“I’m good, thanks.”

  About halfway to the kitchen Erica turned and said, “I’m off the case, you know.”

  I did not know.

  “Ethan said he didn’t think I could handle the magnitude of this case. Then he went and told the chief that somehow you were clouding my judgment. That my naiveté was cause for both you and Adam Gray having charges dismissed against you.”

  I took a step forward and said, “Well, is he right? Have I clouded your judgment?”

  There are few times I’ve found myself being serious, and this was one of those times. I needed to hear it from her. Needed to hear how she felt. This was Thomas Prescott at his very worst. I could feel my heart, my brain, my insides, seeping out from my pores. Okay, so there’s a good chance it was ethyl, but you get my drift. Girls call it “wearing your heart on your sleeve.” Dr. Phil calls it “being vulnerable.” Guys call it “being a pussy.”

  She shook her head. “You never clouded my judgment. Not for a second. It was always about Ellen Gray. It still is. And concerning Riley, I told the chief you may be a moron, but you weren’t a murderer.”

  “Thanks for the endorsement.” I did a U-turn, walked to the door, and held it open, “I’ll send you a postcard.”

  She stood in the foyer. I think she was waiting to see if I was serious. I was.

  It took a moment for Erica to take her first step. After the first, the second and third came quickly.

  I yelled, “Wait a minute.”

  She turned.

  “I have something I need to tell you.”

  She took a couple steps forward. I had two separate things I wanted to tell her. It was one or the other. If I told her one thing, I would end up staying and staying meant jail time and possibly some man on man time, which the more I thought about, the less I was enthused about. And if I told her the other thing, I put into concrete that I was getting on a plane in five hours.

  I mentally flipped a coin.

  It was Heads.

  I said, “Wolves.”

  She wrinkled her nose and said, “Wolves?”

  I nodded.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “This whole thing was about wolves. Ellen, Riley, Adam, me. It was all about wolves.”

  She took a step forward.

  I spent the next ten minutes walking Erica through what happened, or what I was nearly certain happened. When I finished, her head was shaking. “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I just did it.”

  “You’re leaving this up to me?”

  “Not a whole lot I can do from France.”

  “You could always stay.”

  I told Erica about the bet. She found this just the least bit ridiculous. She asked, “Why would you make such a stupid bet?”

  “Seemed like a great idea at the time.”

  “And what? You suck at Golden Tee or something?”

  “My guy kept falling in the lava.”

  “Lava?”

  “Long story short, I lost.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “What should I do?”

  It took me a moment to realize she was talking about the Professor. “That’s up to you.”

  “But I’m off the case.”

  “So you say.”

  She was quiet for a minute, biting into her bottom lip. She looked at me and I knew the question before she asked it. “What would you do?”

  “You really want to know?”

  She nodded.

  “I’d rip out what’s left of his throat and shoot him in both kneecaps.”

  “That’s a big help.”

  “I’m a problem solver.”

  She spent the next five minutes trying to convince me to stay. That the two of us could do it together.

  When she was done, I said, “I can’t.”

  She nodded.

  I could see her eyes getting all misty and I told her I should really get packing. Although, in reality all I had to do was grab my wallet. Mostly, I wanted Erica off my doorstep, I wanted her to stop looking at me with her perfect eyes, her devious smile. And I needed her to stop biting her lip.

  She told me to look her up when I got back and I broke the news that according to the small print of the aforementioned ridiculous bet, I wasn’t ever allowed back.

  We said our good-byes, the way people do when they know they’ll never cross paths again.

  Chapter 45

  The airport was busy for a Thursday morning. I found the line to the security checkpoint and looked at a wall clock. I had an hour before the flight boarded. I glanced around at families and friends waiting on the outskirts to say their final good-byes. I half expected to see Erica. I didn’t. I did happen to see Ace and Gary, both drinking coffees and throwing glances in my direction every so often. I guess they’d been under orders to see this through till the very end.

  I saluted them and they saluted back. Project Prescott was finally over. I wondered what they were going to do to celebrate. Wrap it up, boys.

  An hour and a half later, I watched as the city I flew into just six weeks earlier disappeared beneath me. I could have gotten introspective, thought about the irony of the situation, pondered how I had come to Seattle to escape a problem and now I was leaving Seattle for the same reason. But I was too tired to get introspective.

  I fell asleep before the cart lady came around.

  . . .

  As I was killing two hours at Cincinnati International, it dawned on me if I showed up on Lacy’s doorstep without Christmas presents she would flip. I’d explained to her about how I’d lost her presents in a melee that concluded with my having a collapsed lung, but I’m not sure she bought the story.

  So I checked out a couple of the shops in the airport. I got her an Ohio Landscapes calendar, an Ohio State hoody, and an Ocho-Cinco jersey.

  As I boarded the plane for the ten-hour nonstop flight to France, I noticed the passenger makeup was predominantly French and American businesspeople coming and going. A handful of college kids filled the other seats, no doubt heading to Europe to do a couple weeks of backpacking, hostel jumping, and poor decision making.

  I was sandwiched between a businessman and a young girl with about seventy piercings. She had a beanie, an iPod, and a black hooded sweatshirt to complete the punk look.

  As the plane took off, I found that I wasn’t as excited as I thought I’d be. Or should be for that matter. Here I was headed to one of the most exotic cities in the world, about to be reunited with the only family I had left, about to get a fresh start, and all I could think about was Erica Frost.

  I couldn’t see her taking the information I’d relayed to her and passing it on to the proper people, specifically, Ethan Kates. But then again, that’s exactly why I’d told her and not him. I’d wanted her to get the bust. But, Erica was a rogue—one of the very reasons I was drawn to her—and I highly doubted she would alert anyone to the course she set. Which, if it were me, would be to drive directly to the North Cascades and haul that shitbag in.

  I pulled out the airphone and tried all four of Erica Frost’s phone numbers. I got four no answers.

  I placed the receiver back and let out a sigh. There was a solid chance the only person who knew Erica Frost’s whereabouts was about halfway over the Atlantic Ocean.

  We landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport at 1:04 P.M. local time. Or about 5:04 A.M. Seattle time.

  I walked from the plane and into the corridor. I spotted the punk girl leaning against a wall. She was now wearing a large backpack covered with different buttons and patches. She threw me a dismissive glance as I approached. I mimed taking off my headphones. She did.

  I said, “Hi, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

  She scoffed. “I’m not going to blow you if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  I looked around. I thought about turning and running.

  She added, “At least not here.”

  I raised my eyebrows and said, “Not the favor I was thinking of, but thank you.”

  I told her what I wanted her to do and handed her the bag. I took out a pen and wrote the address on her hand. Then I took five hundred dollars out of my wallet and handed it to her.

  As I turned to leave she said, “My offer still stands.”

  I told her maybe next time and found the nearest ticket desk.

  I spent the better part of the next day sleeping and brushing up on my celebrity relationship knowledge.

  Sixteen hours later, the pilot came on the intercom and said, “Welcome to Seattle. The local time is 9:23 P.M. The temperature is 18 degrees and it’s snowing.”

  He paused, then added, “Actually, it’s blizzarding.”

  They grounded all outgoing flights as of 10:00 P.M. and began redirecting incoming flights to smaller airports in parts of southern Washington and northern Oregon as of 10:30 P.M. This, of course, was according to 1090 AM, the station my taxi driver, Bernard, had the stereo tuned to.

  The snow was coming down in drifts, the traffic at a near standstill, and it took two hours for the taxi to reach my house.

  Sitting just on the outskirts of my gate, partially blanketed by a fresh coat of snow, was a For Sale sign.

  Wow, this guy didn’t mess around.

  I pulled the sign out from the frozen earth and laid it on the ground.

  Inside the house, I checked my machine. There was one message. It was from Lacy. She was a tad confused when a punk rocker chick had showed up at her doorstep and handed her a bag of presents, which all appeared to be purchased in the great state of Ohio, and said that they were from her brother. Needless to say, she wanted me to call her back immediately.

  Unfortunately, there were more pressing matters at hand. I picked up the phone and tried all four of Erica’s numbers. All four went unanswered.

  I found myself saying out loud, “Where are you, Erica Frost?”

  But again, I knew exactly where she was.

  I only hoped she was alone.

  Chapter 46

  When I settled in behind the wheel of the large four-wheel drive it was closing in on 1:00 A.M. The snow was coming down at a steep angle, an endless sea of large, white flakes.

  I turned on the radio, tuned it to 1090 AM, and listened to the forecast. The system was moving down from the mountains and they were calling for at least another foot in the city. They listed a number of road closures and counties on accident alert. It sounded as if the entire city was making arrangements to shut down for the next couple days. They were even predicting the NFC Championship game would be postponed, seeing as how the Arizona Cardinals’ flight had been canceled. On a side note, State Road 20, also know as North Cascades Highway, had been listed among the roads closed. This, of course, could throw a hitch in my rescue mission.

  The plows were running on the highway and I drafted behind one of the large trucks. I wouldn’t exactly quantify the storm as a white-out but visibility was down to about twenty feet.

  After an hour of averaging speeds between seven and fifteen miles per hour, I came to the junction to the North Cascades Highway. Three snow plows, their lights blinking, blocked off the incoming traffic.

  I pulled up near the trucks. A man setting up roadblocks walked over. He had a thick jacket on with the hood pulled up and ski goggles.

  I rolled the window down and the man said, “Road’s closed, pal.”

  I yelled into the wind, “Listen, I have to get up there.” I made up some story about my wife going into labor.

  I took out my badge—well Todd Gregory’s badge—and flashed it to him.

  He said, “I wish I could help you, pal, but your car just isn’t going to make it. This is the first wave of the storm. The second wave is rolling down from Canada as we speak. They think this one could set records. Calling for like four or five feet.”

  This was what I was afraid of. I was little help if my car got stuck, or if I should drive off the side of the mountain, or get caught in an avalanche, which weren’t exactly rare in these glacial mountains.

  The guy seemed genuinely concerned. Far more concerned than I would have been for a total stranger.

  He asked, “How far up you going?”

  “Not too far.”

  I could see he was contemplating driving me up there. He knew the roads and he knew the weather. But was he going to put his ass on the line? I was starting to think he might.

  I was wrong.

  He said, “Sorry, pal. I can’t help you.”

  Wrong answer.

  I opened up the glove compartment and pulled out my father’s Smith and Wesson. I pointed the gun at the man’s face. “I’m not asking anymore, pal.”

  He actually softened quite quickly. He handed me the keys, walked me over to the plow and gave me a quick crash course. I was set to leave and I said, “One more thing.”

  He looked at me skeptically.

  “I need your goggles.”

  . . .

  The plow ripped through the snow and I made decent time. Every half mile or so I would come across a car on the side of the road. There were even two cars parked in the middle of the road. I wondered where the occupants were. If I weren’t on a time crunch, I might have stopped and made sure no one was trying to stave off death inside the vehicles.

  As I persevered up the mountain, the snow continued to let up. But you could see the damage the first wave had done. More than a foot of fresh snow as far as the eye could see.

  An hour later, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife building came into view. There were two cars. One was parked where Herb had parked his Jeep the day we’d met, and I assumed this was his car. The other was parked on the far side of the lot, and the snow cloud it was in resembled a sedan.

  I ran to the car and brushed off the license plate. It was Erica’s. I wondered how long the car had been parked there. Probably close to thirty-six hours.

  Shit.

  I grabbed my things from the plow and made my way into the building. I called out to Herb, but I had a feeling he wasn’t around. He was either snowed in somewhere or with Erica. Which, if the latter was true, means there was a good chance Herb was dead.

  I changed into my winter gear. It was slim pickings. My father’s old ski gear was a pretty ridiculous old full-body snowsuit. Lime green, magenta, and yellow stripes ran down the length of the arms and legs.

  I went into the office and snagged the remaining PowerBars and a couple bottled waters and stuffed them in one of many zippered pockets. I pulled open a locker and found an emergency rescue kit. I opened it and pulled out a flare gun, which I stuffed snuggly beneath the belt of the snowsuit. I also took one of three flashlights and stuck it next to the flare gun.

  As I was leaving, I eyed the rifle resting in the corner. The snub-nosed revolver I’d used in my plow-jacking hadn’t been loaded. Guns without bullets only get you so far.

  I picked up the rifle and checked the barrel. Loaded.

  I made my way to the door and opened it to a wall of white. The second wave of the storm had arrived.

  Chapter 47

  Two of the three snowmobiles were missing. I wondered what Erica’s plan had been. Had she planned to escort the deranged Professor back on the snowmobile? Or make him ski in front of her while she trained her nine millimeter at the back of his head? And what about Herb? Had he chaperoned Erica on her endeavor? And if so, were either of them still alive?

  I wiped the excess snow off the snowmoblie and found the key in the ignition. A bungee cord was attached to the back of the sled and I secured the rifle as best I could.

  I hit the ignition and the machine roared to life. I pulled my goggles down, pulled back on the throttle, and the snowmobile lurched forward.

  The snow was falling at an incredible pace. I could barely see my own hands in front of me. After twenty minutes, I figured I was about halfway there. Then I heard the unthinkable: the engine beneath me sputtered.

  I wiped the dash and peered at the gas gauge.

  Empty.

  The snowmobile coughed, waned, then died.

  I may have cursed.

  I hopped off the sled and into the snow. The snow came up to above my knees. I figured that at the rate it was falling, in an hour it would be up to my waist.

  There were a large set of boulders to my right and I remembered the den was about a mile in that direction.

  After ten minutes, my chest was heaving. I’m not sure if it was the material the snowsuit was composed of or if I’d accidentally lit myself on fire with the flare gun, but my body temp was hovering around five thousand degrees.

  I kept on for another twenty minutes, then stopped. I looked in every direction. It was a sea of white. I was lost. I thought about doubling back, but I wasn’t really sure which way back was. And over the course of the last ten minutes, the snow had intensified, if that was possible.

  I put my head down and forged ahead. I didn’t see the fence until it was literally a foot in front of me. I followed the fence with my hands until I came to the gate. It was open.

  I took ten trudges through the gate, half expecting a wolf to latch onto my throat at any moment. I continued through the snow, the faint outline of the barn slowly coming into focus. As I approached the barn, I noticed a silhouette of something thirty yards in front of the small building. I came abreast of it. It was a snowmobile. I instinctively dusted off the gas gauge and took a peek. Nearly full.

  I took a step past the sled and stopped. My mouth went dry. A large pile of pink snow was directly underfoot. Sitting amid the pile was a brimmed hat.

  My stomach fell. If Herb was dead, it didn’t bode well for Erica.

  My throat tightened as I trudged the final steps to the barn. It was unlocked. It was at about this point that it dawned on me I’d left the rifle attached to the snowmobile.

  Awesome.

  I figured if I did come across the Professor, which was a long shot—I had a feeling he was skiing around with his wolf buddies—maybe I could smash him over the head with a PowerBar or something. And I did have the flare gun. But if you’ve ever seen a flare gun, you know they aren’t the most reliable of devices, or accurate. Even so, I pulled it from my waist and pushed the door open. The acrid smell of wildlife filled my nostrils and I gave my head a stiff shake.

 

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