His gaze flicks to the pistol at my side. “What the fuck?”
I bring up the .22, aim center mass. “I’m a cop,” I hiss. “Get your fucking hands up. Face the wall. Now.” I say all of it quietly enough so the other two men can’t hear.
I don’t see a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he’s not armed. It sure as hell doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. I don’t like the close quarters of the hall. I’m ever aware that two more men are scant feet away on the other side of the door.
“Cop?” But he raises his hands. “Shit. Okay. Whatever you say.”
“Put your hands against the wall. Your face, too. Do it now.”
Watching me, moving slowly, he obeys. “What the hell is this?”
“Shut up.” Keeping as much distance between us as possible, the .22 trained on his back, I sidle past him.
I walk backward toward the open area. Smucker watches me, his cheek pressed against the wall. I wonder if Betancourt got to Suggs, if the state police are en route. I sense movement behind me. I swing around, catch a glimpse of Suggs an instant before his fist slams into my face. Pain explodes in my nose. The force of the blow buckles my knees, sends me reeling backward. As I go down, I see intent in his eyes. The blue steel of a revolver in his hand and I think: You fucked up, Burkholder.
An instant before I hit the floor, something slams into my head from behind. Stars fly in my peripheral vision. I look up, see Smucker bending toward me, teeth clenched, arms reaching. I bring up the .22 and fire blind.
Smucker screams and staggers backward. Red blooms on his coat sleeve. He looks down at the tear, goose down sticking out, blood soaked. He grasps his arm with is uninjured hand. “You shot me, you bitch!”
“Get that fucking gun!” Suggs kicks my wrist, but I don’t drop the .22.
The door bangs against the wall. I glance up to see Yoder rush out, a rifle in his hands. Eyes locked on me. Mouth twisted into a snarl. “What’s going on?” he shouts.
I shift the pistol, fire at him. My shot goes wide, takes a chunk of wood out of the door. Suggs comes down on top of me like a truckload of bricks. The crushing force of his weight smacks the breath from my lungs. Grasping my wrist, he slams my hand against the floor. Pain zings up my arm. I lose my grip on the .22. It skitters across the floor and strikes the wall.
I’m thrashing, trying to wriggle out from beneath Suggs when Smucker draws back and drives a steel-toed boot into my ribs. White-hot pain streaks across my rib cage and lights up my spine. An undignified sound rips from my throat. I throw a single ineffective punch. A second kick lands in my temple. My head is knocked violently sideways. Stars scatter and my vision dims. For several seconds, I lay there, dazed and gasping. I’m aware of Suggs rising. The men speaking words my brain can’t quite process.
I see Jacob Yoder looking down at me, his eyes alight with satisfaction, and then the world fades to black.
CHAPTER 23
I open my eyes to bright light. I’m lying on my back. The kiss of snowflakes against my face. I’m aware of snow beneath me. Cold all around. My head pounding with every rapid-fire beat of my heart. Knife-sharp pain on the left side of my rib cage.
I shift slightly, moaning as another layer of pain wraps around my chest. A quick physical inventory tells me I have broken ribs. My hands are bound in front of me. I roll onto my side and glance down to see they tied me using my scarf. The memory of how I arrived at this unfortunate situation floods my brain following quickly by the realization that I’m in serious trouble.
Raising my head, I look around. I’m on the ground outside the barn’s sliding door. Light rains down from a spotlight mounted above the door. I’ve no idea how I got here or how long I was unconscious. Dan Suggs stands over me in his khaki pants and sheriff’s department parka, looking out over the woods, a flask in his hand.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask, my voice thick and rough.
He looks down at me. “I’m sorry it came to this, Chief. I like you. I really do. You’re a good cop. Too goddamn good, probably.”
“Dan, come on. What are you doing? You’re a cop, for God’s sake. You don’t have to take this any further.”
“Already gone too far.” He looks away and for a moment I think he’s going to actually cry. “Jesus Christ, I’m in deep.”
“It’s not too late to stop this. I’ll help you. Betancourt will, too.”
“You know what the kicker is, Chief?” His laugh is a terrible sound, like the tearing of flesh. “It wasn’t even about the money.”
“Then what?”
“Oldest reason in the book. Any time I wanted it. Day or night. All I had to do was come here and climb on. It was like a drug and I was a junkie. Pathetic, huh?”
“Why did you let things go so far?” I ask. “I mean with the investigation? You knew how it would end.”
“That fucking Betancourt called me at the last minute, after Walker had his heart attack. You were here in a matter of days.” His laugh is an ugly, coarse sound. “If I’d gone to Schrock, he would have killed you. That would have been a clusterfuck.” He lifts a meaty shoulder, lets it drop. “I never thought you’d get this far. Figured I could control you. Keep a tight rein.” He frowns at me. “But you were like a dog with a bone. The harder I pushed to get you out of here, the harder you pushed back to stay.
“Hell, I knew it would end one day. Always figured if things blew up, I could put all of it on Schrock. Or put a bullet in him. I got a lot of shit on him.” He swigs from the flask. “You beat me.”
Lifting my head, I look around. Beyond the aura of light, it’s still dark. The three snowmobiles are parked in the same spot, twenty feet away. I look around for my cell, but it’s nowhere in sight. No sign of the .22. Where the hell are the state police Betancourt promised to send?
“Look, Kate, I’m fucking sorry, but this isn’t going to end well for you.” He sighs. “I don’t think it’s going to end well for either of us.”
I work the fabric at my wrists, but it’s wrapped tightly around both wrists, run between them, and knotted. “What are you going to do?”
“The boys are going to take you across the border to a lake, cut a hole in the ice, and…” He shakes his head and lifts the flask. “I’m sorry.”
He kneels, grunting as if it’s painful. Setting his hand against the back of my head, he helps me to a sitting position and brings the flask to my lips. “Here you go.”
I sip, buying time. The taste of the whiskey makes me shudder.
His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. His nose is running, snot shiny on his upper lip. He doesn’t seem to notice. “It’ll make all this a little easier for you.”
“I appreciate that.”
My voice is calm, but fear is a beast rampaging inside me, pacing and clawing and tearing me up from the inside out. Where are the state police? Why aren’t they here yet? Did Betancourt realize the situation was urgent?
“Frank Betancourt knows,” I say after a moment. “About you.”
He looks down at me, studying me intently. “You’re lying.”
“He knows you’re part of it. I told him. Dan, it’s over. Give it up while you still can.”
Smucker and Yoder emerge from the barn. There’s blood on Smucker’s coat where I shot him. I look at it, meet his gaze, and force a smile. He starts toward me, cursing, but Suggs stops him. “Go get the other woman. Tie her up. Bring her down.”
“Alina?” Yoder casts him a mutinous look.
“She ran her mouth to a cop, idiot.” Suggs gestures at me. “She saw this one’s face. You gotta get rid of her, too.”
Neither man looks happy about it, but they go back inside.
Suggs sighs and looks down at me. He offers the flask, but I shake my head. He takes another long pull.
“Tell me one thing,” I say.
“Guess I owe you that much.”
“What happened to Rachel Esh?” I ask.
He looks away, wipes his mouth with his hand. “D
amn stupid kid. She knew too much. Tried to run.”
“She didn’t die out in the snowstorm all by herself, did she?”
“No, she didn’t.”
“Who?”
His eyes fill with tears. Plucking off a glove, he rubs them hard with his fingers. “Goddamn this is a mess.”
“What happened to her?”
Sniffing a runny nose, he turns his head and spits in the snow. “Let’s go inside.” He takes my arm and hauls me to my feet. “Come on. Up and at ’em.”
For an instant my head spins, but I shake it off. Something heavy in my coat pocket, brushing against my hip. The pepper spray. I can’t believe they didn’t find it. I feel Suggs’s eyes on me and I pray he can’t read my thoughts. Keep him talking. I say the first thing that comes to mind. “How did she die?”
A quiver runs through him. He stops our forward progression and looks at me, his expression angry, as if I’ve overstepped some invisible line of decorum. “I figure that’s the last thing I want to talk about.” He nudges me toward the barn door. “Move.”
I do as I’m told. “I’m scared.”
“Nothing I can do about that now.”
We go through the door. His right hand grips my left bicep. He’s so close I can hear his breathing. I feign a stumble and twist right. Jamming both hands in my pocket, I yank out the pepper spray. He releases my arm, reaches for his pistol. I spin toward him. The revolver coming up. But he’s not fast enough. I spray his face. High velocity, right in his eyes.
He tries to bat my hand away, but the burn kicks in. His hands fly to his eyes. An animalistic roar tears from his throat. His knees hit the ground. Coughs rack his body. I spray again, get the side of his face. Sputtering, he swings at me, but I dance back and he misses. I look around for his weapon. It’s on the ground. Too close to him for me to reach. I need my hands free first.
I dart right to the disking implement, drop to my knees, and use the rim of the plowshare to saw at the fabric binding my wrists. The pain in my ribs screams with every movement, but I don’t stop. I don’t slow down. I scour at a frantic pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. My breaths rushing in and out as the pain hacks like an ax against my ribs.
Comeon. Comeon. Comeon. The words are a scream inside my head.
Four feet away, Suggs coughs and spits, digging into his eyes with his fingers. I’m about to give up on the binds and make a run for it when the fabric gives way. Hands free, I rise and start toward Suggs and his .38.
He turns devil-red eyes on me. Nose and eyes streaming. Tears and snot dripping off his chin. “You fucking—”
I hit him with the spray again.
Spinning, I sprint through the door and into the night.
* * *
I run to the snowmobiles, checking for keys as I pass. Nothing there. Damn. Damn. Damn. Pouring on the speed, I lope toward the cover of the trees and the path that brought me here, think better of it, and swerve right. I’m running full out when I enter the woods. There’s just enough moonlight for me to make out the trunks as I whiz past. I try to keep an eye on the ground, watch for fallen logs, rocks or holes or anything else that might send me tumbling. But all I see is a blur of white.
Behind me, I hear shouting. Suggs. The rev of a snowmobile engine. Yoder and Smucker are coming after me.
I’m in no shape to run. The pain in my side is intense and growing worse as my breathing begins to labor. I’m in good physical condition, but I won’t be able to keep this up for long. My only hope is that the rough terrain and dense trees will slow them down. Had I stayed on the path, they’d already be on top of me.
The land slopes abruptly. My feet tangle and I nearly go down, but manage to maintain my balance. I slow my pace, ignore the pain, keep moving. I’m running parallel with the path I used to get here. The same path the snowmobilers use. If I stay on course, I should be able to find my way back to the trailer, my cell—and my .38.
A second snowmobile engine fires. Fainter now because I’ve descended a hill and put some distance between us. I barrel down an incline, skidding over rocks slick with snow, nearly falling a second time. There’s a stream at the base of the hill, frozen and snow covered except where the water runs fast. Slowing, I glance both ways, looking for the best place to cross. I dash right, round a boulder and step onto the ice. Three strides and I’m across. The opposite bank is steep, so I use my hands and climb.
Headlights glint off the trees in front of me. I glance back to see one of the machines approaching fast. Too close. Panic flares hot in my chest. I veer right, pick up speed. Every breath is an agony now. I’m not going to last.
The high-pitched rev of an engine sounds behind me. I look over my shoulder, see the second snowmobile nose down in the creek. The driver misjudged and tried to cross where the bank dropped off too steeply.
The second machine is still in business, less than thirty yards away, weaving between trees, gaining fast. I slide on a fallen branch covered with snow, go to my knees. I scramble to my feet, crash through heavy brush, barely avoiding a low-slung branch. I duck left, pain screaming in my side.
At the crest of the hill I slow, look around to get my bearings. I’m a scant half mile from the trailer. I run at a reckless speed, downhill now. Branches grab at my coat and scratch at my face like claws. I push through the boughs of a massive spruce. Round an outcropping of rock. I’m ever aware of the rise and fall of the engine as the driver makes his way over and around obstacles. Headlights glint on the trees ahead of me, moving up and down as he flies over bumpy terrain.
Arms flailing, I fly over a fallen log and then I’m at the bottom of the hill. A path of sorts runs left and right. The trailer is straight ahead, so I cross the path, back into the trees, go down a short incline. That’s when I realize I’ve reached a lake, snow covered and blending into the land. I’ve walked here, I realize. Straight across the lake is the shortest distance to my trailer. I’m debating whether to go around or cross the ice when the snowmobile bursts from the trees a few yards away.
I start across the lake at run, the snow giving me some traction on the ice. Hovering in the back of my mind is the thought that if my pursuer is armed, I’m a sitting duck. I have zero cover and nowhere to hide. My only hope is that the machine is too heavy to venture onto the ice.
A quick glance over my shoulder. A small thrill goes through me when I see the machine stopped at the bank. The driver stands on the ice, watching me. I wonder why he’s not coming after me. The thought flits though my brain, leaving a streak of uneasiness in its wake.
I’ve nearly reached the opposite shore when the ice groans beneath my feet. A chill runs through my body. I spent many a day on the ice when I was a kid; I know what that sound means. The ice is unstable, too thin to sustain my weight, or else there’s a pressure ridge.
I slow, sliding my feet across the surface to more evenly distribute my weight and lessen the force of impact. I keep my eyes on the surface, looking for water coming up over the snow. Even with the moonlight, it’s difficult to see.
“It’s gonna break!” comes Yoder’s voice from behind me.
I don’t stop.
“I’m not going to fish you out!” he calls to me, his voice amicable. “Come on back here and we’ll forget about all this.”
I continue toward the bank, cautiously, sliding one foot in front of the other. The opposite shore is twenty yards away. Almost there. I glance behind me. I can just make out the hulking form of the snowmobile, but the driver is nowhere in sight.
Where the hell did he go?
The back of my neck prickles. I focus on the shore, moving faster now, like a speed skater, covering the distance as quickly as possible. I’m nearly there when water sloshes over my boot. I slide my other foot forward. The sole of my boot bumps over a large ridge in the ice.
A loud creak! echoes across the surface. I know I’m going into the water an instant before the ice breaks open beneath me. A giant mouth swallowing me whole. I spread my arms
to break the fall, but the momentum sucks me down, forcing my arms over my head. My coat rides up, trapping my arms.
The cold shocks my brain, paralyzes my body. My lungs contract. I gasp and inhale water. Chest too tight to cough. The world goes silent and black. Water in my mouth. In my eyes. My ears. Panic descends.
I struggle mindlessly against the tangle of my coat. My fist strikes ice and for a terrible moment I think I’ve been swept under. I kick my feet. My boots hinder me but I don’t stop. Somehow my coat rights itself. An instant later my face breaks the surface.
I spew water, coughing and retching. The cold burns my skin like fire. My face dips below the surface again. I tamp down panic, kick harder. My face scrapes ice and emerges. Reaching out, I grasp the edge of the ice. It breaks off in my hands. I make another wild grab. It holds this time and I cling to it.
It takes precious seconds for my brain to kick in. I try to remember my cold-water rescue training. I roll onto my back. Night sky overhead. Clouds rushing past a hazy moon. I’m shivering so violently I can barely maintain my grip on the ice. I know my strength won’t last long.
The opening through which I fell is about three feet in diameter. I raise my right leg, try to get my foot out of the water and onto the ice, but my boots are too heavy, filled with water. I can’t reach down, so I use my foot to remove the other boot.
My strength is waning at an alarming rate. If I’m going to survive, I have to get out of the water. Turning, I locate my tracks, the last place where the ice was strong enough to support me. Sliding my arms across the surface of the ice, I kick my feet as fast and hard as I can. I’m hampered by my single remaining boot, but it can’t be helped. Kicking, kicking, I claw at the ice. An animal trapped and fighting for its life. Slowly, my feet rise so that I’m belly down and nearly horizontal.
Then my chest is on the ice’s surface. I reach out, hands scrabbling, sliding, fingers digging in. A flurry of kicks and I’m facedown on the ice, wet hair in my eyes. Violent shivers rack my body. I don’t have the strength to get up. Even if I could, the risk of falling through a second time is too great. Instead, I do the only thing I can—roll.