by Sherry Lewis
Their footsteps echoed as they walked through the empty building, and Fred imagined Mitch making this same walk the night he shot Adam. He wondered how Adam had felt when he heard Mitch approaching. Had he known he was in danger or had he thought of Mitch as a friend?
He could see the front door ahead at the end of the corridor, teasing him, offering him a way out. Maybe he could make a dash for it. He might make it outside before Mitch realized what was happening, but the chances of actually getting away were dismal. With his stiff leg and pain-riddled knees, Fred wouldn’t get far before the younger man caught up with him. And then where would he be? He’d have a hard time talking his way out of that.
No, his only hope was to keep Mitch from realizing that Fred suspected him of any wrongdoing. If he could do that, sooner or later he’d get away and then he could call Enos for help. Wishing he’d called Enos before he drove back up the mountain, he followed Mitch into Philip’s office.
Mitch nodded toward a large filing cabinet in a corner. “The files are all in there, and Philip keeps the key in his desk.” He slipped behind it, yanked open the kneehole drawer and dug around for a minute before he pulled out a set of keys and dangled them from his finger. Flashing Fred a conspiratorial smile, he said, “We’re in business.”
Fred mumbled something he could only hope sounded pleased and conspiratorial in return.
But Mitch had grown almost eager, and he didn’t seem to notice Fred’s sudden lack of enthusiasm. Crossing back to the cabinet, he tried a key in the lock. “Philip thinks he’s got everything so secure, but he’s a fool. It’s a piece of cake to get into this cabinet.”
Fred couldn’t think of a reply, so he didn’t say anything.
When the first key didn’t fit, Mitch gave a little laugh and tried another. “I never can remember which key fits this lock.”
Fred hoped he’d remember soon. He didn’t think he could live through much more of this.
With a muffled curse Mitch tried a third key, but before he could fit it into the lock, the key ring slipped from his fingers and hit the floor. When he bent to retrieve it, the tail of his shirt hiked up to expose a wide expanse of skin and the butt of a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants.
Fred’s next breath failed him and fear slammed his heart around in his chest like a tennis ball. He sidled a little closer to the desk and eyed the telephone. Could he reach it in time? Snag it up and punch “911” before Mitch shot him? Maybe. But then what? One shot and it would be all over. Fred would be dead and Mitch would get away.
Obviously unaware that he’d exposed more than he’d intended, Mitch straightened and rested one arm on the cabinet. “You don’t think he did it, do you?”
Fred fought to control his breathing and to follow Mitch’s train of thought. “Who? Philip?”
Mitch nodded and his brows knit together in concern, the same kind of expression he’d worn when he’d suggested Adam had been accepting kickbacks. If Fred hadn’t guessed the truth—if he hadn’t seen the gun hidden beneath Mitch’s shirt—he might have fallen for this story as easily as he’d fallen for the first one.
Mitch looked deeply concerned. “He sure doesn’t want that ski resort built.”
“Really?”
“No. It’ll ruin access to some property he owns down in Paradise Canyon.”
Fred tried desperately to look as though he believed it.
As if pondering this new, unhappy thought, Mitch worked the keys again, and when one turned at last, he tugged open the heavy drawer and shot a smile over his shoulder. “Well, finally.” He walked his fingers over the tabs of several files. “He didn’t have to worry, you know. That ski resort’s not going in there.”
Fred didn’t trust himself to speak, so he didn’t do anything more than grunt a reply.
But that apparently satisfied Mitch. “For one thing, the property’s so contaminated, it’d take a fortune to clean it up and there’s no way Dennington’s got that kind of money.” He peered into a couple of files and looked as if he was enjoying himself immensely.
But Fred wasn’t. “You know, it’s getting a little late. If I can just get that address, I’ll get out of your way.” It took great effort, but Fred thought he managed to keep most of the urgency from his voice.
Mitch pulled a file almost out of the drawer and scanned its label. “Oh, you’re not bothering me.” He dropped the file back into place and began the search again. And when the top drawer failed to yield any results, he moved on to the second. “You want to know the other reason Dennington’s not building on Shadow Mountain—?”
Fred didn’t think he did.
“Because he’s black. And nobody’s going to let that California woman sell Shadow Mountain to somebody like him.”
Mitch’s words sent a chill up Fred’s spine.
“He’d just start bringing in a lot of his people to take jobs away from us. And where does he think they’re going to live?”
Mitch looked at Fred as if he expected some exchange of thoughts, but Fred didn’t want to share any of his. The instinct for self-preservation urged him to make agreeable noises and loathing for the man in front of him refused to let him.
Warming to his subject, Mitch abandoned his search for the personnel file. “You don’t want a bunch of them living down in Cutler, do you?”
There was no way Fred could agree with the man, even though he knew that disagreeing would prove hazardous to his health.
Mitch had apparently decided he wanted an ally, and he’d decided Fred would be it. “Well? Do you? Right next door with all their mess and their noise, and half a dozen families in the same house?” The tone of his voice demanded an answer.
“I don’t really think that’s an accurate picture.”
Mitch gaped as if he couldn’t believe his ears, but a second later his face flamed. “What the hell do you know about it? How many black families have you lived around?”
“Only a few, but they’ve all been fine people—”
“Well, then, you’ve known the exception,” Mitch said as if he’d discovered an explanation for Fred’s lack of sound judgment. “I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl.”
Maybe he could, but Fred didn’t want to hear them. He tried to look calm and understanding without feeding Mitch’s irrational thought process. “There’s good and bad of all kinds, I suppose.”
Mitch apparently took his words as agreement. “And ones like Roy Dennington are the worst. They want to be white so bad, they’ll do anything.”
Nothing in Roy Dennington’s manner had suggested a desire to be anything but what he was, but Fred knew arguing the point wouldn’t accomplish anything—except, maybe, getting himself killed.
This time, Mitch seemed to interpret Fred’s silence more accurately. Shoving the file drawer closed, he twisted his lips into a feral smile. “I can’t find the address you want.”
Fred was ready to abandon the search, himself. He forced himself not to let out a sigh of relief. “Well, it was a long shot, anyway.” He turned toward the door and tried not to look too eager to get away. “Thanks for trying.”
“Wait a second,” Mitch called after him. “I’ll have to get you back into the lab. There’s a security lock.” With rapid, jerky movements he relocked the filing cabinet, replaced the keys, and closed the office door behind them. As he led Fred back down the corridor, he held his shoulders rigid with disapproval, and Fred could sense tension in every step.
Though every instinct urged him to get away quickly, he forced himself to follow Mitch’s pace. He told himself to hold on another two minutes—just long enough to walk out the back door to safety.
Mitch worked the keypad on a small white box and yanked open the door to the lab.
Pausing just inside, Fred made himself extend his hand and shake Mitch’s, but he wanted to recoil from the touch and wipe his hand on his pant leg. He worked up a smile, but he knew it looked forced and unreal. “Thanks again,” he said, but
even he could hear the dishonesty in his voice.
“No problem,” Mitch said in a tone that suggested otherwise.
Once again forcing himself not to glance at the file folder on the floor, Fred walked at a reasonable pace across the room, but the back of his neck burned where Mitch watched him. Any second, Mitch would look away, and the bright blue file folder would catch his eye. Anticipating it, Fred’s heart tried to jump up his throat and out of his mouth several times.
At last, he reached the door and put his hand on the knob just as he sensed Mitch turning away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the younger man lean toward the file folder, and panic burst through the thin veil of Fred’s outer calm.
“What in the hell is this?”
Fred slammed into the crash bar and threw the door open just as Mitch reached under his shirttail for the gun.
“Just a damned minute,” Mitch shouted.
Fred didn’t spare even a second. Bolting out the door, he crouched as if he could make himself a smaller target in the early dusk, and ran toward his car. But after a couple of steps he realized he’d never reach it before Mitch hit the door.
Veering sharply, he raced toward the trees. Pain shot through his feet and into his knees, but he ignored it and kept moving until he reached the forest. Diving into the early evening shadows, Fred crashed through the trees and tried to put as much distance between himself and the gun as he could.
“Where in the hell are you, old man?” Mitch’s voice sounded so clear in the early evening air, Fred knew he’d already come outside.
He forced himself to slow down, to make less noise as he crept into the cover of the trees. He crouched into the shadows and ignored the twinge in his lower back. Should he keep moving? Or should he find a place to take cover?
Behind him, he could hear Mitch pushing through the foliage, and he knew he must have made as much noise himself. Every step he took now would give away his position.
Fighting fresh panic, he scoured the surrounding area until he found a cluster of trees and undergrowth that would provide him the best cover he’d probably find. He hesitated only a second before he ducked through the narrow opening between trees and crouched as low as he could.
He looked around for something he could use as a weapon, but everything at hand would be useless against a gun, and he had to assume Mitch had it cocked and ready to use.
“You can’t get away,” Mitch warned, his voice quiet and far too close.
It took every bit of self-control Fred had to stay still. Even the slightest move would betray his hiding place.
Nearby, a twig snapped underfoot and a second later, Mitch stepped into view between two trees. Just as Fred had suspected, Mitch held the gun in one hand and used the other to give it support. He moved through the thicket with the practiced ease of a hunter, and Fred knew that if Mitch caught even one glimpse of him cowering in the bushes, it would all be over.
Fred tried to shrink even deeper into the foliage without moving. He allowed himself tiny breaths and forced his aching knees to hold the position he’d twisted them into.
Mitch turned toward him, and for the space of a heartbeat Fred thought he’d been discovered. But all at once, Mitch froze and looked back over his shoulder as if something behind him had caught his attention.
A second later Fred heard it, too. Footsteps and voices and shouting in the parking lot. Enos’s voice calling directions. Ivan’s shouting back.
“The door’s open.”
“You two—check inside.”
Mitch ducked into the trees and Fred lost sight of him. Relief made him almost weak, but with Mitch still out there somewhere, he wasn’t safe yet.
After what felt like an hour but must have been only a few seconds, someone shouted again. “They’re not inside.”
“Spread out. Ivan—take the back. Robert—over there.” Enos’s voice had never sounded so welcome to Fred in all the years they’d known each other. A few more minutes and they’d find Mitch, and Fred would be able to come out of hiding.
Straining to see through the trees, Fred watched and waited, but he couldn’t see anything, and he could no longer be certain whether the footsteps he heard were friend or foe. Shadows played across the floor of the forest, an angry creature chattered in the distance, and something moved behind him.
Before he could turn his head, a voice hissed in his ear. “You make one sound, old man, and you’re dead.” One arm circled his neck and held him fast. The other pushed the gun against his temple.
It took Fred less than a second to weigh his options and to decide not to push his luck.
Mitch jerked him to his feet, and Fred’s knees protested the too-rapid movement. “You’re going to help me get away,” Mitch whispered. “Where are your car keys?”
“In my pocket.”
“Get them out.”
Fred obliged and didn’t fight when Mitch pushed him forward. Every step seemed to take an eternity and before they’d gone even a few feet Mitch’s tension rose to a dangerous level. Like a physical presence, it emanated from him and wrapped itself around Fred.
Fred knew he was safe for the moment—unless something or someone threatened their escape. Mitch needed Fred alive for that. But if they managed to get away, Fred knew that Mitch wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. He had to save himself before they got to Fred’s car. It was his only chance.
A noise to their left startled Mitch. His arm tightened around Fred’s throat almost convulsively, lifting Fred’s chin so that he couldn’t see into the forest. A few steps further, Fred was able to lower his chin again and he caught a glimpse of the Buick through the trees. Fear pumped through his veins and dread threatened to paralyze him. Another few feet and he’d lose any chance of escape. But somehow he kept moving.
Without warning Mitch’s arm tightened again, but this time Fred could see what alarmed him. Ahead of them on the trail, Enos stepped out of the trees. Thank the good Lord.
Enos held his service revolver in both hands, but his face, tightened in anger and fear, looked almost unfamiliar. “Drop it.”
But instead of obeying, Mitch shifted his own gun slightly and nuzzled it against Fred’s temple. “Move out of my way or the old man dies.”
Fred silently urged Enos to shoot, to take his chances and pull the trigger. But Enos held his gun steady and met Mitch’s gaze with unblinking eyes.
“I mean it,” Mitch shouted. “The old man’s going to buy it right here in front of you. I’ll blow his damned head off. Now drop your gun and call off your deputies.”
Shoot, Fred begged without sound. But Enos made the mistake of looking at him. And when his gaze wavered, Fred knew he’d lost his edge.
“Shoot him,” Fred croaked.
Enos looked away and lowered his gun to the ground.
“Call in your boys,” Mitch demanded and pressed the gun even harder against Fred’s temple.
Couldn’t Enos see that Fred didn’t stand a chance if they backed off?
“Ivan. Robert. Come into the clearing and drop your weapons,” Enos said quietly.
They’d been there all along, weapons drawn, and now Enos was ordering them to surrender? Panic nearly blinded him as the boys stepped into view with their weapons extended uselessly.
Mitch jerked his head to indicate a spot to one side of the small clearing. “All of you move over this way. Over there—”
Without a word, Enos complied. Ivan and Robert followed his lead.
Apparently satisfied with their new position, Mitch tugged Fred around and backed through the trees toward the parking lot. Fred half expected Enos to make a move, but he stood there and watched, helpless.
Fred struggled to breathe but fear and Mitch’s arm against his throat made it almost impossible. He wondered what Margaret would say when Enos told her that Fred had died out here in the woods. Would this be the one thing she’d be unable to forgive Enos?
The barrel of the gun warmed against his temple, melding itself to
him like an old friend. Mitch dragged him backwards slowly. One step. Another.
All at once Mitch’s step faltered as if he’d kicked an exposed root or stubbed his foot against a branch. Knowing this was his only chance, Fred ducked and twisted. Miraculously, Mitch’s grip on Fred’s neck loosened and Fred managed to slide out of his grasp. Air burned in his throat and lungs as he spun around. With force he hadn’t known he possessed, Fred thrust Mitch’s arm up and shoved the gun away from his head.
As if in slow motion, Mitch’s finger tightened on the trigger. When the shot came Fred felt it through his entire body, but the bullet flew wide and zinged into a tree somewhere behind them.
Without releasing his tentative hold on the gun, Fred threw himself into Mitch. He shoved his own arm across Mitch’s throat and pressed his full weight into it. He let up and repeated the process again and again, like a battering ram until, at last, Mitch staggered under the assault.
Hurling himself into the younger man’s midsection, Fred buckled him, then twisted the gun away from him and held it in trembling hands against the younger man’s head. “Enos,” he shouted. “Get your tail over here.”
He could hear three sets of footsteps racing up behind him. Enos joined him, his own gun back in his hand, his face looking sheriff-like again. While Ivan worked a pair of handcuffs over Mitch’s wrists, Robert trained his gun on the captive.
They were all a bunch of heroes now.
When he was certain Mitch was securely bound, Enos lowered his gun and turned to face Fred. “What in the hell did you do that for?”
Astounded, Fred lowered his own gun. “Well, you obviously weren’t going to do anything.”
“I had it under control.”
“The hell you say.”
“Good billy hell, Fred. You think I was just going to let him take you away? What kind of friend do you think I am?”
Fred didn’t bother to offer his opinion.
Enos frowned darkly and shouted over his shoulder. “Get out here, Grady.”
From the cover of the forest, Grady Hatch ducked under the branches of an Englemann spruce and stepped into the clearing. He clutched a rifle with a high-powered scope, and looked as disappointed as the day he’d been cut from the high school football team.