Jack Frost

by Diane Capri

  Keegan looked back to see the bear’s broad back running in the opposite direction.

  “He’s gone,” Keegan said.

  Walsh said nothing, and the Land Rover kept moving off-road.

  “Walsh!” Keegan shouted.

  Walsh’s head had dropped again as if he’d passed out.

  Keegan grabbed the steering wheel and leaned across the cabin, over the console, and pushed the button to stop the engine.

  Momentum carried the SUV forward, farther into the brush.

  Keegan steered as straight as he could from the awkward angle in the passenger seat, avoiding the big trees until the right front tire landed in a hole large enough to swallow the wheel and bring the vehicle to a jerking halt.

  The suspension creaked and the springs bounced a couple more times for good measure while Keegan struggled to control his own rapid breathing.

  “Walsh? What the hell?” he said, angry now.

  Walsh didn’t respond.

  Keegan reached over and felt Walsh’s carotid pulse. He was no doctor, but even he could feel Walsh’s heartbeat was weak and rapid.

  He rummaged in the glove compartment until he found a flashlight. He lowered the window and shined the beam toward the road.

  He’d seen what he suddenly realized must have been a grizzly bear. What he’d read about South Dakota wildlife was that bears still roamed in this part of the state.

  The bear’s scent wafted on the breeze toward the SUV. No mistaking the stench of a big animal like that.

  But Keegan didn’t see him now. Perhaps the bear had moved on.

  Back in Boston, he’d have called 9-1-1 for a tow and a medic for Walsh. That was impossible out here. He’d never get a cell signal, even if it had been safe to try. Which it wasn’t.

  The prison break would be all over the news by now. The risk of being recaptured and returned to Bolton was too great.

  They were on their own.

  Walsh was still unconscious.

  Based on the sign Keegan had seen back there, they were still at least a couple of miles from the village of Newton Hills.

  No way Keegan could carry Walsh that far.

  Walking around outside the SUV seemed like a foolish idea, too, given the rattlesnake debacle earlier. There were bound to be more snakes out there.

  Keegan took a deep breath and swiped his palm over his face.

  “Now what?” he said aloud. The question was met by dead silence.

  He tried restarting the Land Rover. The first time he pushed the button, the engine didn’t start, but the dashboard gauges brightened up, so the power had come on.

  Walsh had said something about needing gas earlier. He looked at the gas gauge. How much gas was enough?

  Keegan didn’t even have a driver’s license. He’d employed a dedicated driver for decades. And he knew very little about cars. He probably couldn’t drive the Land Rover even if he could get it moving again.

  The gauge showed the fuel level was below a quarter of a tank. Which might mean there was insufficient fuel to run the heat overnight, even if he could get the damned engine started.

  And Walsh was still unconscious. What should Keegan do about that? The gash on Walsh’s bicep hadn’t looked bad enough to kill him. But he imagined a man could die from rattlesnake bites if he didn’t get medical attention soon.

  “We can’t stay here. We can’t walk out. We can’t drive out,” Keegan said to himself as if ticking off the options on his fingers.

  He ran out of alternatives.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Friday, May 13

  Bolton, South Dakota

  11:05 p.m.

  It had been well after ten o’clock by the time they gave up searching in the dark woods for the escaped convict. Another thirty minutes to reach the budget chain hotel in Bolton where the Boss had reserved rooms for the night.

  They parked the remarkably undamaged Navigator, lugged their bags inside, and picked up room keys at the desk. Kim was tired and dirty and ready for a shower and food. Her stomach had been complaining for hours.

  “How late can we get room service?” she asked the sleepy-eyed teen staffing the desk.

  “Sorry. No room service and no restaurant. There’s small coffee pots in the rooms, though,” he said.

  Which was the only good thing about the place, as far as Kim could tell. But she didn’t say that. She trudged alongside Burke through the lobby.

  At the elevator, Burke said, “I’m going out to find a burger or something after I clean up. Want to come along?”

  “Yeah, sure. Meet in the lobby in fifteen?”

  Burke grinned. “You’re fast for a girl.”

  Kim nodded. “So I’ve been told.”

  They parted when the elevator opened on the third floor and headed in opposite directions. Kim used the keycard to open her room and stepped inside.

  The place was basic. Full-sized bed. A small desk and chair. A bathroom smaller than most closets. No closet, either. But she was too tired to care about amenities.

  She walked into the bathroom and turned the shower all the way to the hottest setting. She figured this was the kind of place that might be out of hot water at the end of the day. She was right.

  She stripped and hopped in. The water wasn’t hot, but it was warm enough. She soaped up and quickly removed the travel grime and the mud she’d collected from her run through the woods. A few of the scratches she’d acquired were already crusted over with dried blood. The water ran pink and then clear on the shower floor as she soaped the sting away.

  After the five-minute shower, she opened her travel bag and pulled out clean clothes. She dressed quickly, brushed her hair back, and secured it with an elastic at the base on her neck. She was well aware that she might be mistaken for a teenager when the lighting was dim enough.

  “Good genes. Thanks, Mom,” she muttered.

  She picked up her weapon, her badge wallet, the keycard and stowed the few personal items she carried into her pockets.

  Kim headed out, closed the door behind her, and took the stairs down to the lobby.

  She glanced at the clock. Elapsed time was eleven minutes. Total elapsed time was thirteen minutes.

  Burke wasn’t there yet. Kim grinned.

  She approached the pimply desk clerk, who looked to be about eighteen. “Where’s the closest place to get a burger or something right now?”

  “Your best bet is probably the chain restaurant next to the gas station on the main road toward the highway.” The clerk pointed westward. When she frowned, he looked at the clock and shrugged. “There’re other places, but they’ve already closed for the night.”

  Kim nodded. She recalled passing the restaurant on the way in. It looked like the kind of local hangout where the food was good, and the ambience was mid-twentieth century. “Thanks.”

  The elevator pinged, the doors opened, and Burke walked out, exactly fifteen minutes after she’d left him. His eyes widened when he saw her, confirming he hadn’t expected her to be there yet.

  Kim stifled her grin and tilted her head toward the door. They met up on the sidewalk outside, where the falling temperature made her shiver. She flipped her jacket collar up and stuffed her hands into her pockets. She told him what the kid had said about where to find food.

  “Yeah, I saw the place. Maybe ten minutes away,” Burke said, as they climbed into the SUV again.

  She heard his stomach growling as he pulled out of the angled parking spot and pointed the vehicle westward.

  When they got there, the restaurant was empty and looked ready to close up, but the open sign was still on, so they went in anyway. They sat at a table for four. A thirty-six-inch square of laminate had been scoured so many times the flakes in the laminate were faded.

  A tired waitress came by wearing a uniform as worn out as she was. She didn’t bring a menu. “All we have left is the pot roast.”

  “Pot roast for two it is,” Burke said, flashing her a friendly smile.
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  “And black coffee, please, if you have it fresh,” Kim said.

  “Be right back with your food,” the waitress replied before she turned and shuffled back toward the kitchen.

  Burke folded his hands on the table and leaned forward as if there were other diners prone to eavesdropping. Which there weren’t. They were the only people in the place other than the waitress and maybe the cook, assuming there was one.

  “Have you heard anything more from Gaspar about what’s going on out at the prison?” he asked.

  “I haven’t had the time to check. Last report was that the county lockup and city jail out at the compound were intact and not involved. It’s just the federal facility that got damaged,” she replied. “Locals aren’t that busy. Between the three facilities, they have enough room to house the inmates until they figure out a better answer.”

  A television was playing in the corner, running the news. A crawler at the bottom of the screen said the prison was locked down and the remaining prisoners were contained. Which was a lie. But it probably helped the people of Bolton sleep better tonight.

  “How many prisoners escaped?” Burke asked.

  She shrugged. “All of the men in the exercise yard scattered, but some didn’t get very far.”

  “What about the damaged portions of the building? Any escapees from there?”

  “They either don’t know or aren’t saying. There’s still a lot of chaos. Lot of damage to the building.” She swiped a hand over her hair and stretched the tension from her neck. “This whole area for twenty miles or more is crawling with law enforcement of one kind or another, I expect.”

  The waitress approached with the food. Plates were piled high with beef, mashed potatoes and gravy, and green beans.

  When she left, Burke said, “So we don’t know if the guy we need to interview was one of the escapees or not?”

  “Not yet.” Kim ate a few of the green beans and pushed the greasy gravy around on the plate looking for the beef.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. The coffee was strong enough to hold a spoon upright. But it was hot and better than nothing.

  The front door opened, and a blast of cold air came inside ahead of two uniformed officers from the Bolton Police Department. Kim straightened her shoulders and waved them over. Professional courtesy, as well as curiosity about the prison break, motivated her invitation.

  Kim extended her hand to shake as she pulled out her badge wallet and showed it to confirm. “FBI Special Agent Kim Otto. This is my partner, Agent William Burke.”

  The senior officer replied. He said he was Irwin Mitchell, and he was second in command over at Bolton PD.

  The other guy was Sergeant Albert Wood. “People call me Woody,” he said.

  They sat, the waitress came over with two mugs and a thermos. They ordered the pot roast, and she hurried off again.

  “You two are the agents who tried to stop the escapee out on the highway, right?” Mitchell asked. He looked wrung out. Heavy lines etched his face, and his mouth was set into a grim line. He had a thick dark mustache that no longer matched the few wisps of thinning gray hair that remained on his head.

  Kim guessed his age at about fifty, give or take. The other guy was a redhead with a scruffy beard, maybe ten years younger. They both had plenty of miles on them.

  She nodded. “Sorry we didn’t catch him.”

  “He’ll be cold and tired and hungry.” Woody shook his head and waved off her half-apology. “We’ll get him tomorrow. Unless the bears get him first.”

  Burke’s eyebrows lifted. “You’ve got grizzlies active in the area?”

  “This time of year, they’re roaming, looking for food. Rattlesnakes, too. You were smart to come in for the night,” Mitchell said, drinking the stale coffee like he was used to it.

  Kim shivered. She hated snakes.

  “Did you round up the other escapees?” Burke asked. He’d finished his meal but was still working on the coffee.

  “We’re not done. Got men working out there.” Mitchell shook his head. “We just came in for a quick bite before the place closed. Not much open around here so late. After a couple hours’ sleep, we’ll be back out at dawn.”

  “Happy to help if you need us,” Burke said.

  “Thanks.” Mitchell sized him up with a glance.

  Kim said, “Has Special Agent Smithers arrived yet? We’ll liaise with him in the morning.”

  “Haven’t seen him. Been told he’s around here somewhere,” Woody replied, draining the coffee and pouring more. It came out of the thermos like thick syrup.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Friday, May 13

  Bolton, South Dakota

  11:30 p.m.

  Fern Olson, dressed in her flannel pajamas, belted the matching robe around her waist and stepped carefully around the squeaky floorboards toward her son’s room to say goodnight.

  Wool slippers kept her feet warm enough and muffled her footsteps as she passed the closed door of her father’s room. He’d been asleep for hours, but he rested lightly. She didn’t want to wake him.

  She crossed her arms against a quick breeze that blew over her from somewhere. Her stomach clenched. She stood still and listened for a closing door or a breaking window. After a moment, she shrugged and walked on.

  The old farmhouse had always been drafty. She’d grown up here. She knew what to expect, especially when the weather was still cold outside. But she didn’t like the old place. Never had.

  One day, her dad would pass, and then she and Noah could move back to Bolton. But since her mother died five years ago, and Dad refused to move in with them, Fern and her son had been living here.

  The homestead was old and creaky, but tonight it felt threatening.

  “You’re imagining things, Fern,” she scolded herself, attempting to calm her own uneasiness. “You’re twenty miles from the prison. You’re safe enough here.”

  Noah hated the place. Mainly because he was fifteen and he wanted to hang out with his friends. Which was pretty much impossible as long as they were living so far north of town. He begged to stay in Bolton with his father, and during the week, she often gave in.

  Like so many other things she wished she could change, Fern should have agreed to let him stay the weekend.

  She swiped a stray red curl away from her face and reached out to knock on Noah’s door. He didn’t answer. Which probably meant he had his headphones on.

  Fern turned the knob and opened the squeaky door a few inches to look inside. The lights were off. The blue glow of the laptop screen washed over his face, giving him an otherworldly vibe.

  Noah sensed her standing in the doorway. He glanced up and scowled as he pulled off the headphones and demanded, “What?”

  Fern sighed. One day, he’d be off to college. Would she miss his attitude after he left? Maybe. She gave him a weak smile. His scowl deepened.

  “I’ve locked up downstairs and turned the alarm on. Grandpa is sleeping. I’m going to bed. Don’t go out, Noah. Promise me,” she said, hating the pleading tone in her voice.

  She’d been frightened today at the prison. And there were inmates still at large. Even though the house was far from the prison break, she didn’t feel safe out here alone. But Dad had refused to leave. So they were here. But she didn’t have to like it.

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Like there’s anywhere to go. Or anyone to go with,” Noah said, surly as ever. He put the headphones on again and returned his attention to the screen.

  She glanced briefly at the laptop screen. He played games with friends online, which frightened her, too. But tonight he was safer here than wandering around.

  Fern didn’t try to hug him. She blew him a kiss, which was met with an eye roll, closed the door softly, and padded back to her room at the other end of the hallway. She climbed into bed and flipped on the TV to catch the late-breaking news before she went to sleep.

  The first story was national news. Then the Bolton prison break. The now-f
amiliar video clips showed the jetliner crashing into the prison building. Followed by the black smoke and then the flames. Inmates in orange jumpsuits scattered like bees.

  The video moved into a small box at the top of the screen as the anchor read the story from the teleprompter, rehashing what she’d heard earlier.

  The fire had been extinguished.

  Damage had been mainly to the exercise yard and the back of the building, which was mostly used for storage. Like most buildings designed since nine-eleven, the prison had been engineered and built to withstand terrorist attacks. It seemed to have weathered this event precisely as planned.

  The prison was locked down and heavily guarded. Checkpoints were posted on all of the roadways. They’d picked up escaped inmates attempting to flee from the prison. Manhunts would resume and fan out into the uninhabited areas in the morning.

  Fern hoped to learn the identities of the escaped inmates, but the names were not released. She assumed they’d tried to balance the public’s need to know with an effort to avoid panic.

  She assumed there were victims, but they were not identified, either. Even the pilot’s name was being withheld until his family could be notified.

  When the news report ended, she turned the television off and sat quietly with the bare minimum of information she’d already collected.

  Initially, she’d been locked in the prison lobby, mystified by everything about the situation. After Chief Mitchell released her, the confusion was compounded by a thousand questions.

  When she’d realized her car was missing, insight dawned. Pieces began to fit together, although gaping holes in the picture remained.

  Her car was equipped with strong anti-theft devices. Without the key fob, the only way to steal the car was to tow it. Even then, the thief would need a flatbed tow truck because the wheels wouldn’t roll without the signal from the key fob, either.

  The little red BMW was a nice car, and she loved it, but what was the likelihood that a flatbed tow truck had hauled it away on the same afternoon a jet crashed into the prison?