On Thin Ice

by Debra Lee Brown

  A heartbeat later the door opened. The overhead light came on, shocking her like a jolt of electricity. Momentarily blinded by the harsh fluorescents, she didn’t see his first reaction.

  “Humph.” Jack Salvio stood in the doorway, looking down at her. “Shoulda hired you instead of Pinkie.”

  “Wh-what?”

  She scrambled to her feet, the bloody liner in her hand, and backed away from him as far as was possible in the small room, until she felt the edge of the desk press into her back.

  Her heart beat wildly in her chest as Salvio’s gaze washed coolly over her, the room, the open wardrobe and the hard-hat liner she held in her hand.

  Then he did something she wasn’t prepared for. He smiled. In all the years she’d known him, she didn’t remember him ever smiling. It was…crooked. Higher on one side of his face than the other.

  “I was just, uh…”

  “Got some good news, Fotheringay.”

  “Good…news?”

  He moved toward her, that crooked smile arching higher. If it was possible for a twenty-nine-year-old woman in excellent health to have a heart attack, Lauren fully expected hers to begin now.

  A foot from her Salvio stopped, and gently relieved her of the blood-crusted liner she knew belonged in Paddy O’Connor’s hard hat. His gaze never left hers. It was almost as if the whole incident was an aside, not in the least important to him.

  “We found another crate in the warehouse.”

  Crate? What was he talking about?

  “Those samples you were so hot on—the ones that kid destroyed.”

  Her mind worked to process his words, but her heart was still racing, her hands shaking. Salvio had caught her searching his room, he’d been here thirty seconds now and hadn’t even mentioned it.

  “We found more of them.”

  “More?” His words finally sunk in. She snapped from fear-induced paralysis to attention. “Where? Where are they?”

  “Like I said, out in the warehouse. Pinkie’s recrating ’em now. Go ahead.” He stepped aside to let her pass, nodding at the open doorway behind him. “He’s waiting for you. I told him you’d wanna see ’em before they shipped to town.”

  Her gaze darted briefly to the bloody hard-hat liner crushed in Salvio’s hand. His smile faded.

  “Okay.” She sidestepped past him, her heart in her throat, and had to force herself not to run down the hall toward the mudroom. Not because she was so anxious to see that crate of samples, but because Jack Salvio was scaring the living hell out of her.

  Halfway to the warehouse, the wind at her back, propelling her along, icing exposed sections of skin on contact, Lauren changed her mind.

  She was alone in this, and it was clear to her now that what had happened to Paddy O’Connor might very well happen to her if she got too close to the truth of whatever it was that was going on out here.

  Seth would be on shift now, more than likely up on the rig. Maybe she’d go there first, try to see him, ask his help after all. He’d said the satellite uplink was broken. Maybe he could fix it. It was worth a try. She had to call in. Get help. The situation was too much to handle on her own now, and she was smart enough to admit it.

  Grasping her hood with both hands, she turned into the wind. “Oh!”

  Bulldog stood not three feet from her, his feet firmly planted on the ice. “Makin’ sure ya get there okay,” he yelled over the wind. He pointed in the direction of the warehouse, but she couldn’t see it for the blowing snow. “Come on, I’ll help ya.”

  Her body went cold inside her survival suit as the roustabout tucked her arm under his and pulled her toward the warehouse.

  When they were safely inside and out of the wind, her first impression was that there were even more wooden pallets and empty crates stacked here than there had been when she was here a couple of days ago. The air inside was warm, and she caught the faintest whiff of diesel.

  Aisles were nonexistent. Bulldog led her on a circuitous path that reminded her of one of those English hedge mazes you saw in old movies, only this one was made of stacked crates instead of greenery.

  “Where are we going?”

  Bulldog grinned. “He’s waitin’ for ya. Right over here.”

  Lauren didn’t like it. Something was very wrong. Even if Salvio had found another box of those mystery samples, he surely wouldn’t have told her about it if he was behind some kind of covert operation.

  No, she didn’t like this one bit. She had that feeling again—one of impending doom, as stupid as it sounded—and this time she wasn’t going to ignore it.

  “Bulldog, wait. I—”

  The roustabout pulled her around a corner, and the first thing she saw, the only thing that registered, was Seth’s stunned expression.

  “Lauren, what are you doing here?”

  She glanced at the open crate of samples at his feet and knew at once, from her initials on each bag, that she’d already analyzed them. They weren’t the mystery samples at all. They were from yesterday’s regular batch.

  Salvio had lied to her. She felt suddenly claustrophobic wedged between Bulldog and Seth and all the crates. She met Seth’s gaze and read a hard-edged coolness there she’d never seen before.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The situation went from bad to worse.

  Seth had known from the moment he’d discovered his gun missing, that he’d been made. He’d suspected it that afternoon in Salvio’s office. He was ready for what was coming next, but he hadn’t figured on these bastards involving Lauren in their plan.

  “Crating samples,” he said evenly, in answer to her question.

  It was obvious that Salvio wanted both of them out here for a reason. The warehouse was isolated, far enough away from the camp that even if the wind wasn’t deafening outside, no one would be able to hear them if something happened. And something was about to. For the second time in thirty seconds Bulldog checked his watch.

  “But I thought that Pinkie…”

  Lauren’s voice trailed off, her gaze darting to the stacks of crates surrounding them. She wrapped her arms around herself as if she was cold, but Seth knew that wasn’t it. She was afraid. More than that, she was afraid of him.

  The thought of it made him sick. She took a step back, but Bulldog was right there, making sure she didn’t leave. Seth would deal with him later. Right now he had to get the message across to Lauren that he was on her side.

  “Salvio asked me to come out here and help.” He willed her gaze back to his. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No. Do you understand?”

  Bulldog stood behind her, still preoccupied with checking his watch. Seth glanced at the shadows marking each snaking turn of the piled crates defining what used to be an aisle. Pinkie was here somewhere. He’d bet his life on it.

  “Come here,” he said, and waved Lauren over to where he was standing. When whatever was about to happen happened, he wanted her next to him where he could protect her.

  He squatted beside the crate on the floor and made a show of digging through the plastic bags of rock samples. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she bit her lip, that she wanted to trust him.

  That’s when he saw it.

  An egg timer. The digital kind like they had in the camp’s kitchen, only it was wedged on the floor between two towering stacks of crates, not ten feet from him. He wouldn’t have noticed it if he was standing, or if it hadn’t had those big red flashing numbers.

  Counting down.

  A minute and twenty-one seconds, a minute twenty, nineteen…

  Oh, God.

  The device wasn’t fancy. A timer wired to a detonator—what amounted to a big firecracker, an M80—jammed inside a drum of gasoline. Amateur arsonists used setups like this all the time. Any kid with Internet access and half a brain could learn how to build one using stuff from around the house.

  “Seth?” Lauren squatted beside him, her back to Bu
lldog, and placed her gloved hand on top of his.

  “Uh…hey,” was all he could manage to say as he tried to focus on her face.

  “What is it?”

  A minute fifteen, fourteen… Mentally he kept the time. When he’d first entered the warehouse, the wooden crates and pallets towering halfway to the ceiling had looked like nothing more than a lousy stacking job to him. Someone had been in a hurry, and completely haphazard.

  But now, when he looked up, he realized that what he was really seeing was fuel load, and that there was nothing haphazard about it. He also realized he’d never be able to reach the device to disarm it, without first moving thousands of pounds of full sample crates. There wasn’t time.

  Ignoring Lauren’s question, he said, “Here, check these out before I seal the crate.” He grabbed a couple of the sample bags and thrust them into her hands.

  “But I’ve already—”

  Grabbing her wrist, he shot her a look that said their very lives depended on her doing exactly what he told her to do, without question.

  A minute three, a minute two…

  “Seth,” she whispered, “we need to talk.”

  “Later.”

  “But—”

  “How’s it goin’?” Pinkie appeared behind Bulldog, seemingly out of nowhere. Seth wasn’t at all surprised to see him. Salvio wouldn’t have trusted Bulldog on his own as far as he could throw him.

  “Fine,” he said, forcing a relaxed look. “This crate’ll be done in a minute.” Only they didn’t have a minute. Fifty-nine, fifty-eight…

  “Salvio wants us up on the rig.” Pinkie nudged Bulldog, who was oblivious to everything except the second hand on his watch.

  Even Lauren was suspicious of these two, and she didn’t know half of what Seth knew about them. He read the worry lines in her face and revised his assumption. Maybe she did know.

  “Uh, yeah. We gotta go.” Bulldog edged around a couple of crates and started for the door.

  “What’s going on?” Lauren whispered between clenched teeth.

  “Let’s get this lid on.” Seth grabbed the crate’s lid and pretended to search the floor for the hammer. Pinkie was still watching them, and Seth didn’t dare steal a glance at the timer.

  Fifty, forty-nine, forty-eight…

  “There’s six more crates over yonder need reboxing.” Pinkie trained his eyes on Lauren. “That’s where those samples are. The ones you wanted to see?”

  “They are?” Her brows arched in surprise.

  “What samples?” Seth asked.

  Neither of them answered him. Lauren started for the aisle Pinkie had pointed to, deeper into the maze of pallets and crates.

  Seth grabbed her wrist. “Wait a sec. I need your help with this.” He gestured to the lid of the crate he was working on.

  Pinkie turned, satisfied they had no idea what was going to happen in—Seth checked the timer—forty-two seconds, then followed Bulldog toward the front of the building.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Lauren said, “Tell me what’s going on!”

  “We’re outta here. That’s what’s going on.” He dropped the hammer, grabbed her arm and started in the direction of the emergency exit door he knew was somewhere behind these crates.

  “Let me go! What are you—”

  “I’ll explain later. Come on!”

  He slid his grip to her gloved hand and pulled her along behind him as he dodged pallets and crates and piles of small equipment, snaking his way toward the back of the warehouse.

  Thirty-six, thirty-five, thirty—

  “Where are we going?”

  “Out.”

  She jerked hard, pulling him to a stop. “It’s that way.” She pointed to the next aisle over.

  He swore. “Come on, we’re out of time.”

  Twenty-seven, twenty-six… At last the emergency exit door was in sight. Simultaneously he hit the bar with his hand and the door full on with his shoulder. The pain reverberated through muscle and bone. The door didn’t budge.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Lauren crashed into him. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s blocked from the outside.” He hit the door again with the same result. His shoulder screamed.

  “We can go out the front, like Pinkie and Bulldog.”

  Twenty-three, twenty-two…

  “There’s no time!” He cursed again, and didn’t stop until his gaze lit on what he was looking for.

  A ventilation plate built into the side of the prefab metal building. Tumbling crates out of the way, he offered up a silent prayer to anyone up there who was listening. A second later he kicked the plate free.

  “You first.”

  Lauren looked at the small, rectangular hole through which frigid wind was now howling, blowing snow into the warehouse, dancing around them like a dervish. “It’s too small. We’ll never get out that way. What’s this all about?”

  He pushed her to her knees. “Do it!”

  Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…

  She looked at him with a mixture of disbelief, anger and fear. Then she scrambled through the hole to the outside. Seth was right behind her.

  “Okay, so we’re out,” she yelled over the wind. “Why did we have to—?”

  He grabbed her arm and took off, scrambling for purchase on the ice. Lauren pulled back, and when he turned to look at her he saw that anger had finally overcome whatever else she was feeling.

  Ten, nine…

  There was no time to explain. He picked her up in a fireman’s hold and bolted. He’d apologize for his less than suave tactics later. All he cared about right now was getting them the hell out of there.

  Six, five…

  The warehouse exploded.

  Chapter 12

  “A re you okay?”

  Lauren lay spread-eagled in a snowdrift, wedged between a storage building and a row of empty fifty-five-gallon drums weighted down with sandbags. Seth was on top of her.

  “I…think so.”

  They’d landed hard. Her body felt as if it had been hit by a train. She worked to catch her breath, which frosted on contact with the air.

  “You sure?” Seth pushed the hair away from her face and looked at her. The lights from the yard reflected in his dark eyes. His jaw was tight, his expression a fusion of both fear and relief.

  “What…happened?” She tried to push him off her so she could see, but he wouldn’t let her up.

  “The warehouse. It’s history.”

  Over the wind she heard the sounds of men racing past them. The blowing snow made it difficult to see.

  “We could have been…” It suddenly dawned on her why Seth had acted so strangely in the warehouse, and why the second Pinkie and Bulldog had left them alone he’d taken her hand and raced for the exit.

  “Killed. Yeah. I think that was the general idea.”

  “Oh, God.”

  She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help it. She clutched at him, and his arms went instantly around her. He was in shirtsleeves, no jacket or gloves, and she realized he must be freezing.

  “You’re okay now. Safe.”

  “Salvio,” she breathed.

  “That’s my guess, too.”

  “You knew! You knew it was going to happen. That he— How? How did you know?”

  Two men ran past them with fire extinguishers. Seth pushed her back down into the snow, flattening his body over hers. Miraculously the men didn’t see them.

  “Tell you later.” He got to his feet and pulled her with him. “I’ve got to do something, and I want you to stay right here. Understand?” He led her farther back between the building and the drums, then pointed to a space barely big enough for her to sit. “In there.”

  “No! I’ve got to get help. Call someone. Don’t you understand? If that explosion wasn’t an accident, then—”

  “Then it means Salvio is a killer, and if he finds out you’re still alive…” He pulled her to him and looked into her eyes. “I’m not taking
that chance.”

  All at once she knew she was in over her head. With the goings on at Caribou Island, yes, but more than that. She was in over her head with him. A roughneck from Kachelik she’d met barely a week ago.

  She was vaguely aware that he was shivering. The temperature was somewhere around forty below. “You’re freezing, Seth. Here.” She started to unzip her jacket, but he stopped her.

  “Get in there.” He pointed her toward the cubbyhole between the metal drums. “Wait for me. I’ll be ten minutes, no more.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t argue.” He waited until she was settled, wedged cross-legged between the drums where no one could see her, then he slipped around the side of the building and was gone.

  It took Seth longer than he expected to make his way back to camp without being seen. Men streamed from the rig, the shop, the camp, from everywhere, some of them hauling fire extinguishers that Seth knew wouldn’t do any good.

  The amber glow of the warehouse on fire was visible through the blowing snow. He could smell burning fuel, and all that wood. By the time he slipped past the Dumpsters and in through the kitchen, he couldn’t feel his hands or his face anymore. The warm air burned his skin as nerve endings roused to life.

  Pots boiled unattended on the industrial-size range. Cabinet doors were open. Half-eaten plates of food and cups of still-steaming coffee sat on cafeteria tables that looked as if they’d been vacated in a hurry.

  Everyone was outside watching the fire. As he jogged down the corridor toward his room, the only sounds he heard were the camp’s generators humming in the background, the buzz of overhead fluorescent lights, and the wind.

  The bloodied rock hammer was still there, where he’d hidden it in its paper bag, behind a removable panel in the wall that housed electrical circuits. He grabbed it, stuffed it into his duffel, stole a pair of gloves and a jacket from one of his roommate’s gear bags, and was out of there.

  He had one more stop to make, and tried not to think about Lauren out there alone, as he continued down the hallway toward Jack Salvio’s office.