Cold Fire, page 8
She shuddered and checked in the other direction. She spotted a darker shade flit beyond the falling snow. She moved to follow, but came to a halt. Wandering out into that snowfield was not a wise move. Instead she called out. ‘Hey! Hey, you out there. Can you hear me?’
She could barely hear the words leaving her throat; she couldn’t expect anyone else to hear. Her shouts would be muffled by the snowfall to anyone more than an arm’s length distant. She must make a sharper noise, something more likely to carry. If she picked up a rock and struck it against the mausoleum wall, she could perhaps make an alarm distinct enough to draw in her rescuer. It was a good plan, but for two reasons. First, where would she find a rock under feet of snow, and second, where the hell was the mausoleum? She couldn’t see it for the volume of falling snow. Panic crawled from her chest up into her throat.
She wasn’t lost. All she needed to do was reverse her direction and follow her own trail back through the snow. She’d be back within relative safety in less than thirty seconds. But that was too logical a strategy for a panicked mind to concoct. She floundered through the snow, gasping and falling to her knees before scrambling up once more. She croaked in alarm, barely able to breathe, and realized that she had lost direction with her own tracks and had come across those of the original person to cross the graveyard. She hoped that their direction would indicate the way back to her shelter. She looked for boot prints; the heels should aim back the way in which she should go. But there were no heels. The tracks showed the hint of two sharp points, cloven hooves. She had misread the tracks as those of a human rescuer when they belonged to a damn moose or other ungulate.
‘Damnit!’ she cried.
Some panic subsided, as she could still follow the tracks in reverse through the blizzard and relocate the mausoleum. However, she’d made a stupid assumption and it had almost proven her downfall. Her rescuer hadn’t arrived yet, and she’d no real sense of when, or even if, they’d make it here through the blizzard. She’d swear that she had seen a human figure flitting beyond the nearest gravestones, but it couldn’t have been. Other symptoms of hypothermia could be delirium and hallucinations; maybe she was suffering worse than she first thought, and she had followed her own wishful thinking out there into the storm.
Stumbling into the moose prints, she followed the furrow it had cut through the snowfield, and soon enough was back adjacent to the mausoleum. It was an icebox, but it would support life longer than if she stayed outside. The door was still open as she’d left it, and her first instinct was to check for fresh wet prints leading inside. There were none. The only indications of passage were the tracks she had made. Before entering fully, she turned and peered hopefully over her shoulder towards the road, wishing to see a car’s lights heralding rescuers, but the weight of snow thwarted her.
She set her back to the door to help push it closed, but again the buckled flooring caught and held the door ajar. Earlier she could see enough with the golden light filtering in through the small windows, but having been outside her eyes must adjust again: it was inky dark inside. And the stone was frigid. As soon as she sat, huddled with her arms around her knees and chin buried under her scarves, she could feel the cold seeping through to her bones. Her little outdoors adventure – and leaving the door open – had possibly cost her severely.
THIRTEEN
Pinky Leclerc muted the volume on the TV.
He’d assumed a position on Po’s reclining chair, feet up on a small stool, his ankles crossed. He had ransacked Po’s fridge, seeking something to eat that’d be satisfying without threatening his weight-loss diet. He’d body-swerved the leftover meatloaf Po – or perhaps it had been Tess – had plated up and wrapped in tinfoil, and chose instead to chow down on some sliced breaded ham and pickles. If only he had known that Tess was so protective of the pickle jar she’d fight to the death for it, he’d have chosen more wisely. Tiny crumbs flew off his chest as he jerked upright and turned to face the front door. He set aside his food. He tiptoed towards the door, a fully loaded pistol in each hand.
There had been a clunk from outside. It was not so much the sound that had alerted him, more a sense of impending doom. He was no psychic, or prophet, but he trusted his gut when it warned of unseen danger: it was an ancient instinct bred out of many modern humans, but after being the target of dangerous enemies most of his life, his instincts had been fine-tuned. He crept to the door and set his body to one side. In the door Po had installed a fisheye lens, through which there was a panoramic view of the front yard. It was OK for checking if a pizza delivery had arrived, but Pinky wasn’t keen on using it when there could be somebody with a gun pressed to it on the other side. He’d seen too many movies where assassins slayed their targets through such ploys, to know it was rather implausible, but to hell if he was the dope going to get caught out. He remained to the left of the door: if anyone was to burst inside, then the door would swing towards him, concealing him long enough to launch a counterattack.
He was tall enough to crane and get a peek outside via the small arch of toughened glass at the top of the door. The glass was semi-opaque, but through it he hoped to spot movement. There was nothing obvious, not when the dancing snow obscured everything else. Pinky remained there a moment longer, then sidestepped away, moving from the open-plan living area towards the rooms at that side of the house. There was a guest bedroom with en-suite bathroom, a utility room and also a small vestibule that led to storage closets. He checked them all without turning on any lights, making only cursory investigation to ensure no windows had been pried open. Once his search was completed, he cut back across to the large island that marked the transition from living room to kitchen. His position allowed a view of the back door and also out of the kitchen window. On this side of the house were Tess and Po’s bedroom, plus a spare room she used as an office, and also a larger bathroom. Pinky usually avoided their private rooms, but this time was different. He was charged with keeping the ranch safe from harm, and it was a task he wouldn’t shirk from. He moved down the short access corridor and came first to Tess’s office. The light was doused but she’d left on a couple of computers: colorful screen savers danced and whirled in kaleidoscopic patterns in the darkness. He ensured he didn’t dwell on the writhing patterns, not when they could leave afterimages burned into his vision. He checked that the window hadn’t been forced, then immediately moved on to check the master bedroom and bathroom. In the latter a window was left cracked open to allow fresh air inside, but it was latched on a security feature so that it barely opened an inch. An inch, as the saying went, was as good as a mile, when it only took an arsonist to push a tube through the gap and feed accelerant inside the house. Pinky swiftly jammed one gun in his waistband at the back, freeing a hand to secure the window.
A crash resounded from the front of the house.
Pinky loped through into the kitchen, from where he could see the entirety of the open-plan area. For a second he expected to find the blazing contents of a Molotov cocktail thrown through a window. The room was untouched, and there was no sign of what had caused the crashing sound. He swiftly returned to his position beside the door and again craned for a look outside. A raised porch ran the length of the house. To Pinky’s right Po had erected a swing seat, on which he had spent many hours enjoying the company of his friends. The swing was moving, but Pinky thought that the wind was to blame. It hadn’t been the seat bashing against the house, as there was plenty of clearance on the deck to swing unhindered. Nothing else caught his eye.
He unlatched the door and pulled it open a fraction, still concealed by its inward arch. When nobody lunged to force a path inside, he stepped back and allowed the door to swing open. A few errant snowflakes swirled in on the draught, but nothing else. Pinky moved through the doorway toward the seat; that way he didn’t highlight his silhouette in light for longer than a second. He checked the rocking of the swing by pressing a thigh against it. All the while he listened and peered towards where Po’s Mustang sat under a thick blanket of snow. He could barely make out its shape beyond the heavy snowfall, but spotted a hunched figure darting for cover behind it.
‘Whoever you are, you’d best show your hands, you.’ Pinky aimed the single pistol he held, sighting down the barrel to where his shout had caused the figure to jerk down.
There was no response.
Pinky’s gaze darted, seeking others. He spotted a set of footprints cutting in a zigzag pattern across the yard. It appeared that the one who had made the tracks had completed a circuit of the house – probably while Pinky had been conducting his own search inside – before returning to the yard and moving around the parked muscle car.
Pinky strode to the edge of the deck, the pistol never wavering. ‘I don’t give second warnings, me. There’s no good reason for anyone to be out in this weather, so I have to conclude you’ve snuck here for malicious reasons, you. Kinda gives me the right to put a bullet in your gut and watch you bleed out, eh?’
Whoever had ducked behind the car, they didn’t reply.
Pinky glanced at the snow. His sneakers weren’t fit for the conditions, but he didn’t have time to go and find suitable footwear. He went down the steps gingerly, ensuring he didn’t slip on his ass, and never lost sight of his intended target. Snowflakes batted his eyelids and melted on his lips. He snorted to clear his nostrils. He didn’t allow the blizzard to deter him. Rather than head directly for the car, he took an oblique angle across the yard, which would put anyone crouching behind it in his sights, without him getting too close. Who knew, perhaps he was not the only one armed and prepared to shoot.
He crouched slightly as he aimed directly at the spot where the stalker must be hiding. There was nobody there. Yet the churned up snow confirmed that his eyes hadn’t deceived him. While he’d been throwing out warnings and making his cautious way across the yard, his quarry must’ve squirmed away on their belly through the snow. He saw that a messy furrow led to the edge of the property and under the boundary fence that separated Po’s land from the woods at the riverside.
Concerned the disappearing act could be a ploy to draw him away from the house, he paused a moment, took a quick look back at the rectangle of light – all he could distinguish of the house now – and thought he should’ve shut the door behind him. Anyone could sneak inside while he was out in the storm, seeking whoever had crawled away on their belly like a slug. He almost backtracked to the house.
Something crackled nearby and he swung forty-five degrees to peer into the woods. The skulker had apparently entered the trees, then sought cover from where they could spy on him. Pinky’s grip on his gun was solid; his index finger lay alongside the trigger guard. It would take only the fraction of a second to adjust his finger and shoot. He moved towards the source of the crackling: low hanging branches were being broken and were shedding their burdens of snow. By comparison, Pinky’s scalp, his shoulders, and even the barrel of his pistol all carried thin layers of snowflakes.
‘Going to give you to the count of three, and if you don’t come out, I’m coming in shooting, me.’
More crackling of branches indicated a swift retreat.
Pinky lunged after his prey and within seconds was entangled in the same type of branches that encumbered the other’s escape. He checked for signs of movement, could hear nothing now except the wind in the treetops, but spotted another trench dug into the snow. It led deeper into the woods, towards the frozen river. Was his prey desperate enough to try escaping across the ice? Here, Po had told him, the Presumpscot River was tidal. Heavier salt water lay on the bottom, with fresh water on top. The fresh water was prone to freezing over during the coldest winters, but not the saline beneath: in the past several people had fallen through the thin ice and perished. Pinky thought that drowning could prove the perfect antidote to a goddamn arsonist.
He checked behind once more, but now couldn’t even tell where the woods ended and where Po’s yard began. He felt certain he’d neither get lost nor freeze to death in the next few minutes, so went on, intending on pushing the stalker to the steep, slick rocks at the riverside. His feet sank to the ankles in the ground layer, his sneakers offering little protection from the seeping cold. Nothing about the circumstances spoke of innocent behaviour: whoever was out there it was for the wrong reason and he felt no qualms about pushing them into the freezing river, or in fact putting a bullet in them if need be.
The kicked-up snow made following simple enough; even as heavy as the blizzard was it wasn’t fast enough to obliterate the trail. Pinky pushed harder, intent on catching up and forcing answers from whoever it was out there. He spotted movement, a blur of motion and color against the white.
‘Hey, you! Stop right there!’
The figure didn’t halt, it kept going. Where it disappeared, Pinky guessed the bank began its steep slope to the river. He almost expected to hear a croak of alarm, followed almost instantly by a splash. Neither sound rewarded him. He pushed forward, up to his shins in snow. His trousers were soaked through and his sweatshirt failed to keep out the chill; his vitality was being leached with each step.
Coming to the edge of the river, Pinky found his footing precarious. Shelves of rock were laid one atop the other, each slick with ice and tapering icicles thick and long enough to easily pierce a human torso. The trail he’d followed disappeared at the riverside, several feet below him, and it was obvious that his quarry had used rocks exposed by the low water level, and thicker ice patches, as stepping stones to cross the Presumpscot. On the other side of the river there was a public park. There was no way on earth he’d trust the ice to support his bulk. The lurker most likely was out of Pinky’s reach. He stood a moment longer peering across the river, trying to determine movement among the trees on the opposite bank, but saw nothing.
‘Yeah, you goddamn bitch, you’d better keep running, you,’ he called and wagged his pistol, barely confident his words would carry through the dampening effects of the blizzard.
Nobody replied, but he didn’t expect one.
He stood a moment longer, trying to look menacing, but all he achieved was another gathering of snow. He turned and headed back, following his own trail through the woods. On the way out he’d been full of expectation, keen on catching up with the lurker and teaching them a lesson. On his return to the ranch it was chewing on disappointment. He felt the cold twice as much, walking as he was into the wind. Acrid smoke billowed around him before he saw the flames.
‘No, no, don’t you dare, you,’ he croaked, and he charged through the trees and spilled out into Po’s yard.
Thankfully the house was still intact, but Po’s pride and joy, his vintage muscle car, blazed ferociously.
FOURTEEN
Compressed ice squeaked under the Telluride’s tires as Po brought the vehicle to a cautious halt. There, in Vanceboro, the streets had been plowed, but since then more snow had fallen and local traffic had dug ruts in it that had since frozen, forming traps for the unwary that could catch a tire and resist steering. Po had found the last ten miles difficult going, even for a man that prided himself on superlative driving skills. He got out of the car to smoke a cigarette and to calm the jitter in his chest.
Inside the SUV, Tess remained snuggled in her winter coat and beanie hat. The heater was on full, but she still experienced the external chill after Po’s rapid opening and closing of the driver’s door. She could see him through the accumulated snowflakes on her window, shivering and kicking at the white mound at curbside while sucking down on his well-earned cigarette. She looked away, concentrating again on her cell phone. Detective Ratcliffe had given Joanne’s location as a cemetery outside Vanceboro, but couldn’t be more specific than that. Tess searched the Internet and brought up a map. The only cemetery indicated on it stood adjacent to the St Croix River, maybe two miles outside of town. She tried orienting the map to her current position, but couldn’t make out a street sign from where Po had parked. Ahead and to the right there appeared to be a gas station, currently closed judging by the lack of lights. Tess made a quick adjustment to the search criteria and brought up the gas station. They’d stopped on Water Street, a continuation of Route 6, on the approach to the border crossing. The cemetery was behind her, more or less due south.
The screen display changed and the ringtone she’d specifically assigned to him tinkled, announcing Pinky was calling.
She answered. ‘Hey, Pinky.’
‘Oh, Tess, I’m glad I got you. I wasn’t sure if Nicolas was driving so I rang your number instead.’
Pinky had dropped his quirky manner of speech, an immediate indicator that something was very wrong.
‘What’s wrong? What … has something happened, Pinky?’
‘Is Nicolas there with you? I swear to Jesus, when he hears what they did to—’
‘Are you hurt, Pinky?’
‘No. But if Nicolas chooses to punch me in the nards, I’ll deserve it.’
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘I messed up, Tess. Big time.’
