by Cindi Myers
Patrick gently pried the phone from her hand and scrolled back to the history. “Unknown number,” he said. “I could try to have someone trace it, but they were probably smart enough to make the call from a throwaway phone, or even a pay phone. There’s still a few of those around.”
“What are we going to do?” Her voice shook, but she was holding it together. After hearing her son’s voice in distress, that took a lot of guts. His job was to stay calm and make it as easy as he could for her.
“First, we get rid of the phone.” He slid the cover off the back and popped out the SIM chip, dropped it to the floor of the Jeep and smashed it with his heel. Then he broke the rest of the phone into as many pieces as he could and tossed them out the window.
“You can’t just throw them out the window,” she protested.
“I’m sorry, but we can’t risk keeping the phone when someone can use it to trace you.”
“No, I mean, you’re littering.”
She looked so genuinely distressed, he bit back his laughter. “I’ll write myself a ticket later. Come on. We have to get out of here.” He put the Jeep in gear and made a U-turn, headed back the way they’d come.
* * *
STILL REELING FROM hearing Carlo crying for her, Stacy struggled to understand what was happening. “What are you doing?” she asked Patrick. “Where are you going?” Surely he wasn’t giving up the plan to go to Crested Butte.
“That was in case anyone was watching. I want them to think we’re acting on their threat and retreating. I looked at the map while you were in the shower this morning and we can get to Crested Butte another way, using back roads.”
She sat back, though truly relaxing was impossible. Carlo had sounded so upset.... She swallowed a knot of tears. She couldn’t break down now. She had to keep it together, for her little boy’s sake.
Patrick patted her arm—though whether this was a gesture of reassurance or merely to get her attention, she wasn’t sure. “Did you recognize the woman’s voice?” he asked.
“No.” There had been nothing familiar about the voice at all.
“Is Abel married?”
“He wasn’t the last time I saw him, but that was five years ago.”
“He was living with his mother then.”
“Yes. And she didn’t sound like that. She was old.”
“How old?”
“Seventies? Abel is fifty, at least. Maybe we’re on the wrong track.” This new idea increased her agitation. “Maybe Abel doesn’t have anything to do with this and we’re wasting time, while whoever does have Carlo gets farther and farther away.”
“That’s possible. But whoever has him knew—probably from your phone—that we’d left Durango and were headed toward Crested Butte. And they wanted you to go away. That tells me we’re headed in exactly the right direction.”
“What if they do have someone watching us and he—or she—figures out we didn’t really turn around?” She looked around, as if expecting to see someone spying on them. “They might hurt Carlo.”
“I don’t think so. They took the boy on purpose, for a specific reason. If they’d wanted to kill him, they could have done away with both of you in your hotel room before either of you woke up. They’re making these threats to scare you and keep you away, but I think they want the boy alive.”
“But why would they want him? He’s just a baby.” Her voice trembled on these last words, but she sucked in a deep breath and continued. “He can’t tell them anything or give them anything.”
“What about Sam Giardino’s will? Does Carlo inherit anything now that Sammy is dead, too?”
“You’d know the answer to that better than I do. Doesn’t the government confiscate ill-gotten gains?”
“If they can prove a link to a crime, yes.”
“It’s not as if Sammy had tons of cash and money in bank accounts. He lived well, but most of his money was in the business. And Elizabeth is still alive. She’s bound to inherit something.”
“But the majority would go to his son, or his son’s son, I would think.”
“Yeah. Sam was a chauvinist, all right. Though he’d have said he was following tradition.” Women didn’t rate as high as the family dog in the Giardino household. “But even if Sam had decided to leave his money to Carlo, he wouldn’t just hand everything over to a three-year-old,” she said. “There’d be a trust or something to tie the money up until Carlo was old enough to take control.”
“Then maybe money isn’t the driving force here. What else?”
“I can’t think of any reason why anyone would want to take Carlo.” He was her baby. No one loved him or cared for him more than she did—why would anyone else even notice him?
“I think this is our turnoff up here,” he said, indicating a road that branched to the left. “It goes around the lake and doesn’t get much use this time of year, but it’s usually kept plowed.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” she said.
The two-lane road was paved for the first mile, and then blacktop gave way to gravel. A thin layer of snow covered the rock, and banks of snow had been pushed up on either side. He had to slow his speed to about thirty around the many curves; no doubt it would take even longer to get to Crested Butte. She struggled to avoid fidgeting with impatience.
“I still can’t believe anyone would want anything from Carlo,” she said after half an hour of silence. Talking was better than letting her thoughts range out of control, and for a guy, Patrick was a decent listener. He didn’t discount her ideas with every breath.
“Maybe we’re looking at this wrong,” Patrick said. “Maybe Carlo isn’t the target at all—maybe it’s you.”
“Me?”
“If someone wanted to hurt you, what better way to do that than to take away the one person who matters most to you?”
She wrapped her arms across her stomach, his words like a physical blow. “If Sammy was still alive, I might believe he’d do something like this. He hated me enough.”
“Why did he hate you?”
She’d spent most of her marriage trying to figure out the answer to that question. “I was one more thing his father forced on him. Left to his own devices, he’d have chosen a tall, long-legged, busty model type. Someone he could dress up and show off, who’d cling to his arm and look at him adoringly and pretend not to have a brain in her head.”
“It’s not as if you aren’t attractive.”
She winced. Did he feel sorry for her? Why else would he be handing out compliments? “He called me ‘troll.’” Saying the hated nickname out loud still hurt. “And he said I was too smart for my own good.” Though at least she was smart enough not to feel insulted by his acknowledgment of her brains.
Patrick’s knuckles on the steering wheel whitened. “You’re not a troll,” he said. “And I’d rather be with a smart woman than ten supermodels who play dumb.”
“I don’t guess you get many chances to guard supermodels,” she said. “You might change your mind if you did.”
She didn’t give him a chance to hand out more false compliments. She sat forward and peered at the road ahead. “Are you sure we’re headed the right way? This doesn’t look like much of a road.”
The graveled two-track had narrowed further, trees closing in on either side. They’d seen no sign of houses or other traffic in miles. “The map showed this as an alternate route.” He glanced at the screen on the GPS unit mounted on the dash. “And the GPS shows we’re headed in the right direction.”
“It just doesn’t look as if anyone has traveled this way in a while.”
“That’s good. Whoever is threatening you won’t think to check this route.”
“Maybe not.” But her expression remained clouded.
They rounded a curve and he had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting
a tree. The huge pine lay across the road, branches filling their field of vision, the needles almost black against the white snow. Patrick shifted into Park and stared at the tree. It completely blocked both lanes.
“What do we do now?” Stacy asked.
He slipped his gun from his holster, making sure it was loaded and ready to fire, then grasped the door handle. “Stay here while I check things out,” he said. “If anyone starts shooting, stay down.”
Chapter Seven
The tree was positioned perfectly for an ambush, lying in the arc of a narrow, uphill curve with thick woods on either side. Keeping low and using the car as a shield, Patrick examined the snow around them for tracks, but found only the prints of squirrels and birds. He froze and strained his ears, listening, but heard only the pinging of the cooling engine and his own labored breathing.
Slowly, he made his way along the tree to the trunk, and felt some of the tension ease out of him when he saw the bare roots stretching toward the sky. This tree hadn’t been cut, as he’d first suspected, but had fallen, toppling over in a storm, or from the weight of snow and age.
He holstered his weapon and balanced on the tree trunk to peer over the branches at the road beyond. The snow on that side looked much deeper, the route barely discernible. The tree had probably been here awhile. He jumped down and tramped back toward the car.
Stacy climbed out of the passenger side and met him halfway. “What were you looking at up ahead?” she asked. “What did you see?”
“Looks like the tree blew over in the last storm. The road’s completely blocked. We’ll have to turn around and go back the way we came.”
“Couldn’t we move the tree or something?”
“Even if we could, the road up ahead hasn’t been plowed. We’d never make it through.”
“I can’t believe we’ve wasted so much time coming all this way only to have to backtrack,” she said.
“Me, too. But it can’t be helped. And maybe doing so convinced the kidnappers that we’ve given up.”
“How could anyone believe a mother would ever give up looking for her child?”
“Maybe they don’t have children.” He reached for the door handle as the glass in the door shattered into a thousand glittering shards.
“Get down!” he shouted, as he dived beneath the car. The sharp report of gunfire echoed through the canyon, the sound folding in on itself until the crescendo crackled like thunder. Bullets slammed into the side and top of the vehicle, rocking it from side to side and shattering the front windshield and mirrors.
“Stacy!” He turned his head, searching for her, but nothing moved in the limited area he was able to see from his place beneath the car. He slid sideways on his stomach, gravel digging into his elbows and knees. The silence following the gunfire pressed down on him, the only sounds the pinging of the cooling engine and the scrape of his body as he dragged it across the gravel.
He emerged on the opposite side of the car, using the vehicle as a shield between himself and the shooter. “Stacy?” he called again.
“Over here.”
He followed her voice to a narrow space between two boulders on the side of the road, but when he started toward her, another barrage of gunfire sent him diving for the cover of the vehicle.
“Patrick?” Her voice rose in alarm. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. What are we going to do?”
He levered himself up just enough to peer over the hood of the car at the opposite side of the canyon. Nothing stirred in the red-and-gold rock cliffs, but the shots had definitely come from that direction. But where, exactly?
He slipped out of his coat, then searched the side of the road until he found a broken tree branch. He draped the coat over the branch and raised it up above the hood of the car. Shots erupted from an outcropping of rock opposite. Was it his imagination, or were these shots from a lower trajectory than the previous barrage? Was the gunman working his way down to them? Or was he simply moving in closer for a better chance to pick them off?
He glanced back over his shoulder toward the niche where Stacy sheltered. He couldn’t see her, and he couldn’t risk crossing the open space between her and the car. “Stacy, can you hear me?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“Yes.”
“I’m going to try to climb up and come in behind the shooter. But I need you to distract him while I get away.”
“How can I do that?”
“I’m going to give you my gun and I want you to shoot up at the canyon wall—just enough to draw their fire. While they’re focused on you, I’ll get on the other side of the fallen tree and start up the canyon on the other side. I should be far enough down there that they won’t be able to see me.”
“I don’t think we should split up,” she said. “What if they do see you and shoot you?”
“I won’t let that happen. If I don’t try this, they’ll just keep us pinned down here until dark, then they’ll move in and pick us off.”
Silence. Had he frightened her so much she was unable to speak?
“All right,” she said after a long moment. “Tell me what to do.”
“When I tell you, move as fast as you can to my side. Stay low.”
“All right.”
He sighted in on the rock outcropping and steadied his pistol on the hood of the car. “Now!” he called, and squeezed off three quick shots.
Stacy hurtled out of her hiding place and dived into the snow beside him as another hail of bullets shook the car.
Patrick helped her to sit up. Blood streaked her face. “You’re hurt,” he said.
She shook her head. “Just some broken glass that nicked my cheek. I’m fine. Now tell me what to do.”
He fit a fresh magazine to the weapon and handed it to her. “See that rock outcropping up there—the one where there’s a slash of almost purple-colored stone, sort of shaped like an arrowhead?”
She nodded. “I see it.”
“When I give the word, start shooting at that outcropping. Just hold down the trigger and empty the magazine at that spot.”
“You can’t go up there without a gun.”
“I have another.” He slid the SIG Sauer from the ankle holster and checked the load. “I’m going to leave you with an extra magazine.” He didn’t explain she was to use the other bullets if their assailants slipped past him and came after her; she was smart enough to figure that out on her own.
She clutched the gun in both hands, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground. “Be careful,” she said.
“I will.” He rested his hand on her shoulder for a moment—she felt so small and fragile, yet she had more strength than some men he’d known. “Are you ready?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes.”
He nodded and she took aim and began firing, splinters of rock exploding from the stone outcropping, the report of gunfire obliterating all other sound.
He ran, keeping low and moving in a zigzag pattern they’d drilled into him during training. The movement was supposed to make him a more difficult target to hit, but he doubted a spray of automatic weapons fire would miss. But his plan to focus the assailant’s attention on Stacy seemed to have worked; he made it to the tree unharmed and dived over the trunk, landing in thick, soft snow on the other side.
Post holing through knee-deep drifts, he powered his way to the opposite bank and began making his way up the rocky slope. Ice, snow and loose rock made the climb difficult; for every foot he gained, he slid back six inches. The cold left his hands numb and penetrated his thin clothes until he shook from a bone-deep chill. Rocks tore at his clothing, cutting his skin, but he ignored the pain, pushing on.
When he judged himself to be a little above the outcropping where he’d spot
ted the shooter he began working his way sideways, scrambling over scrubby trees that clung to the side of the canyon, slipping in slush and loose gravel. Below, all was silent; even the echo of the gunfire had faded away.
His path intersected a narrow game trail, the hoofprints of deer clearly outlined in the snow along with the ridged soles of a man’s hiking boots. Patrick examined the imprint; it was fresh and sharp, and similar prints led down the slope. The shooter had come this way to set up his post among the rocks.
He moved more slowly now, as soundlessly as possible, his pistol drawn and ready to fire. Soon he could look down into the niche formed by the outcropping of rock, a space just wide enough for a single man to crouch.
But the niche was empty. The snow around it was littered with spent bullet casings, the metal jackets glinting in the snow.
Patrick dropped into the niche and looked around. A search revealed an empty chip bag and sandwich wrapper, and the deep impression where someone had sat, possibly for a long time. Had someone staked out this area, just in case they’d decided to come this way? The idea that whoever was behind the kidnapping would have gone to such trouble—invested the manpower to cover even this remote route—disturbed him. Why was one little boy worth so much trouble and expense?
Whoever had been here wasn’t here now. They’d either anticipated his arrival and made their getaway while they had the chance—or they’d taken advantage of his absence to descend to the road, and Stacy. He’d heard no shots, but there were other ways of killing a person. The image of Stacy at the hotel, a knife to her throat, flashed through his mind, and a wave of sickness shook him.
“Stacy!” he shouted.
Stacy! echoed back to him from the canyon walls.
Half climbing, half sliding, he made his way down the side of the canyon. He tried to stay in cover, behind trees or boulders, but as he descended, no one shouted at him or fired at him or tried in any way to stop him. This indication that he was alone spurred him to move almost recklessly, stumbling down the steep embankment toward the car.
“Stacy!” he shouted again as he ran toward the vehicle. No answer came.