“Text me the coordinates, now!” Adele shouted over her shoulder. And then, with her father in tow, they raced back to the parked car. Already, Adele had her phone to her ear, but could hear the buzz of failed reception. “Dammit,” she snarled. “Dad, try your phone. Mine’s getting spotty reception.”
As they both got into the front seats of the government loaner, Adele flashed John’s phone number on her screen toward her dad as he typed it in.
She felt her phone vibrate in her hand and checked to see that the dispatcher had sent the coordinates for the victim. Twenty kilometers through rough terrain and treacherous mountain passes. It would take some time for Corey Bjerg, the paramedic, to reach the fallen victim. But would they be able to catch up in time? By helicopter it would be easier to reach the destination, but much, much harder to land.
With trembling hands, she turned the key in the ignition and heard her father muttering next to her. “Yes, is this Agent Renee?” her father demanded. “I’m Adele’s father. Yes, really. No, that’s hardly appropriate. Look—we need you to meet us at the hangar. Same as before. Yes now!”
Adele glanced sidelong at her father, her cheeks flushed. “Tell him to hurry,” she said, quietly. Then, louder, adrenaline sparking, she shouted, “Tell him to hurry!”
Her father relayed the message as Adele veered down the mountain path, heading back toward the Three Lakes Airfield.
Corey Bjerg. He’d been there for the Benevetis. He was there when Mr. Griezmann was treated. The one contact point they had. Someone who knew how to find weakened, endangered folk to target. The murderer? Perhaps. But if that was the case, he was nearing another wounded lamb, like a wolf on a hunt. The snow around them was starting to pick up, and the skies above lumbered with gray clouds.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Adele twisted her hands together in her lap, her pulse racing, the sound lost in the dull thrum of the helicopter blades whirring overhead. She stared out the window at the forests below, her eyes tracking the many trees and precipices. The wild of the Alps was different from the domesticated resorts.
No trails, for one. No clearings among the trees except for harsh falls and long slopes laden with ancient snow. Occasionally, she spotted the gray-brown blur of some creature moving in the terrain below, but then John maneuvered them past, leaving the spectacle behind. Adele also kept an eye out for snowmobiles or skiers—no sign.
“They went deep,” she said, quietly, speaking into the microphone of her headset.
Her father sat in the passenger seat behind her, staring out the side window of the helicopter. John was once again at the controls, but this time seemed to be playing it safe—flying at an acceptable distance from the tree line and maneuvering over the forests without getting too close.
The tall French agent had been uncharacteristically quiet for most the trip, ever since they’d met at the Three Lakes hangar. Adele had seen it before in him; like an animal zeroing in on its prey, its senses heightened for the hunt. John’s hands were steady on the controls, unyielding, and his eyes stared out of the front of the chopper, tracking the forests.
“No clean landing near the coordinates,” he said after a bit. “You’re sure those are right?” He didn’t look over, his gaze still fixed on the terrain.
“Dispatch gave them,” she said. “They’re right. The injured party is down there.”
“What were they doing out here?”
“No clue. Can you get us in close?”
John circled the chopper, moving around the lowest peak, his eyes fixed on the terrain below. “Give me a second—looking for logger’s outpost or a cross-country trail. Whoever the injured party is, they got here somehow.”
“Hiker maybe?” Adele asked.
John just shook his head, still fixated on the task at hand. At last, he circled once more then muttered something sharply and adjusted their heading. “Ahead,” he said. “Rocky outcrop. In the trees—see?”
Adele’s eyes narrowed, and she placed a hand against one of the headphones, holding it in place as if somehow her hearing were connected to sight. “No, what?”
“The tree blind,” he said. “See it? Illegal—those,” he said. “Poachers, or hunters. Not supposed to be on public land. Means the area around it is sturdy, though.”
At last, Adele spotted what John had noticed so quickly; a wooden scaffold of sorts buried in the branches of a low fir, like some sort of tree house. John was indicating the rocky outcrop beneath the tree. Not very large. Not large at all—but just large enough for the helicopter to land, clear of the forest.
“Are you sure?” Adele began, but John had already set them into a descent, heading toward the outcrop.
She clenched her teeth, her hands wringing tightly in her lap as she stared, unblinking at the bank of trees. The coordinates, according to the GPS, were just beyond the ridge of the peak.
“Can’t get us any closer?” she asked. She didn’t relish the thought of the hike to the actual accident site.
“No suitable landing,” John retorted. “There will be ski trails—gotta be. Hang on.”
And with that, he set to, his hands a blur over the controls as he adjusted the vehicle for descent. Adele nearly cried out as they drew within spitting distance of the tall row of fir trees. Large branches, thicker than the chopper blades, extended dangerously close as if to ensnare them mid-air. She blew air sharply as John wedged the chopper just beneath the branches, like manipulating a Tetris piece, and then lowered them gently.
“The edge, the edge!” the Sergeant called out.
John cursed, checked a mirror, and then readjusted. The smooth descent was interrupted by a jarring jolt and Adele felt her stomach in her throat. But then, a split-second later, they landed with a clatter, crunching into the snow-strewn rocky outcrop beneath the illegal blind.
For a moment, they all paused, breathing heavily, staring straight ahead. Adele yanked the headphones off, listening. For a vague, spine-chilling moment, she thought she heard the sound of cracking—ice? Stone?
But then the noise settled, the chopper blades droned to a quiet wump-wump and then died completely as John cut the engine.
The three of them sat for a moment, gratefully breathing and quieting their racing hearts. Then John cleared his throat and said. “See—easy.”
“Yeah,” Adele replied. “Easy.”
She didn’t have time to contemplate her mortality—nor did she have time to berate John for the risky landing. A killer was on the loose in these slopes, and a victim was in his sights. They had to move.
“Do you both have the coordinates?” she asked.
John nodded. “Have to stabilize, make sure everything is in order first.”
“No time!” Adele said. “We have to go now!”
John shook his head, turning to look at her for the first time in a good ten minutes. “We will, but not yet. I have to return the bird in one piece—understand? I’m already on thin ice. I need another set of eyes to help me clear the branches.”
“I can’t stay—I’m going.”
“I can help,” piped up Adele’s father’s voice. “If only for a few minutes. I can help—we’ll come after you.”
Adele glanced back, nodding in gratitude at her dad. Then she swung open the helicopter door and dropped onto the snow. For a moment, she half expected the rocky outcrop to collapse, but it held firm and she moved quickly beneath the blind in the trees. If hunters used this place, then trails would have to lead to it. She checked her phone, eyeing the GPS, and set out, vapors of breath shooting past her face as she moved purposefully away from the ridge and toward the direction of the injured skier.
Had Mr. Bjerg already reached the victim? Was she too late?
Adele lowered her head, and without looking back, she hurried forward, breaking into a jog across the flat terrain and ducking under the first row of tree branches.
***
“You’re moving slowly!” the Sergeant snapped in English, glaring
at the helicopter pilot. His daughter had given his name as John Renee. A Frenchman of all things. He could feel his mustache quivering on his lip and the cold nipping at his wrists and cheeks, making itself known across every inch of exposed skin.
“Agh! Calm yourself,” replied the man in a heavy accent. “You wish for us to have no way back? What if there is an injured party on that mountain? We would watch them bleed out—yes? No. We need this bird sky-bound.”
The tall agent was doing the once-around, circling the helicopter and checking the edge. The front lip of the windshield extended precariously over the precipice, but at last, Agent Renee winced and said, “How much space do I have back there?”
The Sergeant glanced toward the trees, then his eyes flicked to the branches. “Only a few inches,” he said. “Not much.”
John grunted. “I’ll clear some of the branches. Need you to keep an eye.”
The Sergeant, though, was glancing nervously toward where his daughter had disappeared, shaking his head. He helped John onto the back of the helicopter, hefting the man up by gripping the tall agent under the arm and heaving. For his part, John—with a long knife in hand—began tearing at some of the smaller tree branches extending dangerously close to the helicopter blades.
“Too long,” the Sergeant kept muttering. “Taking too long!”
John glanced down, blinking aside a spattering of leaves and small twigs. He said, “I’m fine now—I have an eye for it. Just tell me which branch is closest—can’t see from this angle.”
The Sergeant pointed at the offending object and watched as John set to with his knife. Shavings of bark and bits of leaves fell, raining down on the agent’s upturned face.
“Mr. Renee,” said the Sergeant. “You need to hurry. Adele is—”
“Go—go, it’s fine,” John said. “I have it from here. Go after her!”
He needed no second invitation. He left the tall Frenchman clearing their takeoff spot and without a second glance back hurried toward the small trail beneath the hunter’s blind. Adele’s tracks were clear in the fresh snow, but the snow wasn’t too deep—suggesting that the trail was kept clear by hunters. The Sergeant didn’t have GPS, but he could follow Adele’s footprints clear enough. His daughter was heading to face a killer all on her own—she needed all the help she could get.
He set his jaw, his hands clenched at his sides, swinging wildly. He fixed his eyes ahead and moved quickly, one step at a time through the desolate terrain. After a minute, following his daughter’s tracks, he was already huffing for breath. He spent a good amount of time in the weight room, but often neglected cardio—something Adele was excellent at.
Still, he was a man of will. He pushed through the exhaustion, or, more accurately, embraced it, accepting the pain as truth, but continued on regardless. One foot in front of the other, the cold nipping at him while he sweated underneath his three layers.
“Come on,” he muttered to himself, “come on.” He uttered the words in a quiet chant, allowing the cadence to propel him up a particularly steep portion of trail. He could still see Adele’s footprints ahead, but no sign of his daughter through the trees, or the makeshift trail bordering the snowbound cliffs.
For a moment, near the low boughs of a distance copse, he spotted movement. The Sergeant’s eyes narrowed, but before he could focus—he failed to keep track of the path—a shout! His foot fell through the snow. He yelped and tried to right himself, but cried out again in pain—his voice echoing in the cliffs—as his ankle buckled beneath him.
“Dammit!” he shouted.
Snarling, he yanked his leg from the snow, where he’d accidentally ventured off the path. He tested his ankle and winced. His knee, also, an old injury from work, seemed to be acting up. He wanted to curse again, but this time managed to contain the expletive. No sense in betraying his character for pain. Pain wasn’t worth it.
Muttering crossly to himself, suppressing his frustration and anger, he doggedly began moving up the trail again, limping now, his eyes fixed on his daughter’s tracks. For the first time, he felt a chill up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He glanced around, examining the hills, the rows of trees and snow-burdened rocks. A loneliness, a solitude descended on him. He glanced back—no sigh of Agent Renee. Ahead, no indication of his daughter. Limping, out of breath, in pain, he maneuvered alone up the mountain.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Two things the friend knew. One, a secret—his grandfather’s secret. He kept it to himself. The second, though, he’d learned from his grandfather: kindness came in many forms. Was it kind to allow the life of a mewling kitten, starving, stray, dying? Was it kindness to see the injured doe stumbling, blood spilling onto virgin ground, while one looked on in compassion?
Compassion alone was dross.
And yet, it was compassion—or a friend of it—that curdled his lips into a simpering smile.
Compassion that compelled his words.
“Are you feeling all right? Tell me if this hurts.”
The woman below him on the stretcher nodded weakly, her face pale and tinged with gray from the premonition of frostbite. The friend knelt in the snow, rolling his neck and peering up at the dark clouds above. He smiled in the face of the lumbering sky; the crown of the Alps.
Snow around them, wet. Some seeping through the layers of his waterproof clothing, despite the lining. The victim—the injured party—the wounded doe beneath him, strapped to the stretcher, where he’d placed her.
He glanced over across the cross-country ski trail. Nearly twenty kilometers from the nearest resort. The woman had traveled far. Impressive. But now…
He examined the elbow, placed in the makeshift splint and eased against the side of plastic. A lame duck. A mewling kitten. An injured doe.
He smiled down at her—the grin of a wolf, the leer of a crocodile. He adjusted his hood, keeping his face warm, but directing his attention to the woman’s bundled form beneath the blankets and straps of the stretcher.
She spoke, her voice weak, probing the chill air—a tentative murmur.
“It’s all going to be okay,” he replied in a soothing tone. He reached out, his hand hovering over her for a moment, then he touched her, his fingers stroking the knuckles of her injured arm.
The woman winced and protested weakly, but lack of water, sunstroke, and pain stopped her words. He stroked her hand a bit harder in what would be perceived as a comforting gesture misplaced.
Really, a test. A test of will. Of response.
The woman squirmed, trying to distance herself from him. But she was strapped in place—going nowhere. A failed test.
His countenance darkened and his eyes narrowed. He licked his lips now, eyeing the woman on the stretcher. His eyes flicked to the snowmobile. Twenty kilometers was a great distance. No one would hear the screams; she wouldn’t scream, not in this state.
His eyes shifted down to the workman’s sheath on the back of the snowmobile. A first-aid kit, some bandages, and also… the length of a wooden handle. His axe.
The woman squirmed some more beneath him. She was young—thirties, perhaps. She might recover. She might yet be strong. Then again…
The man felt a churning in his gut, just above his navel. He felt prickles across his skin and a sudden thirst, a hunger. He focused on his breathing.
Not yet… the friend thought to himself.
Not yet… no… not yet…
He wasn’t a fool. To be a fool would be weakness. And then the man was committed. The friend knew the cost of weakness and he would exact it in increments, even upon himself if necessary. The scars along the backs of his legs were proof of this. He was a man of will.
And so, he ignored the urge in his stomach now traveling to his chest. He marched to the side of the snowmobile, hitching the stretcher to the back, careful to secure the plastic edges of the sled in place. The woman’s skis lay discarded, a crumpled heap by the tree she’d crashed into. Her phone, in the friend’s pocket. She
was helpless. Defenseless.
The man made a quiet sound, close to a purr, and he sat astride the snowmobile; he began to turn, preparing to leave.
“My husband…” came the mewling voice of the little lamb.
The friend frowned and glanced back. “Excuse me?” he asked, his tone still gentle, concerned.
“My husband—he was skiing too!” she said, her voice rising now, panicked. Some of the weakness fell from her, and with it, the man’s arousal diminished. No—perhaps not so weak. Perhaps she would recover. An unsuitable gift to these mountains. He wouldn’t sully them with strong blood.
“Your husband is out here?” the man asked.
The woman nodded weakly, her head shifting in the blankets pulled tight to her neck. “He’ll be looking for me. We… got separated.” She gasped, her small form heaving from the effort, and pain flashed across her face. The man looked quickly away, as if avoiding the sight of indecency.
“He’ll be fine,” the friend said. “He’ll follow the trail out. You slipped down a ravine. It could take him hours to find the path to us.”
“Please…” she mewled.
But he ignored her now. The woman’s husband might very well be out on these slopes. But if he’d been cross-country skiing with his wife and lost sight of her, then there was little to do. He would find her back at the resort.
The friend prepared to leave again, slowly, the snowmobile growling beneath him as he took the careful trail back in the direction of the resort, heading down the mountain once more. The woman’s groans and moans were lost in the sound of a churning engine. The snow, slick around them, gave rise to rapid speed, but the friend kept the pace slower than usual. Slow enough to give him time to recover his senses. To remember the chore.
Not now. Not yet.
Still, an appetite had come upon him. A strong one… Was it starting to get out of hand? An appetite unsatisfied was natural. An appetite insatiable was unnatural—weakness.
Just then, the man spotted a flicker of movement through the trees. He pulled up, cutting the engine and gliding to the side of the trail, peering down the slope. On one of the lower paths, he spotted a man. A waddling fellow, with a drooping moustache beneath an upturned hood.
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