahead.

To my surprise there is very little in the suitcase; a few T-shirts, some underwear, a bathing suit, and a pair of pajamas. Considering she was just on a winter vacation, that seems a bit sparse.

“No socks, no sweater, and no toiletries,” I point out.

“Astute,” Polman observes.

The discovery actually flames my hopes. It would confirm the girl survived and was obviously capable of rational thought if she grabbed things she would need to sustain herself.

“What’s the girl’s name?”

Wolff is the one to answer, “Hayley. Hayley Vallard.”

I grab the pajamas I assume she’s slept in, and tuck them in a resealable bag from my backpack. Then I crouch down and hold the bag open for Murphy.

“Ready to get to work, Murphy?”

His tail is wagging as he shoves his nose in. The bag is part of his routine, and every so often I’ll take it out of my pack to keep the scent fresh in his nose. I let him sniff his fill before zipping the bag closed and tucking it in my backpack.

The dog sits down beside me, looking up and waiting for my order.

“Good boy. Search, Murphy.”

He takes off immediately, zigzagging in front of me. I keep him on the long lead for now, but once he picks up her scent and heads into the tree cover, I’ll probably let him off. Give him the freedom to track.

The snow here has been packed down from all the traffic I imagine has gone through in the past few days. No need for snowshoes yet, but that will change if Murphy takes us into the woods.

The dog pulls me away from the ridge and down the slope, into the trees, toward a large section of the plane.

“Careful,” I hear the investigator behind me.

But Murphy is already finding his way around the wreckage and darts into the gaping hole, sniffing furiously at the single seat, before ducking inside the open door of a bathroom. I can tell from his reaction he’s picking up on the girl’s scent; his tail is standing almost straight up and he is hyperalert, almost vibrating.

He scoots back out of the fuselage and almost gets tangled up with Polman, who is right behind me.

“Give them some space,” Wolff, who kept a respectful distance, grumbles at the man. “Let them do their work.”

Murphy is tracking though, and pulling me in a different direction, so I can’t quite make out Polman’s response. The dog is no longer zigzagging, but moving in a straight line, right to what appears to be the nose of the plane. There he sniffs around for a moment, before making a beeline for the trees on the far side.

“Hold, Murphy. Wait,” I call out quickly, before he pulls me into the deep snow.

He obediently sits down, but he’s tense and ready to spring up as soon as I give him any indication. As I’m quickly strapping my snowshoes on, I notice Wolff about twenty feet behind me, doing the same thing.

“You don’t have to follow me.”

He glances up with a half-smile.

“No team member goes out alone in these conditions. HMT rules.”

I open my mouth to tell him I’m not an HMT team member, but I have a feeling that won’t make much of a difference. Besides, Murphy is starting to whine, eager to get going.

Instead, I straighten up and pull on my gloves.

“All right, boy. Let’s find Hayley.”