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The white strips of gauze covering her arms were already turning scarlet.
Time was running out.
And the damn 9-1-1 operator was still yammering, advising him to stay on the line when he slid his arms under Anne-Marie and gently lifted her, his heart hammering at the urgency. Would he make it in time? Or would she die on the way?
Either way, guilt would be his lifelong companion.
“We’ve got a hit,” Alvarez said, checking her phone as they were leaving Zoller’s cubicle. “Ryder’s cell phone.”
“Already?”
“Today’s technology.”
“Let me get my coat.” Pescoli grabbed her jacket, sidearm, purse, and another energy bar as they’d never made it to the diner. Her stomach had started growling again, the hunger pangs only subsiding by the shot of adrenaline that pumped through her bloodstream at the thought of catching one of the key players in the homicide cases.
Once she and Alvarez met in the hall again, walking rapidly to the back door, Alvarez explained. “Not only is Ryder’s location being triangulated by the cell phone company and our department, but, get this, he’s on the line now with 9-1-1.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. The call is being traced, emergency vehicles dispatched.”
“What’s the emergency?” It didn’t sound good. People on the run didn’t tend to call the police unless something unexpected and dire, usually life-threatening, had gone down.
“Don’t know for certain. He said something about a possible suicide attempt.”
“By whom?”
“A woman.”
“Shit. It’s Anne-Marie Calderone. Suicide attempt, my ass.”
“He claims he’s at a cabin in the Bitterroots off the county road. The triangulation confirms the location. A cabin owned by someone who lives out of state.”
“He’s there? With her? You mean, they’re there?”
“It’s sketchy. He’s not responding to the operator though he hasn’t hung up.”
“Ominous,” Pescoli thought aloud as she scrabbled into the side pocket of her purse for her key ring. Sidestepping around Pete Watershed, who was heading in the opposite direction, Pescoli tried to piece it all together. “Maybe he tracked her down and they got into some kind of lover’s quarrel. She did do the bogus marriage thing with him. That’s gotta sting. Big rodeo rider. Probably a macho guy. Maybe he tried to kill her and has remorse.”
“Who knows?”
“It’s just unbelievable that after all this time of chasing shadows, we get a goddamn call for help from one of the suspects.”
“Person of interest,” Alvarez pointed out. “Not a suspect.”
“There you go again, semantics.” Pushing open the back door, Pescoli caught a blast as the arctic air slapped her full in the face. “You know, just once, just damn once, it would be nice if one of our local serial killers decided to do his business in the summer.” She hit the button on the remote lock, and the Jeep’s lights flickered, its horn giving a soft beep. “Yeah, wouldn’t that be the ticket.”
“Careful what you wish for,” Alvarez said. “Summer brings heat, rotting flesh, maggots, flies, stench, you name it.”
“Still—” Pescoli’s breath formed clouds as she talked.
Alvarez turned the conversation back to the case. “Even though emergency vehicles have been dispatched, Ryder’s claiming he’s taking the victim to a hospital in Missoula. Northwest General.”
Where Dan Grayson had died. Pescoli didn’t like the reminder.
At the county vehicle, Alvarez opened the door to the passenger seat. “Oh. I’ve already advised Blackwater.”
Perfect. Pescoli slid behind the wheel and remembered the new sheriff showing up at the O’Halleran ranch where the first victim had been discovered. The two doors closed simultaneously. “Isn’t Blackwater already driving to the location? Trying to grab a little glory?”
