Eric was wheezing, raising his shoulders and lifting his head as hestruggled to get air. She noticed he was blue around the mouth and knew that had to be a dire sign. Carine stemmed her panic and tried to talk to him, but he just mumbled incoherently, ripping her heart out. She thought she remembered that it was easier for an asthmatic patient to breathe sitting up, but her first aid skills were limited. She didn't know if he was suffering more from asthma or an allergic reaction. It seemed to make common sense, however, and she put her arms around his thin shoulders. "Come on," she said, "let's sit you up.
She searched his pockets and found his EpiPen, which she knew was intended to combat a severe allergic reaction, but she wasn't sure how to use it. She slipped off her barn coat and wrapped it around him, hoping that if she could get him warm, maybe he could tell her what to do. Self-management had been key for him. He couldn't have gone to Mount Chester without knowing how to deal with his illness.
But nothing Carine did seemed to help. Eric was laboring to breathe, not even mumbling now. She held him close to her in an attempt to transfer some of her body heat to him—at least they were out of the worst of the wind. She could hear it whistling and howling.
She heard Turner—someone—on the trail nearby.
"You're not armed, Carine."
Turner. Calm. Superior.
"You can't hold out against me. You can't hide."
His voice seemed to be coming from the ledge above where she and Eric were tucked amid the stunted firs. She pulled Eric against the rock wall, in its shadow, where they were less likely to be seen from above. The shallow soil was moist under her. She tried to cover Eric as best she could with her own body and protect him from the elements. But she was cold herself, shivering in her cotton shirt.
Eric gave a rattling, frightening wheeze.
"I hear the kid."
Heartless bastard.
If Turner spotted them, they didn't stand a chance, but Carine knew the area where she and Eric were hiding well. The footing was tricky, deceptive on the ledge. Turner undoubtedly would attempt to track Eric's wheezing—maybe it was something she could use to their advantage.
"Be careful, Gary." She tried to match his tone. "There are places you can get hurt up here. And maybe you've gone up, but your still have to go down. The police, Manny, Tyler and Hank will all be waiting for you.
And Gus. Don't count him out."
"But you'll be dead. You killed my wife."
"You killed your own wife."
"And Louis—"
"You killed him, too. Why? He had you take the pictures of him and Jodie Rancourt so the two of you could blackmail her? You realized what a loose cannon he was?"
"He wanted money. He didn't understand that I had other priorities to see to first."
"But you want money—you did try to blackmail her."
"I wanted it all, Carine. I still do. Money, justice. You."
She could hear him moving on the ledge, trying to find her. As she'd hoped, he was well off the trail, onto one of the most treacherous sections of the ledge. It was one of her favorite spots for taking pictures, but a deceptive growth of stunted balsam made it look like there was proper footing where there was none—she'd almost fallen there herself.
"What if I cooperate with you?" She kept her voice low in an effort to lure him, but not to give away their position completely. "What if I help you get Manny, North and Hank? Three for one. That's not a bad deal."
"What about the boy?"
"He's not doing well. I wouldn't worry about him."
"Tell me where you are."
She debated her next answer, but knew she had to take the chance. "We're down here. At the base of the ledge." Then she spotted him above her, slightly down from her, his rifle raised, but she hoped he still couldn't see her and Eric concealed within the rock and trees. She took a shallow breath. "I can see you, but you can't see me. Be very careful. The footing's tricky up there. You don't want to fall. Do what I say and you'll be okay."
"Fine." He sounded shaky, dubious. "Where to from here?"
Carine knew he didn't believe her. He was doing to her what he'd done to Louis with the pictures—pretend to cooperate, then he'd pounce. She held Eric more closely, feeling how cold he was. He was shivering uncontrollably. He kept raising his shoulders and his head, fighting for air. The sand had run out of the hourglass. She had to get him out of here.
She concentrated on what she had to do. "See the small evergreens? They're balsam firs. Stay out of them. You'll fall. Instead, go backward a few steps and up to your right."
They were the proper instructions, but, just as she'd hoped, he did the opposite and went for the fir trees, losing his footing almost immediately. He swore dropping his rifle as he grabbed onto weak branches that couldn't support his weight. It was a precipitous twenty-foot drop, and he yelled all the way down.
Manny appeared up on the ledge, and Ty bounded out of nowhere, getting to Turner just as he landed five feet from where Carine was hidden with Eric. She heard his head hit rock, then saw him sprawl forward onto his left wrist, which snapped under the impact of his fall. But he was conscious, moving—going for his nine-millimeter in his belt.
Ty kicked him in the head, then swooped in, snatched the handgun and pointed it at Turner. "Hands where I can see them. Don't move."
Turner sneered at him. "Fuck you." But his voice was weak, his head bleeding from where he'd struck the granite, never mind where Ty had kicked him and Carine had earlier pelted him with her rock.
Manny dropped silently onto the rocks next to Carine and collected Turner's rifle, handing it to Ty, then dropping down next to Eric. Carine, shivering herself now, was still holding the boy. "I tried to keep him warm. I didn't know what else to do. Turner told me there was peanut oil in an energy bar he made him eat. I don't know if it's true."
Manny quickly examined his son and injected the epinephrine, then shook his head. "Christ. This isn't just asthma. His epiglottis is inflamed from the peanut oil. His airway's getting obstructed—North, I've got to do a crike."
Ty tossed over his med kit. "Want me to do it?"
Manny shook his head. "I've got it."
He got out what he needed—a small scalpel, gauze, first aid tape, a breathing tube. Carine moved out of the way, but she could see Manny was in trouble. He blinked blood out of his eyes from his own head wound. "Manny…"
Ty, keeping the nine-millimeter leveled on Turner, eased in next to his friend. "Manny. Come on. Your head's a mess. I'll do it."
Manny gave a curt, reluctant nod, not speaking as he stood up and took the guns from Ty, letting him get to work on Eric.
Turner was unconscious, not that Manny took any chances—he kept the gun pointed at him, the rifle cradled in one arm. Carine offered to take the rifle, but he shook his head. "You're shivering. You'll end up shooting someone."
"He wanted us all in the hut. He was going to set fire to it and let us burn to death, set right what he did to his wife last fall. She was badly burned when he blew up the shack and ended up dying. It was an accident. He didn't mean to kill her. He didn't listen to her. She wanted him to shoot us all that day and disappear. That's what he planned to do this time. Kill us all and disappear."
"Better late than never, I guess. Bastard. He tell you all this?"
"Most of it. Some—not in as many words."
By unspoken agreement, she knew, they were trying to focus on something besides Eric's condition, but Manny glanced back as Ty made a small incision in the boy's neck—it bled like crazy, but he quickly stanched the blood with gauze.
"What's a crike?" Carine asked, hoping that talking helped.
"Cricothyroidotomy. It's like a tracheotomy, except you use the cricothyroid space. It opens up the airway. It's a—" Manny paused, swallowing, obviously struggling to control his fear for his son. "It's a simple procedure."
"What happened to your head?"
"Flying rock. Mine got me worse than yours got you las
t fall." He glanced at her, and she thought he might have tried to smile. "Lucky for you."
Ty inserted a breathing tube into the airway, secured it with tape and packed it with more gauze. "He's got mild hypothermia. We need to get him out of here."
Manny peeled off his coat and covered his son with it, craddling his son against his big body. North took over guard duty, handing his cell phone to Carine. She managed to get hold of Gus, but she was shivering uncontrollably. Her head was fuzzy. She managed to get out the basics of their situation.
"They're stuffing me into an ambulance," Gus said. "A rescue team's on its way on foot."
"Eric's in bad shape. There's no time."
Ty looked at her, his concern for his patient evident. "Tell him we need to get a helicopter up here. Winds are tough, but it'll be okay. They can ask Hank. He'll tell them."
Carine repeated his words to Gus, who grunted at her. "You freezing?"
"More or less."
She clicked off, and Ty eased his leather jacket over her shoulders. "I'm sweating from hoofing it up this goddamn mountain," he said. "You did say you liked a sweaty guy—"
"Covered in wood chips. A key ingredient."
"What if Turner had believed you and did what you said?"
"I had another rock picked out."
"That's the spirit."
She nodded at Turner. "What about him?"
"Broken wrist, concussion. When Manny gets done with Eric, he can hold a gun on Turner and I'll treat him. There's not much I can do."
"Is he—"
Ty read her thoughts. "Nah. He'll live."
She could feel the warmth of his jacket, her shivering slowly subsiding. "He would have killed you, me. Hank. Manny. Eric. Gus. All of us. He waited to get us together, at the right moment—it was like he got satisfaction from manipulating us, playing us."
But Ty didn't answer, edging closer to her. He tucked the nine-millimeter into his waistband and held on to the rifle with one arm, slipping the other around her shoulders. "You need to stay warm. Gus'll have a fit when he sees you up here in cotton. He'll recommend to Fish and Game that you pay for your rescue."
"I did the rescuing. Some of it."
North smiled at her. "Damn, babe. You do have the prettiest eyes."
Thirty-Four
Nobody could get Manny into a litter. He carried one end of his son's litter and climbed into the National Guard rescue helicopter with him. They took Gary Turner, too. He'd regained consciousness, but was incoherent.
A Cold Ridge police officer, part of the rescue team that arrived on foot after the helo took off, relieved North of Turner's rifle and handgun. He was freed to argue with Carine about getting her ass in a litter and letting the rescue team carry her off the ridge.
He didn't win that one, either.
She was determined to walk. North went with her. The rescue party provided them with warm clothes and warm fluids, but Carine had had a hell of a few hours— so had he. By the time they got back down to the Rancourt house, Gus and Hank had already been transported by ambulance to the hospital. All hell was breaking loose over a United States senator turning up in a hut on a New Hampshire mountain with a madman.
Except Gary Turner was stone-cold sane. North had no doubt about that.
Antonia Winter Callahan, M.D., met them at the hospital. She was in trauma-doctor mode, checking on her husband, her uncle, her sister, the entire Carrera family. Val was in surgery. Eric was responding rapidly to treatment for a severe allergic reaction, asthma attack and mild hypothermia. He'd helped save himself. There was no question about it. He'd conserved his Albuterol as best he could and consciously tried to lower the level of his anxiety. If he hadn't responded the way he had, he'd have been dead before Carine found him on the ridge.
Manny, no surprise to North, wasn't the most cooperative patient, but he finally, reluctantly, agreed to let someone do a CT-scan of his head—just so they'd all leave him alone. He said his head was fine. He was right. The CT-scan was negative.
Antonia shoved a cardboard cup of gray-looking coffee at North in the ER waiting room. "The doctor orders you to drink. You've had a hell of a day, but I see you're as indestructible as ever."
"That piece of rock could have hit me instead of Manny."
She smiled faintly. "The key here is that it didn't."
He sipped the awful coffee. "I can tell you, you wouldn't have seen me kicking over a damn woodstove with my hands and feet tied together—what'd Hank plan to do, slither out of there like a snake?"
"No, he planned for you and Manny to rescue him. He says that's what you guys live for."
But her face was pale, and she looked strained and tired. "I'll bet right now Hank knows exactly why he married an ER doc."
"He won't even be admitted. He'll just need to grow new eyebrows." She teetered suddenly, and North grabbed her. "I think—oh, hell, Tyler, I'm going to be sick."
And she was, right there on the waiting room floor, damn near getting his shoes.
"I know you hate barf," she said, embarrassed.
He got her onto a chair, and a nurse came running, but Antonia waved her off. "I'm all right. I'm—" She smiled through her wooziness. "I'm pregnant."
"Antonia!" It was Carine, coming around the corner into the waiting room, eavesdropping as usual. "That's wonderful. Are you okay? Can I get you anything?"
"Have you told Hank?" Ty asked.
Antonia lifted her head. "It took the cocky pilot right out of him."
North figured the voters of Massachusetts would either get used to their new senator's way of doing things or they'd give him the boot in six years. Kids came first with him. Period. He was the kind of guy who'd kick over a woodstove while he was tied up if it meant giving an asthmatic kid an extra few minutes' lead, to escape his captor.
Nate Winter finally wandered in, pissed off and pacing, in full U.S. marshal mode. He was tall and rangy like his uncle, with about as much patience. He glared at the younger of his two sisters and then at North. "I told you two to go mountain climbing."
Carine ignored him. "How bad a bad guy was Gary Turner?"
"Considering he kidnapped a fourteen-year-old boy and a U.S. senator and planned to kill them and you, Manny Carrera and your ex-fiancé here, I guess he was pretty goddamn bad."
"Yeah, but before that?"
His mouth twitched. "Before that he wasn't so hot, either. He likely committed two murders in Canada. Tony—Louis was a trip, too. Extortion, smuggling, forgery. He was very good at forgery. Smuggle people into a country, they need papers."
"The wife?"
"Turner was devoted to her. They had some weird relationship—looks like he went to pieces when he accidentally killed her. The doctors treating him say it's a wonder he made it out of the mountains last winter. It doesn't look as if he ever sought medical help for his fingers and toes."
"He's talking?" Carine asked.
"Some. He wants credit. Hell—" Nate bit off a sigh. "If he goes downhill or shuts up, investigators can just talk to my baby sister and wrap this one up."
Carine didn't wither under her brother's impatient scrutiny. "Will I get a medal?"
"Pain in the ass," he said.
The Rancourts were talking to the police, but only through their lawyer. They'd stopped ten miles up the notch road to call the police and, according to Nate, acted like victims.
She sipped some of Ty's coffee, made a face and dug money out of one of her endless barn coat pockets for the soda machine. "Antonia, I'll share a Coke with you, provided I don't catch what you've got."
Her sister tried to smile, but she was done in. North winked at her. "Long goddamn night and day for a pregnant lady."
"Long night and day for all of us."
They all went up to Gus's room. He bitched about having his leg in a cast and the prospect of missing even a minute of snowshoeing and cross-country skiing season, but he hadn't incurred any permanent damage. He'd be back on the ridge before the winter was out.
He had no sympathy for Carine's brush with hypothermia. Apparently he'd offered to stop at her cabin for her to put on more appropriate clothing, and she'd refused.
"The doctor lectured me on wearing cotton," she told him. "It was an accident. I never wear cotton hiking, not even in the summer."
North smiled. Winters, even when they were being treated for their injuries, never liked being told something they already knew. They were a loving but contentious lot, and as he looked from green-at-the-gills Antonia to rangy Nate to brittle-haired Gus to Carine, blue-eyed and auburn-haired and not nearly as fragile as everyone thought, North knew he could never leave Cold Ridge. Not forever, anyway.
* * *
Val figured she was dreaming or maybe dead. She didn't care which, just so long as it didn't end. Manny was there beside her hospital bed, holding her hand and telling her he loved her, that Eric was okay, they were all okay.
He was crying. That part she could do without.
She touched his stubble of beard. She had all kinds of tubes and crap in her, but a doctor had told her she'd be fine, she was lucky. She liked that. Lucky.
Manny kissed her fingertips, and she felt his tears warm on her hand.
"I just didn't know what else to do," she said.
"I know. Neither did I."
Thirty-Five
Carine rented her apartment to a special education teacher who "loved" her bright colors, which was a good thing, because her landlord hadn't had citrus green and mango and lavender in mind when he'd agreed to let her paint the place. She moved back to her cabin on the edge of the meadow and cleaned it from top to bottom. Satisfied there were no more bats, mice, snakes or any of their droppings, bones and skins, she let herself relax.
It was a cold, bright winter morning, with six inches of fresh snow on the ground. She had her winter hiking books out, new crampons, her serious backpack, her sub-zero sleeping bag, her Nikon with her longest lens—she'd taken a Gus-approved workshop on winter camping, and it was definitely more complicated business than summer camping.
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