"Citizens of Ridge City!" he began. "The killers are in our midst! You saw Orson at the trial! You saw his feeble proof and his baseless, useless defense! He is still the killer!"
The citizens were getting the drift now.
"Go to your homes and arm yourselves! Be back in five minutes ready to bring Orson to justice by any means necessary!"
The crowd seemed to be mostly gone now, so Alex and Sarah managed to carry Jake down the steps, across Main Street, and toward the car. Anthony was running behind them, concealing the rifle under his shirt; his old revolver, out of ammunition, had long been thrown away. They opened the doors and lay Jake in the backseat, then Sarah climbed into the front passenger seat and Anthony got behind the wheel.
"Here," he said, handing the rifle to Alex, "hold this."
Anthony rammed the keys into the ignition, then turned them twice, producing uninspiring putters from the engine. He twisted them a few more times, growing increasingly angry until he finally dropped his arms to his sides in frustration. "It won't start."
Alex was dumbfounded. "What the goddamn hell do you mean it won't start?"
"It just won't start!" Anthony shouted back. "This is a crappy car! Sometimes they just don't!"
Alex, head bent against the torrential rain, walked around to the front, and collapsed on the hood. "Come one, damn you!" he half-shouted, half-sobbed, beating on the hood. "Start, you worthless car! Just one more time!"
Sarah looked around then, and saw, through the rain, a large group of people coming toward them. She couldn't tell, but she swore they looked like an angry mob—pitchforks, rakes, but no torches, of course. Too much rain.
Then she saw Ordoñez at the head, shouting, rallying the group. It was an angry mob, and it was out there to kill them.
"Anthony," she said, desperately. "Hurry up. This is really, really important."
Anthony was quickly alerted to the threat, and sank down in his chair. "If worst comes to worst we can hold them off with the rifle. But worst better not come to worst."
As Alex, leaning on the hood, was considering prayer, Anthony gunned the ignition one more time and the engine sprang to life. "Let's go!"
"Wait…"
They were surprised to hear Jake from the backseat. "What if it…stops again? Somebody has to hold them off…just to be safe."
Alex looked at him. "Not a bad idea. I'd wager Anthony is the best shot among us, so I'll have to drive."
Alex walked around and climbed into the driver's seat, sat down, and handed Anthony the rifle.
"Don't screw up."
He then shut the door and started it up.
Anthony cocked the rifle. "I'll enjoy this."
So as not to get them on any more murder charges, he would have to shoot non-vital areas. This meant legs and arms mostly, very small and fast targets to hit through a screen of driving rain. Anthony aimed the barrel toward one of the biggest threats, a large man carrying a knife.
With a cracking report, the bullet struck the man in the leg, and he fell down. The crowd screamed as one and began to turn in the other direction. Anthony shook his head—crowds at large could be remarkably stupid. He took aim again.
It was mostly the direness of the situation that allowed Alex to drive the car as well as he did. He managed to get it moving steadily, although it could also have been due to the fact that it wouldn't go faster than twenty miles an hour. Anthony ran beside him, firing periodic shots and gesticulating at him to go faster.
As he forced the wreck forward, Alex heard Jake again from the back seat.
"Hey, Alex…Sarah…aauuuugh…you wouldn't believe what's back here."
"What?"
"Four backpacks…loaded with supplies. Everything you need. A…thick winter coat on top of each one…and a note."
Alex was almost cheered up. It was the best news he'd heard all day, good enough to make him not care about the note, or how they had gotten there.
"Alex…" Jake groaned. "I have to tell you something important."
"Go ahead, talk. It'll take your mind off the pain. Hold on and don't go to sleep until we get to a hospital." Alex mashed the gas pedal, willing the speedometer toward thirty.
"My parents…were killed by hitmen. They were working for some people called…Moose Killers."
Sarah was suddenly alert; this seemed remarkably similar to her own story.
"When they died…I left foster care to look for the men who killed them. But then…I was alone on the streets of New York. So, that's where I learned…everything. How to hotwire cars. How to drive. How to survive in horrible…situations. And…I placed the call to the…ASPCC."
"Jake…" Alex started, broke off, and started again. "Why did you do that?"
Jake laughed lightly. "Because…I knew you'd never leave home yourself."
Sarah thought of something she had to ask. "Jake—what did your parents do?"
"They were lawyers…for an estate."
"What estate?" Sarah had never learned the name.
"One called…Orson…"
Anthony was getting more and more afraid. His rifle couldn't contain that many more bullets, and the car needed more defense that he could give as it lumbered out of Ridge City. He buckled under the pressure and decided to give up, racing back toward the car. To his disbelief, he found that it had stalled, Alex beating the steering wheel and crying out. Anthony opened the driver's door.
"Forget it," he said. "This car won't move again."
Alex agreed. They all stepped out of the car, Alex and Sarah hoisting out Jake. The noises of the angry mob were growing louder as Alex hauled out the four backpacks, carrying the extra himself. He opened them all in succession, rummaging through them until he found a box of matches. He struck one, using his hand to cover it, and threw it through the open door.
"We don't want them using it to follow us."
The fire erupted quickly, and all of them ran to the other side of the road as the blaze spread. The flames quickly spread toward the gas tank, and the flammable contents ignited, destroying the car in a giant yellow fireball.
"It's also a beacon," Alex went on. "They'll go to this, and we'll be long gone."
He felt the revolver in his pocket, hoisted his limp companion onto his shoulders, secured the backpacks, looked forward into the downpour, and began running.
Above them, the rain began to turn into snow.
CHAPTER 14
The Wilderness
Alex lost himself in the running.
Jake's weight above him, Sarah's panting behind him, even the crack of the rifle and momentary lighting of the road were forgotten as he ran.
The mob was behind them, Ordoñez safely shielded from gunfire at the very back. The snow was beginning to fall more heavily, impeding Anthony's aim to the point where he gave up and ran alongside the rest of them.
Thankfully none of the mob had firearms. However, some of them had been beginning to throw stones, and Alex desperately forced himself ahead, blocking out the world and the friend who was passing from life upon his shoulders.
Jake had even stopped groaning, and Alex could feel blood running on to his hands. He chanced a look around—the mob was thinning out, scared back by the rifle and the snowstorm, but a few were carrying on the pursuit. He pushed himself to go faster, and suddenly gave up his shield, opening himself to whatever would come their way.
He took stock of the crowd, armed with pitchforks, rakes, baseball bats, and rocks, determined to bring about their perverse brand of justice. The pistol was still heavy in his pocket, but he had forgotten about it. What could it do that wouldn't bring them another murder charge?
The crowd continued to fall back, dropping to their knees, yielding to the storm. The midday sky had grown dark, and the wind blew viciously. The scene was lit up by several shots—Anthony, in a last-ditch attempt to throw off their pursuers, was firing completely blind.
It seemed to work, and Alex would have considered joining him if he wasn't afr
aid that he might hit Sarah. When he looked again, only policemen were continuing to follow them.
They didn't fire, still intent on bringing them back alive. Jake was growing heavier, and Sarah was losing strength, forcing Alex to bear more of the burden himself. Eventually, he took off the backpack he had placed on Jake and slung it over his own shoulder, forging ahead, intent on leaving Ridge City behind.
After a while, the officer in charge of capturing Orson told them to give up the chase.
"Sir, you don't understand," Jeffries panted, "it's personal with this kid. He shot me!"
"Quiet, Jeffries," the officer said. "Look at this," he gestured around, indicating the falling snow. "This is the worst damn storm of the year. Anybody who walks out onto the highway in this will not come back."
They looked ahead to where the last shadow was disappearing into the wind. "That's them. I'll give them one hour. Jeffries, what's the time one hour from now?"
"2:16 PM, sir."
"That's the time of death."
Alex gave up.
"It's hopeless!" he shouted above the din of the storm. "We have to find someplace to wait it out!"
"And let Jake die!?" Anthony shouted.
"He can hold on through the storm!" Alex yelled back.
"I'm…doing…fine…Alex," Jake rasped.
"Don't talk," Alex replied. "Save your strength."
Sarah pointed at a great tree, standing like a sentinel beside the highway. "There! Hide under that!"
Panting and wheezing, they hauled Jake beneath the oak. "What do you think?"
"Can we make it?"
"Do you think you can hold on?"
Jake startled them by speaking, even more hampered than before, as his wound grew more painful.
"I can hold on…if I want to…"
Alex slowly paled. "Then why wouldn't you!?"
Jake gestured out toward the road, which was marked here and there by patches of blood.
"Why wouldn't you!?" Alex repeated desperately.
Jake started to raise his head. "The things this world has to offer…"
He dropped his head back into Sarah's arms and coughed. "I'll…take my chances…in the next…"
Alex was suddenly struck, by the most horrible idea that had ever crossed his mind. "You don't really want me to—"
Jake feebly nodded. "I want you to kill me," he said, as clearly as he ever had.
Alex, not one to cry, burst into tears. "Shut up! Shut up!"
Jake closed his eyes. "After my parents died…I came to Woodsbrook…to find you. Or…your father…"
"You were my friend…because of my father!?"
"I…wanted to get information from you…I never knew I would…end up liking you…"
Alex sunk his head into his hands. He was trapped in the middle of a deadly game of information and misinformation, and his best friend…his best friend had been playing all along.
"I…called the social worker…as well. I thought…you wouldn't do it…"
"You thought I wouldn't leave? But…"
"Don't ask…" Jake rasped. "Just shoot me…"
"I won't kill you unless I know." Alex, his eyes squeezed tightly, cocked the pistol, its last bullet ready to fire.
As he pressed the barrel against his dying friend's head, he heard the voice one more time. It spoke new words:
If…you didn't leave…how would you become…who you were…who you are…who you will be…
The report echoed off the trees.
The snowfall began to lighten.
ORSON, ACCOMPLICES KILLED IN CANADA
Alexander Matthew Orson, 12, the suspected "Transit Murderer" of three Canadians, died yesterday while fleeing from police outside of Ridge City, Ontario. His three accomplices, Sarah Rebecca Jones, 11, Jacob Daniel Harwell, 12, and Anthony Michael Anderson, 13, are presumed dead as well, although this is unverified.
Sources state that an angry mob formed after the first day of Orson's trial in Ridge City, in which Orson defended himself and appeared close to an acquittal. The mob chased him from the building and shot Harwell, after which the four escaped in a stolen car. The engine died a mile out of the town, whereupon the four attempted to walk into a snowstorm and have not been heard from since.
Orson was originally incriminated by the testimonies of Alberto Ordoñez, a car dealer who witnessed the first murder and pursued Orson to the additional two crime scenes. When Orson was believed to be hiding in Ridge City, the police placed Ordoñez in charge of tracking him.
"I still think he's guilty," said RCPD chief John Haverly. "As far as we're concerned his flight is an admission of guilt, angry mob or no. He's presumed dead, and if he's not dead, he might as well be, because if any respectable police force finds him alive, they'll show no mercy."
Police patrols looking for Orson along Quebec and Ontario highways are expected to be recalled.
Machry crumpled the newspaper and crushed it on his desk, unsure why his eyes were watering; but then again, he was unsure of a lot of things these days. Alex Orson was dead, the Alex Orson he'd been working for a month to save. There were still a million unanswered questions: what had Edbrough hidden from them? Where did the Moose Killers and Ordoñez come in? What did Roland Orson have to gain from this? Who was the real Transit Murderer? His mid swam.
Machry took the final sip from his cup of coffee, then looked across his desk. He had once come across a novelty item, a box labeled in case of emergency, break glass. Inside it he had placed a bottle of scotch. He had always considered this to be a joke, but that morning, he smashed the glass easily and poured out a shot, raising it to his lips.
He gave up on it after the first drink. A bottle wouldn't solve his problems. He needed time to think…
Impulsively he walked out of his office and pulled on his coat. Ignoring the receptionist's greeting he walked out into a day of driving rain. He looked up into the dark grey sky, pondering his troubles.
He didn't know where he was going. But somehow, as if something had been leading him along, he wound up in the park.
The force continued to pull him, toward one tree in the middle. This tree was important, he knew it. But all he saw was a small, unfinished treehouse.
Machry climbed the ladder, swinging from side to side as he ascended the rungs. At the top, he looked around. On the one piece of wall that was completely finished, a large marker had scrawled something, and from the looks of it was at least a month old.
Charles Johnson. William X.
Ordoñez, sitting in his car away from prying ears, broke into a stream of vile curses, pounding the dashboard in rage. He had failed, he failed the Moose Killers, he had failed his client, and he had failed himself. The plan was so perfect: capture Harwell, and get Alex to Ridge City. Alex would obviously give himself up, wallowing in his misguided sense of heroism. He would then try to protect himself, and in the midst of an angry mob, nobody would think anything of a man dragging an unconscious boy back to a car.
He spat, despising himself. So simple and yet so perfect—and he had failed. He thought over what the man who taught him everything he knew would say. Then he found it, the words even manifesting themselves in a light French accent. Go back to basics, Alberto. Pursue him and take him down. You tried your best but the time for subtlety is past. Find the boy. Kill him. And if your client wants him alive, give him a discount for poorly done work.
Ordoñez laughed heartily. He should have known all along. The boy was no longer a salary to him. He had become an idea. Alex Orson embodied his failure. Roland Orson could do what he wanted to the boy some other way, because Ordoñez was going to find Alex and kill him.
The police had said he was dead; Ordoñez had enough career experience not to believe police. Orson was continuing northwest, and his friends, the remaining ones, would be with him. He knew that his mentor would say something else to the current situation, but at the moment he couldn't summon the words.
Suddenly, a door opened in his mind and
he had them. You'll need help, Alberto. Don't do everything yourself.
Ordoñez was sure he knew just the man, too. His fury forgotten entirely, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed the Quebec extension, area code, and number. The phone rang four times before another French voice answered.
"Hello?"
In the background Ordoñez could hear the clinking silverware and music of a noisy restaurant. "Moose Killer business," he said at once.
Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller Page 15