"He was sure of it. He said they practically fell off in his soup bowl."
"Jesus Christ," Ty breathed.
"I tried to get him to talk to the police," Gus went on, "but he didn't want to. He doesn't trust the police. He's pretty much a paranoid old fart."
"Did you tell the police yourself?" Carine asked.
He nodded. "By then, there wasn't much to be done. The guy was long gone. I hadn't thought about the story in ages, until I saw that guy at your cabin last night. I didn't get a good look at him—" He shook off whatever he planned to say next. "Oh, screw it. A lot of people have missing fingers."
Carine turned up the collar of her coat, the cold wind penetrating her light layers of clothing. "You never mentioned Bobby's story to me."
His eyes held hers for a moment. "It was March. You'd just had your heart broken. I didn't want to remind you of the shooting. That's when you went haywire and fell for North." Gus looked tired all of a sudden, as if he'd missed something important and now everyone was paying the consequences. "I talked to the police this morning and reminded them about Bobby's guy, told them about Turner. They went up to the Ran-courts. I guess they're leaving for Boston—they're probably gone by now. Turner'd already left. The cop I talked to figured they'd get in touch with the Boston police. I don't know. It could all be bullshit."
Ty ripped open his truck door. "I'm going back to the house. I'll check the ridge trail for any signs of Eric and try Manny again. Carine—maybe you should go with Gus."
"Sure," she said quietly. "But, Gus, if I'm going with you, the dog stays. There's just not enough room."
"All right, all right." He seemed relieved to be back in action, not talking about a crazy survivalist with a tale of a freezing man with rotting fingers. He opened up his truck door. "Come on, Stump. Back inside."
Carine stood next to Ty, could almost feel his concentration. She realized she was an unnecessary distraction for him, and that was why he was sending her off with her uncle. "We can check the trail up by the Rancourt house," she told him. "The Rancourts used it when they got into trouble last year and you and Manny rescued them—Eric'll know that."
"And Hank." Ty said, climbing in the behind wheel. "He was here that weekend. Now he's missing in action, too. So's Val Carrera."
"Everyone in the whole goddamn state'll be on it before too long," Gus said, taking Stump back up the walk to the house. But he sighed, giving North an encouraging look. "We'll find them."
Carine glanced up at the blue, cloudless sky and could almost feel the high winds and cold of past hikes. "We don't have a lot of time."
Twenty-Seven
Sterling stood in the doorway of the warming hut and let his eyes adjust to the poor light inside, in case he was wrong. The tension and stress of the past few days could have affected his vision—or his mind, making him see what wasn't there. A fire in the potbellied stove. A boy tied up in the far corner by the back door. Gary Turner standing in the middle of the hut, his white hair stark against the dark wood walls.
"The local police were just here," Sterling said, his voice sounding almost disembodied. "I told them you'd left."
Turner shrugged, matter-of-fact. "I parked my car out of sight."
Sterling squinted at the back of the hut. The boy wasn't gagged, but he was pale, his breathing labored— the Carrera boy? Dear God. "What's going on here? Turner? Who are you?"
"Have you ever wanted something so much you'd do anything?" He withdrew his nine-millimeter pistol from his belt holster, without any obvious change in his calm manner. "Kidnap an innocent boy? Kill your best friend? Risk everything?"
The bite off ear Sterling felt was unlike anything he'd everexperienced. It made him cold. It made him pretend he couldn't see the boy suffering, terrified, in the corner. "Jodie and I are leaving as soon as we get the car packed. I told the police we were on our way. They—" He hesitated, but didn't stop himself from finishing his thought. "They have no reason to come back up here."
But Turner didn't seem to hear him. He fingered the tip of his gun, but his attention was squarely on Sterling. "You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth.What would you know? You've had money and good health all your life. A beautiful wife, even if she does fuck around."
"I should get back to the house—"
"You've never wanted or needed anything, except to prove yourself to a few air force guys who don't think twice about you."
Sterling backed up a step. "I'm sorry things didn't work out."
Turner lifted his colorless eyes. "You pretend it's your wife who doesn't connect with other people, but it's you, Rancourt. It's all about you. Always. What if someone killed her? What would you do?" He continued to speak in that rational, detached manner. "Would you hunt whoever did it to the ends of the earth? Would you make them pay?"
"Revenge—" Sterling coughed, his throat was so tight that his voice sounded strangled. "Revenge is a complicated thing."
"No, it's not. It's simple. You put it all on the table. You go against the odds. You accept that you'll probably have to die. You accept that you might even have to sacrifice your own moral code."
"I'm not—Gary, I'm not a part of this."
Turner jumped forward, his nine-millimeter pistol at Sterling's throat before he could draw his next breath. "One word and the kid dies for sure. Do you understand? One fucking word to anyone."
"Yes. Yes, I understand."
"Right now it's not my intention to hurt him. He's just a kid. But I will if you talk. Just so you'll have to live with what you caused."
"Nothing. Not a word. Promise."
"Go back to the house. Get your slut wife. It wasn't just the one time in the library with Louis. Ask her. Ask her on the way out of here who he really was." He tucked the gun back into his holster and smiled cockily. "She knows."
Sterling wasn't breathing. Through the dim light, he could see the boy, obviously weak and in pain, staggering to his feet. He was stooped over, but he managed to run for the back door. If he could just incapacitate Turner, Sterling thought—but how? The man had a pistol.
He did nothing, and Turner swooped across the small hut and grabbed the boy around the middle, dumping him onto the blanket on the floor. "You little fuck. I told you to stay put."
The boy erupted into a spasm of coughing, a wet, sloppy sound that turned Sterling's stomach. He'd watched the scene unfold in horror. But there was nothing he could do to help the boy—he had to keep his mouth shut and get himself and Jodie out of there.
Sterling ran down the dirt track to the house, the wind swooping up the hills and blowing hard. Jodie had the back of the SUV open, loading in one of her endless bags. Sterling pushed her aside and shut the tailgate. "Whatever you have packed will have to do. We're leaving. Now."
"What's going on? Who were you talking to up—"
"Don't speak to me. Not now."
He grabbed her by one shoulder and opened the passenger door, pushing her. She stumbled, then quickly got the message and climbed up into the seat. Her lower lip trembled in fear.
Sterling got into the driver's seat, surprising himself that he wasn't shaking. "Be glad I'm even taking you with me," he said. "Just keep your lying mouth shut and come with me."
A car—not Turner's car but an old Audi they kept in New Hampshire—lurched down from the hut. Sterling didn't look to see if the boy was in there with him. How would he know, anyway? Turner could have him stuffed in the trunk.
It was so clear and perfect, it was as if they were in the middle of a postcard, the mountains cascading all around them, a darker blue against the sky.
The Audi quickly disappeared.
"Gary," Jodie said hoarsely. "He's apart of it, isn't he?"
Sterling glared at her. "A part of what, Jodie? Hmm? What?"
"Nothing." She was ashen, her voice small. "I don't know what I'm saying. You're right—let's get out of here."
Twenty-Eight
It wasn't much of a picnic area. Val edged f
orward in her seat, peering out at the rocks, the birch trees and evergreens, the two unpainted picnic tables in a small clearing. A sign said there were no facilities, meaning, she assumed, no rest rooms. No trash cans, either. She didn't know why she noticed such details, except it gave her something to do, something to focus on. She didn't want to think.
The mountains, every inch of them visible on such a clear day, rose up on both sides of the road—a notch, Hank had told her, was basically a pass in the mountains. Yet even with the perfect visibility, she felt claustrophobic, enveloped by the mountains, hemmed in. Probably, she thought, she wouldn't have made a good astronaut, after all.
She was done. Spent. I'm in over my head…Eric…
She handed Hank the phone. "Call the police." Even to herself, she sounded exhausted, past the point of coherency, never mind logic. "I'm just playing into this bastard's hands."
He glanced at the readout. "There's no service here. I remember last fall we had trouble getting through— Carine and Ty stopped at a lake down the road."
"That's why the bastard picked this spot. In case I changed my mind, I wouldn't be able to call for help." She shoved the Glock at him. "Here, take it. You make the decisions. It's not loaded, but I think there's a clip in the glove compartment."
He shook his head. "You hang on to it." He pushed her hand back with the gun, then thrust the phone at her. "I'll wait here. You get to a house or a place where you can call."
"No! Hank, he wants you."
"Exactly. Val—"
"You can't, Hank. This guy's not going to keep his word."
But Hank was determined—and very clear about his intentions. "I have to try to make the exchange. If there's a chance he'll let Eric go and take me in his place, I have to at least give it a shot. If nothing else, perhaps I can buy the authorities more time."
Val noticed how quiet it was around her. "I wish he wanted me. I can't—Hank, I can't let you do this."
"If you'd go, then let me go."
"He's not your son."
"Does it matter? He's an innocent fourteen-year-old boy who's caught up in something not of his own making." He brushed her cheek gently with the back of his hand. "Trust me, Val."
It was as if she was on a treetop, looking down at herself, a small, dark-eyed, stupid-assed woman who'd made too many mistakes in the past twenty-four hours. The past year.
She pushed open her door and climbed out,composed, as if she'd disassociated herself from her fear. "I'll call the police as soon as I can," she said. "Just stall for time, okay? Oh, listen to me, like I'm the combat veteran."
But something had diverted Hank's attention, and he leaned forward, looking out the windshield, then lunged across the seat at her. "Val—behind you! Get down!"
She dove onto the front seat, but she felt a burning pain in her left side even as she heard the shot. Hank reached for the Glock, but a white-haired man had his door open, a gun to Hank's head. "On your feet, Senator. My car's parked on the other side of the rocks. If you want the boy to live, you will do as I say."
Val could hear Hank's voice. "Understood."
"I won't have to kill him. Time and the elements will. He's a very sick kid."
"Eric…" Val tried to yell but nothing came out. She tried again. "Don't hurt—"
But she didn't know if she'd made a sound. She held her side, remembering that Manny had told her to apply pressure to a wound—and it hurt. God, it hurt. She could feel her own blood warm on her hands. She was collapsed face first on the car seat, could hear Hank getting out of the car. She couldn't think, couldn't really see.
"Val—"
Hank's voice. She held her side, unable to move but knowing she couldn't just pass out and die out here in the cold. Not yet.
The man with the white hair snorted. "Val Carrera is dead."
Twenty-Nine
A fourteen-year-old boy hiking alone would draw the attention of any alert hiker, North knew, but when he checked the main trailhead above the meadow, he didn't see signs of any hikers, never mind Eric Carrera. It was the off season, and conditions weren't great on the ridge. There weren't going to be many hikers out today.
North, however, had his doubts about Eric's note and didn't believe the boy was on an illicit hike to prove himself, to his father or anyone else.
He headed back to his place. First on tap was to try to reach Manny again, then call Antonia for any word from Hank and Val. And the police. Ty wanted to touch base with the local police and the Boston police.
But pulling into the driveway ahead of him was Carine's ancient Subaru sedan, which he'd last seen parked on her street in Cambridge. Ty rolled to a stop behind it and got out.
Manny Carrera unfolded himself from within the small car's confines and climbed out. "What a rattletrap. Doesn't she know cars don't run forever?" He rolled his big shoulders, stretching, but his eyes were serious when he focused on North. "I got your message about Val and slipped out of town. I'm not under arrest. I can go where I want."
"Manny, this isn't a good idea."
"If it was your wife, what would you do? I talked to Antonia about an hour ago. She said Val and Hank are on their way up here. I figured we could head them off at the pass, so to speak. I tried reaching you but didn't get through up here in the boonies."
"I was at the school."
Manny frowned. "The school?"
Ty's head pounded. "You don't—shit, you don't know. Manny, Eric's missing."
His friend had no visible reaction as he absorbed the news. "Talk to me, North."
"He left a note on his door. It sounds like bullshit to me—he says he's gone hiking. But he didn't stop at the school infirmary to take his morning meds. He could have forgotten—"
"He didn't forget."
"Or not bothered. He's upset. It's possible he just wants to prove himself."
"He's got nothing to prove."
"I know that. The police and forest rangers are on it. Conditions are tough up on the ridge—if his note's legit, he could have changed his mind about a hike and stopped at a coffee shop and had breakfast. Or maybe he went with Val, and she made him write the note for reasons we don't understand."
Manny thought a moment. He had on a black wool jacket, a lightweight wool sweater, jeans and cowboy boots. "Where are the Rancourts?"
"On their way to Boston. And Gary Turner's left, too. Supposedly. I don't know what's relevant anymore, but Gus—ah, hell, this sounds screwy." Ty looked up toward the ridge, which looked innocuous from his elevation. But he knew the winds would be bad above fifteen hundred feet, and fierce above the treeline. "Remember the survivalist from last fall? The police questioned him."
One corner of Manny's mouth twitched. "The chicken guy."
"Bobby Poulet. A few months after Carine got shot at, a man surfaced at Bobby's place with frostbite and a skin infection—Bobby said it looked like he was going to lose a couple fingers. Gary Turner's missing a couple of fingers."
"Christ. You people up here." Manny motioned for North, obviously ready to take action. "Come on. In the car. Let's go see what the story is at the Rancourts'. Shit's hitting the fan at the school because they lost my kid?"
"Major league."
"Good. He's got his EpiPen, his rescue inhaler?"
Ty nodded. "Looks like it."
"One bright spot. All right. If the Rancourts are there, I torture them for information. They've been holding back. If they're not there, I break in and see what's what."
"Manny. The police—"
"You can stay here."
North didn't hesitate. "We'll take my truck."
"Now you're talking." He gave Carine's rusting car a disparaging look. "I feel like Fred Flinstone driving this goddamn thing."
Manny's wry humor in a tight situation was legendary, but Ty knew not to underestimate his friend's focus. At this moment, his sole mission was getting to his wife and son. Nothing else mattered—and that, North thought, was where he came in. He couldn't let Manny cross th
e line. It'd never happened before, but the stakes had never been this personal.
"Did you slip out from under police surveillance?"
"They know I'm not their man."
Which didn't really answer Ty's question. He got in behind the wheel. Manny didn't argue. "You know the terrain." He gave a mock shiver. "Hell, it's cold up here. I always forget."
"Winds above the treeline—"
"Yeah. I know. Close to hurricane force. I listened to the weather station on my way up."
Ty pulled out onto the main road. "Your turn, Carrera. Talk to me."
It seemed to give Manny something to do while they drove. "Louis Sanborn's real name is Tony Louis Apolonario. Apparently his great-grandfather—"
"Was named Sanborn and owned a local dairy?"
"You figured it out?"
"Carine."
Manny smiled slightly. "She's got bird-dog potential, don't you think? I didn't find out until it was too late. The police have everything I do, by the way. Looks like Louis/Tony was involved in that smuggling ring we ran into last fall. The Canadian authorities were on to them, and the feds were closing in—then came the incident with us and Carine. They burned down the shack, their base of operations, and disappeared. Not nice guys. They were into smuggling guns, people, drugs. Whatever paid."
"You think Gary Turner's one of them? Makes sense. He started work for the Rancourts months ago, but after the shooting. Louis only started a couple of weeks ago—something there, you think?" But Manny didn't answer right away, and North sighed. "This wasn't in your log."
"My computer log? Val was on it?"
"Apparently she tried every password possibility she could think of before she called me. I-l-u-v-a-l. Christ, Manny."
He grinned in spite of his obvious tension. "I knew it'd stump her, keep her nose out of my business. I figured if things went south, you'd at least have enough to go on. I pumped a source for information."
"Nate Winter?"
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