by Sandra Brown
Just as he had decided that, in order to have any hope of survival, he must keep moving, he saw a branch near his head splinter. A millisecond later he heard the crack of a gunshot.
He dived into the snow and rolled behind a boulder.
“Tierney, you might just as well give up,” Dutch Burton shouted.
He wasn’t foolish enough to raise his head above the boulder in order to pinpoint their position, but he could sense them darting between the trees, moving nearer. One was advancing on his right, the other on his left. The important thing was, they were advancing. He was trapped.
Now that he had stopped, he realized how much he hurt. Every cell in his body was screaming in agony. He was short-winded. He was hungry.
“We know you’re Blue. The FBI nailed you with stuff they found in your cabin at the lodge.”
Tierney had already figured that out. It was circumstantial evidence, but all the justification a jealous ex-husband would need to take him out and worry later about the fallout over his breach of legal procedure.
Tierney didn’t dare speak and make himself an easier target. He hardly breathed. He heard nothing from them, either. They had stopped moving. They must have decided to wait him out. For several minutes the three shared the absolute quiet.
A noise eventually broke the silence, and Tierney identified it as another snowmobile. The sound came from a distance, and because it had a million surfaces off which to ricochet before reaching his ears, it was impossible to tell from what direction.
Though they didn’t speak, he sensed that Dutch and Wes were listening to it too. Had someone on foot come along and availed himself of one of their snowmobiles? Were they wondering how they were going to transport his dead body back to town if, between them, they had only one snowmobile?
They would be stupid not to take advantage of the distracting noise.
Never accuse them of being stupid.
Above the diminishing buzz of the snowmobile, he heard the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping underfoot. One of them was closing in on his right. Thirty yards away, maybe more. Maybe less. Even a lousy marksman couldn’t miss at that distance.
A more subtle noise came from his left. A patch of snow falling with a soft plop onto the ground. Had the wind blown it down, or had one of them disturbed a lower branch and knocked it loose?
He held his breath, listened. The snowmobile could no longer be heard. He couldn’t even hear his own breathing. He’d covered his mouth with his scarf so the vapor of his breath wouldn’t give away his position.
Wherever they were, however far from his hiding place, they seemed content with their positions. They weren’t moving. They could wait.
Again they did. The three of them. Silently. Waiting for someone to make a move.
And then another sound rent the silence. The clatter-clap of helicopter blades. Cleary’s police department sure as hell didn’t have a chopper. It had to be from a state agency or the FBI. In any case, Dutch wasn’t going to shoot him in cold blood in front of witnesses. Wes Hamer didn’t count. He would back up his buddy, lie under oath in his defense, no matter what. And vice versa.
Till now, the forest had protected Tierney by providing good cover. But suddenly that advantage had shifted to Dutch. He could shoot now and explain later that Tierney had resisted arrest, leaving him no choice except to stop him with a bullet. Or he could attest that Tierney had charged them, forcing them to protect themselves. Either way, he’d be dead, and they’d be vindicated.
No, in order to survive Lilly’s trigger-happy ex, he must get into the open, where he could be seen by whoever was in that chopper.
Conjuring up a map of the peak in his mind, he mentally juxtaposed the two roads, the main one and the one on the western face. He’d been running away from the westernmost, in the general direction of the other. But how far had he gone? How much farther would he have to run before he reached Mountain Laurel Road? Whatever the distance, could he make it with the strength he had left?
He had to try. Dutch and Wes were stronger and better armed, but he had two distinct advantages. His innate sense of direction. And his will to live.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he came up onto his knees. His muscles, particularly the sprained ankle, protested even that. But he forced himself into a crouch and set off again, keeping as low as possible and trying not to give his movement away by disturbing branches or making noise.
He hoped Dutch and Wes would waste time creeping toward the boulder in order to surprise him, only to be surprised themselves when they discovered he wasn’t behind it.
It was too much to wish for.
“Dutch, on your left!” he heard Wes shout.
Tierney sprang to his feet and began running. Or tried to. His legs churned through the snow that in places came almost to his waist. His arms thrashed through snow-shrouded brambles. He stumbled over hidden tree roots and undergrowth. Ice-encased branches whacked his face.
But if the grunts and groans of those tracking him were any indication, they were having just as difficult a time as he. Tierney sensed the desperation that propelled their chase and knew his deduction had been correct—Dutch Burton wanted to dispatch him before another law enforcement agency’s arrival prevented him from doing so.
As before, the road found him almost before he found it.
With little warning, he reached the edge of the embankment. Quick reflexes saved him from plunging down it this time. He sat on his butt and worked his way down.
The sunlight was bright on the undisturbed ribbon of white. After the shadowed forest, he was momentarily blinded by the glare. Shading his eyes, he frantically searched the sky for a sign of the helicopter. It was so loud, one would have thought it was directly overhead, but he couldn’t see it.
“Ben Tierney!”
Wes and Dutch had emerged from the woods and were standing on the edge of the embankment. Two rifles were aimed at him. Their long, sleek barrels looked menacing in the harsh sunlight. Dutch had both eyes open. So did Wes. These guys knew how to shoot. How to hit. How to kill.
Like shooting fish in a barrel.
He could almost hear his grandfather saying the adage as he raised his hands high above his head. He dropped the pistol and kicked it away. “I’m unarmed!”
“Perfect.” He read the word on Dutch’s jeering lips just before he squeezed the trigger.
• • •
“There’s the cabin, sir.” Collier spoke to Begley through his headset. Hoot had also been provided one. As a courtesy, he was sure. Not because he had any strategic reason for being here.
“What do you know? They made it,” Begley said, pointing out the snowmobile in front of the cabin. “At least one of them did.” Addressing the pilot through the headset, he said, “Can you set this thing down?”
“The clearing is small, sir. In this wind, it’ll be difficult.”
Collier said, “Get us low enough, we’ll use the ropes.”
But just as he suggested it, the chopper was broadsided by a gust of wind. Acting quickly, the pilot prevented the craft from being swatted to the ground. As the chopper swung around, Hoot felt his pager vibrate against his hip.
He fished inside his coat and removed the pager from his belt. Perkins had punched in their code, indicating urgency. Hoot dug out his cell phone and hit the auto dial he’d assigned to Perkins’s number.
• • •
“In here! I’m in here!”
Lilly had been shouting since she’d first heard the approaching snowmobile. Knowing she couldn’t possibly be heard above its noisome whine, she continued shouting anyway until it stopped.
“In here,” she shouted into the sudden silence, her eyes trained on the door.
“Mrs. Burton?”
She didn’t bother correcting the name. “Yes, yes. I’m in here.”
The door was pushed open, and a man swaddled in ski clothing rushed in. “Thank God you’re all right.”
“Mr. Ritt!�
� she exclaimed.
He pushed back his fur-lined hood, removed his gloves, crouched down in front of her, and looked at the handcuffs. “Dutch and Wes haven’t been here?”
“No.”
“They were coming after you and Tierney.”
“He’s Blue. As I think you must know. He said he heard it on the radio.”
“Who said?”
“Tierney.”
“So he knows they’re after him?”
“Yes. Do you see the key for these things?”
As he moved about the cabin searching for the key to the handcuffs, she asked how Tierney had come under suspicion.
William Ritt gave her a rushed account of the two FBI agents coming into his drugstore the day before. “I’m not sure what kind of evidence they have on him, but it must be incriminating. They kicked into high gear when they learned you were trapped up here with him. A rescue party was organized, but there was an accident, and the road became hopelessly blocked.
“This morning I volunteered my snowmobiles. Wes and Dutch took off on them, but they left this behind.” He took some sort of transmitter from one of his pockets. “It’s a two-way radio. I heard Dutch say they’d need it to stay in contact with each other. So I followed, thinking I’d catch up with them.”
“But you didn’t?”
He shook his head. “Only the snowmobiles. They’ve been abandoned on the west road. It looks like they set off on foot. Do you think they went after Tierney?”
“Possibly. The only way he could get down the mountain is on foot. Both our cars . . .” She shook her head with impatience. “It’s too long a story.”
“Dutch and Wes must have spotted him.” He stopped his search for the handcuff key. “I don’t see it anywhere. He must have taken it with him.”
“It’s okay. Now that someone’s here, I can stand it.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“Not really. Except for knocking me out this morning.” She closed her eyes briefly, then said, “I found Millicent Gunn’s body in our shed.”
“Oh. Gosh, how awful.”
“I think she’d been dead for several days. The storm probably prevented Tierney from disposing of her body.” She told him about striking Tierney with her car and returning to the cabin to wait out the blizzard. “He was concerned about our survival, certainly. He seemed nice, nonthreatening. But some things he said didn’t add up.”
“Like what?”
She gave him several examples of Tierney’s half-truths. “I got suspicious and searched his backpack. I found these handcuffs and a length of blue ribbon.” She motioned with her chin. “There.”
William picked up the backpack and withdrew the blue velvet ribbon from one of the zippered compartments. “This is definitely evidence against him.”
“Indisputable evidence.”
“So why did he leave it here?”
Before Lilly could arrive at an answer to what was a very good question, her ears picked up a sound. “Is that a helicopter?”
“That was the FBI’s plan.”
A tide of relief surged through her. She’d been glad to see William Ritt and to learn that Tierney’s capture was imminent. But if he’d somehow managed to elude Dutch and Wes and return to the cabin, the pharmacist would’ve posed no threat to him.
William moved to the door and stepped onto the porch, but even before he reentered the cabin, Lilly realized he’d reacted too slowly.
“They’re circling away,” he said. “But they must’ve seen my snowmobile.”
“They’re probably looking for a place to set down. Thank God they’re here.”
“Amen. Do you realize how lucky you are to have escaped Blue? None of the others did.”
“Millicent’s death mask.” She shuddered. “It was terrible.”
“I can imagine how awful it must have been for you, finding her body in the toolbox that way.”
She nodded. “But I suppose it was a good thing that I discovered it. By now Tierney has probably moved it, maybe even buried it while I was unconscious. I should have known something wasn’t right. He acted so touchy when I mentioned the ax to him after he went for the—” She broke off abruptly.
“Went for the what?”
“Wood,” she replied hoarsely. “He went for firewood.” She tried to lick her lips, although her mouth had gone dry. “Mr. Ritt?”
“Yes?”
“How . . . how did you know about the toolbox in the shed?”
• • •
“Hoot?”
“You’ll have to shout, Perkins. We’re in the chopper.”
“You?”
“What have you got?”
“Tierney . . .”
The rest of it was lost as the pilot executed a pivot that pinned Hoot more securely to his seat while his stomach remained airborne. “Say again, please,” Hoot shouted.
“Finally made contact with Mrs. Lambert.”
“Torrie Lambert’s mother?”
“Affirmative. Brace yourself.”
Hoot asked Perkins to repeat his message three times, until he was certain he’d heard it correctly. He ended the call with a terse thanks. Then, speaking into the headset and interrupting the tactical guys’ discussion on how best to get on the ground, he addressed Begley.
“Sir,” he shouted, “Ben Tierney was not, repeat not, Torrie Lambert’s abductor.”
Begley’s head swiveled around.
Hoot looked straight into the nutcracker. “He’s her father.”
CHAPTER
32
WILLIAM RITT REMAINED UNRUFFLED. “Pardon me?”
Lilly’s mouth was as dry as a husk. She had to push the words out. “I told you I had found Millicent’s body in the shed. I didn’t say anything about the toolbox. How did you know there was a toolbox in the shed?”
His feigned misapprehension lasted only a moment longer, then he shook his head with chagrin. “It wasn’t very clever of me to make that slip. But it was even less clever of you to bring it to my attention.”
She tried to swallow but couldn’t.
“You know, Mrs. Burton, or Ms. Martin, or whatever you go by these days. You know what this means, don’t you?” His voice had changed as radically as his demeanor. There was nothing ingratiating about him now.
“You’re . . .”
“Blue. Yes. Although I’m not very fond of that silly nickname.”
The crack of a rifle shot surprised them. Both looked toward the door, although it was obvious that the sound had come from a distance.
Several seconds later, William said, “Only one shot. Dutch claims to be an excellent marksman. Seems he is.”
She sucked in a wheezing breath. “Tierney?”
“Tierney. Dead now. What a stroke of good luck.”
He took the transmitter from his pocket and turned it on. It squawked loudly. He lowered the volume.
“What are you doing?” Lilly asked. “Who are you calling?”
“Watch. I think you’ll like this. Well, you won’t actually like it. But you’ll have to agree that it’s brilliant.”
Bringing the transmitter to his mouth, he depressed the button on the side of it. “Dutch? Dutch?” he shouted frantically. “Can you hear me?”
He released the button and stared at her while he waited for a response. For several moments there was nothing but the hiss of amplified air, then Dutch’s voice filled the room. “Who’s this?”
He depressed the button. “It’s William. I heard a shot. Did you get Tierney?”
He broke off when Lilly opened her mouth to scream. He must have been anticipating that she would try something like that, because he acted swiftly, covering her mouth with his hand.
“Ritt? Where are you?”
Lilly struggled to turn her head and free her mouth. When that didn’t work, she tried biting his palm. He only pressed his hand more firmly against her mouth, holding her head against the wall beneath the bar, his fingers digging painfully into the soft ti
ssue of her cheeks.
He picked up the transmitter, depressed the button, and faked a sound that was half retch, half sob. “Dutch, I’m here, in the cabin. Did you get Tierney?”
“Yeah, yeah, he’s down. Is Lilly all right?”
For effect, he made his voice crack. “No, your wife is dead. Dead! Tierney killed her!”
• • •
Tierney was lying flat on his back. When he opened his eyes, the glare of sunlight reflecting off the snow caused a piercing pain to shoot out the backs of his eyeballs straight into a nerve center inside his brain.
Dutch, I’m here, in the cabin. Did you get Tierney? No, your wife is dead. Dead! Tierney killed her!
The voice sounded tinny, unnatural. Where was it coming from?
“The son of a bitch murdered Lilly!” Dutch Burton’s roar was loud enough to shake minor avalanches of snow from tree branches.
“He’s moving, Dutch!” Wes shouted. “You only winged him.”
Suddenly Tierney remembered why he was lying flat on his back, why his shoulder hurt like hell. All the elements came together in a flash of clarity, the worst of them being that someone was claiming Lilly was dead and he had killed her.
Who would say something that categorically wrong?
Only someone trying to protect himself.
Christ, he had to get back to her.
He struggled to sit up. A surge of nausea filled his throat, but he managed to swallow it. There was a shocking amount of blood on the snow. His face was bathed in a cold, clammy sweat, while his shoulder felt as if it had been branded.
What seemed like a lifetime must have been only a few seconds. When he opened his eyes again and tested them against the glare, he saw Dutch Burton toss aside the transmitter of a two-way radio, which explained the origin of the tinny voice.
Dutch launched himself off the embankment as though he were about to fly. He landed hard on the roadway, but that didn’t slow him down. Tierney barely had time to raise his one useful arm before Dutch was on top of him, pounding him with his fists.
