by Terry Odell
“It normally takes a while before the router comes back on line,” Mrs. Yardumian said. “But I’ll keep your dinner warm.”
Without so much as a thank you, Paula ducked into the office and closed the door. Gordon surveyed the living room, which was empty. He stepped into the dining room and found Tyner and Metcalf seated at the table. “Where’s Orrin?” Gordon asked.
“Outside,” Tyner said. “Talking to Raffi, I think.” Tyner’s gaze flitted toward the door from the living room. Waiting for Paula?
Wardell preceded Yardumian into the room, dragging hands through hair already spiked in disarray. “I need to get out there. There has to be some way. The storm isn’t as bad.”
Yardumian set a platter of grilled burgers and brats onto the table. “I understand what you must be going through. But the storm hasn’t passed, and it’s dark. We don’t have the resources to search on a hunch. If the phones are working, I’ll check in with the State Patrol and the Sheriff’s Office for you.”
Mrs. Yardumian came into the room with assorted condiments as well as cheese, sliced onions, and tomatoes. She popped into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of coleslaw. Gordon, Tyner, and Metcalf assembled their sandwiches. Wardell halfheartedly stabbed a brat and set it on his plate. He squirted some mustard beside it, cut off a piece of the sausage, but left it lying there, and shoved back his chair. “I’m going to see what Raffi is doing.”
Not much Yardumian could do, Gordon thought, but he remembered how he’d felt when Angie had gone missing and couldn’t help but sympathize. Not knowing had to be the worst feeling of all. He lifted his burger and took a healthy bite. He hadn’t finished chewing when the lights went out again.
“This is getting old,” Metcalf said.
“I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Yardumian moved the platter of burgers aside and set a lantern in the middle of the table.
Paula stormed into the room and flopped into a chair.
“Get your blog filed?” Metcalf asked.
She glowered. “All but the images,” she said. “Damn power went out before they finished uploading.”
“So,” Metcalf went on. “You can make a living blogging? Any tips? I could use some money for new gear.”
“First, you have to be able to write,” she said, then took a hamburger patty and cut it into tiny pieces.
“Touché,” Tyner said.
Metcalf shrugged and went back to his food.
Wardell strode into the room. “He’s on hold. With the State Patrol. This is ridiculous.” He stopped by Metcalf’s chair. “How much to get me to where my car went off the road? The wind’s died down, so’s the snow. You’ve got a plow and a snowmobile.”
Metcalf eyed Wardell. “Oh, so when it suits your purpose, my ear-splitting, air-polluting contraption’s all right?”
“Shut up. Will you take me or not?”
Chapter 12
“Don’t be crazy,” Gordon said. “It’s dark, and you saw how steep the terrain was. A snowmobile’s not going to get down there.”
“So, we’ll use his pickup. He has a plow. And chains, right? We can search more of the road.” Wardell’s hands were curled into fists, his jaw set.
“And find what?” Gordon asked. “Once the weather clears, the cops can call out the search teams. I know it’s hard to hear, but there’s nothing they can do tonight. If we’d seen any evidence that your wife was somewhere near the car, that might be a different story.”
“We didn’t look hard enough,” Wardell said. “And the snow covered everything.”
“Precisely,” Gordon said. “And there’s been a hell of a lot more snow since then. The cops will investigate the scene of the accident, and that might give them a better starting point. If you go traipsing through there, you’re likely to destroy critical evidence.”
“There you go with all that cop stuff again,” Wardell said.
“Not cops. I told you, I’ve had experience with insurance companies,” Gordon said. “There are police reports and all sorts of hoops to jump through. Trust me, I’m a bureaucratic paper pusher. I know how these wheels grind.”
Yardumian returned carrying a bottle of Bushmills. “The State Patrol said they’ll check your car, but the crash and the storm have slowed them down. They understand your concern, Orrin, but they can’t put their troopers at risk. Safety first.” He crossed to a cabinet and pulled out some highball glasses. “Anyone care for an after-dinner drink?”
Wardell waved it off. “What do you say, Metcalf. You want to brave Mother Nature’s wrath?”
“Two hundred bucks,” Metcalf said. “And you pay any damages if we go over the edge, hit a tree—or an elk.”
“I didn’t hit the elk,” Wardell said. “The whole mess started because I tried not to hit it.”
Metcalf shrugged.
“I thought you lived for playing in the snow,” Wardell said. “You telling me you’re not up to keeping your car on the road?”
“Better than you are, obviously. I got here with wheels. You didn’t.”
Gordon couldn’t decide if he should let the two men leave together, go with them to run interference, or try harder to convince them to wait for morning. Part of him preferred option number one—where they’d probably get each other killed. He quashed that thought—but admitted it was tempting. Technically, he wasn’t sworn to protect these people. They weren’t the citizens of Mapleton.
Just because he hadn’t taken an official oath in Tranquility Valley didn’t alter Gordon’s instincts. Still, his ingrained protect and serve ethic didn’t mean he had to put himself in the middle of things, did it?
He attempted once more to dissuade them from going out. “I don’t think it’s a smart move.”
Metcalf laughed. “Hell, if there’s one thing I rarely get called, it’s smart. All right, Orrin. You want to do something nutso, you’re on. You wearing thermals under those jeans?”
Wardell shook his head. “The weather wasn’t supposed to do this. And the rest of my clothes are in my suitcase, which disappeared.”
“I’ll go.” Gordon wasn’t sure he’d said the words aloud, but Metcalf’s look of surprise told him he had.
What the hell are you doing?
“Still going to cost two hundred,” Metcalf said. “Up front.”
“I’ll pay.” Wardell ran up the stairs.
“And I’ll go change,” Gordon said.
He paused at the second floor landing, entertaining the fleeting thought of checking Metcalf’s room. No time for that now. If he’d kept his mouth shut, Gordon could have done some snooping while Metcalf was gone, not that he had any right to do so. Instead, he’d see if he could draw out anything more about who Nick Metcalf really was.
Probably exactly who he says he is, and meanwhile, you’re stuck with his crude arrogance.
In his room, Gordon stripped down and re-dressed, starting with the thermals he’d brought. The flannel-lined jeans went back on, then a turtleneck. He checked his Beretta, making sure he had a full magazine, secured it in his holster, then pulled a warmer sweater over that. Gloves, hat and parka should do it. He’d grab his emergency supplies from the SUV, not trusting Metcalf to have them, although arrogant or not, if the man spent the warm weather months as a guide, and the cold months out on his own, he ought to have at least a good first aid kit, ropes, and blankets.
He checked his phone for a text from Angie. Still nothing. But it wasn’t even seven yet—she’d still be doing her party thing. He decided not to worry her by telling her what he was doing. Slipping the phone into its clip on his belt, he went downstairs.
Paula sat at the living room desk, staring at the dark computer monitor. She alternated glancing toward the closed office door with glaring at the darkened lamp, as if she could make it turn on with sheer willpower. Impatient tapping of her nails on the desk mixed with the hiss of the lanterns.
“You’re going out there?” she asked. “Somehow, I got the impression you were more sensible.”
Gordon lowered his voice. “Orrin doesn’t stand a chance out there. We’ll go have a look around. I don’t expect to be out there long. But if it makes him feel better, yeah, I guess I’m not always the sensible sort.”
“Looking out for your fellow man. Commendable.”
Had there been a modicum of sincerity in her tone, Gordon might have responded.
Metcalf clumped down the stairs. Wardell intercepted him, shoving a fistful of bills into the man’s hand. “Here’s your money.”
Metcalf counted the bills, then pocketed them without so much as a thank you. He shrugged into his parka, pulled on gloves and yanked a black balaclava over his face, looking like a winter Ninja. “You ready?” he said to Gordon, tugging the black fleece away from his mouth.
“Let’s do it,” Gordon said. “I’ve got a first aid kit and rope in my car.”
“I have plenty,” Metcalf said. “And some good lights. I may like living on the edge, but I’m not stupid. Give me a hand unhitching the trailer?”
Yardumian came out of his office. Wardell leapt to his feet. “Did you find out anything? Are they looking? Did they find her?”
“Sorry, nothing yet,” Yardumian said. He shifted his gaze to Gordon. “They also strongly advise against efforts by non-trained personnel.”
“I’m trained,” Metcalf said. “Technically, I’m not certified in search and rescue, but I’m a licensed guide and know what I’m doing. Gordon here’s going to do whatever I say, aren’t you, Gord?”
Gordon felt like borrowing Metcalf’s poker tell by looking at his watch—not that he wore one since his vision tanked—before saying, “Sure thing.” He doubted Metcalf would have caught someone throwing his own tell at him.
Metcalf addressed Wardell, his tone more civil this time. “Hey. We’re going to go looking, but don’t expect miracles. We’re not going to put our lives on the line. The weather gets worse, or we don’t find anything in an hour, we’re coming back. Understand?”
Wardell nodded. “Thanks.”
Metcalf adjusted his balaclava over his nose and mouth, with only his eyes showing. Gordon sensed excitement glistening in the brown orbs.
“Wait.” Mrs. Yardumian, flashlight in one hand, plastic bag in the other, scurried across the room. “Power Bars and chocolate,” she said.
Definitely the Rose Kretzer of Tranquility Valley. Gordon accepted it with thanks. “Let’s hope we’re back before we need these.”
“Prepare for the worst, hope for the best,” she said.
“I’ll get the snow blower,” Yardumian said.
Metcalf opened the door, and Gordon stepped onto the porch. Even in its relative shelter, the cold grabbed him, stinging his nose and cheeks. His eyes teared. He pulled the hood of his parka over his head and yanked the drawstrings tight. Gloved hands fumbled with the switch for his Maglite. With a quick glance to gather a bead on Metcalf’s truck, he tucked his head.
A generous foot of snow covered the steps. He found the rail, brushed the snow away with a gloved hand, and stepped cautiously down. The weight of his Beretta against his body offered reassurance, a wholeness. The trooper’s words ran through Gordon’s head. Was he heading off into the freezing night with a killer?
Chapter 13
Compared with the way the wind had blown when Gordon had gone out with Wardell earlier, it had slowed to nothing more than a gusting annoyance. The snowfall had eased as well, but when the gusts blew, tree branches dumped their snow loads like sacks of flour. Ice-cold flour that sought any gaps in clothing, simultaneously chilling and burning. Crystals swirled in his flashlight beam until it was like being inside a snow globe.
Metcalf took the porch stairs with more confidence and stomped his way to the trailer hitch behind his pickup. Gordon took advantage of the trail Metcalf had blazed in the powder and joined him. The sound of an engine revving, then moving closer, broke the stillness. Yardumian appeared behind a snow blower spewing rooster tails of powder, working to clear enough snow so they could move the trailer.
Lessened wind and snow notwithstanding, the temperature had dropped and was continuing a downward plunge. Freezing to death instead of being buried in the snow wasn’t any more appealing, but the effort of getting the trailer with its cargo far enough away so the pickup could get out of the parking area created its own heating system. Gordon wiped sweat from his brow as he shuffled through the powder to his SUV. He grabbed his tote with his snowshoes and his own emergency kit. Couldn’t be overprepared. Mrs. Yardumian had that right.
While they worked, Metcalf started the pickup, so by the time they’d moved the trailer, a warm cab awaited. Gordon climbed in, slipped his hood off and opened his parka. Metcalf shoved his balaclava down his neck.
“Here we go,” Metcalf said, an edge of enthusiasm in his tone. He backed the pickup out of the parking area, executed a three-point turn and nosed up the drive.
“You think this is as crazy as I do?” Gordon asked.
“Beats sitting around. Especially with that Paula broad. A blogger who’s a damn good poker player. There’s something so not right about that. All bones, and did you see the way she and Sam were trying not to look at each other? At first I thought they were teaming up to beat the rest of us, but you ask me, they’re doing the mattress mambo. Don’t know what he sees in her—but then, he’s no stud himself.” He slowed, clicked the headlights to high beam for a moment, capturing twists and twirls of sparkling snow. “East, you said?”
“Yep. Left at the intersection.” Gordon fumbled for his GPS and checked the coordinates.
Metcalf glanced in his direction. Gordon held up the device. “Orrin tied his wife’s scarf to a tree, but I think this is a better way.”
“GPS? Smart move, Gord, my man. Might make an outdoorsman out of you.”
“I can handle myself. Just not something I want to do full time.”
“And I could no more sit behind a desk than fly,” Metcalf said. “That’s cool, though. If everyone loved to play in the great outdoors, it would ruin it.”
Pleased that Metcalf wasn’t hot-dogging, Gordon monitored their location. “It’ll be on the other side of the road, half a mile or so ahead. There’s a decent turnaround just beyond it.”
Between Metcalf’s plow clearing the road and the improved driving conditions, the trip took a fraction of the time it had taken Wardell and Gordon. Metcalf pulled to the shoulder. From Gordon’s vantage point in the passenger seat, if he hadn’t known the car was down there, he’d never have seen it. Any traces of his earlier trek down the mountain had been obliterated by the storm.
“Orrin must be a nut-case to think we’re going to find anything,” Metcalf said.
“Or desperate. We promised we’d have a look around, so we’d better get going.” Gordon fastened his parka and raised his hood over his watch cap.
Metcalf shoved the pickup into Park, smoothed his beard and moustache, then settled his balaclava over his face. He grabbed a pack, and hopped out of the cab. Gordon followed, using his Maglite to scan the trees for the purple scarf. A long, rectangular pennant of ice hung from a nearby tree branch, and Gordon assumed that’s what it was. He aimed his flashlight and peered down the incline, seeking the car. “There.” He pointed.
Metcalf stood at his side, following Gordon’s outstretched arm. “Shit. Better use the winch.”
“You’re not going to try to pull it up, are you?”
“Hell, no. I’m going down.” Metcalf strapped a headlamp over his balaclava.
“So am I,” Gordon said. Despite his eccentricities, Metcalf seemed trustworthy enough, but Gordon wanted to see things for himself.
“Better grab your snowshoes,” Metcalf said.
Gordon leaned against the pickup for support and stepped into his snowshoes. He looped the poles around his wrists and left the bag inside the truck. He hadn’t been snowshoeing in a couple of years, and he hoped it was like riding a bike.
With a cable to hang onto, the descent was a r
elative piece of cake, although Gordon’s heart thumped with the effort. His snowshoe’s jagged teeth helped him stay upright on the steep incline, where pockets of ice would have sent him ass-over-teakettle down the hillside in his boots. He paused from time to time, shining his light, noticing fresh scars on the trees, trying to picture how the car got from the road to its resting place. A good investigator would be able to reconstruct the accident. For now, it didn’t look like the car had rolled, just slid downward, pinballing off the occasional tree. From what he remembered, the car hadn’t shown the damage of a rollover, either, although with all the snow, it was hard to be sure.
“Hold up,” Metcalf said. He wedged the cable between two rocks and tied a neon-yellow bandana to a nearby tree. “Don’t want to lose our ride home.”
Gordon recalled Wardell tying his wife’s scarf to the tree. Maybe low-tech trumped a GPS once in a while. The two men tromped toward the car.
Gordon signaled a halt about five feet from their target, not wanting to obscure any possible evidence—not that he expected to find much. “If the cops are going to investigate, we should keep from messing things up too much.”
“Thought you said you’d been here already. Seems you’d have destroyed the scene then.”
“I took pictures,” Gordon said.
“Aren’t you the handy CSI? Surprised you brought a camera if you came down this hill, in a storm, without ropes.”
“Phone,” Gordon said. “But nothing looked strange. I did it for Orrin’s insurance claim.”
Metcalf fisted his hands at his hips, turned his head from left to right. “Tell me again what Orrin said happened.”
Gordon repeated Orrin’s story.
Metcalf shook his head. “You sure he wasn’t covering up his own driving stupidity? That he was driving when they went over? Didn’t want to be blamed for the accident—you know, for his insurance?”
“He didn’t seem banged up enough,” Gordon said.
“Maybe he jumped out up top. Maybe his wife did, too. Maybe he’s trying to collect insurance on the car.” Metcalf pulled down his balaclava and scratched his nose. “Or on his wife.”
