Cornered

by Turner, Linda; Weaver, Ingrid; Miller, Julie

  Except for Rowdy, of course. His stomach kept a regular schedule that even an alarm clock would envy. He must have slipped back into the tent he shared with retired professor emeritus William Hawthorne.

  Why hadn’t Rowdy awakened Dr. Copperfield? Or anyone else?

  This place was called Targhee Meadow, according to Frank. Though to Hannah’s way of thinking, it barely qualified as a clearing. True, there were shoots of grasses and wildflowers springing up anywhere enough dirt could cling to the rock. But there was no real path among the patches of lingering snow and clumps of vegetation. No landing pad for a helicopter to rescue them. No phone booth where she could even call for help.

  Her phone. Duh.

  Shaking her head at her own incompetence, Hannah hurriedly scaled the slope up to her tent. Maybe if she’d been more assertive about finding out why Frank had stood her up this morning, and gone to his tent sooner to investigate why he was a no-show, she could have saved him. Instead, she’d watched an amazing sunrise, and told herself she didn’t care that Frank had forgotten her. He wasn’t the first man to overlook her or conveniently forget a promise to her; he wouldn’t be the last.

  “Damn pity pot.” She concentrated on the cold stone beneath her palms as she slipped on a patch of snow and caught herself. At thirty years of age, she’d long ago learned that being shy or plain or wrapped up in her books was no excuse for not taking action when action was needed. Those traits made it hard for her to come out of her shell at times, to assert herself. But they were no excuse.

  She wasn’t the medical doctor in the family, but she could have done something to help Frank. The Greene name demanded that she try.

  Correction. The Greene name demanded that she succeed, thrive, shine. There was no try in her family’s book. Somehow, she should have saved Frank Brooks’s life.

  “Irene?” Hannah announced herself to her tent-mate before unzipping the flap.

  A monotone of ohs and ums greeted Hannah as she ducked inside and nearly tripped over her roommate. The forty-something woman, with a pink floral scarf tied turban-style around her head, sat in the middle of the floor, her body twisted into a yoga position that made Hannah’s back hurt just to look at her.

  Irene Sharp was the team-building consultant who’d been hired to help Randolph’s once-reknowned English faculty and staff bond with each other and formulate a plan of action. With her daily quotes, trust games and meditation exercises, she was supposed to motivate them to return to Kansas ready to raise funds, win awards and attract the best students.

  “Good morn-ing, Han-nah,” Irene chanted in the same tuneless drawl.

  Though Hannah liked the woman well enough, there was something practical lacking from the consultant’s training techniques. She definitely didn’t count Irene as much of an ally when it came to helping out in the crisis-management department. But she offered a polite “Good morning” before climbing over her cot to grab her backpack and dig through the contents.

  “Prob-lem?”

  Hannah’s fingers wrapped around the reassuring plastic and metal of her tiny cell phone. She pulled it out, clutched it to her heart and sighed with relief. “Yeah.” She scooted around Irene again. “I just found Frank Brooks dead in his tent. I’m calling for help.”

  Outside in the cool morning light, Hannah opened her phone and turned on the power. “Damn.”

  Out of range.

  That unsettling chill of isolation was back.

  “Does anyone have a cell phone that works?” she called out across the camp. As usual, her voice wasn’t loud or authoritative enough to snag anyone’s attention.

  A rustle of nylon alerted her to Irene coming out beside her. “Did you say dead?”

  Hannah tucked her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  Hannah couldn’t think of a single way to make the truth sound any less dire. “Someone killed him.”

  “What?” A lost look crept into her roommate’s eyes, as if she had no idea how to deal with an event her tea leaves hadn’t foretold. “How will we get home? I told Dick I could work miracles just as well on a secluded beach, but he insisted on the mountains. I knew we shouldn’t have come up here. I get a bad vibe at high altitudes.” She rubbed at the frown lines between her eyes. “I can’t think straight. I warned Dick. I warned him.”

  Dick was Dr. Copperfield, Hannah’s boss and the man who’d hired Irene. Taking the group out of their element so that they’d learn to rely on each other had been Irene’s idea. Doing it at twelve thousand feet had been Dr. Copperfield’s.

  “How will we get home?” Irene repeated in a distant murmur.

  “Don’t worry.” Hannah squeezed the older woman’s arm, offering a confidence she didn’t quite feel. “Everything will be okay.”

  Irene retreated into the tent with a jerky nod and a vow to find her crystals and meditate on Frank’s passing. While the other woman grieved and worked through her shock and fear, Hannah descended the short slope to the nearest tent.

  The Defoes—the alumni couple funding this retreat—weren’t even awake yet, judging by the snoring rattling through the thin nylon walls. Over in the next ravine, she could hear Professors Butler and Robinson arguing over the best way to arrange the rocks and grate around the fire pit. Why hadn’t they responded to her shout for assistance? Or had they truly not heard her?

  Shaking off the twinge of resentment at going unnoticed yet again, Hannah scrambled down the gravelly incline that led to President Copperfield’s tent. She knocked on the metal pole that held up the tent’s front canopy. “Dr. Copperfield?”

  She heard scrambling sounds, a thump and a curse from inside. Great. She’d wakened him. He’d already labeled her an annoying know-it-all. At their introductory meeting, he’d informed her that if it weren’t for the Greene name, he’d have let her go from the college. He needed professors with more flash and credits on their résumés, not just ones who could teach and do research.

  Under the circumstances, though, he could damn well be annoyed with her. The stubborn Greene genes she’d also inherited were acting up. She knocked again. “It’s Hannah, sir. We have a problem.”

  An instant later, the president popped his head through the opening flap, clutching it close beneath his chin so that all Hannah could see was his overly tanned, handsome face and receding brown hairline. “What is it, Greene?”

  “Sorry to catch you so early, sir. But I think you should be made aware of the situation.” She thumbed over her shoulder. “I found Frank dead in his tent this morning.”

  “Dead? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. I think the stake through his heart was a pretty good clue.”

  “A stake?” Copperfield frowned as if she’d spoken a foreign language. “You mean he was murdered.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The whole tent shook as if he was moving inside. Pulling on his pants, perhaps? “When did you find him?”

  “Just a few minutes ago. But I think he’s been gone for several hours.” She patted the phone at her hip. “I tried to call for help, but we’re out of cell-phone range up here.”

  “Probably the altitude or distance from the nearest tower. Or both.”

  Duh. Being dumb had never been her problem. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “We need to do something.”

  She was doing something. “That’s why I woke you.”

  “You didn’t wake me.”

  Hannah heard a giggle from inside the tent. Dr. Copperfield suddenly disappeared and lectured someone in hushed tones. Sometimes, she needed to be hit in the head with a rock to understand the whole male-female relationship thing. Of course. She hadn’t awakened him. She’d interrupted him.

  Interrupted them.

  Natalie Flanders, President Copperfield’s executive assistant wasn’t anywhere to be seen this morning. But Hannah could hear her. And, judging by the shushing sounds and months’ worth of rumors, Hannah could b
et the statuesque blonde wasn’t in the tent taking dictation.

  Dick Copperfield poked his head through the tent opening again. “Give me five minutes to get dressed. I’ll be right there.”

  Though she hadn’t actually seen any impropriety, Hannah politely turned her head away from the happy campers. “Yes, sir. I’ll meet you at Frank’s tent.”

  Scuffing aside a rock with the toe of her hiking boot, Hannah headed back up the slope. She heard footsteps shuffling behind her before she felt the anxious touch on her arm. “Is Frank really gone?”

  Hannah turned to face William Hawthorne with a wry smile. “I’m afraid so.”

  The white-haired gentleman, whose stooped figure put him at eye level with Hannah’s five-foot, five-inch frame, reached for her hand and patted it between his arthritic fingers. “Rowdy told me about all the blood. I was out for my morning constitutional when he stopped me. He’s quite beside himself. Threw up outside our tent. I’m so sorry you had to find the body. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Got a map on you?” Sarcasm leaked out on a humorless laugh.

  His rheumy blue eyes blinked. But he saw the problem, too. “We’re somewhere on Mount Moran in the Tetons of Wyoming.”

  Somewhere. “Exactly.”

  She hadn’t paid close attention to the names of the canyons and passes and rock formations Frank had pointed out. Like the others, Hannah had been too engrossed in the scenery, too afraid of falling behind, too reliant on their guide’s expertise. “I’m going to look through Frank’s gear to see if I can find a radio and some way to contact Extreme, Inc., headquarters.”

  He nodded at the name of the extreme vacation adventure company that had organized this excursion for them.

  “Good idea.” Professor Hawthorne released her and pointed a gnarled finger in the air. “I’ll see if I can get the fire going, maybe make a signal out of it. I’ll check the food supplies, too. There are too many trees and the terrain’s too rugged to land a helicopter at this altitude.”

  Hannah agreed. “Whatever happens, we’ll have to hike out.”

  “It took us two and a half days to get here,” he reasoned. “It’ll be at least that long before we’re rescued.”

  Two and a half days. On their own. With a dead body in one tent and a killer on the loose.

  A flare of panic hastened her steps. “I’d better find that radio.”

  Piercing eyes watched them running from tent to tent. Cursing. Crying. One of them actually threw up.

  Idiots.

  “Like chickens with their heads cut off.”

  Only one of them seemed to fully grasp the danger they were in. She thought she was so smart. But she wouldn’t be a problem for long. None of them would be a problem anymore.

  This plan was so ingenious, and his ally so easily duped that it was almost too easy. If this group could destroy the reputation of a proud private college that had been around for generations, then they could easily destroy themselves.

  And there wasn’t a one of them there who didn’t deserve punishment of some kind. Fear was good. Terror, even better. And for one, in particular? Death was the only acceptable retribution.

  Revenge was a grand thing. So entertaining. So satisfying.

  Time to sit back and let the drama unfold.

  Chapter 2

  “Hello? SOS? 911?” Hannah pressed the button on the side of the hand-held radio she’d uncovered in Frank’s backpack, searching for something besides static to answer her. “Can anyone hear me? Hello?”

  Dick Copperfield had been appropriately shocked and concerned when he’d checked the dead body. He’d gathered everyone around the empty fire pit, informing them of the situation. Lydia Defoe had fainted into her husband’s arms, scattering them all back to their tents in a desperate search for smelling salts and cool water. Five minutes later, they’d returned empty-handed, but Lydia was awake. While her husband, Charles, cooled her with a battery-powered rotary fan, Professors Butler and Robinson resumed their never-ending debate, this time arguing over the proper way to dispose of a body when there was no mortuary at hand. Rowdy asked if anyone had brought a weapon to defend themselves against the killer and Dr. Hawthorne limped away to gather wood.

  Before Copperfield could regain control of the chaos, Hannah excused herself. Her ideas never seemed to get heard when everyone talked at once, anyway.

  She was tired of being the quiet one, surrounded by all the strong personalities she’d grown up with, and now worked with. Something inside her, a voice held in check for far too long, demanded to be heard. She sensed that she needed to stand up and really fight for herself this time—or else this crude excuse for a vacation might be her first, last and only adventure.

  Hannah fiddled with the dials some more. “Mayday. Mayday. Calling Moose, Wyoming. Can anyone hear me? Mayday.”

  Static cleared the line, leaving a moment of deafening silence. Hannah held her breath. “Mayday?”

  “Enough, lady. You’re coming through loud and clear.” Hannah gasped, her whole body smiling with relief as a deep, growly voice boomed from the radio. The low-pitched timbre of the terse words resonated along each nerve ending like a rough caress.

  “Who is this?” She rose to her feet and paced the small confines of the tent.

  “Rafe Kincaid at Extreme, Inc., headquarters in Moose. Who the hell is this?”

  “I’m Hannah Greene. From Kansas.” She didn’t know whether to be reassured or intimidated by the strength of that voice.

  “Well, look, Hannah Greene from Kansas—” He paused, as if catching himself from saying something he’d regret. “You do realize you’re on an airway that’s reserved for emergencies only.”

  “That’s what this is. An emergency.”

  “What kind of emergency?” His clipped tone softened.

  She held the radio in both hands, talking to it as if it was the man’s face. “I’m with the Randolph College wilderness camping adventure.”

  “Frank Brooks’s expedition?”

  “Yes. You know who we are?”

  She heard a crunch of noise in the background, the sounds of movement and typing. “I’ve got your group up on the screen now,” he reported. He continued reading from his computer. “Ten novice climbers from Kansas taking the historic CMC route up the mountains. Why isn’t Frank calling in?”

  His sharp demand startled her for an instant. But she’d answered to that same tone and more from her father, so she quickly responded with the plain facts. “He’s dead.”

  If there’d been any hint of static, she might have thought she’d lost the connection.

  “Frank?”

  “Yes. If he was a friend of yours, I’m sorry.” Hannah knelt beside the cot, lifting the blanket and gently searching through Frank’s pockets for a billfold or something that would indicate whether or not he had any family. She hadn’t even thought to check that; she’d been too consumed with her own fears. “We don’t know our way off the mountain. And it doesn’t look as if you could land a chopper up here.”

  “You can’t.”

  She endured another painful pause. “Like I said, I’m sorry to be the one to give you the bad news.”

  She’d avoided the front of Frank’s bloody shirt and the gruesome piton, but finally Hannah noticed the stiff rectangular shape inside his right chest pocket. Had that folded piece of paper been there before? She’d probably been too shocked to notice it. Intellectual curiosity and a real desire to help the situation had her sliding the paper free and reading the message inside.

  By the pricking of my thumbs,

  Something wicked this way comes.

  Hannah frowned. Frank Brooks hadn’t struck her as the literary type. “That’s Macbeth.”

  “What?” Rafe Kincaid’s response turned her attention back to the radio.

  “The Scottish play.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The three Weird Sisters—witches—in the play, th
ey foretell of death.” Confusion became a deep, sinking feeling of foreboding. “And more deaths to come.”

  “I’ll tell you who the weird sister is, lady—”

  “Listen.” Hannah shot to her feet, crammed the note into her pocket and turned her back to the dead man. “I’m scared up here, Mr. Kincaid.” Her tone wasn’t quite a reprimand, wasn’t quite a desperate plea. But it was edged with the foreboding that colored her thoughts. “I don’t believe Frank’s death was an accident.”

  “What happened?” The sarcasm that had tinted his voice a moment ago was replaced by something harder, more intense. It was definitely a voice accustomed to taking charge.

  “I found him on his cot. One of his climbing pitons, you know, the stakes that he drove into the rocks to help us climb—”

  “I know what a piton is.”

  “It’s stuck in the middle of his chest.”

  An unimaginative string of curses filled the airwaves. But Hannah thought she detected sorrow as much as anger in those words.

  “Mr. Kincaid?” she whispered softly, tuning into his pain and apologizing for the shock her news must have given him. “Are you all right?”

  She held her breath in the silence that followed.

  He released a deep-pitched sigh that danced against her eardrums and suffused her with a prickly sense of awareness that had nothing to do with fear or compassion.

  “Don’t worry about me, Kansas.” His words denied what his silence had told her. “I need you to do exactly what I say.” She heard nothing pained or angry now. Only a confidence that inspired her first bit of hope. “Is anyone up there injured?”

  “No. We’re all fine. Just lost.”

  “Stay close to the campsite. Get a fire going if you can. Don’t eat anything but the rations you brought with you. I’ll be up there by nightfall.”