She opened her eyes and forced herself to refocus. She remembered falling.
But into what?
The stinging on her face intensified as another shiver rippled through.
What was that steady pinging hum against the dead leaves near her ear?
Sleet. It had to be sleet.
A wave of panic clawed at her throat. She was in an ice storm in the middle of nowhere, and she was too hurt to move.
Her shaking worsened, intensifying the waves of pain.
Think, Kelly! Don’t let Carlson win!
Choking back a sob, she tried to focus on a plan of action. But first she needed to figure out what parts of her body were functional—and how she could use them to save herself.
She wiggled her fingers. The right hand was working, but the left hurt too much to use. She eased her right hand away from her body. No problem. That meant her wrists weren’t bound anymore. She couldn’t move her smashed right leg, but the left one seemed okay. And her ankle restraints were gone too. She rolled her tongue around in her mouth. No gag.
Did her voice still work?
She tried to speak. Nothing came out but a croak. She wet her chapped lips with her tongue and tried again. Better. The sound was audible. She could call for help.
But who would hear her?
It had been too dark, and she’d been too woozy, to notice much about her surroundings when Carlson had hauled her out of the trunk of the car. The area had seemed remote, though. Not the kind of place people ventured in bad weather—or on a holiday. That must be what he was counting on. Besides, he’d probably expected her to die in the fall . . . a poor hiker who’d ventured too close to the edge of an icy precipice and plunged to her death.
But she wasn’t dead, and she didn’t intend to be. Someone would come along eventually. She just had to hang on until daylight. The odds of being discovered would be far better then. She’d save her voice until first light too. No sense wearing it out in the dark, when there was little chance anyone would be close enough to hear it.
In the meantime, she needed to stay as warm as possible. She still had her thermal jacket on, but judging by the cold seeping into her stomach from the frozen ground, it had come unzipped. Closing that gap was imperative if she wanted to conserve warmth. She had to find some cover too.
Kelly peered into the dark. There was a pine tree a few yards away, silhouetted against the dark sky. Its sheltering branches would protect her from the sleet if she could drag herself over there.
Her left wrist and right leg weren’t going to be of any help, and the pain in her ribs burned with every breath, undermining her resolve.
But she didn’t want to die. Didn’t want Carlson to win. Didn’t want that scumbag to go unpunished for what he’d done to her father.
She wanted justice.
Praying for fortitude and courage, Kelly blocked out the pain as best she could and worked her elbow under her. Then, fighting back tears, she leveraged herself up an inch or two. Bending her left knee, she dug in her toe and pushed. She managed to slide a couple of inches toward her destination—but the toll in pain was immense.
Tears flooded her eyes.
She couldn’t do this.
Yes, you can.
The voice was clear. Just as it had been when she’d almost caved under the trauma of her father’s death.
I am with you always.
The beautiful, comforting words from Matthew—her mainstay in those days of inconsolable grief—echoed in her mind. As did the quote from Psalms that had hung on her refrigerator since her father’s funeral.
The Lord was with her. He was holding her hand.
And with his help, she would survive.
Leveraging herself up on her elbow again, she dug in her toe, pushed, and continued to drag herself toward shelter.
“Uh-oh.”
At Rick’s ominous pronouncement, Cole’s pulse skyrocketed. After fifteen minutes on the trail, Bo had veered off the path toward a bench. He was now sniffing in circles.
“What’s wrong?” Cole started toward the dog. Bo sat, ears perked, in passive alert position.
“Not so fast.” Rick grabbed his arm. “Bo.” He tugged on the leash. “Back, boy.”
The dog responded, trotting back to sit at Rick’s feet, panting clouds of breath into the cold air.
“What’s going on?” Cole could feel the tension emanating from the man.
“The victim’s scent stops here.” Rick’s tone was grim. “And we’re on the edge of a forty, forty-five-foot cliff.”
The bottom dropped out of Cole’s stomach as he peered into the darkness. “How do you know?”
“I’ve hiked this trail plenty of times in nice weather.”
Cole swallowed and held out his hand to Mitch. “Give me the night vision binoculars.”
In silence, Mitch moved beside him and handed them over. Cole was glad he couldn’t see the other man’s face.
Pressing the binoculars to his eyes, he eased closer to the edge of the bluff. Steeled himself. Sent a silent plea heavenward.
Then he looked down.
The sleet continued to fall steadily, though it wasn’t as heavy now. Visibility had improved. But not enough. Between the sleet, the green night-vision tinge he’d always found disconcerting, and the film of moisture blurring his vision, Cole couldn’t make out any details in the landscape below.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Let me try. I’m used to using these.” Rick joined them.
Cole relinquished the binoculars and took a step back.
The other man moved closer to the edge than Cole considered wise, positioned the binoculars in front of his eyes, then looked straight down and began a slow sweep of the terrain.
Heart pounding, Cole waited for the words he knew were coming. Kelly was down there. K-9 dogs were well-trained. If her scent ended at the edge of the cliff, she’d gone over. And it fit with the hiking-accident theory he and Mitch had constructed—made all the more plausible by the ice storm that had slickened the sloping ground. Move a little too close to the edge, lose your footing . . . it was all over.
People didn’t survive forty-plus-foot falls.
“I’ve got her.”
Cole closed his eyes. Felt Mitch edge closer to him. Tried to keep breathing.
“Where?” His question came out hoarse as he stepped toward the K-9 handler.
Rick pointed to the right. “A few feet this side of the tall pine tree.” He lowered the binoculars and held them out.
Bracing himself, Cole fitted them to his eyes and swept the area Rick had indicated.
He saw her at once this time. A crumpled, still form among the denuded underbrush that had already succumbed to the harshness of winter.
A wave of nausea swept over him, and his vision blurred. He eased the binoculars back slightly. Blinked. Reseated them and focused on Kelly.
When they caught Carlson, he was going to kill the man with his bare hands.
Kelly wouldn’t approve of his thirst for revenge. Nor would God. But that was how he felt. The man had now taken not one, but two innocent lives, and if it was the last thing he ever did, Cole intended to—
He froze.
Had Kelly’s arm shifted?
Or was he just seeing what he wanted to see?
He kept his gaze riveted on her slender form. And then, as he watched, her leg moved up in tiny increments.
“She’s alive!” He ripped the binoculars from his eyes, thrust them at Rick, and whipped toward the deputy. “Radio for the paramedics. We need them here now!” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted toward the base of the cliff. “Kelly! It’s Cole! Hang on! We’re coming down! Don’t try to move!”
“Cole.” Mitch put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s more than forty feet down.”
“I know that! But she moved! Rick, take a look. Watch her right hand and left leg.”
The man already had the binoculars trained on Kelly. “Yeah. I see it. She is moving.
Man, that’s amazing. No one survives a fall like that.”
“The paramedics are on their way,” the deputy informed them. “They’ll go in at the Katy Trail access point about a mile down 94. It’ll take them a little time to cover that distance on foot, though.”
“What’s their ETA to Kelly?”
“Twenty, twenty-five minutes. Maybe more, in this weather.”
“Not fast enough.” He swung toward Rick. “Is there a trail down from here?”
“Yes, but it’s not safe in good weather, let alone in this crud.”
“Where is it?”
The man gestured behind him. “About three hundred yards through the woods.”
“I’m going down. Show me.”
“I’ll go with you.”
At Mitch’s comment, Cole turned to him. He couldn’t make out his features in the dark, but his colleague’s tone was firm.
“That’s not necessary. There’s no reason for both of us to take a risk.”
“Yeah, there is. Alison would kill me if I let you break your neck.”
Cole thought about arguing. Decided against it. He wouldn’t mind having the company of a Navy SEAL—or a friend—on this journey.
“Trent, let me have your flashlight.” Rick reached for it and passed Bo’s leash to the deputy. “Hang on tight. He’ll want to follow. I’ll be back for him as soon as I show them the trail access.”
Rick set off through the woods at a fast clip, and Cole picked up his pace, more upbeat than he’d been minutes ago, yet trying not to be overly optimistic. Rick was right. Kelly might have beaten the odds by surviving the plunge, but no one fell that distance without sustaining serious injuries.
Possibly fatal injuries.
And as Cole plowed through the ice-encrusted brush behind their guide, he prayed Kelly’s weren’t in the latter category.
Vincentio rummaged through his medicine cabinet, scowling at the contents. Where were the antacids? He always kept a bottle on hand. And he needed a few tonight. Must be the veal scallopini, although he’d never had any problem with that dish in the past. He’d have to ask Teresa if she’d altered the recipe, added some spice that hadn’t agreed with him.
Frowning, he leaned on the vanity and tried to remember where he’d put them. Downstairs, perhaps? Yes. That was it. He’d left them in the kitchen last week, after another bout of indigestion. But was it worth a trip down the steps and back up again at—he checked his watch—nearly eleven o’clock? Just thinking about all that exertion fatigued him. On the other hand, he doubted he’d sleep unless he neutralized his stomach acid.
Resigned, he pushed himself upright and exited into the hall, his steps labored as he traversed the dim passageway in the quiet, empty—lonely—house. A house that would never ring with the laughter of his family or the clink of wineglasses raised in happy toasts. A house where he would never get to play the part of a benevolent nonno. His grandson would never even know of his existence until he was old enough to ask Marco, and then his son would vilify him, making Jason despise him as much as Marco did.
That wasn’t the kind of legacy a man wanted to leave.
But Vincentio was nothing if not a realist. And that was how his life had played out. It was what it was.
Tightening his grip on the railing, he took the steps one at a time. Isabella had always preferred two-story houses. That was why he’d bought this one when he’d been released from prison, knowing it was the kind of house she’d have chosen. But the stairs were getting more and more difficult to navigate. Maybe it was time to move.
At the bottom, he stopped to catch his breath. A necessity he despised but accepted. People got old. And no amount of money could return the youth that had been stolen from him during his years in prison.
Money could solve some problems, however. Fix some injustices. It was doing so at this very moment. But that was smaller consolation than he’d expected on the eve of a holiday meant to be shared with loved ones.
He flipped on the light in the kitchen. Spotting the jar of antacids on the far side of the room, he started toward it—until the sudden ring of his cell phone shattered the tomb-like silence.
Pulse pounding, he jolted to a stop. Then he shook his head. A Rossi, spooked by a ringing phone. How sad was that?
He crossed to the counter and pulled the phone out of the charger. The ID was blocked, but he knew who it was. His colleague had wasted no time. “Yes?”
“I have confirmation the document was delivered. Final arrangements have also been made to handle the other matter. It will be disposed of by dawn.”
“Excellent.” Vincentio picked up the bottle of antacid tablets. “I’ll be in touch should I have further need of your services in the future.”
“Always happy to oblige.” The man hung up.
Vincentio settled the phone back in its charger, shook out four tablets, and popped them in his mouth. He chewed them as he retraced his steps across the kitchen and turned out the light, anxious now to go to bed. Perhaps, with the Walsh matter finally resolved, he would sleep better than he had for the past few nights.
At the base of the stairway, he grasped the railing and hauled himself up to the first step. The second. The third. Pausing, he drew in a deep breath. Coming down had been much easier.
He looked up at the remaining nine steps. Maybe he should get one of those stair-lift contraptions so he could ride up and down while he debated whether to sell the house. Too bad he didn’t have one now. But wishing wasn’t going to get him to the top.
Sighing, he began his ascent, taking one step at a time.
Five steps from the top, Vincentio suddenly felt as if a sumo wrestler had belly flopped onto his chest.
The crushing weight sucked the air from his lungs and he clutched at his throat. His legs gave out, and he sank to the steps. He tried to remain upright. Tried to hold on to the spindles in the railing. But there was no strength in his hands. He felt himself sliding down . . . down . . . down.
So this was how the Rossi legacy—and his life—were going to end. The heart his son claimed he didn’t have was going to betray him.
And as the world around him faded, he welcomed the darkness.
Cole dropped the last three feet from the serpentine bluff-side trail to level ground. His ankle twisted when he landed on a rock, and he winced. He’d made it all the way down the treacherous descent in ill-fitting boots and now he messes up his ankle? But at least they were at the bottom. And the sleet had stopped.
Ignoring the ache in his shin, he pulled the flashlight out of the backpack Rick had given him and set a course straight for Kelly, pushing through the leafless saplings and dense brush in his path, Mitch on his heels.
They didn’t talk on their trek.
Instead, Cole used the time to pray. Hard.
When at last he spotted the deputy’s flashlight at the top of the bluff where Bo had delivered the bad news, he felt as if they’d been walking for an eternity.
He also had a better perspective on the height of the cliff—and the length of Kelly’s fall. How could she possibly have survived?
But she had. He’d think about the how later.
He aimed the flashlight at the base of the tall pine tree and swung it back in Kelly’s direction.
The instant the beam of light caught her, Cole began pushing through the brush that separated them. She didn’t seem to have moved since he’d spotted her from above, fifteen minutes ago, and her absolute stillness set off a tremor in his hands. She looked limp. And lifeless.
When he reached her, he handed the flashlight to Mitch. “Hold this, okay?”
“Yeah.”
Mitch circled around behind her and dropped to one knee as Cole did the same on her other side. His colleague positioned the light on her upper body, giving Cole his first clear, close-up view at the woman he’d hoped was destined to play a major role in his life.
If he’d eaten any dinner, he’d have lost it.
She lay half on
her side, half on her stomach, her hair tangled around her head, ice pellets clinging to the russet strands. Her eyes were closed, and her death-like pallor emphasized the angry purple discoloration on her jaw and temple, as well as the long, bloody scratch that ran from her forehead to the bottom of her cheek.
“Check her respiration and pulse.”
At Mitch’s quiet comment, Cole leaned closer and put his unsteady fingers against her neck. Nothing. He probed harder.
Finally he felt a faint, irregular flutter against his fingertips. Thank you, God! “I’ve got a pulse.”
He checked her chest, watching for a rise and fall. Again, nothing. If there was movement, it was too small to see. He leaned down, putting his cheek beside her mouth and nose. He felt no breath, but a slight, pulsing warmth told him she was breathing. Barely.
“I’ve got respiration.”
“Okay. Let’s take a look farther down.” Mitch swung the light over the rest of her body. No skin was visible beneath her jeans and hiking boots, but a bulge around her right knee had tightened the jeans, and the leg had an odd twist.
“I see it.” Mitch spoke as Cole pointed out the injury. “But I’m more worried about stuff we can’t see. Fractured skull, punctured lungs, ruptured spleen, broken ribs.” He swung the light back to her face. “Hold on to this while I see what’s in Rick’s medical kit.”
Cole took the flashlight as Mitch opened the backpack, trying not to think of worst-case scenarios as he leaned down. “Kelly? Can you hear me?”
No response.
She’d been conscious fifteen minutes ago, though. That had to be a positive sign.
Didn’t it?
“Let’s put this over her.” Mitch handed him one end of a mylar blanket. “It will help preserve body heat and protect her from the wind.”
Cole took the blanket and stretched it over Kelly, gently tucking it under her. “How much do you know about first aid?”
“I learned some basic stuff in SEAL training for field emergencies, but not enough to help much in this situation. My recommendation is to keep her as quiet and warm as we can until the experts get here. They shouldn’t be that far behind us.” Mitch gestured to her torso. “Did you notice her jacket?”
Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) Page 30