Perfect Assassin (4 page)

She hoped the information in his profile was accurate and that he was still living in northern Montana somewhere near East Glacier. That is, unless he’d moved, as it appeared Odell had done.

The pilot, Marty, seemed to know the area she’d inquired about. She had taken that as a good sign. His plane, though small, looked seasoned, and he’d taken off with the experience of a pro.

But what was that noise she kept hearing?

Otto had been calling her cell phone since she’d left their flat in Vienna in the middle of the night. Of course she hadn’t answered him—not even the dozens of text messages he’d left. He sounded more than a little upset, and that’s why she hadn’t told him her plan, and she didn’t intend to speak to him until she’d done what she’d come to do. Not until her personal business was finished.

He wouldn’t be able to follow. She had taken precautions—changed her name twice—careful not to leave a paper trail of any kind.

She nodded as the pilot pointed to the black shadowy peak ahead. She had told Marty that she was a wildlife photographer on an assignment. He seemed eager to buy into her story, had gladly accepted the cash she’d offered. She’d even brought a camera along. After all, a photographer without her equipment would look suspicious, and the equipment had made it easier to conceal her father’s gun.

The aircraft gained altitude as it passed over a mountain range. Marty called it the Flathead Range. She had noticed a constant change in temperature since leaving Missoula. She shivered in her seat and instinctively pulled the black stocking cap further over her ears.

The airplane caught an air current, and she felt it in her stomach. More noise. A constant rattling now.

She snuggled into the seat, determined not to worry. Nothing was going to go wrong. It couldn’t. She had a date with death, and she was the executioner.

Chapter 3

K
oko followed the mountain trail from memory. It was narrow and overgrown, a steady climb upward. It was pitch-black out and cold enough to see her breath. The scent of snow was in the air, but she paid no attention to the time of day or the weather conditions.

The vision was strong and she felt the urgency of it. That’s why she hadn’t questioned it, not even with the knowledge that she was racing toward something that hadn’t happened yet. That was the case sometimes, and she knew there was a reason for it. Soon she would know what it was.

Her visions often came in bits and pieces, and she had to trust the process—believe. There was always a purpose to everything—what had passed and what was yet to be.

The higher she climbed the colder the air became. She stopped and buttoned up her faded blue coat, then pulled her pink wool scarf out of her pocket and covered her head. She tied the ragged ends under her wrinkly chin, then dug deeper in her pocket for a pair of finger-worn gloves.

She kept her aging eyes alert as she moved along the trail, concentrating on the vision and the heat that surrounded it. When she reached the southern slope of the mountain, she was halfway there. Breathing heavily, she kept the same dogged pace as she skirted rocks and the gangly lodgepole pines that were common to the Rockies. In some spots the animal trail went straight up, but Koko didn’t turn back.

After two more hours, she reached a snow-covered ridge and looked across the ravine. That’s when she saw it—the vision come to life. It was so clear this time that it knocked her to her knees.

She staggered back up, realizing it wasn’t the vision that had put her to the ground. The picture was no longer inside her head. It had finally materialized into a living thing. She was witnessing some kind of catastrophe.

The explosion shook the ground and rose into the heavens in an orange and red fireball.

Jacy was standing at the bar nursing his swollen jaw and cursing Tate when he got the third call of the night. It was around one-thirty, and this one was from the Bureau of Land Management chief in charge of search and rescue in and around Glacier Park.

He was out of breath and talking fast into the phone, two things that set Jacy immediately on edge. Billy Mason Crow Feather wasn’t easily upset.

“A small plane went down, Moon. Contact was lost around eleven-thirty.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“Marty Stollen. He reported engine trouble around eleven-twenty, and then nothing. His location is vague on account of you know Marty and his equipment. That plane should have been junked two years ago.”

“Passengers.”

“No confirmation on that.”

Jacy knew the plane in question and the owner. Marty’s single-engine Cessna had been grounded for repairs dozens of times. A hunting guide, Marty lived on a shoe-string budget and baler twine.

“We think he went down on Sinopah, but he could have gone past and lost it near Rising Wolf. Can you lend a hand, Moon? Hell, you know both areas better than my men. If that’s where he’s at, he’s damn near sitting in your backyard.”

“I’m at the Sun Dance,” Jacy said. “If I leave now I can meet you back at Two Medicine in an hour. Has anyone gone out yet?”

“No, and they won’t if you agree to pinpoint the site before I call in a crew. I’ve got a bunch of trainees here that can’t find their asses with both hands.”

“I’ll meet you at the cabin. Tell Vic to help you put together supplies for three days. Remember he’s a city boy so his brain works on a different level than yours and mine. In other words, he’s not going to saddle Pete. But he likes to eat, so he knows where things are in the kitchen.”

“I’m leaving now, Moon. Need anything else I can get you?”

“A weather report for the next few days.”

Jacy left immediately, after telling Tate what had happened. He drove hard over the curvy mountain roads, his thoughts on the evening’s events. His gut was in a knot and long ago he’d learned that was a warning sign not to be ignored.

Had Koko seen Marty’s lightweight airplane in her vision? Had she seen the crash in her mind?

Jacy didn’t believe in coincidences. Hadn’t when he was a Hell’s Angel, nor later when he’d been recruited as a rebel agent for Onyxx.

He liked to believe that’s why he was still alive. He had a suspicious mind, and tonight it was working overtime.

The voice was high-pitched. The incessant chanting—something between eerie and musical—entered Prisca’s subconscious as she came awake. Awake but not fully lucid.

She was lying on her back, and the air around her was bitter cold. Her entire body was in pain.

She didn’t want to open her eyes. She had closed them tight just before…before the airplane had crashed into the side of the mountain.

Oh, God, the plane had crashed, and she was…where?

Pris moaned, reliving the horror of knowing she was going to die.

Was she dead?

Was she in some limbo between heaven and hell?

“Open your eyes,
sisttsi nan.
You fell from the sky, but you’re alive. Open your eyes so you can see I speak the truth.”

Prisca heard the words and responded, opened her eyes to see an old woman bent over her. There was a fire crackling close by, and it lit up the woman’s wrinkled brown face framed in pink wool.

“There you are,
sisttsi nan.
Such beautiful eyes.”

“Where am I?”

“On Sinopah.”

That explained nothing. Pris took a deep breath and moaned regretfully as a fiery pain shot throughout her body.

“I’m hurt.”

“Yes. But I have stopped the bleeding. You will survive.”

“Who are you?”

“Koko Blackkettle. And you,
sisttsi nan,
what is your name?”

“I’m…” Prisca hesitated. She didn’t dare tell anyone who she was. “I…don’t know,” she lied. “I can’t remember.”

The old woman nodded, then reached out and touched Prisca’s forehead. “Maybe a concussion. Don’t worry, or think too hard. You will know what to remember when it is important enough to make a difference. The journey has begun.”

“What journey?”

“Yours, of course. The vision tells me you’re on a quest.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re alive, and you must trust that, and only that for a time. Your purpose must be strong to survive a disaster that could have so easily killed you.”

“My purpose?”

“It’s promised in the vision.”

“What vision?”

“The vision that brought me to you.”

Pris looked around, and that’s when she saw the airplane. Or what was left of it—twisted metal scattered in all directions.

“The pilot—”

“His journey has taken him further. Do not think of him now.” The old woman laid her hand on Prisca’s chest. “Rest now.”

Marty was dead. Pris closed her eyes and tried not to think about him. The old woman began to chant again, and in an odd way it was comforting. When she blinked her eyes open again, Koko was back at the fire, stirring something in a small kettle.

Pris tried to sit up and that’s when she realized that her injuries were far more serious than she thought. She moved her hands over her body, and realized that she was wearing only her panties and nothing more beneath a layer of blankets.

“Where are my clothes? My phone?”

“I found no phone. Your clothes… I cut them off you with my knife.” The old woman produced a knife from beneath her coat. “A gift from my grandson. There was much blood and I needed to know where it was coming from. Don’t move or the bleeding will start again. Many cuts.” Koko motioned to her legs. “Some of them are deep. You must stay quiet. Your ankle is swollen, too. No broken bones.”

“How did you find me?”

“I saw you in the sky.”

“How?”

“All that matters is that I came to you in time.”

“Where is my luggage?”

“Did you have luggage?”

“Ah…I must have.”

“The airplane still burns. If you brought bags with you, they are not here. You were lucky. You were thrown out of the plane.”

“I hurt all over.”

“I have brought something with me to ease the pain.” The old woman brought Pris a brown bottle. “Drink. Two swallows.”

Pris tipped back the bottle and drank the bitter liquid, and within ten minutes she started to see double. The woman had drugged her, she realized, as she slipped into a heavy sleep.

The next time Pris opened her eyes she didn’t know where she was until she saw the old woman seated beside her. It was daylight and she stared at the surrounding wilderness with both awe and fear. There was no way that they would be rescued, she thought. No one would ever find them. Maybe no one even knew they were there.

She tried to move, and moaned with the effort.

“Be still,
sisttsi nan
.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means pretty bird.”

“And what language is it.”

“My language. I am a Blackfeet Indian.”

“Blackfoot?”

“No, Blackfeet. I have two.” The old woman smiled, then stood. “I can see much pain in your eyes. I will bring you medicine.”

“No. I want to stay awake.”

“There will be time for that later.” She produced the brown bottle again. “Here. Another day of sleep will prepare you for the journey. Drink.”

“No, I don’t want to pass out again.”

“It is good to sleep. Our journey down the mountain will be long.”

Pris accepted the bottle and drank. “What is this stuff anyway?”

“A special tonic.”

“How will we get down the mountain without help?”

“Help is coming. Moon will be here soon.”

“Moon?”

“My grandson.”

“But how does he know where to look?”

“He is very smart. Like me, he also has a gift.”

“He has visions, too?”

“No. He is smart and an expert tracker, and I have left a trail for him to follow.”

“I don’t think I can walk.”

“You will ride.” The old woman pointed to a pair of sticks with a blanket tied between them.

Pris handed the bottle of tonic back to Koko. “You’re going to drag me?”

“Don’t worry,
sisttsi nan.
I am old, but I am strong. I climbed the mountain for you, remember?”

“Yes, you came for me.”

Prisca’s eyes grew heavy again. She drifted off to sleep to the sound of the old woman making more strange sounds as she tended the fire.

When she woke next Pris found Koko talking to herself. The traveling bed had been moved closer.

The old woman must have eyes in the back of her head, Pris thought, because she turned around very suddenly.

“You’re awake. Good. We must go,
sisttsi nan.
I wanted to wait here for my grandson, but a storm is coming and we need to leave. I was about to wake you. We need to get off the mountain before the snow comes.”

“I need clothes.”

“The blankets will be enough. Better for wounds, not to move too much.” Koko picked up a second blanket and brought it to Prisca. “Keeping you warm is most important.”

She spread one blanket on the travois, and then slowly helped Pris slide her body over and onto the portable bed. Once she was settled, Koko covered her with another blanket and tucked it around her, then tied a rope harness around her waist and hooked the long wooden sticks into two loops.

Then they were moving away from the crash site as gray clouds swelled overhead and the wind began to blow.

The horse’s name was Pete, a black gelding who was used to shifting rocks and narrow trails. Jacy gave Pete his head, and let the long-legged animal negotiate the path at his own pace.

He’d wasted two days searching Rising Wolf Mountain for the downed plane with no luck, and his mood was about as sour as the weather. Clouds were moving into the area, and Sinopah Mountain was a dangerous place to be in a snowstorm.

The threatening weather turned his thoughts to his grandmother. He’d kept in contact with Tate, and Koko hadn’t come home yet. Jacy was worried, but not angry with her. Koko’s visions were real. They didn’t always come at the most opportune time, but that wasn’t something she could control.

He couldn’t ignore the parallel between the crash and Koko’s sudden late-night vision.

Billy had been convinced that the plane had tracked northeast, but after searching Rising Wolf, Jacy knew he should have followed his gut and headed straight to Sinopah. From the moment he’d arrived at the base of the mountain his gut had been churning—his seventy-six-year-old grandmother was here, and so was Marty and his airplane.

Billy was still waiting to hear from him, hoping it would be soon. The Bureau of Land Management dealt in facts, and so he hadn’t mentioned Koko and her vision. The BLM was a lot like Merrick and the Onyxx Agency in that respect.

But he didn’t need to worry about Merrick and the agency. He had retired, and they didn’t own him any longer. And his association with the BLM was strictly on a volunteer basis, so he could do things any damn way he pleased.

Jacy shifted in the saddle and leaned into the mountain as Pete, as sure-footed as a goat, maneuvered the rocky trail.

The temperature was twenty degrees, with a three-inch base of snow on the ground. He pulled the collar up on his sheepskin jacket and tugged his brown Stetson lower. Another hour passed, then another.

It was late afternoon when he spied the familiar pink scarf—a dot of color against the mountain. The sight made him smile in relief, and he reined Pete to a stop.

Koko was moving slowly along the trail, negotiating the rugged terrain and a travois she was pulling behind her.

He had stopped questioning Koko’s visions a long time ago. He’d learned about them one night seated around a campfire on the rez as his uncle had relayed to him the story of his birth: His mother Nola had been trying to get down the mountain. She was eight months pregnant and in labor.

Once again Koko was in her rocker when a vision came to her and she realized her daughter was in trouble. All of her visions came to her in the rocker. Tate had aptly named the rocker the “happening place,” and it was true, it was the place where his grandmother’s visions revealed themselves.