Cold to the Bone

by Emery Hayes

  Nicole cut the engine and wasted no time on the house but ran behind it, directly to the woodshed. She turned on her flashlight as she advanced.

  New footprints had appeared in the packed snow. A piece of wood broken off a log had been slipped between the door handles on the shed, making it impossible to open from the inside. Mrs. Neal had been in there close to twelve minutes. Nicole had marked the time with the clock on her dash.

  Nicole knelt, tapping on the roof of the shed as she did, and spoke to Mrs. Neal.

  “I’m here, Mrs. Neal.” She used the butt of the flashlight like a hammer and drove the wood out of the handles and opened the doors.

  “He has Jordan,” Mrs. Neal said, still curled on her side. Her teeth chattered and her lips were blue. “I heard two car doors slam shut, the engine start and the tires on the gravel.”

  Nicole helped Mrs. Neal out. Her limbs were stiff from cold, her joints sticky.

  “Lars is working on it,” Nicole said.

  They would track Jordan using the GPS in his cell phone. Lars had already connected with the carrier. It wouldn’t be too long before they had a flashing red dot on Lars’s computer screen and he would direct her over the air until the visual came up on her computer in the cruiser. But she already suspected the general direction.

  “He told Jordan that he wanted his son to see how Daddy did his job.”

  Nicole nodded. Sounded like Benjamin. He liked to impress. He wanted people to think he was important. “Did he say where they were going?”

  “A meeting. That was all. They were walking away then, and I couldn’t catch all their words.”

  Neither had Nicole.

  She kept her arm around Mrs. Neal and urged her across the snow and into the Yukon. Then she hustled to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and turned the engine. She hit the button for heat, moving it up. “It’ll take a minute.” She reached into the back seat for a blanket and handed in to Mrs. Neal. “Get that wrapped around you.”

  “He acts like a child.”

  “Always.” Sometimes playful, other times with a temper that flared when he wasn’t given his way or things turned against him.

  “Do you think he’ll hurt Jordan?”

  “He already has.” Nicole whispered the words, but Mrs. Neal caught them. She sighed, and it caught on a small sob.

  “I was in a bad place,” Nicole said.

  She took the driveway too fast and her tires spun on the gravel; then she turned the SUV onto the state road, east, toward the lake, the resorts, King’s rented home. There were many possibilities, but all of them clustered around the lake. Her cell phone was in its slot on the dash, and she pressed speed dial for Lars.

  He answered on the first ring. “You got her?”

  “Yes,” Nicole said. “Benjamin has Jordan.” As they had suspected. “You have his GPS open?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Turn all the units back, toward the lake. Benjamin mentioned a meeting.”

  “Wish we knew where he was staying.”

  “Send a car to Sanders’ resort. Have them get a bead on her.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  She thought about that. She wanted Lars to tell her, to look at his computer screen and tell her exactly where Jordan was. “I’m dropping Mrs. Neal off at the station.” Where an EMT could look her over, where she would be safe. “Then heading toward Lake Maria.” Their crime scene. She felt its pull. All trails led back to it. “Or the Huntington.” And she remembered the picture of Esparza with Benjamin and his wife, on the slope outside the resort. Acrimonious at best. Dr. Esparza didn’t like Benjamin. Wasn’t wooed by the charm or swayed by whatever power Benjamin leveled. “Let me know as soon as you have the map up.”

  Lars’ exclamation kept her from cutting the connection.

  “I got it. Amber Alert is up.” Which made it compulsory for cell phone companies to open the GPS signals of their underage members to police when a kidnap was suspected. “Lake Road,” he said. “South side. Moving slowly.”

  Nicole turned the cruiser into the station parking lot and helped Mrs. Neal inside.

  “I’m sorry, Nicole.” Mrs. Neal was teary. She clutched the blanket the desk clerk wrapped around her shoulders. “I should have done better.”

  “No,” Nicole said. “I should have.”

  She left then, back into the cold, into the Yukon. Onto the Lake Road. She pressed her foot on the gas and the engine roared and the SUV hopped forward to deliver. She hailed Lars.

  “You have your internet open?”

  Nicole looked at the computer screen on the console, positioned above the AK-47, which was positioned above the response kit—knife, flashlight, flare gun, handheld radio. As she watched, the screen flickered, paused, and then loaded the cellular map Lars was also looking at. It showed streets and geographical landmarks. The red dot was Jordan. It was flashing, which meant he and Benjamin were on the move.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. They were two miles outside town. She glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-eight miles per hour. Three minutes separated Nicole from her son. She would have to slow at intersections, when the road curved. Four minutes, then.

  “I’m rolling,” Lars said. “Coming in from the north.”

  From the Huntington. Where both Dr. Esparza and Joaquin were missing. Nicole had been on her way there when Jordan called. That meant she and Lars had Benjamin and Jordan between them. They would close in. But Nicole would arrive first. Protocol would have her waiting on Lars to catch up. To position herself so that they had Benjamin pinned, with nowhere to go. No moves to make. Except that he had Jordan, and that gave him cart blanche.

  “I can’t wait on you,” Nicole said.

  The silence snapped with the crackle of radio waves.

  “No,” he agreed. “I’m right behind you. Five minutes tops. I’ve called for backup, but they’re still miles out.”

  Toole County spread far and wide.

  Her eyes were drawn back to the computer screen, snagged on the red dot, blinking, moving, just a mile away. She cut the bar lights, not wanting to tip off Benjamin on her approach.

  “Bring the Colt,” Lars said. It was long range, and Nicole was a good shot.

  She reminded herself that Benjamin hadn’t come for Jordan. It had never been about their son, only in how Benjamin could use Jordan to hurt her. To torment her. And he would have to keep Jordan alive to accomplish that.

  “He’s alive,” Nicole said.

  “And he’s going to stay that way,” Lars promised.

  37

  His father wasn’t comfortable on the Bobcat. His hand tightened on the throttle so that the engine burst forward with speed, and then he loosened his grip and sometimes glided into a stall. Joaquin stayed behind him. Fifty or sixty yards. A slice of moon illuminated the surface of the lake and made his father a small, shadowy figure. He tried to match the sound of his engine to his father’s, to hide inside his starts and stops, but that was almost impossible. His father didn’t seem to notice he had company, though. He was focused. He had a plan and he was determined to see it through.

  Joaquin thought he would die doing it. He’d said as much and his father had agreed. He had asked his father to change his mind, but hadn’t begged him. To turn away from all of it. To start again.

  How did you walk away from a discovery that would change the world? Or a daughter who had died believing it would?

  His father came to a measured stop. He sat upright, his feet on the rails, but moved his head, scanning the lake. They were near the home King had rented but closer to the place where Beatrice had died. A thin ribbon of yellow tape fluttered in the wind along the shore, attached to wood spikes, but tattered. Above that, the land rose like the gentle swells of an ocean until it reached the joggers’ path, lit by sodium lamps, and beyond that and through a thin stand of trees, the road.

  Joaquin didn’t see anyone and neither did his father, who stood and began a deeper sweep of the
lake with his eyes. Joaquin cut the engine on his Bobcat and the headlight extinguished. He was swallowed by darkness but ducked down anyway and tucked himself against the snowmobile so that he was consumed by its shadow.

  His father wanted to do this alone. He refused to allow more harm to come to their family.

  He had been carried away by the great meaning in his discovery, had dreamed of parades in his honor and the Nobel Prize. People would know his story, from a street kid in Mexico City to Nueva Vida, and he would be a hero. He had wanted that. He had needed to be king of the mountain so that he would feel some small measure of achievement. Of worthiness. He had thought Nueva Vida would be his defining moment and didn’t realize, until it was too late, that his actions as a father would bring him the most glory.

  Joaquin respected that. His father had made a mistake. Several. But more than he’d wanted his super cell to work, he’d wanted Beatrice to rise above death.

  Above them Joaquin caught the flare of headlights as a vehicle slowed along the Lake Road. He watched it bounce over the snowbanks the plows had left behind on the shoulder of the road and stopped. For a long moment, there was nothing else. Then the headlights cut off. His father had noticed it too, and he sat down, opened the throttle, but was slow to release the brake. The engine whined sharply and then he shot forward, skidding on the ice so that the Bobcat veered left before his father straightened it out.

  Joaquin waited. He counted to ten by thousands. He looked up and saw that his father was almost a hundred yards away and that Sanders, or her point man, was descending the embankment, carrying a flashlight. The beam was small and flickered with each stride of the person. Still, if Joaquin could see it, then his headlight would be noticed in return. He decided to move forward slowly. Blindly. And that presented a problem. The Bobcat was designed with automatic safety features in place. One of them prevented the rider from extinguishing the headlight with a simple switch.

  He popped the shell on the steering column, pulled the glove from his right hand, and felt for the wiring. Snowmobiles were not new to him. He preferred them to skiing or sledding or tubing and every winter spent a considerable amount of time on them. Still, he realized pretty quickly that he was going to have to risk using his flashlight. There were too many wires, they crossed over each other and it was impossible to follow any with certainty. He knew the headlight would run directly to the battery. But he had to see it.

  And risk being seen. The thought made him breathless. Dizzy. His father was meeting with the person who had killed Beatrice. His father was sure he would die doing it. Joaquin didn’t want to think about that. He had done a good job pushing it out of his mind. He wanted to believe his father could release his research, vindicate his sister, remove the threat from his family, and live through it all. And he had followed him, thinking he could help.

  And he could, if he kept his mind clear, pushed back the fear, dealt with each moment as if it was the only one that existed.

  He reached into the deep pocket of his parka and pulled out the flashlight. It was a Maglite, heavy duty, made of aluminum but weighed more than a pound. It had a textured hand grip and was a foot long. The metal chilled quickly and seared his palm. Still, he held it firmly and thought about the best way to use it. Settled on pointing the beam toward him and away from his father and Callon. He cupped his hand around the lens as an extra measure of concealment and positioned it two inches above the console. Then he pressed the button, blinked against the sudden brightness, focused on the battery and traced the wires with his eyes. The orange one. It went from the block to the headlight. He tugged on it, wished he had a pocketknife, but he’d never been into that Boy Scout kind of stuff. It took three strong pulls before the wire snapped free. He extinguished the flashlight and dropped it back into his pocket.

  Three seconds. Maybe five.

  He sat back on the Bobcat’s seat and looked over the handlebars. His father had stopped, was idling only a few short yards from the shore. The approaching figure was gaining fast. Joaquin pushed off, kept the throttle even, knew he would have to cut the engine when his father cut his and listened for it. He was within sixty yards when it happened. Joaquin cut the engine, dropped his helmet on the seat, and continued on foot. At forty yards his father rose from the Bobcat and stood beside it, the headlight bright. Beyond it were the shadowy figures of a man and boy stumbling down the slope and onto the ice. At thirty yards, the man and boy stepped into the light. At twenty yards, the wind was strong enough to catch his father’s words and toss them back to Joaquin.

  “You brought a child with you?”

  His father wasn’t happy about it. His voice was filled with dismay and then anger. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  The man shrugged. “He’s my son. I’m thinking of turning this into a family business.” He laughed, but it was short and sharp.

  “I am not his son,” the boy said. “My mom’s the sheriff.”

  Joaquin felt his heart skip a beat. He moved closer.

  “You took the sheriff’s son?”

  “He’s only telling you half the truth,” the man said. “You have the research, Doc?”

  His father remained silent. He hadn’t been expecting the people responsible for killing his daughter to arrive with a child. And he didn’t know what to do about it. Joaquin could feel his indecision from where he stood. Noticed the way his father shifted on his feet.

  “I’m not here to turn over my work,” he said.

  “But that was the plan. Sanders gave me the update, Dr. Esparza. You agreed. And fifty-five million dollars is a lot of money. You won’t get a better deal.” His voice was reasonable, smooth. Joaquin took another step closer.

  “I’m not looking for a deal. Not anymore.”

  The guy changed tactics, his words became about understanding. “You’re upset about your daughter. We all are.”

  “You killed her,” his father accused.

  “Not me,” he said. “I knew about the decision, of course, and I did nothing to stop it. We both know why.” He took a step closer to Joaquin’s father, pulling the boy along with him. “You know why Beatrice had to die. You had to know from the beginning. But maybe you hid from it. It was easier that way. Only a monster could look their child in the eye every day knowing that what they were doing would kill her.”

  “She was a success!”

  “Exactly,” the guy agreed. “And that’s the last thing the Big Six want. Proof of life. Where’s the research, Doctor?”

  “It’s too late for that,” his father said.

  “You know how this works,” the guy continued. “Baby steps. There’s a lot of money to be made, and lost.”

  “You mean there’s a lot of money in dying. For the Big Six.”

  “That’s what I mean.” The guy pulled a gun from his coat pocket and Joaquin felt his breath thin, felt his lungs seize. His father noticed it too, but he remained steady on his feet. “And the longer it takes to die, the better. You thought you could change that?”

  “I did change that,” his father said.

  “Your research, Doctor.”

  There was a long pause, and then his father raised his arm and made a show of looking at his watch. “Yes, too late. You see, Benjamin, I took precautions. Did you think I wouldn’t? Did you think I would allow you to kill my child and run away with the spoils?” He shook his head. “No. Right about now my research, all of Nueva Vida, every note, formula, technique used in its development, the complete details of its success, are being devoured by those who will do everything to make it real.”

  Benjamin froze and then his hand twitched. His hold tightened on the boy, who tried to twist away from him.

  “You sold it to someone else?”

  “No. I gave it away. And I gave it to more than one person. I gave it to scientists and to journalists. I gave it to the police.”

  “You gave it away?” Benjamin couldn’t believe it. And then he did, as Joaquin’s father nodded and, Joaqu
in imagined, gave a smile of supreme satisfaction. And then he saw a burst of orange light, like a flame, extending from Benjamin’s hand and igniting the black night. And then he heard it, the sharp crack against the sky. His father’s arms fell to his sides as he crumbled to the ice.

  Something happened to Joaquin in that moment. He felt, but from a distance. He acted on thought, not emotion. He shied away from that. His survival instinct kicked into overdrive. He stood on the ice, his knees weak, his hands trembling, his heart teetering above a deep canyon of grief, and he chose life. He chose action. It was instinct and he followed it.

  Benjamin, the man who’d shot his father, pulled on the boy. The sheriff’s son. Benjamin bent over his father’s body and rummaged through pockets. It was dark, the man’s flashlight little help. Joaquin stood more than twenty yards away, but he knew there was nothing to find. His father had left it all behind. Then the man stood and shot his father again. The cracking of the gunshot skittered across the ice. And that’s what snapped Joaquin out of his stupor. It burned in his chest. He opened his mouth and roared. He was calling to his father, although he knew he was too late for that. He stumbled backward, ran for his snowmobile, and gunned the engine. He didn’t care now who heard him, saw him, knew he was there. And he headed straight for the man who had murdered his father—and probably Beatrice too.

  Benjamin turned toward the sound, pushed the boy onto the idling Bobcat, and climbed on behind him. He lost a few moments as the boy struggled. And a few moments more when a pair of headlights appeared on the Lake Road above them. He pulled his gun from his pocket again and held it to the boy’s head. Joaquin felt his stomach clutch as he remembered its orange burst of flame and the sharp crack that had split the night in two, and his father, falling to the ice. But there was only the sound of their Bobcat engines. Benjamin turned and grabbed the handlebars. He pressed on the throttle. The snowmobile leapt forward.