by Ilsa J. Bick
Jack was there, insistent as a gnat. “Kate, you know why not. You can use a benzo for all sorts of things. If a bag bursts, you can’t pump her full of enough naloxone to make a dent.”
“And what if it’s not?” An asked. “What if it’s not cocaine?”
“Kate, you are going to get all these girls killed,” Jack warned.
“That depends on what it is.” She aimed a look at Chicago. “You going to tell me, or do I get to guess?”
“Heroin.” Wynn shot a defiant look at Chicago. “It’s heroin.”
“Man.” Oz shook his head. “Not a time to grow a conscience.”
“Now, can you help?” An asked.
“Maybe.” Grabbing a length of rubber tubing and small syringe, Kate said, “Push up her sleeve.” Inject the benzo into the vein, stop the seizures at least. Uncapping a vial, she scrubbed the rubber seal with an alcohol swab, twisted off the plastic cover from the syringe’s needle, and stabbed. Five ccs, she decided; the kid was a wisp of a thing. “This should—”
All at once, in the blink of an eye, Miin’s breathing changed. She began to gasp, slowly and laboriously. her body going through the motions and doing nothing useful.
Oh shit. Kate’s shoulders sagged. The girl’s body was merely going through the motions. Those breaths were accomplishing absolutely nothing. Goddamn it, goddamn it.
“What’s wrong?” Recoiling, An turned a look of mingled dread and horror to Kate. The tears she’d managed to staunch began to flow again. “Why is she doing that?”
Because she’s dying, honey. She looked at the nearly-filled, now-useless syringe in her hand and wanted to scream.
“You knew her chances were slim to none,” Jack said.
Right, and as Gabriel would observe, slim just left the building. Where was he, anyway? Halfway to Chaney Peak by now, if he was luckier than she. At least, he was safe and out of it.
Miin had stopped seizing and now only twitched, her limbs doing the terminal dance of the dead as her brain threw in the towel. In a way, it didn’t matter. Without the naloxone and, oh, advanced life support or even an ET tube, there was no way to keep her ticking long enough for the poison flooding the girl’s veins to leave her system.
“What are you waiting for?” Wynn looked from Kate to Miin and back again. “Aren’t you going to give it?”
By way of reply, Kate pushed the syringe’s contents back into the vial. “I’m sorry,” she said to An.
“What?” An cried. Her face glistened. Runners of snot slicked her upper lip. “You’re sorry? What are you doing? Why aren’t you helping her?”
She heard Wynn’s soft curse but kept her eyes on An. “I can’t, not anymore.” Whether she ever could was up for debate. “Those are agonal respirations.” She sat back on her heels. “Cheyne-Stokes.”
“What’s that mean?”
That she’s got about as much brain left as a lizard. “That it’s too late. They didn’t really have the right medicine anyway.”
“What would you need?” Wynn asked.
His voice was strained. She couldn’t interpret his scent either. Maybe her own nose was too full of death, and her mind too clouded by rage. “Narcan.” Her eyes found Chicago’s flat gaze. “But you know that. I’m surprised, actually. Given what’s going on, you ought to have it if only to treat your men if they accidentally inhale some.” The dog, too, for that matter.
“Well,” Chili Mac said, “we had ...”
“Put a sock in it,” Chicago said.
She filled in the blanks. They’d had the antidote but didn’t now. Chili Mac had said they’d had somebody, who clearly was no longer with them. A medic?
If she’d not been distracted and angry, she might have registered that tiny tick of Chicago’s gaze away or that nauseating bloom of foot fungus and a man’s sour sweat. Even Jack gave no warning, but considering he was part of her, perhaps this wasn’t a surprise.
Dax knew. Still on leash, the shepherd suddenly sprang up with a small uff of warning. At the sound, An’s head snapped from her dead sister, and then her dark eyes went wide at the same moment Wynn, standing to Kate’s left, shouted, “Wait!”
Something clubbed the back of Kate’s skull. The blow was brutal and so swift there was no time for her to register pain or even recognition.
Darkness took her.
8
“Candles are a nice touch. Kinda chase away the darkness, you know? I heard folks beyond the Arctic Circle, where it’s night all the time? They burn a lot of candles.” Mark’s face was ruddy with the glow. Leaning on his elbows, he propped himself on the table and gave a wolfish grin. “Say it makes things real cozy.”
Oh, brother. Candlelight made him look demonic. The beard, probably. Trim it to a goatee, add horns ... “I’ll say.” Slipping on an oven mitt, she favored him with a smile she gauged to be somewhere between friendly and come-hither. She didn’t want the guy to jump her bones, just trust her. “Makes thing so much homier.”
“Miss your home?”
“Oh, yeah. Especially lately.” Jesus, gag her with a fork. Turning, she bent at the waist and angled her ass. Thought, Honey, you’re doing this? Seriously? Cracking the oven released an aroma of baking biscuits. The biscuits were puffy, beginning to golden. Another minute, maybe two. “Sometimes gets pretty lonely up here.”
“I’ll bet.” There was long pause during which she hoped he was enjoying the view. “You know, I got a confession to make.”
“Oh?” Closing the oven, she stripped off the mitt. “About what?”
“When I said I didn’t have anything to contribute to a meal? That was a little bit of a lie.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. “I packed a flask. Might help us get warmed up.”
She already knew about the flask, had even taken a nip. Bourbon, and a strong one, too.
“Sure, I’ll take a splash.” As he poured, she stirred stew bubbling in its pot. The beans were just about ready, too. “By the way, you said you got through to incident command down in Lonesome? Which search and rescue folks did you talk to?”
“A whole bunch.” Handing her a ceramic mug, Mark gave a vague wave. “Lost track.”
“You must’ve talked to Shelby.” The bourbon was spicy and bit her nose. She rolled the sweetly sharp liquid around her mouth before swallowing. It really was excellent booze. “She never goes home. She and James are practically joined at the hip.”
“Can’t say I know James, but now you mention it”—Mark straddled a chair like a cowpoke—“I did talk to Shelby.” Tossing back a slug, he inhaled through his teeth at the burn. “Nice lady,” he said, his voice a little strangled. “Sends her regards, by the way.”
“Yes, she is nice.” Shelby was James’s SAR dog and very sweet. Pulling biscuits from the oven, she tilted her head at a stack of bowls. “Supper’s on. Help yourself to stew.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Throwing back the rest of his drink, Mark poured another healthy couple of fingers. “You better hurry on up here, I’m getting ahead of you.”
“I’m good. One has to keep a clear head.” As he swaggered up for stew, she said, “I’ll take first shift.”
“Be a miracle she wakes up tonight, but sure, you’re welcome to, if you want. I’m kind of whacked anyway.” He cocked her a look. “Hold out your bowl. I’ll give you some.”
“No, you take it.” She spooned up beans. “I’m good with this and biscuits.”
They ate in companionable silence, Mark pouring a third drink and wolfing down two bowls of stew and a half-dozen biscuits while she pushed beans around and broke her biscuit into ever tinier crumbs. Finally, Mark pushed back and sighed. “Man, you don’t know how nice it is to have food I’m not eating straight out of a can I’ve heated over a fire.”
“Even if this came from a can.” She’d grabbed a fresh mug for tea and now aimed a grin over the rim as mint-scented steam dewed her cheeks. “There’s plenty more. Help yourself.”
“You sure?” He stoppered a sudden
yawn. “You didn’t have any.”
“I’m good.” As he crossed to the stove ... a little unsteadily, and had his eyes begun to jig? ... she said, “I can’t believe you actually got through to somebody.”
“Yeah, but that’s what took me so long, too. Talk to one command and then another and then someone else wants an update.” After filling his bowl, Mark eyed the two dogs, both of whom gazed up with adoring, hopeful expressions. “Can they have ...” His jaw suddenly unhinged as he let go of another yawn. “Oh jeez, I’m sorry.” He shook his head as if to clear away cobwebs and gave her a bleary look. “Want me to give some to the dogs?”
“No, no, you finish it.” Sarah slipped a biscuit crumb onto her tongue and let it dissolve to paste. “People food isn’t good for them.”
The third bowl took him longer. Mark’s movements were slower, almost sluggish. “This is ... this is excellent.” The words came out a little slurry as if his tongue skated on ball bearings: Thish ish eshellend. Sopping up gravy with a biscuit, Mark crammed the bite into his mouth. An enormous glop of stew jelly oozed onto his beard as he chewed, swallowed—and yawned, gluey stew and biscuit mush sitting on his tongue. “Sorry.” He blinked slowly and thoroughly like a turtle sunning itself on a log and finally swallowed. “Must be the bourbon and the food on top of hoofing it up the mountain.”
“Uh-huh. Mind if I take a look at that radio?” She crossed to a dowel where he’d hung his parka and vest. “I’m just so amazed you got through. Nothing works up here.”
“Uh ...” Mark seemed to think about that really, really hard for an awfully long time. She could almost see the gears hitching and clashing. “Well, uh, sure, but it’s kinda ...” He groped. “Don’t fiddle ... with it. None.” He snorted. “Uh, right, forgot. You can’t.”
“Oh?” Hell. Unhooking the unit from the vest, she studied the controls and felt a sink of dismay congeal in her stomach. There were no buttons for channel selection at all, only a volume knob, an on-off, something else labeled squelch and another marked FQ. Frequency? Why couldn’t anything be easy? Other than a slot occupied by an SD card—storing what, she wondered—there was nothing else on this unit she recognized.
“S’locked. Here.” He beckoned. “I’ll un ... un ...” He ground to a halt.
She gave him a second, waited to see if he would start up again. “Mark?”
“Huh?” His pupils were huge, the gray irises reduced to the thinnest of rims. His eyes ticked rapidly from side to side as if he was in a train, watching scenery scroll by. “I’m ... fine ... ah, fine.” Tick-tick-tick-tick. “What was ... what were we talking . . talking ...”
“Unlocking your radio.”
“Right, that’s right. Bring. Bring.” He sounded like a balky outboard motor that refused to catch. “Bring. Bring.”
“Mark?” Shit. Grabbing a chair, she slid next to him. “Mark, show me what to do.”
“I ...” His head drooped then snapped back up before sagging again. “I think ...”
“Hey, not yet.” She thrust the radio under his nose. “Mark, tell me your password.”
In reply, Mark passed out and landed face-first in his stew.
9
An hour ago…
The sandwiches tipped it. How many hikers carried doubled-wrapped and bagged peanut butter and pickles? Only two she knew of, and one was already dead.
She searched Mark’s pack but found nothing of Hank’s. No wallet, keys. Not his service pistol, baton, anything from his duty belt. There was a flint and striker, some tinder, but that could be Mark’s.
What did this mean? Mark had those stupid sandwiches. Surely, he’d have helped himself to Hank’s service weapon, the baton, a Taser, wouldn’t he?
There might also be another explanation, a small voice had niggled, and you know it.
She did. Anyone could own plasticuffs. Mark claimed he was the only one willing to risk the mountain at night and in snow. For all she knew, he’d hustled out, met up with Hank—and Hank had given him the sandwiches. Hank would do that, too.
She had nothing remotely resembling proof. The lie about Shelby was a slip-up, and he had seemed not to know her name at first, but get real. Hank might very well be just fine.
Or, say, Mark was a bad guy. Even if he’d intercepted Hank on the way down, how had he known to come to the fire tower?
He couldn’t, which means you’ve overreacted, that little voice said. You drugged that poor guy and cuffed him for no reason.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, she’d thought as she salted beef stew with a liberal sprinkling of ketamine powder ... she could beg forgiveness later.
#
Now…
“Well, hell.” Rising quickly, she grabbed a hank of hair and pulled. She wanted him out, not drowned by doctored beef stew. His face came free with a grudging, sucking sound akin to a Jell-O mold tipped onto a plate. She let his head down—really, she was tempted to bounce his face off the wood table—turning it until he rested on his left cheek. Stew goo slimed his beard and hung in trembling, mucus-like runners. He looked a contestant in a pie-eating contest, only minus the whipped cream and pie. She put a finger to Mark’s neck. His pulse was strong but a touch slow, and his breathing was okay.
Damn it, he’d gone nighty-night just a touch too soon. That was the thing about veterinary medicine. It was hard to figure how much ketamine a person could tolerate versus a dog. She’d considered pilfering his medic’s bag then rejected the idea. He might notice a missing ampule or pilfered vial. In contrast, powdered ketamine tasted a little salty, something easily masked when mixed into beef stew. Throw in a nearly full flask of bourbon, and Mark ought to be out until well past dawn. She’d worried about combining ketamine and alcohol then decided to simply run the experiment. If she had to, she’d jab him with a prefilled syringe of naloxone. All vets carried them because they used so much ketamine on animals. She knew the dose for a dog and a horse and reasoned a person ought to fall somewhere in between. The drug didn’t work as well reversing ketamine as opioids, but she thought she could live with that.
She was reaching around to pull zip ties from a back pocket when her gaze fell on the radio still on the table. The screen had cycled to sleep mode in the lull. Fat lot of good the radio would do her now. Not expecting much, she stabbed the unit to life and felt a flare of hope. Although locked and password-protected, the radio also had fingerprint ID.
Thank you, God. Pressing Mark’s right thumb to the screen got her in. Now, we’re cooking. Icons appeared. Frequency Modulation. Maps. GPS. Messages Privacy. Settings. Unless she chopped off Mark’s thumb, she only wanted to fiddle with fingerprint ID once. How to stop the radio locking her out? She poked at Settings, ran down the menu ... ah, got it. Toggling to Screen Lock, she disabled both sleep mode and the lockout.
Then, hooking her hands under Mark’s pits, she jockeyed him from his chair, but he was dead weight, she lost her grip, and he crashed to the floor. Other than a small hitch in his breathing, Mark didn’t react. Quickly rolling him onto his side, she crossed his rag-doll’s arms behind his back and tightened a plasticuff around his wrists. She did the same to his ankles.
As she worked, the dogs nosed and sniffed at stew goo on Mark’s face. “No, no, guys, come on. Leave him alone.” Nudging the dogs aside, she swabbed Mark’s face clean with paper towels. She should dump the bowl and pot into water before the dogs got any bright ideas.
She unbuckled then pulled Mark’s canvas belt, with its holstered handgun and wicked-looking fixed blade in a hard plastic sheath, from his waist. Patting pockets, she found a wallet, keys, a black four-inch folder. She recognized the brand, a Ken Onion. She always carried a Leek herself. Mark had a Blur with a speed-assist. A nudge of the thumb stud, and the blade, a finely silvered tanto, sprang out and locked into place. Good for slitting throats, she bet. Slipping her Leek into her left pocket, she clipped the Blur to her right. Couldn’t hurt.
Next, she dragged Mark into her bedroom. The room was chilly
. She thought about it then retrieved Mark’s bedroll, unzipped the bag, and draped that over him. There, he wouldn’t freeze. Backing out, she flipped a hinged metal strap over a staple and then fixed on a padlock. Locking him in was overkill—the guy was in cuffs, for God’s sake—but it paid to be careful.
Before she left, she checked the girl. It might be her imagination or only wishful thinking, but she thought there was a touch more color in the girl’s sallow cheeks. As she watched, the girl’s eyes slowly rolled beneath her lids. That was new, too. Dreaming?
She pulled on her parka, laced up her boots. Leaving the girl alone sent a tickle of uneasiness feathering down her spine. After searching his pack, she had a pretty good idea why Mark was so keen on keeping the girl alive. Would that change? It might. Mark’s medic’s bag had everything he needed if the girl died or became a liability.
And what if Mark was part of something bigger? Were other Marks headed her way?
There was Hank to worry about, too. Her heart gave a painful squeeze. What had happened to Hank? Was he alive? Dead? Dying somewhere, alone and cold and in the dark ...
“Stop.” One disaster at a time. She mashed the knuckles of her right fist against her lips to still their trembling. You cannot help Hank if you panic.
“Stay put, babies.” She gave each dog a pat. Although both accepted Mark as a friend, Soldier might take him if pressed. The dog was trained for defense. She just didn’t want to test that theory. “Be right back.”
She had to make contact with someone, somehow. She had to get help.
She had to find out what happened to Hank.
10
Ten hours ago …
Hank was three-quarters of a mile from the tower when everything that might go wrong did.
He was moving as fast as he dared, skittering over snow, bare rock, and tree roots encased in a thick glaze of glare ice. His homemade crampons—a slapdash affair of duct tape, zip ties, linked chain, and bungee cords—weren’t great, and more like a twisted ankle waiting to happen. His boots kept tripping him up on rocks and exposed roots when he wasn’t slipping and sliding and trying, in general, to either fall on his ass or glissade all the way down like an out-of-control luge. He was also working hard, sweating like a blown horse. Perspiration trickled from beneath his deputy hat to course down his temples and the nape of his neck.
