Left To Hide

by Pierce, Blake

  The man was limping, huffing breaths in painful spurts, his eyes glued to the trail, neither looking left nor right. Limping. Limping.

  Gentle, gentle doe.

  The friend cleared his throat, his appetite rising once more. The woman—the injured skier—they could tie him to. They’d sent him for her.

  But this fellow? The husband? No—too old. Far too old. Then again…

  Did it matter? He wasn’t looking. He was out of breath, he was clearly injured, in pain.

  “Where are you going?” came the weakened voice, now audible again in the still air.

  “Hush,” he replied, gently, slipping from the saddle and reaching toward his work belt.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Quiet, darling. I’ll be right back.”

  The appetite had come strong, and like all wolves, the man needed to feast. He felt the soft swish of his axe as he drew it from the holster and hefted it in his hand. Then, ignoring the snowmobile, his eyes leaving the doe strapped to his sled, he began stalking down the trail, his gaze fixated on the limping man.

  Gentle, gentle doe. Hear the wolf howl?

  The friend smiled to himself; he could hear his grandfather’s laughter now, echoing in the mountains. Their mountains. The herd must be culled. The good shepherd always shears his sheep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  Adele’s GPS was beeping now, but as she surveyed the last known location of the accident victim, she spotted nothing. No one. She wrapped her arms around her coat, drawing the cushy warmth closer, her eyes darting through the trails. The ski trail had been an arduous one, parts encumbered with old snow. Yet, she’d spotted tracks eventually.

  Skis and a snowmobile.

  But now, no sign of anyone. She studied the snow again; disheveled. For a moment, in the distance, she thought she heard the sound of an engine. John starting the chopper again? The snowmobile?

  She breathed heavily once more, focusing on the task at hand. For a brief moment, tendrils of cold probed at her spine and made their way up.

  “Hello?” she called out, whirling around.

  No one. Just the cold, lonely mountains and the abandoned forests.

  She felt an outsider in the Alps, all of a sudden, as if she were trespassing. She was a long way from San Francisco, that was for certain.

  “Hello?” she repeated.

  Again, no answer, save the faintest echoes of her own voice pealing back to her from the cliffs in the distance. The peaks of snow and rock burdened with clusters of stunted trees provided both shelter and ominous features to the landscape. The air up here was cold, but also thin, and Adele—despite her athletic condition—found it difficult to draw breath. Her cheeks were stinging from frozen sweat and her heart pulsed in her chest.

  She spotted something beneath a tree and moved quickly over.

  Abandoned skis. Someone had been here, at least. She glanced at the GPS; this was the exact location. So where was the victim? Had they been taken back to the resort? Had Mr. Bjerg already been this way? Perhaps he wasn’t the killer after all. No bloody carnage, no scene of violence.

  And yet, Adele could still feel the prickle along her back.

  Then, the sound of a crunch.

  Adele twisted sharply, peering through the trees. She spotted someone—not her father, not John—a man in a red coat, moving slowly through the forest. Something clutched in his hand. Her heart hammered, and she stared. Was he armed? Was that a rifle in his grip? No… too thin. What then?

  She crouched low, still peering through the trees as the figure approached. The figure was muttering to himself, shaking his head from side to side. His features were indiscernible beneath all the layers.

  The paramedics in the mountains also wore red. Was this Mr. Bjerg?

  He hadn’t spotted her yet. Adele remained low, allowing the thin copse of trees to disguise her as the man moved up the path. She could feel her breath, seemingly stuck in her throat. Adele inched forward, one hand pressing against the rigid shape of the tree limb in front of her. The rough texture of the bark could just barely be felt through her thick gloves. Her other hand moved toward her hip, but then hesitated. The paramedic hadn’t been approaching quietly. Clearly he thought he was alone.

  Adele moved forward, ever so cautiously, her eyes fixed on the man.

  She could hear him muttering still. She just barely, through the tree branches, spotted whatever he was carrying in his hand. He also had something strapped to his back.

  Adele waited until he neared her, approaching with crunching footsteps. His shadow cast across her hiding spot, intermingling with the thin branches and extending toward her like the probing fingers of dark fog.

  She heard the crunch of a stick, meaning he’d reached the copse of trees. She heard the moderate breath, and glimpsed whatever he was still holding, clearly long. A weapon?

  With a shout, she flung herself forward, tackling the man around the waist and sending both of them to the trail in a heap of limbs and disheveled snow.

  “Ack!” the man screamed. “Help! Attack!”

  The man was strong, and kicked and bucked his hips, dislodging her and sending her flying. A second later, Adele realized her mistake. The man had been holding ski poles. Those were skis strapped to his back, not a weapon. Groggily, Adele pushed to her feet, her movements slow, encumbered by the many layers she wore.

  Across from her, the man in the red coat moved a bit slower. He rocked on his hips, as if trying to get momentum, and also pushed up. He glared at her, staring from beneath a furrowed brow.

  She didn’t recognize him, and, judging by the fear across his face, he didn’t recognize her.

  “Who are you?” Adele said, gasping, one finger pointing sharply at the man.

  “Who are you?” he retorted.

  “My name is Agent Sharp,” she said. “I’m with Interpol. Are you Corey Bjerg?”

  “What? No, my name is Stefan. I was here with my wife. Are you part of the rescue team? I haven’t found her! I can’t reach anyone!”

  Adele stared at him and felt her heart skip a beat. She whirled around, glancing up the trail along the snow, and shook her head. “You need to get out of here,” she said. “Now. Your wife is fine, I’m sure she’s being well taken care of. But you can’t be here right now.”

  “You know where she is?”

  Adele didn’t know, but she could guess. The paramedic had already reached her. She was either dead somewhere, or back at the resort. Either way, he couldn’t be up here. And while he did have a red jacket, there was no insignia suggesting he was involved with the paramedics. He didn’t have the look.

  “I’m serious, get out of here. Your best bet is to check back at the resort.”

  “Did someone come through? Is that why you’re here?”

  Adele sighed. “The paramedics were sent. They’ve already been here. Your wife should be fine. Just head back to the resort and we’ll sort this all out, okay?”

  The man stared at her, a ghost of a frown across his face. He looked worried, nauseous, but also scared. Hesitantly, he moved back toward the trail, gathering his ski equipment that had fallen from where she tackled him. He shot a couple of grudging looks in her direction, but finally managed to set himself on the trail once more, affixing the skis and setting off quicker than he’d arrived. Heading back to the resort.

  For her part, Adele looked around and swallowed. No sign of the paramedic. No sign of his victim. She glanced back along the trail. Where was her father? Where was John?

  The burden of being alone in the mountains descended on her once more, and she pulled her coat tight again, gathering it around her for comfort and warmth.

  ***

  The friend thought he heard voices coming up the trail from the plateau above. The ski trail would curl around the mountain, circling it. Whoever was up there would take some time to reach him. No matter. Had dispatch sent in another paramedic?

  He frowned at the thought, but suppresse
d it. It offended him to think he wasn’t trusted fully with the job. How incompetent did they think he was?

  Still, he hefted his axe and returned to the task at hand.

  The poor, limping, bumbling doe was trudging through the snow. He’d veered off the path by accident; little did he know in five hundred paces, he’d fall off the side of the mountain. Plummet to his death.

  The friend hurried, also following through the snow-laden undergrowth, tracking the limping footsteps of the old man.

  He gripped the handle of his weapon. Three times, he’d quenched its thirst. Three times, he’d allowed the mountain its culling. Well, once before. The first secret.

  But he tried not to think about it. No—all must be culled. Even those the friend loved. Weakness was a disease, and it would spread.

  Ahead, he could hear the huffing breath of his prey. The old man limped, then slipped, then limped some more. His eyes were still fixed ahead, no sign that he’d noticed his stalker.

  The old man with the mustache was continually muttering, waving a hand beneath the brown branches above, as if scrambling for some purchase, some guard rail. But in the forests, in the mountains, in the Alps, there were no safety rails, no locks and keys, no concrete walls of feigned protection.

  The older man doubled over now, still groaning and rubbing at his knee. He leaned against a tree, one hand braced to hold himself upright. The snow was now up to his knees. He was far from the trail, and continued further still.

  In that lull, the friend made up ground, moving along behind the bent over doe. Approaching quietly as he’d been taught.

  His shadow extended toward the limping fellow. The old man stiffened, but didn’t turn. His hand still clutched his knee, his body still bent, begging to be broken, to be purged from these slopes.

  The friend was now in reach. He hefted his axe, his eyes wide, unblinking in his skull as he stared down at the wounded kitty, the injured doe, the helpless creature.

  He raised his weapon, and then…

  A sound. Imperceptible to anyone else, but the friend had grown up in these mountains. He whirled around and flung his axe, hard. Precision, training took over.

  A tall man shouted in pain, crying out. The axe had caught his upraised hand, knocking a gun loose and, by the looks of things, severing a knuckle. Panicked, for a brief moment, the friend stared. This new man was tall, agile, a scar across the underside of his chin. This new man clutched his bleeding hand, cursing and spluttering.

  How had the friend not seen him? How had he been tricked? In a split second, the brief moment of contemplation allowed him, he realized: when the old man had veered off the road, he must have communicated something to the other. Perhaps they’d spotted each other. Perhaps they’d spotted him.

  Not such a helpless doe after all, perhaps. The friend spun around, taking two quick steps back.

  The old man was in the middle of lunging, but ended up eating snow, landing in the ice where the friend had been standing a moment before. The friend didn’t wait, didn’t hesitate. Instincts kicked in now.

  He lashed out with a heavily booted foot. He felt the satisfaction of the top of his foot colliding with the old man’s jaw. The fellow tumbled to the ground, releasing a sound like a toppled tree. But the friend couldn’t stop, and had to move again. He was unarmed. He spotted the tall, lanky fellow who he’d hit with the axe scrambling in the snow, desperately searching for his firearm.

  The friend had no need for such weapons, though. He’d thrown his blade perfectly. He severed a finger, disarmed the attacker, but also, in the same throw, buried the axe in the nearest tree.

  The tall man was still looking for his gun as the friend circled, lunging with long strides through the snow. He snared his axe from where it had hit the tree.

  Only two paces away, the tall man pulled up, his weapon recovered, and he flung himself back to distance himself from the man.

  A flicker of fear. The tall man was trained. He knew what he was doing.

  But he’d never faced someone like the friend before.

  The friend surged toward the tall man, closing the distance. At the same time, he flung himself to the left, placing himself between the old man behind him and the tall man. Perhaps compassion would cost them. And, in that moment, the tall man hesitated. He had a split second, where he had distanced himself enough to get off a shot. He could have taken the friend down. But the friend knew he feared hitting his accomplice. And he stayed his trigger finger.

  With a snarl, the friend surged, swiping with his axe and slamming it into the man’s hand again, with the flat of the blade this time.

  It wouldn’t cut him, but it would crush.

  The gun was knocked loose again, this time sent soaring into the trees, disappearing in the snow.

  The tall man surged back again, moving fast. But the friend was smart. He’d seen the weakness.

  “Careful!” he shouted with glee. Of course, he was simply looking for the man’s attention.

  The tall man afforded him a brief glance, and the friend raced back in the direction of the injured fellow, his blade raised.

  The tall man cursed, and instead of pursuing his weapon, now raced after him as well, rushing to the aid of his friend.

  Compassion. Weakness. It would cost them both their lives. The herd had to be culled. A good thing. The man was used to taking two lives at a time anyway.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  Adele heard the sound of conflict only a few minutes after leaving the man she tackled.

  The sound arose from below, on the plateau beneath her. She searched for the trail again, desperately, looking, and then racing down along the snow-bound ski path with reckless abandon. She knew this was a good way to slip, to fall, to accidentally stumble over the edge, but the ski trail would have to be trusted. Others were in danger.

  She heard grunts, painful shouts, yelling. She thought she heard a gunshot, but then no more.

  “John?” she shouted. “Dad?”

  But she didn’t have the breath for anything else. She pushed herself even harder, sprinting breakneck down the mountain, along the trail, and racing in the direction of the sounds of conflict.

  She spotted the struggling men from a distance. And for a moment, her stomach lurched.

  A man in a red coat, with the hood thrown back, was swinging an axe at her father. John managed to grab his arm from behind, but received a vicious kick to the groin for his efforts. John collapsed like a sack of flour, toppling into the snow, and the axe spun around, swinging down at the Frenchman now.

  The Sergeant, though, weakened, gasping, flung out a hand, snaring the attacker by the boot and pulling hard. The man howled and slipped. He kicked out once, twice, vicious attacks both colliding with her father’s jaw.

  Adele spotted the Sergeant’s eyes roll into the back of his head, unconscious. John, for his part, was clearly wounded. His one hand was clutched inside his sweatshirt, blood spilling down the front of his second hoodie. He was trembling and gasping and trying to rise again, but the man in the red jacket was on him in an instant.

  This time, the axe wouldn’t miss.

  Adele reacted fast, hand darting to her hip, gun drawn, two quick shots. In the air.

  No hope of hitting him without risking her father or John, but this way, the man hesitated and looked up, snarling.

  He had a thick, brown beard and wild, curly dark hair framing deep-set eyes. He glared up the trail at her and John used the opportunity to scramble away, kicking and rolling on his back.

  The man laughed and wagged his axe in John’s direction. “No, little lamb. Stay with me today!” he crowed. “Don’t you hear the mountains?” He screamed now, raising his voice and tilting his head back; he loosed a wild, bloodcurdling howl followed by another laugh. “Can you hear them whimper, whisper? Can you hear them crow—row-row!” He laughed again and wiggled his axe once more, pointing it toward Adele.

  For a brief second, he stood, chest puffed, seemingly
impervious, indifferent to the weapon raised in her hand. And, in that moment, Adele hesitated, staring. The man had an air of invincibility. He stood in the snow, snowflakes speckling his beard, his head thrown back, chin jutting forth in pride. Two men lay injured or unconscious at his feet. Both of them barely moving. John was still trying to crawl away, but the axe-wielding attacker noticed this and made a tutting sound. “I don’t think so,” he whispered, his voice carrying across the open terrain, but then being brushed away by the whimpering wind.

  “Don’t!” Adele shouted. Her gun was pointed at him now, but he seemed to come to his senses and dropped low, cowering behind John’s crawling form.

  “You don’t understand!” he shouted back. “It is what the mountains wish! Don’t oppose the circle—life has its say! Don’t you hear it? Can’t you hear it, little lamb? Listen to the slopes? Heed the breeze? Notice the inclination of the trees. They laugh, they cackle—we burn and pillage and rape, and yet they will have the final say! They will! They will!”

  Adele was no longer paying attention. She continued along the trail, approaching now, having reached the curling switchback and the lower plateau. She stepped off the trail, following the churning footsteps the men had left in the disheveled snow.

  Carefully, she stalked forward, and the man with the axe maintained his crouch, circling slightly, keeping John’s fallen form between him and Adele. He peered over the tall Frenchman’s gasping chest and bloodied hand, his eyes bright and wide like a prairie dog peeking over a hill. And yet there was a malicious glint in the man’s eyes that seemed foreign in this landscape—that for all this speak of nature and mountains seemed strangely and uniquely human.

  Adele kept her weapon raised. She knew the moment she lowered her gun, the attacker would use his axe. John was still trying to crawl away in the snow, gasping in pain, leaving droplets of blood from his injured hand.