Free Blood on the Tracks by Barbara Nickless Page B

nodded in Cohen’s general direction.
    “Got it,” he said and turned back to the window.
    Cohen watched him a moment longer, then opened a file folder and pulled out a sheaf of papers stapled together and handed it to me.
    It was a summary of Tucker Rhodes—his service in the Corps, a list of his injuries from the IED, a brief investigation after his disappearance from Brooke. Parents were Ken and Melissa Rhodes, divorced, mom now residing in Florida, dad still in Shelby, a rancher. No siblings. I flipped through the pages, found a standard-issue Marine Corps induction photo. At the time of his enlistment, Rhodes had been a startlingly handsome man with dark hair and a look of cocky self-confidence. The expression in his green eyes didn’t reveal a single chink in the armor of his good looks.
    I stared at those eyes, remembered the taste of rust like nails in my mouth.
    I knew this guy. Somehow, somewhere. Maybe nothing more than a passing glance in the chow line at one of the forward bases. He was good-looking enough that he would have caught my eye, even when I was with Dougie.
    But the twist in my gut said our encounter had been something more, even if I couldn’t place when or why our paths had crossed.
    I shivered. Where . . . ?
    Cohen’s voice brought me back. “Guys hopping trains usually carry a gun?”
    “A few do,” I said, shaking off the déjà vu. “Handguns. Something they can conceal in a backpack. But you’re more likely to find knives or a length of pipe. Most of these guys can’t afford firearms.”
    “A vet, we should figure he’s got a gun,” Nik said.
    Cohen nodded.
    Nik went on. “Warn your SWAT guys that if he’s armed, he might try to provoke a fire fight.”
    “Suicide by cop?”
    “It’s possible.”
    Cohen pointed his chin toward a pair of Kevlar vests stowed in mesh pockets in the rear of the chopper. “When we land, why don’t you put those on?”
    “Sure.”
    Cohen packed away the papers and his notebook. He glanced at his wristwatch.
    “So, Parnell,” he said, “what do you think he’ll do when we try to stop him?”
    “He might see us as mere obstacles to his goal of reaching Montana and do everything in his power to eliminate us. Or could be he’ll—” I stopped. “You know, right, that my service in Iraq doesn’t give me any special insight into what Rhodes is thinking?”
    The detective raised an eyebrow. “I think maybe it does.”
    I looked down at the floor. Maybe. I thought about what kind of ugly might be in Tucker Rhodes’s head. Either he had killed Elise, or he’d found her torn up like that. Either way, he was a man in a world of hurt. He was likely to be scared—of himself and of us. Scared with the kind of fear that makes a man half wild and all crazy. Scared enough to shoot up half the state’s police if they got in his way.
    A strand of sunlight made its way through the window and fell across Clyde where he lay on the floor. He thumped his tail and looked at me.
    Then again, maybe Tucker Rhodes had had his fill of battle. Maybe too much death had turned him into a dove who wouldn’t fight even to defend his own life.
    I’d seen both kinds of crazy in Iraq.
    I raised my head. “He might decide to bait us, go for that suicide-by-cop scenario Nik mentioned. Seems entirely possible. My gut, though, is that he’ll try to run and hide, wait for another chance to make his way north. He’s lost everything except his home. I don’t think he cares what happens to him once he’s in Montana. But I think he wants to get there.”
    “Okay,” Cohen said. He went back on the radio.
    I looked at my watch. We had twenty-five minutes to land and get into position.
    Nik pointed. “There’s the place.”
    I reached for the binoculars. The storm hadn’t reached this far north, and from the air, the fertilizer plant was a hive of activity. Deputy’s cars, state police vehicles, an ambulance, and two SWAT vans sat in the lot. Men jogged down the