Hidden Fire, Kobo

by Terry Odell

  "Your idea," he said. "I told you to go for help."

  "And leave you to face them alone? I can't." And she knew then she could never leave him. No matter how dangerous his job, no matter how exasperating his reluctance to share, no matter what, he'd become part of her and would be as long as she drew breath. The us she'd feared had sneaked in when she wasn't looking and entwined itself around her heart.

  She rested her hand on his good thigh. He interlaced his fingers with hers. A feeling of calm wove its way through her fear.

  Another gunshot made her jerk her hand free. Instinctively, she curled forward into a ball. Crashing sounds interspersed with profanity hurtled down the mountain.

  "Guess they're coming after us," Randy said.

  "What do we do?"

  "You stay right there." He leaned onto his good knee and turned, peering around the tree.

  Another gunshot. "What?" she demanded.

  "Good news. I see one guy. He's not talking to anyone, so he's probably working on his own."

  "But he's got a gun. We don't."

  "True. He's also got a temper."

  "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Someone's temper had likely ruined half her shop merchandise.

  "Could go either way. Means he's not thinking, which means he's going to make mistakes."

  "Mistakes are good, though. Isn't that what you said? That's how you catch the crooks."

  "Part of it." His tone was guarded. He was hiding his thoughts again. She tried to follow his logic.

  The dots connected. "But he could shoot us first, think later. That's what you're trying to say, isn't it?"

  Two more gunshots resounded. She climbed to her knees and inched forward enough to see beyond their tree wall. "That's the guy," she said. "Mister Not Walter Young."

  "His name is Trent Wallace," Randy said. "He has a temper."

  He shoved his hair off his forehead and the familiar gesture filled her with comfort. "Not to mention he's wasting bullets," she said.

  "Good observation. There's also good chance he's almost out."

  "How can you know that?"

  "Because, unless I'm mistaken, he's using my backup piece and there was only one magazine in it."

  "He had a gun when he found me," she said. "Do you think it was yours? Or does he have two now?"

  "Did you see it?"

  She shook her head. "No, I felt it. First he had it at the back of my neck and then in my side." She tried to replay the events. "You were on the phone in the parking lot when I left you. It's possible, I suppose. Is that where you passed out? He could have taken it from you, then used it on me." She pondered that. "Or, he could have been using a piece of pipe and telling me it was a gun to scare me. Which worked, if you want to know."

  He gripped her arm and brought a finger to his lips.

  "I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

  He nodded, then winced and rubbed his forehead.

  Stupid. He probably had a concussion and she was blathering away. But she didn't feel as helpless if she was talking. Maybe she should blather in her thoughts instead. Maybe she should think about how to get out of this mess. No wheels, no weapons … no way, at least not until that man—Trent Wallace—left. And even if he gave up on finding them, would Randy be able to walk out of here with his injuries?

  As her thoughts whirled, so did her nerves. She reached for Randy's hand, seeking the calm it provided, even just hooking her fingers around his pinkie.

  "You've got nowhere to go," Wallace said. "Might as well come out."

  Sarah looked at Randy in alarm. He shook his head. "He's bluffing. He can't see us." His voice was sub-whisper, but she understood and froze, barely allowing herself to breathe.

  Leave rustled, branches cracked and curses echoed. All getting closer. She pulled her head behind the trees like a turtle disappearing into its shell and closed her eyes the way she used to when she played hide and seek. Almost laughing, she opened them. Not seeing him didn't mean he couldn't see her. She'd learned that when she was four.

  And then the sounds moved away. She dared not speak, but looked at Randy to see if he'd noticed. His eyes were closed, but his grip on her hand was solid. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. After what seemed like a lifetime, he shifted. Glanced at his watch. "He's gone. I think we can get moving now."

  The sooner they got away from here, the better. She stood and offered her hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Using the tree for support, Randy worked his way to his feet, testing how much weight his injured leg could handle. Not much, but better than having to hop back to campus.

  He took a tentative step. It was going to be a long hike. "Keep your eyes open for something to use as a walking stick."

  "For now, lean on me," she said.

  "I'm too heavy."

  "I'll let you know when I can't handle it," she said. "Should we follow the stream?"

  He hobbled alongside her, dragging his injured leg. Every step sent another arrow of pain through him. When they reached the stream, he pulled off his jersey, then the t-shirt underneath and extended it to Sarah. "Wet it, please."

  She soaked it and handed it back.

  "Wrap it around my leg," he said. "The cold will slow the bleeding and help numb the pain." He shrugged back into his jersey.

  She did as he asked, then crouched by the rushing water and splashed her face. Aware of a growing thirst, he tried to lower his body enough to drink.

  "Let me," she said. She seemed to be saying that a lot. She cupped her hands and brought water to his lips. Most of it dripped away, but after several tries they found a system and he swallowed enough to get the foul taste out of his mouth and replace at least some of his fluids. If they followed the stream, he wouldn't dehydrate. Shock was another issue. He blocked the possibility.

  It wasn't long before he knew there was no way he'd get down the mountain before dark. They stopped again and Sarah re-wet his dressing. He tilted her chin up. The fading sunlight reflected off her worried blue eyes. "You have to go on ahead, Sarah. I'll be fine here until you get back."

  Her lips narrowed into a thin line. She crossed her arms across her chest. "I will not leave you. What if something happens to me? I could fall, or get lost. Then we're both in trouble. We go until we can't go any farther, then wait for daylight. Together."

  Her tone brooked no argument. In silence, they continued following the stream. Talking was too much of an effort. Dusk fell and it became harder to pick stable footing.

  "We'd better find a place to spend the night before it's too dark," he said. "Off the trail, in case Wallace comes back."

  "Wait here." She jogged off, stopped, turned around and jogged back. "I think we can stay over there." She took his hand.

  He hobbled along and decided it was as good as anything they could expect. Close to the stream, sheltered by tall trees, there was a clear spot about the size of a double bed. A small double bed. Sarah was already moving rocks out of the way.

  "Were you a Girl Scout?" he asked. "Looks like you know what you're doing."

  "Discovery Channel," she said. "Maybe I should have watched Survivor instead."

  "I'm going to avail myself of the facilities," he said, gesturing toward a large tree. He stopped her before she could say anything. "I don't need your help."

  "I'll be right here," she said. As he relieved himself, he tried not to think that she was probably listening in case he collapsed in the process.

  He managed to finish the job without mishap and made his way the short distance to their accommodations for the night, where Sarah waited. "Told you I could handle it," he said. "Years of practice."

  His remarks didn't erase the worry from her face. She bent over his leg. "Let me wet this again," she said. He let her untie it, then lowered himself to the ground. Blood still oozed from the wound. He was tempted to slide his jeans down for a better look, then decided against it. Leaning against a tree, he closed his eyes. Vaguely aware of Sarah's return, replac
ing the makeshift bandage on his leg and settling in beside him, he allowed himself to drift off.

  A cry ripped Randy from the edge of unconsciousness. He raised his head and saw a man holding Sarah. Trent Wallace. He tried to rise, but his leg refused to respond. Then, in a blur, Sarah's hands spun down and around. Trent Wallace's arms flew apart. A stomp, a whoosh of expelled air and Wallace lay doubled over on the ground.

  Sarah rushed to his side and snatched the gun from Wallace's waist. She hurried back. "I think we'd better leave. Can you walk at all?"

  "What happened?" he asked. Using Sarah's supporting hand and the tree for leverage, he struggled to a standing position.

  "You showed me the first move, remember? How to break out of a wrist hold? The other part was from the classes at the Women's Center. Step on his instep, then a knee to the groin." She grinned. "I never thought I'd use it, but it did seem to work, didn't it?"

  On the ground, Wallace clutched his crotch and moaned.

  "That it did," Randy said. "Gun?" He held out his hand. Sarah handed him his gun. Its weight in his palm sent renewed strength through him. Bracing himself against the tree, he dropped the magazine. Two shots plus one in the chamber. So, Wallace had been shooting something else before. He replaced the magazine and pointed the gun at the fallen man. "Don't move, Wallace."

  He got a muffled groan in response.

  "Sarah, check him for another weapon. Empty his pockets." His vision blurred and he sucked air.

  She was at his side. "Sit, damn it. You can shoot that thing sitting down, can't you?"

  He pushed her away. "Don't."

  "Don't what?"

  "Line of fire," he muttered, fighting to stay conscious. Then he was on his ass on the ground with every bit of his strength focused on holding the gun steady and making sure Sarah wasn't in the way if Wallace tried anything.

  Sarah hovered over the body, tentative at first, but her moves became more confident as she searched Wallace. "I can't find another gun, but he has a phone," she said.

  "Toss it to me," Randy said. She did and he only missed it by half a mile. He picked it up from where it had landed. No signal. Of course not. That would be too easy.

  "Come back here, Sarah," Randy said. His world was drifting again and he didn't want to worry about her being so close to Wallace, even if the man was incapacitated.

  She looked his way. He motioned to his side. From the worried look on her face, she probably thought he needed help. Before she got there, his world faded out, taking Sarah with it.

  Something cold pressed against his neck. Pain shot through from his leg to his head and everywhere in between. Everything was dark. After a second or two of panic, he forced his eyelids open and the world came back. Sarah knelt at his side, tying something around his leg.

  "Ouch!" He pulled his leg back, but she held it down.

  "Welcome back, mister," she said. "I'm almost done."

  "How long was I out?" he asked.

  "A few minutes." She sat back. "There."

  He looked at his leg, which now sported a black wrapping. Moving his gaze over the area, he noted a bare-chested Wallace lying curled up on the ground. His arms and legs were bound in strips of black nylon.

  He reached to his neck, now wrapped in a wet cloth. "Instant replay," he said.

  She sat beside him and held his hand. "He had a Swiss Army knife. I cut his windbreaker apart to tie him up and used his t-shirt for a compress." She took the cloth from his neck and wiped his face. "How do you feel?"

  "Better." No need to go into all the other feelings fighting for dominance. Helplessness. Gratitude. Embarrassment. Admiration. Guilt. And the biggie. Sarah had made it clear enough she had problems with his job. What was she going to think now that she'd seen the worst of it? Probably want no part of him anymore. She said she worried about the danger and he'd not only dragged her into the middle of more danger than he'd seen in all his years on the Pine Hills force, but she'd been the one to come to his rescue.

  Wallace hadn't moved. "You must have kicked him one good one if he's still out."

  She ducked her head and scraped the toe of her sneaker in the dirt. "I kind of conked him on the head with a branch. He wasn't being nice." She looked up at him. "I didn't hit him all that hard."

  "He'll be fine." He shivered.

  "You're cold," she said. She grabbed the cell phone. "No signal. And it'll be dark soon."

  "Don't suppose Wallace had a lighter in his pocket?"

  "Nope. Wallet, the knife and some change. Think you can rub two quarters together and make a fire?"

  "Sorry. Too bad we didn't carry some burning embers or whatever they did before they invented matches."

  "You're not a Neanderthal, remember?" She patted his hand.

  Wallace groaned. Sarah got up and ran toward him. "Don't move, you scumbag. Or should I kick you again?"

  Despite his misery, Randy held back a laugh at Sarah's attempts to appear tough. Then again, Wallace had an entirely different impression of her than he did. He'd seen a woman who'd escaped his grasp and kicked him in the balls. And tied him up.

  Something howled in the distance. Sarah jerked back. "Are there wild animals out here?" The sound grew closer. The last glimmers of daylight reflected fear in her wide-open eyes.

  * * * * *

  Sarah ignored the man moaning at her feet and went to Randy's side. If there was a wild animal out here, Randy was the one with the gun. She had Wallace's Swiss Army knife but didn't want to deal with anything up close and personal enough to use it.

  What did she remember from all those television shows she'd watched? Or half-watched, more for background noise than anything else. Wild animals didn't want to mess with you. The danger came from surprising one. Let them know you were there.

  All right. She drew the line at stomping around in the near-dark, but there was no need to cower, either.

  "So, Mr. Wallace," she said in a loud voice. "Why were you pretending to be Walter Young?"

  Silence.

  "Answer the woman, scum," Randy said. "She's got kicking power and I've got firepower." He raised his pistol. "Either way, it's going to hurt."

  "All right, all right. But can I sit up? I'm sick of breathing dirt."

  "If you can manage, fine," Randy said. "But you shot me, so I'm not going to help you."

  Sarah watched Wallace squirm and eventually, with some contortionist moves, work his way into a seated position.

  "You didn't answer my question," she said.

  "Better yet," Randy said. "Start at the beginning. You're a teaching assistant at the University. Walter Young is a janitor. How did you two get connected with diamond smuggling? Through Gloria Osgood?"

  Sarah's mouth dropped open. She grabbed Randy's leg. He hissed.

  "Sorry. I forgot." She got up and moved to his other side where she was less likely to hurt him accidentally. "How do you know that?"

  "There have been a lot of cops working on this one," he said, staring at Wallace. "We do talk to each other, you know."

  But not to her, apparently. She backed down before she said anything. It wasn't like there'd been a lot of time for Randy to bring her up to speed. "Well, I want to know where Hugh Garrigue is," she said. His pottery had dumped her into this mess.

  "Dead," Wallace muttered. "This whole thing is his fault." He struggled against his bonds and Sarah tensed, afraid she hadn't tied him tightly enough.

  "Dead? But how? When? Where?"

  "Probably a heart attack. He didn't show up for work. I went to his private studio to look for him."

  "So why didn't you report it?" Sarah asked. "Call a doctor? Do something?"

  "Because I was sick of all the hoopla over his pottery. I'm a good potter, but it's always Garrigue this, Garrigue that. With his glazes, I could be just as rich and famous."

  "The body?" Randy said.

  Wallace gave a humorless laugh. "Let's say it wasn't a problem."

  Sarah's stomach churned. "A kiln," she whi
spered. "You cremated him."

  "Seemed fitting. His remains are in one of his vases."

  "Walter Young?" Randy's voice was hoarse. "You killed him?"

  "No, no way. I didn't kill anybody. That was Sebastian. Young found out about the diamonds and thought he could cut himself in."

  "Wait. Who's Sebastian?" Sarah asked.

  "Someone else who's too big for his britches," Wallace said. "He had to go and kill Young and try to make it look like a serial killer did it. Fool. All he did was bring in the media and a shitload of cops. Gloria should never have recruited him or any of his buddies."

  Okay, this was going too fast for her. She turned to Randy to see if he was following what Wallace was saying.

  His gun rested in his lap. She ran her fingers along his face. His stubble-covered jaw felt clammy to the touch.

  "Are you all right?" she whispered. "You can lie down. He's not going anywhere." He slumped to the side.

  "Randy?" She leaned her head against his chest. Relief coursed through her when she heard his heart thumping in her ear. She checked his leg. The shirt had soaked through. Her fingers came away sticky with fresh blood.

  In the distance, lights bounced through the forest. Someone, or some thing, crashed through the brush. Voices shouted. She grabbed Randy's gun. Her hands trembled, but she clutched the grip in both hands and pointed the barrel in the direction of the noise, trying to remember what few pointers Randy had given her.

  Don't put your finger on the trigger until you're ready to shoot. And don't shoot unless you're ready to kill.

  Could she kill someone?

  Seconds later, she heard a growl and a blurred form leaped on top of Wallace, followed by furious barking sounds. And screaming. She recognized the barking as being definitely dog. The screaming, she realized, was hers.

  Hands wrapped around the gun and pried it from her hands. "Don't move," a male voice said. A bright light in her eyes blinded her.

  "We got 'em," a man said.

  She raised her hands. It took three tries, but she finally managed to squeak, "Don't shoot."

  The light left her eyes. She blinked, trying to see past the rainbow of afterimages. A crowd gathered around Wallace, along with three huge dogs that seemed intent on pulling him apart.