Chapter 2: The Previous Friday
He'd tried to warn her not to take such heedless risks. He understood, as much as anyone understood, her intensity, her will to do the job right. He'd taken risks himself, took quiet pride in doing all he could to catch the bad guys. He'd kept quiet about a hundred jumps, a dozen firefights in which she'd left herself exposed to take a better shot. He'd said nothing when she dropped from the helicopter to the rig, knowing her need to do everything she could to save that little girl. But the risks she took had escalated, and when he'd felt she was out of control, risking her own life and jeopardizing the junior members of the team, he'd felt bound to intervene.
It hadn't gone well, and he would wonder later if he hadn't done more harm than good making her acknowledge that her father was an issue in her life, however much she felt she'd put her difficult childhood and teen years behind her. She'd pushed him away, become inclined to exclude him rather than seek his help and advice. For the first time, their partnership was uneasy, lacking the trust they'd always had before.
When the call had come he'd been surprised to see her – normally so decisive – unable even to speak to the Marshal in the other office.
In the midst of a slow Friday – everyone doing paperwork, getting caught up, drinking coffee – she'd gotten a call from Amarillo. She'd frozen, not responded to the voice on the phone, and Jimmy, looking at her narrowly, had taken the phone from her hand. Marshal Reigert in Amarillo the Amarillo office told him they had received a tip on a fugitive not seen for years, and there had been a note in the fugitive's file to notify Annie. He'd listened, thanked the caller, and hung up the phone. While the others watched, puzzled, he'd led her gently to the kitchen and told her what she already knew: Amarillo had a line on a man who might be her father.
Annie'd stayed quiet the rest of the afternoon, brooding, closed up. When they'd talked in the kitchen she'd said she was fine – Amarillo could track down the fugitive, whoever it was; it was the right thing – but although it was clear to him that she wasn't fine, she'd refused to talk any more about it, finally getting angry, gritting 'what the hell, Jimmy, it's none of your damn business' again, and stalking from the kitchen back to her desk. She'd ignored him after that, and the others looked at them sideways, wondering what was going on. When it came time to call it a day, she had passed on the invitation to go have a couple of beers with Jimmy and the rest of the team and instead headed home.
He was staying in the bunks again after another dust up with Natalie and got back about nine from the bar. Walking though the quiet, dim offices - only dispatch was working, and in another part of the building - on his way to the bunks, he stopped at his desk; there were files to read, always, and he might as well get through some. It was too early to sleep. While he sorted through the papers on his desk, the fax machine came to life, startling him, and pages curled into the tray.
Jimmy leafed through the papers. Amarillo had finished their work with the tip, and the fax contained details of the information received by the Marshals as to the whereabouts of the fugitive that could be Annie's father. A man who might be William Frost had been seen in that area, in the northern part of the state, by a tourist who thought he recognized him from his picture on the USMS most-wanted posters. There was a statement from the tourist: date, time, location, a current description and composite sketch. The sketch did certainly resemble the pictures Jimmy had seen of Frost, although the man illustrated had a beard and fairly long hair. Like Annie herself, William Frost was slight and slim, fair-haired and blue-eyed; so was the man in the composite. Maybe Annie, knowing him best, could tell for sure if the man pictured was Frost.
Half an hour later Jimmy was on Annie's doorstep, the sheaf of papers and William Frost's file in his hand.