When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  "If anyone does, they're not talking. But I agree, knowing who's hiding some trinkets doesn't seem worth diddly in the grand scheme of things. Not that folks don't kill for less. Too bad the files were destroyed, ain't it? We had them, we might figure it out."

  "Yeah. Too bad." Ryan stared at the ceiling for a while, not exactly sure why he didn't tell Dalton the truth. It could wait. "The good news is that they don't have them, either. Pass me another beer."

  At some point, the beer changed to whiskey. Dalton kept the refills coming, reminiscences flowed with them, and Ryan remembered little else until sunlight pierced his eyelids and a cold nose poked his neck. "Go away, dog."

  Ryan groped for his watch. Twelve-twenty, and unless he'd been transported above the Arctic Circle, it was noon, not midnight. He'd slept—damn, he didn't know how long he'd slept. At least twelve hours. His head felt thick, but blessedly, no hangover symptoms.

  He picked through the tangle in his brain for the memories. He and Dalton, out on the porch, watching the sunset. Being helped into bed. No nightmares.

  He stumbled into the shower. Revived, he got dressed and wandered through the living room. Everything was immaculate.

  "Dalt?" In the kitchen, it was the same. As if Dalton had never been here. He caught the note propped up against the coffee pot.

  Hope you slept well. You needed it. Got a 911 page about 2. Wheels up at 8. Had to dash. Will be in touch. D.

  Chapter 8

  "You almost ready, Molly?" Frankie took mental inventory of the picnic supplies and added a roll of paper towels, wet naps and a box of band-aids to a canvas tote. "Don't forget your jacket. And your red cap. It's cold up in the mountains."

  After seeing her mother and Bob off yesterday, finishing the laundry, and trying to get a handle on the budget based on the few bits and pieces she found in Mom's desk, Frankie had convinced Molly to settle for pizza and The Little Mermaid on video, with the promise that she could pick whatever she wanted to do on Sunday.

  When Molly had proposed a picnic, Frankie jumped at the suggestion.

  She ran her fingers along the pebbled metal of the camera she'd rediscovered in the attic while searching for the picnic basket. Surprised at how familiar it felt, how it seemed to mold to her grip as if she'd used it last week instead of years ago, she thought of her photos on the living room wall. She knew exactly where she and Molly would go.

  "Ready, Mommy. Can Mr. Snuggles come, too? He said he likes picnics."

  "Of course. Can you carry this for me?" Frankie handed Molly the tote. "Why don't you let Mr. Snuggles ride inside? Then you have both hands to carry it."

  Molly nodded and arranged Mr. Snuggles so that his head and forepaws hung over the top of the tote. "Let's go."

  With their supplies in the trunk, Molly secure in back, and the camera bag up front, Frankie headed out of town, past Stanton, and into the mountains where she'd taken her award winning photos. Okay, so maybe they were high school awards, but all that meant was that she could do better now.

  Before they left Broken Bow, she stopped and picked up a supply of film. Black and white, although the clerk had to hunt for it. Digital might be the current trend, but Frankie couldn't separate the photography from the picture-making process. For her, manipulating images on a computer would never compare to watching an image appear, as if by magic, onto a blank sheet of paper immersed in the developer tray. She could almost smell the tang of the chemicals. She wondered if Mr. Anisman still taught at the high school, and if he'd let her use the darkroom. On impulse, she bought two disposable cameras for Molly.

  By late afternoon, Frankie was comfortably tired. Their picnic had become secondary to the picture-taking. Molly was enthralled with having her own camera, and learned that being quiet was rewarded with glimpses of wildlife, although Frankie thought Mr. Snuggles would be the focal point of most of Molly's photos.

  "I'm all done, Mommy." Molly handed over her second camera. Her nose and cheeks were flushed pink with the cold. Frankie tugged Molly's knit cap lower, covering her ears.

  "Almost time to go, Peanut. You've done a great job. I'll bet you have some wonderful pictures in here." Frankie slipped the camera into her jacket pocket and looked up.

  Black and gray clouds billowed above, glowing with reflections that preceded sunset. Below, a stream, swollen with spring rains, twisted and turned its way down the mountain. A photo screamed out to her.

  "Mommy's going to take a few pictures, and then I'll be done, too. Why don't you sit on that log, and be very, very quiet. Maybe the deer will come by again."

  Frankie grinned as Molly did her best stealth tiptoe and settled onto a fallen log by the stream.

  Finding a vantage point higher up the bank, Frankie screwed her camera into the tripod and attached the cable release. She stomped her feet and rubbed her hands against the calendar-defying cold. She'd forgotten what spring in Montana was like. Sun one day, snow the next, especially in the mountains. She tucked her hair into the hood of her parka and pulled the drawstring tight against the rising wind.

  After snapping a couple of shots that would freeze the action of the water, mirroring the clouds above, she took a meter reading and adjusted the aperture and shutter speed for a long exposure. The rushing stream below would be transformed into a frothy blur, looking more like whipped cream than water.

  Her eyes glued to the viewfinder, she composed the shot, framing the image with the overhanging branches above and a boulder below, and waited for the precise moment when the clouds and sun combined to give her perfect lighting.

  A high-pitched shriek pierced her tranquil concentration. Molly! In Frankie's panic, the sound seemed to come from everywhere. Frankie whipped her head around, searching out the last place she'd seen Molly, but her child wasn't on the log.

  "Molly!" Her heart hammered hard enough to escape her rib cage. "Where are you?"

  "Mr. Snuggles fell in! Mommy! Help!" The sound moved away, carried by the wind.

  Cursing the stuffed dog, Frankie raced toward her daughter's screams. She caught a glimpse of Molly's red jacket being propelled downstream. With Molly inside.

  "Grab something! Hold on! I'm coming!"

  Frankie scrambled down the bank, slipping and sliding until she reached the stream bed. The surging current, fed by the runoff of melting snow, no longer looked like the peaceful scene she'd framed with her camera lens. The water roared, or was it the blood pounding in her ears? She raced downstream, trying to get ahead of Molly.

  "Hang on, please, hang on." Stumbling, trying to keep her footing on the slippery ground, a flash of brown fur bounded past her, sending her to her knees.

  Oh, God. A bear? No, a wolf. It chased after Molly.

  "No!"

  She groped along the ground, seeking a rock, a stick, anything to keep the mad creature away from her child.

  "Wolf!" A male voice cried out.

  "I know. My daughter. Help me, please!" Her voice trembled, pitched two octaves higher than normal. Her fingers found a rock, and she clutched it in her fist, her arm poised to hurl it at the beast. Someone gripped her wrist and pried it loose.

  Without turning, she screamed, "Give me that! What are you doing? That beast is going to kill my daughter!"

  The man shoved her aside and raced past her. She scrambled to her feet and followed his hooded green parka.

  Around a bend, her heart stopped when she saw Molly's red knit cap swirling in an eddy. Forcing her eyes to look beyond it, she saw Molly clutching a snagged branch.

  "Hold on, Molly. I'm coming."

  She plunged into the icy water. The current threatened to yank her feet out from under her. Submerged rocks and branches threatened what little footing she could maintain. She reached for an overhanging branch to steady herself. When she looked back at the stream, Molly was gone.

  "Molly!" Her heart pounded in her ears. "Molly!"

  She struggled back to the bank where she could move faster. Beyond the next curve, she spied the bea
st with Molly's jacket in its teeth, Molly in the jacket, the man close behind.

  "Do something. Stop him," Frankie cried.

  "Stay back." The man stood on a flat rock near the edge of the stream. "Wolf. Good boy. Bring her here."

  Transfixed, Frankie watched the beast, not a wolf but a German shepherd, keep Molly's head above water as it fought the current and dragged her toward the man.

  "Good boy. A little more. Come on." The wind caught most of his voice, but she heard the calm confidence in his tone.

  Once Molly was close enough, he stepped into the stream and plucked her into his arms. "Okay, little one. You're okay."

  Frankie splashed out of the water and up the bank where the man had placed Molly on her side. Molly choked, coughed up half the stream, and burst into tears.

  "Peanut, you're okay. Mommy's here." Frankie knelt at Molly's side, clutched her to her chest and stroked her face. "You're safe now."

  "Looks like she's all right," the man said.

  Momentarily startled by his voice, Frankie's universe expanded enough to include the stranger. "You saved her life. I don't know how to thank you."

  She gazed up into the man's face for the first time. In the dimming light, his face was cast in shadows. The cloud cover broke for a moment, and his whiskey colored eyes caught hers. She squinted at him.

  "Jack?"

  Recognition flashed across his face. "Frankie?" He looked down. "Hello, angel."

  Molly's sobs subsided into hiccups. "Molly, not Angel."

  Frankie swallowed. "You shaved. What are you doing here? Never mind. I'm so glad you were." She looked for the dog, but it was nowhere in sight. "Was that your dog? I thought it was a wolf. I thought it was going to attack Molly. I thought she was going to drown, or be eaten or—"

  Strong hands gripped her shoulders. "Shh. She's okay. But we need to get her—and you—into warm clothes. Where's your car?"

  Frankie whirled her head around, trying to get her bearings. "Off the main road. By the equestrian crossing." Her teeth chattered.

  Jack removed his parka and wrapped it around Molly, who all but disappeared inside. "You have a change of clothes?"

  Frankie shook her head. "Swimming wasn't part of the plan."

  "My place isn't far. You can dry off there." He started walking. Frankie noticed he limped.

  "I can carry her," she said. She reached for Molly, needing to touch her, to feel her breathing. To know she was safe.

  "Faster if I do. Hypothermia can be a problem." He glanced over his shoulder. "You okay to walk?"

  "I'm fine. Is Molly really all right?"

  "She's shivering. Good sign."

  Frankie jogged to keep up with Jack's stride as he traveled through the trees.

  "Where are we going? The road's back that way, isn't it? Or did I really get turned around?"

  "Shorter this way."

  "She's going to be okay, isn't she? Do you think she needs to go to the hospital? I meant to give her swimming lessons in Boston, but I was so busy with work, and—"

  "Frankie."

  "What?"

  "Save your breath."

  "Sorry. But I tend to—"

  "Babble. I know."

  Despite the cold, her face burned. She clenched her teeth to stop the chattering—both kinds—and tried to keep Jack in sight as he set a brisk pace through the woods.

  *****

  Ryan hoisted his shivering bundle over his shoulder and opened the front door. He'd sensed Frankie behind him as he'd hiked, and he trusted she'd keep up. She was freaked out enough without him adding his concerns that the child's tiny size had made her vulnerability to hypothermia a serious issue. Despite his attempts to engage the child in conversation, the most he'd been able to get out of her was an occasional head-shake. She wasn't crying, but neither was she the outgoing child of their prior meeting.

  She'll be fine. This is nothing like the Forcada mission.

  Inside, he flipped the switch for the heat lamp in the bathroom and began peeling off her wet clothes.

  "Hey. I'll bet you're cold, aren't you?"

  She nodded.

  Damn, he wasn't the team medic, although everyone first aid training. Only problem was, he'd been in nothing but hot climates for the past five years. Knowing how to treat heat stroke wasn't worth squat right now. He racked his brain for what he'd learned about hypothermia.

  Warm her. Get her dry. That much was obvious. More filtered through. Check speech and motor functions.

  "Can you talk to me?"

  She gave a violent head shake and looked over his shoulder. He turned. Frankie stood in the bathroom doorway, breathing hard.

  "Is she okay?"

  "I think so. Bedroom's over there." He pointed with his chin, gently rubbing the child with a towel. "Find me a sweatshirt—anything warm for her."

  He heard drawers opening and closing in the bedroom. "Second drawer," he shouted.

  Frankie returned, stepping into the now crowded bathroom, ready to pull a sweatshirt over her daughter's head.

  "Wait," Ryan said. He crouched in front of the child, her blue eyes contrasted against her pale skin. Full of trust. Like Carmelita. "Go get the shirt from your mom for me, please."

  Exhaling when she walked across the room on steady legs, he pulled himself to his feet.

  "You're hurt," Frankie said.

  She must have seen the wince. "Just a sore knee. Nothing serious. But Molly's got good motor functions. If she'd talk, I'd bet her speech is normal, too."

  He leaned down, his hands on his thighs. "Would you like some soup?" She nodded. Ryan cocked head at Frankie. "She doesn't seem to want to talk to me today."

  "Molly, Mr. Daniels asked you a question. What do you say?" Frankie said.

  "Yes, please." The words were tiny, but not slurred.

  Ryan tousled the child's hair. "Hair dryer's under the sink. Get her settled, and then, I think you should go find some dry clothes for yourself. Help yourself to a hot shower."

  "Jack, I can't begin to thank you. If you hadn't come along—Molly's everything—I'm a good mom—she was sitting right there, and then she was—I only took my eyes off her for an instant."

  "Drop it. I did come along. Give me your car keys. I'll get your car. Take anything in the kitchen, but get something warm inside both of you as soon as possible. It's probably a good idea if she walks around some, too."

  Frankie stuck her hands into her jacket pockets, frowned, and dug through her jeans. "Rats. They're in my camera bag." Her eyes widened. "My camera. Oh, my. All my shots. I totally forgot. They can't be ruined. I need them. It'll be dark soon, and what if it rains? Or snows?"

  "Slow down again. Where's the camera bag?"

  "With the camera. Near where Molly fell into the stream."

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. He put his hands on her shoulders. Her tension vibrated through him. "Relax. I'll get everything. Make yourself at home. I won't be long."

  He picked up his parka from the bathroom floor and shrugged into it. Not until he felt its weight did he remember his Glock was in the pocket. He marched from the house, leaving Frankie to tend to her daughter. Better that she dealt with the child.

  Damn, the kid seemed like an innocent angel, with those huge blue eyes and open smile. But twice, she'd nearly gotten herself killed. There had to be some way to deal with kids—his theory was to put them in suspended animation with some sort of direct brain feed education until they were eighteen. Thinking of himself at eighteen, he amended that to twenty-five.

  Glad to be away from the confines of domesticity and out in the fresh air, he retraced his path and found Frankie's camera and equipment where she'd said it would be. Steadying the tripod, he peered through the viewfinder and wondered why it surprised him to find a well-composed shot. On impulse, he pressed the shutter before he unscrewed the camera and replaced it in the bag.

  With the bag over one shoulder and the tripod over the other, he scanned the area. A few yards away, behind a rock
, he found a canvas tote. A quick survey revealed paper towels, wet wipes, two bottles of water and a disposable camera. He felt around some more and pulled out a plastic bag half-full of stones, leaves, and a feather. The sorts of things a five-year-old might consider treasures. Assuming the tote was Frankie's, he replaced the bag and added the tote to his collection.

  He wandered downstream to the point where Wolf had pulled her from the water, trying to see if either one had dropped anything else. Daylight had faded, and a storm was imminent. He was about to turn around when he heard Wolf's whine.

  *****

  Frankie didn't know whether to laugh or cry when she looked at Molly, standing barefoot on the bathroom floor, gnawing her thumb, virtually swallowed by Jack's sweatshirt. She'd never seen her daughter looking so contrite—or was it guilty?

  "Let's get your hair dry." She focused the warm air at Molly's head. "Hold still." When Molly fidgeted and fussed, her spirits rose. "You're feeling better, aren't you?"

  Molly nodded.

  Frankie shut off the dryer. She scooped Molly into her arms, then remembered Jack's words about having Molly walk, and set her back onto the floor. "Why don't you go out to the couch?" Frankie watched her move across the room on steady legs, and relief flooded her. She took the throw blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around Molly. "Warmer now?"

  Molly nodded again. Frankie sat down beside her and stroked her hair. "Jack said you need something warm in your tummy. How about some warm milk?"

  "Okay," Molly whispered.

  Frankie found what she needed. She nuked a mug of milk and brought it to Molly.

  "Here you go. Holding the mug will keep your hands warm, and the milk will warm you inside."

  Molly reached for the mug and took a sip.

  "Does your throat hurt, Peanut? You're not talking much."

  A head shake followed by a fat tear running down her cheek. "Am I bad? You have an angry face."