Page 27 of Canyon of Deceit
“Chandler was under the care of a psychiatrist off and on from age six through fourteen. Then he rejected the sessions. By age sixteen, he’d been sentenced twice to juvenile state-supported rehabs. A psychiatrist who treated him in his early teen years claimed Chandler needed medication for his violence, but the kid refused. By the time he turned eighteen, there were countless warrants for his arrest. The crimes ranged from theft, drunk and disorderly, assault with a deadly weapon, person of interest in murders, and several miscellaneous atrocities committed against those who fell prey to his endless displays of torture. His IQ is 137.”
Therese exhaled a heavy sigh. “He made the choices of a predator, but the problem already existed. Choosing a peregrine feather fits the bird’s traits.”
“People with antisocial personality disorder are usually highly intelligent and manipulative.” This was the man Therese and I faced? The lines across her forehead showed me Chandler terrified her. “Do you want to abandon our pursuit?”
“No.” She set her jaw. “I made my decision in Houston. Any other info?”
“When Chandler was twenty-two, his grandmother died in a car accident. He blamed the police officer, stating the officer failed to call 911 in time. His grief sent him on a rampage—he robbed a liquorstore and killed a clerk. When the police looked for him, he killed two officers.”
“Deadly decisions. Any other relationships that offer insight?” she said.
“No family—male or female—mentioned. Prefers high-end living in areas of the world decent people avoid. No-questions-asked and anything-goes clubs appeal to his lust. No permanent address, except authorities have their eye on an area outside of Mexico City. Authorities are searching for overseas accounts. Nothing connects him to the ROC, and he apparently operates independently for the right price.”
Nothing jumped out to offer in exchange for Alina or a way to lure him into a trap—but money.
“Blane, why an area where food and water mean life, and money means nothing?”
“He could have something valuable hidden in Dog Canyon.” I shrugged. “The question is, what and why?”
“How does what you’ve learned affect negotiations?”
“I’m thinking. His grandmother was his only lifeline. From his past, it looks like my negotiation skills will be useless. The only way to stop him is with a gun pointed at his chest. But I have to try.”
FOURTEEN
THERESE
I drove through Carlsbad, taking in the autumn sunrise over the high desert—a radiant scene that felt like a praise song spreading inspiration across the sky. The farther I drove, the sight gave way to a clear blue canopy, a perfect shade like Kate and Alina’s eyes. Maple and oak trees welcomed us, weighted with their display of shimmering gold, orange, and scarlet. Their vibrancy was a sharp contrast to the rock that lay in higher elevations.
The terrain gave way to cactus, rocky pastureland, open-range cattle—animals that wore colors of black, brown, burnt orange, and some were speckled. Three mule deer froze in place and gave us a brief nod before scampering into a shield of color. We were the intruders. They were home. A part of the wilderness that I valued and revered.
My mind clicked like a photographer’s lens, sealing incredible views into my life’s album. The Jeep climbed higher, and the forest gave way to loose rocks, creosote, occasional sage, pinyon pine, sierra juniper, prickly pear, and my favorite soap tree yucca that led up to layers of multishaded gray peaks, many of them rounded like bulging muscles.
Not a cloud in the sky, although a storm chased a frightened little girl.
I drove the Jeep around horseshoe curves confronting more of the same rugged high desert landscape. Caves and shadows drew my attention as potential hideouts, and we’d encounter more once the hiking began.
At the Dog Canyon Visitor’s Center, the ranger station and home were deserted. A sign alerted park visitors of the Indian Meadow Nature Trail at the base of the mountains. Across from the sign, campers had space to set up tents or dry camping, but none were there. We stopped to fill our water bottles and drank plenty of water while examining the desolate surroundings—“camel-up,” as the park rangers said.
The dry air met my nostrils, a familiar and welcoming scent. The air and sixty-degree temps served as a reminder that the higher we climbed, the gustier the winds. Temps dropped at night, but we were prepared.
I drove slowly past the horse corral that doubled as a helicopter pad—fitting with the number of horses grazing around the fenced area. I continued until I found a lone spot off a small clearing near the hiker trailhead and cut the engine. Totally desolate. No signs of life anywhere.
“What did Chandler do with the Dodge pickup?” Blane said. “If the second person in the truck drove it out of the park, we’d have the security footage.”
Thinking like a criminal was way out of my norm. “Did he hide the truck somewhere in the area?”
“If so, it can’t be far.” Blane tossed me a serious look. “Let the Feds figure out the where and how.”
“I agree. I told Rurik I’d call him when we left the Jeep and headed out on foot.” We stepped out of the vehicle, and I used my satellite phone to inform the professor of our arrival.
“You will call me the moment you find her, right?” His weak voice showed his lack of sleep and emotional status.
“Yes. Blane and I received new information. Why didn’t you tell us that Edik Baranov is your cousin?”
“It’s too complicated.”
“Really? Every crime that’s been committed or planned is wrapped around your cousin. Oh yes, it’s complicated, especially when I have no reason to believe you’re not one of the bad guys. Did you pay the ransom when you were advised against it?”
