by Diane Capri
“If we need to.” Flint polished off the omelet and lifted a piece of toast with his fingers. “We have DNA. From both parents and from the girl. But there’s no question of her status.”
“Does Crane know about this?” Shaw continued to look at the photo as if he were mesmerized by something.
“Possibly.” Flint wiped the toast crumbs off his mouth with his finger and poured more coffee. “Crane’s been spying on Scarlett and me. You, too, probably. We’ve taken precautions. Eliminated the two land men we knew about. But I didn’t know these two were right behind me when I found Oakwood at the Saint Leo house. So we’re not sure how much Crane knows or how he’s getting his information.”
Shaw looked up from the photo. “The Saint Leo house?”
“Long story. And not important right now. I’ll deal with Crane.” Flint finished chewing the toast. He swallowed it with more coffee. “What I propose is that you accept the daughter’s signature on the consent form instead of Laura Oakwood’s. We altered the form to show the daughter as the real heir to Garcia Field’s mineral rights. She’s executed it well within your deadline. And I have the video of her signing the consent. You’ve got DNA to prove she’s Oakwood’s kid. You should be good to go.”
“Crane won’t accept that,” Shaw said, shaking his head. “He’ll insist the daughter’s consent is not sufficient.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.” Flint shrugged. “Either way, give her the money and let her move on. Then you two can fight it out.”
Shaw frowned. “The legal war will go on forever.”
“Highly likely. Like I said, I’ll deal with Crane. Our facts are solid and he’s the one responsible for killing Laura Oakwood. You’d have her signature on that consent if he’d left her alive. The courts won’t let him profit from her murder.” Which could all be true. Or not. The final outcome should be in Shaw’s favor, even if it took a couple of decades to get there.
Flint lowered his voice and Shaw leaned in to hear. “This girl lost her mother because of you and Crane. Her father was already dead. Consider it a test of character. That amount of money means nothing to you, but it would help her more than you can imagine. Do the right thing here, Shaw.”
At last, Shaw began to eat his breakfast, still looking at Sally Oakwood’s eighteenth-birthday photo. “Let me run it past my lawyers. I’ll let you know.”
“And pay Scarlett now. She’s worked this thing hard for you. She deserves her fee.” Flint collected his camera and pushed away from the table.
He thought for a moment about what he’d do next. Ginger deserved his attention. And the French woman had been more than patient about her painting.
He had one more thing to take care of first. “Where is Crane?”
Shaw looked up briefly before returning to his meal, shoveling it in like a man fueling a coal furnace. “Guys are meeting downstairs in about ten minutes for the annual jackalope hunt.”
“Jackalopes?” Flint’s eyebrows arched. “Aren’t mythical vicious horned rabbits a Wyoming thing?”
“You’ve got a snow bike, right?” Shaw pushed his chair back and tossed his napkin on the table. He took a last swig of coffee and grinned. “Join us. You’ll see how real men hunt jackalopes. Those suckers can weigh up to a hundred and fifty pounds.”
Flint frowned but not because of the jackalope crap, which was nothing more than an excuse for a bunch of jackasses to race around in the snow on their big toys making fools of themselves.
The waiter came over with a silver pocket flask and handed it to Shaw. “Bring one for my friend here. Whiskey is the perfect jackalope bait, Flint. Just open the cap and swig and they’ll come running at you. Then you shoot them.”
Oh, brother. What Flint preferred was to face Crane privately back in Houston, with law enforcement standing by in the next room. But he might have a better chance of cornering Crane here.
He waited for the waiter to bring the pocket flask. He slipped it into one of the zippered pockets on his neon-green snowmobile suit. He collected his helmet and followed Shaw to the hunt.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The group of men who’d been having breakfast in the Elkhorn Cafe were now milling around the snow machines parked outside. Snowmobile suits only came in so many color combinations, which meant several of the suits were duplicates. With their full-face helmets on, the individual members of the group were unidentifiable.
The security staff mingled among the members. Elliott noticed him and nodded in Flint’s direction.
Shaw slapped him on the back. “My machine is over here. You can follow me out if you want.” He pointed to a gleaming black monster with red-and-yellow accent paint. Shaw’s suit and helmet had been designed to match. The getup reminded Flint of the coral snake Scarlett had executed so long ago.
Flint squinted into the full sunlight. “What’s the point of this? It’s a snow cross? A race? What?”
“I told you. It’s a jackalope hunt. We’ll be running together until we get to the clearing around the bend over there on the west side of the ski lifts.” He pointed and Flint followed his gaze.
“After that, we’ll break up into small groups. It’s better not to ride alone through the backcountry. Too many hazards. You need someone to call in your body, right?” He slapped Flint on the back again and guffawed.
Shaw was cheerful in victory. Flint wondered how Crane would deal with defeat.
Shaw said, “We’re free to hunt for the jackalopes wherever we think they might be. They’re vicious creatures. If you see one, shoot it. No questions asked. And we meet up right here after two hours and count our kills for the trophies.”
Flint was about to beg off and head back to the Fairview Estate when he saw Felix Crane standing in a group of three at the opposite end of the line of parked snow machines.
One of the men with him was younger and taller. Maybe another member of the security staff or a guide. The third man was the same vintage as Crane and Shaw, so probably another jackalope hunter.
The younger man moved on to the next pair of hunters and kept moving down the line, passing along to the next. He looked to be checking off names. After he finished with each pair, they donned their helmets and mounted the machines to head out.
Flint saw a few of the shiny pocket flasks glinting in the sunlight as the riders started the morning with swigs of whiskey.
“I see Crane over there.” He kneaded the back of his neck with his hand.
“Watch yourself.” Shaw laid a restraining hand on Flint’s shoulder. “Crane’s a street fighter. Mean as a black bear. If you corner him, he’ll come out swinging.”
“Good to know.” Flint nodded but kept his gaze on Crane. He’d be easy to lose amid the crowd once they were on the hunt.
Shaw moved toward his own machine, speaking to his friends and slapping backs and waiting to talk to the guide before he mounted and started his engine.
Flint had taken a few steps in Crane’s direction when the riders behind him began revving up their engines.
From the other end of the line, Crane turned toward The Lodge. He saw Flint. His steely gaze met Flint’s and held. Neither man smiled. Neither looked away.
Flint threaded his way through the throng toward Crane’s position.
When Flint was a dozen machines away, Crane patted his snowmobile suit as if to reassure himself that he’d packed correctly. He slipped into his royal-blue helmet before he turned away and settled himself on his snowmobile. He started the engine.
If Flint kept walking, he wouldn’t reach Crane before he took off. Crane would leave him standing in the cold, empty air. He turned instead and hustled back through the crowd.
Flint slipped on his face mask and sunglasses, settled his neon-green helmet, and strapped it on. He jumped onto his snow bike. The younger guy who had been talking to each of the riders never made it all the way back to Flint before he throttled up and moved out. With some maneuvering, he managed to pull into the shifting lineup
six or eight machines behind Crane.
Flint followed the machines in front of him as the orderly pack thundered across the open area to the west, inching closer to Crane’s machine whenever he had a chance.
Crane’s snowmobile was a bigger, faster, heavier machine than Flint’s snow bike. Once they left the groomed ski slope area, Crane revved his engine and broke out of the pack, gaining ground faster than Flint could cover.
He looked back to be sure Flint was following. Crane opened the throttle and lurched ahead again.
Flint saw the clearing where the riders planned to gather before the start of the hunt. Four or five snow bikes and snowmobiles were already there. Flint slowed as he approached the meeting spot.
Crane blew right past the clearing and raced ahead. He ran full out along a flat valley between two soaring mountains, which was probably a shallow riverbed in summertime. Now the water was frozen and several feet of snow covered the path. It looked like a pristine white ribbon flowing between the peaks.
Crane kept going. The gap between Crane and the others widened. What the hell was he doing?
Twenty-eight machines had begun this trip back at The Lodge. The drivers were competitors in business and in the hunt. Crane’s behavior seemed to spur them to recklessness.
Two machines peeled off and headed up the right slope. Two machines peeled off to the left and headed up the slope on the other side of the valley. Two more throttled up and closed the gap behind Flint.
As the late starters at the end of the line came around the bend and saw the clearing empty of machines, they peeled off in all directions, racing to catch the early riders who jumped the start.
Whatever the prizes were for winning this crazy jackalope hunt, they were desirable enough to launch a dangerous race to the finish.
Crane stayed in the lead. He’d been the first to break away from the pack and he held the pole position. Flint leaned in to reduce wind resistance as much as possible and followed, both hands on the handlebars, weaving through the hazards.
At the beginning, when all the machines had been traveling together, their roaring engines had surrounded the pack like a prison of vibrating cacophony. The only engine Flint felt now was his own smaller one. His snow bike weighed probably three hundred pounds. But it was puny in comparison to Crane’s, which was at least twice as heavy and three times as powerful.
Flint’s snow bike was nimble, agile. He could run through terrain too rough for the bigger snowmobiles, closing the distance to Crane and leaving the others behind.
But travel speeds were uneven. Flint burst through the powder, throwing snow wash on either side of his bike like giant white waves. The engine bogged and lurched repeatedly. His forearms and biceps were already feeling the fatigue and his sore shoulder was complaining.
Crane’s snowmobile reached a long, flat stretch. He opened the throttle again and vaulted ahead.
Flint followed behind him, moving faster and faster, deeper into the bitterly cold, majestic backcountry.
Flint looked down at the GPS on his customized instrument panel. He’d lost the starting point beacon. He quickly took stock of his surroundings.
He’d been traveling due west along the winding riverbed. The Peak was behind him somewhere. East.
But how far? He hadn’t checked the starting odometer.
He didn’t have a satellite phone or radio with him to call for help if he needed it.
It was cold as hell out here.
Continuing to chase Crane might be an error in judgment.
He slowed his snow bike to a crawl.
He didn’t have to keep going. He could find Crane again. He could find anybody.
At first, Crane kept going full throttle into the wind. But Flint expected him to circle back, and after a few minutes, he did.
Crane pulled his huge snowmobile within twenty feet of Flint’s snow bike and shut off the engine. Flint shut his down, too. Crane removed his helmet. Flint did the same.
The first sensation he noticed was the bitter cold wind against the slivers of skin exposed by his face mask and goggles.
The second thing he noticed was the quiet. Without the revving engines, the sun-drenched, snow-covered world was like a vibrantly beautiful silent film.
He heard no running water, of course. Everything was frozen solid. No birdcalls or human noises of any kind reached his ears at first.
The two men were totally alone.
“Can’t keep up, Flint? Is that the problem?” Crane wore a face mask and sunglasses, too. Only his voice identified him in that suit. “Trying to join in with the big boys and falling short? How many jackalopes have you bagged today?”
“None yet,” Flint answered, keeping his gaze steady. “But the day is young.”
Crane’s face mask revealed only his mouth and nose. Every remaining inch of him was covered by gear. He threw his leg over the snowmobile and walked a couple of feet and glanced up at the sky. “Where is the Oakwood consent form?”
“You know I don’t have it.”
Crane smiled. “You know what time it is?”
Flint glanced down at the custom instrument panel on the snow bike: 12:45, mountain time. Quarter to two in the afternoon in Houston.
“You’re done, Flint. You’re out of time. You’ve failed.” Crane pulled off his heavy mittens, revealing two gloved hands. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a lighter and a cigar he’d been puffing on earlier in the day. After a couple of puffs, he had the cigar going well enough. “I knew you couldn’t do it.”
“You weren’t that confident.” Flint heard the roaring engines of snow machines on the slopes above and to his right. The noise assuaged his concerns about being lost. He could follow the noise and find the others if he couldn’t find his way out. “If you had been, you wouldn’t have sent those guys to kill Laura Oakwood.”
“Every good businessman carries insurance.” Crane grinned and lifted his shoulders in what might have been a shrug if he weren’t so heavily weighted down by the suit.
“You know I can’t let that go, Crane.” Flint had moved his Glock into the small storage compartment of the snow bike. He could reach it easily enough. The extreme cold shouldn’t impact its stopping power as long as he kept it dry. “The FBI is on the way to pick you up when we get back to The Lodge. You’re the one who’s out of time.”
“What exactly do you think you can do? You’ve got no proof. Nor will you ever have.” Crane’s tone was dismissive. Gone was the friendly fellow who offered to pay Flint to stand down and let him run out Shaw’s time clock on the Juan Garcia Field. “I was right here yesterday when Oakwood was killed. I’ve got dozens of witnesses. Case closed.”
“You should have thought of that before you answered that burner phone last night,” Flint said, even though Crane might be right. He’d recognized Crane’s voice when he called the number on the burner phones last night. But he couldn’t testify without explaining where he got the phone and how that third guy ended up dead. The FBI would need solid evidence tying Crane to the killers, and Flint didn’t have it. Not yet.
Crane’s eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses. If he was bothered about the burner phone, he didn’t show it. “I’m leaving the country for a while. Now that Garcia Field is mine, I’ve no need to stay here. My helicopter is picking me up at the flat spot around that next bend.” Crane pointed the stogie farther west on the riverbed trail. “I won’t be going back to The Peak today. If you keep following me, you’ll run out of gas in that little tank and you’ll freeze to death out here. Turn back now while you still can.”
The snowmobiles running higher up the left slope were louder now. Maybe a dozen or more seemed to be running in circles or something. Flint heard rhythmic gunshots, like target practice.
Had they found the jackalopes? And what the hell were jackalopes, anyway?
“Don’t worry, Flint.” Crane pulled an H&K pistol from one of his pockets and shot twice into the air. Two quick shots sounde
d from above on the right, followed by two quick shots from the left slopes. The jackalope hunters were responding to each other. “Gunshots don’t really start avalanches except in the movies. They’re good for fixing our locations, though.”
“Laura Oakwood and Leo Prieto had a daughter, Crane. She’s her mother’s sole heir. Whatever rights Laura had to Juan Garcia Field now rest with the girl.”
He showed no surprise about the daughter. “Doesn’t matter. It’s over. The field is mine.”
“That will be for a court to decide. Maybe it’ll get worked out sometime before the next oil boom. If you’re lucky.”
Crane walked back to his snowmobile and lifted his helmet. He looked directly into Flint’s eyes. “Back off, Flint. This is the last time I’ll give you a pass.”
Flint moved to open the storage box. He saw his Glock resting there, but he couldn’t pick it up wearing the heavy mittens and Crane could easily shoot him before he pulled the mittens off.
The unmistakable sound of helicopter blades filled the valley. A Sikorsky, probably. Arriving from the south. Headed toward Crane’s pickup area.
“Why didn’t you kill me already? You’ve had several chances.” Flint had been curious about this from the beginning. From the very first day, when Paxton and Trevor didn’t simply shoot him and get him out of the way when they had every chance to do so. “Why not do things the easy way, Crane? Why put us through all of this?”
Crane took a few more puffs on the cigar until glowing red embers traveled up the brown tobacco. Then he spiked the cigar aside, hot embers down. It melted the fluffy white powder and slid about two inches deep before it stopped, a turd in the snow. “I didn’t kill you because I knew your mother.”
Flint frowned, confused. He heard more snow machines running in the background. Above, below, and behind. “What does Bette Maxwell have to do with this?”
Crane shook his head as if Flint’s ignorance were beyond his ken. “Your real mother.”