“Let me help you back to the car.”
“No! I’m fine.” She pushed off his arm and limped after Owen.
Upon reaching the porch, Owen pointed to a rack of stacked firewood under the living room window. “Get behind that.”
While Claire and Roger sequestered themselves between the scratchy logs and the house wall, Owen rang the doorbell and pounded on the door. “Police. Open up.”
After getting no answer, he tested the doorknob. When it turned, he pushed the door open. He made a quick scan inside and held his hand up, palm out, to Claire and Roger. “Stay here, ready to run if you have to. I doubt those Russians have made it here yet on foot, but they could be in the house.”
He pointed a finger at Claire. “No buts this time.”
Seeing the firm set of the lawman’s jaw, Claire swallowed her “But” and nodded.
“If Ramstead and the backup arrive before I return,” Owen continued, “tell them I went in the front door. They should take the rear.”
Roger put his arm around Claire’s shoulder. “Sure.”
She held her breath while Owen slipped through the front doorway.
Claire waited with Roger, crouched uncomfortably behind the musty firewood. Her calves cramped, and she started shivering from the biting cold wind. After a few minutes, she stood. “Enough of this. I’m going in.”
Roger rose. “But we promised—”
“The Russians are more likely to be outside than inside. Remember, they’re on foot out there in the snow. And Owen said we should be ready to run if we have to. Well, I’ve decided I have to run inside.”
“Makes sense to me.” Roger followed Claire to the front door.
After easing through the doorway, Roger opened the door to the hall closet and started rummaging inside.
“What are you doing?” Claire whispered.
“Looking for weapons.” Roger whispered back as he pulled out a rolled, cane-shaped umbrella with a metal tip and handed it to her then shoved the coats aside.
“Bingo.” He brandished an ice hockey stick.
Claire glanced at her umbrella then the hockey stick gripped in his hands. “Neither one of these is much use against a gun.”
“They’re better than nothing.”
“Probably the smartest thing to do is to hide inside that closet.”
“I’m not going to stand around twiddling my thumbs when Judy’s in danger. And if I know you, neither are you.” He inched his way along the wall.
“I’m just pointing out that what we’re doing isn’t very smart.” When have we ever chosen prudence over protecting one of our kids? Claire gripped her umbrella and limped behind Roger.
They made their way down the hall, turned the corner, and scanned the empty living room, lit only by a soft glow coming from the kitchen doorway on the far side.
Angela shrieked in the kitchen.
Roger shot a worried glance at Claire then rushed forward.
Claire gimped along and almost slammed into Roger’s back when she entered the kitchen. She peered around him.
Angela stood next to the sink, a smashed teacup and a spreading pool of steaming tea on the floor in front of her. Her hands clasped her cheeks, and her mouth hung open in a perfect imitation of Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream.
Owen stood before her, his gun pointed to the floor. His other hand moved downward in a reassuring, “be calm” motion.
When Angela’s gaze slid to Roger, Owen looked over his shoulder and scowled at them. “I told you to stay put.”
Roger stared straight back at him. “We decided it was safer inside.”
Owen gave the hockey stick and umbrella a disdainful once-over. “And you came well-armed, I see.” He returned his attention to Angela. “Have you seen your son and Judy Hanover tonight?”
Licking her lips, Angela hesitated.
Claire stepped forward. “Angela, we know they came here. We need to find them. Now.”
“Are they in trouble?”
“Yes,” Owen answered, “but not with the law. We’re trying to protect them from the Russian mob.”
Angela’s jaw dropped again. “The Russian mob? What are you talking about?”
Sighing in frustration, Owen rubbed his brow.
Claire laid her hand on Angela’s arm. “I’ll fill you in on everything if you’ll just tell us where Judy and Nick are.”
“But I promised Nick.”
Claire’s grip on Angela’s arm tightened. “They could be shot any minute. You’ve got to tell Detective Silverstone where they are.”
Angela glanced at their anxious faces then nodded.
“Nick said he wanted to take Judy to a remote place where they could talk. He said they needed to be alone. It sounded so romantic. From the way they were holding onto each other, I thought—” Her gaze softened. “I thought he might be ready to propose, you know, in a secluded spot in the moonlight. That’s what Anthony did, waited for a full moon, took me outside in my parents’ garden and went down on his knee. I can still smell the gardenias. I hope there’s a full moon tonight.”
She could drive a person mad with her talking. Claire shook Angela’s arm. “Where did they go?”
“Nick didn’t say exactly, but he took some supplies into the garage—blankets, food, a lantern, some of this hot tea in a thermos.” She paused. “I think I know what he has in mind. There’s an old, abandoned miner’s cabin a few miles up the trail that goes through our backyard. Hikers and cross-country skiers sometimes use the cabin as an overnight shelter.”
“When did they leave?” Owen asked.
“Oh, they haven’t—”
An engine sputtered to life in the garage.
Roger whirled. “What was that?”
“Snowmobile,” Claire said. “Remember when Nick said they kept four in the garage?” Oh, God. He’s not taking Judy out on one of those deathtraps is he? Her heart started pounding.
The throaty howl of the machine roared out of the garage and around the back of the house.
“We’ve got to stop them!” Owen sprinted to the door leading from the kitchen into the garage. He yanked on the handle, but nothing happened.
While he fumbled with the doorknob, Angela said, “Let me. There’s a key bolt.” She reached for a key hanging on a hook on the side of a nearby cabinet and unlocked the door while Owen almost danced with impatience.
He slammed open the door just as another snowmobile roared to life.
Claire peered out the kitchen door into the garage, dimly lit by moonlight from outside the open garage door. A dark figure dressed all in black hunched over the handlebars of a snowmobile pointed toward the driveway, a rifle with a lump on one side slung over his shoulder. He gunned the engine and took off.
Petrov! He must have reached the house right after Nick and Judy left. If the kids were in range, he surely would have shot them. Thank God they still have a chance.
“Stop, police!” Owen fired his gun at Petrov.
Petrov had leaned into a turn and the bullet whizzed past his ear. He jerked his head to glance back at the house. But he didn’t hesitate. His machine zoomed toward the young couple’s trail, the headlight knifing a path of light through the trees while he leaned from side to side, making the snowmobile weave an erratic path.
Owen fired again, but Petrov kept going, disappearing around a hill.
Owen holstered his gun, jumped on one of the two remaining snowmobiles, and cranked the key. “When my backup arrives,” he shouted, “tell them to follow our tracks.” He roared out of the garage.
“I’m going, too.” Roger said. “He’ll need all the help he can get. But I need a gun.”
Claire turned to Angela, whose mouth was hanging open again. The woman would make a damn good flycatcher. “Do you have any guns in the house?”
Angela pointed to the opposite wall of the garage, where a gun rack sporting three hunting rifles hung on the wall.
Roger ran over to the rack, grabbed a ri
fle and a box of ammunition, and popped the magazine out of the gun to load it. “This isn’t a match for Petrov’s semiautomatic, with its night scope, but it’ll have to do.”
“So that’s what that lump was,” Claire said. “How’re you going to drive a snowmobile and fire that rifle at the same time?”
Roger looked at her. “Could you . . . ? No, I guess you couldn’t.”
Claire realized he was remembering the death of her friend’s son. Her hands clenched and unclenched with fear and indecision. She was terrified of the idea of getting on one of those dangerous machines, let alone driving one, but Roger needed his hands free to fire the rifle at Petrov. Though Claire had shot a handgun in a range class before, Roger was the only one in the family who knew how to shoot a rifle. He had learned as a teenager and had bagged an elk on two of his hunting trips.
She took a deep breath. “Oh, God. I’ll drive it.”
Roger’s eyes widened. “You sure?”
“Hell no, but for Judy’s life, I’ll do anything.”
He gave a firm nod. “Let’s go, then.”
“Angela, you’ll need to direct the cops up the trail when they arrive.” Claire peered at the woman. “Can you do it?”
“Yes, yes I can do that,” Angela answered breathlessly. “Who was the man on the snowmobile that Detective Silverstone went after?”
Claire didn’t have time to break the news to Angela gently. “A Russian mobster. He plans to kill Judy, maybe even Nick, and we’ve got to stop him.”
“But—”
Claire didn’t wait to hear the next question. She ran for the last snowmobile and straddled it.
Roger hopped on the back seat behind her, cradling the rifle. “It’s an Arctic Cat, the same type I rode on a backcountry tour two years ago.” He reached around her and cranked the key.
The engine roared to life and the headlight blazed on. Roger showed her where the throttle and brake were. “It drives a lot like an ATV. You remember riding one awhile back on that vacation in Utah?”
“Yeah. Here goes nothing.” Claire sucked in a deep breath, squeezed the throttle, and took off. She found the tracks of the other machines and followed them into the woods. Approaching the first turn, she leaned into the turn as she would have on an ATV. The snowmobile skidded, and Claire’s throat constricted. Gritting her teeth, she goosed the gas, and the machine righted itself.
“That’s it. You’re getting the hang of it,” Roger shouted in her ear.
Swallowing hard, Claire nodded. She gripped the handlebars and hugged the gas tank with her thighs. Leaning forward, she squeezed the throttle tighter and shot across the lumpy snow. Oh, God.
Every bounce jostled her throbbing knee. She grimaced. Maybe the pain would help her banish the raw fear wrapping around her throat and staring her in the eyes, like an anaconda about to swallow its victim.
She scanned the narrow trail arching uphill between black tree trunks. She would need every ounce of concentration to negotiate the turns on this trail, especially in the dark. The last thing she wanted to do was crash.
Don’t even think it!
She hooked a tight right turn around a huge lodgepole pine, then increased speed when the trail straightened out.
The snowmobile’s right ski hit a rock and launched the sled into the air. It slammed down into the snow, rattling Claire’s teeth and shooting a knifing pain through her knee. She managed to hang on until the center tread got a grip on the snow.
Roger bounced behind her and muttered a curse.
When they crested a rise, Claire heard the distant roar of snow-
mobiles ahead of her. She hunkered down and accelerated to her
maximum comfort range, then exceeded it. She and Roger whipped back and forth as she leaned the machine into turns around the trees. No time for fear now.
The trail headed downhill, and Claire had to let off on the gas. Other snowmobiles roared below her and off to the left. They sounded closer.
She spied a black surface in a low hollow in front of her and realized one of the other machines had broken through the ice covering a large puddle. “Hold on,” she shouted to Roger.
The snowmobile splashed in, soaking their legs with ice-cold water, but the machine managed to grind its way out on the other side.
Below her the trail opened up into a wide meadow. Two snowmobiles lurched across the middle of the expanse. Probably Petrov followed closely by Owen. The two men hunched over their machines, snow rooster-tailing behind them. Hopefully, Nick and Judy were far ahead.
Owen raised his right hand. A shot rang out. Then another.
Claire slowed her machine, staying hidden in the trees.
Petrov’s sled skidded to a stop.
Did Owen get him? Claire held her breath.
The wind stirred up a snow devil that arced and twisted between the men before heading for Petrov.
The Russian raised his rifle and fired a burst of rounds.
Owen’s snowmobile veered out of control, up a hummock, and tipped over onto its back. The detective lay trapped underneath. And he wasn’t moving.
“Shit,” Roger hissed in her ear.
God, no! Is Owen dead? If he isn’t, will Petrov finish him off ?
Petrov spun off again, disappearing into the trees on the far side.
“Go!” Roger hollered.
Claire squeezed her throttle all the way and raced her snowmobile out of the woods and across the weeds poking through the snow. The machine bucked and jerked like a wild rodeo bronco, but Claire clamped her legs tight and willed herself to stay upright.
She skidded to a stop beside Owen’s sled.
Before she finished braking, Roger leapt off and ran to the other machine. He pushed it over, righting it, so it came off of Owen’s legs, and Claire saw they had been in a safe hollow under the snowmobile.
Owen scrambled backward on his left elbow and butt, leaving a trail of bright red blood in the snow.
Claire ran over and knelt beside him. “Where are you hurt?”
His face a deathly white, Owen panted. “You shouldn’t be here, but I’m damn glad you are. Petrov’s shot grazed my right forearm. No crash injuries, though. Thank God he left. I thought for sure he would try to finish me off.”
“Maybe he thought you were already finished.” Claire helped Owen remove his jacket from that arm.
“That’s why I kept still. My only chance, really.” Owen awkwardly pulled a handkerchief out of his hip pocket and pressed it against his bleeding arm. “Where’s my gun? It fell out of my hand in the crash.”
“I’ll look for it.” Roger started searching the ground.
Claire took the ends of Owen’s handkerchief, wrapped them tightly around his forearm then knotted them. “Sorry if I’m hurting you.”
“It’s not bad,” Owen said through gritted teeth. He tried to make a fist with his right hand, but failed. “I can’t drive a snowmobile with this arm. Or shoot.”
“Found it.” Roger returned with Owen’s gun.
Owen held out his left hand for the gun. “I never could get the hang of left-handed shooting, but I’ll do my best to protect us until my backup arrives. I’ll radio in an update and see how close the backup is.”
Instead of handing over the weapon, Roger pulled Claire to her feet. “We’ve got to go on. We’re the only ones left who can get Petrov before he kills the kids.”
Owen looked up at Roger. “You’ll only succeed in getting yourselves killed, too.”
“Do you think we’d be able to keep on living,” Claire asked, “if Petrov killed Judy and we didn’t do everything in our power to save her?”
“Take this.” Roger handed her Owen’s gun.
“Give me that,” Owen shouted.
Claire stepped back. “Sorry, Owen. One rifle won’t cut it against Petrov.”
A shadow passed over Owen’s face, no doubt as he imagined his own daughter in such danger. He scowled and his shoulders sagged. “Damn it! I know I can’t s
top you. Hell, I don’t want to stop you.”
Claire glanced at Roger, who gave a grim nod, then the two of them dashed to their machine. “Should we take both snowmobiles?” Claire shouted.
“No.” Roger straddled the back seat. “If you drive, maybe I can get a clear shot off while we’re still moving.”
Claire shoved Owen’s gun into the side pocket of her jacket and zipped it shut. As soon as she reseated herself, she roared off again after Petrov.
At the other side of the meadow, they plunged into pine and fir forest again. Claire followed the trail as it wound up another ridge, then cut across the hill.
How far had Angela said the miner’s cabin was? A few miles? Do Nick and Judy know Petrov’s behind them? Do they have any weapons?
There were too many unknowns to make any kind of plan. All Claire could do was drive as fast as she could, hope they closed the distance between themselves and Petrov before he reached the kids, and hope Roger could get a clear shot off before the expert marksman returned fire.
The odds didn’t look good.
The machine screamed around a turn and, before Claire could react, slammed into a pile of loose snow clods and rocks—the aftermath of a small avalanche slide down a chute between the trees. She and Roger were launched out of their seats into the pile.
She landed on her side. All her breath came out in a whoosh. Stabbing pains shot through her shoulder and thigh. She rolled onto her back and spied two boulders where the pains had begun. After a few pants through gritted teeth, the pain dulled. She sat up.
“You all right?” Roger called out.
Claire rotated her shoulder and moved her thigh. “I think so. Just bruised.” And big ones at that.
She saw Roger stumbling toward her. “What about you?”
“No broken bones, I think.” He gave her a hand up.
They hurried over to the snowmobile idling on its side. One side of the windshield had torn free, and it hung loosely from the bolt on the other side. Roger ripped the windshield the rest of the way off and flung it to the side of the trail. “Let’s get back on the horse.”
They righted the snowmobile and pushed it across the pile, with Claire squeezing the throttle some to help get the sled over. She searched the slide for signs someone else had fallen there, but the snow was too jumbled.
To Hell in a Handbasket Page 20