High Concept

by Whitley Gray

  “Tie him up.” Olivetti gestured with the AR-15.

  She shot him a glare from within her hood as she squatted next to Zach and wrapped clothesline around his ankles.

  In the trees, sunlight glinted off metal, and a figure stepped forward, handgun directed at Olivetti. “I can’t let you kill anyone else.”

  Jeremy Levin advanced into the clearing, holding a handgun. He swung the weapon in a wide arc, covering Olivetti and Zach as well as the woman. “This ends now.”

  Miller jumped to her feet and reached for her rifle.

  “Don’t touch the gun, or I’ll blow you away. Hands up.” Levin’s voice trembled.

  Raising her hands, Miller shot a look at Olivetti, who shook his head.

  The profiler in Zach took stock of the campaign manager. Did the man have the guts to pull the trigger? To kill someone?

  “Remember your daughter, Jeremy.” Olivetti made no move to lower his weapon.

  Zach held his breath. Daughter? Had Olivetti done something with her?

  With a sob, Levin steadied the weapon in both hands and raised it at Olivetti. “I can’t save her. But I can prevent another murder.”

  In one motion, Olivetti threw an arm around Zach’s neck and yanked him up into a stranglehold. “You don’t want to shoot the good doctor, do you?”

  The gun wavered, but Levin looked like a man with no options. “Drop the rifle, Isaac.”

  For a moment, no one moved, and then the AR-15 thumped into the dirt. Zach let out a breath.

  Heat burned past Zach’s elbow as the SIG banged. Levin staggered to the side and whumped on the ground. The scarlet hole on his shirt resembled a campaign button but spread like ink in water. The smell of burned powder rose from the muzzle of Zach’s gun, clutched in Olivetti’s hand.

  Murder. Zach had just witnessed a murder. A nauseating chill hollowed his stomach. No way would Olivetti let him live after this. Why hadn’t Beck shown up by now?

  To survive this, he’d have to depend on himself.

  A layer of calm descended over Zach, the same sort of detachment that emerged at the burial sites in Omaha. Olivetti shoved him off balance, and Zach fell to the ground. Olivetti’s hunting boot connected with Zach’s ribs, and pain exploded in his side. The woods shimmered.

  Broken ribs, maybe. Or a damaged spleen. He clamped his molars together and focused on breathing. Staying conscious was essential.

  A plan. He needed a plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Where the hell had Zach parked?

  Beck white-knuckled the steering wheel and concentrated on keeping the car on the road. Four-wheel drive would help. The surface hadn’t been maintained, exhibiting the worst Mother Nature could do to a dirt road. The snow had turned the route to mud in places, and in other spots deep ruts cut into the gravel. A brief metallic scrape came from beneath the car, and Beck winced. If he punctured the gas tank, he’d never get there in time.

  When he reached a flatter section of terrain, he retrieved his cell phone from the cup holder. One bar. Worth a try. Zach’s phone rang twice. “You’ve reached Zach Littman. Leave a message.”

  Fuck. Zach must not have reception. The best thing for now was to get there. Glancing at the GPS, Beck accelerated down the road.

  * * * *

  Do the shrink thing. Get him talking. Make him see you as a person, not a liability.

  “So what happened, Isaac? Why would you have Riggs kill your family?”

  For a moment, Olivetti’s eyes widened, and his lids corralled the stare into a narrow-eyed assessment. “They weren’t cut out to be a politician’s family. Not like Bill Richards’s family.”

  Strange. What kind of twisted logic connected that sequence from A to B? “What about the Richards family?”

  “Is this the place in the movie where I confess all my evil secrets before I kill you?”

  God, I hope not. “Did you wish your family was like theirs?”

  “Mrs. Richards and the kids were a campaign asset.”

  “What do you mean by asset?”

  Olivetti wiped his palm on his jeans, and Zach looked toward the trees. Maybe he could escape the way Levin had come in. With luck, Levin had left a vehicle down the road somewhere.

  “They campaigned for him, the kids and his wife.” Olivetti scowled. “Mrs. Richards is June Cleaver—everyone loves a motherly First Lady. The kids spoke, raised money.”

  “What about Jen?”

  With a heavy sigh, Olivetti faced Zach. “I considered letting her live, but it seemed the sympathy vote would be higher if she was a victim, not just a motherless child.”

  Hope dropped from Zach’s chest into his stomach with a sick thud. The guy was a true sociopath. “She was five.”

  Shaking his head, Olivetti rearranged the AR-15 strap on his shoulder. “She was a means to an end.”

  “Where did you get the idea about the sympathy vote?”

  “Oh, I researched it. And you might as well stop the attempts at humanizing yourself to dissuade me, because it’s not going to save you.” Olivetti stalked forward and raised the SIG.

  Fuck. He was going to shoot Zach with his own gun. Zach leaped to the side and rolled down the hill through the trees. The familiar boom of his SIG reached him at the same time his back slammed into a rock, and a blast of pain exploded between his vertebrae. The gun cracked again, and a white-hot burst of agony erupted above his ear. Darkness fell like a curtain.

  * * * *

  Zach awoke in the total absence of light. He lay on a cold, hard surface. The smell of powdered clay and dried-out pine filled his nose. Something bound his wrists together, sawing into them like a garrote.

  The yawning blackness crushed the air out of his lungs. Beneath his ribs, his heart battered for escape. All systems on high—he’d die alone, here in the soulless dark. Tears burned behind his eyes. He sucked in a breath and let it out in a guttural sob.

  Do you want Beck to find you dead of fright like in some horror novel? Darkness, not blindness. Settle down.

  A deep breath, and another.

  Panic tiptoed back on silent feet, slicking his skin with sweat. The air thinned out. He struggled with the wire around his wrists. No one would find him. Small rustling noises came from behind. Something else was here. An animal? Snakes? For a few seconds, he let the fear have free rein, heaving a jagged cry.

  If he closed his eyes, the blackness felt tolerable. He got his breathing under control and set about taking stock. Everything moved: arms, legs, and neck. An ache in his left flank, and an intense sting in his scalp. The mother of all headaches. Rocking onto his side, he managed to work his bound hands from the small of his back under his butt and in front of him. Panting and sweaty, he touched his face, felt stickiness. Blood, but coagulated, not pulsing or running. To his exploring fingers, the titanium plate in his skull seemed creased but intact. Not a mortal wound. He could function.

  With a shuddering breath, he stretched his arms out in front of him. Loose stones dug into his injured ribs, and he hissed. Possible broken ribs.

  An icy breeze flowed through the space. Fresh, damp air. If he’d just let himself breathe, he wouldn’t suffocate. To prove it, he took a couple of deep inhales and let them out.

  He risked sitting up, and a wave of nausea sent his head on a drunken spin. In the disorienting dark, he had no idea which way was up. Stomach contents threatened an exit. Oh God. Plastering his arms next to his ears, he slumped down on his uninjured side.

  Get your shit together, Littman. The only one who can help you now is you. Think, damn it.

  This had to be the mine. Somehow he’d rolled down a hill, been shot twice, and survived. How he’d gotten down here was anyone’s guess. With numb fingers, Zach picked at the rope around his ankles and, after a minute, found a free end. Through trial and error he got the restraint off. Fire engulfed his feet as the circulation came back. The wire around his wrists wouldn’t budge, and he gave up, stuffing the ankle rope in his pock
et.

  Time to go.

  If there was a way in, there had to be a way out. The cool breeze meant a passageway. The air must come from outside; heading into it would be the exit. The floor slanted down, but the cold breeze still formed a gentle headwind. In an awkward crouch, he crawled along the ground. The scent of talc and loam surrounded him. This was the right way—had to be.

  After what seemed like a millennium, he paused to catch his breath. Standing would improve his speed, but he wouldn’t know in time if he encountered a vertical shaft. He wiped the stinging sweat off his face with his sleeve and licked his lips. Maybe there was water down here. He pushed ahead, leading with his hands, scrabbling on his knees, and whumped into something like a roll of carpet. Using his fingertips, he traced over the surface. Cloth turned to skin. A warm face.

  “Hey.” He shook the person. “Wake up.”

  No response. Zach ran a hand over the person’s forehead. At the hairline, he encountered jagged edges and stickiness where the top of the head should be.

  He turned to the side and vomited.

  * * * *

  Grinding through the gears, Beck pushed the engine hard as he followed the tire tracks in the mud. The damn GPS insisted this was the way to the Devil’s Folly mine, and a road sign agreed with that.

  “Turn right, fifty feet,” said the GPS in a robotic alto.

  Beck braked. At less than fifty feet, a trail branched off to the right. Another vehicle had driven through recently, judging by the broken branches. The snow hadn’t stuck, so no visible tracks. Zach wouldn’t want to announce his presence; it’d make sense to park out of sight.

  “Turn right in twenty-five feet.”

  “Sorry. Not your call.” Beck jabbed the Off button and turned down the faint path. The trail narrowed to the width of a four-wheeler and became a hiking trail. Branches scraped the windows.

  Where the hell was Zach?

  Through the trees, a bit of silver flashed, and he slowed, rolling to a stop. Zach’s rental hunkered in the foliage. Pulling his Glock, Beck slouched in the seat and cracked the window. A bird called in the trees, interrupting the silence. The spicy scent of evergreen registered bitter on his tongue. He pocketed his cell phone and pivoted in the seat, taking a look around before easing the car door open and sliding out to squat behind the door. Cautiously he rounded the car door and ran in a crouch to Zach’s vehicle. Nothing inside. A few footprints in the mud led into the trees and disappeared in the carpet of pine needles.

  No sign of Zach. Damn it, had he gone after Olivetti alone? With a deep breath, Beck headed into the tree line.

  * * * *

  After emptying his stomach, Zach’s nausea abated. The dead body was beyond help, but he still had a chance. He turned toward the source of the cool air. The way out had to be in that direction. He opened his eyes to total darkness. No sign of light. He squeezed them shut. Better not to know. Soon it’d be dark outside, and he’d lose any chance of seeing his way out.

  Scooting his hands in front of him, Zach moved forward. The breeze had taken a page from winter’s playbook and licked like icicles over Zach’s skin. The shivers didn’t stop anymore, just varied intensity from trembles to rigors. Between the wire handcuffing his wrists, the cold, and crawling on stone, his hands had lost feeling. Numbness won over pain, hands down.

  Hands down. He laughed, and his head throbbed. Bad idea. Bad. No laughing.

  The floor took an abrupt slant upward, and he skidded on loose rock. The air shifted. He chanced a glimpse. Ahead, the blackness had a faint stripe of gray. Thank God.

  He pushed forward. The walls coned down to a narrow passage, flat and pitted on one side, rough on the other. A movable barrier? A door? Cautiously he stood, and cracked his head on the roof of the cavern. A constellation of stars whirled in front of his eyes in a dizzy display, and his legs turned to water. He slid down the wall. The bout of nausea morphed into dry heaves, and a bass drum beat on the inside of his skull as he retched.

  When his stomach got off the roller coaster, he squirmed forward, trailing the wall until it narrowed. A metal wall or door of some kind here, unmoving as the mountain. Rock on the opposite wall.

  Moment of truth. He could attempt wriggling through sideways, knowing that he could get stuck and unable to free himself, or he could wait here until someone came close enough to hear him shout.

  Someone might never get that close.

  He stood, folded his hands against his chest, and inched sideways into the crevice, facing the smoother surface. Within moments, his hands caught and brought him to a halt. Damn. He scooted back toward the larger passageway.

  Biting at the wires on his wrists did no good—he couldn’t locate the end with his tongue, and the taste of blood mixed with dirt and pine needles didn’t agree with his stomach.

  Maybe he could widen his stance into a straddle and take a couple of inches off his height, put his hands on his head like a prisoner. Moving his legs into position, he lifted his bound hands. Stabbing jolts went through his back, stealing his breath and making his eyes water.

  Steady…

  After a few seconds, the muscles relaxed enough that he could move. He took a deep breath and pushed into the gap in the rock.

  * * * *

  From above, Beck studied Olivetti’s showplace of a cabin. The place appeared to be deserted. Muddy tire tracks suggested someone had driven through recently, but no cars parked in front of the house. Maybe Zach had followed Olivetti on foot. Beck pulled out his phone. At cabin. Location?

  Send.

  Seconds later, the unmistakable chirp of a cell phone came from a few yards to his left. Beck scrambled over and shuffled through the underbrush, came up with a phone, which announced a text waiting. Before he hit Open, he knew what it’d show.

  Cold fear clenched in his chest. Olivetti must have Zach. Beck shoved the phone in his pocket. Where was the sheriff? A manhunt required personnel.

  A rifle cracked in the distance. Static encroached on the periphery of Beck’s vision, and he closed his eyes. Danny spinning. Danny falling. Blood everywhere.

  No.

  Beck forced his eyes open. Forest. Zach. Find Zach, damn it. Beck took a couple of steadying breaths.

  The gunshot had come from south of the cabin, out in the GPS-less territory. He could wait for the sheriff or go after Zach.

  No contest.

  Slipping on needles and loose debris, Beck made his way toward the house. He scuffed through a drift of leaves, tripped, and fell. Damn. Despite falling on his good side, landing on hard ground knocked the breath out of him. Shoulder throbbing, he lay still, gazing up as snowflakes drifted through the pines in an eerie fashion, pieces of the pale sky falling to earth. Get going. He rolled to the side and caught sight of a foot. As Beck brushed the leaves away, the face of Jeremy Levin appeared. Blood darkened the front of his shirt. Beck pressed his fingers to Levin’s neck. No pulse. How many had Olivetti killed?

  Zach was smart. He’d keep Olivetti talking, keep his mind off murder. Zach is alive. Find him.

  Glancing around, sweating and swearing, Beck slid down the slope and made it to the back of the house without encountering more bodies. Nothing moved in the wintery woods. He rolled his shoulders and winced as the left one twanged.

  Checking the cabin would take valuable time, and his gut claimed Zach wasn’t here. If Olivetti had taken his vehicle, he could be far away. A few minutes to retrieve the car, and Beck could update the sheriff by phone and follow the trail.

  The muddy tire tracks in front of the cabin led south, away from the main road. The mine lay that way. It might be coincidence. Or it might be the perfect place to dump a body.

  Beck scrambled up the hill.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  He damn well wasn’t going to die like this.

  Zach shoved his body toward the cool air. The rocks restrained his movement, tearing at the flesh of his back, lighting a fire of agony in his muscles. He focused on freedom, sq
uirming, taking advantage of every millimeter of progress in the direction of freedom. All at once he ran out of wall and toppled into a thicket of thorns and berries.

  Out of the mine and into the brambles.

  The bushes blocked a fair portion of the light. Zach protected his face with his hands and twisted through the thorns. He staggered free and slumped to the ground in a skiff of snow. The burning in his wrists lessened.

  Cold. A violent shiver went through him. He’d give his right nut for his coat. The sun had dropped low in the sky. That was west, but where was the cabin? He rolled to his knees and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment as his head throbbed. Staggering to his feet, he looked around him: wilderness and a muddy overgrown path.

  Start walking.

  By the time the sun had nestled into the crags of the Rockies, Zach stumbled onto a dirt road. Maybe he could flag somebody down. A car heading toward him slowed, and he waved. “Hey!”

  The SUV turned into the trees.

  “Wait!” Zach shambled toward the turnoff. After an eternity’s worth of agonizing yards, he reached the trail. Thank God. Help. He approached the silver SUV. He pounded on the window, then cupped a hand around his eyes and peered inside. A cold metal barrel prodded him in the back. Olivetti said, “That’ll do, Littman.”

  * * * *

  Voices. Coming from over the hill. Beck clambered up the slope. Below sat a cabin in disrepair; the broken windows and missing door declared it only fit for squirrels. The mumbling came from a thicket of wicked thorns to the left. Through the trees, Beck watched as Olivetti marched Zach away from the clump of bushes, prodding him in the back with a sophisticated-looking assault rifle. Blood matted Zach’s hair, and dirt covered his clothes. He limped, walking in a drunken stagger, hands bound together in front of him. No way he’d manage running for it.

  “Move it, Littman.” Olivetti jabbed the barrel into Zach’s back.

  “The cops will find out, Isaac.”

  “Did I say you could talk?” Another jab with the gun.

  Zach grunted.