Rocky Mountain Rescue

On the sidewalk once more, she tried to think of her next move. Maybe she could catch an airport shuttle. Anything to get out of town. She set off walking toward a high-rise on the corner where she could see several tour buses and a crowd of cars waiting for their turn to unload beneath the portico.

As she’d expected, the building was a hotel, and a busy one, crowded with people coming and going. Perfect. She’d just be one more anonymous woman in the crowd. She threaded her way through a line of tourists unloading luggage and skis from a shuttle bus and entered the lobby. She made her way to the front desk and turned on the charm for the clerk, a harried-looking young man with thinning blond hair. “What time is the airport shuttle?” she asked.

“Telluride, Montrose or Durango?” he asked, not even looking up from his computer screen.

She hesitated. “Um...”

“The bus to Durango leaves in ten minutes, but the one for Telluride will be right behind it.”

“Great. Thanks.” Durango it was.

She took a seat behind a potted plant and gave Carlo her phone to keep him occupied. She was showing him how to get to the games she’d downloaded for him when the phone rang, startling her.

She stared at the number. A 303 area code—Denver. Those marshals were probably based in Denver, weren’t they? She hit the button to ignore the call, but a few seconds later, the chime sounded, indicating she had a message.

She hesitated, then decided to listen to the message. Maybe it wasn’t the marshal at all.

Patrick Thompson’s deep, velvety voice filled her ears. “Running away is not a good idea,” he said. “Call me back at this number and I’ll send someone to pick you up. I promise you’ll be safe with us.”

“Right.” She was supposed to trust the people who had shot her husband. At least that was the story Thompson himself had given her. Apparently Sammy had killed his father, then turned the gun on his sister, but still, it was a federal agent who’d put the bullet in his back that killed Sammy. And though this Patrick Thompson guy had been nice enough when he was interviewing her, he was probably like all the rest—he thought she was like Sammy—a lowlife mobster, or even worse, his tramp of a wife. Why would they be so concerned about her safety? They really wanted her to tell all she knew so they could pin the Giardino family crimes on someone. But after today, no one was left to blame, except maybe for a few thugs who’d been following Sam and Sammy’s orders.

She switched off the phone, hoping that would keep them from being able to trace its signal or GPS or whatever the feds used to keep tabs on people. She was tempted to leave the phone behind, but being that cut off from any resources felt too dangerous.

A deluxe passenger van pulled up and the driver announced the Durango airport shuttle. Stacy and Carlo joined the line of people climbing on board. “Name, miss?” The driver was checking off names on a list on a clipboard. He was a middle-aged man with a round face and an underdeveloped chin.

“I’m not on your list,” she said. “I was hoping I could buy a ticket on board.”

“I’m only supposed to take advance reservations.”

Stacy shifted from foot to foot. Everyone was staring, the people behind her starting to grumble. She leaned toward the man, keeping her voice low, and at the same time giving him a look down the V-neck of her sweater—hey, she’d use whatever she had to pull this off. “Please,” she said. “I just found out my mother is in the hospital and I was able to get a flight out of Durango to see her and I’ve got to get there. I can pay cash.” And he could keep the cash and never tell anybody, if he was so inclined.

“Fifty dollars.” He didn’t even hesitate to bark out the sum.

She opened her purse and fished out two twenties and a ten. One thing about living with a mobster—they believed in paying cash and kept a lot around.

“Where’s your luggage?” the driver asked.

“I already put it back there.” She nodded toward the back of the bus, where a porter was loading suitcases.

On board the bus, she settled into a seat near the back, Carlo beside her. “Where are we going, Mama?” he asked.

“To that hotel I told you about.” Once at the airport, she’d head to baggage claim and call one of the hotels that offered a free shuttle. She’d pay cash for a room and give a fake name. After dinner and a good night’s sleep, she could decide what to do next.

Carlo settled with his face pressed to the glass, looking out the window. Stacy leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She was on her way. Not safe yet, but she would be soon.

* * *

“SHE’S HEADED TOWARD Durango.”

Patrick leaned over the tech they’d assigned to trace Stacy’s cell phone signal and studied the laptop screen and the little green dot that pinpointed her whereabouts. His last two calls to her had gone straight to voice mail, so he assumed she’d turned off her phone. Apparently she hadn’t realized it still sent out a signal, even when switched off.

“What’s in Durango?” Agent Sullivan asked.

“Maybe this Uncle Abel?” Stacy had said he had a ranch in Colorado, but she’d been vague about where.

“Someone else is in Durango today,” Sullivan said. He held out his smartphone, which showed the front page of the Durango paper, with a story about Senator Nordley’s speech to a political group in town.

Patrick’s stomach churned. He’d wanted to believe Stacy’s innocent victim act. Had everything she’d told them been a lie? “That’s a little too convenient for coincidence,” he said.

“Should we call Durango police and ask them to intercept her?” Sullivan asked.

“No. I’ll go.” He reached for his jacket. “I want to watch her, see what she does. And the fewer people who know about this, the better for security.” He turned to the tech. “Keep tracking her. I’ll stay in touch by phone.”

The night was bitterly cold and blustery, big flakes of snow swirling in the parking lot security lights as he made his way to his Range Rover. He threaded the vehicle through the crowds on Main, then took the highway out of town, turning on the road up to the ski resort. This would take him over Lizard Head pass, through the small towns of Rico and Delores and into Durango. Stacy probably had a forty-minute head start on him, but he wasn’t worried about following her too closely, not as long as she had her phone with her.

Provided she hadn’t been smart enough to stash the phone, maybe in a bag that was now on board the shuttle while she ran the opposite direction. But he was going with his gut and the belief that she was headed to Durango herself.

He’d learned to trust his gut in his years with the U.S. Marshals, but things didn’t always play out the way he wanted. Most recently, he’d agreed to allow Elizabeth Giardino, who’d been in Witness Security as Anne Gardiner, to go to the house where her father had been holed up with the rest of the family. The opportunity to catch a man on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list after he’d been on the loose for over a year had been too tempting, especially since Elizabeth had been so determined to take the risk.

But her brother had almost killed her, and Patrick blamed himself.

He wasn’t going to risk losing another woman in his care; he wouldn’t let Stacy Giardino get the better of him.

When he reached the outskirts of Durango, he phoned the tech back in Telluride. “You still have her on radar?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. She was at the airport for a little bit. Then she was on the move for a bit, but she’s stopped again. If you give me a moment, I can pinpoint an address.”

“All right. I’ll hold.” He guided the car past well-lit shopping complexes down a main street lined with bars, restaurants and hotels. Like Telluride, Durango was filled with tourists celebrating after a day at the nearby ski area. It was the kind of place where it would be easy for a stranger to get lost in the crowd.

“Sir, I’ve got an address for you.”

“Go ahead.” Patrick leaned over and switched on his GPS.

The tech rattled off an address on Second Street. “I show it’s a motel. Moose Head Lodge.”

“Got it. Thanks.” He hung up, keyed the address into his GPS then did a U-turn and headed back toward Second Street.

The Moose Head Lodge was a low-slung log-and-stone structure set back from the road. Two long wings stretched out from the central building, with doors for each room opening into the parking lot. Patrick parked the Range Rover across from the entrance and went into a lobby straight out of a Teddy Roosevelt nightmare, complete with a stuffed grizzly bear by the front counter.

“May I help you, sir?” asked the clerk, who looked scarcely old enough to shave.

“I’m looking for a young woman who just checked in. About five-two, short, pale blond hair. She probably had a little boy with her.”

“I’m not allowed to give out information on our guests,” he said.

“You can give me the information.” Patrick flipped open his credentials on the counter.

The boy’s eyes goggled. “Y-yes, sir. A woman like the one you described checked in about fifteen minutes ago. She’s in Room 141—out back.”