Wed To A Stranger?

by Jule McBride

  Oh, David, how could you do this to us?

  Her heart squeezed with pain as Nathan Lafarge’s face formed in her mind. She shook her head. How could he and David even be the same man? The man she’d known and loved could never lead a killer to her doorstep. But of course he had.

  Right in front of the detention center was another break in the snowdrift. It wasn’t as low as the one in front of J.J.’s, but the snow was only about three feet deep. She probably could have driven all the way up, she realized.

  Hobbling past the totem pole, Fritzi saw faint yellow light streaming from the detention center’s window. Large boot tracks, nearly covered by fresh snow, were discernible on the sidewalk. They came from the opposite direction and went up the detention center steps.

  Fritzi pressed a relieved hand to her heart. “He’s here.”

  But when she climbed the steps, she found the door locked. The vantage point allowed her to peek in the window, though. She glimpsed the sheriff’s red parka, which was slung over a chair, then scanned the upper windows across the street again. Someone was definitely watching her.

  Just as she turned the doorknob a second time, Fritzi heard something behind her. Whirling around, she knew she was taking her last breath, that she was about to die.

  When a second passed and she felt no pain—no blow to the head or icy cold knife slide through her flesh—she took a step forward, her eyes darting down the street. No new lights were on. The sidewalk was still deserted.

  Then she saw him.

  And froze. He looked like a monster lumbering right down the middle of the street from the direction of the bed-and-breakfast.

  Turning around, she pounded on the door. “Sheriff Tanook!” she shrieked. “Joe!”

  “Hey!” the man yelled.

  Fritzi hammered the door—gaping over her shoulder at the man’s navy parka with the huge hood and ruff and his lumbering gait. Now she could hear that horrible, painful wheeze—and her blood ran cold. It was the man from the schoolhouse! But was it Kris Koslowski? Fritzi had been so furious last night that she hadn’t asked Nathan for a description. Her eyes shot to his hands—he’d had a gun last night—but they were empty.

  “Joe!” she screamed. “Joe!”

  The man was so close now, nearly to the drift in front of the detention center. He was breathing hard, but still barreling toward her. Fritzi considered running, but with her injured ankle, he’d catch her.

  She pounded with both hands now. “Help me, Sheriff! I know you’re in there!” Maybe the door had locked of its own accord. The day she’d been arrested, she’d noticed it did that. But why wasn’t the sheriff answering?

  She was panicking now—her heart racing, her carotid artery pulsing out of control, both hands balled into tight, terrified, pounding fists. If only she’d taken the.38 last night, she could defend herself. She could kill the man who was only twenty feet away, now ten, now just on the other side of the drift.

  He stopped in front of it, wheezing. Fritzi could see his face now. It was fleshy, puffy and red inside the hood, and its strange familiarity jarred her.

  “Stan Steinbrenner,” he gasped. “Washington Post.”

  Fritzi stared at him. She’d been reading Stan Steinbrenner’s investigative columns in the Post for years. Countless times she’d seen that face next to his byline. That’s why it was so familiar. For an instant she was too stunned to speak. And relieved, since maybe Stan Steinbrenner’s eyes had been following her, not Kris Koslowski’s. “What are you doing here?” she finally sputtered. “And why were you chasing me in the schoolhouse last night?”

  He drew another deep gasp. “You ran!”

  Of course she’d run. “You had a gun!” she burst out, feeling thoroughly unnerved. “You fired shots at me! Chased me!”

  “I didn’t know if you were friend or foe and—” Stan suddenly broke off, whipped an inhaler from his pocket, raised it to his parted lips and wheezed in deeply. “I didn’t mean to shoot, but when you pulled the shelves down on me, my finger naturally pulled the trigger.”

  And kept pulling, Fritzi thought as he started toward her, plunging into the snowdrift and sinking to his waist. “You could have killed me!”

  “Sorry, but I’m trying—” A fit of painfulsounding gasps cut his sentence short.

  “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

  Stan Steinbrenner merely shook his head as if to say he didn’t have enough breath to waste words. “I’m trying…to locate a man named David Frayne.”

  Fritzi hobbled down the steps to help the heavyset man, wondering if she should deny she’d heard the name. After all, anyone connected to David Frayne was on Kris Koslowski’s hit list. But she’d already lied so much. Was she now going to have to lie to the Washington Post, too? Her tone was harsher than she intended. “You could have told me who you were when you called.”

  “I knew of your—your father,” Stan wheezed. “But I still don’t know your relationship to Frayne. I—I think he might have killed some people in D.C.”

  “No, but he’s running from the man who did,” Fritzi supplied when the long-winded speech sent Stan into another respiratory spasm. She could at least dispel the notion that she’d fallen in love with the kind of man who committed premeditated murder. Not that David or Nathan mattered now. Whatever the man wanted to call himself—he was history.

  As Fritzi stretched out her hand to Stan, she registered that the air had turned calm, too calm. She suddenly felt those eyes again—sharp and immediate, and focused right on her face. Anxiety seized her.

  “Ms. Fitzgerald,” Stan gasped, “I was so worried you might be in danger because—”

  Stan never finished.

  Somewhere nearby—from a rooftop, Fritzi thought—a rifle crack sounded, then Stan slammed chest-first into her, knocking her backward onto the sidewalk. She landed on her side, her body spinning 360 degrees, then sliding across the ice.

  Scrambling to her hands and knees, she watched in shocked horror as Stan tried to reach behind himself, his back arching unnaturally, his puffy face contorted. He gaped down quizzically at the thigh-high snowdrift. Following his glazed stare, Fritzi suddenly realized blood was everywhere—gushing red from beneath his parka, running into the white snow and melting it.

  Get down, Stan. Duck before Koslowski shoots you! she thought.

  But Stan had already been shot. Everything seemed to be happening backward. Or too fast. Fritzi’s mind couldn’t catch up. Get to Stan! she thought now. Just stop it! Stop the blood! Move!

  She took off running. If she could just move fast enough, maybe she could catch Stan and stop him from falling! But her feet lost traction—whooshed from beneath her on the ice. Her hip cracked against the concrete. Oh, God, she thought. Someone had just shot Stan, gunned him down in cold blood. Had she been the intended target?

  She rose, lunging forward. Stan was just a few feet away. The shooter was still out here! She imagined him across the street, lifting the rifle, aiming at her face. If she helped Stan, she’d die!

  She froze in the middle of the sidewalk. Then she whirled around—and found herself facing the locked detention center. She was at a panicked standstill. A sitting duck. With her back turned to an armed assassin.

  And she really couldn’t move.

  She never guessed her life would end this way. That she’d be face-to-face with death—and paralyzed by fear. Her body was so rigid it shook. From the periphery of her vision, she saw Brownie Mulray’s dog team round a curve and head down Main Street.

  In front of her, the detention center door suddenly swung open. “I was in the john!” Sheriff Tanook snarled. “You mind telling me—”

  A second rifle crack sounded. Just as Fritzi screamed, a bullet caught the sheriff’s thigh, the force spinning him back inside like a top. Everybody’s dying right in front of my eyes! Run inside! Run inside! Oh, please help me run inside!

  But Fritzi didn’t even get to turn around. The third crack sounded—th
e shot she knew would kill her.

  A scream rent the air—a sharp, inhuman cry—and it took Fritzi a full second to realize it wasn’t her own. When she did, blood rushed back into her frozen limbs. She pivoted—and glimpsed movement in a window opposite. It was dark, but she could swear she’d seen the shooter whisk a rifle back inside a window.

  It had to be Koslowski. And from the cry that sounded, she was sure someone had just shot him.

  Fritzi bolted toward Stan. Precious seconds had ticked by. Was he dead—or dying? “Sheriff?” she called over her shoulder, flinging herself next to Stan.

  “Somebody shot me,” Joe Tanook shouted, sounding stunned. “I’m wrapping my leg. I’ll get Doc Lambert on the shortwave.”

  Fritzi barely heard. Stan had lost so much blood! Beneath his parka, his whole back was wet with it, his shirt soaked. Not knowing what to do, she pressed the wound with her mittened hands, trying to staunch it. Then she slipped off her mittens, mopping around the torn skin. Should she try to roll him over?

  No. Don’t move him. Never move an injured person. Realizing blood was all over her—on her hands, her parka—bile rose in her throat. She kept pressing down ineffectually with one hand, searching frantically for Stan’s wrist with the other. When she found it, she felt for his pulse.

  A wave of relief hit her. The pulse was weak, but it was still there. Stan Steinbrenner was alive.

  And then she heard another rifle crack.

  She hunkered down, covering Stan’s body with her own—feeling sick and faint and like she was about to die—but never taking her mittens from his wound. She tried to ignore the acrid, sharp smell of blood and how the heat of it seeped through her exposed fingers. Pressing her cheek into the snow near Stan’s shoulder, she hoped Kris Koslowski might see her down here and mistake her for dead.

  “That shot was mine, sweetheart.”

  She lifted her cheek from the snow just in time to see Nathan rein in Brownie’s husky team and hop off the sled, rifle in hand. “Was that Koslowski?” she gasped.

  “Yeah.”

  Swinging the rifle upward, Nathan pointed it at the rooftop opposite and fired two more shots. Not that it mattered. Far down the street, a shadowy figure darted from a break in the snowdrifts. Caught for a second in the street lamp, the shooter was wearing a white parka—and Fritzi could see that it was badly stained with blood. Melting into the snow, Koslowski bolted across Main Street.

  Nathan took aim. As he fired, Koslowski dove for cover. Not a second later Fritzi’s snowmobile motor started. As Koslowski took off, Fritzi realized she’d been so scared she’d forgotten the keys.

  “Keep your hands where they are.” Nathan dropped to his knees next to her and rapidly checked over Stan. “I hijacked Brownie’s dogs and rifle. Koslowski must be hurt pretty bad.”

  Otherwise the killer would have headed right for them, Fritzi thought. She forced herself to keep pressing down on Stan’s wound, trying not to think about the blood or about Koslowski coming back and spraying bullets at them from close range.

  “The sheriff’s shot in the leg, but I think he’s okay,” she managed to say. “He’s trying to get Doc Lambert.”

  “Press harder.” Nathan’s hand closed over her bloodied mittens, directing her movements. “I’ll be back. We can’t move him without a stretcher.”

  With that, Nathan was suddenly gone, running across the street toward the clinic. Pure panic hit Fritzi then. She felt as if some stranger were inside her—someone she’d never even met. Someone who might not be able to rise to the task of saving this man’s life. If only she could do something more. The man’s breath was shallow, a faint wheeze. She felt so sure he was going to die.

  How could Nathan be so calm? As much as she hated the man, she wished he’d hurry back. Her eyes drifted over Stan. Then she leaned close, feeling numb, but murmuring words of encouragement into his ears. “You’re going to be okay. Don’t worry.” Fritzi felt a sudden twinge of heartbreak—and pride. And hope. “My—uh—husband Nathan’s here. He’s a surgeon—”

  She heard glass shatter. Nathan had broken a window at the clinic. Joe limped quickly down the stairs, his pant leg tied with a blood-soaked tourniquet, his usually dusky skin looking pale, a rifle in his hand. He kneeled next to Fritzi and began examining Stan.

  She glanced wildly over her shoulder. “Nathan went for a stretcher.”

  “Doc Lambert’s on his way.”

  “Nathan’s a doctor.”

  “Well, I didn’t think he was a cannery worker.” The sheriff sighed. As he took Stan’s pulse, he said, “I found three spent shell casings in the schoolhouse basement last night.”

  Before Fritzi could respond, Nathan ran back across the road with the stretcher. Between the three of them, they managed to transfer Stan, carry him across to the clinic, then move him onto a gurney.

  “You’ve got to help me, Fritzi.” Nathan rifled through drawers and cabinets, pulling out medications, syringes and metal instruments, then he rolled an IV pole from a corner. “Sheriff, can you keep an eye and a gun on the door?”

  Joe Tanook glanced at Stan, then nodded. “Sure.” The sheriff had questions. But he wasn’t about to ask them while a man’s life hung in the balance. He limped toward the door with his rifle.

  As Nathan began to administer an IV, Fritzi’s gaze met his over the gurney. “Malcolm,” she said simply. “He’s at Abby’s.”

  Nathan stared back. “As soon as Doc Lambert gets here, we’ll go for him.”

  “If Koslowski’s outside, we could…” Lead him right to the baby. Tears filled her eyes. She couldn’t bear to even say the words out loud. Maybe it was better to stay here….

  “Koslowski’s badly hurt,” Nathan said.

  That meant the killer was probably tending his own wound. “You don’t think Malcolm’s in danger?”

  Nathan worked swiftly with Stan, answering only with his eyes. They seemed to say that maybe Koslowski already knew where Malcolm was. Or maybe he didn’t—and he was outside. Which meant he might follow them to Abby’s.

  Suddenly, he spoke, his voice almost terse in the silence. “If we walk out before Doc gets here, Fritzi, this man will definitely die. Do you understand?”

  Fritzi managed to nod, praying Koslowski was really attending to his own gunshot wound. If he wasn’t, maybe he wouldn’t guess Malcolm was at Abby’s. Or if he did, maybe Abby would hide.

  Because Nathan was right. Stan Steinbrenner was dying. And if Joe Tanook left his post, there was nothing to stop Koslowski from gunning them all down. Besides, Doc Lambert was on his way.

  “Fritzi?”

  She stared over the gurney, into Nathan’s dark steady eyes. “What?”

  “I love you.”

  “I don’t want to love you” was all she could say.

  She wasn’t even sure Nathan heard. His attention was riveted on the dying man again. And as Fritzi handed Nathan the sharp, long-handled instrument he indicated, she decided she was no longer in White Wolf Pass, Alaska, at all.

  She was in hell.

  And somewhere out there, she could only pray that God in his heaven was keeping her baby safe.

  Chapter Twelve

  It seemed as if hours had passed before Nathan was running alongside Brownie Mulray’s old hickory sled again, rifle in hand. As he checked the harnesses, the ten bushy-tailed huskies roused, barking and tossing their heads. “Are you okay, Fritz?” Nathan shouted.

  “No!” Kris Koslowski had Malcolm. She was sure of it.

  Nathan’s eyes met hers over the sled. He shouted into the gale-force wind, “Our baby’s fine.”

  But Fritzi knew Nathan was only being strong for her. “Joe couldn’t even get Abby on the shortwave!”

  Nathan nodded urgently. “Just get on.”

  Crossing her arms against her blood-stained parka and bending into the brutal winds, Fritzi managed to huddle on the sled—drawing her legs beneath her, leaving room for Nathan to stand behind her and mush the dogs. In
the time it had taken Doc to arrive, the storm had risen again; inky black darkness had fallen and sixty-mile-an-hour gales drove the thick snow down in sheets.

  Nathan thrust his gloves into her hands. “Here, wear them.”

  “You need them more.”

  He ignored her, giving her the rifle. “And you’ll need this.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep an eye out and shoot anything that moves.”

  As Fritzi quickly donned the gloves, then cradled the rifle, Nathan jumped behind her on the sled—shouting to the dogs, mushing them hard down Main Street, taking the corner at breakneck speed. The strong winds pushed them from behind, and as they headed up the mountain, Nathan shouted, “Don’t forget, Koslowski’s hurt. Maybe Abby’s radio’s just down.”

  Or Kris Koslowski was at Abby’s.

  Don’t even think it, Fritzi. Or about Stan. He was so close to death, hanging on by a thread. Acrid antiseptics still stung Fritzi’s nasal passages and throat. So did the iron smell of her bloodied parka. Her body ached, her head throbbed, and her good foot was cramping since she’d been keeping her weight on it. Her nerves were overwrought, her emotions in overdrive.

  When they reached the hill above the No Name River, Fritzi glanced around wildly. This dark morning midnight was so frightfully unnatural, the perfect habitat for a killer. Cold and ominous, it penetrated her skin like the rushing winds, freezing her to the bone. As they raced past the bridge, she saw the river beneath it had frozen solid. Downstream, huge ice floes were gridlocked. Slush churned, swirling in the black currents.

  Forcing her mind off Malcolm, Fritzi screamed, “Do you think Stan’ll make it?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on Doc now. We just have to get to Abby’s.”

  But what if Abby’s been attacked by Koslowski? Fritzi tried, to glance behind her, but a wall of wind slammed her face, and her eyes reflexively shut against the snow. Even her parka couldn’t keep out the bitter cold. “Hurry!”