Will Woolwich grabbed his raincoat from the hook on his cubicle wall. He could see through the building window that the rain was still coming down. He had more work to do, but he could do it at home. His apartment was only a few blocks from the FBI main office in the Minneapolis suburb of Brooklyn Center. He opened his briefcase, grabbed several file folders from his desk, and then closed and locked it. He was about to leave when he noticed the yellow pad near his phone.
That was where he’d made his notes about the query from Lisa Power.
It had brought up old feelings to talk to her again. Crushes like that never really went away, no matter how much time had passed. He could still picture her face when he thought about her, although that wasn’t fair, because he’d seen it on book jackets over the years. A lot of water had gone under the bridge in the ten years since they’d met, but even so, he remembered how much he’d liked her.
He decided to call her back. Just a routine follow-up. Just to see if she was really okay. There had been something odd in her voice as she’d hung up the phone. She’d sounded upset, maybe even scared. And the whole nature of her call, about a police manhunt that wasn’t taking place at all, didn’t make sense to him.
With his coat still on, Will sat back down at his desk. Before he could even reach for the phone, it began to ring, and he scooped up the receiver.
“Special Agent Woolwich.”
He heard a man’s voice on the other end, a little squeaky and young. “Special Agent Woolwich, this is Matthew Baines. I’m an assistant county attorney in Pennington County. You called our office earlier today. I’m very sorry for the delay in getting back to you. The county attorney would have called you himself, but he’s had a death in the family, and he’s out for a few days.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I appreciate the callback, Mr. Baines. I was able to get my questions answered, but in fact, I was just about to do some additional follow-up. Maybe you can help me.”
“I’m happy to. What is this about?”
“I received a civilian report that law enforcement in your area were mounting special activities today regarding human trafficking operations. It involved some kind of fugitive manhunt.”
“A manhunt?” the attorney replied with surprise. “No, I don’t know anything about that. I’m sure we’d be in the loop if it was happening.”
“Yes, it looks like there was nothing to it,” Will said, “but I know the source personally, so I said I would check it out. I already let her know that there appeared to be no substance to the rumors.”
“Do you mind if I ask who your source was?”
“I don’t think there’s anything confidential about it at this point. I imagine she’s sort of a celebrity up there. It was the writer, Lisa Power.”
“Ah.” Something in the man’s voice changed. “Yes, we all know Lisa.”
“Well, her call was a little strange. I just want to make sure she’s okay.”
“That’s kind of you, but I don’t think you’ve got any reason to be concerned.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I don’t know anything about these manhunt rumors, but I do know the police already talked to Lisa this afternoon. The county attorney actually knows her quite well, and he sent two sheriff’s deputies to follow up with her. If there were any kind of problem, I’d have heard about it. As you say, she’s pretty well known in these parts.”
“Well, that’s good to hear,” Will replied. “I’m glad the locals have things under control. If I can help from my end, don’t hesitate to get me involved.”
“I’ll pass that along to my boss.”
“Thank you,” Will said. “By the way, I hate to admit this, but could you remind me who the county attorney in Pennington County actually is? I don’t remember the name off the top of my head.”
Will heard a smile in the voice on the other end. Rural counties probably got that query all the time.
“He’s been the county attorney here for almost thirty years,” the man replied. “That makes him kind of a legend in Thief River Falls. His name is Denis Farrell.”
18
Lisa stood under the overhang outside the terminal building at the Thief River Falls airport. In front of her, rain poured off the flat roof like a waterfall. Purdue sat on a bench next to her, his legs crossed, peering at the sky. There were a handful of cars in the parking lot opposite the building, mostly airport employees. Almost no one came and went in the evening October storm, but Lisa looked down and let her hair fall across her face, hoping not to be recognized.
Being here, so close to her past, she felt her stress level increase a hundred times over.
Curtis emerged from inside the terminal with his backpack over his shoulder. He shook his head and scowled at the rain, as if his fickle friend Mother Nature were playing another trick on him. According to the weather forecast, the rain wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon. Overnight, as the temperatures fell, it would turn to ice and then finally to snow.
“I can hangar the plane here until morning,” he told Lisa. “We can try to get out then.”
“Okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. Twelve hours until morning felt like a lifetime away, and anything could happen between now and then. Wherever she went in this area, people would know her, and word would spread. It was impossible for Lisa to hide in Thief River Falls.
“You can go back home tonight if you want,” Lisa told Curtis. “I’ll pay to get you a rental car.”
“What about you?”
“I don’t think it’s safe for me to be at your house.” She stared into the rain, which blew across the asphalt like an invading army. “I’m not sure it’s safe to be anywhere.”
“Well, wherever you go, I go. Laurel made it very clear I wasn’t to leave you alone. Not for a second.”
Lisa smiled, because she could hear those words coming out of her friend’s mouth. “Thank you, Curtis.”
“What would you like to do? Get a couple of motel rooms? There are places not too far from the airport. If it would make you feel better, I can go inside and get the rooms myself. Nobody has to see you. I can bring back some takeout for us, too.”
Lisa thought about it. “That might work.”
“I see a cab over there,” Curtis said, pointing across the parking lot. “Let me check if it’s waiting for somebody or whether we can hop in.”
She watched Curtis walk into the rain, not even flinching as the downpour soaked him. Most people would cover their heads or hunch over and shove their hands in their pockets. Not a farmer like Curtis. He trudged across the parking lot in his work boots as if the sun were shining and tapped on the driver’s window of the taxi.
It wasn’t really much of a taxi. The car was a 1990s-era Caprice Classic, painted burgundy, with patches of orange rust on the trunk and a bumper that was attached to the rest of the car with duct tape. A big handwritten sign in the corner of the rear window said, “TAXI.” Next to the sign was an oversize photograph of a Roswell alien taped to the glass, along with bumper stickers about ghosts, cats, marijuana, and guns.