Back in the day, I used to hike out there to Kosciuszko. We used to stop for lunch at the Blue Lake. I loved skiing off-piste.
Then, as she closed the gap between them, she could see him clearly in the blingy gold suit.
I’m afraid my mind might be willing, but the old legs wouldn’t stand up to it these days, especially in these boots.
How were his legs now?
He was standing, like her.
How long could he keep going?
Vaguely aware of the distant roar of Terry’s snowmobile somewhere behind her, Vanessa checked her instrument panel. She had one choice, and that was to ram Smythe. She might dislodge him, even put the machine on its side, which should give the two detectives time to catch up.
Drawing the angles in her mind, she came at Smythe at forty-five degrees. He turned his head towards her, and the snowmobile fishtailed for a few seconds, but its curved skis stopped it from diving into the snow. He regained control but lost speed in the process. Vanessa eased off on the throttle, and adjusted the angles in her head.
Narrowing her gaze, she locked onto her target, and braced herself for the collision. A calmness came over her. She saw Libby, smiling in the bar; Libby shouting with laughter as she shot downhill in a giant tube; Libby showing such dedication to the children left in her care. They’d had so much fun together, Libby had everything ahead of her, and this bastard stole her life.
A silence descended.
Vanessa took a few deep breaths.
It was just her and Smythe and the vast white landscape.
She could do this.
She would do this.
For Libby.
For Celia.
And for Ryder.
Thirty-four
‘Lew!’ Ryder stopped pacing and let go of a tense breath. ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of Benson. Smythe’s the perp. Bruno’s given us the full story.’
‘I know.’
Ryder blinked, his fingers tightening on the phone. ‘You know?’
‘Smythe dragged one of the young detectives off his skidoo, and took off. The young bloke was stunned, but he identified him. Benson and a few of the others are after him now, that’s why he’s not picking up. Sorry, I’ve been busy getting as many officers into the area as I can.’
‘Christ! Do you have any idea where’s he headed?’
‘Thredbo, we think, which means he could come out anywhere along the Alpine Way.’
‘Let’s hope he runs out of fuel. Who’s with Benson?’
‘O’Day, I think his name is. The mountain manager, Terry … and Vanessa.’
‘Vanessa?’
‘Yes, she’s with them. Benson asked for the fastest rider and, according to Terry, she’s the best. I tried to stop her—’
‘You tried to stop her?’ Fury welled up inside Ryder. He snatched his jacket and caught Flowers’ eye. ‘Tell the pilot we’re on our way. And grab the car keys.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Smythe must have known you were closing in on him,’ Lew was saying.
‘Knew Benson was going door to door more like it.’ Ryder told Lew about the DNA they had as he headed for the exit. ‘It was Smythe on the mountain, too. He dropped a mitten while gesturing to Bruno. Bruno picked it up, but I think Smythe thought Vanessa had found it, or Bruno had given it to her, and she’d shown us. It’s distinctive, leather with Smythe’s personal label on it. Flowers has the Jindy boys going over to Angela Lombardi’s place now. Bruno stashed it there.’
‘Jesus. Well, the only thing I know is that Smythe’s bolted.’
‘Which means he’s desperate.’ Ryder bit out the words. ‘And if Vanessa’s the fastest, she’ll reach him first.’
‘She said to tell you she was sorry—that she’s only doing her job.’
‘Bullshit.’ Ryder shouldered open the station door and strode towards Flowers, who was backing out one of the patrol cars. ‘It’s not her job to go chasing after someone who’s murdered to save his own skin, twice.’ Ryder killed the call and slid into the passenger seat.
‘Chopper’s on stand-by, Sarge.’
His attention on the weather, Ryder dragged the seatbelt over his shoulder while Flowers gunned the engine. Out on the street, the traffic pulled to the kerb at the first high-pitched shriek of the siren.
Ten minutes to Canberra Airport.
Then they’d be in the air.
Thirty-five
Fog swirled around Vanessa. A man had spoken her name, but she didn’t answer. It wasn’t a soft voice, a kind voice. This man was demanding. She let the blackness pull her under again.
‘Vanessa?’ Static distorted the insistent voice. ‘Terry to Vanessa.’
She rolled onto all fours, a searing pain coming out of nowhere to shoot through her right cheekbone and into her skull. Teetering on hands and knees like a shocked animal, her stomach heaved, and she retched. Resisting the temptation to roll onto her side and curl up, she spat blood and vomit from her mouth. A headache beat rhythmically on the right side of her skull. A stream of blood dripped from the ends of her hair to turn the snow crimson between her gloved fingers.
Her mind cleared a little and she looked up, only to slam her eyes shut as reflected sunlight blinded her as effectively as a spotlight. She sat down heavily, shading her face in the crook of her arm, her eyes watering from the freezing air. Something rubbed beneath her chin. She raised a hand to her chest, relieved to find her goggles hanging around her neck. Slowly, she untwisted the strap then stretched it out and set the goggles over her eyes. Straightaway, the yellow lenses righted her world a little.
Smythe’s snowmobile was lying on its side while hers sat miraculously upright. Her weighty backpack had flown off in the fall and lay ten feet away. The shovel she always carried had speared into the snow.
Smythe groaned from somewhere in the vicinity of his snowmobile.
‘Vanessa? Terry to Vanessa. Can you hear me?’
She looked at her backpack again, her neck movement restricted. Terry’s anxious voice crackled from the two-way’s speaker. Thanks to the Velcro strap, the device was still safely secured in its pocket.
Vanessa surveyed the snow cover around her. The top layer had been wind-blown to an icy crust, and while the frozen base was undoubtedly solid, she had no marker for the snow depth in between. Reluctant to stand, in case she sank to her thighs as the two detectives had done, she reached out and wrapped her gloved hands around the spindly branches of a shrub sticking out of the snow. Eyes fixed on the radio, she hoisted herself forward, using her elbows and knees to slide across the icy surface like a seal.
Another groan, closer this time, pulled her up.
She turned her upper body, unable to rotate her neck without moving her shoulders. Aidan Smythe was on his feet, his left arm hanging uselessly by his side, his right hand reaching for her snowmobile.
Fear drove energy into Vanessa’s limbs. Fear he’d get away. Fear the others had gone in a different direction and weren’t going to arrive as back-up. Fear he would never pay for what he’d done to Celia and Libby.
Libby.
Finding solid purchase, Vanessa lurched to her feet as he swung one leg over the seat of the snowmobile.
‘Stay where you are, or you’ll end up like the others,’ he said, setting his feet on the running boards.
‘You don’t have the balls,’ Vanessa taunted in a voice she hardly recognised. She bent down and pulled the shovel out of the snow. No use wasting time radioing the others. They wouldn’t make it in time to save her.
‘Celia trusted you,’ she said, unsure if what she was saying was actually true, ‘and Libby was asleep. I’d like to see you take on a strong woman for a change, a woman who can fight back.’
He reached for the key, his smile colder than the Antarctic wind. ‘No need for something so drastic.’
The snowmobile roared to life. Using his good hand, he turned it in a slow circle, bringing it around so that the nose was pointing straight at her.
Everything turned to slow motion.
Blind fury raced through Vanessa’s veins and she took a step sideways, fighting the resistance of the deep snow. Kneecap twisting, her ligaments stretched to snapping point, she took a second step away when he was almost upon her. She swung the shovel like a cricket bat, striking Smythe on his injured shoulder, the machine missing her by a hair’s breadth. He howled and let go of the throttle, causing the snowmobile to pull to one side before it lost power. The swing knocked Vanessa off her feet. She fell backwards, knees bent, her boots trapped in the snow.
Prone, she stared at the sky, a cornflower blue now the wind had chased the clouds away. Diesel fumes hung in the air, the back country quiet save for a startled raven’s call.
‘Vanessa? Terry to Vanessa. Come in.’
She levered herself up onto her elbows, careful not to overextend her knee ligaments further, and managed to drag her right leg free. Fearful Smythe could reappear any second, she worked the shovel, digging out the snow packed around her left boot with short, urgent movements. Sweat tracked a path down her face, mixing with the blood seeping from her head wound.
She dragged her left leg free, then struggled to her feet. Unsteady, her legs shaking, she gulped mouthfuls of freezing air into her burning lungs and wiped her face on the sleeve of her jacket. She could see him now. He was lying on his back—shallow breaths coming from his gaping mouth.
Wincing, Vanessa climbed aboard the idling machine. Twisting the throttle, she drove away from her quarry, her only thought to put a safe distance between them. Twenty metres on, she turned in a wide arc before pulling up. She kept the engine idling and Smythe in her view. There was no way she would risk the possibility of the engine not restarting if she turned it off. She pulled off her goggles and wiped her forehead with her sleeve.
The relief of being out of immediate danger made her limbs weak, and she pushed her hair behind her ears with a shaking hand. She’d have to go back for the radio at some point, but not yet. Right now, this was the only place she felt safe.
She set her goggles over her eyes, and focused on the prone figure in the distance.
Was he dead?
Or close to it?
When Detective Benson had asked her to come out here, she hadn’t bargained on getting in a fight to the death with Aidan Smythe. Surely she had done enough. Or had she? She was a ski patroller, after all, her only reason for being on this mountain was to render assistance to whomever needed it. How would she feel later on if she sat here now, a safe distance away, and just waited for the bastard to die?
Swearing ferociously, she twisted the throttle and drove back towards the body lying in the snow beside the upturned snowmobile. She wouldn’t put herself in more danger, but she would check on him while she went to fetch the radio.
She circled Smythe’s motionless figure time and time again. Eventually, she had no option but to dismount and trudge towards the spot where he lay. She approached him tentatively, heart pounding, half expecting him to rise up, his hands encircling her throat like a scene out of Fatal Attraction.
But as she drew closer, she saw that his breaths were growing shallower, and a blue tinge stained his mouth and eyelids.
Vanessa’s heart stuttered.
The man didn’t deserve to live.
‘Vanessa? Terry to Vanessa. Come in.’
She glanced at the two-way radio then back at the criminal who lay badly injured in the place where it had all begun.
Goddamn you, Smythe, for ever coming into my life.
She peeled off her gloves and cast them aside. Falling to her knees, she leaned over and unzipped his ski jacket then spread the sides open. Next, she unzipped the fleecy top he wore underneath, pushing it aside as well until he lay bare to the waist save for his singlet.
Loading her shovel with one heavy pile of snow after another, Vanessa set about burying Aidan Smythe.
Thirty-six
The helicopter stayed low, skimming the treetops as it rose above the summit of Mount Stillwell.
‘What happened?’ Ryder asked when he had Benson on the sat phone. Seated beside the pilot, he peered through the binoculars at the white landscape, searching for signs of Vanessa, Terry and his men.
‘O’Day and I went to check the restaurant. We figured Smythe might be holed up inside. But he took off on us. The other two went after him.’
Ryder pressed the sat phone closer to his ear, struggling to hear over the whir of the rotors without the benefit of his headset.
‘I got bogged in soft stuff.’ Benson paused. ‘You’re close, Sarge; I can hear the chopper. Follow the pylons of the old chairlift. We think that was Smythe’s intention.’
Ryder relayed the information to the pilot, grateful the terrain below was above the tree line.
‘You’re behind me,’ Benson said a few moments later. ‘I’m in the open. You should see me if you’re low enough.’
‘I see something at ten to twelve,’ Flowers shouted from the back seat.
Sure enough, seconds later they flew over a waving Benson.
‘Okay, we see you. Where’s O’Day?’
‘A bit further on. He ran out of fuel.’
Ryder relayed Benson’s message to the others then, swearing under his breath, he lowered his binoculars. In what life did Benson imagine that he and O’Day were equipped to take on the treacherous back country—and involve civilians? Right now, Ryder needed to get eyes on everyone, but as sure as hell that decision would come out in the debrief.
‘Twelve oh five,’ the pilot said, pointing through the windscreen.
‘We have eyes on O’Day,’ Ryder said to Benson. At least they’d had sense enough to stay with the snowmobiles, which were easy to pick out against the white backdrop. ‘So, Terry and Vanessa are still in pursuit?’ he asked.
‘No. A submerged rock damaged one of Terry’s runners.’
‘Vanessa’s on her own?’ Ryder’s voice came out hoarse, his stomach twisting.
‘’Fraid so.’
This was all his fault. If he’d insisted on Vanessa leaving Charlotte Pass the morning of Libby’s death, she wouldn’t be out here. If anything happened to her …
‘Anyone injured?’ he asked, cutting off his negative train of thought.
‘Nah. Just a bit cold.’
That meant they were bordering on hyperthermia. Benson was a good cop, but his nature was to downplay everything.
The pilot slowed, hovering over the area they had sighted the stranded detectives.
Ryder peered through his binoculars, searching for the spot where Terry had come undone, though his thoughts kept moving ahead to where Vanessa and Smythe might be. There was no doubt she was good on the snow bike—he had admired her skills the day she’d taken him up to Celia’s grave—but he had no idea she was the fastest rider on the mountain, or that Benson would involve her in the chase.
Moments later, they sighted another snowmobile, listed to one side. Unlike the others, there was no sign of its rider, though deep footprints led them in the direction of a nearby granite boulder. Terry was standing atop the boulder, seemingly undisturbed by his remote location. He gave them a distracted wave like he’d been expecting them, the two-way radio close to his mouth.
‘Benson, call the others and tell them to stay put. We’ll let the medivac chopper know where to pick everyone up. We’ll keep after Vanessa. Have you heard from her?’
‘No. Terry’s still trying to raise her on the two-way.’
So that’s why he’d moved to higher ground. Ryder’s anxiety eased a fraction. There could be any number of reasons why Vanessa was out of contact. A poor signal. A dead battery.
Or, she could be flat out chasing Smythe, the same way she’d chased him down the mountain that day.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ he told Benson, killing the call and reaching for the noise-cancelling headset. As he covered his ears with the air-foam seals, a red flash exploded in t
he sky in front of them.
‘Flare!’ he yelled into the microphone. ‘Take us down. Follow the smoke trail.’
The pilot consulted the instrument panel and began making small precise movements with the joystick. To Ryder, the manoeuvre seemed to take forever. ‘Down there,’ he said, ‘I see two snowmobiles. One’s upright. The other one is on its side.’
‘I have one person standing.’ Flowers’s voice crackled through the headset.
‘I can’t set the chopper down on the snow, but I can get you close and you’ll have to jump. Those circular marks look like they’ve been made by a snowmobile that’s been driven around in circles. The snow looks stable there. Judging from the tracks, it doesn’t look too deep.’
‘How close can you get me?’ Ryder asked, discarding his headset and donning goggles and a beanie.
‘Metre. Metre and a half.’
‘That’ll do.’
They descended closer to the ground, billowing white dust sticking to the windows and obscuring their view. Ordering the pilot to unlock the door, Ryder shoved it open then slid onto the cabin floor. Despite the pilot’s protests, he plunged the short distance into the snow.
Smashing through the top layer of ice like a spoon into a crème brûlée, he toppled sideways, the landing softer than he’d expected. After the oppressive humidity of the cabin, the bracing air cleared his head, the snow as welcome as an ice bath after a hard footy game. Once the chopper had risen to a safe altitude, and the snow flurry had begun to settle, Ryder sat up and took his firearm from the inside pocket of his ski jacket. Releasing the safety catch, he stood up with difficulty and trudged in the direction of the snowmobiles, praying he’d find Vanessa safe.
There were two images that would haunt Ryder for the rest of his days. The first one was of Scarlett lying in the driveway. The second was straight out of a thousand mobster movies he’d seen, when the mafia buried their enemies up to their necks in sand and waited for the tide to come in.
The difference here was that Aidan Smythe was buried to the neck in snow. And while Ryder’s heart soared at the first sight of Vanessa standing, his euphoria was short-lived. Streaks of blood tracked into her eyes, only to be smeared across her cheeks when she swiped at it with the back of her hand. Like a Viking shield maiden after a battle to the death, she stood panting, the shovel she’d used to cover Smythe’s body clutched in her right hand.
Charlotte Pass Page 28
