Terrell looked over the furniture again—his only options for a weapon or tool. He walked to the heavy steel door. The only point of weakness was the knob. It was a traditional pewter bulb-shaped handle, simple key lock in the center. The aluminum flange around the knob was separated from its housing by a couple of millimeters.
Terrell glanced at his wife. Their wedding day had been the best day of his life, until the kids were born. Now their every minor achievement—first birthdays, kindergarten graduations, even making the T-ball team—made him more proud than anything he’d done on his own.
“What?” Charlotte asked, sounding irritated.
“Nothing. Excited to get home.”
Charlotte huffed, dismissing his optimism.
“I’m getting us out of here,” Terrell said flatly. He pulled the thin spring mattress off the cot.
“You’re going to get us killed.”
“They need us, Charlotte. If we get caught, no harm done.”
He flipped the cot over, legs up. Bending down, he tried to wrench the crossbars from the frame. No dice. Heavy bolts secured them to the outer frame. With his fingers, he checked all eight bolts. The four crossbars that he felt every night as he tried to sleep were each connected on either side.
The fifth bolt had a little play. He worked it with his fingers, making a quarter spin of progress every few minutes. From time to time the nut would seize up, and he would tap carefully with the leg of the chair to loosen it.
After forty minutes, his right hand was badly cramped and his fingers were bleeding.
“Stop it,” Charlotte blurted. It echoed through the small cell. “You’re not going to get it.”
The chief didn’t even lift his head. He kept trying to loosen the nut, using his left hand to hold his right forefinger and thumb together.
After another half hour passed, Charlotte started to sob. “Just stop! Please!” She sounded as if she was on the fringe of a panic attack.
A few minutes later, her husband, the chief of police and no stranger to trauma, stopped fiddling with the cot, and he too started crying.
Charlotte walked to him, bent down, and hugged him from behind. He was sweating and shaking. Whether it was from the sobs or the exertion wasn’t apparent. She closed her eyes and prayed. For several minutes—or maybe it was an hour; after all, they had no clock—they knelt together. Finally, the chief went still, then stood.
“I love you.” Charlotte spoke in a resigned tone.
Terrell smiled, then bent and pried the loose end of the crossbar upward, breaking it free from its opposite bolt.
Charlotte laughed and hugged him.
By this point, the chief’s right hand was nothing more than a numb, cramped appendage of flesh. Where he had broken off the crossbar from the still-tight bolt, the aluminum had crimped, forming a chisel. He took the bar to the door and fit the chisel end between the door and the knob’s flange.
Terrell let it rest for a second and looked around again, hoping for something to act as a hammer. There wasn’t much—maybe the chair, but he doubted he could fit it between the top of the crossbar and the ceiling.
Instead, he reached up, cupped his right hand around the end of the bar, overlaid his left, and used the weight of his body. The bar penetrated farther into the flange.
Blood dripped from his right hand.
Terrell stopped and listened to make sure the giants weren’t outside. Silence. He reached as high as he could on the bar and pulled, using it as a lever. With three strong yanks, the flange broke free, sending him backward onto his ass. He reinserted the crossbar, now much deeper in the mechanism of the knob. Another few pulls.
The knob broke free and rolled across the cement floor, stopping at Charlotte’s feet.
Terrell stuck a finger into what remained of the knob and slid the lock open. “Let’s go.”
As they walked through the unlit kitchen, Terrell shielded Charlotte with his body. In his left hand, he carried the pry bar. The basement was quiet; they struggled to keep the echo of their footsteps to a minimum.
From the bottom of the stairs, they could see the faint yellow glow of a single bulb. A desk lamp or reading light. It could have been left on by accident or on a timer, but Terrell didn’t want to take the chance.
“Stay here.” Terrell slipped off his shoes and socks, which, like the rest of him, had begun to stink of sweat after three days without a shower or change of clothes. His bare footsteps were undetectable as he crept up the stairs.
* * *
Charlotte sat on the bottom step. She wrapped her arms around herself, more anxious than cold.
Upstairs, Terrell watched one of the giants read a book at the hostess’s podium. Rather scholarly for a thug.
Who knew which one he was—Xiao wasn’t around, so this giant was indistinguishable from the other. His back faced Terrell. Beyond the giant stood two trivial obstacles: a set of decorative saloon doors, and the automatic glass doors that would someday hold in the scent of maple-infused fatback and cowboy lattes. Beyond that was freedom, or at least a shot at it.
Terrell slowly approached the giant, who was now humming a slow song he couldn’t identify. When he got within two steps he paused for a fraction of a second, then pounced.
The book was The Lexus and the Olive Tree, in English. Bastard understands everything we say.
The man struggled as Terrell expected, but the effectiveness of the rear naked choke wasn’t in its strength. It was the technique—the placement of the biceps and the radius bone to stop blood flow to the brain. In ten seconds, the giant was out.
He shouted at Charlotte to hurry upstairs, then quickly dragged the giant across the smooth floor, took his cell phone, and pushed him down the stairs. Charlotte crawled over him and hugged her husband as he reached behind her and locked the stairwell door. The giant would be awake in less than ten seconds.
They slipped out the saloon doors to the accompanying percussion of the giant trying to escape. Terrell knew they didn’t have much time. Surely, somewhere in the basement, there was a phone. If not, it wouldn’t be long until he broke down the door.
Chief Terrell and Charlotte stayed close to the buildings as they walked down Main Street, Jackson Hole, China. Most were still under construction, and their scaffolding provided cover. There was nothing in the streets. No people, no cars. It must be late.
Working their way back to the lodge and the main entrance, they glanced down each phony cross street, hoping to find any type of transportation: a car, a landscaping vehicle, even a golf cart. Still nothing.
The moon was high and full but pale. Nothing brilliant or inspired about its light, just a sentient observer of the night. The stars were similarly dull, veiled by towering smog from cities dozens of miles away. Terrell longed for home and the bright pyrotechnic nights of the high country.
“What do we do if we don’t find a car?” Charlotte broke his train of thought.
“We walk.”
“Then what?”
“We hope to find a passerby or a home somewhere. Anyone we meet will be less hostile than Xiao.”
“You’re sure?”
“No, but I don’t think the workers knew what he was up to. And there is still the garage under the lodge.”
“Are we better off?” Charlotte sounded scared.
Roger stopped walking and turned to her. “Yes. We had to get out.”
“Will they kill us if they find us?”
“We’re no use to them dead.”
With that, Terrell pushed on through the thick night, leading his wife behind him. In a few minutes they were across from the main lodge, where their welcome to China had once seemed warm. Through the window, Terrell noted a single front-desk agent, clipping her nails and watching a movie on a laptop.
“It must be the woman from the first day. She seemed nice.”
“Your girlfriend?” Charlotte hadn’t lost her spunk.
“You know what I mean. Nice like friendly.”
“It’s her job to be nice, you know.”
“I just mean she might help us if we can’t find a way out of here.”
Charlotte sighed.
“Let’s skirt around the back and check out the garage,” Terrell whispered, changing the subject.
The empty village encouraged them. Maybe they could sneak away undetected. They were perhaps a mile from the entrance gate, where, if they were lucky, they might find an escape vehicle.
The ramp into the garage was dark, but a motion detector lit it up as they entered. There was a small black Hyundai on the first level. Terrell jogged to it and pulled the handle. Locked. Dammit.
Charlotte joined him. “Can you hot-wire it?”
“Probably not. Too new. If it’s valeted, there’s gotta be keys somewhere.” The chief started toward the stairwell.
“Be careful!” Charlotte spat toward him. She shivered and crossed her arms.
The door to the main lobby was tucked behind the elevators in a short corridor. Terrell let it close behind him softly and walked to the end of the hall, where a peek around the corner revealed the striking woman at the front desk.
What to do? If she was in the dark with respect to the kidnapping, she could be a major asset. She could get them out. Call the local police. If she wasn’t, their gig was up.
Terrell decided to play it safe. He slinked around the corner, out of her view on the other side of the elevators. Outside the business center was a house phone. Terrell picked it up and dialed “0” for the front desk.
“Good evening, front desk.”
“Hi, I’m in the Wapiti Suite. We could use some more towels, please.”
“No problem, sir.”
He hung up and peeked his head around the corner to watch the woman’s reaction. She picked up the phone again, dialed, and spoke in what he assumed was Mandarin.
Was it Housekeeping, or Xiao?
She put the phone down, grabbed a walkie-talkie from a charger, and headed toward the elevator. Terrell backed off into the business center to stay out of sight.
Ding. The elevator door opened, and the front-desk agent was gone. This was Terrell’s chance.
He sprinted to the front desk and began rooting through the drawers. Files, paperwork, receipt paper. No keys. Next file cabinet. Stapler, three-hole punch. No keys. C’mon! The elevator light board showed that it was still on the top floor.
More time.
Terrell ran into the back office and started searching. In a cedar bureau, he found a small revolver along with an empty 9mm holster. Whether the handguns were for protection or a darker purpose he did not know. Regardless, he checked the revolver’s cylinder. Loaded. He tucked it into his waistband.
Leaving the office, he checked the elevator signals. Still on the top floor. Terrell picked up the phone at the front desk and tried frantically to reach an outside line. No dial tone. It occurred to him that he didn’t know the number for emergency services in China anyway.
Stop wasting time, he thought. The elevator was moving—the fourth floor. Now the third. Shit! One last attempt. Again, no keys. Nothing but standard office appurtenances—staplers, hole punch, printer ink. The elevator was on the second floor. He was seconds away from being caught.
No! A wave of disappointment swept over him. He’d failed Charlotte. They would be back in the cell in no time. Or worse. He had to run, get out before the agent saw him. They’d go by foot. With the revolver they might have a chance.
Two strong strides and then Terrell was down. He hit the ground hard, nearly knocking the wind out of his lungs. For a moment, he thought he’d been shot. Then he regained his senses and looked toward his feet, where something was constricting him. Still in pain and breathing heavily, he pulled on the straps that wrapped his feet.
Soft purple leather. A purse! Terrell reached in while he got to his feet and felt around. Under the various accessories, he felt the loose, cold clink of a key chain.
He turned to run with the keys in his hand and immediately ran into the front-desk agent, bowling her over. She sat on her bottom, confused. Then he saw her reach into her pantsuit. The 9mm.
A shot rang through the serene lobby as Terrell rounded the corner back toward the stairwell.
“Let’s go!” Terrell could barely stay on his feet as he raced down the stairs.
Charlotte ran to the passenger side of the Hyundai.
“What was that noise?”
“They’re shooting. Get in!” Terrell fumbled with the key chain to find the remote. He unlocked the car. Behind him, he heard the heavy fire door at the top of the stairs swing shut. “Hurry.”
The car fired up by start button. Terrell floored it in reverse up and out of the structure. The front-desk agent was running up the ramp, firing. A round hit the windshield, but deflected away.
Slamming the transmission into Drive, Terrell rounded the corner of the building, headed toward Main Street and eventually the ingress road.
As he made the right turn onto Main, Terrell’s heart sunk. Blocking the road were the giants and an assortment of other men in quasi-military garb clutching AR-15s.
When Terrell stopped, the men parted to either side and Xiao emerged.
“Get out,” they heard through the windows. This was the angriest they had heard or seen their captor.
Terrell took the keys from the ignition. The car beeped like a countdown for their last moments on earth. “Move slowly, honey. Don’t do anything rash.”
Charlotte nodded.
Terrell looked in her eyes for a second. Here was his life. Everything he had ever cared about. Guilt overwhelmed him. He had no more cards to play. He grabbed his wife’s hand and squeezed hard.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
The giants wrestled Terrell to the ground, giving him several hard pops to the face.
As Terrell writhed on the ground, the giants rushed around the car and restrained Charlotte, who was quickly becoming hysterical.
Xiao walked to the bloodied chief.
“I’m sure you know how the West was won?” Xiao’s tone was even now. He tapped the shiny silver revolver on his hip.
Terrell looked at the bright moon and, for the first time in a while, prayed. He reverted to his police-academy persona—unflappable, beyond persuasion.
“My family homesteaded in the American West starting in 1810. Sir.”
Charlotte cried out toward Xiao. “Let him be!” Their captor didn’t respond.
“A real Buffalo Bill,” said Xiao.
“To you, maybe.”
Xiao laughed. “Then I am sure you are fastest draw in the West. Are you armed?”
Terrell lifted his shirt to show the stolen revolver in his waistband.
“Ten steps, then draw. Do you understand?”
Terrell nodded, then looked at his wife, trying to convey a lifetime’s worth of feeling. He knew there was no chance. If he happened to beat Xiao, the giants would kill him before he knew it. At least he could die in peace, now that he knew it was Charlotte they wanted. Their last bargaining chip. She would have to be kept alive.
“Are you ready?” Xiao interrupted Terrell’s thoughts.
“Yes.”
“Max, would you be so kind as to start us?” One of the giants nodded in response.
“Three.”
“Two.”
“One.”
The chief tried to count the steps to himself, but it was difficult to stay focused. He must have been off. For the second between what he thought was eight and complete darkness, he wondered: Did Xiao shoot early? That son of a . . .
26
SALMON RIVER, IDAHO. OCTOBER 23.
9:45 A.M. MOUNT
AIN STANDARD TIME.
Jake left the hotel and walked to his 4Runner, which he’d moved back to the hotel late the night before. The wind tossed an array of orange and yellow leaves across the parking lot. Crossing the river at the boat launch above the bridge, anglers were rigging their rods and launching their boats.
The ignition gasped in the bitter morning air. After it fired up, Jake hit the seat heater with a numb finger and gave the engine a moment to warm.
From what he’d overheard on the way to his SUV, the fishing was good. The spawning steelhead had finally decided the temperature, weather, and water level were right. The stars were aligned. Whatever innate switch existed in their tiny brains had turned on; it was time to move upriver and do the deed. Ensure the health of their population. There would be thousands of sea-run fish spread out through the Salmon River system.
Maybe one in a hundred of these fish would decide a properly presented fly deserved a little knock. Nobody knew why. They didn’t feed during the spawn, so why the bite? Some compared it to teasing a kitten with a string. When the kitten wanted to play, game on. More often than not, steelhead played the part of the lazy tomcat—uninterested in games, focused on copulation.
Jake’s phone buzzed with a text message. Don Hoozler.
Amy says you registered at the hotel last night. Got the day off.
Don was a steelhead guide in Salmon in the fall, and a trout guide on the Snake in the summer. His girlfriend, Amy, was a manager at the hotel. He obviously wanted to go fishing.
Jake wrote back.
Wish I could. Just in town seeing a friend.
An immediate response—a cartoon emoji thumbs-down.
Jake was now waiting to pull out onto the main road, en route to the hospital. He texted Don an apology and turned off his iPhone.
J.P. had already headed out to see Esma. Jake wanted to give them a few minutes alone. Then he would pay his respects, give a statement to the police, jump back in the 4Runner, and head to St. John’s in Jackson to see Allen. Bring him some real food. Apologize for ruining his life with shitty decision making.
In her room in the tiny hospital, Esma looked beautiful, but not in her usual way. Instead of seeing strength in her eyes, Jake saw fear, vulnerability. Still, her black hair shimmered under the bright lights, and her face was kind and lovely.
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