“We stepped into the middle of it and Kendall was doing his best to be nice,” Marquez said after he’d pulled over with Shauf down the road.
“So what do you think?”
“If they catch Nyland picking up the supplies, we’ll back off.”
“Why not otherwise?”
“Because Nyland is the only reason I can think of for Durham to come back this direction rather than run.”
He watched her mull that over. A thing he’d always liked about Shauf was that despite the tough persona she cultivated, she was a gentle human being at heart. She understood how to intimidate and create fear, but she didn’t respect violence and didn’t take any pleasure in it. Ninety percent of the people they chased were motivated by money. Some were brutal and dangerous if given an opportunity, but her mind didn’t turn as readily as his did to the darker qualities of humanity.
He had no trouble picturing Durham taking risks to get to Nyland and meeting him at a prearranged rendezvous spot, perhaps a lonely spot on a dirt road in the Crystal Basin, a contingency plan made long ago. Durham might pull up in a pickup, Nyland step out from under the trees, glad to be rescued, thanking Durham and crawling under a tarp tied down over the pickup bed so he’d be hidden from view. He might lie on a dirty piece of foam as the truck bounced its way back to a paved road. Then he’d hear the reassuring hum of the tires on asphalt and believe he was safely away from the law.
But Durham had plenty to lose if Nyland was apprehended and then traded testimony against him for a lesser sentence. He might well hold the testimony that would put Durham in prison for life, so Marquez saw a different ending, Durham telling Nyland he needed to stay hidden until they reached a safe place, a remote cabin, for example, the spot where Nyland could hole up while the next plan was made. But what would that plan be and why would Durham want the liability and expense? There was a simpler way.
It was a big step, but maybe not so big for Durham if he was the guy they suspected he was. Park somewhere a gunshot wouldn’t matter, lower the pickup gate, and watch Nyland slide out from under the tarp, even help him. Then before he stood and straightened, two shots. The testimony Nyland could trade would end in a shallow grave.
Snow started while Marquez was on the phone to Katherine in the midafternoon. The conversation was laced with a bittersweet sadness, and they decided that she and Maria would stay at a hotel tonight because he wasn’t going to come home. He told her Nyland had been found and he was going to do what he could to help bring him in.
“There’s a jeep trail that runs five miles from the end of the paved road out to a lake named Barrett. He’s near there and on the move. A SWAT team is on its way in and maybe they’ll get him.”
“Enough force and Nyland won’t fight it,” he said.
Marquez drove out past Wright’s Lake and down to the entrance of the Barrett Jeep Trail. Shauf met him there, driving the jeep she’d picked up so she could get them off-road. Snow was falling in light grainy flecks that the wind swirled and tossed.
Marquez stood with his hands in his coat pockets, snowflakes tickling his stubble of beard. The real storm was yet to hit, not forecast to for several more hours, but the sky was dark gray, the light already turning toward dusk. The radio was on, tuned to the band the SWAT team was using. Marquez listened to the backandforth as a helicopter backed away due to turbulence.
“Anything they do to catch Nyland is going to be on foot,” Marquez said. “They just pulled their helicopter out.”
“Where’s he going to go in a snowstorm?”
“Wherever he’d planned to go if police showed up, but let’s hope when we drive up they have him in custody.”
Marquez stripped down and put a long-sleeved Thinsulite shirt, a Kevlar vest, then a fleece pullover and a Gore-Tex parka over that.
The parka had a hood and drawstring to cover most of his face. He pulled on Thinsulite pants and thermal waterproofs over those, Gore-Tex boots, then packed gloves and additional clips for the Glock into his coat. He slipped the night goggles into a pocket and loaded almonds, chocolate bars, a hunk of cheese, juice, and water.
He added a handful of aspirin, Advil, teabags, a small gas stove and canister, a survival blanket, Second Skin, extra socks, bouillon cubes because they always seemed to work for him. He packed bandages, compresses, a morphine shot. Bivouac sack and liner. GPS locator. He’d carry plenty of water. He had a radio and satellite cell phone. In an outside pocket he zipped in handcuffs.
They started up the rocky entrance to the trail, the jeep straining over the bigger boulders, tires slipping and then crawling forward.
Then the road became dirt and much easier to drive. In a few places they had to climb over deadfall. They drove out of the forest and across a meadow with the wind scouring the road ahead, the sky a dark gray. Light would fade fast today. Twenty minutes later they pulled up to the Barrett campsites and watched the faces turn.
An officer stepping forward and already directing them to turn their vehicle around.
“Let’s go talk to them,” Marquez said.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Not yet, let’s see what they’ve got going.”
“This storm is coming in.”
“I’m carrying my locator. The satellite phone will work fine and I’ll hang a distance behind him.” He turned to her. “But they may have him or a good enough plan.”
Marquez left the day pack in the jeep, and they went to find Kendall among the officers mingling around the camping area. He counted twelve vehicles and watched the SWAT commander stride toward him.
“Why are you here?” the commander asked.
“Nyland’s wanted for commercial trafficking in bear parts.”
“That’s the least of his problems,” the commander said, and the officers near him chuckled. “You don’t need to worry.”
“Have you got him?”
“We will.”
“Where is he?”
“Up there. We’ve got his campsite secure.” The commander pointed to trees off to the left. “He was camped up behind them and he must have heard us coming.”
“It would be hard not to.”
Now Kendall walked over and stepped into the conversation. “Tell us where he’s going to go, Marquez. He’s worked his way around the lake with a dog.”
The SWAT commander moved closer to Marquez, pointed out Nyland up on the ridge, handed Marquez binoculars. When he focused those, Marquez moved along the loose granite behind the lake and saw Nyland climbing, the dog trailing just behind him and both of Nyland’s hands in black gloves. If he had a weapon, it was a handgun. He wasn’t carrying a rifle, but he was dressed for the weather and had a pack, same as Marquez had in the jeep. Nyland looked back down at the lake, but only briefly and then climbed again, his direction purposeful. Marquez lowered the glasses, looked across the gray water of the lake, the whitecaps, the dark gray rim of granite beyond. Snow flurries obscured the ridge and then it showed again.
“He’s headed into Desolation Wilderness,” Marquez said.
“From there he has several exits if he stays on a trail, which he’ll almost have to do in this storm. He can hike to Tahoe or Donner Lake, or even double back this direction, drop down to Wright’s Lake via Rockbound. But you must be looking at trail maps.”
Kendall nodded and Marquez realized his worst fear was true. They’d set up the bust planning to capture Nyland here with the helicopter giving them lookdown ability, and the weather screwed it up. The storm came in four hours early and they had to pull the helicopter. He looked from the ridge and the tiny figures of Nyland and the dog to Kendall’s face.
“You didn’t figure he’d walk away. You figured the storm would work to your advantage, but remember all that survivalist literature in the trailer. He wants to beat us this way. He’s hiking out and I’m going after him.”
Kendall shook his head, said, “No, you’re not. The forecast is for three or four inches of snow and it’s already starting. It’s supposed to blow out tomorrow, but are you telling me he’s going to walk through a storm in the Desolation Wilderness?”
“He’s got night-vision equipment. So do I.”
“What good is that going to be in a storm?’ “Not very good, but the trails are there.”
“Crossing rock when you can’t see ten feet ahead of you?”
“He’s still running ahead of the storm, and a lot of the trail won’t be hard to follow.”
Kendall’s frustration came through now. He’d expected to trap Nyland here and he had all the people to do it.
“You forget about Vandemere already? He can pick you off as you climb toward him. He doesn’t have anything to lose.”
“It’s going to be dark soon.”
“You’re not going. You’ve got some sort of death wish.”
Something hardened in Marquez when he heard that, but he wanted to keep it going with Kendall a while longer. He looked up at the rock where the first snow had melted as it landed. The rock was dark and wet, and clouds were low over the lake.
“I’m not going to let you lose him.”
Kendall’s retort was immediate. “And what if you’re wrong and he’s just up there making a last desperate circle and plans to shoot it out with us. What if he’s waiting up on those rocks for someone to follow?”
“He’s been talking to Bobby by cell phone, right? You’ve monitored those calls, so you know he’s got a phone. My guess is he has a plan and he’s made the call that sets up his ride out when he finishes the hike. He knows he’s only got so much time to get away and he’s got to take advantage of the storm. He also knows this isn’t easy country to hide in, no matter how many survivalist magazines you read. It’s open high rock, lakes, pine and fir, and you can dodge for a while but not forever. But he also knows the thing to do is surprise you with how far he can move through a storm. Then have someone waiting on the other end.”
“You give him way too much credit. You go in there and there’ll be Search and Rescue people looking for you tomorrow morning. You’ll get lost if you don’t get killed.”
“Tell you what, Kendall, this is something I know a little bit about.”
Marquez showed the GPS tracking device they’d gotten from the FBI on an abalone poaching operation. It could track him individually.
He gave the Kendall the phone number for the satellite unit and a number for Shauf, though Kendall hadn’t asked for anything.
“You’re not going.”
Marquez walked away from him and when the SWAT commander followed, he had a better conversation with that officer, pointed at the ridge, told him where he’d climb up, where the trail went through.
“If I lose him, I’ll be hiking out the Eagle Lake Trail.”
The commander frowned; he was a patient man and tried to get his point of view across.
“The detective is right,” he said. “This suspect is likely to be desperate and unlikely to have any plan to hike away. He may reach that ridge and lay down on a rock and wait.”
“He’s carrying a pack.”
“Are you from this area, warden?” the SWAT commander asked. “I mean do you live locally?”
“No.”
“I do, and we may be in a whiteout in a couple of hours.”
“I understand that.”
“Storm blows through tonight, and we’ll get a copter up with infrared lookdown and fly right over the trail you’re talking about.”
“He knows that and you and I know the wind will still be blowing tomorrow morning and a copter may not work.”
“I’m trying to talk you out of risking your life.”
“I appreciate that.”
They could still see Nyland, but barely. Marquez pulled his pack on, looked at the SWAT commander again.
“You know our warden was murdered.”
“Of course.”
“If one of your SWAT team got murdered, would you watch the suspect walk away?”
“You’re not hearing me.”
“I am hearing you.” He put a hand on the commander’s shoulder.
“I’ll see you on the other side.”