by Maggie Pill
When my phone buzzed against my hip, I took it out, read the message, and smiled with relief. “It’s Retta. She says we need to make some noise.”
“Stand back.” Johannsen grabbed the broom and went to the window. With energetic punches, he knocked the remaining glass from the frame, stomping on the pieces already on the floor to maximize the noise he made. Doing my part, I took up a chair and pounded it against the floor, adding something between a scream and a yodel that felt like catharsis.
When the glass was all gone and my throat was raw from yelling, we lapsed into silence.
“Was that long enough?” I asked.
Before Johannsen could answer, an engine growled to life somewhere near the road. A shout followed, then another. Someone barked an order about stopping. It sounded more like, “Stop her!” than just “Stop!”
Retta had stolen one of the snowmobiles! It was a genius move—if she got away with the stealing part.
Shots rang out, echoing through the trees so it was hard to tell how many there were. More shouts, and a second engine started and roared away. I took that to mean Retta hadn’t been stopped—not yet, anyway. She was a good rider, and she had a slight head start. “Go, Retta!” I murmured, and across the room, Agent Johannsen nodded agreement.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Retta
With the three men focused on the noises coming from the cabin, I reached a snowmobile with no trouble. The problem would come when I started it. If I was lucky, the motor was still warm enough that it would start on the first pull. If it did that was good, but I still had to get the sled turned around before they shot me or dragged me off.
Taking a deep breath, I left cover and ran to the nearest machine. It was enough like my own that it took only a glance to see what I needed to do. Setting my feet firmly, I pulled the cord once. The engine roared to life, and three heads swiveled in my direction. After a brief pause of confusion, the three men pushed themselves to their feet. By that time I was on the machine, revving the engine and slamming it into gear. They started toward me, but I was riding a thousand pounds of metal. When I drove straight at them they dived for cover, as anyone would. One tripped and fell on his face in the snow. The other two jumped into a nearby clump of trees.
Once they were off their feet, I turned the machine in a tight half-circle and headed away. Shouts sounded behind me, though I couldn’t make out words. A bullet flew over my head, almost stop
my heart. Crouching low, I gunned the engine and kept going. When a sled started up behind me, I let out a sob of fear. It was no longer a simple matter of fetching help. I had to outrun a killer as well.
Speeding down the narrow track, I glanced behind me every few seconds. Before long I caught a glimpse of my pursuer, crouched low over the handlebars. He seemed to get bigger each time I looked back. The guy wasn’t afraid of speed, and I was his unwilling guide. He’d simply follow until he got close enough to shoot me in the back.
A dozen unhelpful questions rose in my mind. What does it feel like when a bullet enters your body? Would I die right away or bleed out in the snow? If I were wounded, would he finish me off with a smile as I lay there, unable to get away?
“Stop that!” I muttered aloud, trying to focus on my advantages. I was a hundred pounds lighter, so it would take him a while to catch up. When I reached the trail there might be other snowmobilers, which might force him to turn back. Then I remembered they’d shot their guide as soon as he served his purpose. How many more would they kill to get their way?
I pictured the trail ahead. Were there places I might turn off and lose him?
No. Off the trail, I’d leave a clear track for him to follow, and a snowmobile is not a silent mode of travel. There were no forks in the trail, either. It was a straight line into Allport, roughly following the path of the way.
The river! Years ago, my son Tony, always a bit of a daredevil, had scared us all by swerving off the trail and crossing the icy river on his sled. When we caught up with him, he’d laughed at our fears, saying, “You just keep your nerve and go hard. The sled will stay on top.”
“Keep your nerve and go hard?” I’d repeated, not sure I understood.
“Right. When the sled hits the water you have the urge to slow down, but if you do, you won’t make it.”
The snowmobile trail crossed the river twice along this stretch, and both crossings had narrow plank bridges built over them. If I turned off the trail, headed through the woods, and crossed the river, two things could happen. The guy behind me might stay on the trail, and I’d lose him. If he followed me I could cross the water. He wasn’t likely to know Tony’s secret, so he’d have to give up. Either way, I’d get away.
There were a few things wrong with my plan. For one, leaving the trail meant I’d have to plow through deep, unpacked snow. My pursuer, following my track, would have the advantage. If by chance he’d watched extreme snowmobiling on TV, he might know how to make a sled skim the water surface. In that case my bold move would mean nothing. Worst of all, in order to even try a crossing I needed just the right spot, a narrow place where both banks were level with the water. There was no way to know how far I’d have to go to find it.
The bridge was coming up. What should I do: attempt the trick or try to outrun him?
Almost of its own volition, the snowmobile turned left, leaving the trail. The engine’s drone dropped a few tones as the track engaged a more difficult surface to run on. The machine bucked under me as I fought to keep it heading forward, down a slight incline and between some trees. I stole a look backward. The rider behind me followed my turn, his face grim. At least it would be harder for him to shoot at me now, since steering took more concentration.
All the tricks I’d learned in years of riding were required as I wove between stumps and hillocks and bumped scrawny tree trunks out of my way. The river flowed beside me, but the bank on the other side rose steeply, thick with trees.
It was slow going, and the machine behind me came closer. I accelerated slightly but I couldn’t push it too much and take the chance that the rotating under the machine would dig itself a hole it couldn’t climb out of.
A ping! at my right made me crouch lower, but I kept the throttle pushed forward. He was shooting again. While I doubted he’d be accurate in these circumstances, a lucky shot wasn’t out of the question. The image of the gun pointed at my back made me feel like I might throw up.
There! I came over a rise to find that the river narrowed ahead as it passed through a rocky spot. The bank on both sides was almost level with the surface of the water. The opposite bank sloped upward at a gentle angle, fairly open. If I made it across, I wouldn’t have to maneuver around any trees.
It was good that I had little time to think about it. Gunning the engine to full throttle, I turned sharply right, heading straight for the river. Though I tried to trust my son’s experience, I couldn’t help picturing myself sinking somewhere in the middle, the sled settling to the muddy bottom as frigid water washed over me, pulling my heavy boots and layers of clothing under the surface.
Focus on success! I ordered. Imagine yourself riding away like Indiana Jones or Allen Quartermain while your pursuer shakes his fist on the opposite bank!
I maintained speed as I approached the icy river, trying to forget that the water was traveling perpendicular to the direction I wanted to go. It was hard to tell where the land ended and the ice began, but when I heard cracking beneath the sled, I knew I was on ice. Water bubbled over the surface. I closed my eyes, bit my lip, and recalled my son’s words: “Keep your nerve and go hard.” He was right. I was floating—
And then I wasn’t. I hit the bank with a jolt that shuddered up my spine and made my teeth click together. For a moment I feared the back of the sled would sink, but the spinning track caught against the rocks and pushed me forward onto dry land.
A few feet farther on I paused, chancing a look backward. If my pursuer followed successfully, I was lost. If he did
n’t, I was safe.
The guy was no coward, but he wasn’t brave enough. A second before he hit the open water he let off the gas, and the sled didn’t get the impetus needed to make the crossing. Halfway over, he sank like a stone in a bucket. The engine died as the carburetor filled with water, and for a moment there was only the purr of my machine.
Then the swearing began.
Rising from water almost up to his neck, that man called me every name he could think of. Abandoning the sunken machine, he started toward me, fighting the current, the mud, and his water-logged boots. Realizing my ordeal wasn’t over quite yet, I turned to go.
That’s when I realized I shouldn’t have stopped. My sled had sunk into the snow, and the track spun uselessly. I looked back at the man, who was now only waist deep in river water. There were only thirty feet between us. Even on foot, he might catch me before I could get going again.
Fighting panic, I forced myself to think. I’d been stuck before, and I knew what I had to do. Setting one foot against a nearby tree trunk, I rocked the sled from one side to the other, freeing the track of snow. Then, sitting as far back as I could on the seat, I gave it gas. The sled strained for a moment, the engine whining. I was enveloped in a cloud of exhaust. But when I shifted my weight the machine jerked forward, chewing its way along until it was again atop the snow. I looked back once to see my pursuer staggering from the river, but he was too late. Turning right, I traced the bank, knowing I’d find the trail again and head for the road, this time with no one in pursuit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Barb
Shots, at least three. Snowmobiles starting and roaring away, definitely two. What was happening?
When the engine noise faded it was quiet outside for some time, and I guessed the men were waiting, as we were, to learn the outcome of Retta’s escape attempt. There was nothing.
We squinted out the window. Sun on snow made a blinding whiteness, but there was nothing to see anyway. Johannsen said, “I think she got away.”
I wanted to agree, to banish the image of my sister lying dead on the trail. “Then we’ll get help soon.”
Johannsen answered with brusque honesty. “Darrow’s right. They won’t wait around for help to arrive.” Glancing out the window he added, “We should take our shot while there are only two out there.”
I pictured men with guns creeping downhill from an angle outside our view. He was correct. Retta had drawn one of them away. We needed to act before they returned to full strength.
“They want Darrow,” I said aloud.
Johannsen turned toward me. “Yeah?”
“What if they thought they were getting what they came for?”
Johannsen frowned. “What are you thinking?”
When I told him, his frown deepened. “Too dangerous.”
“Are we better off waiting for them to come down and set fire to this place?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I should go.”
“Look at you.” I raised one hand to his height. “Who’d be fooled into thinking you were Darrow?”
After a long pause, Johannsen sighed. “Can you look a man in the eye and shoot him?”
I thought about how these men had murdered Stacy, hurt Rory, and might by now have killed my sister. “I can.”
A few minutes later I was in disguise and fighting to keep my nerve. Wearing a ski mask, gloves, and boots, I was shapeless and featureless. “Almost perfect,” Johannsen said. Taking sunglasses from his coat pocket, he put them on me. “Your eyes give you away.” He pulled the mask over my face, hiding my chin and cheeks. “That’s better.”
I gave a thumbs up. He moved to the window, calling, “We send the guy out and you leave. Is that the deal?”
George replied, “We just want the husband.”
“Okay. He’s coming.” Johannsen opened the door, and, taking a deep breath, I stepped out and started uphill, trying to walk like a man and hide the fact that my right arm was not in the sleeve of the snowmobile suit. We’d stuffed it with Johannsen’s hat and my scarf, and he’d attached a rag-stuffed mitten to the cuff with electrical tape I found in the cabin.
Inside the suit, my arm hugged my body and my hand gripped the butt of Johannsen’s 9 millimeter. It felt heavy, and my armpits were sweaty despite the cold. “I’ll be right behind you,” he’d said as he worked on me. “When you reach the top, go as far forward as you can. That will pull their attention away from the cabin. Get between the snowmobiles Retta and I left up there, then stop. Count to ten, shoot whoever’s on your left, and take cover. Be ready to give me the gun when I reach you.”
I went over the instructions again as I forced my feet forward, struggling to remain upright. If I fell it would be obvious I was using only one arm, and they’d know something was up.
Luckily, our many trips up and down the slope had made a fairly solid track, and I reached the top without incident. On my right George crouched, training his gun on me with a smug expression. On my left Carlos held a gun that looked too small for his oversized hand.
My feet felt like there were anchors attached to them, but I kept moving forward. When I reached the road I stepped between the snowmobiles. They weren’t a lot of protection, but I felt less exposed with solid metal on either side of me.
“Stop!” George ordered, but I took a few more steps, forcing them to turn away from the cabin below. I’d planned to shoot George, the decision maker, but he was behind me. I’d have to work with what I had.
When George repeated, “Stop!” a second time, I obeyed. They were both turned toward me, and I pictured Johannsen sliding out the cabin door and heading up the rise. Maybe I wouldn’t have to shoot anyone. Maybe Johannsen would—
That was the wrong way to think. I had to take the shot while it was unexpected. George and Carlos were on opposite sides of me, which would make it hard for them to shoot at me without the danger of hitting each other. Taking a deep breath, I acted before my courage leaked away. Raising the muzzle of Johannsen’s gun inside the suit, I braced it against my hipbone, aimed at Carlos’ chest, and shot through the fabric. Immediately I dropped to a crouch, peering over the snowmobile seat to see the result of my action.
The shot didn’t fell Carlos, but both men ducked for cover, Carlos over the bank and George into some trees lining the road. I couldn’t see where Carlos landed, but I hoped he was dead, wounded, or at least floundering in waist-deep snow.
“Who fired that shot, Carlos?” George called. “Carlos?” There was no answer.
The downside of Carlos’ disappearance was that George no longer had to worry about hitting his buddy. He fired and the bullet hit the sled, making a sharp ping! that hurt my ears. I crouched even lower, my heart pounding in my chest. Air flowed through the bullet hole I’d made in the suit, cooling my ribs on the right side.
Where was Johannsen? It wouldn’t be long before George maneuvered to a position where he could get a clear shot at me. I had no place to go.
“Carlos!” George called out. “If you get a shot, aim for his leg. We need him alive.” That told me two things: George didn’t know where Carlos was either, and he still thought I was Darrow. That was a tiny advantage. They didn’t want to lose the person they thought could give them the book.
Remembering Johannsen’s instruction that I be ready to hand him the gun, I set about getting my right arm into the sleeve. In seconds, I realized we’d made a terrible mistake. I couldn’t do it. The fabric we’d used to fill stayed right where it was, and from my awkward position, I couldn’t force my arm downward. I’d have to open the zipper and get my arm free that way.
Except that wasn’t as easy as it sounded. My left hand was inside an extra-long mitten, and I had no way to pull it off. Johannsen had covered my mouth to hide the fact that I wasn’t Darrow, so I couldn’t use my teeth. I wriggled my fingers inside the mitt, trying to work it off, but elastic around the wrist—great for keeping out drafts—made it difficult to slide off.
After several feverish seconds of struggle, I shed the mitten by clamping it between my knees and pulling my hand out. That was something.
When I tried to unzip the suit, I encountered another problem. Johannsen had tucked the ski mask in at the neck and zipped the suit tightly to conceal my face, but in the process he’d caught the nylon fabric of the mask in the zipper. I couldn’t see it, of course, but it felt well and truly jammed. I was sealed like tuna in a can.
I gave in to a moment of despair. Johannsen was counting on me handing him his gun, and I was unable to do that. Retta had done better, I told myself. She’d reduced the number of enemies we faced from three to two. Some detective I was—helpless, pinned down and unable to warn Johannsen, who would enter the scene with at least one gun aimed at him, maybe two, and no way to defend himself.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Retta
I made it back to the trail without too much trouble, and it was a relief to be able to open the sled up on a familiar, prepared surface. Still, I’d been gone from the cabin for some time. George and Carlos might have made their move by now. Worse, I had a long way to go if my calls for help hadn’t gone through. Even if they had, it might be hours before they found the cabin. I prayed that somehow, Barbara and Lars could hold out that long.
My worries didn’t last, because the law—at least a single entity of the law—came chugging down the trail toward me. It took a few seconds to register what I was seeing. The groomer driver was unfamiliar, but behind him, something furry rode. As I got closer, the furry thing looked more and more familiar.
Then the other passenger caught my attention, giving me one of those gut-wrenching moments when you’re reminded of a loved one who has left this world. The guy’s tattered overalls looked like the ones Don used to wear to work outside during the winter. Blinking the past away, I looked again. Two familiar shapes pressed their way past my other concerns, and I identified them. Rory and Styx!
