by Maggie Pill
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Barb
Just after nine a.m., we heard them. Sleds had passed for some time, making far away, high-pitched buzzes that rose and then fell. This time the sound grew steadily louder. Two sleds, I thought. Retta had brought help.
Looking out the window, I saw her unique pink-and-purple helmet appear at the top of the ridge. A second rider, this one taller in the saddle than most, stopped behind her.
“Wait for me here,” I ordered Winston.
He retreated to the back of the cabin. “I hope that’s our ride out of this icebox.”
“You and me both.”
Stepping outside, I climbed up to where Retta was taking off her helmet. The man with her removed his own helmet and looked down at the cabin with interest. I recognized the guy I’d seen waiting outside the police department.
“Barbara Ann, meet DEA Special Agent Lars Johannsen,” Retta said.
As I opened my mouth to speak, more sleds roared up and stopped about thirty feet back. The new party consisted of three machines, two with single riders and one with two. The guy in the lead climbed off and raised the visor of his helmet. Though I’d never seen him before, he asked, “Are you Retta?”
“Yes.”
“These guys hired me to bring them out here. I guess you’re old friends.”
There was a sharp report, and the speaker jerked spasmodically. His friendly grin turned to stunned incomprehension, and he crumpled to the ground.
“Get inside!”
I looked toward the sound. Retta’s companion had grabbed her by the arms, and he pushed her down the slope toward the cabin. “Inside!” he repeated, and this time I got it. A glance past him revealed that the man with the gun was now aiming in my general direction.
Launching myself over the incline, I rolled to the bottom and stumbled toward the cabin. More shots were fired, but we were for the moment below the shooters’ line of sight. When we reached the cabin and tumbled inside, the big man slammed the door closed and pushed the wooden bolt into place to secure it. Judging by dull thuds I heard on the other side, two bullets hit the door a second afterward. Since my face was level with the agent’s shoulder, I noticed a hole in his coat sleeve where red oozed out. “You’ve been shot!”
Ignoring my comment, Johannsen pushed us all to the rear of the room. Turning the table over, he gestured for Darrow and me to get behind it. His gaze scoured the cabin, assessing its possibilities as a shelter from killers with guns. His expression said he didn’t whole-heartedly approve, but he pointed at the stone fireplace. He and Retta took shelter in its corner.
As Darrow and I crouched behind the table in very close quarters, Retta slid the agent’s jacket off and examined his wound. Surprisingly calm, she took off her scarf and bound the arm tightly. “It went through the fleshy part,” she said. “If we stop the bleeding, you’ll be okay until we get you to a hospital.” When had Retta become an expert on gunshot wounds? For his part, Johannsen never stopped looking out the window.
“What happened up there?” Darrow asked.
“They killed that poor man!” Retta’s tone revealed she wasn’t feeling quite as cool as she was pretending.
“Who?” Darrow crouched between the two of us, his eyes wide. “Who did they kill?”
Retta bit her lip and Johannsen said, “A guide, I think. Once he got them here, he was no further use to them.”
“Like us,” Retta said. “We led them here, and now they’ll kill us.”
The agent checked Darrow out dispassionately. “As long as we’ve got him, we stay alive.”
The silence that followed that remark was creepy. Actually, the silence outside the cabin was creepy, too. What were they doing? How would they try to get Darrow away from us?
“Who are you?” Darrow demanded.
“Agent Lars Johannsen,” the tall guy said. “DEA.”
“That’s good,” Darrow said. “You guys travel in packs, right?”
Johannsen licked his lips. “Sometimes. Not this time.”
Darrow moaned, and I wanted to moan along with him.
Johannsen asked, “What’s the fastest way to get help?”
“No such thing as fast out here,” Retta answered. “I’ll send texts to the Milldon and Bonner County sheriffs.” As she thumbed the keyboard she added, “There’s no road within a mile of here that’s maintained in winter.”
“So how will they get to us?”
“The same way we got here.” Her eyes widened with surprise. “There’s a message from Faye: RORY ON HIS WAY TO U.
“What does that mean?” Johannsen asked.
“Rory is Chief Neuencamp. What ‘on his way’ means, I can’t say. As far as I know, he hasn’t got a snowmobile, and mine are both already here.”
“Hey, you inside!” It was George. “Send Darrow out. Once he tells us what we want to know, we’ll leave!”
“Don’t let them take me! Please don’t!” Darrow pleaded. He touched the fading bruise on his cheek unconsciously as if fearing the pain to come.
“We won’t give you up, Winston,” Retta assured him.
“That’s right,” Johannsen agreed. “You’re going to show me where your wife hid her secret stash.”
“I keep telling people, I don’t—”
“Later,” I interrupted. No sense letting the agent know Darrow was useless to him until we were out of this mess.
The cabin window exploded, causing everyone to jump and some of us to scream—all of us, in fact, except the G-man. Cold air rushed in. The fire leapt and roared as it sucked in fresh oxygen. From then on, though, the warmth drained away as the fire’s heat was neutralized by the cold that came through the gaping hole. I looked longingly at the corner where we’d piled our winter wear. Was it better to freeze slowly or die quickly of a gunshot wound?
Johannsen solved my dilemma, crawling across the room and tossing the items to us. Getting the clothes on was awkward, and Darrow kept kicking me as he pulled his own snow pants on, but we managed.
Retta watched from her crouched stance, and my fears were reflected in her eyes. “We have to get out of here.”
We turned to Johannsen, who glanced around. “One door, one very open window, both in front. No other exit.”
Retta surveyed the room, no doubt hoping he was wrong. I didn’t. I’d spent the last day and a half here, and Johannsen was right. There was no way out.
Except there was. Without raising his head, Darrow pointed upward. “There’s that octagon-shaped one, up there. You can hardly see it except when you’re sitting by the window.”
We followed his gaze. On the back wall at the apex was an odd little window about eighteen inches across. Apparently designed to let in light, it had over the years been made less effective by large pines that had grown up behind the cabin.
“Nobody could get out that opening,” Johannsen said.
“I can.” Retta was right. At a hundred twenty pounds, she has hips like a ballerina.
“How would you get up there?” I asked.
“Agent Johannsen can lift me.”
He looked at the window then at Retta. Turning to me he asked, “Ever fired a pistol?”
“Yes.” I saw where this was headed. “I’ll cover you.”
Without further question he handed his sidearm over. “Stand by the window. If anything moves out there, take a shot. Don’t waste ammunition, but don’t be shy, either. I’d rather not take one in the kidney while I’m boosting your sister up.”
“Got it.” I moved to the wall beside the window, kicking shards of broken glass aside. The clink they made was how my insides felt, brittle and shattered.
“Retta,” Johannsen was saying, “when you’re out, circle behind them, get to the trail, and lead the sheriff’s men here.”
“Check your phone when you get up on the flat,” I added. “You might get a signal.”
She nodded. Her face was pale, and for once she didn’t amend the plan. “I will.”
�
��Take off your coat,” Johannsen said. “It’s too bulky to get through the opening.”
“Boots, too,” she said. “I’ll toss them out first.” Taking off her boots, she tied the laces together and hung them around her neck. Johannsen set his back against the wall and made his hands into a basket. Turning to me, Retta smiled before putting her coat collar between her teeth. I smiled back, but mine was as weak as hers had been. She didn’t want to do this, and I didn’t want her to. Baby Sister was the only one who could.
Turning away, Retta put one foot in Johannsen’s cupped hands, put her own hands on his shoulders and lifted herself up. Once she was stable, she set one foot on his shoulder then the other, straddling his head as she reached to open the window. It was stuck, and she had to hammer at it. I tried to concentrate on my job, watching the hillside above us, but when I glanced back again I saw blood on her knuckles.
The latch yielded, though. The window was hinged at the top, and a metal brace held it open. The next time I looked, Retta’s head and arms had disappeared through the opening. I imagined what she was thinking. She’d wriggle through and then what? Drop to the ground head first? The snow should cushion her fall, but what if there was something under it? She could be hurt, possibly killed.
When the shot rang out, I almost didn’t realize what it was. Something whizzed by, thudding into the wall beside Johannsen, and Darrow swore in a tone of pure panic. Our attackers had tired of waiting and sent us a warning.
I’d forgotten the weapon in my hand, but Johannsen growled, “Return fire!” With a jerky motion I raised the gun and fired. Peering around the windowsill, I watched for a moment. Something moved, and I fired a second shot, actually aiming this time. I probably wouldn’t hit anyone, but the idea was deterrence, not accuracy.
A hand touched my arm, and Johannsen spoke in my ear. “I’ll take that now.”
Handing him the gun, I backed away from the window. Looking up at the tiny opening overhead, I saw that Retta was gone. We had no way of knowing more than that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Retta
The hardest part was not screaming when I saw the drop.
Standing on Lars’ shoulders raised me to where the window was just above my waist. Once I wrenched the rusty latch open, I pushed my coat and boots through and leaned out. There was no porch at the back, just a rich, white drift of untouched snow that curled softly toward the cabin wall at its tip. If all went well, I’d drop into a pillow of soft snow.
There were other scenarios. The snow might have a heavy crust, which would cut any unprotected skin like tiny knives when I broke through. There might be something under it I couldn’t see, a piece of metal or a wooden frame. I wondered briefly if it was best to launch myself outward or drop straight down. Could I flip in the air and get my feet under me?
Lars stood patiently, waiting for me to make my move. Wriggling forward, I balanced my weight on the frame, releasing him. Without pausing to let my terrified side argue with my determined side, I pushed my body forward until my hips rested on the window frame. With a burst of effort I twisted myself around so that I sat in the opening, legs in and torso out. Clutching the frame with both hands, I looked down again.
The snow appeared deepest about three feet out. Setting my heels against the frame, I moved my hands to the inside of the window and grasped the trim. Once I had a firm grip, I pulled my rear up and brought one foot then the other to the outer edge of the sill. At that point it wasn’t a matter of getting the courage to let go. I couldn’t have held on for long anyway. I did remember to push off with my legs, which landed me near the spot I’d chosen.
The crust was cushioned by a few inches of new snow, so my landing wasn’t bad. My rear hit first, but I rolled, taking some of the impact on my hips and thighs. I heard myself grunt and immediately felt the cold of a generous portion of snow up the back of my sweater. I lay there a few seconds, taking stock. Other than the fact that the snow was fast melting to ice water at my waistline, I seemed to be okay.
As I put my coat and boots back on, I formulated a plan. Behind me was the river, which was unsafe to cross since I wasn’t familiar with its path, span, and currents. Out front were our enemies. I’d have to make a wide arc around them, but the snow was deep, so it wouldn’t be easy. I could walk on the crust in some places, but in others I’d sink to my waist.
As I finished lacing up my second boot, one of the men out front shouted, “Hey in there! Are you going to send the guy out or are you all going to die?”
Nobody answered. I pictured Winston crouched behind the upended table, watching Barbara and Lars with fear in his heart. They wouldn’t give him up, though. For one thing, it wouldn’t save them. It was more likely George and his friends would set fire to the cabin and leave their charred corpses for the authorities to puzzle over.
I cut through the trees, crawling on all fours to better distribute my weight. Pushing through the heavily-laden pine branches shook snow onto my head and down my neck, and crawling was tiring. After a while I stood, hoping walking would be faster.
It was and it wasn’t. Every three or four steps, I broke through. Each time, I fought my way back to the surface and went on. Breathing became difficult as my lungs fought to fuel my straining limbs. I went back to crawling, then walking, alternating the two. Before long, I was wet with sweat and every muscle in my body shook with fatigue. When I left the hollow where the cabin lay, not only was I fighting waist-deep snow, I also had to deal with the steep climb to the road.
At the end of the line of trees, I stopped to catch my breath and reconnoiter. I’d reached the snow-buried road, and I could see our attackers clearly. Getting past them meant crossing the road, and if one of them noticed me, I was dead.
I turned to see what lay in the opposite direction, but there were only trees. If I followed the road that way, it might come to an abrupt end or wind and turn until I completely lost my bearings. I couldn’t help Barbara by wandering for hours through the frozen woods. The trail was my best chance. I had to hope those men were completely focused on Rory’s cabin.
“It’s only twenty feet,” I whispered to myself, but it didn’t help. For twenty feet, I’d be clearly visible in my bright pink snowsuit. I needed a distraction, thirty seconds or so when all of them were focused on something else.
Pulling out my phone, I texted Barbara. MAKE SOME NOISE.
Sitting back under my tree, I waited.
And waited.
Barbara Ann is terrible at communication in the modern world. She often forgets to check her phone for messages. She still believes in email. She refuses to be part of Facebook or Twitter. As I sat there sweaty and scared, I worked myself up to real irritation with her. She’d probably shut her phone off to save the battery or put it somewhere she couldn’t reach it or—
The sound of breaking glass echoed across the valley below me, and I looked toward the cabin. A stick—actually a broomstick held in a large hand that had to be Lars’—jabbed at the remaining shards of window glass, knocking them onto the snow. At the same time, I heard the sound of wood on wood and a voice shouting loudly, releasing frustration, anger, and primitive rage. Barbara Ann as I’d never heard her before, banging furniture and hollering like a Viking on the attack. It was enough to distract George and the others, to make them wonder what the cabin’s occupants were up to. If I moved quickly and stayed low, they wouldn’t see me cross the road.
Leaving the shelter of the pines, I ventured into the open and scrambled across, using hands and feet. I almost sobbed with relief when I reached the trees on the other side without any bullet holes.
My sister Barbara is pretty good at coming through when she’s needed.
George and the others were no doubt trying to figure out what had just happened. Knowing there was at least one gun inside made them cautious, but how long would they wait to make a move? How long did I have?
Taking my phone out again, I checked the bars. None. I texted 911 anyway:
RORY’S CABIN. HELP! and replaced the phone in my zippered front pocket. On the trail I might find a spot with better reception. Forcing my aching legs to move, I made my way through the trees, circling behind George and his buddies.
Then a better thought occurred to me. Five snowmobiles sat idle not fifty yards away. My own was too close to the men with guns, but the three they’d come on were farther back. On a sled I’d reach the sheriff much faster than I could on foot.
Could I sneak down there, start a machine and get away before they caught me? They’d chase me, but I was pretty sure I could outride a bunch of guys from New Mexico. The other option was trekking through a half-mile of snow to locate the trail, where I might walk for miles before meeting someone. Liking the sled-stealing option better, I ignored the inner voice warning that no matter how experienced I was as a rider, I was completely inexperienced at sneaking up on armed men, stealing their stuff, and getting away while they shot at me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Barb
It was maddening not knowing whether Retta had gotten away or not. When we heard nothing, I told myself that meant they hadn’t caught her—hadn’t killed her—yet.
“How long till she reaches the trail?” Darrow asked.
“No idea.” In an attempt at encouragement I added, “If her text went through, she’ll meet the sheriff’s men there and lead them back here.”
Johannsen was frowning at his phone, apparently becoming aware that a call was impossible. I saw no point in mentioning it might work from the roof of the outhouse.
“They won’t get here in time,” Darrow whined. “They’ll find a pile of ash and a bunch of corpses.”
“Don’t—” I warned, but he was no longer in control.
“Those guys aren’t going to wait out there in the cold for long.” He jabbed a finger at the window, and his voice shook. “They’ll come after us. We haven’t got a chance!”
The agent looked at him. “Nobody has a chance once they give up,” he said coldly. Though I noticed the grammatical error, I didn’t correct him. Nobody is singular. He or she would give up, not they.
