“There!” Burton barked into his headphones. “Camper! Heading north near that turnoff ahead at two o’clock.”
He saw it. He banked again, descending and flying low over the highway, buzzing the tops of cars as he went.
“Binoculars are in the side pocket beside your seat,” he told Burton. “We’re looking for an AdventureCaper camper on the bed of a gray Ford F-150, BC plates.”
Behind him Burton found the scopes, peered through them as Cole flew yet lower, keeping an eye out for hydro lines. There was thin, high-level cloud cover here. Tiny crystals were starting to form and hit his windshield. The storm was moving steadily in.
“Can you see BC plates?”
“Affirmative.” Then he swore. “It’s a Citation camper.”
Cole lifted the nose. They continued to follow the gleaming ribbon of road. Tension twisted through him. With increasing cloud cover it could be dark in a few hours. They had to locate the camper before nightfall.
He took the plane down again as another vehicle caught his attention. But it was a camper on a red truck.
“That’s the dirt road that leads off the highway and into First Nations territory.” Burton pointed over his shoulder. “There, at about eleven o’clock.”
“I see it.”
“It bypasses Watt Lake and heads way up into the forest and mountains out the back. Toward Predator Ridge and then Bear Claw.”
Cole’s gaze flickered between the highway and the twisting thread of dirt snaking into dense forest. It was a gamble. Olivia’s assailant might not have even come this way.
“It’s the only place he’d go.” Burton’s voice came through the headset.
“Her life is on the line. If you’re wrong—”
“I want to save her more than you can possibly know,” Burton said, voice low, quiet. “It’s the reason for everything.”
Cole swallowed, then banked sharply to the left, leaving the highway to follow the logging road into dense, evergreen wilderness. Foothills rose in the distance. Beyond those, Pinnacle Ridge was hidden by cloud. He had to get Olivia before Sorenson took her through those Pinnacle mountains.
“There!” Burton yelled suddenly, right at the same time Cole saw the plume of dust rising above the trees. “Something’s traveling along there!”
Cole swooped the plane down, and they buzzed over the top of a camper and truck, a cloud of fine, gray glacial dust boiling up behind the rig as it raced and rocked along the narrow road.
Burton peered through the scopes. Cole’s heart was in his throat. He scanned the surrounding terrain. Not one fucking little piece of dirt to come down on, apart from that twisty road hemmed in by giant, dark conifers. Snow started to fleck a little more insistently against the windshield. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The monster of churning cloud was fast on their tail.
“AdventureCaper,” Burton said. “Long box, gray Ford F-150. BC plates.”
“I’m taking her lower. Look for another plate on the rear of the camper, to the left of the door. It’s a ham operator’s license plate.”
He buzzed lower, skimming the towering tops of trees.
“Affirmative! I can see the plate.”
Immediately Cole took the nose up a tad. The camper picked up speed. Dirt roiling as it raced through the trees. The road was approaching a canyon with a silvery river.
Cole tried his radio again, fiddling with channels. He wasn’t getting any reception.
“You got a cell phone?” Cole barked.
“Negative. Left it in the cabin.”
He dug in his pocket, found his phone. Handing it over his shoulder, he said, “Use mine. See if Watt Lake can send in an emergency response team, choppers, before that weather hits. Before it gets dark.”
But as he spoke, the weather dragon behind him unleashed a tongue of wind that flicked his little Cub sideways. “Shit!”
He banked, struggling with the controls again. And the phone fell between the seats before Burton could grab it. It skittered all the way along the floor into the gear at the back.
They were on their own. Cole sucked in a deep breath, taking the Cub low again, adrenaline pounding though his blood as the camper neared the first bend at the canyon. It swayed precariously round the corner, too fast, sending a boulder tumbling and exploding down into the river.
The camper increased speed further. The driver clearly knew he was being chased from the air. Cole fought with conflict. Chase them, and they could crash. He could kill Olivia. Let up, and the camper could slip into that endless, dense forest and mountains, and once the weather and darkness hit, Olivia was as good as dead anyway.
Gritting his jaw, he kept over the camper. It rocked and swayed down a decline, approaching another bend that hung over the river. As the camper veered into the bend, the left side came frighteningly close to the drop. As if in slow motion, part of the road shoulder seemed to collapse under the left wheels. The rig seemed to hang suspended above a shower of clattering stones that tumbled down into the river. Dirt mushroomed up, billowing away in the wind. The camper tipped.
Cole felt his stomach drop to his bowels as the rig rolled, crashing onto its side and sliding with rumbling boulders and stones and uprooted saplings in a landslide, down, down, down toward the churning green-and-white water.
The wreck came to rest, precariously balanced on a rock ledge over the water.
Holy Mother of God.
He had to land. Now.
Cole banked sharply, taking his craft low over the water, flying upriver, trees rushing at their sides barely a breath away from the wingtips. Snow was starting to beat against his windshield. Through the blur of his prop he searched for a bank, a gravel bar, anything—even if it meant crash landing, he had to go down now.
“Olivia called him Algor,” Tori told the cops, who were now inside with her and Myron in the library.
One of the officers showed her a photo on an electronic device. “Was it this man?”
She scrunched up her brow. “Yes. No. I mean, he looked sorta like that. Same whitish-blond short hair, same facial hair. I don’t know.” She glanced up at the officer. The cop seemed young. Nice.
“The man wore a ball cap,” she explained. “With the bill pulled low over his face so it was mostly in shadow when I saw him. But it could have been him.”
“How tall was he?”
She glanced at one of the dark-haired RCMP members talking to Myron. “About that officer’s height.”
“So about six two?”
“I guess. He said he had a wife, but I never got to see her.”
The cops exchanged a glance.
“Thank you, Tori,” the officer said.
He went to the window and looked out at the snow as he made a phone call.
“Sergeant Yakima,” he said into his phone. “Yes. It could have been Sorenson, or a man posing as Sorenson—similar in appearance. He’s abducted the ranch manager, Olivia West. She’s apparently injured—lots of blood left on the trail where he took her. The belief is he’s heading north, to the Bear Claw Valley.”
He paused, then said, “Affirmative, that was the information that Cole McDonough, son of ranch owner Myron McDonough, left with his father. He also said that there were now BC plates on the truck, but there was still a ham operator’s plate on the back of the camper, issued in Washington.” He gave the number.
Another pause. “I know. Yes. It was Burton who insisted she was being taken to Bear Claw, and yes, I’m aware Burton’s state of mind is questionable. But it’s our only lead right now—everything here”—he glanced at Tori, then Myron—“points to her abductor taking her north. Possibly to finish the job started by Sebastian George.”
Another pause. “Piper Cub. Yellow. No, I don’t know.” He cleared his throat. “Burton’s daughter says that her father is armed with two pisto
ls, and McDonough has a shotgun. She said her father came here to ‘finish some business.’ My recommendation is we alert Watt Lake detachment and get an ERT up into the Bear Claw Valley, stat.”
Ahead was a narrow bar of gravel—an island around which the river flowed. It was short. Cole was skeptical that he’d be able to stop his Cub before they hit the water again at the end of the bar. The skis around his tundra tires were going to take a beating on the rocks, could flip the craft over.
“Hang on!” he yelled, making a split-second decision to take her down. “Hold the dog!” His wheels skimmed the churning water. He worked the flaps, kept the nose just so, and his landing gear smacked against rocks. The plane lurched up, flew, slapped back down, yawing wildly and bouncing as Cole did everything in his power to stop the perfect little bush craft on a dime. And then he saw the log. They crashed hard, and the plane tipped forward and sideways, crunching over onto the left wing as it came to a stop on its side. The prop whacked into rocks and splintered into shards of wood that smattered against the windshield.
Cole’s shoulder hurt where he’d bashed against the side. His heart palpitated overtime.
“Burton?”
“Okay, I’m okay.”
“Ace?”
“He seems fine, just panting . . . stressed.”
Cole unbuckled his belt. The door flap was on the upended side. He bashed it open, climbed out.
He helped lift Ace out with Burton pushing and lifting the dog from behind. Burton clambered out himself after Ace. He had a nasty cut on his brow. Blood leaked down the side of his eye.
“You sure you’re good?”
Burton nodded, white-faced.
Cole took hold of Ace’s harness and clipped on his tracking line. He handed the line to Burton, then reached back into the cabin. He struggled to fold back the seat, eventually smashing it back, breaking the hinge, then he climbed in again. Leaning on his stomach over the broken seat, he fingered along the floor of the back of the Cub, searching for where his cell phone might have slid. He couldn’t locate it. It must have gone right under the rigging and gear in the back, which was crushed. No time. Olivia might be alive, hurt, dying. Every minute was critical.
He unclipped the first aid kit from the side panel, removed it, and strapped it onto the belt of his jeans. He jumped out, wincing as a bolt of pain shot up his ankle. He reached into the front of the cabin, unhooked the shotgun he’d stashed along the side. It appeared to be in working order. He felt in the front compartment for the ammunition. He tucked the boxes of slugs into his jacket and slung the 12-gauge across his back. He held out his hand for Ace’s line. Burton gave it to him.
“The water looks shallower along that fork.” He pointed to water that jiggled over rocks. “We can wade across there, head downriver along the bank on the opposite side.”
Snow was beginning to settle here too, now, the sky growing low and dark. Wind was gusting, carrying a deep chill.
With his first step into the water, his boot slicked out from under him, and he went down on his side with a splash. The ice-cold shocked his heart and stole his breath. Dripping, he pushed himself up, started again, more cautiously picking his way this time.
“Careful. Rocks are covered in slime,” he called over his shoulder as he led Ace into the river.
A sea of pain. A red tide. She was drowning in it. Like thick paint being mixed, blackness swirled slowly with crimson in her brain, making her dizzy, nauseous. Somewhere in the distance of her mind she heard a creaking and grating of metal, then a crash of glass. She felt movement. Moaning, she tried to turn her head, open her eyes to see what it was. She felt the straps around her body being undone. A hand tightened around her upper arm and tugged.
She screamed in pain. The shrill animal sound that exploded from her own chest jerked her fully back into consciousness. Her heart pattered. Blood choked the back of her throat. A man was pulling on her arm, turning her over, and like a bolt of white lightning the memory hit her. Every muscle in her body jerked as her heart exploded with adrenaline, fear. She tried to open her eyes, focus, get up.
“Hey.” He slapped the side of her face. “You need to get up.” He slapped harder.
Olivia moved her head to the side, spat out bloody mucus, gagged. He tried to lift her again, and the wave of pain that slammed down the left side of her body was unbearable, almost making her lose consciousness again.
“Not . . . my arm,” she managed to groan. “Arm . . . is broken. Leave my arm.”
He hooked his hands under her armpits and hauled her up. Her world reeled. Everything was sideways. Then, as she blinked, struggling to orient herself, she realized they were in the back of the camper, and it was lying on its side.
“Easy,” he said, trying to drag her out the back. “Whole thing could go over.”
Panic kicked. She remembered—lurching over, rolling, sliding, crashing. Thank God he’d strapped her to the bed or she might have broken more than an arm.
He pulled her out the mangled door, her bound legs dragging behind. As her boots came free of the door, they thudded with the aid of gravity to the rocks. She gasped again. Pain was consuming. But it was real. It meant she was alive. If she’d learned anything, it was how much pain a human could bear without letting it kill you.
She struggled to keep her eyes open in what felt like blinding light that sliced into the back of her skull. He laid her onto rocks. Water. She heard a river. They were on a rock ledge above churning water. Her hands were still bound behind her back.
He crouched over her, untied her ankles. He took the rope from her ankles and tied it in a noose around her neck, like a leash.
Please. No. Not again . . . I cannot endure this all again . . . just let me die this time. I’m going to let myself die . . .
An image swam into her mind. A face. So crystal clear she felt as though it might have been put into her head by some outside force. Soft green eyes with darkly fringed lashes looked at her, right into her. They were filled with longing, need. Dead straight hair shimmered in a frame about her face, the blue-black color of a raven’s feathers.
Tori.
Her daughter.
Her eleven-year-old daughter who was going to have no one left in this world if she died. Tears, hot and fierce, burned into Olivia’s eyes. She’d fought to live for her baby once before. She’d fought like a rabid she-bear to give her baby life. Then she’d let her baby girl down—she’d bowed to Ethan and the pressure of her parents and the community. She’d not had the strength of character to fight them all and keep her infant. Even if it meant doing it alone.
She would not let Tori down this time. Never. One more time, she would fight for her child. And by God or the devil, she would win this time. She would kill this fucker.
Olivia sucked down a bolt of pain as he dug his hands under her armpits again and lifted her to her feet. She wobbled, trying to steady herself, trying to swallow back a surge of nausea and mucus.
“Move.” He went ahead of her, tugged on the rope. It tightened around her neck.
“Undo my hands, you bastard! If I trip I can’t break my fall!” She spat out more blood and spittle. It landed in a pinkish-red glob on the rock.
He swung around, glared at her. Power seemed to vibrate out around him. Then his mouth curved into a slow, wide smile. His teeth were the same—perfect white lines, eyeteeth that dropped a little lower, giving him a feral air. Teeth that had eaten parts right out of her body.
His eyes were the predatory eyes of the animal who’d haunted her for twelve years through her darkest nightmares.
“You’ve changed, Sarah. You used to be so very sweet.”
“Who the fuck are you?! You died! You’re dead!”
He came up to her, close, so close his chest touched her breasts. He angled his head, bringing his mouth toward hers, and he breathed his words over her lips. �
�Not me, Sarah,” he whispered. “Sebastian died, not me. Sebastian was the expendable one. He was the half-human my mother always said I should have consumed as a fetus in her womb. Sebastian should have become part of me, my body, before I was born—fetal resorption. You’ve heard about it, Sarah? The vanishing twin. But alas, he was born. And it appears there was greater purpose for him. He was to be my serf, and he was to be slowly absorbed by me in life. He was to sustain and nourish me, and he came through, right to the very end. Shadow brother. The servant brother. In the end there was supposed to be only one.”
He flicked his tongue out and licked her lips like a snake. She recoiled, gagged.
He turned his back abruptly and yanked on the rope. Her neck cracked and she staggered forward, panicked suddenly about getting her feet under her, keeping her balance. If she went down with her hands bound behind her back like this, she’d smash her face into rock. As he jerked her up the bank, she cast a quick look behind her at the camper and truck.
The rig lay on its side right at the edge of a small rock plateau. It was a miracle they hadn’t gone in. She glanced up, searching the sky for the plane she’d heard buzzing low overhead as the camper had sped up and started lurching. There was nothing in sight but leaden cloud and a bald eagle wheeling in and out of great soupy tatters of mist that sifted through the trees. Tiny crystals of snow kissed her face.
Another thing she’d learned—you could listen for planes for months. But it meant nothing. In low cloud, and in the approaching storm, she would be on her own.
Olivia turned her focus to placing one boot carefully in front of the other, keeping her balance as she picked her way through gravel and rock and other landslide debris. She concentrated on the pain, too. She’d learned this as a way of mental escape. Don’t fight it, let it consume you. Let it pulse through to every nerve ending with each beat of the heart, each thrust of blood through veins. If she fought it, the pain would grow unbearable. She embraced it instead, cataloguing the places she was damaged. Possible fractured humerus. Ripped ear going crusty with dried blood. Torn sections of scalp. He might have also broken her nose. She stumbled, falling to her knees. He yanked on the rope, and she staggered back up.
A Dark Lure Page 36