The Survivors

by Dinah McCall

  He needed some first aid, a shot of codeine for the pain ripping up his side, a cup of hot coffee, a steak cooked medium rare and a long, hot shower, and in that exact order, but not until he’d warned the authorities about Darren Wilson.

  Not for the first time, he wondered how hard a sell it was going to be, trying to convince the law that a senator of Wilson’s stature was also a murderer. However, there was the bullet hole in James’s side, Molly’s testimony regarding what she’d seen on the plane and an autopsy on Patrick Finn that should prove his cause of death. Plane crash victims didn’t die of strangulation.

  He glanced at his watch, then looked up, judging the wind by calculating how fast the long, stringy clouds passing in front of the half moon were moving. The sky was littered now with stars, but only a few were clearly visible through the growing cloud cover.

  He continued to move, ignoring his pain and sloughing through the snow as if it were nothing. Within a few minutes he saw what appeared to be lights flickering in the distance. He stopped, staring intently through the darkness until he was sure that what he was seeing was real.

  “Talk about timing,” he said softly, then fixed his gaze on the glow and moved forward with a prayer of thanksgiving on his lips.

  Evan had wrestled Johnny in and out of the bathtub, then dressed him in his sleep shirt before getting into the bath himself. As he rinsed off the soap, he thought of Molly. He’d left her and Johnny in bed, reading a storybook. It had been touching to see his son nestled within Molly Cifelli’s arms, Elmo tucked under his arm and his eyelids at half mast as she read.

  It crossed his mind that he might be just the least bit jealous of his son’s place in that bed. It had been a long time since he’d thought of another woman as anything but a way to pass the time. But Molly was different. Trouble was, so was he. He couldn’t imagine a woman feeling anything for him but pity.

  Struggling with a feeling of despair, he quickly dried off and then put on the T-shirt and sweatpants he used for sleeping. He glanced at his reflection as he left the bathroom, then looked away. If he couldn’t stand to look at himself, how did he think anyone else would?

  But when he came out of the bathroom, Molly looked up, and the smile she gave him stopped him in his tracks. Johnny had fallen asleep with his head pillowed on her breasts. The sight brought tears, blurring his vision. He’d once seen a painting in a museum called Madonna with Child. In this moment, it was like seeing it all over again.

  “So…he finally gave out,” he said softly.

  Molly nodded. “I didn’t want to wake him, so I was waiting for you to help me move him.”

  “Sure thing,” Evan said, as he put one knee in the middle of the mattress to brace himself, then leaned down and slipped his hands under his son.

  At that moment he looked up. Molly was only inches away. His gaze centered on her lips, slightly parted and too damn close to ignore.

  “Ah, Molly,” he said softly, and with his son still in his arms, he moved his head three inches to the right and kissed her.

  Molly moaned beneath her breath. She’d been dreaming of this moment ever since she’d first seen his face—his beautiful, tortured face.

  When Evan finally pulled away, he saw she was crying.

  “Jesus, don’t cry,” he muttered.

  Together, they put Johnny to bed, then, as always, turned toward each other. With the boy in the middle, they reached for each other in the dark, and when their fingers touched, they let them entwine, then closed their eyes and slept.

  Mike made the rounds of the house, checking to see that the doors were locked. He laid a couple of fresh logs onto the fire, then paused, listening to the silence. All he heard was the fire as it crackled and popped as the logs caught. The sound was a comforting reminder of how blessed they were to be inside. At the same time, he thought of his dad, then shoved the worry away. James was most likely sitting inside a cop car having some hot coffee, or already on his way down to Carlisle to join Thorn in the motel. He couldn’t let himself dwell on maybes.

  He watched the fire until he was certain the wood was burning, then put the fire screen in place. As he did, a cold wind buffeted the sides of the house, rattling a loose pane in a window somewhere toward the kitchen. A faint howl rode with the wind, reminding him of the dead cougar he’d dragged into the woods. Wolves had obviously found it. Whether it was fair or not, the circle of life continued to play itself out. One thing dies so that another might live.

  Thank God it wasn’t Deborah who’d been sacrificed tonight. Thank God, thank God.

  He took a deep, shaky breath, then combed his fingers through his hair.

  She was waiting for him down the hall.

  Suddenly he couldn’t get there fast enough.

  Deborah’s bath had turned into ritualistic foreplay. The warm water and the soft, silky bubbles eased the weariness of her body and soothed the cold-chapped surfaces of her skin. She soaked until the water cooled, then got out and dried quickly. It didn’t take long to slather herself with moisturizer. But instead of dressing in her usual flannel nightgown, she chose a soft fleece robe and stayed naked underneath. The robe was blue, the same color as her eyes, and the hem brushed the tops of her bare feet as she walked. She’d piled her hair up on top of her head during the bath and had yet to take it down, although long, ash-blond tendrils were dangling about her neck.

  She was turning back the covers of her bed when she heard footsteps coming down the hall. She stopped, then turned to face the doorway, unaware that she was clutching the edge of the bedspread in her hand.

  Her heartbeat accelerated. Her legs went weak.

  The door opened.

  Mike was silhouetted in the light from the hall.

  “You still sure about this?” he asked.

  “Yes. Aren’t you?”

  He walked inside, closed the door behind him, then took her in his arms.

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said softly. He paused, splaying his hands across the back of her robe, then down to her hips. “Are you naked under this?”

  She smiled.

  “Lord,” he muttered, then picked her up and carried her to the bed. “Give me five minutes to shower,” he said.

  “Four,” Deborah countered.

  He did it in three.

  Deborah had turned out all the lights in the bedroom, so when he came out of the adjoining bath, he had to stand for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  “Mike?”

  The way she said his name made the muscles in his belly tighten. “Yeah?”

  “Can you see?”

  “No.”

  “Then follow the sound of my voice.”

  Unerringly, he turned slightly to the right and walked eight steps before he saw the outline of the bed. Before he could go farther, Deborah came to meet him.

  Automatically, he mapped the shape of her body as she leaned into him. He felt her arms around his neck and the soft jut of her breasts against his chest as he pulled her close.

  They fit as perfectly as if they’d been measured beforehand—toe to toe, heart to heart, mouth to lips. Mike tunneled his hands through her hair and felt the pins holding it up on top of her head. One by one, he did a slow, thorough search until he managed to pull them all out, then dropped them on the floor as her hair tumbled down over his arms.

  15

  “Like silk,” Mike whispered as his hands mapped the contours of her body.

  As soon as his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he picked her up and carried her back to the bed, then laid her down and stretched out beside her. When she turned toward him and wrapped her arms around his neck, the knot that had been in his belly disappeared.

  Their lips met, then their bodies melded. There wasn’t an inch of skin that remained untouched on either of them as they made the jump from sexual tension to the real thing. The scent on her body was elusive, but tantalizing—something that smelled like mint with a touch
of spring.

  She was soft, slender to the point of fragile, and yet he’d never known a less fragile woman in his entire life. She seemed dauntless—even fearless—and then there was that part of her that he would never understand.

  Deborah felt as if she’d been living her entire life for this moment and this man. Her body felt raw. She craved his touch, and yet it was close to painful. Every time his hand touched her skin, her body vibrated like a guitar string that had been strung too tight. She wanted more. She wanted him.

  Finally Mike rolled onto his back, taking Deborah with him. When she straddled his legs, then rocked back on her heels, he reached for her breasts. They filled the palms of his hands—a perfect match. Her hair was thick and soft, and fell to the middle of her back. Mike tangled his fingers in the length, then tugged gently until she submitted.

  Deborah gave up her dominance by leaning forward and then stretching herself along the length of his body. Within seconds he rolled again, this time taking her under. She reached for him, feeling the strength of the muscles along his shoulders as his head dipped toward her. She felt the warmth of his lips along her skin, on her lips, in the curve of her neck beneath her chin, in the valley between her breasts. When his tongue circled the outer surface of her navel, she shuddered from want.

  “Mike…please…” she whispered, then fisted her hands in his hair and tugged gently.

  He moved back up her body, then rose up on his elbows to look down at her in the dark. It was like looking at her through a sheer curtain. Even though he could see her, the outline of her features was slightly blurred.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said softly.

  The words filled Deborah’s heart, but she wanted more. She wanted the emptiness of her life to go away, if only for one night. She locked her legs around his back, then arched upward.

  “Make love to me, Michael. Don’t make me wait for you any longer.”

  So he did as she asked.

  Their joining was more than either of them had imagined. For Deborah, it was knowing that she’d been born to love this man. For Mike, it was a feeling of coming home. When they began the dance of love, time stopped. All sense of themselves as individuals became lost in the act of making love.

  The room stood in darkness but was tempered in warmth. The gentleness of their lovemaking was slowly moving into a frenzy they wouldn’t have stopped, even if they could. All the power of Mike’s body was focused into a pinpoint of energy, an energy that grew with each thrust.

  Deborah took everything he gave her without thought, riding the feeling that continued to swell, pushing her past thought into a moment of insanity. Moments became minutes, and the minutes passed without count. Nothing mattered but the goal just out of reach.

  The climax came suddenly and without warning, shattering Deborah to the core. Only seconds separated them as Mike followed suit.

  He’d been in control from the moment he’d slipped inside her to the exit of the last thrust. But when he began another downward stroke, he felt himself coming apart. He tried to maintain the motion but lost it—and himself—inside her. Swept away by wave after wave of helpless release, he could do nothing but ride the feelings all the way down.

  When it was over, they lay weak and spent in each other’s arms. No words were spoken. No sounds were made as Mike reached down, grabbed the blankets and pulled, covering himself and Deborah.

  And so they slept, with her head pillowed on his chest and his arms holding her close while danger came up the mountain.

  James didn’t know the setup of the crash site, but it stood to reason that the place with the most lights was probably a command post, and he headed toward it with single-minded intent.

  He didn’t know how weak he was until he found himself staggering. As he did, the lights of a vehicle passed behind him on the road. He spun around, intent on hailing the driver, but was too late to be seen. He stood in mute frustration, watching the taillights of the vehicle disappearing down the makeshift road.

  “Hey! Who’s there?” someone called.

  James turned back to the site, breathing a quiet sigh of relief. At last, a warm body and hopefully some means of communication.

  “O’Ryan!” he called. “I’m coming in.”

  He walked into the lights as a pair of guards came to meet him.

  “Hey, mister…where the hell did you come from?” one of them asked.

  James pointed up the mountain.

  The guard was at first taken aback, then realized who James must be.

  “I know who you are. You’re one of the men who found those three missing passengers, aren’t you?”

  James flinched. It was the first time he realized the world thought they’d found all three.

  “I need to talk to the sheriff,” he said.

  “Man, what a crazy stunt that was. You’re lucky you didn’t get lost, too.”

  “We had a good guide,” James said. “Can you tell the sheriff I need to—”

  “Come inside and get warm,” the other guard offered.

  James sighed with frustration. These two didn’t do much listening.

  “Do you have a working phone in there?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I need a doctor, and I need to get in touch with the authorities.”

  “What’s the doctor for?” the guard asked.

  “I’ve been shot,” he said, and swayed where he stood.

  “Well…for the good Lord’s sake, why didn’t you say so?” the guard cried, and headed him toward the rescue station.

  Within minutes James was cradling a cup of hot coffee while the guard was cleaning the entrance and exit wounds in his side. Another guard had come in with them, called the local sheriff’s office down in Carlisle and, as the phone started ringing, handed it to James.

  James took it, sipping coffee as he counted the rings. Finally someone answered.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  “This is James O’Ryan,” he said. “My grandson was one of the survivors of the crash. I need to talk to the sheriff.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Ryan, but Sheriff Hacker isn’t here. Can one of the deputies help you?”

  He frowned. “Where is the sheriff?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Then I need the number for the state police.”

  The dispatcher rattled off a number. James hung up, then made a second call. Within moments, he was connected.

  “I need to speak with an investigator,” James said.

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “My name is James O’Ryan. I have information about a murder.”

  It was the magic M word that got the attention he needed. Seconds later he was explaining why he’d called to a man who’d identified himself as Sergeant Burl Tackett.

  “So who’s dead?” Tackett asked.

  “Senator Patrick Finn. He—”

  “This is not the time of night to be making prank calls. We already know Senator Finn is dead. He died in a plane crash.”

  “No, he didn’t,” James said. “He was alive after the crash, then murdered.”

  Tackett wanted to hang up. He didn’t want to play this game, but part of his job was handling the nutcases who called.

  “And you know this because…?”

  “There were three survivors on that plane. A woman and a boy witnessed the murder, then ran away from the crash site to keep from being killed themselves. It’s why they got lost on the mountain. They were afraid for their lives.”

  Tackett’s frown deepened. As crank calls went, this one was a bit more detailed.

  “The other missing passenger has been tracking them all over the mountain, trying to find them to shut them up. He shot me as I was coming down to find the authorities to tell them what’s been happening.”

  Tackett’s attitude shifted.

  “He shot you? Where did he get a gun?”

  “I don’t know. But he shot me and I passed out. When I came to, I walked
on down the mountain to the crash site. That’s where I’m calling from.”

  Tackett was making notes quickly now. “So where are these two witnesses?”

  “They’re snowed in at Deborah Sanborn’s home near the top of the mountain, which is above where the crash occurred. As soon as weather permits, we’ll be bringing them out.”

  “Exactly who are these witnesses?” Tackett asked.

  “A young woman named Molly Cifelli, and a little boy named Johnny O’Ryan.”

  Tackett paused, tapping the end of his pen against the paper as he reread the last name.

  “That last one any relation to you?” he asked.

  “Yes. My great-grandson.”

  “And exactly who did these two witnesses say killed Senator Finn?”

  “The other survivor…Senator Darren Wilson.”

  “The hell you say!” Tackett shouted.

  James heard anger, doubt and frustration in the man’s voice, and couldn’t blame him for any of it. The story was far-fetched, but he had to make Tackett believe.

  “Look, all you have to do is autopsy Senator Finn’s body. The two witnesses claim he was strangled. That shouldn’t be hard to prove.”

  Tackett’s instincts kicked in. As far-fetched as this sounded, he was beginning to believe it. But along with a sense of urgency, there was a problem. It had been several days since the crash. He didn’t know how many of the bodies had been released to relatives, but if Finn had already been sent to a mortician to be embalmed, they might have lost their only way of proving this man’s claims.

  “I want to talk to these witnesses,” Tackett said.

  “Then pray for the weather to clear. I came down from the house on foot in a snowstorm. It’s not snowing now, but there’s no way they could walk out. Miss Cifelli is injured, and Johnny is too small.”

  “Too small? How old are we talking here, mister?”

  “He’s five.”

  “That’s too bad,” Burl Tackett said, thinking if the kid had witnessed a murder, that was a horrible thing for a child to see.