Cold Fire, page 7
‘We’ve gotten this far,’ she announced, ‘are you more confident of making it to Vanceboro now?’
The snowfall grew heavier. Sound was muted and visibility was close to a few yards at best. The glow from the SUV’s headlights seemed to be absorbed by the conditions. Po hit the windshield wipers, to bat away the accumulation that had gathered in the past few seconds. Instantly the snow piled up again.
‘What was that you were askin’?’ Po asked, deadpan.
ELEVEN
Bruce Harper stood alongside Siobhan Doyle’s SUV, peering through the tattered net curtain of falling snow at the approach to the border. In the minutes he’d observed, nobody had crossed, but he’d spotted staff; shoveling snow off the sidewalks, but they were still active. He questioned if Joanne Mason had made an attempt at slipping past, but didn’t think it was likely. Being suspected of several murders, her face would be plastered all over law enforcement and federal government alerts. She might have disguised her looks, but he’d bet that single women were coming under extra scrutiny, and an overdone disguise would be an immediate giveaway to agents trained to single out the unusual. He wondered if she had stood nearby, as he did now, assessing her chances of crossing unchallenged into the neighbouring country, and realizing how hopeless her chances were. He turned to study Siobhan. This time she’d alighted the car to stand alongside him. She shivered all the way down to her boots, hands tucked under her armpits against the painful chill.
‘What’s your built-in radar saying, Harp?’ she asked, teeth chattering.
‘Couldn’t rightly say. If she got past then she’s in the wind by now,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think she crossed. From what we’ve learned about Joanne, she’s prone to panic, and when it hits, her only recourse is to run.’ He nodded at the small cluster of buildings housing the US Customs and Border Protection Agency, almost mirrored across the bridge by the Canadians’, and said, ‘I’d bet she didn’t run in that direction.’
Harper thought that even during clement weather the traffic load on this border crossing would be negligible, mostly local residents and vacationers. He’d bet good money that the guards knew those crossing during the winter months on first-name terms. Trying to bluff her way past would be a big fail for Joanne. She neither held citizenship nor Native American status, so to enter Canada she’d be required to produce an Enhanced Driver’s License or Enhanced Identification Card, failing those a birth certificate in combination with a government-issued photo identification. He very much doubted she’d been able to source any fake documents during the few days she’d been on the run.
He turned and perused the road on which they’d approached the crossing. He was confident that after leaving the gas station outside Lincoln that Joanne had plowed on through the storm to reach Vanceboro, therefore he was equally certain that she had been within grabbing distance of where he stood within the past few hours. If he were she and had suffered a collapse of confidence, where next would he have turned? Would he try to retreat the way he’d come or attempt to find another route? Would he seek someplace close by to hide and gather his wits after abandoning his original plan? Would he simply flee blindly, allowing paranoia and fear to guide him?
‘We should check all hotels and guesthouses on this side of the river,’ he stated. Without waiting for any counter suggestions from Siobhan, he returned to the car, sitting in the passenger side as before. He ignored her as she climbed back into the driver’s seat, bitching noisily about the cold, and instead concentrated on his cell phone screen.
He had brought up a map, on which colored pins indicated various different services. He searched for anywhere that Joanne might have holed up to escape the storm. To his surprise there were very few hostelries in the vicinity, although a few locals offered Airbnb accommodation.
‘Well, checking these shouldn’t take us much time,’ he said.
Siobhan said, ‘We should think about booking lodgings, because whatever happens next, I don’t see us traveling much further tonight.’
She started the SUV’s engine and the automatic wipers kicked on. Harper looked out the windshield. The heaters were working overtime to keep it clear of condensation, but did little to melt the snow missed by the wipers; it had built up a good deal, standing a few inches deep now.
Harper didn’t agree. ‘I checked the forecast earlier. It promised heavier snowfall than before. Could block the roads. D’you want to get us stuck here in the ass-end of nowhere? I won’t be happy.’
‘How’s getting caught in a goddamn winter cyclone suddenly my fault?’
‘It’s nobody’s fault, not yours or mine, because it hasn’t happened yet. I intend locating Joanne Mason and putting her in the ground. If she isn’t here and has moved on, we need to stick hard on her trail. I’m only giving you fair warning that I won’t be pleased if your need for a comfortable bed allows me to lose her.’
‘So forget I mentioned it, for fuck’s sake. If the worst comes to worst, and we get stuck in a drift, I can always drag that blanket outta the trunk, and at least we’ve got each other to share body heat, right?’
Harper snapped a glare on her that made her instantly regret her sarcasm. Harper abstained many worldly desires, especially those of the flesh: never in adulthood had he engaged in sexual activity, or even bared his flesh to the caress of another person. He could appreciate Siobhan’s beauty, and did – she was a fiery Celtic goddess in his eyes – without ever wishing to partake of her womanly pleasures; the very thought of snuggling naked under a blanket with her made his gorge rise and his skin crawl.
‘OK, so book rooms,’ he grunted. ‘Separate rooms.’
‘On whose tab?’
‘What, you think the host will demand cash too?’
‘I meant, are you paying for your own room or—’
‘Do you think somebody paying us to find and eliminate the threat to them is going to quibble over the cost of a couple of flea-infested rooms in a goddamn rat’s nest?’
‘Was hoping for something two star or above at least,’ Siobhan quipped, attempting to lighten his mood, but he was done with her prattling for now.
‘Siobhan. Rent rooms, don’t rent rooms; I seriously don’t give a crap. I am, however, intent on bagging the reward on Joanne Mason’s head before any of the others do. Don’t let anything you do distract you – or distract me especially – from the hunt.’
‘We can use enquiring about renting rooms as an excuse for asking about Joanne Mason,’ Siobhan suggested. ‘We can pretend she’s a friend we are supposed to meet here before crossing into Canada, and inquire if she has booked in yet?’
‘Suit yourself,’ Harper grunted, ‘but whose name d’you suppose she’s using? Hmm, it’s just as I thought. You didn’t really think that through, did you, Siobhan.’
‘So how are you going to get answers,’ she sneered. ‘Stomp them outta every hotelier you come across?’
‘The situation back at the gas station called for that level of violence, Siobhan. I had to make things look like a robbery gone wrong, once that younger guy spotted me eyeballing the CCTV …’
‘You don’t need to remind me, Harp. All I was suggesting was approaching things subtler this time.’
‘Maybe I should leave things to you, huh?’
‘No, I only—’
‘That’s right, Siobhan. You only. You are only a fuckin’ driver, being paid to drive. So do what you’re here for; drive here.’ Harper stabbed a thick fingertip on the nearest pin on the map.
He didn’t give further instruction. He was over her and her smart mouth. Siobhan also stayed silent while she turned the SUV and followed the road back into Vanceboro. The road hadn’t been plowed in a while. The snow squeaked under the weight of the SUV’s thick tires and with each high-pitched noise a tic jumped in Siobhan’s cheek, drawing up the corner of her mouth. In profile, her mouth dragged up into the leer of a demented clown. Siobhan seemed to have lost the attractive qualities he normally found in her features. He turned his head so she was merely a blur in his periphery. He forced down the urge to reach across, enfold her slim neck in his paw-like hands and throttle the life out of her.
TWELVE
If she didn’t get warm soon Joanne was going to die. She was already mildly hypothermic, despite being indoors and beyond the freezing fingers of the wind. Before it had been cold, with nightfall the temperatures had dropped another twenty degrees. Her breath not only misted before her, it also crystalized on the scarves around her face and on the brims of her hats. Inside her oversized coat, and the several layers of clothing, she should have been warm, but she’d fallen into torpor allowing the cold to permeate through. She shivered violently, a small blessing: she had heard that in cases of hypothermia once the shivering stopped death quickly followed. She’d heard also that some hypothermic people often felt too hot and ripped off their clothing, making themselves more vulnerable again to the cold. For now she huddled as tightly as possible in her clothes, shivering, wincing at the pains darting through her extremities.
People talked about the cold of the grave; well, Joanne had experienced it for sure, and it was truly awful, something she hoped to avoid for a very long time. She must get her blood pumping, force some warmth into her limbs or they were going to fall off! Her feet felt worst, due to the snowmelt soaking them earlier. She told herself to get up. She didn’t move, beyond squirming in pain again.
It had gone dark beyond the tiny window high up in the mausoleum wall. But as was often the way during heavy snowfalls, there was an unusual glow that lit the terrain. The weak light streaming in the windows was enough to pick out shapes and forms by. Joanne finally pushed on to her hands and knees, waited a few seconds for her sluggish blood to fuel her muscles, and then she pushed up to stand swaying and groaning in her oversized clothing. She rammed her hands under her armpits, took them out and blew on her palms, rubbed them furiously, then jammed them under her armpits again. At once she began stamping. Her knees creaked and the pain was almost unbearable in her feet, but she kept marching on the spot. She was still desperately cold, but even to be moving was a small victory and she emitted a sharp yelp and kept marching. Soon she was shaking her hands out and flapping her arms. She began cheering and goading herself on. Around her, the other residents of the mausoleum stayed silent, cold in their graves.
The thought gave her pause.
Was she somehow disrespecting the dead? Was her noisy exuberance for life somehow a desecration of their final resting place? Instantly that sense of dread she’d experienced for days returned, tenfold. Before she had thought she was the subject of unseen eyes, of being watched, now the sensation felt uncanny. Immediately she fell silent, halted her stomping and arm-flapping. She told herself it was because she had grown a little warmer, not because she could be the subject of disapproving ghosts.
She hurried to the door.
Earlier she’d tried pushing it all the way shut again, but it had stuck open a few inches on a warped flagstone. The windows flanking the door were opaque, so Joanne peered out of the crack against the jamb, unsure what she hoped to see. Desperate, with nowhere else to run, and nobody else to turn to, she had given in and called for help. Karen had not been a police detective in that moment, she’d been a loving sister, and she’d promised to help her through this, whatever people were accusing Joanne of doing. There hadn’t been time to plead her innocence, nor much else. The battery was dying on her cell, so Joanne had told Karen where she was. Karen said she’d send help, but Joanne had no idea in what form the help would be. For some time she’d thought Karen would have no other recourse than send law enforcement out for her, but apparently that wasn’t the case: even in the blizzard, cops would’ve been dispatched if they knew a wanted child murderer was on their patch. The place would have come alive with lights and sirens and Joanne marched out at gunpoint. She was reasonably certain that Karen hadn’t called the cops. Outside the snow hadn’t abated, it had grown stronger. A virgin expanse stretched back towards the narrow road alongside the river, even her footprints from before had been concealed under several inches of fresh snow.
To conserve her battery, Joanne had switched off her cell.
She was sorely tempted to switch it on, to check if Karen had tried calling her with an update on the rescue mission, but she got only as far as holding her trembling thumb next to the power switch. She put away the phone into her pocket.
She was layered in scarves, but she still felt the prickling of skin on the back of her neck.
She spun around, hands at her mouth now, expecting some loping presence to appear from the dimness, a denizen crawled up from the crypt, to grab her and haul her to hell where all child murderers belonged.
There was nothing there.
Of course there was nothing.
It was simply her heightened senses spinning on overdrive now that she had gotten her blood flowing again.
It made no difference. She cried into the dimness of the mausoleum, as though her accusers would hear. ‘I didn’t do it. I didn’t harm those babies. I swear it wasn’t me!’
Those were words she had barely been able to express before. Not because they were untrue, but because she didn’t have a sympathetic ear to cry to. Her brief entreaty for help from Karen hadn’t included an innocent plea; her sister assured her it wasn’t necessary for her to help save her life. Karen hadn’t promised not to hand her over to the police, but hopefully Joanne could convince her of her innocence before she was duly led away in handcuffs.
Joanne stared into the dimness. The weak light from the back window was faintly golden. It cut through the room in a bar. Rather than motes of dust, tiny crystals of ice danced on the breeze making its way through the partially open door. She should shove the door fully shut with her back and legs doing all the work, but instead she faced the door and her gaze again swept the virgin snow outside. A cry caught in her throat: the expanse was no longer pristine, deep footprints spoiled it.
Her first instinct was to flee to the darkest corner of the mausoleum, but she denied the impulse to hide. What if those were the footprints of the savior sent by Karen, not one of the hunters who’d dogged her tracks since West Roxbury? She approached the door tentatively, then placed her head close to the gap. Craning from one side to the other she had a wider view of the cemetery. Beyond falling snow there was no hint of movement. The track cut past the mausoleum as though their destination was much deeper within the burial ground.
Joanne was undecided.
Her rescuer might well have missed her hiding place, and carried on further into the grounds. Should she save them both a wait and go outside and track him down? His tracks through the snow should assist her to reach him quickly. Should she simply go outside and holler into the darkness, hoping he’d hear her over the blizzard? No. She must follow neither idea, because she’d no idea whose tracks those were. It was difficult to think why anyone else was out in this storm unless hunting for her. But what if this hunter’s intentions weren’t in line with Karen’s? What if this person chose to grab her and hand her over at the Washington County Sheriff’s Department in exchange for a reward? Worse, what if the one hunting her was the same monster that’d slaughtered the young family and other staff in the house, and had chased her through the gardens with a bloody hammer in his huge hand. She’d narrowly escaped when another member of staff had darted from concealment, and he’d gone after the man instead of her. What if he had resumed the chase, and was as relentless and dogged as she feared? Was it him that now prowled through the graveyard with a hammer poised to crack open her skull?
‘For frick’s sake, Jo,’ she moaned. ‘That’s just insane, and impossible. How could he possibly be here? How would he be able to track you hundreds of miles across three states and find you here, in a blizzard in the middle of nowhere? He’s a monster, but he’s a human one, he doesn’t have fricking supernatural powers!’
Then why not go outside and shout, bring her rescuer back in her direction?
She wavered a few seconds longer, but her need to get warm trumped her fear of the unknown.
She tugged the door open by increments. Snow had built up at its foot, and some had blown in under the corners and at the open crack. It wasn’t as easy opening as she’d first thought. She of course had left her supplies in the abandoned car, and had not as much as taken a sip of water in … how many hours? She was weakened, frozen almost to the core, so even the simplest tasks would prove more wearing on her. The flagstone she’d earlier strained to close the door against now held on to the door and she wondered if it was simply being obstinate for the sake of pissing her off. She cursed and tugged and almost fell on her backside when the door suddenly jumped open. She scrambled to regain balance, grabbing this time at the door for support. She wondered how much racket she’d made and if it would be enough to draw her rescuer back to her.
Stepping outside, the full blast of the storm hit. Her oversized coat snapped tightly about her like a shroud. Her hats and scarves threatened to fly away in the wind. Her cheeks felt blazing hot, but the sensation would last only seconds before the wind dug in its icy fingers and froze her exposed flesh. She bent at the waist, throwing one shoulder into the wind and pressed through a drift of snow towards the corner of the mausoleum where the footprints angled past. The snow was fully in her face for several seconds, and it both confused and disconcerted her equally. She bleated in discomfort, and pushed harder and then was around the corner. The building did little to break the storm, as she was still in the reach of the wind and snow, but moving horizontally to its force wasn’t as difficult as it was head on.
Her wholly unsuitable footwear was immediately chocked with icy slush. Her trousers had not fully dried out from earlier and grew wetter than ever, the seeping cold was painful. But Joanne forced her mind to shut out all the bad stuff and concentrate on locating a possible savior. She high-stepped through snow now knee-deep, making for where the single line of footprints cut through the grounds. She checked back from where the prints originated. If she could spot the person’s vehicle she’d head directly to it, wait for him there. The blizzard thwarted any attempt at spotting anything beyond a hundred feet. There were trees and sculptured topiary out there, but could she see any of them? No. She made out humps in the snow that could have been buried markers on graves, and to her right there was a large memorial depicting a winged angel. As the heavy snow sifted down it gave the statue a semblance of subtle movement. Despite the subject matter, it was still a discomforting image.
