Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries) (47 page)

Mikayla made a noise of protest. “Shh,” Clare whispered. “Shh. Just rest on me.” She couldn’t stroke the girl’s back for fear of knocking the snow off them, so she settled for kissing her hot forehead. They made an ungainly mound of woman, baby, and girl, but shielded by a heavily insulated coat and partially covered with snow, she figured their heat signature was dampened enough to be invisible unless the agents were practically on top of her. Of course, if they did get that close, she and Mikayla were defenseless.

Russ,
she thought.
Remember how I said I didn’t need you to rescue me? Well, I do now.

16.

At the sound of gunshots, they all swung their heads toward the single-lane bridge ahead, where they had last seen the O’Days headed up the hill. Like pointers sighting a bird, they remained transfixed. “Damn,” the chief said under his breath. “Let’s go.”

Kevin’s walkie-talkie switched on. “Tac Team One to Team. Anybody know what that was?”

He answered. “Millers Kill One to Team. Shots fired up the hill where we parked.” He opened his mouth, but the chief shook his head no. “We’re going to check it out.”

The chief put his hand out. Kevin surrendered the walkie-talkie. “Chief Van Alstyne here. I want everyone to maintain position until you hear otherwise.” He handed the unit back. It emitted clicks of acknowledgment as Kevin holstered it.

The chief clambered up the bank with Hadley behind him and Kevin, as usual, bringing up the rear.

“Okay,” he said when they were standing on the road. “This is what—”

“Tac Team One to Team. We have movement. One suspect, two, no, three suspects exiting the rear of the house. Suspects are headed for the barn.”

They all swung again, this time toward the barn.
Not pointers,
Kevin thought.
Weather vanes.
He could see what looked like shadows moving toward the narrow barn door.

“Suspects are armed. Millers Kill chief, please advise.”

Van Alstyne grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Maintain position.”

From above the hill line, another shot rang out. Immediately, the crack of a tactical rifle answered. The shadows separated, sped up, flattened against the barn.

“Goddammit, I said maintain position. That shot came from up the hill, not from the house.” The chief glanced up toward where the Feds had presumably disappeared.

“Go on, Chief.” Hadley pushed him. “We can keep a lid on things here.”

“You’re right. Kevin, mind if I take this?” He held up the walkie-talkie.

“No, Chief.”

“I’m going to see what the hell is going on with those two. Be ready to move when I call you. I may need backup.” He gestured with his chin toward the barn. “They’ve got no place to escape to. We can pick our time to round ’em up.” He turned and jogged away, headed up the steep road.

“That sounds exactly like something someone says in a movie before disaster strikes.” Hadley unharnessed her walkie-talkie and turned it back on. “Should we get closer to the barn?”

Kevin shook his head. “We stay right here. If the chief needs us, we don’t want to lose any time.” He squinted. The shadows were moving. Then there was a crack of light, and one-two-three figures slipped into the barn. He could hear the door slam shut from where he stood.

Hadley toggled the walkie-talkie. “Millers Kill Two to Tac Team. Can you confirm suspects have entered the barn?”

“That’s a confirmation, Millers Kill Two. We should just board the place up and call it a night.”

Hadley let out a huff of amusement. She looked up to where Van Alstyne had disappeared, then at Kevin. In the dim light, he could see her nose and cheeks were red. “I don’t like the chief going after them all by himself.”

“Neither do I.” He chafed his arms and stamped his boots. “But he knows the situation down here if he’s got the walkie-talkie on. He’ll tell us when he wants us to move.”

“Also? I’m freezing.”

He laughed softly. “Not the ideal first date, huh?”

She slapped her holster. “I don’t usually go out with guys carrying and dressed in tactical gear.”

Somehow, he was a lot closer to her face than he had been. “I know this great way to keep warm.”

She laughed. “Oh, like I haven’t heard that one before.” Still, she tilted her head back. “What about keeping it cool on the job?”

“It’s dark. And we’re all alone. Just you, me, and a barn full of meth manufacturers.”

“So romantic.” She was laughing softly as his lips closed over hers. They couldn’t really get close, not in vests and parkas, and they couldn’t let their attention stray too far, but it was so sweet to be here with her like this, her mouth yielding to his, a hum of approval in the back of her throat. Sweeter, maybe, because it couldn’t be about sex or arousal. It was simply affection.

Her walkie-talkie cracked on. “Tac Team One to Millers Kill officers. You know we have night scopes, guys. Keep it clean.”

“Oh my God!” Hadley jerked away from him, her glove slapped over her mouth.

Kevin laughed. Then the wide barn doors rumbled open, light spilling across the snow, and there was a deep-pitched roar, and three snowmobiles burst out of the building.

17.

It was a good thing Clare wasn’t claustrophobic. She lay still, her arms around Mikayla, packed in with snow, listening to the hoarse rasp of the girl’s breathing. She wondered if the child was dying, if DeJean had gotten away, if the voices she heard—far away, like a radio playing in another house—were getting closer.

Her jeans and wool sweater were no proof against the frozen ground, and her entire back was aching with cold. That would be good. Lowering her body temperature would make it that much harder for them to see her. Until she got too cold.
They call hypothermia the happy death,
“Hardball” Wright, her SERE instructor, said. She didn’t feel very happy.

A gun cracked, so close she flinched, which set her to shivering. She tried to relax her muscles, but her body wanted to warm up, and she began to shake uncontrollably. Another shot, and then they were shouting something and she heard the high-pitched yelp of a dog in pain. “Oscar.” Mikayla’s voice was a bare wisp. “Daddy.”

Oh, God. Hector. Clare squeezed her eyes shut.

She could picture the scene: the flare in their goggles, a man carrying a warm, living bundle. Shooting them down, then hurrying over to the bodies. They’d have to put a gun in Hector’s hand to justify their shooting. And then discovering Oscar, instead of the girl.

More yelling. No words, just shrieks of rage and frustration.
God, protect us,
she prayed. She thought, for a moment, about leaving Mikayla under the snow, wrapped in her coat and the quilt. She could draw their pursuers away. But if she was killed—her shivering intensified—Mikayla could die of exposure before she was found. She felt a feather-light kick inside her, then another. Mikayla wasn’t the only child she had to protect.

Then she heard him, a loud, commanding bellow that sent hope surging through her, as good as a blast of heat against the cold.
Russ.

Then nothing. She strained to hear. Should she dig herself out? What if the agents were still in the woods? They could easily bring her down before she reached the road. Excuse it as another “accident.” Were they hiding from Russ? Talking with him? The chill rushed back into her veins. He didn’t know what they were. What if they persuaded him DeJean had escaped? All they would have to do would be to get him into the woods in pursuit of DeJean. It would be easy, then, to silence Russ permanently. The gun with Hector’s fingerprints would be the one that killed him. No doubt.

She pushed herself out of her hiding place and lurched to her feet. “Hang on, sweetheart.” She slung Mikayla over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry, her parka draped over the girl for extra warmth. The girl grunted in protest. Clare saw a movement, and heard the sound of breaking ice, and turned, terrified that she had just killed them all, and nearly fell down when Oscar thudded into her legs, whining and shaking and very much alive.

“It’s Oscar,” she whispered. “He’s okay.”

Mikayla’s voice was thin and sleepy. “Where’s Daddy?”

I’m very afraid your father is dead,
she wanted to say.
Dead because he drew the killers away from us.
DeJean had been a monster, but his last act had saved her life, and Mikayla’s, and her unborn child’s.

She took off for the road, the dog by her side. Wading through the deep snow was like moving in a nightmare, sweating, straining, never getting anywhere, until she suddenly realized she could see the glow of headlights again. She still heard nothing except her own rough breath and the crunch of snow and the creak of the forest. Were the agents standing on the road, telling Russ lies? Or were they in among the trees somewhere? Would shouting out save her? Or get her shot?

She took a deep breath. Then another. “Russ!” She shouted loud enough to hear her own voice echoing back to her. “I have Mikayla! Don’t trust them!”

Still nothing. She staggered forward, panting beneath the weight, closer to the light, closer, until she could see his head, above the black SUV. His hands were over his hat, his fingers laced together.
Too late.

“Keep going, Mrs. Van Alstyne.” The voice came from close beside her. The man was standing in the snow a few yards away, his automatic trained on Clare. She almost turned to flee into the forest, but what was the use? She waded through the last few feet of deep snow and stumbled onto the road next to the SUV.

Russ kept his eyes locked on hers. “Clare. Oh, love. What are you
doing
back here?” He started to turn toward her, only to be brought up short by the gun pointed toward his head. Marie O’Day stood out of reach, but close enough so that a shot to Russ’s skull couldn’t miss. Clare wondered, absurdly, how many more times she was going to see her husband held at gunpoint on their honeymoon. She was still shaking, and a more sober part of her brain diagnosed
shock.

“Stay right there,” Tom O’Day said. Clare, who had been walking toward Russ, stopped. “We just want the girl.”

“And then what?” Russ said. “You kill us, too? And then kill my officers and the sheriff’s deputy who’re coming up behind me? How many deaths do you think you can pin on a guy who’s probably already getting rigor mortis out there in the woods?”

“Shut up,” Marie said. “Tom, get the girl.”

Tom O’Day reached for them with his free hand. Clare clutched at Mikayla, half turning away, and Oscar, who had been leaning against her leg, let out a wolflike snarl and launched himself at the agent. The dog sank his fangs deep into O’Day’s forearm. The man screamed and thrashed, beating at Oscar’s body, as the dog scrabbled and clawed and hung on as if his jaws were locked.

Marie O’Day shrieked and swung her automatic toward the dog. Russ threw himself at the woman like a linebacker on a goal-line stand. The agent went down beneath him, her gun spinning across the road.

Clare shouldered Mikayla and dashed for the weapon. Tom O’Day, howling and sobbing, fell to his knees. His blood spread over the ice, steaming in the cold air. Clare scooped the automatic from the road and slapped it into Russ’s outstretched hand. “Sit on her,” he said, and Clare complied, dropping onto the agent’s shoulders with a thud. She would have worried she was cutting off the woman’s oxygen, but Marie O’Day had enough air to curse at her, Russ, and the dog in a steady stream of invective.

“Get him off me! Get him off me!”

Russ strode to Tom O’Day’s side and retrieved his weapon. Dropping the gun in his pocket, he slapped his thigh. “Come, Oscar. Come.” The dog released the agent’s arm and backed away, whining. The man collapsed onto the ice. Russ reached down and scratched Oscar’s head fiercely as the dog butted against his leg. “Good dog, Oscar. That’s a
good
dog.”

18.

One of the state police snipers put a bullet right through the engine of the middle sled. Hadley saw the shower of sparks, and the snowmobile, which had been building up speed, suddenly slowed. Its driver, anonymous in a cold suit and helmet, leaped off, waving to the other drivers to rescue him. They blasted past, intent on escaping.

Hadley took off for the barn, only to be nearly yanked off her feet by Flynn. “They have to head for the bridge,” he shouted. “We can stop them here!”

“How? We can’t even identify ourselves!” Unless the fleeing men fired on her and Flynn, they had no justification for using deadly force. Out here in the dark on a freezing bridge, they had no riot gun capable of stopping the sleds, and no beanbag gun that could knock a driver off without causing him harm.

Flynn looked at the remaining two snowmobiles. They were curving around the front, preparing to hit the road near its end and get up to full speed before they rushed the hill. “Give me your flashlight.”

She handed over her Maglite, hefty enough to be a club. “You’re going to shine a big light at them?”

Flynn unwound the scarf from his neck. He pulled out his own flashlight and wrapped both of them in the end of the scarf.

“No,” he said. “I’m going to try and knock one of them off his seat. You take aim. If they fire on us, shoot.”

She tugged her Glock from her holster while Flynn secured the flashlights to the scarf with a zip-strap. Grabbing the other end of the scarf with both hands, he hoisted it over one shoulder and began swinging it in a circle above his head.

The snowmobiles turned onto the road. In the headlights, she could see the silhouette of the Essex County deputy, struggling with the same dilemma they had. She couldn’t hear anything over the roar of the engines, but his body language read
Stop! Police!
The sleds blew past him, headed straight for them.

Hadley yanked off her gloves and went down on one knee next to Flynn. She steadied her hand and sighted toward where she thought the driver would be. Above her, Flynn continued whipping the makeshift weapon around, whup-whup-whup until the air hummed. She prayed he wouldn’t wrap the thing around his neck or knock himself out. The snowmobiles drew nearer, nearer, and she could see the bubble-headed helmets gleaming in the backwash of the headlights and the noise of the engines was all around them.