by Diane Capri
He put the gun down and used both hands to cover his full head and face with the helmet again.
Flint used the moment to slip his mittens off and grab the Glock.
Crane’s helmet restricted his vision. When he moved his head to collect his mittens, he saw the Glock pointed straight at him. He barely paused. He lifted his H&K, aimed, and fired all in one fluid motion. The shot was awkward. It ran high and wide.
Reflexively, Flint shot back. The round penetrated Crane’s snowmobile suit in the area of his right torso, but Crane barely flinched.
Instead, he mounted the snowmobile and started the engine. He raised the pistol and aimed. Flint ducked as Crane shot again. Flint returned fire. His second shot hit Crane in the back but didn’t stop him.
Crane slumped to the left in his seat. He revved the throttle and the powerful snowmobile jumped away, traveling hard in the direction they’d been heading before. Toward the Sikorsky’s landing spot. The distance between them widened.
He knew my mother?
Flint dropped the Glock into the box and latched it. He strapped his helmet in place and pulled on his mitten. He watched Crane’s retreating back as he rapidly restarted his snow bike.
Flint heard a massive whumpfh! Was that Crane’s engine acting up? Had Flint caught a break here?
He listened again.
Everything paused. Even the cold wind, ever present since he’d arrived at the airport last night, seemed to inhale.
After that, everything happened way too fast.
He felt a giant, percussive shake followed by a roaring rumble.
Flint looked far up the mountain. All he could see was a wall of snow tumbling down the mountainside, gaining ground, growing larger, consuming the entire slope, running toward Crane, toward Flint with ever-increasing, overwhelming, frightening speed.
He screamed, “Avalanche!” But he couldn’t even hear himself. No one else would hear him either.
He goosed the snow bike’s throttle. He held his breath as he turned 180 degrees, throwing up a rooster tail of snow, and headed back the way he’d come. He traveled along the riverbed with the throttle wide open, moving toward the east side of the massive avalanche.
The wall of snow rushed faster, wider, picking up speed and volume and noise loud enough to penetrate his helmet and louder than the straining engine.
He’d traveled less than fifty feet before the avalanche overcame him.
He released his grip on the snow bike and started battling in a convulsive, thrashing way, swimming upward through the rushing snow and debris.
He paddled a frantic backstroke, trying to move the bulky snowmobile suit up through the heavy, rapidly tumbling wall of snow.
He kept swinging his arms, kicking his feet. The heavy suit surrounded him. What had been fresh powder snow now felt like concrete, and he was flailing through it.
He inhaled and held a deep breath and pushed one arm above his head and kept the other near his face and flailed as hard as he could.
His struggle was all for naught.
In moments, he was surrounded on all sides by dense, hard-packed snow debris. Buried alive.
The energy of the avalanche caused the powder to melt, and it refroze again the instant the avalanche stopped.
He couldn’t move.
Inside his helmet, he somehow had a pocket of air. He was lucky. He could breathe. At least for a while.
He didn’t know how deeply he’d been buried. He could see daylight through the snow, which meant he wasn’t more than about six feet from the surface, he guessed.
He heard nothing but silence, which could mean that he was buried too deep to hear anything inside his face mask and helmet. Or it could simply mean there was no sound to hear.
The snowmobile suit might save him. The suit should keep him warm enough to prevent a quick death by hypothermia, which was good. Even better, his avalanche beacon and Recco transponder were nestled in a special pocket of his suit. He’d seen them there when he dressed this morning. He remembered thinking he wouldn’t need them for a quick run to The Lodge and back, but they were part of the borrowed gear.
He should have grabbed the Avalung when he was collecting gear this morning. But he hadn’t. Without the Avalung device, which he might not have been wearing anyway, all he had was an air pocket.
His breathing would fill the pocket with carbon dioxide soon enough. As his oxygen supply dwindled, he’d become confused and then lose consciousness.
Under the circumstances, he figured rescuers had about thirty minutes, thirty-five max, to find him and dig him out before he suffocated.
What about Crane? His machine was bigger, heavier, faster than Flint’s snow bike. He might have made it all the way to the western edge of the avalanche and escaped. He might have reached the Sikorsky. He could be flying overhead now, puffing a new cigar, having the last laugh.
If he made it out, Flint would find Crane again. Make him pay for killing Laura Oakwood. He could find anyone. Anywhere. No one could disappear forever.
To pass the time, he focused on shallow breathing and thought about how he’d find Crane. Where he’d look. What might entice Crane to return to FBI jurisdiction.
He thought about the French woman and her painting. He’d told her where the painting was hidden. Scotland. If he didn’t make it back, she could ask Scarlett to collect it.
Ginger. He didn’t allow his mind to go there. Mainly because Ginger wouldn’t miss him much. She was a good woman and he liked her. But he didn’t imagine that she felt any more for him than he felt for her.
He thought about Maddy Scarlett’s sixth birthday party on Saturday. She’d pulled his thumb back and held it painfully against his wrist until he’d promised to come. Until he’d also promised her a special present. Maybe her mom would cover his butt on that one, too, if he missed the party.
He grinned. The kid was adorable, exactly like her mother. He saw her wild black hair and her freckled face and those flashing green eyes.
Exactly the way he remembered Katie Scarlett the first time he’d seen her in Bette Maxwell’s dusty schoolyard. If he missed Maddy’s party or failed to deliver the awesome present, she’d hold that grudge forever.
He felt tired. He closed his eyes.
How long had he been buried? Too long, surely.
Despite the likelihood that he would die here, entombed by the snow, what kept running through his mind until he passed out, like a ticker on the bottom of a television screen, was Crane’s final taunt.
I knew your mother.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Houston, Texas
Four days later
By the time Flint arrived at Maddy’s birthday party, the event was in full swing. Thirty screaming kids and their parents were scattered around the house and grounds. It was a perfect spring afternoon in Houston. Not too hot. Blessedly, no snow. Flint didn’t want to see so much as a snowy Christmas card again for at least a decade.
He made his way through the throng inside the house, snagged a beer in the kitchen, and joined the group on the patio. Drake raised his soda bottle in a silent toast from the far corner. Flint nodded.
Maddy had invited Sebastian Shaw because she’d invited everyone she had ever met, even strangers in the grocery store. Shaw didn’t attend, but he sent a magician. The next David Copperfield everyone said, straight from one of the Las Vegas hotels, who currently held the entire party crowd enthralled. The guest of honor had a front-row seat and she watched with eyes as big as her party balloons.
Scarlett joined him and they stood watching the magician create a rose from a handkerchief then turn it into a napkin and set it on fire. As the fire burned down from the top to the magician’s hand and ended in a poof of smoke, a red rose magically appeared in the empty air and everyone applauded.
“He’s sexy as hell, too, don’t you think?” Scarlett said.
Flint shrugged. “Not my type, thanks.”
She grinned. “Where is Ginger, anyw
ay?”
“Meeting me in Edinburgh tomorrow, actually. So I can’t stay long.” He sipped the beer. He planned to end things with Ginger, but he didn’t tell Scarlett that. He didn’t want to listen to any speeches. “Have you had a chance to handle the cleanup we discussed?”
“We returned Sally Owen to her Aunt Melanie’s home in Charlestown, along with a sizable bank balance, yes. She didn’t want to go back to her mother’s house, and I don’t blame her.”
“Did you find out who those three men were?”
“Yes, well, about that.” Scarlett cleared her throat. Her gaze stayed on the magician. “I already knew who they were. They were freelance guys on my team, unfortunately. I sent them up there when we were still tracking down the hospital connections. What I didn’t count on was Crane intercepting and buying them out from under me.”
Flint frowned. “There seems to have been too much of that going on in this case, Scarlett.”
“Point taken.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’d known those guys awhile. They’d worked with me before. But Crane offered them five million each for a single day’s work. All they were supposed to do was stop you from getting Oakwood’s signature, and I guess the immediate cash in hand was more than they could resist.” She watched the magician perform a card trick that delighted the children. “I don’t think they would have killed her if she hadn’t shot first, though.”
What she meant, of course, was that she hoped she hadn’t misjudged them so badly. She’d been wrong. A bitter pill for Scarlett to swallow.
Flint preferred to work alone. The betrayals by four different operatives handpicked by both Drake and Scarlett in this case were only four of the reasons why.
“Any trouble getting Jeremy Reed evicted from the Oakwood ranch?”
“We’re working on it.” She paused again. “And before you ask, we followed up on that truck driver, Manning. He’s exactly what he claimed to be. Shaw made a contribution to his Road Warriors, as you promised.”
“Good to know.” He finished off his beer and tossed the empty bottle in the closest trash can. “Tell Maddy happy birthday for me. Her present is inside with the others. I’ll stop in to see her one day soon when things are a little less hectic. Right now, I’ve got a painting to retrieve, and Ginger’s waiting.”
“I’ll tell her, but she’ll be annoyed with you. What’s the present?”
“That’s between Maddy and me.” He grinned. Maddy had asked for a puppy. He’d planned to clear it with her mother first before he bought the little schnauzer she’d picked out. Until he’d spent twenty-seven minutes buried alive and decided that making a six-year-old happy was more important than keeping her mother off the ceiling. “You don’t want to leave it inside too long.”
Scarlett frowned, but she didn’t push. “Shaw has deposited our fee in my account. Shall I transfer your share to the Caymans as usual?”
“Works for me. As soon as I finish with the French woman’s painting, I may take a little vacation.”
“You always were lazy, Flint,” Scarlett said. But her smile softened the insult, and he gave her a hug before he left.
He nodded toward Drake, who followed him out to the SUV at the curb.
Drake drove the Navigator to the private airport and spooled up a newer Sikorsky than the one Phillips had crashed in the middle of that Texas field. Not quite as new as the one that had airlifted the twenty-seven survivors out of the Montana mountains after the avalanche, though. Only one casualty, after all. Which was something close to a miracle, they said.
Flint sat alone with his thoughts during the short flight.
They still hadn’t found Crane’s body, and they probably wouldn’t until the snow melted.
Crane had been hit by the middle of the avalanche while he was riding along the riverbed. An avalanche is always strongest in the middle. That’s where the most and the heaviest snow debris falls. The rescue teams found his beacon inside his snowmobile instead of his suit. Friends said he always removed it to make room for his cigars. But after digging for more than four hours, and darkness falling all around, they had no choice but to give up that night. They’d been back twice more but hadn’t found so much as a mitten so far.
When authorities found Crane’s body in the spring, would his cause of death be suffocation or gunshot wound? Would manner of death be ruled accidental or homicide? Flint had shot Crane twice. Maybe one of those wounds had prevented him from escaping the avalanche. Or maybe, when the avalanche hit him, he was already dead.
With Crane out of the way and the Juan Garcia Field within his command, Sebastian Shaw was now the undisputed king of Texas oil. The richest and most powerful man in Texas. Crane had been his only serious competition, the one person who kept him in check. With Crane gone, Shaw was now free to flex his muscles in all sorts of unsavory ways. Even Texas wouldn’t be big enough for him. With any luck, Flint wouldn’t ever see him again.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Drake flew the Sikorsky expertly. Flint watched the dry Texas cattle country spread out below. The flight to Bette Maxwell’s Lazy M Ranch was short. They passed over the truck stop at Mildred’s Corner, which was busy as usual. Flint hoped Steve Tuttle was fully recovered and back to work.
Bette had left him a voicemail message Monday night, while he was flying from Saint Leo to The Peak. She wanted to see him. She’d found out something more about his mother. Something odd and important, she said. She wanted to tell him about it in person. Bette asked him to come out today. He hadn’t retrieved the message until yesterday.
If not for Crane’s cryptic comment about knowing Flint’s mother, he might have put off the visit until he returned from Scotland. Crane had made him more curious about his mother than he had been before. And Bette wanted him to know something she felt was important. He altered his plans. He’d check with her now and deal with whatever needed to be handled when he came back.
A few minutes more and the Lazy M’s rusty archway came into view. The ranch seemed as dreary and decrepit as it had when he was here last week. He didn’t want to make a habit of visiting this place too often.
Drake set the Sikorsky down in the front yard. “Shut her down?”
“We won’t be here that long. I’ve got a plane to catch.” Flint unfastened his harness and climbed out. The noise of the Sikorsky’s rotor wash surrounded him and the entire building.
Bette was not seated on the porch, drinking sweet tea, shelling more peas. Flint hopped up the steps, crossed the porch, and knocked hard on the crooked screen door.
He reset the screen on its hinges and turned the knob to open the entry door and walked inside, calling, “Bette? It’s Michael.”
No response.
He walked farther into the house. The air inside was warm and stale.
“Bette? It’s Michael. Where are you?”
He called out as he walked down the hallway in the direction he remembered toward her bedroom. The doors on either side of the corridor were open and the furnished rooms were unoccupied.
When he reached the door to the last bedroom on the right, he walked through.
Bette’s bedroom was vacant, like all the others. Her bed was made. Her bathroom was clean.
He walked back to the kitchen. The room was tidy. No signs of any activity going on here today. No tea, no cookies, nothing in the sink. The violets in their pots on the windowsill looked wilted, as if they hadn’t been watered in a few days.
Why would she ask him to come here and then not be home? He shook his head. He looked around the room one more time.
He noticed a folded newspaper on the table.
He picked up the newspaper and read the death notice beside a small black-and-white photo of Bette.
MAXWELL, Bette Anne, 67, died Tuesday. She was born at the Lazy M Ranch on August 7, 1949. Visitation on Thursday from 5–6:30 and funeral following at Texas Memorial Gardens.
Flint read the notice three times. Nothing about cause and manner of dea
th. No next of kin. Nothing about her many years of helping children here at the Lazy M boarding school. A short, unadorned statement of plain facts. Bette would have appreciated that. He wondered if she’d written the obituary herself.
The funeral was two days ago.
There was nothing more he could do here.
He put his sunglasses on and walked back to the Sikorsky. He looked around one last time at the only childhood home he’d ever known. Because heir hunting was his business, he wondered briefly who would inherit Bette’s property.
He climbed aboard and fastened his harness in the copilot’s seat. The big Sikorsky lifted off.
When they set down on the helipad at George Bush Intercontinental Airport, Drake said, “Let me know when you’re coming back from Edinburgh. I’ll be here.”
Flint climbed out of the copilot’s seat and clasped his palm on Drake’s shoulder. “Will do.”
He left the Sikorsky and headed into the terminal.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Every new book begins with a spark that leads to an idea I can turn into an exciting story. In the case of Blood Trails, the idea was sparked by a friend’s real-life experience.
Who doesn’t dream of receiving a windfall from out of the blue? Well, that’s what happened to my friend a few years ago.
She’d been contacted by a land man whose job was to locate heirs to certain Oklahoma mineral rights. A legitimate land man is usually an independent contractor who bridges the gap between people who own oil and gas rights and oil companies who want to buy them. My friend said she had never lived in Oklahoma, owned property there, or been related to anyone who did. The land man assured her otherwise.
Frankly, she thought the whole thing was a scam.
She was wrong.
It turned out that her long-deceased grandfather, a man she’d never met, had owned what were worthless mineral rights sixty years ago. With the advent of new mining technologies and changes to drilling laws, the mineral rights became valuable. But the rights had become fragmented over time and his heirs had “disappeared” from the property indexes and scattered across the country. The land man located the heirs and facilitated the transfer of mineral rights to an oil company.
