The Hunt for the Big Bad Wolf (Someone Else's Fairytale #3)

The Car in the Ditch

Wanted: Carl EISNER

Alias: Rob Montes, Charles Watson, Fredrico Lopez

Sex:                 Male

Race:               White

Age:                 29yrs

Height:            5’4”

Weight:           170lbs

Eyes:               Brown

Hair:                Brown

Skin tone:       Light

EISNER is wanted in seven states for the abduction and abuse of fifteen children and the murder of five children and one adult. He is armed and very dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend him on your own. Instead, contact law enforcement immediately.

Reward: There is a $100,000 reward for information leading directly to EISNER’s arrest.

 ***

Miguel pulled the CSI van off the asphalt road and onto gravel shoulder behind the unmarked police car that had led us to this place high up into the Jemez Mountains. We’d driven dirt roads that branched off one-lane tracks that were so neglected that it seemed as if no one had driven on them since the last century. This road we were on was paved, but it was desolate with deep cracks hewn into it by successive freezes and thaws. Parts were so crazed that they had the pattern of safety glass shot through with bullets.

The van’s driver’s side door opened with a creak and the air that swept in was chill and crisp, carrying the scent of evergreen needles, sap, damp earth, and dry dust. Miguel gave the area a once-over with a sweep of his gaze then turned to raise an eyebrow at me. He was my boss, but he was the sort of boss who treated everyone in the lab like colleagues. He had the power to put us in our places but no desire to use it, preferring instead to expect the best and make it worth our while to live up to his esteem. Despite his broad, stocky build and square jaw, there was nothing physically domineering about him. He’d mastered the calm, unflappable air of a guy who didn’t have to raise his voice to drive home a point.

“Hollywood!” snapped a deep voice like the bark of hunting dog.

I glanced at Miguel, who frowned as if confused by the speaker’s choice of nickname. It was difficult not to roll my eyes as I unfastened my seatbelt, popped open my door, and stepped down to the gravel that crunched under the soles of my shoes.

The speaker was Detective Lawson, the man who’d led us here. Rail thin with a pinched face and a scowl that said we were always wasting his precious time, he towered above me by a good foot.

“You sure you want to risk getting dust on your designer shoes?” he said.

I was wearing my usual loafers paired with jeans and the lab polo shirt that was our uniform. There was nothing designer about my attire, nor had I ever shied away from dirt, filth, human blood, or any other questionable substance my work put me in contact with. The only answer to his question would sound plaintive if I spoke it, so I kept my mouth shut.

He still chuckled as if he’d scored a point in some great battle of wits.

“All right. It’s over here.” He pointed to a pair of tire tracks that cut through the dry grass and scrub and then down the slope to our right.

Nothing particularly remarkable about this. Anyone might have driven their car off the road here, but hikers two days ago had seen these tire tracks and wondered, quite rightly, if they led to a wrecked car with a mummified corpse in it, the remains of some poor traveler who’d had the misfortune to crash his car in an area so remote that not a soul would have heard it—or any screams for help that followed.