The section marked vehicle registration had been written in Maebeth’s familiar, looping hand in blue ink. Jim Bell’s car had dealer plates. But it was the make of the car that caught Gus’s eye. White GMC Yukon.
Gus frowned. He glanced at his watch. Quarter to nine.
He reached for the phone and dialed the home number listed on the registration card.
A male voice answered on the second ring. “Good morning. Mile High GMC, Denver’s best. Jim Bell speaking.”
CHAPTER 36
The Buick was losing speed. The old car slowed whenever Caroline eased up on the gas. She pressed down harder each time, trying to keep her speed up. She was only one mile from Storm Pass, not even as far as the turnoff to Ken’s place, when the car died.
She steered onto the shoulder where snow was piling up. There was silence. The green ALT light flashed when she tried the ignition. She stared, shaking her head in disbelief. It was as though the car, the weather, the place itself were all conspiring against her plans.
Pippin whined.
She switched off the lights, flipped on the hazards, and waited before trying again. Nothing. Not even clicking.
“Oh, no,” she muttered, dropping her head against the seat. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples, trying to think.
Pippin jumped into her lap, sniffing at her face. The Greyhound would pass through in less than an hour.
She tried the engine a few more times before giving up. She released the hood, donned her wool cap, and got out, squinting her eyes against the driving snow. She opened the latch and looked underneath at lots of metal parts and hoses, coated with road grime. She was wondering what to do when she heard a powerful rumble.
She saw a pair of headlights, low to the ground, come into view as the candy apple red Porsche pulled up.
Relief flooded through her as the driver’s side door swung open and Gus Kincaid stuck his head out.
“Top o’ the morning,” he called. “Need a hand?”
“Yes, please.” Caroline hurried over and offered her hand as he worked to pull himself out of the low racing coupe.
Gus waved her off with a chuckle. “Thanks, young lady, but I’m afraid I’d take you right down with me. Give me a minute. I can manage.” He hoisted himself to the edge of the leather seat and gathered his weight under him before pushing himself upright. He let out a mighty breath of air and smiled, embarrassed. “My son’s the only one who can drive that thing.”
Caroline nodded, wondering why Gus was out in a storm. She didn’t ask because she didn’t want to be questioned in return. Besides, she had no right. She was about to disappear from their lives forever.
Gus was already poking around under the hood. “Take a seat inside and start ’er up when I tell you,” he said.
Caroline climbed back in and gave it gas at Gus’s signal.
Again, there was no response.
Gus slammed the hood shut. “Generator’s gone.”
Caroline’s heart sank in frustration. She had no idea what a generator did, but she wished it hadn’t picked this day to stop working.
“Time for a new car, I think,” Gus said, surveying Caroline’s overflowing tote bag and backpack that took up most of the passenger seat. He picked up one of her hands in his and squeezed it. “Where you headed, Alice?”
The feel of his hand combined with his frank gaze was disarming. Caroline choked up.
Gus waited, keeping a grip on her hand.
“I need a ride to the groomer,” she said finally in a low voice.
“I can manage that,” he said kindly.
He did not point out it was a terrible day to drive halfway across the county, a fact she was grateful for. “Thanks,” she whispered.
He collected her bags and waited while she scooped Pippin into her arms and climbed out.
He chatted about nothing, his tone soothing, as she got settled inside the Porsche. Nan told her he’d lost his wife at a young age and had raised their infant son alone. And now that son had grown into a man as strong and kind as his father. Caroline forced herself to hold back the tears that were pulsing behind her eyes. Tears she dared not shed.
Gus shifted into second and pulled out. “This car isn’t meant for driving in snow but she’ll take the road in second gear.”
Within seconds Caroline saw that he was right.
“I can probably manage to get your errands done and get you back to Nan’s in one piece. I’ll have hell to pay if I don’t.” He winked.
She managed a weak smile.
He slowed at the turnoff to Ken’s place. “I just need to make a quick stop here first.”
Caroline’s heart did a flip-flop. Time was tight, not to mention the last thing she wanted was to see Ken. But she had no choice. Gus’s detour might cost her a seat on the Greyhound bus, a fact he couldn’t possibly know. Or did he?
“I want to trade cars and use his Jeep. ’Cause this thing isn’t worth a darn in the ice and snow, if you ask me.” Gus harrumphed. “Might as well drop by while we’re in the neighborhood.”
Ken’s place was empty. The drive had fresh tire tracks in the snow. The Jeep was gone.
“That’s strange,” Gus said.
A feeling of dread settled over Caroline. They went in, leaving Ken’s spare keys dangling in the door.
She had been here just once before, but a wave of emotion hit her as soon as she stepped inside. A woodsy scent filled her nostrils. Ken’s scent. She looked around, expecting to see him come around a corner any second to greet them.
But the place was silent as a tomb.
On the counter, his answering machine blinked with several new messages.
CHAPTER 37
Ken kept a close watch on Bell, every muscle in his body primed and ready to pounce. Ken could take him out in three seconds. But he’d bust the coffee table in the process.
Bell was weeping softly.
Ken wished he could help. He’d taken in strays as a kid, once even getting Gus to drive clear across the county for an eyedropper from the twenty-four-hour pharmacy so they could nurse a baby blue jay. But Bell’s strange fits of emotion were alarming. His moods shifted too fast, for one thing. Ken had seen his share of rage on the field, some of it fueled by steroids, but there had been less of it as he rose through the ranks. Men who made pro had mastered their emotions, even in a sport known for its punishing physical contact.
Which meant that Jim Bell’s top-of-the-line SUV and state-of-the-art gear didn’t match up to the seesaw of emotion he displayed.
A lot of things about him weren’t right.
Porter ripped off his steel-rimmed glasses and dug at his eyes with his knuckles. He snuck a glance at Kincaid, and didn’t like what he saw. Kincaid was watchful. Wary. Time was running out, Porter knew. Things were no longer going as well as he had hoped. He needed to choose his moment soon, or his opportunity would pass.
Watching Bell, Ken recalled how frightened Alice had been last night. She was convinced there had been something in the woods. Not something. Someone. A man she might be fleeing from. It was hard to believe Alice’s ex could be the man sniffling on Ken’s couch right now. The idea was repugnant to Ken. And yet, once it presented itself, it quickly took root in his mind.
Watching Kincaid, Porter saw Ken’s eyes harden in a look that had made many an opposing halfback brace himself for the worst. Porter flinched. He stopped crying and blew his nose. “Okay,” he said, shifting gears. “Okay.”
Ken stood, drawing himself up to his full height, which was considerable. Squaring his shoulders, he centered his weight on the balls of his feet in the classic fight stance. “I’m going to go outside for a minute, and you’re going to wait right here, Jim.”
Porter took another sip of water with hands that shook. “Shall I, shall I, ah…?”
“Wait here. I’m going to turn off the propane tanks, then we’ll head down.”
Porter gave a vigorous nod, not meeting Ken’s gaze.
; Satisfied that Bell was settled for the moment, Ken stepped out the back door into the swirling storm.
Snow came at him from all directions. Several inches lay on the ground and more was coming. He could feel it.
He drew the cold air deep into his lungs and held it before expelling it fully through his lips in an attempt to rid himself of anxiety. He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Ken could just make out the surface of the lake, dark as slate. He was glad for a few minutes alone. His high spirits of the morning were all but forgotten.
He headed for the twin tanks along the rear wall of the cabin and reached for the first valve. It screwed shut easily. Not so the second valve, located back at the base. Ken knelt on the cold ground, his fingers pushing at the safety clamp. It refused to budge. Ken pushed harder.
The clamp still refused to yield.
“Damn,” he muttered. He had tools in the Jeep, but retrieving them now would add precious minutes to the task. And he wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Bracing himself, he closed his hand around the clamp once more and pushed with all his strength.
The clamp had begun to give way when he felt a prick on his leg like a bee sting.
He gasped in surprise and rocked back onto his heels. He caught movement from the corner of his eye and swung around, to find himself staring into the barrel of a gun.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The key worked and the lock sprang open. The police officers announced their presence, kicked the door open, and burst into the storage room, taking up positions the way they had drilled.
There was no one inside.
What they saw, however, was enough to stop all four cops dead in their tracks.
Inside was an altar of sorts.
Hartung was the first to break the silence. “Bullshit.”
“Amen,” someone said.
He fumbled behind him for the wall switch. The dim light of the overhead bulb only served to heighten the sense Hartung had that he had stumbled onto the set of a Hitchcock movie.
Officer Mike Hartung hated scary movies.
The room was spotless. In its center was a gleaming steel barrel, the kind used for hazardous waste, draped in ivory lace. On top was a single snowy white candle in a holder. Next to it was a pack of matches and a framed photograph of a young woman, and in her lap sat a little boy.
The woman could have been any young mother wearing a silk blouse with shoulder pads and Boy George spiky bangs, which made Hartung guess the photo had been taken sometime in the late 1980s.
But there was no mistaking the identity of the little boy with thick brown hair and pale blue eyes, peering anxiously into the camera.
Next to the barrel was a daybed with pillows.
It was a match for the one in Moross’s office. A therapy couch.
If the whole setup wasn’t spooky enough to begin with, this realization alone would have been enough to kick up Hartung’s Spidey sense. But Spidey was already in high gear.
Next to the therapy couch was a straight-backed chair, extra matches, and a big box of candles.
Spares.
Hartung was the first to move. Donning latex gloves, he swiped a finger across the base of the candle. “No dust.”
The rim of the daybed was just as clean.
Which meant it got frequent use.
They collected the items atop the barrel and sealed them inside evidence bags, after photographing the scene.
“Well, here goes.” Hartung’s partner began working the rim of the barrel with a crowbar, with an assist from a couple of officers who held the container steady. The room was quiet as a tomb while he worked.
When the lid finally popped, Hartung was very glad he hadn’t stopped for bagels.
The musky odor of decay worked its way out through countless layers of industrial-gauge plastic sheeting.
There were audible groans as the officers donned masks and kept cutting away layers.
Hartung fished in his pocket for the Kleenex he always carried to homicide scenes, and pressed it against his mask.
It did nothing to blot out the stench, but it gave him something to do besides ponder the grisly contents of the container.
When the last of the plastic sheeting had been worked open, the officers stepped back.
“Jesus Christ,” someone muttered.
The room fell silent out of respect for what they had found.
CHAPTER 38
Gus hit the play button on Ken’s answering machine, offering no apology for listening to his son’s private messages. He didn’t have to. The worry lines on his face said it all.
Maebeth’s voice, sounding worn and frayed. “Ken, it’s Maebeth. Call us before you head up to camp today. We need to speak with you before you leave.”
Not her usual, cheery self.
The dread inside Caroline morphed into a suspicion that was too ugly to think about. But Maebeth’s next words confirmed Caroline’s worst fear.
“I doubt you’ll take your client up there in this weather, but call us.” The call ended abruptly.
The machine whirred and reset itself.
But Ken had taken his new client up to the cabin, against his better judgment and his common sense. Caroline was certain of it.
His client would have persuaded him.
Because this client knew all there was to know about manipulation.
Suddenly, she couldn’t catch her breath. The room tilted around her. She swallowed and looked at Gus.
Gus was staring at the machine. He met Caroline’s gaze and winked, trying to reassure her that everything was okay.
Except they both knew it wasn’t.
“Just a second here,” he said, clearing his throat. “Maybe Ken’s left a message for me.” He dialed his own number and entered a code.
There was one new message, from Ted Burkle at the county hospital. Something about Maebeth burning her hand.
But Ted’s final words added weight to the heavy feeling that was pressing down on Gus’s chest. Something about Jim Bell, the guest who had arrived yesterday. He drove a white Yukon.
Gus hung up and chose his next words carefully. Alice was fragile on her best days and her face had turned white as snow, her eyes wild and unfocused, the pupils already constricted to the size of tiny dots.
She was staring out the window up to where the pass would be visible on a clear day. When she spoke her voice was dull and faint. “He’s up there.”
There was no use pretending. Gus nodded.
Alice swallowed hard with trembling lips.
Gus Kincaid wasn’t the type to get worked up over things. Nor was he one to mince words. He recalled the conversation he’d had a short while ago with the real Jim Bell, the car dealer who had answered the phone in Denver. Gus looked at Alice now, his gaze steady and direct. “Does the name Porter Moross mean anything to you?”
She recoiled as though she’d been punched. “No,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut, grabbing for the counter to steady herself.
Gus reached out to calm her. “Take it easy, Alice. Ken can take care of himself.”
Her eyes sprang open in alarm. She sprinted to the door and grabbed Ken’s spare keys.
Gus moved to stop her. “Alice, now…” he began.
But she was halfway out, with Pippin racing past her. “Call the police and tell them to come right away. He’s got a gun.”
“Alice, hold on. If you know this man…” Gus kept his voice steady in spite of the alarm he felt.
The terror in her voice made itself heard as she ran into the storm. “Porter Moross is my husband.”
The Porsche rumbled to life as Gus dialed the sheriff. There were just two in all three hundred square miles of Sky County. With any luck, one of them would be close by.
CHAPTER 39
Ken stared at the handgun. His mind struggled to make sense of it while his body coiled instinctively into a protective crouch. Even more puzzling than th
e gun in Bell’s right hand was the syringe he clutched in his left.
Ken felt pins and needles in his leg.
Bell sneered, his voice calm and steady, his accent sharply East Coast now. “Get up. Or I’ll kill you right here.”
One look at Bell’s eyes, glittering and hard like broken glass, was enough to convince Ken. Bell was Alice’s ex, Ken was certain of it.
Ken stood, or rather, attempted to. His legs were heavy, wobbling under him like rubber. Walking required all his concentration. He shook his head in disbelief. “Jim, you don’t need to do this…”
Bell let the syringe drop to the ground and backed up, never loosening his grip or his aim. “But I do, Ken. It’s time for the truth, time for everybody to get honest. With themselves. And with me. I’ll even go first.” His lips curled into a mirthless smile. “My real name is Porter Moross. I am a doctor in Washington, D.C.”
Ken felt a wild thumping in his heart. His face flushed with heat despite the cold wind whipping around them.
Moross surveyed him coolly. “The dose is kicking in, I see. Move inside while you can.”
Ken fought for every breath, feeling his heart pound slow and heavy inside his ribs. Walking had become a task that required all his concentration.
“They use this for lethal injections. To kill people who’ve done bad things,” Moross said with a short laugh. “And you’ve done some bad things, Kincaid, haven’t you?” Moross looked at Ken through eyes narrowed to tiny slits, his lips pulled back into a smile as false as that of a wax figure.
Ken saw the madness in Moross’s face. He judged his odds of tackling Moross head-on, despite the heavy-gauge pistol in Moross’s hand. But Ken knew his timing wasn’t what it had been, his bad knee was no longer trustworthy. And his legs were turning to lead. Inside the cabin was a loaded shotgun at the back of the wardrobe near Ken’s bed. A box of shells was stowed on the shelf above it. That was his best option at the moment. Ken took in a deep, ragged breath.
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