If only I had longer legs, a longer stride.
One of Johnson’s hands caught hold. I felt a tremendous yank, but his cry of victory turned to a howl of frustration as the ridiculous bobble hat fell away behind me—along with what felt like an entire hank of hair.
I was off, dashing through snow sweeping flat across Route 267, pounding past The Olde Birchardville Store, and finding my stride as I hit the incline that led up, up, up.
Up Birchardville Hill.
Johnson blundered and snorted behind me, charging fast.
My boots scrabbled and my breath rasped. My panic gave way to a grim internal stillness.
Everything slowed.
Levi would be alive, probably, but not conscious. Not after a blow like that. Johnson had hit him hard.
He wouldn’t lie in the cemetery for long, though. Reed would not wait patiently in the church, letting the minutes tick by. He would trail us into the cemetery, find his uncle. With cell service available right there, he’d know whom to call. At the very least, he’d get Levi into the church before he froze to death.
I felt a deep, calming relief. Which helped.
I would need every ounce of calm I could muster.
Because I was on my own.
17
Anyone who thinks running uphill is tough should try running uphill during a snowstorm on unfamiliar terrain in the dark.
I don’t recommend it.
Unless, of course, a vengeful, psychopathic murderer is chasing you and this is your best chance to survive. Then, of course, running uphill might not be the worst idea you’ve ever had.
Lifting my arms to block my face from stray brambles, I plunged forward. As I burned through the initial waves of panic and adrenaline, I considered my options. What was my endgame? To outrun Johnson? To find a place to hide? To circle back into Birchardville and seek help from those supposed-non-elderly elders with guns?
For now, at least, I had to keep running, because facing Johnson wasn’t an option. So I ran, climbing steadily upward. Fortunately, the winds had dropped, and the snow blew only lightly. Was I still on the path that Reed and I had taken? Did I even care? What good would staying on a path do?
I crested a rise and realized I’d summited Birchardville Hill. Before me, open and bare, lay the clearing where the Roth brothers had slaughtered their father. Its edges lay in deep shadow.
Johnson lumbered behind me. Veering left, I ghosted into the tree line and hunched behind a tangle of deadfall.
A shadowy hump crested the ridgeline. Stumbling to a stop at the edge of the clearing, Johnson leaned forward and braced his hands against his knees. Curled inward like that, he became almost indistinguishable from the rocky undergrowth.
The wind dropped, and through the muffled stillness, his breath rasped as he regained his wind. “Morgan Scott!” he bellowed.
Although everything in me yearned to flee, one move would alert him of my presence. I closed my lips and stilled my breath.
Into that stillness, my phone pinged.
Against the odds, I’d stumbled into a pinpoint of cell service.
Ping, ping, ping, ping.
E-mails, texts, and alerts rolled in. I jammed my hand into my pocket, fingers seeking the volume controls.
I felt more than saw Johnson rise to full height, a blur in the dark as he barreled in my direction. I stood, grappling with my phone and momentarily panicking. I stumbled backward, heels catching in the uneven terrain.
In the split second that Johnson launched himself in my direction, my fingers activated my phone screen. The white glow caught a blur diving from the right.
A flash of fuzzy blond hair and a strip of red.
Reed.
18
Reed launched himself between us, hammering into Johnson’s middle and driving them both into the clearing.
I scrambled after them, only to reel backward as Reed barreled out of the snow, whirling me around and grasping my hand. “Run.”
He jerked me this way and that, seemingly operating by radar in the dark. He extended one arm in front of us to whack branches out of our way. The other hand gripped mine and drew me close until we were running in tandem.
“I—just—knocked the wind—out of him—he’s—not—out completely—” Reed broke off and skidded to a stop. He dropped my hand and reached upward, patting the trunk of a tree and stretching so high that his hoodie rode up. I yanked it down lest he freeze to death. He slapped my hands away and put his at my waist, hefting me with surprising strength for such a strippy-looking thing. “Up,” he hissed.
In the dark, I scrabbled against the trunk. My hands met the burn of ice-cold metal. Aluminum?
A tree stand?
I scrambled up the first few rungs before turning to extend a hand to Reed. But he wasn’t behind me. He’d dashed into the blackness beyond the tree and now looped back, stomping crazy circles around a nearby cluster of bushes. Then he leapt back to the base of the tree. Seemingly frustrated that I’d only made it halfway, he jumped up and jammed a shoulder under me, heaving.
At the top of the ladder, I found a partially-enclosed platform. This wasn’t so much a tree stand as it was a three-sided tree fort. Whether it had been used for hunting or playing, I had no way of knowing. Nor did I care particularly in that moment. Please, God, let there be cell service. Wedged in a corner, I pulled up my knees, unbuttoned my coat, and shimmied out of it. Only after I’d flung it over my head to block any light from escaping did I activate my phone and swipe my thumb across the lock screen. I nearly went blind. I silenced the ringer and dialed 9-1-1. Clutching the phone to my ear, I tuned out the wind and Reed’s panting breaths, listening for the tell-tale click that would indicate a connection.
Had I heard something? Oh, please let this call go through. I cupped my hand around my mouth, hissing into the phone. “This is Morgan Scott. I’m at the top of Birchardville Hill in a—I think it’s a tree house—hiding from—” I faltered over how to describe Johnson. Would they know who he was? Would they grasp the enormity of what was happening? “—hiding from Mitchell Charles David Johnson. He’s a murderer and escaped convict from Florida.” Surely that was enough to prompt a response. I waited. Nothing.
Had the call gone through?
Praying for God to overrule, I hung up. Not wanting to risk making more noise, I started typing a text to Officer Booth. Hit by a sudden brain wave, I turned it into a group message, adding Levi and Leah. But when I pressed send, my screen displayed the swirling-ring-of-doom. I could have cried. A text box popped up, asking if I wanted to send the texts when service became available. I tapped Yes and prayed for the best.
Shuddering, I pulled the coat from my head, jammed my arms through the sleeves, and hunkered down, waiting for my eyes to readjust to the dark. I stretched a hand toward Reed, and he met me halfway. We huddled together, holding hands, shivering.
The faintest whisper disturbed the stillness. Reed’s fingers tightened on mine.
My brain stopped attaching words to prayers. They morphed into a silent, steady, focused attention upward.
Between the branches rose a rhythmic, snapping crunch—that of boots breaking through a crust of ice to crush the dead brush beneath. Slowly, ever so quietly, I leaned sideways and peered downward.
Below, a form crept steadily in our direction, head lowered and searching.
As it passed beneath us, I willed it not to look up.
When it reached the end of the looping tracks Reed had created, the shape paused. Although I couldn't see clearly, I sensed a gaze peering through the night—seeking.
Johnson lifted his head and howled toward the sky. “You can run, you little—” Here he spat some choice words regarding my ancestry and intelligence. “You can run, but you’re not getting off this mountain!”
I fought a crazy urge to giggle. Only a Floridian would refer to Birchardville Hill as a mountain. Reed pressed against my side, bony shoulder digging into mine. He squeezed my hand in a pain
ful grip. I lowered my head against my knees and prayed.
At length, all was quiet.
Wordlessly, Reed released my fingers. He humped to his knees and scooted an awkward circle. To my alarm, he stepped back and began to descend the ladder.
I gripped that stupid red hoodie with as much strength as my frozen fingers could muster. “What are you doing?”
“I'm just going outside,” he whispered, his voice lilting with a small laugh, “and may be some time.”
Something stuck in my throat. Tears filled my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them fall. They’d freeze against my face and kill me. How like this foolish child to choose this moment to quote a doomed Polar Explorer. I’m just going outside and may be some time. The final words of Lawrence Oates, who had calmly walked into a storm, sacrificing himself for his comrades.
A wasted sacrifice, as it turned out. They’d all died anyway.
But there was no way I was letting this kid sacrifice himself for me.
Reed wasn’t Lawrence Oates, and I wasn’t Robert Falcon Scott. Neither one of us would die on this mountain. Not tonight. I gritted my teeth and tightened my grip on his hoodie. “Listen, you little twerp—”
Reed leaned in close, close enough that I could see his eyes spark. “Good. Stay mad. It’ll keep you warm.”
I tried to tug him back up. “Reed…wait.”
He tilted his forehead against mine. The tips of his hair whipped the sides of my face. “Johnson’s gone over the ridgeline. He might circle back, but for now the coast is clear. I'm going to get help.” He scooted backward.
“Are you kidding me?”
He shushed me and backed down another rung. His hoodie slipped from my frozen fingers.
“I know a spot near the clearing with cell service,” he hissed as he backed down the ladder. “I’ll call 911.”
I dropped to my stomach and reached down, hoping to catch him. But he was too quick. He made the final drop and dashed off, his fuzzy head receding into darkness.
I scrabbled back into the corner and drew my knees to my chest. I sincerely doubted Johnson would think to look in tree forts. Even if he did, it seemed unlikely he would stumble across this one. I wouldn't have known it was here without Reed.
That idiot child.
If we made it off this mountain, I would kill him myself.
19
Time passed slowly, though I had no way to gauge it. I was too cold for the coat-over-the-head business again, and checking my phone without it was out of the question.
The wind rose and dropped. Clouds scudded across the sky, revealing glimpses of the stars, high and bright and cold. Snow blew into my collar, melting against my skin and running down my neck. I curled my hands into fists and stuffed them in my pockets, leaving my arms extended awkwardly.
I heard a whisper at the base of my tree. Instinctively, I hunkered lower, not even daring to look.
But it didn’t matter.
Quietly—oh, so quietly—someone worked up the ladder.
Maybe it was Reed, back from his trek to cell service.
Maybe not.
Inwardly panicking, I cast about for something to use as a weapon.
Nothing.
I leaned back and braced myself, preparing to double-barrel kick anyone who wasn't Reed.
When Levi’s head popped into view, I almost kicked him in the face. Which would have been catastrophic, considering the damage that had already been done. As it was, my near-kick hardly fazed him. He dodged nimbly and snaked a hand to grasp me by the ankle, tugging me toward the ladder.
“Morgan,” he hissed, “We have to go.” He braced a large hand against my hip as I descended. When I dropped to the snow, he leaned in close, whispering directly into my ear. “Be very quiet.”
No kidding. I turned my head to whisper back, my cold cheek pressed against his. “Where’s Reed?”
“I don't know.” He lifted a hand to cover the other side of my face. His hand was cold, but at least it blocked the wind. “He said he was going to lead Johnson toward the quarry. Booth’s out tracking them.”
The cheek pressed against mine felt desperately chilled. How long had Levi lain in the snow before he'd come to his senses? Or had someone found him? Had Booth called backup? What about—but he was whispering again.
“I left my truck in the clearing. It barely made it up Blackberry Ridge—the snow really came down.”
“What about Reed?”
He growled, his frustration palpable. “Booth’s after him. I'm supposed to get you off the Hill.” He took my hand and tugged me forward.
He ate up the distance with long-legged strides, half-dragging me as I stumbled along behind. We could have been heading any direction on the compass as far as I could tell, but with unerring instinct, Levi drew us back to the clearing.
He paused at the tree line.
He’d left the truck running in the center. Its high beams illuminated a whirl of flurries dancing on the wind.
His hand tensed on mine. I squeezed back, prepared to make a run for it.
But on a quick intake of breath, Levi jerked back, drawing us more deeply into shadow.
Stepping into the light and crossing directly in front of the truck was Mitchell Charles David Johnson.
Before I could decide which way to run, Levi dropped my hand.
He charged.
20
Levi hit Johnson with the hardest, fastest flying tackle I'd ever seen. The force of the blow tumbled them both twice over, their motions slow and blocky in the drifting snow. Levi came out on top.
Rearing up, he brought his big fist down against the side of Johnson’s head, each connection a hard thwack. “Where’s Reed?” Thwack. “Where’s Booth?” Thwack.
Johnson laughed, his mouth squelching, dark and wet. With a crazed howl, he bucked his hips, launched himself upward, and rammed his square forehead into Levi’s. “I killed them.”
Levi groaned. His eyes rolled back, and he slid sideways.
I ran forward, the scene tilting crazily.
Johnson popped to his feet, drew back a leg, and hurled a kick toward Levi’s head.
I threw myself the last few steps, intent on latching myself to that leg. Fortunately, I caught it before it gained much momentum; but the force still drove me backward. I lost my grip and landed directly on Levi, who—worryingly—didn’t make a sound. His body flopped as I rammed into him, head lolling in the snow, leaving a dark smear.
Johnson drew back his leg again, and I curled around Levi, braced for impact.
A voice cut through the clearing. “Johnson!”
Officer Booth—thank God.
But where was Reed?
Johnson pivoted and sprinted for the truck. He reached the cab in three running steps and dove in, slamming the driver’s door. The engine roared as he careened crazily out of the clearing, wheels spinning in the snow. The truck’s bumper caught the open gate on his way out, leaving it teetering at an angle.
Booth dropped to a knee and shot at the tires as the truck barreled away. The tail lights disappeared around the curve of Blackberry Ridge.
He missed.
Johnson escaped into the night.
21
Halfway down Birchardville Hill Road, Levi woke up. With a snort and a flail, he fought his way to consciousness. He’d been slumped against me in the front cab of the EMT’s pickup, and it took both me and the EMT to brace him as he stumbled up his own back steps to collapse in a hardback kitchen chair.
He looked terrible.
His bright hair humped on one side, sticky with half-frozen blood. A potato-shaped lump stood out from his temple, and his right eye had swollen and started to purple. His left eye—the brighter one—looked away from the EMT. When it landed on me, it narrowed.
“Reed?” He asked, his tone sharp.
I shook my head.
The EMT laid a hand on his shoulder and pressed him down into the polished wooden chair. “Booth’s orders.”
&nbs
p; Levi’s good eye sparked. “Booth’s alive?”
“Yes,” I reached out and squeezed his forearm. “Of course Booth’s alive. And Reed is, too. Johnson was just saying that stuff to get to you.”
Levi tipped his head back and released a long breath. “Booth’s alive.”
“Yeah.” The EMT said, parting Levi’s hair with gloved fingers and probing for the source of blood. “And he’s on it. He’s after Johnson, and he has Sheila organizing a search party for Reed. He also says you don't go back on the Hill until you’re patched up, so sit down.”
Levi groaned, closing his eyes.
My hands jittered at my sides. I had to do something. Spotting a coffee maker on the counter, I set about making a pot. It wasn't much, but it was something to do.
What I really wanted to do was cry. Levi had been smashed in the head with a rock and head-butted by a murderer, and it was my fault. Reed was missing during a blizzard, and it was my fault. Birchardville was in an uproar on Christmas Eve, and it was my fault.
All because I'd wanted a distraction from spending the holidays alone.
Well, I'd found a distraction.
Or it had found me.
I rifled through the cabinets for mugs. When the coffee was ready, I poured a cup and set it in front of Levi.
He ignored it. “There are flashlights in the hall closet.”
I searched until I found them. Then I returned and plunked them down next to the cooling coffee.
Levi was on his feet, stuffing his hands into gloves and wincing as he worked a sock hat down over his damaged head, trying not to disturb the bandages.
“I don’t care what Booth said. He’s not a medical professional,” the EMT argued. “I strongly advise against this. Levi, listen. You need to lie down—”
“I’ll go with him.” I stepped up next to Levi.
Levi glanced down at me, the look in his good eye hard to read.
The EMT sighed. “I advise against that, too.”
“Noted.”
Levi held out his hand, palm up. The EMT sighed deeply, fished out his keys, and set them on the table. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to hand them over directly.
Murder on Birchardville Hill Page 7