Free High Country- Pigeon 12 by Nevada Barr Page B

world of men. Slob or Billy "Beer" Kurt or whatever his name was wasn't the type to stray too far from an easy form of transportation. Taking an educated guess, she thought she'd find the SUV in the closest parking lot.
     
    As luck would have it, one group of backpackers had their vehicle parked next to the only red Ford Excursion in the lot. She didn't dare get too snoopy-she'd look fishy as hell. Wandering past slowly she was amazed-as she always was-at how damn big SUVs were. Unless she was pulling a six-horse trailer fully loaded she'd have been embarrassed to be seen in the thing. Oversized SUVs were conspicuous consumerism taken to such lengths she marveled that people willingly participated in cruel caricatures of themselves by driving them.
     
    Mentally she noted the Excursion was brand new-or nearly so-and hard-used by the look of the frozen mud caked on its underside. The plates were from MendocinoCounty outside of San Francisco. Anna memorized the tag number and moved on. Vehicle information and perhaps a closer look would be done by Yose's law enforcement rangers.
     
    Being undercover, even such a benign undercover as a waitress in a fine restaurant with nary a mob boss or biker ring in evidence, was a pain in the ass. Divested of power, clout, radios, backup, cell phones, All Points Bulletins and computers that could talk to the DMV, NCIC, the FBI and, if one knew the e-mail address, probably God, she felt as if she was working half blind and mostly deaf.
     
    Though remaining successfully undercover in a small isolated community was considerably more difficult than in larger operations, Anna felt slightly silly picking up the key Lorraine had promised her at the clinic. She gave no explanation as to why the chief ranger had left it for her-indeed Lorraine would probably have sent it with someone with a much lower profile than herself-and the nurse receptionist asked for none.
     
    The key was not to the main fire cache that held the newer equipment-that was to the back of the Search and Rescue building resting its rustic beporched self between the barn and the old graveyard. Fortunately for Anna-otherwise she'd have had to tell too many lies to people too clever to believe her-Trish Spencer's belongings were stored in the old fire cache, a junk room more or less, in one of the snowplow garages up the hill. The garage doors were aligned with the SAR building and sat cheek-by-jowl with the great stone building that housed fire trucks, jail and law enforcement offices.
     
    Looking as boring and unremarkable as possible, Anna fought briefly with the padlock, raised the door in an alarming clamor, then pulled it shut behind her. The odds of her fellow concessionaires smelling her for the rat she was were small. The odds of a ranger getting curious and chatting about it to the ruination of the investigation were much higher. Hiding from her peers was an unpleasant sensation. She shook it off with a twitch of her shoulders.
     
    Locking herself in a grimy old garage piled with boxes undoubtedly providing winter homes for black widow spiders didn't add to her comfort or self-esteem. Batting at an eyeball-high string, she caught it and pulled. A hundred dusty watts from a bulb suspended from the eight-foot ceiling clarified matters.
     
    Spencer's boxes were easily located. Last in, they were freest of dust and closest to the door. When Anna had packed them, she'd marked them with Trish's name, last known address and the date packed. There were four. Squatting on her heels, she cut the first one open with her pocketknife, which she had remembered to stuff in her checked luggage at the last minute. Confiscating Swiss army knives was an affront to that sovereign nation's neutrality, but she doubted that argument would have impressed airport security on her flight out of Jackson, Mississippi.
     
    Using the unopened boxes as tables, she began to methodically sift through Trish Spencer's things. Over the years she'd had