by Lee Taylor
"Yes."
"If nothing else, I'm good for that!"
She could hear his disgust at being unable to rescue her. She could almost feel the frustration boiling within Connor. She wasn’t the only one having a hard time with Judd and his men, emotionally as well as physically. As a fighter, the game of patience must be particularly hard on him.
"I need you, Connor," she declared, finding that as she searched for a way to help him, she could also help herself. "Like right now. You must realize I’d never have made it this far without you."
He waved his hand in a depreciating gesture.
“No, I mean it. I’d have gone to pieces if I had to face them alone. Your time’ll come. They're already not as sharp as yesterday."
"True. For now, we focus on staying alive. But when the chance comes, we've got to be ready to take it. Just keep leading them in circles."
She nodded. "A large triangle, actually. We'll complete the first side tomorrow. I have to make sure I don't get too close to the ski areas up at the Pass. I don't want to run into anyone."
"Right. We don't need another innocent bystander murdered. Or have Judd take another hostage."
Mary nodded. She could easily vision a cross-country ski party slaughtered by Judd's men. She had to be very careful where she went.
They broke camp early that morning, Judd yanking Mary and Connor's coats from under his sleeping bag, while Wes sorted out the boots. Mary realized her snowshoes were missing at about the same time Judd retrieved them from underneath his tent.
She wondered if Ira had reported her aborted attempt to escape. He had put their boots back into Judd's tent. Had he done it to keep her from getting into trouble, or just to make it harder if she tried again?
She thrust her feet into her cold boots, regretting not having an opportunity to warm them properly.
Wes yelped as he tried to put his on, and Ramone cast him a superior glance. "You should leave them on all night. That's what I did."
Mary could see Wes considering the idea, and she nodded to herself. Frostbite— from not removing their boots at night and allowing their feet to warm up— would definitely slow the killers down.
The four silently packed their gear, hardly bothering to look around at Mount Rainier, Mount Adams, and Mount Baker, all three peaks shining white against the deep blue of the crystal sky. The stately, snow-covered volcanoes never failed to elevate Mary's spirits, and they raised them now.
"I will lift my eyes to the mountains," she said softly, repeating the psalm she loved. "From whence shall my help come? My help comes from the Lord who made heaven and earth." She smiled as she recalled the next line, He will not allow your foot to slip. She needed that verse, literally, up here.
Putting on her snowshoes, she straightened her pack, then adjusted her glacier glasses. Today would be a true test of the sunglasses their kidnapers used.
With everyone ready, Mary returned to the trail. No overhanging cornice threatened them, as Ramone's two shots the day before had avalanched it completely.
The area looked as though a giant hand had swept across the landscape, wiping out all distinguishing forms with one rough swipe. Mary spotted the blaze on the tree where the trail started up again, halfway down the slope. She set off across the chunks of broken snow to reach it, the men strung out behind her, keeping Connor in the middle.
Mary could hear the men's awed comments as they slowly worked their way across the avalanche's path. The size of the fan-shaped area impressed them. Good. It’d make it easier for her to insist they avoid certain areas.
No one could predict an avalanche with surety. Mary knew all the warning signs. She also knew that snow could avalanche even when it seemed safe.
She moved one foot at a time, setting each snowshoe down on the crusted lumps with care before lifting the other foot. It wouldn’t do if she sprained an ankle.
Or would it? If they didn’t think she could travel, they might relax their guard. She’d run with Connor, however much it hurt. Mary walked a little faster, clumping carelessly across the avalanche field.
"Slow down!" Judd yelled. She looked back. The men were struggling to walk—their stiff boots making each step agony. She sat down and waited. They weren’t going far today.
That evening, Connor removed his warm coat and boots and handed them over. He wasn’t so exhausted tonight. He quickly vetoed Mary’s suggestion of an injury.
"No. Definitely not. I don't want you hurt. Even faked. It’s too hard to maintain the deception." He chewed thoughtfully on an energy bar. "It’d buy us time, but is that what we want? Ira's wrist is swollen. He hasn't thrown his knife since he got hurt. If we lay up for a few days, he'll get well. Their feet will heal. It’d be better if we work on setting up accidents for them. Major accidents."
"I don't know if I could do that."
Connor snorted, frustrated with her. It was the same old story, peace at all costs. "Then let nature do the work," he suggested. “Take them through dangerous places.
Her gray eyes looked troubled as she considered this. "I don't know...."
"Just do it. Start crossing the streams where there are logs to fall between. Go down the cliffs instead of around them. Strike out cross country. That’d certainly be more dangerous."
"But what if you got hurt?"
He hesitated to assure her that he wouldn't, as all people thought that an accident would never happen to them. "Then I wouldn't have to fake it," he said, trying to sound cheerful. "Although if I were injured and you weren't, they might just leave me behind."
"Or shoot you."
He smiled at her, touched by her determination to keep him safe at all costs. He could rail silently against Mary's concern for others— her tender heart— but it was one of the dearest things about her.
"My pack is lighter, now the food is being eaten. I'm not as likely to get injured as those three, who are footsore— and so weary they keep stumbling over their own feet."
"True."
"Lead them into the woods, among the deadfalls and the hidden drop-offs. Just watch yourself. I don't want you injured."
She smiled at him, a crooked smile that lit her eyes and touched off an answering smile in him. She pursed her lips, then slid them to one side in a "that's life" gesture. The movement delighted him and he found himself waiting for it again.
Mary's beauty lay in her determination to do right, whatever the cost. It shone in her face when she lifted her head to meet the challenge of the mountains. She had more character than any woman he had ever met.
A lovely lady, who couldn't be beaten down by the evil that surrounded her. Connor wanted to bring the sparkle back into her eyes. "Whatever we do has to sort of 'happen.' If one or two of them gets injured, they'll have to rig up a litter to carry him. It'll make it much easier to escape."
Mary swallowed the last chunk of the energy bar she had been chewing on, trying to make it last so she wouldn’t feel so hungry. It went against all her training to injure someone rather than rescue them. But she wouldn’t have to kill them, just get them hurt.
Killing was out. She couldn’t ever do that, for any reason. When you caused someone's death, he invaded your dreams, even if you killed to save yourself. She didn’t want Ramone or any of the others haunting her.
"All right," she agreed. "We'll give it a try. A minor accident only."
"Right, partner. We'll get out of this, somehow."
Partner. She liked the word, that he considered her worthy.
The next morning Mary entered the woods about fifty feet from where the trail actually began— with Judd right behind her, then Ramone, then Connor. Next came Wes, then Ira, carrying the rifle. No signs pointed the way and with the snow so deep, all openings in the trees looked like trails. Mary felt Judd would believe her if she claimed to have lost the way. If Mary hadn’t known this area like her own back yard, she could’ve gotten lost several times.
The going became rough as she entered a small ravine fille
d with the deadfall of several trees. The light branches supported the snow, but not her weight.
Five feet out and Mary dropped headfirst into an opening, the snow falling on top of her. After her initial drop, she lay where she had landed— at a forty-five degree angle, head down, her snowshoes tangled in the branches above. If anything, cross-country hiking would slow them down so much she wouldn’t need to worry about getting close to the ski areas.
"Help," she yelled.
Judd had already entered the deadfall, and floundered around, breaking branches.
"Take off your snowshoes," she called out. "Then work your way down."
He fought his way through the tree limbs from a different angle, spilling snow over both of them.
"What happened?" he asked, trying to pull the branches down enough to free her.
"I missed the trail."
If this had happened when she was alone, she might’ve been able to break herself free, but Mary knew about hunters whose bodies hadn’t been found until the following spring.
It never paid to take the mountains lightly. Any mountains.
"I've wondered how you've managed to stay on the trail as much as you have." Judd pulled futility at the branch that held her trapped.
Turning, he yelled back over his shoulder. "Ira! Hand down a knife. We need it."
"Sure." They could hear Ira working his way forward past the others, then a silver blade whirled through the air, landing with a thump into the bore of the tree next to Judd's arm.
Judd jumped and swore angrily. "You crazy fool! Some day I'll shoot you for a trick like that."
Still swearing, he yanked the knife free and attacked the limb that held Mary captive. Once she was freed, he carelessly tossed the knife back toward Ira. It bounced off a tree branch, spun away in another direction and fell out of sight.
"Oops. Too bad," Judd intoned, his manner showing no remorse. He ignored Ira's angry retort and turned to Mary. "You okay?" he asked.
"I wrenched my leg," she replied, already feeling the soreness. Might as well claim it felt worse than it did. "It—"
Suddenly the roar of an engine buffeted the air. A helicopter swooped down across their position— its ear-shattering bellow causing everyone to jump, unprepared for the craft as it came over the ridge behind them.
Mary stared up through the hole in the branches. No, not now. Not while she was hidden from sight.
She could practically reach out and touch the spotter standing in the door, but he couldn’t see her in the deadfall.
Connor was up there. Maybe he could signal them.
22
Like the others, Connor had failed to hear the helicopter. It had come up the adjoining ridge like a giant prehistoric bird and dropped over their position.
A moment earlier, Wes and Ira had moved closer in order to see what had happened to Mary. Then Ira had gone past all of them, taking the knife to Judd. Only Wes stood nearby.
Connor scanned the area. He needed to get in the open. In the tangle of brush he was virtually impossible to spot from overhead.
With the whup whup whup of the rotor blades drowning out all other sounds, Connor hooked the Velcro straps on a tree limb and ripped them loose.
Pulling back a long branch, he took one step, then staggered as Wes jammed the cold barrel of a gun behind his ear.
"Go ahead," Wes shouted. "They won't hear you die."
Connor stiffened. He’d come within a hairsbreadth of having his head blown off. It’d be a foolish sacrifice. Movement would alert the search helicopter— the shot wouldn’t.
He stood still as the helicopter continued on across the valley. Their dull-colored coats blended into the trees, but Mary's coat— a bright hunter's orange— stood out like a red weather balloon in a clear blue sky.
If they had stayed on the trail, the helicopter would’ve spotted them immediately.
Their position provided a perfect ambush. The trees hitched in like an old frontier stockade, the trunks forming a fortress.
Ira had aimed his rifle at the men in the chopper. The rescuers would have died for sure.
Defeat tasted bitter. Wes' sneering laugh as he lowered his Baretta didn’t help.
The helicopter paused at the far ridge, then swooped back toward them but further along, continuing the search pattern up the valley. Connor could see the spotter standing in the doorway and another one sitting by the pilot. They were using a large military copter, big enough to handle the wind currents and the unpredictable weather in the Cascades.
This time they were out of range of Ira's rifle. If Connor attracted their attention now, he’d save Mary. The inner lining of his coat was a bright orange—all he needed to do was get into the open and wave it.
It was worth the risk. He took it.
Releasing the long branch he had been holding, he let it snap into Wes. The force knocked the gunman backward, throwing his Baretta into the snow.
Now.
Connor sprang forward, racing for the open ridge. This time he’d make sure the searchers saw him. He lunged through the fallen trees and across snow-covered boulders, scrambling harder than he had ever done as a quarterback, more desperate than flying any mission.
A few more yards and he’d be out in the open.
This time he’d win. This time—
Ira's knife whizzed past his face and thumped to a stop a few feet away, in the bole of a tree. It halted him, instantly, like a body blow, and he glanced back to see Ira, rifle in hand, close enough to blow him away.
The killer had gained ground by running across the ridge, rather than up it. He had plenty of time to shoot before Connor got his coat off and exposed its lining.
"You move— you die! They die," Ira shouted, motioning with his head toward the helicopter.
Connor stood in his tracks, the deep sickness of despair twisting his stomach, the leaded weight of failure stopping his feet. His body shook in anger and frustration.
He wanted to rip off his coat and wave it defiantly in the air, but he had to control his mind as he did the mighty machines he drove. If he died, it had to count. To give up his life—but not save Mary— that wouldn’t fly.
He watched futility as the helicopter finished its trip across the valley, then turned to swing back again, further north. Another turn. Another sweep, farther away.
Maybe the aircraft would come back another day, when they were on an open slope.
Wes ran up to Ira and the tall man handed him the rifle before approaching Connor. As always, he did it with care, avoiding placing himself in the line of fire.
"Turn around," he demanded, and Connor did so, feeling the Velcro straps clamp down on his flesh, eliminating any more chance at escape.
"Wise choice," Ira commented, limping on to yank his knife out of the tree. "I don't miss unless I choose to." He turned the throwing knife idly in his hand— a weapon so familiar it seemed a part of him. "And I always carry a spare."
Connor nodded and laughed grimly to himself. The attempt to escape had backfired. Another decision gone wrong, but the blow of defeat was no longer as devastating as it had been the first time. Now it was just another setback to accept. One more failure.
Should he and Mary just wait for an opportunity? As long as they didn't go near the cabin, they had a chance to live.
He had never quit before now, but he had never lost before. Never felt like giving up. Defeat was a new emotion, sapping his will power.
Now he knew how it felt to lose. Two teams played equally hard, but afterward the winning side cheered, filled with energy, while the losing side barely dragged themselves off the field.
The only difference was the score.
Mary and he had lost to Judd. That explained why they felt so exhausted. He had to remember that.
He must also remember what he knew about the psychology of being kidnapped. Victims often became so attached to their kidnapers they didn’t try to escape, but rather tried to help their enemies.
A s
trange thing, the human mind.
Ira motioned for him to proceed and he made his way back down the ridge, taking his time, amazed that he had run so far across the uneven, snow-covered ground without slipping and falling.
The opportunity to try to attract the helicopter and the actual attempt had come so close together he had scarcely been aware of making the decision. But his body had reacted, pouring forth a surge of adrenaline that left him trembling and covered with sweat.
His teeth ached, clenched so hard he could’ve bitten through thick leather. He mentally relaxed them.
His lungs hurt from breathing too deeply of the cold air and he turned his face into the folds of the bulky parka as he rejoined Mary. Her eyes mirrored his feelings. She looked ready to cry.
Her helplessness refueled his determination. He mustn’t let her become depressed. For her sake he had to show enthusiasm, like a coach reviving his team between halves.
They could either give up and lose for sure, or fight back. This game wasn’t over—Judd had won the first scrimmages, scored the first points. That was all. The only score that counted was the final one. They either escaped or died.
It wasn't as if they had a choice.
Connor forced a smile and patted Mary on the back. "We've got plenty of time," he whispered. "Don't give up."
She took a quick breath and gave him a wan glance. "Sure."
"Look on the bright side," he tried to joke. "Ira didn't kill me."
"Maybe they're just threatening us. Maybe they won't kill us after all."
"You know better than that. Ira seems to be kindly disposed toward you. That's all."
Except for Ramone, the men had mellowed toward Mary. Her moral character had affected even these vermin. They had pretty much stopped swearing around her and had begun to say "Thank you."
It’d be foolish to think Mary's way would win out— with talk, rather than fight. Still, he had to give it to her, she had these scum beginning to like her, albeit reluctantly. They had all been worried when she plunged through the deadfall.