The Rescue Page 4

  I’m alive! The biggest surprise in waking up was that she had woken up at all. Better yet, her arms and legs seemed to be in perfect working order. Even her sprained ankle didn’t hurt so much.

  She checked her fire and noted a pile of ash with a few still smoldering embers. There was even a tiny area of warmth surrounding it. There was no doubt in her mind that it had saved her life.

  She crawled forward for a look outside.

  And froze.

  The fur was dark brown, almost black. The tail was stubby.

  A groundhog, right? Let it be a groundhog!

  She took stock of the broad back and powerful neck and shoulders.

  A bodybuilding groundhog.

  The creature grunted, rolled over, and lifted its shaggy head. The profile was unmistakable.

  A bear.

  Terrified, Meg backed away. Wary eyes watched her. The animal got to all fours and shook itself. Meg’s fears ebbed slightly. This was not a fully-grown bear. It was a cub, roughly the size of a large bale of hay.

  Small comfort. It was still a wild animal, still dangerous. One playful swat could knock her unconscious or rip open her chest. Baby though it was, the cub probably outweighed her by a lot.

  “What are you doing here, Junior?” she mumbled nervously. “Shouldn’t you be hibernating or something?”

  She struggled to remember her fifth-grade science unit on bears. Not all hibernated, and even the hibernators weren’t in a deep sleep all winter.

  Maybe Junior got up for a drink of water and got lost in the blizzard.

  Meg’s heart turned over. A child separated from its family. It rang a bell. This cub was a fellow traveler, practically a Falconer bear.

  “Let’s hope we both make it home, kid.”

  Slowly, she backed out of the alcove and stood in snow that measured well above her knees. The storm was over now, and the weather was clear except for a few flurries. She had no idea where she was, or how far she’d come from the clear-cut lane where the power lines marched. She only knew she had to find it and get going. Now that the blizzard had passed, Spidey and Tiger would be out searching for her again. And in two feet of snow, she was going to be leaving a trail that a blind man could follow.

  Still facing the shelter that had preserved her life — you didn’t turn your back on a bear, even a cute one — she reversed a few steps farther into the woods. In a matter of seconds, her jeans were every bit as wet as they had been last night when she’d dragged herself out of the blizzard.

  The bear cub appeared under the rock ledge, watching her. Then it plunged into the fresh powder and took off after her, flailing limbs propelling it at an alarming speed.

  Meg knew panic in its purest form. There was no fear quite like the fear of something that could eat you.

  Don’t run! she ordered herself. That was another fifth-grade science lesson. Bears had a chase reflex. If you tried to flee, they would stop at nothing to catch you.

  The cub scrambled toward her but came no closer than twenty feet. There it stayed, rolling and frolicking in the snowdrifts, kicking up a spray. Almost — playing?

  Not just playing — showing off!

  It proved two things: First, the cub wasn’t planning to attack her. Second, it preferred to keep a safe distance. It was as scared of her as she was of it. Which still didn’t make it harmless. Somewhere, this thing had a mother. And that recalled rule number one from the fifth-grade unit: Never hang around a bear cub, because, sooner or later, a mama bear might show up.

  Defying her own advice, she turned away from the cub and began to plow through the snow. Every time she paused to look back, the creature was still there, twenty feet back, following her.

  She clapped her hands sharply. “Shoo!”

  Junior dropped back a few more feet but kept coming.

  It took two hours of hard slogging before the cub either grew exhausted or lost interest. By the time it was completely out of sight, Meg had already begun to miss it.

  The Ski-Doo raced along the unplowed mountain road, its motor groaning under the weight of three people riding a machine built for two. Mickey was sandwiched between Harris and Aiden.

  It was a precarious, almost impossible arrangement. Every bump and curve threatened to hurl Aiden overboard into a four-foot drift. It would have been much more balanced with the smaller teenager in the middle. But Harris refused to allow the kidnapper to ride on the end and perhaps have a chance to escape.

  “Where’s he going to go?” Aiden had argued. “You can’t run through all this snow.”

  “I’m not going to run,” Mickey promised. “I want to help find Meg and make things right.”

  “You’re in a lot of trouble, mister,” Harris reminded him. “You get points for cooperating, but you’re still a part of this. You’d better pray we find that girl in one piece.”

  Making the ride even more treacherous was the fact that Harris was driving with one hand. The other was on his cell phone, which was getting spotty reception because of the mountains.

  “Can you hear me?” he bellowed for at least the fifteenth time. “My name is Emmanuel Harris — I’m with the FBI! There’s a girl lost in the woods — answer me! Are you there? Her last known coordinates — ”

  From around a blind curve came a flashing blue light. Beneath it roared a huge plow, pushing a wall of white seven feet high.

  Harris heaved on the handlebars, and the Ski-doo veered sideways, skirting the angled blade by inches. A second later, a tidal wave of snow rolled over them, burying machine and riders.

  Suddenly, Aiden realized that he could neither move nor breathe. He tried a swimming motion, but that only seemed to dig him in deeper. Then a large hand grabbed him by the fabric of his ski suit and hauled mightily. His head broke the surface in time for him to see the plow disappearing down the road in a cloud of airborne powder.

  His rescuer, Harris, shouted after it. “Thanks for stopping to make sure we’re okay!”

  “I don’t think he even saw us,” commented Mickey, teeth chattering.

  All three were as white as ghosts, and Mickey did not have the protection of modern ski gear.

  The incident had its funny side, but it was no laughing matter. Every minute lost was that much more delay before Harris could get the Forest Service out searching for Meg.

  It seemed to take forever for the three of them to dig out the Ski-Doo and get it on the road and running again. Even more serious was the discovery that Harris’s cell phone was lost somewhere in the vast pile. Wasting more time looking for it was not an option.

  With the road plowed, they drove along the shoulder. Mickey directed Harris to the tiny ski town the kidnappers had used for supplies. The place looked different under two feet of snow, but Aiden recognized it instantly.

  “We were here!” he exclaimed in agony to Harris. “We were so close to finding her!” If only they hadn’t left; if they had looked a little closer, tried a little harder, his sister might not be lost in the mountains right now, struggling or maybe even dead.

  They crossed Route 119 and followed a winding drive downhill to a rustic-looking ski lodge.

  “This is where we went for Internet access,” Mickey explained. “To send messages through the secure e-mailer.”

  “I know the place,” Aiden managed. It seemed like forever, but it was really only a couple of days since he had rocketed down the main ski hill on a stolen ten-speed bike. For all he knew, Meg’s kidnappers had been just inside the lodge while he did battle with the hotel’s snowmaking machinery.

  Harris emitted an exhausted sigh. “My luck — wrong hotel.”

  The resort where he and Aiden had rented the Ski-doo and equipment was probably dozens of miles away. That was where the Trailblazer was parked. At some point, Harris would have to find it again, either driving the snowmobile, or in a rented pickup with the Ski-Doo on the flatbed. The mere thought of it made him wearier. But first things first.

  The machine roared up to the fr
ont entrance. Harris leaped off, grabbed Aiden and Mickey, and shoved them ahead of him into the lobby. Once inside, he made a beeline for a bank of pay phones, keeping a close watch on his two captives, who were huddled together, dripping meltwater on the carpet.

  * * *

  Agent Mike Sorenson stood in his T-shirt and boxers, lathering his face for his morning shave when the call came in.

  “Harris, where are you? Where’s Aiden Falconer?”

  “He’s standing about twenty feet away from me — right next to one of the kidnappers.”

  “One of the kidnappers?” Sorenson repeated. “Back up! What’s going on?”

  Harris delivered a quick update on everything that had happened since he and Aiden had left the power company substation and gone to rent the snowmobile. “We found the cabin where she was being held, and I arrested the guy who helped her escape. He’s cooperating so far.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Sorenson probed.

  “Out there somewhere,” Harris supplied grimly. “I’ve got the Forest Service looking for her. My prisoner says his two accomplices have been out after her all night. She could be with them now. To tell you the truth, I’m almost hoping for it.” His voice dropped in volume. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Sorenson. We had a once-in-a-generation storm last night. If she was out in that, I figure it’s at least fifty-fifty she didn’t make it.”

  “Aw, jeez!” Sorenson groaned. “Have you got anything on the other two kidnappers?”

  “My guy doesn’t know much. Descriptions. First names, maybe phony. But I think I have the laptop they used to send the ransom e-mails. I’ve got it hooked up to an Internet connection here, and our tech people are examining it online.”

  “Good idea,” Sorenson acknowledged. He had little tolerance for the way Harris had defied orders and horned in on an investigation that was none of his business. But he had to admit that this was a major break in the case. “I appreciate what you’ve done. I’m not sure how long it’s going to take me to get out there. How are the roads?”

  “They’re plowing them now,” Harris replied. “Trust me on that one.”

  “I’m on my way,” Sorenson promised. “And when I get there, you can enjoy that vacation you were talking about.”

  There was a long silence. When Harris spoke again, he was obviously choosing his words carefully. “You’re the lead. I respect that. But I’m not leaving. The Falconers are on my conscience. I won’t abandon them until this is over, one way or the other.”

  Sorenson bit his lip and refused to be drawn into an argument. As the lead agent, he had every right to order Harris to back off. But he understood the big man’s feelings about the family. It was every agent’s nightmare to make the kind of mistake Harris had made with the Falconers.

  He reached out and wrote the name blue valley ski resort with his finger on the fogged bathroom mirror.

  “Thanks, Harris. I’ll see you soon.” He drew a deep breath. “What am I going to tell the parents?”

  “Tell them that their son is safe,” Harris advised. “And their daughter — I wish I could say.”

  Tired. Cold. Hungry.

  That refrain marked the rhythm of Meg’s tortured footsteps as she plowed through knee-deep snow and thigh-high drifts.

  In a way, Meg Falconer had ceased to exist except for those three words. Her personality, her spirit had been whittled away. All that was left was what tormented her: exhaustion, hypothermia, starvation.

  Earlier, she had seen a few birds feasting on some wild berries. When the little creatures didn’t drop dead of poisoning, she had eaten a fistful of the tiny frozen fruits. They had thawed in her mouth to release a taste so nasty and so sour that she could feel her face crumple. Yet she had not left a single one on the branch. The birds would have to look elsewhere. They, at least, could fly.

  Or had she hallucinated the birds? It was more than possible that her eyes were deceiving her. Her ears definitely were. A dozen times in the last few hours, she had distinctly heard her kidnappers crashing through the underbrush, pursuing her.

  Of course, those noises in the bush could have been branches breaking under the weight of the snow. Or small animals — even her bear cub — following at a distance. Or the fevered imagination of a mind that was ceasing to function.

  I’m losing it....

  Meg was no quitter. When she and Aiden had been fugitives, chased not just by police, but also a trained killer, she had never given up. When she had been kidnapped, she had not lost hope. Yet now the enemy was no human being, but nature itself. Nature couldn’t be fought. No matter how far she slogged through this, nature could always conjure up more snow, more trees, more miles.

  She crested a rise and looked down into the valley below for the city/town/village she had been praying to see. Just more of the same — white barren wilderness.

  Then she noticed the smoke.

  She was so startled that she lost her footing, pitched forward, and began to roll. She reached out frantically for some way to put on the brakes. There was nothing but many inches of fresh snow, a powdery slide bearing her downward. Her searching hands found no rock, no shrub, nothing to stop her descent.

  As she picked up speed, the powder inundated her, finding its way up every sleeve, into every pocket, through every seam. It was in her ears, up her nose.

  Still, even tumbling out of control, her mind stayed focused on the smoke. Did I really see it?

  Smoke meant fire; fire meant people.

  She opened her mouth to call for help and was instantly gagged by a throatful of snow that stung her teeth and choked her.

  As the slope began to level out, she was able to dig her sneakers into the more solid snow beneath the powder to slow her fall. She was frosted from head to toe, spitting and coughing, but unhurt as she scrambled to her feet.

  Her mind might have been hazy before, but it was super-sharp now, concentrated like a laser beam on a single thought: the smoke. Had it been real? Or just a cloud? Or wishful thinking?

  But there it was, rising into the chill air. Even more astonishing, she could now see the source of the plume. A tiny cottage, covered with snow, looking like a small square igloo.

  On closer examination, there were eight or ten of these structures arranged in a loose semicircle in a clearing. Only one had smoke coming from the chimney.

  Cabins! And at least one of them was occupied!

  Heart leaping, she tried to break into a run, but the heavy snow put her flat on her face. Undaunted, she got up again and began to march toward this place of safety. Shelter, dry clothes, hot food, a telephone, rescue — all within reach.

  I did it! I walked out of the mountains!

  It was not until now, with the ordeal almost over, that she realized what a long shot it had always been for her to get to this moment.

  As she stumbled into the clearing, she rehearsed what she was going to say to these people: My name is Margaret Falconer, and I’m a kidnap victim. Call the police....

  An ice-crusted sign read:

  CABINS — WEEKLY — MONTHLY — SEASON

  FIREPLACES — FREE CABLE TV

  A boxy mound in front of the occupied cabin turned out to be a snow-buried car. There were no tracks in the powder. That meant the occupants were in!

  As she moved to the door, she passed the single window in front of the cottage. The scene inside was a cozy domestic one. A woman sat in an easy chair, warming her feet by a roaring fire. A man leaned against the mantle. The couple was deep in conversation.

  It was all very comfortable, except for one appalling detail — the two people were Spidey and Tiger.

  Crushing disappointment mingled with instant terror. Meg jumped back from the window as if she’d been burned. Of all the cabins in all the mountain retreats in all the towns around these woods, she had to stumble on this one.

  She had been incapable of running before, but she managed it now — high, leaping steps across the deep snow, feet barely touching
down. She had no idea whether her kidnappers had spotted her staring in at them. She could not risk even the microsecond it would take her to look back over her shoulder. If they were pursuing her, it was silent pursuit, just as her own steps were silent in the muffling powder.

  The horror of not knowing created a dread unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

  Was that the door? Are they after me?

  She harnessed the adrenaline, wallowed in the fear, anything that might pick up her speed and help her get away from that cabin.

  The capture, when it came, was so shocking, so devastating, that she almost lost consciousness. Two big hands closed on her shoulders. She literally ran out from under her own body and landed flat on her back in the snow.

  His bearded face red with exertion and fury, Spidey tossed her over his shoulder like a rag doll.

  Meg screamed her frustration and anger to the sky, pounding her fists against her captor’s broad back.

  Tiger’s smug smile swung into her field of vision. “Well, Margaret, how considerate of you to join us.”

  Dr. Louise Falconer dialed the handset and waited anxiously through the recorded message:

  “Hello, you’ve reached Rufus Sehorn, owner and proprietor of the world-famous bloghog.usa. Shame on you for phoning when you’ve got a perfectly good website to visit for news, opinions, and whatnot. But if you really need to speak to me the old-fashioned way, leave a message at the oink.”

  Throughout the horrible ordeal of Meg’s kidnapping, Sehorn had been a beacon of light in the awful darkness. His sympathy and friendship had been almost as important as the use of his well-known website. His willingness to help them raise three million dollars in ransom money over the Internet was typical of the kind of support he provided. It made perfect sense that, in their most desperate moment, the Falconers would turn to Rufus Sehorn.

  The sound of pigs grunting called for her message.

  “Rufus, it’s Louise. I’m sorry to bother you, but we really don’t know where else to turn. Agent Sorenson has gone off somewhere. He says it’s about the case, but no one will tell us anything more than that. If you have any news through your site, please call.” She hung up.