Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles

by Terry Odell

  “Let’s look around like we promised,” Gordon said. Metcalf was thinking like a cop, which surprised him.

  They stepped a wide circle around the car. “You’re the outdoorsman,” Gordon said. “Can you pick up any tracks? If you’d been stuck in the car when it slid down, what would you have done?”

  “Wrong question, Gord, my man. Wouldn’t happen. But, if—and it’s a big if—for some reason I found myself in the car down here, I’d have gone straight back up. However, given that Orrin’s wife doesn’t have my skills, she’d have looked for the path of least resistance. Or for shelter, which would have been the smart thing to do.”

  “People in stressful situations don’t always do the smart thing. And cold can mess with your head.”

  “Let’s check the car, in case she came back,” Metcalf said. “We should be so lucky.”

  Gordon let go of the winch rope and tromped the few remaining feet to the car. Wind, whether a mild breeze or rousing gust, crept under the hood of his parka. Even with the watch cap, his ears were cold and his cheeks stung. Despite thermal socks, his feet ached, and his fingertips were going numb inside his gloves. Snow had drifted over the car, and he brushed away enough to get to the door handle and yank it open. The dome light went on, but when he poked his head inside, he saw nothing but blurred shapes. Damn CSR.

  He blinked. Rubbed the back of his gloved hands across his eyes. Blinked again. Things slowly returned to normal—or at least normal enough. Definitely no body, alive or otherwise. “Clear,” he said out of reflex, then hoped Metcalf wouldn’t pick up on the terminology.

  “Shows she’s not particularly smart,” Metcalf said. “Stay put, where they can find you. Hope she found shelter and isn’t still wandering. Odds of running across someone when they do that drop like a rock.” He glanced upward, turned a slow circle. “Which way was the wind blowing this morning?”

  “Every which way. Kept shifting.”

  “Then I guess I’ll go left, you go right.” Metcalf rested his pack on the hood of the car. He pulled out two coils of nylon rope and attached each to the car’s rear bumper. “As a precaution. I don’t think it’ll snow enough so we get lost, but it’s still easy to get turned around. Look for anything that could protect someone from the storm. Rock outcropping, clump of trees. Holiday Inn.” Metcalf chortled.

  He grabbed one of the ropes and, using the carabiner attached to the end, clipped it to his belt loop, leaving his hands free for the poles.

  “We’ve got two-hundred foot ropes,” Metcalf said. “That’s our search limit for this pass. We’ll regroup after we’ve searched that area. Search in a zigzag pattern. It’ll cover more ground. Too easy to walk right by someone.”

  Gordon had done grid searches in his Academy days, and understood. “Got it.”

  “What’s her name again?” Metcalf asked.

  “Roni.”

  A sudden gust of wind sent a tree full of snow over Gordon’s head like a barrel of white Gatorade hitting the winning coach at the Super Bowl. He cursed, brushing snow out of his eyes, trying to clear his vision.

  Metcalf laughed. “Comes with the territory.”

  As if Mother Nature were listening, another load hit Metcalf. Gordon kept his mouth shut.

  Metcalf handed Gordon a bottle of water he had pulled from his bag. “Stay hydrated. It’s going to be rough going.”

  They went their separate ways. Gordon marched along the drifted snow, testing the depth with his poles, calling Roni’s name. Didn’t take long to fall into a rhythm. Pole, step, shout, wait, listen. Pole, step, shout, wait, listen. Aside from a few bird calls and rustling branches, all he heard was Metcalf’s shouting in counterpoint to his own.

  Before long, his quads screamed from the effort of lifting them above the snow, and his listening breaks grew longer. At least he wasn’t cold anymore.

  Ahead, he spotted a cluster of snow-lined rocks forming what looked like a dugout. He shifted direction. Pole, step, shout, wait, listen. Pole, step, shout, wait, listen. He passed under a group of aspens, tilting his head upward to see if he was going to get bombarded again. The ice-covered branches danced, but seemed willing to hold onto their burdens. He trudged onward, struggling to keep his balance in the uneven snow. A tall, half-dead pine and a few shorter live ones stood between him and his target.

  He took one more step. His left pole sunk deep into a hole, and he tottered. Before he could catch himself, a branch cracked. Pain shot through his head as he tipped sideways into a drift.

  Chapter 14

  Gordon didn’t know how long he’d been lying in the snowdrift, but from the cold pervading his body, he figured it had been long enough. The storm had picked up again. His head throbbed. At least he could tell up from down, and now, up was important. The last thing he needed was to be buried alive. Struggling to right himself with poles that gained no purchase in the soft and apparently bottomless snow, he managed to get one leg under him. Tried to work his way to a standing position. No such luck. He was half on his back, half on his ass, with one leg stuck out, like one of those stupid yoga poses. Wouldn’t his instructor be proud that he’d finally managed the position.

  The leg refused to budge. He tugged. Tugged harder. Nothing. He waited, caught his breath. Tried a different angle. Skidded down a foot. Braced himself.

  Shit.

  The pain in his head became secondary to rising panic as he envisioned himself hanging upside down by one leg. He took calming breaths, but his heart continued to race. Sweat trickled down his spine. Where was his damn flashlight?

  “Metcalf! Nick!”

  He waited. No answering shout. He tugged his foot again. No stabbing pain, so it wasn’t severely injured. Or was it numb?

  Visions of gnawing off his leg at the angle played through his mind.

  Don’t go there. Not going to happen.

  He shouted for Metcalf again. Twice. Three times. How far could the man have gone? They’d each had two hundred feet of rope. Rope. Gordon felt for the carabiner at his waist. Nothing. He checked each belt loop. Damn, must have come unfastened when he fell.

  You’ve got a phone. Maybe there’s enough of a signal to get through to 911.

  He patted his hip—both of them, in case his mind was scrambled—but no phone. His Beretta yes, but that wasn’t going to do him much good now.

  You could shoot yourself if it comes to that.

  Well, it wasn’t going to come to that. He raised his voice, using the tone designed to stop the most hardened criminal. “Metcalf! Where the fuck are you?”

  After what felt like an hour of unsuccessful attempts to free himself, the visions of self-amputation were more frequent. And more graphic.

  Don’t be an idiot. Get the snowshoe off, not your foot.

  Why didn’t snowshoes have quick releases like skis? He scraped and dug away as much snow as he could, trying to figure out what had trapped him. In the darkness, all he could tell was he was stuck in a snowdrift, surrounded by tree branches. How did he get in a tree? He remembered falling down, not flying up.

  A light bobbed from above. Gordon squinted up into the brightness. A balaclava-clad man wearing a headlamp peered down. To Gordon, it was like seeing an angel.

  “Looks like Timmy’s in the well.” Metcalf’s voice. Gordon welcomed it—even the condescending arrogance.

  “Took you long enough, Lassie,” Gordon muttered. “Help me out of here.”

  Metcalf bent forward and played a flashlight beam around Gordon, who wasn’t sure if he liked knowing where he was any better now that he could see his predicament. The short tree he’d noticed next to the dead pine was actually the top of a tall one, and one snowshoe had caught in its branches. He looked down, trying to find the base of the tree, but saw nothing but snow and more pine.

  “First. Don’t move. Next, didn’t anyone warn you about tree wells and staying away from trees? Your shoe’s wedged like a Molly bolt in drywall.”

  “I was thinking more of geometry—sh
ortest distance to that rock outcropping. I screwed up. I admit it. Now get me out.” Gordon reached upward.

  “Don’t move,” Metcalf repeated, more sharply. “And be glad you’re right side up, and that the tree well isn’t very deep. Or doesn’t seem to be. You’re one lucky man. I remember one time—”

  “Spare me the stories,” Gordon said. Luck was a relative term, he thought. “My tether is gone. So’s my flashlight. And my phone. Must have come loose when I fell.”

  “I’ve got a spare light, and the phone’s the least of your worries. Don’t move. I’m still attached to the car, but let me get you anchored.”

  Gordon heard more rustling, as if Metcalf was digging in his pack. A length of rope appeared from above. “Hook this on. I’m going to get the other end tied to a tree. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Almost afraid to breathe, Gordon worked the rope around his waist, through a few belt loops, and clipped the carabiner. The light from above disappeared, and Gordon’s pulse raced. Metcalf would come back, wouldn’t he? “Hey! Some light?”

  Silence.

  Gordon fixed his gaze above, ignoring the falling snow, straining to see a light return. Counting the seconds. At three-hundred eighty-two, he thought he glimpsed a bobbing light. He blinked, afraid to wipe his eyes for fear of dislodging himself. Metcalf had said he didn’t think the well was very deep, but Gordon didn’t want to be one inch farther from the surface.

  The light got closer. “All set. Let’s dig you out. And don’t move.”

  “Got it,” Gordon muttered. He sat, trying to keep his breathing under control while he waited for Metcalf to dig his way in. Teeth chattering, Gordon could do nothing but endure the slow process as Metcalf created a safe path toward his prison.

  Metcalf gave one final whack to the snow with the back of his shovel. “Okay, I think that’s stable. You think you’ll be able to walk when you get free? But don’t move!”

  Gordon gingerly tested his arms, his legs. No stabbing pains. “Should be fine. The only thing that hurts is my head. A branch broke and hit me.”

  Metcalf kept digging and tamping. “With your hood up, it shouldn’t have done much damage.”

  “Enough to knock me off balance, and the rest is, as they say, history.” But the throbbing in his head did seem to be out of proportion to a deflected blow.

  “Step two is to free your foot. Can you get your snowshoe off?” Metcalf’s light illuminated Gordon’s leg.

  Gordon struggled, trying to connect with his foot. “Can’t reach it from this angle.”

  “Can you reach the branch?”

  Gordon stretched his arm, his fingers, but couldn’t maintain a grip on the few needles he could touch. If he tried to lean forward any farther, he risked toppling out of his already precarious position. “No.”

  “Damn greenhorn,” Metcalf said half under his breath.

  Gordon wasn’t sure whether he was meant to hear that, but decided he probably was. He felt like a total idiot, so he couldn’t argue the point.

  Metcalf lowered the shovel, handle first. “Hang on to this. I’m coming down.” When he turned away, the light turned with him, and all Gordon could see was his shadowed back.

  With a whoosh of snow, Metcalf lowered himself into the well, following the path he’d created, keeping his rope taut. He faced Gordon, and Gordon’s relief was palpable when he could see again. Metcalf reached into his pack once more—a veritable hardware store, apparently—and came out with a hunting knife. He hacked and sawed at the offending branches and untangled the snowshoe.

  Gordon’s leg released, and he rubbed his straining hamstrings. “Thanks.” He cleaned out the tree detritus from his snowshoe and grabbed his poles. Hoping he wouldn’t fall on his ass—or face—he managed to maneuver himself to an upright position.

  Metcalf came closer, his eyes squinting from the opening in his balaclava. He reached out, inspected Gordon’s forehead. “You’ve got some nasty scrapes. Good thing it’s cold. Stops the bleeding.”

  Metcalf went up first, then gave Gordon some tension on his tether and helped him out. “Well, that was fun,” Metcalf said, stowing his gear. “What are you going to do for an encore?”

  Chapter 15

  “How are we on time?” Gordon asked, struggling to control his chattering teeth. Right now, all he wanted was to get to the Yardumians’ and take a hot shower. But he’d promised they’d search for an hour, and as long as he could walk—and see—that’s what he’d do.

  “If we’re sticking to that hour you promised, and you include all that time I spent rescuing you, we have twenty minutes left.”

  Which meant the entire incident, from his fall to his rescue had been twenty minutes, not the hours it had felt like. “We’re here. Not likely we’ll get back. Let’s see what we can see.”

  Metcalf shuffled through the powder, sending crystals upward to greet the downward snowfall. He shouted to Gordon over the rising wind. “You had the rope until you hit the well?”

  “Far as I know, yes. I think I remember feeling it pull when I fell.”

  Metcalf continued shuffling up snow. “Aha. Got it.” He examined the end. “Carabiner is still attached. You must have hit something just right and opened it.”

  “Don’t suppose you found my phone in all that mess you’re making. Or my flashlight?” Gordon tried to replay the seconds before he fell. Was he knocked over by a gust of wind? What were the odds a tree branch would hit him in the head? Fall, yes, given the snow burden on the dying tree. But Metcalf was right. It shouldn’t have knocked him silly. He must have hit his head on something else when he’d fallen. The tree trunk seemed the most obvious culprit.

  Metcalf dug in his pack again. Handed Gordon a pocket flashlight. “This might help.”

  Gordon snapped it on, shuffled a bit to test his balance. As long as he didn’t make any sudden moves, his headache was manageable.

  “Damn, I hate to lose that phone.” Gordon secured his original rope to his belt loops. “One in a million chance it’s still functioning and a signal will get through.”

  “When’s the last time you remember having it?”

  Gordon ran through everything he could remember. “I clipped it onto my belt before we left.”

  “Shit, man, it could be anywhere. It might have fallen off in the truck, or when you put on your shoes, when you fell into the well, or any time in between.”

  Which was true. But no reason not to try. “Call it.” He gave Metcalf the number.

  Metcalf glowered at him. “You know this won’t work with gloves.”

  “What, you don’t have those special phone-friendly gloves? No stylus in your bottomless pack?”

  “When I go out, the last thing I want to do is stay in contact with the outside world.” Metcalf peeled off his glove and liner and tapped the screen.

  “You have bars?” Gordon asked.

  “One, but it pops in and out.”

  Gordon lowered his hood and raised his watch cap above his ears, ignoring the bite of the cold as he turned his head one way, then the other, straining to hear his phone ring. Damn, what had he set the volume to?

  Would it have survived a snow bath? Had it fallen off earlier and he hadn’t noticed? Or was there not enough signal? He scanned the area. Nothing. If a call was coming through, the phone would light up.

  Metcalf said, “I’ll try a text, but it’s not going to ring the way a voice call would. Let’s hit that outcropping and be done.”

  Gordon agreed. If the snow melted, he could come check another day. He set his poles and found his rhythm. “I take it you didn’t find anything on your side,” he said to Metcalf.

  The man’s silence was unexpected. And unnerving. Gordon watched as Metcalf set out at racing speed for the rocks.

  Now what? Gordon took off after Metcalf, but at a considerably more cautious pace, testing muscles and joints. No serious pains, but he’d feel it tomorrow, and have some Technicolor bruising to show for his mishap.

&nbs
p; Puffing, he arrived at the rock outcropping. Disturbed snow leading to a narrow gap in the rocks told him Metcalf was inside. Not willing to squeeze inside the cramped quarters, Gordon held back. “You have anything?”

  Metcalf emerged holding a mangled backpack. “Only this. Looks like it’s been here a lot longer than a day, but we’ll see if Orrin recognizes it.” He looked upward. “We still have to get to the truck, and if we don’t hustle, we’re putting ourselves in danger. Storm’s getting nasty. We’ve reached the limit of our safety line, too. We haven’t found anything by now, we’re not going to find it in the next five or ten minutes.”

  “Agreed.”

  Metcalf yanked on his tether, then pointed with a pole. “Your geometry says that’s the shortest distance to the car. I’ll break trail.”

  The snowfall obscuring his visibility to a few feet, Gordon followed Metcalf’s tracks and his bobbing light. With Metcalf leading, Gordon wasn’t worried about falling into another tree well. His head throbbed, and even with the broken trail, each step grew harder than the last. Although he knew they were travelling a mere two hundred feet, it might have been two hundred miles. Moving toward the rope instead of away from it added one more challenge—making sure he kept it out of his way. No way was he going to deal with Metcalf’s reaction to tripping over his own lifeline. What he wouldn’t give for another pair of hands.

  Concentrating on moving forward, he almost crashed into Metcalf. The car was virtually buried in the drifted snow. Without the rope—okay, and Metcalf’s expertise—Gordon knew he’d have missed it.

  From the car, Gordon followed Metcalf, seeking the yellow bandana that marked the truck’s lifeline. Metcalf either had great eyes or an amazing sense of direction as he stepped across the snow and untied the marker. Gordon hadn’t seen it at all.

  “Up we go,” Metcalf said.

  Gordon remembered the steep descent, and even with a cable for assistance, he dreaded the final climb to the truck.