“Sheriff Howard is off duty. I can leave a message for him when he returns tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow morning would be too late. “Can I speak with a deputy?”
“Is this an emergency, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll put you through to dispatch.”
A moment of silence, then, “Nine-one-one dispatcher. What is your emergency?” The voice on the other end of the line had the flat, mechanical quality of a machine.
“A local rancher is holding an FBI agent hostage and is going to try to blow up the ski resort.”
Silence. “Could you repeat that please, sir?” Still no change to the voice. Was he even speaking to a real person?
“A local rancher, Shane Greer, is holding FBI Special Agent Stacy Macrae and her father, George Macrae, hostage in his chicken house. He’s got a couple dozen people camped out on his ranch, and they’re planning to blow up SkyCrest resort.”
“Sir, have you been drinking?” That definitely sounded more human.
“What? No, I haven’t been drinking.”
“Have you taken any drugs? Unfamiliar medications? Have you eaten mushrooms?”
“No. I’m perfectly sober and in my right mind.”
“You say people are being held captive in a chicken house?”
“Yes. Federal Special Agent Stacy Macrae. Ask the sheriff. He’ll know who I’m talking about.”
“If you leave me your number and location, sir, I’ll have someone assist you.”
He hung up the phone. They didn’t believe him. And he was wasting time trying to convince people the danger was real.
He tried Doug again, but once more got his voicemail. He tried the number the sheriff’s department had given him for the Federal Bureau of Investigation and got a message to call back during regular business hours.
Desperate, he returned to his truck and drove to Stacy’s condo, where he cruised the parking lot in search of rental cars. Unfortunately, fully three quarters of the vehicles were rented by vacationers.
Then he spotted a black SUV, identical to the one Stacy had been driving. He noted the number of the parking spot, then parked in a No Parking zone and headed for the corresponding apartment.
Agent Anthony refused to open the door when Connor pounded on it, but Connor recognized his voice. “Mr. Donaldson, what are you doing here?” Anthony asked.
“Stacy Macrae asked me to get in touch with you,” he said. “It’s an emergency.”.
“If Agent Macrae needs to speak with me, she should call me herself.”
“She can’t. She and her dad are being held hostage on a local ranch.” Connor decided to leave out the part about the chicken house.
Anthony opened the door and peered out through an inch-wide gap. One brown eye looked Connor up and down. Connor stood up straighter and fixed Anthony with a hard stare. “You’d better come in,” the agent said after a long pause.
Dressed in knit joggers and a T-shirt, the agent looked less stuffy than he had previously. He led Connor into the living room of the rental. Connor had left Farley in his truck. “Why don’t you start from the beginning and tell me what’s going on?” Anthony said.
Connor wanted to drag the man out by the ear and make him come with him to rescue Stacy. But that would probably only end up with him in a jail cell. So he sat on the edge of the sofa and tried to remain calm. “Yesterday morning—or maybe late yesterday—Agent Stacy Macrae went out to Shane Greer’s ranch to check out some information she uncovered in the course of her investigation,” he began.
“How do you know this?” Anthony interrupted.
“Last Friday evening, Agent Macrae and I attended a rally organized by Shane Greer to recruit people for a protest against the ski resort.”
“You’re part of this protest group?”
