Tracker

The sparrows chased the pickup truck as it bounced down the snow-covered access road.

He’s the biggest ass you’ll meet, Mason said.

The birds followed the truck, watching it weave through the forest like a needle through the fabric of snow-covered green trees. Adam stared at the sky, at the silhouettes of the birds cutting across the blue. He thought the ranger said bass, not ass, and was busy picturing a man-sized fish hiding out in the middle of government land.

Mason interrupted the thought. You sure you need this guy, kid?

Kid? Adam wasn’t that young—freshly thirty. But he got the idea Mason considered himself a senior citizen, despite not looking much older than somebody in their early fifties.

Yeah, the trail is cold; there’s a lot on the line, and we haven’t got the time or resources to outsource it. I’m sure you know how that goes. Adam began popping his knuckles, only to stop immediately. Mason didn’t know it, but popping his knuckles was one of Adam’s biggest tells, and he didn’t want anybody to realize he was nervous.

Mason glanced sidelong at him, lip swollen with dip. Done your research?

Adam nodded and was going to leave it at that. But apparently, the cop-turned-Ranger had other ideas.

I know a thing or two about having everything on the line. I was a cop once and made it to Sergeant before I just had to let it go. This was nearly five years ago, Mason said.

Eight years. Adam thought. I said I did my research—all of it.

Just needed to get out. It was too much on my family. You got a family? He didn’t wait for Adam’s shake of the head. Then I got a call about this line of work—Ranger work better suits me. I love being out here, I like the people I work with, and I like that there are fewer dangerous people to deal with. Don’t get me wrong, there are still idiots—hell, we search for them all throughout the year—but most won’t point a gun at you.

And yet you volunteered to drive me two hours into the middle of nowhere on a Sunday afternoon. Too much time with the family now, huh?

This about that guy who took his little girl? Mason asked, stroking an uneven goatee.

Adam nodded again, saving his words for when he would need them. He ran a hand through his dark hair and leaned against the seat, rubbing a penny between his fingers while mentally practicing the speech he sensed coming.

Damn shame. Mason shook his head, taking the drive slow over a large root in the access road. Didn’t he kill his wife too?

Yeah, damn shame. Adam flipped the penny with his thumb and pointer finger. Heads, I win. Tails, you lose. He checked his watch. Ten a.m. and nearly a full day behind the fugitive. He hated wasting his valuable time driving to the backwoods of Montana to plead with some out-of-his mind, alcoholic squatter—all to help find his real target, the kidnapper and drug smuggler. Adam needed this mysterious squatter, and he hated that feeling—the helplessness of being at the mercy of someone else’s skill—but he wasn’t about to die chasing after this runaway, either. Or worse, let the guy disappear.

Adam moved to chewing his cheek. Despite swallowing his pride and asking the Ranger for help, he still couldn’t get comfortable with letting outsiders into the labyrinth of the case. The Ranger was in charge of the Search and Rescue department, but Adam wanted this to be a quiet affair. It needed to be quiet if this was going to work.

Still, Adam had to agree with Mason. The hermit was the only one whose services could be used—off the books, too. But this mystery man also created several talking points Adam was grateful for as they neared the one-hour mark of bouncing over the trails that barely passed as roads.

How exactly did you find this guy?

He found us. Mason scoffed. Totally unconventional, borderline illegal . . . but we didn’t care at the time. We thought we’d found an ally. Turns out he’s a whack job. It was the middle of January. Absolute insanity. Ever been out this way in January?

Adam nodded, but he hadn’t been in this area in January.

Well, Mason continued, it was a weather wreck—snow and ice everywhere. We got a call, two missing skiers . . . fools to be out here in the winter. They weren’t reported missing until the weather turned so fierce that we couldn’t send anyone out. Forecasts showed a likely improvement the following morning. We brought up the EMTs, pilots, and volunteers to the station, and prepared them for a recovery mission. The chopper was scheduled to go up—a wizard of a pilot, really. He beamed. She was set to go up as soon as the gusts cleared, but they didn’t, and we were delayed another day.

Adam nodded. The skiers would have to be long dead—no match for the wind and ice coupled with the lack of proper overnight gear. Just too fucking cold. It’s always too fucking cold out here. He stared at the snow through the window and shivered.

But here’s the thing—Mason stole a glance at Adam—there was some chatter on the line.

On the radio?

Yeah, Mason said, shaking his head again. Someone called in with coordinates. We were trying to figure out what station they were from, but we hadn’t sent anyone out. We asked who it was, but got no answer. Soon after, a flare went up. Everyone saw it, our girl—lady pilot—whatever. She was up before most of the teams were assembled. I went with her, as well as a few medics. She dropped us off as close as she could—never did break her gaze from the flare’s origin. Mason took a moment to breathe, probably gathering his thoughts, and Adam was surprised to find himself interested in this little mystery. This mystery man. He felt like a child for a moment, waiting for the big reveal in a bedtime story.

There’s this guy all bundled up—ice hanging from his beard—walking toward us and waving. He took us to this . . . I don’t know, fort? A snow fort built up around a tree. He found the skiers, and when we got to them, they were huddled in some old sleeping bags trying to keep each other awake. They were so far off the ski trail they should’ve been on, we wouldn’t have found them until spring ‘cause we’d have been looking in the wrong place. They ended up being fine; dehydrated with some frostbite, but they knew how lucky they were.

I still don’t understand. Adam’s toes ached with the mention of frostbite, and he looked out at the snow-covered hill, wondering if he was simply asking for the same experience.

"This crazy guy heard on our private radio channel about the search and went out on his own when he realized we weren’t sending anyone out. He was set to head straight back the way he came, but we convinced him to fly down with us, answer some questions, and get some breakfast. We found out a bit about him. Since then, he just keeps doing that."

Doing what?

Showing up! He shows up to some searches, but not others. Sometimes we don’t even know he’s out searching too, never joining a crew. Don’t know how he gets there; we are all over this area, but he manages to show up anyway. He’d gotten a knack for tracking stuff . . . says people are the easiest, but he’s like a dog on the scent. He packs and can go out for a week or so, just camping and doing whatever it is he does. Probably a good thing he never comes to base camp; no one likes him or trusts him.

Adam raised his eyebrows, and Mason obliged with an answer. He—I don’t know. He just has this way with people. He undermines authority, can’t get along with anyone, and he’s a freeloader. Figured out he lives off government land in his little camper, and when he’s chased away, he finds a new spot. Eventually people gave up trying to run him off, mostly because they were afraid of losing track of him—people like you, I suppose. Mason shrugged, messing with his lopsided goatee.

I need a tracker. It doesn’t matter if he’s rough around the edges, I just need someone to track.

Mason chuckled. People have asked him to do that before; most of the time his answer is a firm no.

What? Why? Adam asked, a sudden wave of panic hitting him. A small spring of sweat dotted his forehead, his throat tightening. He needed this mountain man, and he needed to get moving.

"Too many restrictions. The Feds were actually going to be tracking a suspected serial killer in Oregon, and they wanted him on account of the rain that ruined obvious tracks—but when it was decided that they would only travel in groups and return to base each day, the hermit said no. He actually opted not to go search for this little girl, and what later ended up being her killer, because he didn’t like restrictions. I suggest you let him have a loose rein. At least let him think it."

Adam flipped the penny in his fingers. It was only a matter of minutes before they pulled into a clearing. The birds rested on low-hanging branches, their eyes following the truck as it parked. Adam stared at the trailer, which was complete with a small outdoor kitchen set up on a card table weighed down by water jugs. There was a small fire pit and two chairs under the camper awning. It looked like maybe a family was out for a weekend trip to play in the snow. Adam expected to see kids running around the trees with sticks or something.

I’m not gonna bullshit you, Mason explained through a long sigh, "he’s a bad dude—was in jail for battery at one point. He beat his wife senseless; the charges were dropped on a technicality. Shortly after is when he became a hermit. He was probably only twenty-five or twenty-six at the time. He’s spent the last twenty years out here. He’s bad with people, and not just in the impolite old