by Meg Gardiner
“Rattler strike . . . ,” she said, and knew Gabe didn’t hear. The helicopter, she saw, was a Pave Hawk. It was the goddamned 129th.
She looked at the hillside. Lark and Noah were on the north side of the bridge. They were safe. She looked down. At the bottom of the ravine lay Haugen. She felt dizzy, heard a new hum in her ears, high pitched and squealing.
She turned her face to the sky. On the bridge above her, Autumn climbed around the gate and joined Gabe in hauling on the rope. Jo felt herself being lugged up toward them, a few inches at a time.
Autumn hadn’t wanted her to risk duping Haugen. Autumn had tried to stop her, because she feared it was dangerous. Autumn was a damned smart kid. She’d been right.
The pain was incredible. Her arm throbbed and she felt nauseated. She reached up with her uninjured arm and heard the thunder of her blood in her head.
Haugen had been covered in rattlers. They had poured out of the sack onto him. Angry, basic, fight-or-die Mojave greens. How many times they had struck she couldn’t imagine. She looked down again. His face was a mass of swollen bites.
The helicopter hovered above. Its loud and ugly rotors sounded like salvation. She had heard Haugen say it was inbound. She had gambled that even if she got bitten, they’d be here in time. She didn’t know yet if she’d won the wager.
Hurry, she thought. And closed her eyes.
When she opened her eyes, she was in the Pave Hawk.
“Hold on. We’re going to get you to the hospital,” a PJ said.
Her vision was blurred but she could see that they were still on the ground. She saw the mountains outside. Granite peaks patched with snow. She was on a litter. The rotors were cycling up.
The PJ’s green flight suit looked reassuring. She felt the needle prick, but compared to the rattler strike it was nothing.
“Antivenom?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She felt like she was on fire. She felt blurry and sick. Noah lay nearby her on a litter in the Pave Hawk. Another PJ was working on him. He had an IV line in.
“Peyton?” she said.
“She’s being treated.” A hand touched her shoulder. “Lie still. You’re going to be okay.”
“You guys have a reassuring bedside manner,” she said.
Outside the helicopter, hands over her ears, Lark stared in at her. Jo tried to give her a thumbs-up.
Behind Lark, Gabe stood as still as a totem pole, his face grave. Sunlight kicked from the dial of his watch. Jo closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, the rotors had cycled up to a high whine. The grass outside lay beaten flat and the trees swayed in the downdraft. Lark was leaning in the door, hands still covering her ears. She looked at Noah and mouthed, Love you.
Gabe put a hand on Lark’s shoulder and gently pulled her back from the door. Behind him in the trees, pale shadows moved. Jo caught his eye. She tried to tell him, Love you too, Sergeant, but the noise was too loud.
The PJ turned to the door and grabbed the handle. Jo’s eyes began to drift shut. Behind Gabe on the hillside, Ruby Kyle Ratner stepped out of the tree line.
When Jo opened her eyes, the Pave Hawk’s door was sliding shut. Gabe raised a hand, wishing her a safe flight. Ratner was closer. His eyes were blazing, his lips blue with cold. His left side was caked red with blood.
Jo raised her head. “Gabe—”
Ratner’s right arm came up. It rippled with blue snakes. A pistol shone in his hand.
“Everybody in the chopper,” he said.
Gabe turned. The Pave Hawk shuddered.
“You’re taking me to Reno,” Ratner said.
The sound of the gunshot was muffled by the rotors. Ratner dropped where he stood. His knees hit the ground and he slumped and toppled forward. His chest hit the grass. The round had caught him in the side of the head.
Autumn walked toward him from the far side of the helicopter. Haugen’s revolver was steady in her hand.
61
The media beat Peter Reiniger to the airport in Sonora. The flash flood—and the rockslides, the station wagon that washed into the river, and a school bus that had nearly been swept away—had brought news crews to the Sierra foothills. Through the window of the G5, Reiniger saw reporters and photographers and a TV crew from Sacramento, with its television cameras, its microphones, its van with the microwave dish on top. His private jet was the most exciting thing to land in the pine-covered hills for at least half an hour.
The plane eased to a stop. Reiniger opened the door himself while the engines were still screaming. Waiting outside the terminal building was Autumn.
The steps came down. Reiniger climbed out and ran across the wet runway. Autumn stood solemnly, her curls rising in the wind like a corona. The morning sun reflected from the rainwater on the ground, blinding gold. She was wearing a jean jacket and hiking boots he didn’t recognize. She was pale. She had dark circles under her eyes.
Where was Dustin? Reiniger would have expected to see him holding Autumn up. Instead, Lark was beside his daughter. Autumn hugged the chubby girl, said something to her, quietly. Lark squeezed her back. Autumn turned and strode toward him.
He crossed the distance in seconds. The jet’s engines wound down behind him. He grasped Autumn by the shoulders, fighting emotion. The media was watching.
“Thank God.” He embraced her. “You’re safe. It’s over.” He squeezed her hard. She felt edgy and exhausted and resistant.
She pulled back. “I’m safe.”
Her eyes were dry. She stood as stiff as a door. Was she still terrified?
“It’s okay. You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” he said.
He glanced at the crowd outside the terminal. Lark was sensible and grounded. If Autumn lost it, Lark could pick up the pieces. Lark could get Autumn to hold it together.
“Where is everybody?” he said.
“Didn’t you hear?”
He smiled. “Hear what?”
She looked astonished. “Don’t you know? Dustin’s dead. Grier’s dead.”
Reiniger felt all the heat in his body evaporate.
“It was Dane Haugen,” she said.
Reiniger’s hands wouldn’t seem to work. Or his tongue. He tried to take Autumn’s hand and couldn’t raise his arm. He felt frozen.
“You knew it was Haugen, didn’t you?” she said.
Her gaze felt like raw heat. He nodded. “He wanted me to ransom you.”
“It was revenge, wasn’t it? Because you fired him. Because he freaked out on an Edge Adventures weekend.”
“Autumn, not here.”
“You’d been letting him do whatever he wanted until then. But he couldn’t cut it in your playground, so you cut him loose.”
“Not here,” he said, glancing at the news crews. But she wouldn’t move. Finally, Reiniger said, “He’s a bad man.”
“He’s dead too. And so is the Bad Cowboy. I killed him.”
Reiniger felt the words go through him. They made no sense. “What do you mean, killed him? Like, a game? You got him out of your system?”
“I shot him with Haugen’s three-fifty-seven revolver.” She waited, frosty and implacable. “We have to call Grier’s family. And Dustin’s.”
He rubbed his forehead. “Right.”
“You didn’t pay him the money, did you?” she said.
“No. I didn’t.”
“What did he want you to do?”
He didn’t want to discuss this. “It’s irrelevant. It’s done now. You’re safe.”
“He was going to make a killing in the market, wasn’t he?”
“Autumn. Enough. You’re out of it. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“But you were willing to pull all kinds of dirty tricks to buy my way out of there, right? And let Haugen fly off in your jet?”
“I’m your father. I’d do anything to save you. Anything.”
“That’s the problem.”
She turned and headed toward the
small terminal. Cameras and microphones perked up and swung their way. Reiniger hurried after her.
“Where are you going?” he said.
“Leaving.”
“So get on the jet.”
“No. We’re driving back to the hospital to see Noah and Peyton. Then we’re going to talk about your money.”
“Autumn—”
She turned, slowly, with great deliberation. “Did you pull cash out of Reiniger Capital?”
“Yes.” He was hot now. “It can’t be undone. I’m on the line for all of it.”
“Good. Because you’re going to take the proceeds and put them toward Noah’s recuperation, and Peyton’s. And money for scholarships in Grier’s and Dustin’s names. And we’ll find out from the sheriff’s office what they need, and you’ll set up a trust fund in memory of the deputy who died last night. And another for the family of the rancher who was killed.”
Autumn stood in front of him, dirty and exhausted, and wearing it like a badge of honor and rage and friendship. Lark watched her with open pride in her eyes.
Reiniger hesitated, incredulous. His daughter was steel.
“Have the Edge game runners been found?” she said.
He nodded. “They’re all alive.”
“Great.” She looked relieved. “That’s wonderful. Put them on the payroll at Reiniger Capital.”
“Excuse me?”
“They’re going to need new jobs.”
He paused. “I think you’re confused—”
“They’ll need new jobs, because you’re going to pay whatever it takes to buy Edge Adventures. And shut it down.”
“Autumn. Get real.”
Her smile was chilly. “Right. Real. In that case, you buy Edge. And I’ll shut it down.”
She put an arm around Lark. Reiniger stood on the runway like he’d been struck by lightning. He watched Autumn walk away.
62
When Jo walked out of the hospital, she had her arm in a sling. The day was burnished, the best San Francisco had to offer. Tina paced along slowly at her side, carrying her things. Jo’s forearm was immobilized in a cast. She had suffered nerve damage from the bite of the Mojave green. She faced months of rehabilitation and physical therapy. But her prognosis was good. She had been lucky.
Outside, Amy Tang was waiting, leaning against the side of an unmarked Crown Vic. Spike haired, dressed in goth black, chewing gum, she somehow had a Buddha’s calm. From behind her sunglasses, she said, “I’m still counting those lives, cat.”
“It’s all about statistics with you, isn’t it?” Jo said.
Tang smiled.
Tina hefted the flowers Ferd had sent. They were so lavish that they looked like a stage prop for Little Shop of Horrors.
“I need to load these in the car before they eat me,” she said.
As she headed off, Jo moseyed over to the Crown Vic. Mosey was her top speed at the moment. Leaning against the car next to Tang, like they were bandmates in a rock video, was Evan Delaney.
She looked calm and bright-eyed, her toffee-colored hair flicking in the breeze. And she looked strangely melancholic at seeing Jo. Perhaps it was the sight of Jo’s lingering injuries and knowledge of the chaos wrought by Haugen and Ratner.
Noah had been released from the hospital. His recovery was going to be painful but straightforward, thanks to youth, fitness, and good luck. He had months of grueling rehabilitation ahead, but he could look forward to a full recovery. So could Terry Coates. His shattered femur had been pinned back together, and with work, he should return eventually to full strength. Peyton had not been quite so lucky. The broken clavicle was healing, but she too had suffered nerve damage from the snake bite. The doctors didn’t yet know if she would recover full use of her arm.
Jo approached the Crown Vic. “I can’t look that bad, can I?”
Evan said, “You look ready for your close-up. In a zombie movie.” Then she smiled. “No, you look sunny. But you gave us a scare.”
“And you got the story,” Jo said.
“Bigger story than even I could have imagined. And I have a gargantuan imagination.” The smile softened. “But you got more than anybody bargained for.”
“Thank you for your help. You were a lifeline. Both of you.”
Jo held out her hand. Evan squeezed it. Jo held on for an extra second. “I’m going to archive all your text messages. I’ll never erase them.”
Tang glanced across the road. Gabe’s 4Runner was parked across the street. Gabe was waiting behind the wheel, elbow propped on the open window.
“Got energy for the debrief?” Tang said.
“Not really.”
Jo knew most of it already. Haugen had died from the fall from the catwalk. But if he hadn’t fallen, he would only have lived a few hours. He’d sustained enough bites from the nest of baby rattlers to kill five people.
Von was also dead. His body had been found in the pit in the mine. A punji stick had impaled his thigh, but he had died from the ricochet of a bullet fired from his own gun.
Sabine Jurgens alone had survived. Now she was talking, at length, to the Tuolumne County sheriffs and the FBI, in the hopes of leniency. She wouldn’t get it.
Jo had no interest in hearing about Sabine’s attempts to spin excuses for herself. The only thing she found pertinent was Sabine’s admission that she had shot and wounded Ruben Kyle Ratner as he fled from her and Haugen during their negotiation on the mountain—and that she had erred in assuming Ratner was dead. She and Haugen had seen him lying bloody and motionless at the bottom of a gully. Impatient, Haugen had left the scene and gone after Autumn. But Ratner regained consciousness and was able to drag himself up the ravine and nearly hijack the Pave Hawk.
Tang raised her hands in surrender. She’d wait to talk until Jo was ready.
Then Jo mellowed. “Give me the short version.”
“The sheriffs rescued the horse,” Tang said.
Jo felt the beginnings of a smile. “Great. Has anybody told Autumn she’s a hero?”
“I don’t know,” Tang said. “But I’m going to tell her to apply to the SFPD. That kid has a spine.”
“No kidding.”
Evan looked tart. “I’ll give you the short version. Peter Reiniger planned a dream birthday for his daughter. Haugen turned it into a nightmare. But you stole the show.”
Jo smiled at her. “Call me the nightmare thief.”
She walked past the Crown Vic and stepped into the sunlight. The hospital looked out across the hillsides of the city, past the white towers of St. Ignatius Church, over the rolling green forest of the Presidio, to the iron red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. She inhaled air tinged with salt. For a while, she had wondered if she would ever see this view again.
She ambled slowly toward the 4Runner. Tang and Evan flanked her.
“So what did you get up to while I was gone?” she said.
Evan said, “This and that. Tang and I did each other’s hair. And she showed me her scrapbooks, all those pony club ribbons for dressage. Tina taught me how to count cards.”
Jo gave her a crooked stare.
“Then Ferd entertained us with selected songs from The Mikado. In costume,” she said. “Did you know Mr. Peebles mixes a wicked cosmopolitan?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You have a good bunch here.”
They reached the 4Runner. Evan paused. “Up there on that bridge—you threw the dice hard, Jo.”
Gabe glanced over.
“It was a calculated gamble,” Jo said.
“I have to know—what gave you the nerve to try?” Evan said.
Jo hesitated. “Something a friend said to me. That when you can’t change a situation, and can’t get out of it, you have to go forward. Call it a hard fact of life.”
Evan looked, all at once, like she’d turned to smooth stone. Her eyes were hot, confused, and longing, all at the same time.
“He told you that, didn’t he?” she said.
Jo held poised. She sensed that Evan was on the lip of something—a change, a breakthrough, a crash. Light. She waited, and Evan said it.
“Jesse.”
“He’s the one.”
Evan flushed, and her eyes shimmered. Jo lowered her voice to a murmur.
“Jesse told me about your father’s disappearance, and—the rest. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t . . . I want . . .”
Jo thought about shaking her hand, then pulled her into a hug. She said, “Waiting’s no good. Jesse’s out there.”
Evan held still, tightly knotted. After a moment she inhaled and stepped back. Her eyes gleamed. “Right.”
Gabe got out of the 4Runner and walked around to open the passenger door for Jo. She smiled once more at her friends and got in.
Gabe got behind the wheel and pulled out carefully. They drove quietly for a block. His mind was elsewhere. Jo suspected he was evaluating what she had said to Evan about the calculated gamble.
She turned to him. “I saw my chance and took it. I knew the chopper was coming.”
“I know you did.”
“I’m sorry that I worried you.”
“Don’t apologize.”
She felt, all at once, a swell of emotion. Everything swept over her: relief, happiness to be going home, sadness at the loss of innocent lives, elation that Gabe was alive and unharmed and there with her. Her vision swam.
He pulled over. “Jo.”
She raised a hand. “It’s okay. Rogue emotional wave. I’m fine.”
He unhooked his seat belt and pulled her against him. “Let’s not think about everything right now. I know you’re okay. It’s just that . . . the risks you take—”
She felt a cold thread of worry. “Don’t tell me you’re breaking up with me.”
“What? No. Christ, no.”
She looked up. “Then what?”
“You scare me sometimes. So kick my butt. Keep me onside. Sometimes I’m stupid.”
“What are you saying?” she said.
“That I know I can trust you. You’re not reckless. But you are going to live at high pitch, and go to the wall. I just have to roll with it.”
She shook her head, baffled. “You’re losing me.”
