Cold Sweat (16 page)

“If you say so...” Using the edge of the fish trophy as a lever, she gave the suggestion a try.

When it failed, she fell back on plan B
.

She banged on the inside wall with the same fish trophy. Fine white dust flew around her as the drywall crumbled to pieces. Blow after blow, she widened the gap between the studs—and decapitated the fish. She hammered her way through the back drywall. A room onto the other side slowly came into view.

An empty living room.

With great effort and lots of contortions, she squeezed her body between the two studs.
I’m a biathlete, not a gymnast.
A nail scratched her hip, and she winced. If the Serpent man caused her to injure herself and miss the Olympic trials, she’d take her rifle and shoot him herself.

Almost there...

She tumbled on the other side and smiled. The sheriff had been right about the latches. She unbolted the bedroom door and opened it wide. Morgan was in bed, looking dazed.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

Her boots and her gloves were in the entryway. She slipped them on and dashed outside. A snowmobile was parked between the log cabin and a wooden shed. The key was in the ignition, but the fuel level was low. The shed was unlocked. Inside, she found a bolt cutter, some bungee cords, and three full gasoline containers. One made of metal, the other two of plastic. She emptied the metal container in the tank before tossing it in the snow. With the bungee cords, she strapped the two plastic containers on each side of the snowmobile. It wasn’t the safest way to transport fuel, but the containers would act as armrests, preventing the sheriff from toppling overboard.

The storm had already erased the tire threads from Serpent’s truck.
Good.
She counted on the weather to cover her escape.

She carried the bolt cutter inside and left it in the entryway while she rummaged through the house.

In the kitchen, two sets of keys were discarded among the dirty dishes. She grabbed both in case one proved to be an alternative to accidently chopping Morgan’s hand with the bolt cutter. Under the sink, she spotted the tackle box from which she quickly retrieved pliers, knife, compass, and matches. From the cupboards, she stocked up on granola bars.

The aerodynamic line of her ski outfit didn’t allow room for pockets. She juggled the items into the bedroom and dumped the content on the mattress. “Except for the compass, the rest will go into your pockets.”

Morgan stared with glassy eyes, looking much worse than he did half an hour ago. She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead and cringed. His skin was warm. Too warm.

I’m not such a good doctor after all.

“Hold on.” She tried both keys. The second one unlocked the cuffs. “Stay in bed. I’ll be back in a few seconds.”

Before they fled, she needed to pee. Badly. Her male teammates had a definite advantage over her. The toilet had never been washed. Ever. There were traces of blood in the sink and bloody towels in the shower. This was more disgusting than an outhouse.

While in the washroom, she searched the medicine cabinet. Aside from an old disposable razor, there was an expired bottle of ibuprofen on the shelf.
That’s better than nothing.
She took it, grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, and entered the bedroom.

Seated on the edge of the bed, Morgan rubbed his left wrist. The compass was by his buttocks. All by itself.

The man had donned his jacket and stuffed the supplies in his bulging pockets.

“What part of
stay in bed
didn’t you understand? Swallow this.”

While he followed her instructions without querying about the medication, she tucked the compass in her sleeve. His compliance concerned her. It seemed out of character.

“I got us a snowmobile. Can you stand?”

Using both hands, he pushed himself off the bed. “I think—”

Wobbling unsteadily on his feet, he fell back onto the mattress. His mouth open, he reached for his injured shoulder.

Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t need to hear him shriek or scream to know he was in pain. “Hold on to me. It’ll be easier.”

“Quest. You need to go.” The words flew out of his mouth in slow motion. “This is your chance.”

“No. I’m not leaving without you.” There was no way she was abandoning him here.

“Listen, duckling. You’re all your mother has left of your father. I promised her I’d bring you back.” His soft blue-grey eyes stared at her with such intensity, they branded her heart with the word
duckling
. “Get those feathers of yours into that snowmobile and ride away from here.”

“No.” Her arms crossed over her chest, she glared with obstinate defiance. “You come or I stay. Your choice.”

The corners of his lips curled into a grimace. “You’re as stubborn as your mother.”

She couldn’t hear, but it looked a lot like a compliment.

Chapter Eighteen

The thorough background investigation Eve was conducting on Marvin McArtnick and Roxy Farrell didn’t entirely distract her mind from Morgan’s fate. No matter how she looked at the events reported by Matheson, it didn’t make any sense for the masked perpetrator to shoot both men only to abandon River and take Morgan. The lack of answers added to Eve’s frustration.

Farrell had been convicted of aggravated assault with a knife. She’d served time in prison. To Eve’s dismay, the woman had kept a clean slate since her release. McArtnick on the other hand didn’t have anything more serious than a parking ticket on his record.

She rubbed her belly. “I’m checking his financial report one more time, baby girl, then I’m ordering us pizza.”

His bank statement appeared on the screen. Eve scrolled down the list of recent transactions and paused on the last one. “Oh pickle, what do we have here?”

The man had made a three thousand dollar cash deposit in his account yesterday, but the bank didn’t clear it until today.

“That’s lots of cash money for a mechanic, McArtnick. You better have a good explanation for the colonel.”

Before calling Matheson, Eve checked the address listed on McArtnick’s bank statement. The house belonged to a Vince Parson.

“Let’s see who you are, Mr. Parson.”

His rap sheet galvanized Eve.

Breaking and entering. Uttering threats. Shooting.
“You put three bullets in a dog, and McArtnick isn’t afraid to live with you? I’m sure the colonel will be happy to chat with you too.”

According to his record, Parson was a jailbird currently on probation. Nothing indicated he held a steady job. His credit cards were maxed out. His bank statement showed a three thousand dollar cash deposit.

“Double pickle.” It was dated two days ago.

She dialed Matheson.

***

The gunshot and the loss of blood had weakened Rich and the fever had zapped his last ounce of strength.

He wouldn’t have reached the door without leaning on Quest. To his astonishment, the teenage girl hadn’t appeared to struggle under the added weight of his body. Under that tight ski outfit, there were more muscles than met the eyes. Her mother would be so proud of her.

“Hold on to the hooks on the wall while I open the door.” She directed his hands toward the hooks. “And don’t move this time.”

The moment she opened the door, the wind blew snow inside the house, cooling his feverish body. The storm had resumed with a vengeance.

“Are you ready, Sheriff?”

As he let go of the hooks, he noticed an old plaid parka hung by its hood. He grabbed it and forced it into her hands.

“Put that on.” Designed for racing, her outfit wouldn’t protect her against the wind and cold of a snowmobile ride. “This is not debatable, duckling.”

“I...Thanks.” Three sizes too big, the parka reached her knees and the sleeves enveloped her gloves. “Your fashion sense stinks.”

“Look at it this way, there might be DNA on it that we can analyze.”

“And I’m wearing it?” Her cute face twisted in a grimace. “Gross.”

“Let’s go.” Standing up added to his pain and exhaustion. He looked forward to sitting somewhere.

“Sorry, Sheriff. There’s only one helmet. You’ll have to close your eyes and hold on tight. I need to see where I’m riding.”

His entire right side throbbed as he reached forward and clung to her waist. The duckling pressed against the palm of his hand, a painful reminder of a life he let slip through his fingers.

The blowing snow reduced the visibility to less than ten feet, nipping at his face and eyes. Where she headed, he had no clue, but he trusted her. Someone had done a great job teaching her survival training. It was too bad that West Point didn’t accept deaf cadets. She would have made a fine military officer—like her mother and grandfather before her.

At regular intervals, she stopped and checked her compass. As time stretched, the trees grew sparser and the terrain became rougher. The pain increased tenfold with each bump.

Fighting to stay conscious, Rich blinked the imaginary shining stars dancing in front of his eyes amidst the falling snow. The snowmobile leaped in the air. He held his breath. The jarring landing felt like a knife into his wound.

Blackness welcomed him into its mist.

***

An icy fog had moved in as the storm receded, propelling the temperature downward. The roads hadn’t improved since their early morning ride, but Thompson didn’t seem to notice. He drove with the same urgency pummeling inside Amelia’s chest.

“Left turn coming in less than twenty feet.” Amelia’s fatigue had vanished with Ford’s phone call, replaced by the familiar jolt of adrenaline preceding a mission. The sudden cash inflow in both suspects’ account within days of her daughter’s disappearance couldn’t be a coincidence.

A snow-covered road, which hadn’t greeted a plow in recent days, appeared out of the fog. Thompson negotiated the sharp turn in slow motion. “I need chains under my tires. How far is 52 Evergreen?”

The coordinates of their suspects’ house blinked on the GPS screen. “About ninety feet away.”

Outside Amelia’s window, a yellow mailbox shaped like an elongated lemon, peeked out of a snow bank. The number 28 was written on it in big bright red paint.

The deputy parked next to it. “If they see the car, they may run. Do you want to walk from here and surprise them?”

“That’s an excellent plan, Thompson.” She checked her gun. “Let’s go.”

The fog hid their approach. A truck and a car were buried under eight inches of snow in the driveway of an old country house. The vehicles hadn’t moved since before the storm hit.

Amelia had two likely suspects with that many possible hostages inside. “I’ll make a reconnaissance sweep around the house. You cover my six.”

The front porch hadn’t been shoveled and a blind obscured the only front window. Trudging knee deep into the snow, Amelia circled the small one-story house.

On the side, a dryer vent protruded from the plain outdoor wall, and on the back, two frosty windows and a door faced a large shed.

Through the first window, Amelia peered into a bedroom.

The double bed was unmade. A plate with food rested on a pillow. A coffee cup rested on the night table. The television was turned on. And the room was empty.

The hair on her left arm prickled.
There should be an occupant in that room.

As she looked into the second window, Amelia’s hope of finding answers sank at the sight of the man lying on the kitchen floor. A dark puddle extended from his head to the leg of the table.
That so doesn’t look like coffee.

There was no trace in the snow except for the ones she’d just made. The killer was either still inside or long gone. Suspecting the later, Amelia prepared for the former. The door was unlocked.

Gun drawn, she kicked it open. “U.S. Army!”

Silence answered her.

Behind her, Thompson barged in. “What happened?”

“Don’t know.” All her senses on alert and ready to shoot, she squatted by the man and checked for pulse. “He’s dead. Let’s sweep the rest of the house.”

She found a second body in the living room. “I have another vic, Thompson.”

“Bedrooms and bathroom are clear. No basement. I got nothing.”

Satisfied, the killer was gone, Amelia holstered her weapon.

“Go back in the kitchen and check the guy for ID.” She gave the same treatment to the body in the living room. “I have Vince Parson, the neighborhood bad boy.”

“I have Marvin McArtnick, the mechanic,” Thompson yelled from the kitchen. “He hasn’t been dead for more than a few hours. There’s a shed outside. I’m going to have a look.”

They’d arrived too late. Frustrated beyond words, Amelia checked her phone for signal. Two bars out of four. She dialed Ford.

“Colonel, I was hoping you’d call soon.” The deputy’s bubbly inflection did little to cheer Amelia’s spirits. “Did you find anyone at Parson’s address?”

“Two dead bodies.” A heavy silence fell between them. “Vince Parson and Marvin McArtnick,” she hurried to add, inwardly cursing her lack of tact. “Bullets to the head. They died early this morning.”

A sigh of relief wafted through the line. “Any sign of your daughter or the sheriff?”

Not in the house.
“Hold on.” Amelia stepped outside to check on Thompson’s progress.

The deputy slammed the door of the shed. “Nothing,” he yelled.

“No, Ford.” Unlike Thompson, she made an effort to conceal her frustration. “No trace of either of them. Tell me you have another lead for us.”

“Captain Jackman just called. The fishing cabin in the picture belongs to a Major Frank, a friend of Elliot, who is currently deployed overseas The cabin is located sixty miles west of Snowy Tip. According to Frank, it should be vacant. I’m texting you the coordinates now. Also, the coroner concluded that Elliot’s niece died of an overdose. Prior to her death, she’d performed dozens of searches on drug overdose on her computer. While it could be accidental, it’s also possible she killed herself.”

Chapter Nineteen

Amelia was surprised to see Wayne River in the maintenance bay fixing a snowmobile.