“Start climbing down to that rock ledge,” she whispered quickly. “I’m trying to find some sneakers for you.” Angie always took workout gear when she traveled. She had running shoes in her bag. “Go on. I’ll find you. Start moving.”
The woman did not want to leave.
“Go!” she hissed. Voices in the trees above grew louder. More flashlight beams bounced through the mist and tree trunks. There were several coming. Armed hunters. Tracking them like wounded prey.
Annelise began to inch down on her butt toward the rock ledge. Angie found the shoes and a pair of gloves. A granola bar. She stuffed the bar and gloves into her pocket where she’d put Holgersen’s gun. The only other weapon she had was her knife in the back pocket of her jeans. She reached into the car and retrieved her Garmin and checked that she had her phone. No bars. Still no reception. Voices came closer. Angie froze as she heard a dog yelp. Then the sound of a bear bell.
Shit. They were tracking with a hound? She thought of the whistle the other day when arrows had been fired into the moss grove. Tucker? Budge was with them? Or another dog? She hurried after Annelise, heart thudding against her rib cage.
“Hey, here,” she whispered as she reached Annelise. “Put on these gloves and shoes.” While Annelise fought her shakes to get the gear on, Angie watched the trees above, listening. She heard the dog yip again, and a yell of encouragement came from one of the men.
Angie shot a glance to her left, then her right. It was all sheer embankment down to the water. They’d never be able to move fast enough along this terrain in either direction, and going back up the bank was out of the question. Plus, the men hunting them had a dog. If the animal was trained to track and got onto their scent, which could be picked up from the Crosstrek—and Annelise sure smelled strong—they stood not a snowball’s chance in hell of outrunning their pursuers.
She looked down at the swirling green water and the bank on the opposite side. Could they do it? If they tried to swim at a diagonal across the current, they might be able to reach the opposite shore and get to help. But the waters of the Nahamish flowed out from glacier-fed Carmanagh Lake. The river was the temperature of barely melted ice. They probably would not reach the other side before hypothermia set in and shut down their ability to even pull against the water. Annelise was probably hypothermic already. Not an ounce of fat protected her body.
The dog suddenly started baying like a bloodhound. The men started yelling. Flashlight beams bounced crazily through the mist. The dog was onto their scent. They were coming. Fast.
Angie took Annelise’s hand, edging them toward the end of the ledge that hung out over the river.
“Where . . . are we going? What are you doing?” The young woman pulled back, teeth chattering. Angie’s heart crunched. The thought of this poor woman being abducted, imprisoned. Assaulted . . . she couldn’t dwell on it right now. Now was triage time. Survival. Pure and simple. If Angie could do anything for Holgersen right now, it would be to save this young woman. This woman her old partner had been searching to find. But Angie would bet Holgersen had never expected to find her alive. She had to see this through now, in his memory. She could not let his death be for naught. She had to keep this survivor surviving. She had to bring Annelise home.
She touched the side of Annelise’s dirt-stained cheek. “Look into my eyes, Annelise. Listen to me. I’m taking you back to your family. I’m going to do my best. And I want you to know something—your father, your mother, they never gave up. They never stopped looking. They’re waiting for you to come home. Got that? And you’re going to do it. My colleague, Kjel Holgersen, he came up here in part to find you,” she said, twisting the truth a little, to bolster both herself and Annelise. To give reason, meaning, to Holgersen’s death. “He was hunting down the man who did this. He was going to bring you home. We’re going to make that happen. For him. For you. For your family.” She would do this. She would do this or die trying. For Holgersen. Emotion surged into Angie’s eyes. She sucked in a breath.
Do it. The river is the only chance we have at survival.
She heard the dog baying, coming closer. The drop was about twenty feet to the river. Rock and obstacles downstream. Dense mist shrouding the opposite bank.
Our only chance.
A shot rang out behind them. Angie’s heart kicked.
“We jump. Okay? Ready?”
Annelise looked down at the water. Silent. Wide-eyed. Beyond crying now. Angie recognized the blankness of shock.
“Listen to me. We have to jump. It’s our only hope.”
Annelise pulled back, shaking her head.
Angie grasped her wrist firmly, pulling her close. “We will die if we don’t. Got it? I’ll hold on to you tightly.”
“I . . . I can’t swim.”
Fuckfuckfuck. “It’s okay. It’s fine—” Another gunshot thwocked into a tree, exploding bark right next to them. A man yelled as he spotted Angie and Annelise below.
“They’re down there! We got ’em!”
Angie leaped, yanking Annelise with her. She heard Annelise scream as they dropped like rocks through the air.
CHAPTER 46
The impact as they hit the water stopped Angie’s heart. They plunged beneath the surface, cold crushing through her body, exploding pain through her skull, her sinuses, like the worst brain freeze she’d ever experienced. The coppery taste of blood from her nose filled the back of her throat.
As they sank down, down, down into the frigid depths of the Nahamish River, white bubbles poured up from Angie’s nose and mouth, and her red hair streamed around her face. She clutched tightly on to Annelise, who appeared as a waving black shape in Holgersen’s voluminous coat. Otherwise, everything underneath was watery green.
As they continued to sink down to the bottom, Angie saw in her mind’s eye Axel’s open eyes, the two arrows sticking out of his chest. She saw Holgersen’s body lying motionless under the cold November sky, the arrow with yellow-and-white fletching piercing clean through his pale, sinewy neck. The snow falling upon his face. She saw Maddocks’s smile. She saw Ginny’s expression at the sight of the wedding gown. She saw her mother’s fingers gently touching the photo of Angie in the dress. She felt her dad’s arms tightly around her, and she heard the words of the hymn.
Ave Maria
Vergin del ciel
Sovrana di grazie e madre pia . . .
Angie mentally shook herself. She would not die. She could not. She was going to save this woman for Holgersen. She was going to take Annelise home. She was going to marry Maddocks. She would have that wedding . . . Angie fought to hold on to Annelise as the young woman suddenly began to writhe wildly in search of air, to escape the grip of the current that now swept them fast downstream in the direction of the falls.
Hold on hold on hold on to her . . .
Angie repeated the mantra over and over in her head as her lungs began to burst. Her boots hit the rocky bottom. She pushed off from the river bed, kicking madly and using her free arm in an effort to struggle up to the surface while still maintaining her grasp on Annelise’s thin wrist.
The current tossed and churned and hurtled them downriver faster than they were getting any closer to the surface. Angie’s lungs burned in pain. Her vision blurred. She reached the surface, and her head popped out. She gasped wildly for air, working her legs like an eggbeater as she yanked Annelise to the surface.
The young woman’s head emerged, hair plastering her face as she gasped and choked. The trees on the other side of the bank raced past as they were carried swiftly toward the falls.
Debris swirled about their faces. Water churned white. Annelise was thrashing desperately, slapping at the water, slipping from Angie’s grasp. The river was shockingly cold. Angie couldn’t feel her limbs.
They smashed into a rock, glanced off, sweeping sideways into a churning gulley of water. Angie’s shoulder bashed into another rock, and she hit her head hard. Feeling dazed, she struggled to pull herself back in
to focus, kicking wildly to stay afloat, to try to steer their drift. They suddenly hit a calm but fast-flowing spot. She took a moment to catch her breath, trying to keep her head above the surface while at the same time pulling Annelise closer. But her limbs wouldn’t work. Her fingers could no longer grip things. She had no control. Her mind was going fuzzy. Thinking was hard. She felt herself getting hot, hotter. Angie knew on some level what was happening. Hypothermia.
All her blood was rushing to her core to protect vital organs as other things shut down. In instances like this a person lost in snow in below-freezing temperatures would start stripping off clothes. And when rescuers found the victim, he or she would bizarrely present half-naked.
She could no longer think clearly. No logic. She felt tired, incredibly sleepy. Annelise had gone limp—she looked unconscious now, hair and coat floating out about her on the water. Angie felt the woman slip out of her grasp. She saw her drifting away in the current. Angie tried to raise her hand, to swim. She tried to kick her legs. But the river took her into cold arms, embraced her, and drew her gently down.
“Angie! Angie!”
She felt herself being ripped out of the depths. Back up to the surface. Something strong was dragging her free from the death grip of the current and the icy claws of the river. A hand on her arm? More hands? Rope around her chest? Being tugged. She cracked up onto the surface, tried to gulp air but swallowed water. She retched. Another hand. Pulling her up higher. Something hard against her body. She was being hauled over it. Boat. Gunwale. She sucked in air, coughed, threw up foam, bile. Water ran over her eyes. Hair plastered her cheeks. She tried to open her eyes, looked up, saw a face. White face. A face framed by black hair. Green eyes, huge eyes, looked down at her. Pale-green eyes full with worry. Green like the Nahamish River in sunlight, green like spring leaves in sunshine.
“Angie! Can you hear me? Angie?”
Claire? It was Claire. Orange life vest under her face. Her black hair was wet, and water streamed over her creamy complexion. Behind her was another shape in black, also with an orange vest over top. Angie realized she was in one of the lodge jet boats, lying on the bottom. Claire must have gone into the water after her, affixed her to a line. Pulled her in. She heard the roar of the engine, felt the boat rise out of the water. Movement.
Annelise?
“Where . . . Where is . . . A—” She gagged and turned her head sideways. She threw up spittle and water and foam. Claire was wrapping her in a survival blanket.
“We got her, Angie. We got the other woman. What is her name? Who is she?”
“Is she . . . is she . . . okay? Is . . .” Her voice died in her throat, her mind fading again.
Angie heard a man yelling something over the roar of the engine. She blinked, trying to pull into focus the man behind Claire. The man steering the boat.
His features took shape.
A chill shot down her spine.
Jacobi.
The jet boat was racing to shore. On the bank, in front of an army of trees that marched with tips pointing like spears into the cloud, stood another man in black. A rifle in his hands.
“Cl . . . Claire?” she tried to whisper, desperate, her chest filling with fear, her voice fading on her lips in spite of her best efforts. “Where . . . where is your . . . father?”
“Shh,” she said. “Don’t talk. We’ll sort you out. Take it easy.”
Jacobi’s eyes watched her from above. Like the black gleaming eyes of an eagle up high, circling . . . circling . . . watching, waiting for when best to strike its prey . . . when best to dig in talons and rip the ghost fish from the river. Angie’s mind dulled as she stared up into Jacobi’s beady eyes, and her world went black.
CHAPTER 47
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 27
Angie came around slowly. Groggy, with no sense of where she was or of the past or present, she battled to open her eyes and turn her head. A square of gray light exploded against her retinas. She scrunched her eyes shut against the brightness and lay very still, listening, trying to figure out where she was.
There was a smell. She recognized it . . . hospital. Her eyes flared open. Her heart raced. But light sliced pain into the back of her skull like a knife. She shut them again, breathing hard. A hand covered hers. Large. Warm. So warm and strong and familiar. Her breathing eased.
Slowly, she eked her eyes open. She looked up into a face. Blurry. Again, she had to shut her eyes to block light.
“Easy,” a male voice said. “Take it easy.”
Yes. Easy. His voice . . . so deep and comforting and easy to listen to. He’s here. He’s here, and I’m alive. I think . . .
Past and present and fantasy and reality stirred together in her brain. A memory surfaced out of the soup of images. The first time she’d laid eyes on Sergeant James Maddocks. She’d been sitting at the bar at the Foxy, hunting for a hot and anonymous lay, desperate to blow off steam and numb her emotions.
The instant he walked into the bar, she knew he was the one. He sifted through the gyrating crowd—it parted for him like the Red Sea to Moses beneath the sparking disco ball. He moved with a command presence . . . scanning the patrons as if searching for someone. He stood a head taller than the crowd, his shoulders broader than average. Light danced off his hair, which was ruffled and the dark blue-black of a raven’s feathers. His skin was pale. His eyes . . . she couldn’t see the color, but they were wide set under dense brows. Strong features, ones that hovered between handsome and interesting. There was an otherworldly air about him, a vaguely worn yet incredibly alert look.
He turned, caught her eye . . .
Slowly, very slowly, mouth dry, she tried again to open her eyes, to resurface from her dream—or was it a memory?
“Maddocks . . . is that you?” she whispered.
“Shh.” He brushed his hand against her cheek. Emotion washed through her chest. “Take it slow, Ange. Take it easy.” His other hand was fingering her solitaire ring, moving it around and around her ring finger like a worry stone. His dark-blue eyes glittered with moisture. It made his lashes look dense and long. So handsome, she thought. He’s so beautiful. Inside and out. This person she’d come to love with all her heart, the one person who meant the utmost in the world to her. He was here. At her side. But he looked pale. Worn. Tired.
“Am I—”
“You’re fine, Ange. You’re going to be fine. You had us all worried there for a while. Your father was here earlier, but he went back to the motel—he’s on his way over again. You’ve been in and out of consciousness since they brought you in. But they got you warmed up. They say you’ll be back to normal in no time.” He smiled. “You had bad hypothermia, but you’ve still got all your fingers and toes and limbs. Just a few bumps and cuts and scrapes. You’ll be sore for a while.”
A chill slid through her as another image surfaced.
Holgersen.
His body. Dead still. The arrow clean through his pale neck. Bile surged up the back of her throat. Emotion flooded into her eyes.
“I—I lost him, Maddocks. I . . . Holgersen. He . . . the arrow, the fire . . .” She couldn’t speak. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes into her pillow, an overwhelming wave of heavy grief swamping her.
“Angie, listen to me.”
She shook her head from side to side, moaning as the memory of Holgersen lying in the snow swam into vivid reality in front of her eyes.
“Angie. Focus. Listen.” He cupped the side of her face, stilling her head. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes slowly and looked up into his.
“He’s going to live. That bastard Kjel is bloody going to live. I swear he’s got nine lives, and he’s just getting started.”
She stared, confusion churning through her brain. “The arrow—it . . . his neck. He wasn’t breathing. He—”
“He was breathing. If that arrow had hit him just a few millimeters farther left or to the right or gone in slightly higher or lower, or if the archer had used
a more lethal arrowhead, like a broadhead tip, it would have pierced a major artery. It would have damaged major working parts. But he was alive when they found him. They medevaced him out, flew him to Vancouver. After scanning him, making sure the arrow hadn’t hit any critical working pieces, the surgeons operated and successfully removed it.” He smiled, and Angie thought her heart would burst. “He’s stable. Recovering.” A laugh. “We’re not getting rid of that weirdo this quickly, and unfortunately, he will still be able to speak and chew that wretched green gum of his.”
“Oh God,” she whispered as it dawned on her. “He . . . was alive when I left him. I just left him there. I . . . the explosion. I saw his eyes staring up at the sky. He wasn’t moving. They were shooting at us, and the fire . . . I saw a face in the container window—” Angie fell silent, struggling to pull it all back into her memory. “It was her,” she said. “It was Annelise Janssen being held captive, locked in that container, and it was catching on fire. Triage. The fire. I had to. I—I just left him.”
“Shh,” he said again, stroking her cheek. “Claire had called the RCMP in Port Ferris before you even arrived. She phoned the station as soon as she heard her father saying that he was going out to Axel Tollet’s place. She feared the worst, and she was right. Jacobi came right away, radioed for backup. They got a chopper into the air, dropped some guys in there. They managed to stabilize Holgersen. If you’d tried to move him, Angie, you would have killed him. Some angel up there was looking after that guy. And after you.”
Tears ran copiously from her eyes now, and she did not try to hold them back. “Annelise?”
“Serious but stable. She was also airlifted out. They took her to Vic General. Her parents are with her now. Her whole extended family is with her. You saved her, Angie. After all these months, her mother and father had all but given up hope. The odds were stacked so high statistically against her being found alive at this point. A whole media phalanx is camped outside the hospital. Including international press.”
The Girl in the Moss Page 33