To Hell in a Handbasket (18 page)

“We think they're on the way to Nick's house,” Roger added.

Owen slapped the kitchen counter, startling Claire. “Damn idiots. Petrov's even more likely to find her there.”

Seventeen:
Over the River and
Through The Woods

Owen went into command
mode. “Ramstead, get in your cruiser
and head back to the station. Round up some backup and some more weapons and meet me at the Contino house.”

Ramstead nodded and loped out the front door.

Owen pointed a finger at Claire and Roger. “You two stay put while I head over there.”

“No way.” Claire grabbed her coat. “You can't keep us here when
our daughter's in danger.”

She didn't have to say anything to Roger, who had already shrugged
on his coat.
Good man.

Owen glared at them then blew out a breath. “All right. But I don't want you speeding after my cruiser and putting yourself in danger once we get there. Ride with me.”

The four of them rushed out of the townhouse. Claire and Roger climbed into the back seat of Owen's cruiser while Ramstead loped to his cruiser. Owen reversed with a jerk, and Claire scrambled to buckle her seat belt as he accelerated out of the parking lot.

“You got any idea why the two of them took off like that?” Owen shouted over his shoulder.

“I can't understand it,” Claire said. “We told Nick about Petrov, so he knew how much danger Judy was in. I can't believe he would expose her to more risk like this.”

Owen frowned into the rearview mirror. “Maybe he's in cahoots with the Russians.”

Leaning forward, Roger gripped the back of the front seat. “If so, he's a great actor. Even when he didn't realize Claire was listening, he told off Ivanov. Maybe he thinks he can protect Judy better at his house. They probably have an alarm system and guns.”

Owen slapped the steering wheel. “Why the hell do private citizens think a gun in their hand makes them more competent than a trained cop?” He made a fast turn that threw Claire against Roger.

She worried her lip while staring out the window at the darkened landscape whooshing by.
Is Roger right? Is Nick that stupid? Or have we seriously misjudged him, and has he really given in to the Russian mob?

Owen turned onto the Continos' street and passed a black Range
Rover parked in a snowplow turnout. He slid to a halt, backed up, and directed the patrol car's headlights at the back of the Range Rover.

“Damn.”

Claire craned her neck to see the license plate. “Damn what?”

“The plate's Ivanov's. That means he or Petrov or both are here. And they don't want the Continos to know. The vehicle looks empty, but I need to check it anyway. Stay here.”

Owen unholstered his gun, snatched a flashlight out of his glove compartment, and climbed out of the cruiser.

Claire's throat constricted with fear. She grabbed Roger's hand.

His gaze was grim as he covered her hand with his other hand. “Don't panic yet, honey. Judy and Nick may not even be in the neighborhood.”

“That's another reason to panic,” Claire answered. “If they aren't here and Petrov followed them, there's no way we'll be able to find them before he kills Judy. How will we know where to look?”

Hunkered down, Owen approached the Range Rover from the rear, then stood with gun drawn and shone the flashlight through a window. After running the beam over the whole car, he laid his hand for a moment on the hood. He flashed the light around the car, across snow being swirled and shifted by the wind. He seemed to pick up a trail and followed it for a few feet.

He stopped, aimed the flashlight off in the direction the trail took, and panned the light over the area. With a shake of his head, he holstered his gun, turned the flashlight off, and returned. He got in and drove away.

Claire gripped the edge of her seat. “What did you see?”

“The car was empty, but the hood was still warm. They must have arrived a few minutes ago. Two sets of footsteps led off in the direction of the Contino house.”

A few moments later, Owen pulled into the Continos' driveway and parked behind a black Range Rover—probably the same one Nick and Judy rode away in.

So much for not panicking.

As Owen opened his car door, Claire tried to open hers, but it wouldn't budge. “Why won't my door open?”

“That's the way police cars work, so the criminals in the back won't bolt on us.” Owen got a thoughtful expression. “Maybe you two should stay here until Ramstead and my backup arrive.”

“With two Russian mobsters prowling the neighborhood?” Roger asked. “We'd be sitting ducks in here.”

“You won't be any safer outside.”

“At least we could run or hide behind something.” Roger slapped
the seat. “Let us out!”

“On one condition.” Owen stared them down. “I don't want you going in the Contino house until backup arrives. You'll find a place to hide and stay put until I say so. Understand?”

Claire nodded and Roger said, “Yes.”

Owen pressed a button on the dash of his cruiser, and the locks on the back doors released. Claire and Roger quietly exited the car and crouched between it and the Range Rover while Owen reconnoitered. He waved his hand, and they all ran toward the front door. Claire slipped on the ice and fell hard.

“You hurt?” Roger offered an arm.

“I bashed my knee.” She struggled to her feet, gritting her teeth against the pain.

“Let me help you back to the car.”

“No! I'm fine.” She pushed off his arm and limped after Owen.

Upon reaching the porch, Owen pointed to a rack of stacked firewood under the living room window. “Get behind that.”

While Claire and Roger sequestered themselves between the scratchy logs and the house wall, Owen rang the doorbell and pounded o
n the door. “Police. Open up.”

After getting no answer, he tested the doorknob. When it turned,
he pushed the door open. He made a quick scan inside and held his hand up, palm out, to Claire and Roger. “Stay here, ready to run if you have to. I doubt those Russians have made it here yet on foot, but they could be in the house.”

He pointed a finger at Claire. “No buts this time.”

Seeing the firm set of the lawman's jaw, Claire swallowed her “But” and nodded.

“If Ramstead and the backup arrive before I return,” Owen continued, “tell them I went in the front door. They should take the rear.”

Roger put his arm around Claire's shoulder. “Sure.”

She held her breath while Owen slipped through the front doorway.

Claire waited with Roger, crouched uncomfortably behind the musty firewood. Her calves cramped, and she started shivering from the biting cold wind. After a few minutes, she stood. “Enough of this. I'm going in.”

Roger rose. “But we promised—”

“The Russians are more likely to be outside than inside. Remember, they're on foot out there in the snow. And Owen said we should be ready to run if we have to. Well, I've decided I have to run inside.”

“Makes sense to me.” Roger followed Claire to the front door.

After easing through the doorway, Roger opened the door to the hall closet and started rummaging inside.

“What are you doing?” Claire whispered.

“Looking for weapons.” Roger whispered back as he pulled out a rolled, cane-shaped umbrella with a metal tip and handed it to her then shoved the coats aside.

“Bingo.” He brandished an ice hockey stick.

Claire glanced at her umbrella then the hockey stick gripped in his hands. “Neither one of these is much use against a gun.”

“They're better than nothing.”

“Probably the smartest thing to do is to hide inside that closet.”

“I'm not going to stand around twiddling my thumbs when Judy's in danger. And if I know you, neither are you.” He inched his way along the wall.

“I'm just pointing out that what we're doing isn't very smart.”
When have we ever chosen prudence over protecting one of our kids?
Claire gripped her umbrella and limped behind Roger.

They made their way down the hall, turned the corner, and scanned
the empty living room, lit only by a soft glow coming from
the kitchen doorway on the far side.

Angela shrieked in the kitchen.

Roger shot a worried glance at Claire then rushed forward.

Claire gimped along and almost slammed into Roger's back when she entered the kitchen. She peered around him.

Angela stood next to the sink, a smashed teacup and a spreading pool of steaming tea on the floor in front of her. Her hands clasped her cheeks, and her mouth hung open in a perfect imitation of Edvard Munch's painting
The Scream
.

Owen stood before her, his gun pointed to the floor. His other hand moved downward in a reassuring, “be calm” motion.

When Angela's gaze slid to Roger, Owen looked over his shoulder and scowled at them. “I told you to stay put.”

Roger stared straight back at him. “We decided it was safer inside.”

Owen gave the hockey stick and umbrella a disdainful once-over. “And you came well-armed, I see.” He returned his attention to Angela. “Have you seen your son and Judy Hanover tonight?”

Licking her lips, Angela hesitated.

Claire stepped forward. “Angela, we know they came here. We need to find them. Now.”

“Are they in trouble?”

“Yes,” Owen answered, “but not with the law. We're trying to protect them from the Russian mob.”

Angela's jaw dropped again. “The Russian mob? What are you talking about?”

Sighing in frustration, Owen rubbed his brow.

Claire laid her hand on Angela's arm. “I'll fill you in on everything if you'll just tell us where Judy and Nick are.”

“But I promised Nick.”

Claire's grip on Angela's arm tightened. “They could be shot any
minute. You've got to tell Detective Silverstone where they are.”

Angela glanced at their anxious faces then nodded.

“Nick said he wanted to take Judy to a remote place where they could talk. He said they needed to be alone. It sounded so romantic. From the way they were holding onto each other, I thought—” Her gaze softened. “I thought he might be ready to propose, you know, in a secluded spot in the moonlight. That's what Anthony did, waited for a full moon, took me outside in my parents' garden and went down on his knee. I can still smell the gardenias. I hope there's a full moon tonight.”

She could drive a person mad with her talking.
Claire shook Angela's arm. “Where did they go?”

“Nick didn't say exactly, but he took some supplies into the garage—blankets, food, a lantern, some of this hot tea in a thermos.” She paused. “I think I know what he has in mind. There's an old, abandoned miner's cabin a few miles up the trail that goes through our backyard. Hikers and cross-country skiers sometimes use the cabin as an overnight shelter.”

“When did they leave?” Owen asked.

“Oh, they haven't—”

An engine sputtered to life in the garage.

Roger whirled. “What was that?”

“Snowmobile,” Claire said. “Remember when Nick said they kept four in the garage?”
Oh, God. He's not taking Judy out on one of those deathtraps is he?
Her heart started pounding.

The throaty howl of the machine roared out of the garage and around the back of the house.

“We've got to stop them!” Owen sprinted to the door leading from the kitchen into the garage. He yanked on the handle, but nothing happened.

While he fumbled with the doorknob, Angela said, “Let me. There's a key bolt.” She reached for a key hanging on a hook on the side of a nearby cabinet and unlocked the door while Owen almost danced with impatience.

He slammed open the door just as another snowmobile roared to life.

Claire peered out the kitchen door into the garage, dimly lit by moonlight from outside the open garage door. A dark figure dressed all in black hunched over the handlebars of a snowmobile pointed toward the driveway, a rifle with a lump on one side slung over his shoulder. He gunned the engine and took off.

Petrov! He must have reached the house right after Nick and Judy left. If the kids were in range, he surely would have shot them. Thank God they still have a chance.

“Stop, police!” Owen fired his gun at Petrov.

Petrov had leaned into a turn and the bullet whizzed past his ear. He jerked his head to glance back at the house. But he didn't hesitate. His machine zoomed toward the young couple's trail, the headlight knifing a path of light through the trees while he leaned from side to side, making the snowmobile weave an erratic path.

Owen fired again, but Petrov kept going, disappearing around a hill.

Owen holstered his gun, jumped on one of the two remaining snowmobiles, and cranked the key. “When my backup arrives,” he shouted, “tell them to follow our tracks.” He roared out of the garage.

“I'm going, too.” Roger said. “He'll need all the help he can get. But I need a gun.”

Claire turned to Angela, whose mouth was hanging open again.
The woman would make a damn good flycatcher.
“Do you have any guns in the house?”

Angela pointed to the opposite wall of the garage, where a gun rack sporting three hunting rifles hung on the wall.

Roger ran over to the rack, grabbed a rifle and a box of ammunition, and popped the magazine out of the gun to load it. “This isn't a match for Petrov's semiautomatic, with its night scope, but it'll have to do.”

“So that's what that lump was,” Claire said. “How're you going to drive a snowmobile and fire that rifle at the same time?”

Roger looked at her. “Could you . . . ? No, I guess you couldn't.”

Claire realized he was remembering the death of her friend's son. Her hands clenched and unclenched with fear and indecision. She was terrified of the idea of getting on one of those dangerous machines, let alone driving one, but Roger needed his hands free to fire the rifle at Petrov. Though Claire had shot a handgun in a range class before, Roger was the only one in the family who knew how to shoot a rifle. He had learned as a teenager and had bagged an elk on two of his hunting trips.