“I can’t thank you enough for all of your help. Please tell Fisk I’ll pay you guys back as soon as I can.”
“You know where we live,” says Rae. “But the best way to thank us is by getting as far away as you can, as fast as you can.”
THIRTY-NINE
JORDAN
Fuck the police.
—@stingrae2
The home was registered to Rae Ann Salter, a licensed massage therapist, holistic healer, and avid rock collector. She clearly preferred crystals, but minerals of all kinds littered the surfaces of her home, from countertops to coffee table, bookshelves to windowsills. Judging by the clutter, she had lived there for years. Judging by the damp coffee grounds at the top of her full compost container, she had been there that morning.
Fisk had been there, too, at some point. In the pens behind the house were two brown sheep, a black goat, and a ring-eyed mule—the same animals Jordan had seen at the compound four days ago.
But Rae Ann Salter and William Fisk were gone.
Assuming Cara Campbell had actually been there—and there was no reason to believe either Salter or Fisk knew her Instagram login—she was gone, too.
CHP had issued an APB for Salter’s vehicle, a canary yellow 2003 Toyota pickup that Jordan imagined wouldn’t be hard to find. In the meantime, Wen’s men were pulling the place apart for clues. The redhead, Ellett, had pulled on nitrile gloves and was scrutinizing the browser history of the ancient PC balanced precariously on the narrow writing surface of an old rolltop desk. When she was done, the whole machine would be bagged and taken to a state lab for forensic analysis.
Jordan felt antsy and useless, like a sprinter watching someone put together a jigsaw puzzle. Wen obviously believed his talents were limited, and even he had to admit he wasn’t a crime scene investigator. What he really wanted was someone to chase.
He was sitting on the couch, leafing through a ten-year-old copy of theUtne Readerwhen the big, blond marshal—his name was Hart, Jordan had finally learned—came inside.
“We got her.”
Wen leaned out of the bedroom, holding a baggie of dried mushrooms. “Campbell?”
“Salter. The homeowner. She just drove up.”
Jordan stood up and turned to face the door. “It’s her house. Why don’t you let her in?”
Rae Ann Salter was a short, middle-aged woman with a pretty face, a plump figure, and long purple-black hair that appeared to be a match for the bottle of Clairol Nice’n Easy they’d found in the bathroom trash. She looked more upset than surprised about seeing her home filled with law enforcement officers.
Jordan looked at Wen and raised his eyebrows, wondering if she would let him handle it. She nodded back.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he began. “I’m Sheriff Jordan Burke, and these people tracking dirt all over your floorsare from various federal agencies, including the US Marshals Fugitive Task Force.”
Jordan could see in her eyes that she knew exactly why everyone was there. She was caught but calculating her chances. He guessed she was smart.
“Did you have any visitors last night?” he asked.
“My husband was here, along with some hitchhiker he picked up,” she answered matter-of-factly.
“William Fisk is your husband?”
She nodded. “We don’t have a marriage license. But we’ve been together some thirty-odd years.”
“What was the hitchhiker’s name?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Which was a neat feint, Jordan had to admit. “And what was he driving when he picked up this hitchhiker?”
“He was hiking out of the backcountry. He spends a lot of time in the woods. She wouldn’t be the first hiker he’s helped out of a jam. She seemed pretty clueless.”
“Where is your husband now?”
