He zipped up his parka, shivering in the cold, then stretched, looking out the side window and seeing dense forest covered in heavy snow. Most of the area still lay in shadow, a few thin shafts of early sun managing to make their way through the canopy to turn dim shapes into dazzling displays of white ice.
They were not moving. Jim climbed over the console, into the front of the SUV, and sat down in the passenger side seat. It was cold. Very. The whole car was cold. How long had the heater been off?
He peered out the windshield between patches of frost. They were in a small parking lot. There were no buildings, no signs, no evidence of civilization. What possible reason could Charlie have had for stopping here?
Even as he formed the question in his mind, Jim had his answer. He threw open the door and jumped out. No Charlie. No tent, no fire, no evidence of a campsite. He hurried around the back of the vehicle and opened the doors, checking the items stored there. Charlie’s pack was gone. So was Jim’s pistol.
He closed the doors and leaned against them, thinking furiously. Car trouble? Jim walked all the way around the vehicle. Nothing obvious. All four tires inflated, no evidence of a collision. No gas?
Jim hurried up to the front and let himself into the driver’s side of the car. He turned the motor on. Gas tank half full. He turned the heater up full blast.
By this time Ginny was rousing.
“What’s going on,” she asked. “Why have we stopped?”
“Charlie’s gone.”
Ginny blinked, then frowned. “Gone where?”
“Gone from us. He took his stuff and my gun.” Jim felt a wave of fury, tainted by guilt. If this was his idea of being responsible for a murderer, he should be sent back to kindergarten.
Ginny said nothing for a full minute, then, “He’s on foot. He can’t have gone far. We’ll find him.”
Jim narrowed his eyes. “I don’t recall making the decision to go after him.”
“You will.” She zipped up her coat then went around to the back of the car. Jim found her pulling out the shovel, the stove, and tea bags.
“What are you doing?”
“First things first.” She handed him the shovel and pointed into the woods. “Go find us a safe place to squat. I’ll start breakfast.”
Jim looked at her in disbelief. “Are you giving me orders?”
She met his eye. “Just pointing out that I need a latrine. If you don’t want to do it, I can.”
Jim controlled his irritation, and nodded. He scouted the area, found evidence of similar activity from earlier visitors, cleared off enough snow to make sure he wasn’t digging in the immediate vicinity of poison oak and got to work. It was surprisingly therapeutic to dig a hole in the ground. By the time he had finished and used the facility, the tea was ready.
“My turn,” Ginny said and hurried off into the woods.
Jim turned off the motor and closed himself up in the now warm interior. He dug out a protein bar and settled down to a reasonable facsimile of breakfast. When Ginny came back, she did the same, then sat down next to him and handed him a pill bottle.
“What’s this?”
“His antidepressants. I found them in my bag and counted. He hasn’t been taking them.”
“Hell.”
“They have some pretty unpleasant side effects.”
“So does blowing your brains out.”
“Is that why he took the gun?”
“Either that or protection, but he only took one magazine. He knows he’ll need more ammo, unless he knows he won’t.”
“Then we’d better find him before he does something rash. We need a map.”
She pulled out her phone and tried to power on the device, then frowned down at it. “It’s dead.”
Jim located his and looked at it. “Mine, too.”
“Not to worry, I brought a battery backup.” She climbed over him and pulled her bag out of the back of the car then fished out a small, device that looked like a lipstick tube. “Or I can use my laptop, or we can tap into the car’s battery or the generator we bought.”
Jim blinked. “You packed four different ways to recharge a cell phone?”
“Five. I have the power cable and an assortment of converters. Let me have your phone.”
“Wait a minute.” Jim dove into his own luggage and pulled out a twelve-volt battery, with attachments.
“What’s that?”
“A signal booster. At least, that’s why I bought it, but I think it will also recharge phones.” He peered at it for a moment, then his expression cleared. “I was right!” He attached his phone to the device and set it on the floor of the car, then turned back to her, smiling.
“Plus I have a solar panel and an MEC.”
“A what?”
“A muscle energy converter. You wear it and it turns the energy you produce by moving into electricity.” He grinned at her. “You’re not the only one who came prepared. Eagle Scout, remember?”
“I remember.” She smiled at him and he felt the tension in his shoulders easing.
“We still have to decide what to do about Charlie,” he said. He ran his hand through his hair, looking around at the apparently endless forest. “I wish I knew where we were.”
“We’re on the Taconic Parkway at a place called Roeliff Jansen Kill State Multiple Use Area in Dutchess County, NY.”
He stared at her. “How did you find that out without Internet access or GPS?”
“It’s on the sign that marks the entrance to this parking area. I went out and looked around.”
Jim stared at her, unsure whether he was annoyed or impressed. It might get old in a hurry if she made a habit of one-upping him. As he watched, her smile faltered, then disappeared.
“All right,” he said. “When we get the phones back, we’ll see if they can tell us how far from Albany we are.”
“Albany!”
Her cry startled him. “What?”
“I didn’t call Mother last night. With both the phones dead, she can’t reach us. And we didn’t show up at the Homestead as expected. There’s no telling what she may be thinking.”
Jim frowned. Himself would wait as long as possible before sending out a search party, but it had been more than eight hours since they were supposed to arrive. Even his grandfather would be getting worried by now.
“Can you turn your phone on yet?” he asked.
She picked it up and tried. “Yes.”
“Any reception?”
“No.”
He took her phone, set up the signal booster, and scanned the skies.
“Got it!” Two bars. He dialed Texas. “Grandfather? It’s Jim.”
“Auch, aye! Are ye all right, lad?”
“We’re fine. We’re having phone trouble. I’ll tell you all about it later. I just wanted to let you know we’re safe.”
“Th’ Homestead said ye dinna arrive.”
“True. We’re still headed that way, but I can’t talk, the phone’s about to die again. I’ll call you later.”
“All right, lad.”
“Please let Mrs. Forbes know.”
“I will.”
Jim hung up and looked at Ginny. “Okay, Charlie next.”
She nodded. “He’ll be hungry and thirsty.” She reached for her backpack, added snack bars and water, then opened the door, climbed out, and headed for her overnight bag.
It took Jim a minute to catch on, but when he saw her pull out her weapon, then throw the backpack over her shoulder, he understood. He hurried to get in front of her.
“This is my job.” He saw her mouth open in protest. “No.” He cut her off. “You stay here.”
“Don’t be a fool, Jim. You need my help.”
“I need for you to do as I say.”
He watched her eyes ignite, then cool to freezing point. She closed her mouth, turned her back on him, and stalked off.
Jim frowned. Well, he was sorry if he’d offended her, but the last thing he needed was for Charli
e to take a shot at her. She could be as angry as she wanted, as long as she stayed here, out of danger. He pulled out the rifle and slung it over his shoulder, took a last look at her rigid back, set his jaw, then strode off into the woods.
* * *
Saturday Morning
Taconic Parkway, NY
Ginny waited until she could no longer hear the sound of Jim’s retreating footsteps, then turned and looked at the empty forest. She was struggling with her conscience, furious with him for refusing her help, furious with herself as well. She very deliberately made herself another cup of tea and sat down to drink it.
She had made a mistake. She had shifted into problem solving mode on finding Charlie gone, and assumed Jim would welcome her assistance.
She was having trouble maintaining an effective teacher-pupil relationship. Jim wanted a girlfriend, and he was willing to see her as a patient, but neither role fit what she was supposed to be doing.
Angus had been very clear. “Let the lad try. He needs a chance tae prove himself.” Her job was to support him, to guide him, if necessary, but not to supplant him. She finished the tea, then cleaned the cup and put the stove away.
Jim would find Charlie and the two would talk. Then either Charlie would come back of his own volition or he would leave them behind and that would be the end of it. Unless Jim decided to force the issue.
She walked to the edge of the forest, peering into the green gloom. There was a lot about Jim she still didn’t know. What would he do if frustrated? Would he lash out? She should have asked Sarah that one.
She turned and found herself pacing, frowning hard. Sarah. She’d been invited to come to Texas, but had declined. Why? Had Jim condescended to her? Dismissed her?
One day, Angus would die and Jim would become Laird. A laird needed to be willing to accept help, from women as well as men. Jim’s tendency was still to patronize her, to treat her as a second class citizen. What he needed was a good dose of humility, something that—
Ginny whirled at the sound. Unless it was a stranger, Jim had fired the rifle. Not at Charlie, surely? At something else. Someone else? If he was firing at an animal, it was unlikely to be for food. If he was firing at a human, Charlie included, that meant trouble.
Ginny felt her nurse’s training kick in. Bullets cause bleeding. She was already moving when she heard the second shot. She grabbed her weapon, then swung her backpack over her shoulder.
She had no idea what she would find. He might not need her help. If he didn’t and saw her, he would be angry with her for disobeying. Maybe she could sneak up on him, assess the situation, then slip away. And there were Angus’ instructions to consider. What was her role in this, if any?
One thing was clear. Whatever was going on, there was no way she could just sit quietly drinking tea and wait to see what might or might not emerge from the shrubbery. She took a deep breath and plunged into the woods.
* * *
Chapter 34
Sunday Afternoon
I-90, headed east
Jim steered the SUV through the gates and out onto the access road. The day had gone well enough, in that he wasn’t in jail, but they had wasted most of the light. He should have turned his back on that explosion and run. If he had, Tran wouldn’t have discovered him. Jim frowned at the thought. He knew it was nonsense. He couldn’t change who he was any more that Ginny could.
It was a nuisance not to have the other two as relief drivers. He was facing six hours on the road, five of them in the dark, with his right arm in a sling. If his luck held and he pushed hard, he might make it to Bangor before they closed the gates.
He found himself speeding and deliberately eased off on the pedal. Not only did he not want to attract the attention of the police, he also did not want to get into a wreck. He fought with his foot over the next hundred miles, finding his subconscious strong and uncooperative.
He was anxious to get to Maine. He admitted that. He was responsible for the other two and he wanted to catch up to them and resume that role. He eased off on the accelerator again, hearing Gordon’s voice in his head.
“Ye canna protect her.”
He had promised Ginny’s mother he would take care of her. Instead, she was alone with a confessed murderer.
Jim swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. She was safe with Charlie. His leg was broken and she was used to handling patients. And it had been his idea.
She was gone without a chance to say goodbye.
They’d been fighting last night. They’d never had a fight before, not like that. Last night she had raised her voice to him, had told him what she thought of him, had dismissed him. She had also told him what her role was supposed to be on this trip—not his companion, his teacher. It would have been useful to know that sooner.
He replayed the scene in his mind, seeing nuances he’d missed the first time around, thinking of better ways to express himself, wishing he could turn back the clock and try again.
Jim was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice when the sun set and the temperature dropped, nor the steady slowdown of traffic as more and more cars entered the highway. He was approaching Boston, just west of Worcester, MA when he suddenly realized that the traffic was coming to a rapid halt.
Ten minutes into the traffic jam, he turned on the radio and found out what was wrong. The damp roadway had turned into a sheet of black ice. A foolish driver had hit it and skidded. A dozen more had been tailgating and slid into him and each other. This set up a chain reaction that resulted in more than 200 wrecks, some of them deadly and all of them between Jim and his destination. The highway was closed.
* * *
Sunday Evening
Sunkhaze Homestead
Ginny and Charlie sat side by side at the sumptuous feast spread for the guests at the Sunkhaze Homestead. They had arrived just in time to join a sports festival made both challenging and possible by the recent heavy storms.
The air was full of winter recreation. The ski slopes boasted a fresh layer of powder. Hockey teams dominated the rinks. Ice fishing was in full swing and the shacks could be seen dotting the river. The area also offered snowmobiling, winter hunting, cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, toboggan runs, and dogsledding.
This evening, though, the festivities centered around the dance floor. The fiddling started at eight and Ginny found herself drawn into the sets. She had protested at first, saying she hadn’t brought her ghillies, but a pair had materialized and she soon found herself with as many partners as she wanted. Charlie was left on the sidelines, his broken leg resting on a chair, but he, too, found willing partners to sit with him and talk or make teasing comments about the dancers as they sailed past. Ginny kept one eye on the door, but the ceilidh came to an end and the front gates were locked for the night and Jim did not appear.
* * *
Sunday Evening
Boston, MA
Jim looked around. He was trapped in the center lane. The only movement seemed to be on the outer edge. Careful scrutiny revealed some of the less law-abiding drivers heading off the highway and down the grass slope to the feeder road below. He was willing to do the same, but first he had to maneuver the SUV to the outside lane.
It was another ten minutes before anyone moved, but there must have been other drivers bailing out ahead of his position. Very slowly the cars to his right began to creep forward. Giving in to his worst instincts and heedless of the curses being hurled in his direction, Jim maneuvered to the edge of the highway. Even taking desperate chances, it was twenty minutes before he was in position. The verge was steep and, by now, chewed up and becoming slick. He took a deep breath and went over the edge.
Luck was with him. He didn’t roll the SUV. He did slide and was unsure, for a moment, whether he had enough traction to climb out of the mud and up onto the road, but he made it. Then he had to wait until the light changed and the traffic in front of him cleared enough for him to reach the intersection. He used the time to study
the map. What he wanted was I-95, headed north. So did everyone else.
It took him two hours to get beyond the obstruction, by which time it was nine p.m. He had no hope of getting to Maine before the Homestead locked up for the night.
He could find a place to sleep or use the overnight hours to close the gap. The drive from Worcester to Bangor was listed as four to five hours. He had until at least six a.m., realistically, before Ginny and Charlie would leave Bangor, and maybe more, which gave him nine hours, total. Surely that would be enough. He paused for gas, food, and a rest stop, loaded up on finger food and caffeine, then set his jaw, put the car in gear, and headed for Bangor.
* * *
Monday, Wee Small Hours
I-95, headed north
At two a.m., Jim pulled the SUV over in Portsmouth. He still had almost 200 miles to go. He’d missed the turn-off to U.S. 95 and ended up in Boston, then had to backtrack, then almost done the same at the Gloucester interchange. Three construction zones that seemed to be doing nothing were next. Then a spot where the crews were putting up a series of electric poles and relays, working by arc lights and with a flagman that stopped traffic every two minutes to let cars in from the other side, only one lane getting through.
Jim cursed the optimism of the GPS mapping system. He didn’t dare linger. He topped off the tank and hurried back to the highway, determined to stay awake and stay alert. His margin for error was rapidly shrinking.
His next stop was for another weather-related issue. The storm had washed out a bridge. There was a detour. He followed the slow moving line of big-rig truck traffic around the problem and back up onto the highway. He was grateful for the truckers’ company. Not only did they melt the ice on the road, they also gave him plenty of warning if conditions changed.
Just before dawn Jim found himself plunged into thick fog. It had rolled in off the Atlantic and obscured all but a short distance ahead of him. The truckers were used to it. They slowed down, but kept moving. Jim followed his guides through the swirling mists and hoped he’d see the signs when they got to Bangor. The fog scattered the light from the headlamps and the refraction destroyed depth perception. What’s more, he found his eyelids drooping. He grabbed another bottle of caffeine and slammed it down.
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