After checking again to be certain she was alone, Cara undid the snaps—two of them were already broken and hung open—and allowed the jumpsuit to drop to her ankles so she could pee. Not much came out. But when she pulled down her prison-issue, high-waisted, white underpants and perched over the log, she saw blood. Lots of it.
“Shit.”
The phraseon the raghad never made more sense as she considered ripping a sleeve off her jumpsuit to use the fabric as a makeshift pad. But it was too cold at night to sacrifice an entire sleeve. A hunk of moss might work but she didn’t see any nearby. In the meantime, she had to do something, so she settled on a handful of the leaves she’d slept on all night. If they were poisonous, she’d know by now.
#FreeBleedHack, she thought as she shook them to make sure there were no bugs, then wiped and grabbed another pile to place in her underpants.
Her self-congratulatory DIY moment was interrupted by a sudden thought. Escaped prisoners were tracked by dogs, weren’t they? Baying, slobbering dogs. And not just any kind of dogs.
Bloodhounds.
THREE
JORDAN
Pray for @carasloveisgold.
—@deathtripdylan
@deathtripdylan I pray for YOU. How damaged do you have to be to be a murderer groupie?
—@TayCamp
Scanner activity indicates search party assembling near China Creek.
—@madera_watchdawg
“Show me again,” Jordan said.
Bill Pfaff, a stocky guide who ran rafting trips on big rivers—Kings, Tuolumne, American—traced a stubby finger over the hydrological map spread out on the hood of Jordan’s vehicle.
“Hard to predict, given the unusual amount of water this year, but I’d say your most likely washout points are here, here, and here.”
Jordan handed him a fine-tipped marker. “Mark them, please?”
Pfaff shrugged, then drew three Xs on the paper. They were lopsided and looked to Jordan like little crosses. A riverine cemetery.
“’Course, this is all guesswork, Sheriff. I mean, she could have gotten snagged anywhere in a strainer. Since she’s not wearing a life vest, she could be rolling at the bottom of a hole.”
“I understand, but we have to start somewhere. Just to confirm, you wouldn’t send a kayak down the creek with this much flow, right?”
Pfaff stared at Jordan like he could see through the hole in his head. “I wouldn’t send a paper boat down there.”
“I appreciate your time.”
They shook hands, and Pfaff made his way back to a dusty Chevy Suburban withSierra Whitewater Adventuresstenciled on the driver’s-side door.
After stealing a few hours of fitful sleep, Jordan had risen before dawn to return to the area where he’d last seen Cara Campbell. At the crash site on 41, his headlights swept over the scorched earth where the fire had started before climbing into the hills. In the distance, an eerie orange glow marked the fire’s progress. It almost seemed as though the fire was chasing her, too.
Circling around the fire and getting ahead of it, he’d taken a back road to the gravel turnout where the search party would assemble, Beto arriving as the first sunlight flared over the trees. They were soon joined by the RICO-repo RV that served as the department’s mobile command post, or MCP, plus a dozen deputies’ vehicles, and the personal cars and trucks ofthe Madera County Search and Rescue, seasoned outdoorsmen who usually looked for lost or hurt climbers in summer and avalanche-trapped snowmobilers in winter. Last to arrive was the K9 van, whose dogs barked eagerly while their handler waited for orders.
Now, three TV news vans parked along the shoulder of the road were shooting B-roll of the whole operation while reporters waited impatiently for a statement from Jordan, who refused to grant any interviews until he had something to say.
All this to find one woman. A woman who had admittedly married for money and then killed her husband, apparently to cash out because his money was about to run out.
Most manhunts were actually quite simple. Those who escaped custody, broke parole, or fled imminent arrest rarely had the resources to leave the country or even the state. Jordan usually managed to track them down by sending deputies to knock on doors at known hangouts or simply wait until the offender showed.
He’d never actually had to search the woods before.
