“Your roof’s covered in four inches of ice. It’ll be the last to go.”
“We’re not going to stay long enough to find out.” Russ set the duffel next to Mongue’s chair. He crossed to the bedroom, dropping to the floor and belly-crawling around the bed until he had a clear view of the tiny patio and the narrow stretch of cleared land and the woods. He lay there for several minutes, scanning the area in slow degrees, south to north.
“Anything?” Mongue called.
“No.” The cabin had been carefully planned so that its windows and French doors opened onto pleasing views of the lake and the thick woods, and right now Russ would have paid double the asking price for one lousy look at the road.
“What’s the plan? Besides ‘walk outside, get shot,’ I mean.”
Russ backed away from the bedroom and got to his feet. “He’s one guy. He can only cover one side.”
“Unless he gets down to the lake. He’ll have a clear view of everything from there. Drill us right through the porch windows if he has a decent rifle.”
“Yeah. I’m betting he isn’t going to want to get too much distance between him and his vehicle. He doesn’t know how many people are in here or how well we’re armed. He’s got to consider that somebody could stay inside laying down cover fire while one of us hikes up the hill and gets control of the SUV.”
Mongue gave him a smile thinned by pain. “I like that idea. Why don’t we do that?”
“If he starts shooting at us from lakeside, we will.” Russ backtracked to the kitchen. Waves of heat were rolling off the rear wall, and the cabinet, when he bent to open it, was almost too hot to touch. He grabbed the box of thirty-gallon trash bags and brandished it to Mongue.
“Triple ply,” the trooper said. “Probably also not fire resistant.”
Russ settled the duffel across his back. “This is your way out of here.” He ducked down next to Mongue. The other man slung his arm around Russ’s neck and they stood together. Mongue held his Glock out. “Keep it,” Russ said. “You’re covering us.” They limp-walked together to the screened-in porch. Russ took a deep breath. “Okay. I open the door. The trash bag goes down. You go on the trash bag. I drag you as fast as I can down to the lake’s edge. We’ll be screened by the embankment there.”
“You’re completely insane, you know that? The odds of him hitting at least one of us are ten to one. In his favor.”
“You have a better idea?”
There was a whistling sound, like steam in a kettle, and a second later the fire finally broke through the far wall, licking and leaping along the rounded logs. One of the cupboards burst into flames. “Shit,” Mongue said. “Okay, Van Alstyne. Your plan is looking better. Let’s do it.”
Russ opened the door, expecting the whine and thud of a bullet at any moment. Nothing. He snapped the trash bag out. Nothing. It floated to the snow. Holding the door open with his hip, he hoisted Mongue, stepped off the porch, and swung him onto the heavy plastic. Russ paused at the trooper’s sharp breath and grunt of pain. “I’m okay,” Mongue whispered, although he clearly was not. “Go.”
Russ bunched the end of the bag in his fist and, crouching, began his downslope run. He tried to keep an eye out for DeJean, but the ice, slipping and breaking beneath his boots, demanded most of his attention. He staggered forward, half running, half falling, jouncing and tipping Mongue, his thighs bunching and burning, his shoulder, still aching from his confinement, cramping and spasming. The repressed sounds of pain behind him stopped about three-quarters of the way down the slope, and when Russ finally reached the lake—jumping and sliding on his ass down the last drop onto the ice—he saw why. The trooper had fainted.
Russ considered taking the gun from Mongue’s lap but decided he’d be safer using both hands to stay low and out of sight beneath the embankment. His destination was maybe fifty feet away. He wiggled the duffel off his back and laid it atop Mongue before gathering the end of the trash bag again and beginning an arm-and-two-knees crawl across the ice.
Halfway there, he felt Mongue rolling his head back and forth. The bag rustled with a sudden whole-body twitch, and then Mongue let out a hiss like a deflating tire.
“You fainted.” Russ tried not to sound as exhausted and out of breath as he felt.
“The hell I did,” Mongue said weakly.
Russ didn’t waste energy arguing. The wide square door of the boathouse loomed larger and larger and then they were slipping inside, out of the steady, dripping rain and out of sight to anyone not lined up straight across from the boathouse’s entrance. Every muscle in his body screamed in relief and protest as he stood up.
The boathouse was the size of a large garage, and about as plain on the inside. A wooden walkway ran around three sides of the structure. Two kayaks rested in wall-mounted cradles, and a battered old wooden canoe hung just beneath the rafters, suspended on a rope-and-pulleys mount. Russ dragged Mongue to the edge of the walkway and lifted him from the now-shredded trash bag. Between the two of them, they managed to wrestle the trooper off the ice and up onto the planks.
“’S’not a bad shelter,” Mongue wheezed. “Little cold.”
“I have a plan for that.” Russ climbed off the ice and walked to where the ropes holding the canoe were cleated to the wall. He tried to unwind one of the ropes from its cleat, but it was frozen.
“Always a plan.” Mongue was trying for his usual sardonic tone but could only manage sounding exhausted. “Must drive you nuts when things go wrong.”
Russ banged on it with his fist until it started to give. Once loosened, the rope unwound quickly. The canoe’s stern lurched toward the ice as if it were re-creating the sinking of the Titanic.
“Tough character trait for a law enforcement officer.” Mongue sighed. “Pain pills?”
“In the duffel.” Russ went to the second cleat and began hammering at the rope. He turned back to the rope, twisting and yanking it into flexibility.
Mongue unzipped the duffel and dug inside. The plastic bottle rattled as he shook out a handful of Tylenol. He dry swallowed the pills, then spat. “Law enforcement, the plan never lasts. Too much crap coming at you.”
Russ unhitched the rope from the cleat. The bow of the canoe jerked down. Russ dropped it until it was hanging parallel to and a foot below the walkway.
“Your private life, though. That you can keep just the way you like it. Settled. Predictable. No big surprises. Everything the way it was the day before.”
Russ cleated off the two ropes. “You got a point, Bob? ’Cause I’m a little busy here to take time out for psychoanalysis.”
“That’s what you came back to Millers Kill for, wasn’t it? So you’d know what to expect for the rest of your life?”
Russ sat on the walkway and slid himself back onto the ice. “Look. I’m sorry you’re still pissed about me getting the chief’s job. No, I didn’t come home so I could start my march to the grave. I was only forty-three when I left the army, for chrissake.” He pushed against the side of the canoe, moving it forward until its side bumped against the walkway. “But yeah, I do like to know what to expect. Jesus, I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
Mongue watched as he shoved the canoe into position on the walkway. “Then why the hell’d you marry Reverend Knock-your-feet-out-from-under-you? Seems like she’d be the one woman to drive you absolutely batshit crazy.”
Russ snorted. “I married her because she drives me absolutely batshit crazy.” He had been chief of police five years when Clare arrived in Millers Kill. There had been ups and downs, but basically, yeah, Bob was right. Until Clare walked into his life, each day had been like the day before. The way he liked it. Except he had thrown over every shred of sanity and certainty he had for the chance to be with Clare.
He paused on the ladder up to the walkway. That’s what I wanted. I had my life built as sturdy and square as that cabin and I set the whole thing on fire.
He swung onto the walkway. “I have to go. I have to get D
eJean’s SUV and get the hell back to my wife.” He pulled one of the blankets out of the open duffel and laid it in the bottom of the canoe. Then he squatted beside Mongue, knees going snap-crackle-pop, and picked him up. He lugged him over to the canoe and settled the trooper amidships. Russ passed him the duffel. “If you wrap yourself up in the other blankets, you should stay warm enough inside there.”
Mongue nodded. He handed Russ his Glock and the ammo pouch.
“I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
The trooper nodded. “I know you will.”
Russ rounded the corner of the boathouse and struck off toward the unseen road on a diagonal, climbing through the woods on the far side of the cabin. Or what used to be the cabin. The bright red-orange of the fire lit up the surrounding woods; the birch bark glowed golden, the rain showers of sparks. The steady downpour suppressed some of the smoke, but he caught whiffs of charcoal and creosote as he toiled up the slope, headed for Mongue’s squad car. He didn’t try to move quietly; the roar of the fire drowned out the crack of snow crust and the snap of branches from his passage.
He emerged from the woods—carefully, slowly—by a cylindrical snowman that turned out to be the next-door-neighbor’s mailbox. He was well ahead of where DeJean had parked the SUV, and, sticking to the edge of the road where snow provided some traction beneath the ice, he began to jog toward the squad car.
He looked backward once toward the column of smoke—the phrase Lot’s wife came into his head—but otherwise pressed hard for the unit. The tracks where he and Clare had walked, dragging Mongue behind them, were still visible beneath a clear, thick coating of fresh ice.
The same layer of ice had entombed the state police car as it was, hood flattened and driver’s door open, giving it the look of some ancient relic abandoned in a disaster and never reclaimed. Russ brushed the ice off the steering column and retrieved the keys. A few hard kicks to the back of the car cleared the lock. It took two hands to lift the trunk against the weight of the ice, but once he did, he had his weapon.
The Remington 870 was the standard state police shotgun, powerful enough to blow a hole through a barn door. Russ loaded his pockets with shells and took three emergency road flares for good measure. Bob had also left his rain poncho, which Russ gratefully donned. It wouldn’t keep him warm, but it would stop his wool sweater from getting soaked.
He jogged back down toward the cabin on the other side of the road this time. His plan was to circle up above the road, using the trees and the small garage as cover. If he was lucky, he’d get a clear line of sight on DeJean before the bastard even knew he was there. His only real worry was that DeJean had left the high ground and gone hunting for him and Mongue. If anyone found him, the trooper would be as defenseless as a turtle on its back.
When he had climbed through the woods to a good vantage site, though, Russ discovered that his fear was groundless. He had an uninterrupted view of the fire, the cabin, the roiling smoke, and the perfectly empty road, no SUV in sight.
DeJean had gone back to the lake house.
9.
Clare returned to the bathroom, averting her gaze from the droplets of blood spattered across the floor. She got the children’s ibuprofen from the second drawer, then, reluctantly, picked up Travis’s gun. She checked it, ejected the magazine, and put the gun in one pocket and the ammo in another.
She grabbed another bottle of water from the kitchen and went back to the bedroom. She coaxed the medicine down Mikayla’s throat with a generous amount of water, then helped the girl lie back against her pillow. “Okay, sweetheart, I’m going to get my truck out of the garage. Then I’m coming back here for you.” Clare pressed her lips against Mikayla’s forehead. It was like kissing an oven. “I know you’re feeling awfully sick, but it won’t be long now. Once we’ve gotten you to a hospital, the doctors will make you all better.” Please God that we’re not too late.
Russ’s parka was still hanging on a hook by the kitchen door. She searched through the pockets. No key. She took a deep breath and searched again, forcing herself to go slowly and methodically. Nothing. Either it had been lost in the snow when Russ fell, or Hector had taken it.
Fortunately, Russ, being Russ, had a backup. She had never used it before, but there was a spare key in a magnetic box, stuck to the truck’s chassis behind the driver’s-side wheel well. As she opened the kitchen door, Clare heard a kind of angry groan from the locked shed. Travis. She was going to have to get Mikayla out as stealthily as possible. If she and the girl were pursued, she didn’t want Travis knowing exactly how much—or how little—of a lead they had.
Russ’s truck was parked inside the garage, nose-in, tight against the far wall. Almost too tight, given her expanded girth.
There was enough of a gap for her to wedge herself in face-forward, so she stripped off her parka and squeezed between the truck bed and the wall, dropped her coat onto the cement, and maneuvered herself like an arthritic camel into a kneeling position.
She pressed her chest as close to the frigid floor as possible, then, gritting her teeth, began sweeping her fingers along the truck’s underside, hoping to find the box by feel.
She was about to rear up and scoot forward another foot when her palm hit something sharp-cornered. A rectangle of metal. She sat back on her haunches and pried the box open. The car key, the beautiful key, was inside. Her surge of victory was squelched by the odd squeak of tires on ice. The dim gray daylight in the garage was blocked out and the SUV backed into the space next to Russ’s truck. Inches from Clare’s hidden body.
She had no place to go. She slid down and lay sideways on her parka, tucking her knees against the bulk of her stomach. If Hector stood between the truck and the far wall, or if he lay on the garage floor and looked beneath the carriage, he would see her. She heard the thud of Hector’s boots, the thunk as the door closed, then his footsteps leaving the garage. When she figured he was out of sight and earshot, she uncurled and struggled to her feet, bracing herself between the truck and the wall.
She crossed the opening of the garage and peered into the SUV. For a moment, she went limp with relief. She had been dreading the sight of Russ’s body, injured or worse. Then her brain caught up with her emotions. The fact that her husband wasn’t in Hector DeJean’s car didn’t mean he was safe. Far from it.
Be safe, love. Please, please be safe.
Across the street, she heard the front door to the cabin slam. She heard their voices, Hector furious, Travis whining, although she couldn’t discern their words. She had perhaps five seconds to make it outside and behind the garage, the only place where she had a hope of not being spotted. She was about to take a step toward the road but then pictured the smooth, virgin snow on either side of the garage. Her boot prints would stand out like bright lights in night-vision glasses.
She scurried back to her hidey-hole. “—already said I’m sorry.” She could make out what Travis was saying. “Jesus Christ, you said it yourself. She was a pregnant woman. I didn’t expect her to go all Rambo on me.” The voice was closer now. “Don’t make a goddamn federal case about it.”
“Y’know, if it was just the one thing, Travis, I wouldn’t. But you have managed to screw up every. Single. Fucking. Part. Of the plan up to now. So tell me why I shouldn’t just cap you and leave your body in the woods?”
The scrape of boots on concrete. Clare closed her eyes and willed herself as small as possible.
“Dude! I didn’t screw up that—”
“Get Mikayla out of the house. That’s all you were supposed to do, Travis. Get an eight-year-old out of a dark house where a couple oldsters were sleeping and let the grease take care of the rest.” Hector’s voice changed. “Hang on, sweetheart, let’s tuck you in nice and comfy in the back.” One of the doors opened.
Mikayla. Clare felt sick to her stomach. She had promised to get the girl away. Promised her help. Now all she could do was huddle on a cold and dirty cement floor while a pair of killers took her.
/>
“You know, dude, I’m the one who cut you in on this. I’m the one who had the contacts to get you outta the country. The way I see it, you owe me.”
The car door slammed. “I owe you nothing. You’re a fucking idiot. If you hadn’t been so tweaked when we went to pick up Mikayla—” Hector’s voice sharpened. “Were you smoking? Is that how she got away?”
“No, man! I said I would stay off it until we straighten everything out.”
“Straighten out.” Hector spat on the floor. “You’re gonna be lucky if your contacts don’t decide to leave your ass hanging in the wind. Somebody’s gonna have to take the fall for offing a goddamn federal agent, and it ain’t gonna be me.”
“We can fix this.” Travis’s voice was halfway between soothing and pleading. “Don’t worry, man, we can fix this. Just tell me what you want to do, and I’ll do it. You want to give me the rifle? I’ll go after her right now. She’s probably headed back across the lake to her husband.”
“Let her. I took care of the cop and the other guy. Right now, I want to get Mikayla to the factory and see about getting her medicine. If any of ’em make it through the night—” There was a pause, as if Hector shrugged. “Me and Mikayla are outta here as soon as the weather breaks.” A door opened, then thunked.
Another car door opened. “What about me? Dude, the grease can’t keep me clean if another cop—” Travis closed his door over the rest of his sentence, and the engine fired up. The SUV pulled out of the garage, then stopped. Clare held her breath as one of the men got back out of the vehicle. Then she heard the high-pitched squeaking and rumbling of the garage door, and the tiny building was closed up into near-darkness.
She pushed herself up like a dairy cow exiting a stall and squatted under the crack between the garage door and the cold concrete floor in time to see the vehicle turn to the left. Not headed back out to the highway, then.
Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery Page 27