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Authors: Allison Brennan
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gotten stuck. Tyler remembered that, according to the anonymous caller, the killers were driving a Ford 250 truck.
The vehicle looked like a truck, the bed full of snow, the cab almost completely covered as the wind had blown drifts of snow around it. Tyler motioned for his deputy to get into the bed, and Bianchi took the front. Tyler approached the side and kicked the snow off the window.
Empty.
“It’s the same type of truck that Chapman and Doherty were last seen in,” Bianchi said. “What are the odds?”
“It’s theirs.” Tyler took a shovel from his vehicle and scooped snow away from the door so he could open it.
“How can you tell?”
“Look.” He pointed to a map on the floor. It wasn’t just that it was a map of eastern Idaho and southwest Montana. There was blood spatter on it.
Bianchi came around and held the door open against the pressure of the snow while Tyler picked up the map. There was more blood on the dashboard, much of it smeared as if someone had tried to clean up. As if to prove the point, Bianchi gestured to the rear bench seat. Bloodstained napkins from a fast-food chain had been tossed into the back.
“I think this confirms that our anonymous caller was Tom O’Brien,” Bianchi said.
“How so?”
“Let’s say the ‘accident’ Tom O’Brien talked about was that his two buddies were onto him,” Bianchi said.
“Onto him? I don’t get it,” Tyler said.
“We told you earlier that we have reason to believe that Tom O’Brien has been tracking the fugitives on his own, detaining them until authorities arrive. I’m thinking that somehow O’Brien slipped up, maybe said something he shouldn’t. Chapman has a hair-trigger temper. We suspected he’d stolen a gun. So O’Brien slips up and Chapman shoots him. Tosses him from the truck outside Pocatello.”
“O’Brien is one lucky son of a bitch,” Grossman said. “To survive with a bullet hole for hours in this weather.”
“Could be he ran, passed out somewhere—a public restroom? Maybe he stole another car? We don’t know,” Bianchi said. “But it makes sense, including his waiting half a day to call it in.”
“O’Brien said he was in an accident,” Tyler said, considering what Bianchi was saying and trying to reconcile that to the facts as he knew them.
“Accident my ass,” Bianchi said. “Accident in that he slipped up
accidentally.
But he didn’t say
car
accident, did he? No, they shot and dumped him, thinking he was dead or dying.” He slammed his fist on the roof of the truck. “If I was only in Pocatello, I could find him!”
“Mitch,” Vigo said quietly. The other Fed took a step away, hands fisted, but didn’t say anything. “We need to get to the lodge as soon as possible.”
“Let’s go,” Tyler said. The abandoned truck was only a mile from where the snowmobiles were stolen. The killers had more than enough time to make it to the Moosehead Lodge. Unless they had been injured or lost. With luck, they were dead in the snow.
Vigo didn’t move.
“What are you thinking?” Tyler asked, eager to get moving.
“His body would be here,” Vigo mumbled. He stared at the interior of the truck, deep in thought.
“Hans?” Bianchi asked after a long minute.
“Chapman was driving. O’Brien was in the passenger seat. Doherty was in the back. Doherty shot O’Brien.”
Tyler stared at the cab, trying to see what Hans Vigo saw. As the senior Fed explained what he believed happened, Tyler could picture it unfolding right before them.
“Chapman was driving because he’s the grunt man. He can’t sit still. He would
have
to drive. And Doherty would be fine with that because he wanted to think, to fantasize about Joanna Sutton. To build up the relationship in his mind, so that when they saw each other he would believe she felt exactly the same as he did.
“O’Brien was looking for a chance to take control of the situation. He couldn’t take them together. That’s why he called
The vehicle looked like a truck, the bed full of snow, the cab almost completely covered as the wind had blown drifts of snow around it. Tyler motioned for his deputy to get into the bed, and Bianchi took the front. Tyler approached the side and kicked the snow off the window.
Empty.
“It’s the same type of truck that Chapman and Doherty were last seen in,” Bianchi said. “What are the odds?”
“It’s theirs.” Tyler took a shovel from his vehicle and scooped snow away from the door so he could open it.
“How can you tell?”
“Look.” He pointed to a map on the floor. It wasn’t just that it was a map of eastern Idaho and southwest Montana. There was blood spatter on it.
Bianchi came around and held the door open against the pressure of the snow while Tyler picked up the map. There was more blood on the dashboard, much of it smeared as if someone had tried to clean up. As if to prove the point, Bianchi gestured to the rear bench seat. Bloodstained napkins from a fast-food chain had been tossed into the back.
“I think this confirms that our anonymous caller was Tom O’Brien,” Bianchi said.
“How so?”
“Let’s say the ‘accident’ Tom O’Brien talked about was that his two buddies were onto him,” Bianchi said.
“Onto him? I don’t get it,” Tyler said.
“We told you earlier that we have reason to believe that Tom O’Brien has been tracking the fugitives on his own, detaining them until authorities arrive. I’m thinking that somehow O’Brien slipped up, maybe said something he shouldn’t. Chapman has a hair-trigger temper. We suspected he’d stolen a gun. So O’Brien slips up and Chapman shoots him. Tosses him from the truck outside Pocatello.”
“O’Brien is one lucky son of a bitch,” Grossman said. “To survive with a bullet hole for hours in this weather.”
“Could be he ran, passed out somewhere—a public restroom? Maybe he stole another car? We don’t know,” Bianchi said. “But it makes sense, including his waiting half a day to call it in.”
“O’Brien said he was in an accident,” Tyler said, considering what Bianchi was saying and trying to reconcile that to the facts as he knew them.
“Accident my ass,” Bianchi said. “Accident in that he slipped up
accidentally.
But he didn’t say
car
accident, did he? No, they shot and dumped him, thinking he was dead or dying.” He slammed his fist on the roof of the truck. “If I was only in Pocatello, I could find him!”
“Mitch,” Vigo said quietly. The other Fed took a step away, hands fisted, but didn’t say anything. “We need to get to the lodge as soon as possible.”
“Let’s go,” Tyler said. The abandoned truck was only a mile from where the snowmobiles were stolen. The killers had more than enough time to make it to the Moosehead Lodge. Unless they had been injured or lost. With luck, they were dead in the snow.
Vigo didn’t move.
“What are you thinking?” Tyler asked, eager to get moving.
“His body would be here,” Vigo mumbled. He stared at the interior of the truck, deep in thought.
“Hans?” Bianchi asked after a long minute.
“Chapman was driving. O’Brien was in the passenger seat. Doherty was in the back. Doherty shot O’Brien.”
Tyler stared at the cab, trying to see what Hans Vigo saw. As the senior Fed explained what he believed happened, Tyler could picture it unfolding right before them.
“Chapman was driving because he’s the grunt man. He can’t sit still. He would
have
to drive. And Doherty would be fine with that because he wanted to think, to fantasize about Joanna Sutton. To build up the relationship in his mind, so that when they saw each other he would believe she felt exactly the same as he did.
“O’Brien was looking for a chance to take control of the situation. He couldn’t take them together. That’s why he called
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