Scott Free (14 page)

Out of nowhere, a stomach cramp blossomed deep in his gut, doubling him over and forcing a grunt from his throat. He thought for a moment that he might puke again, but talked himself out of it. Nothing to barf up, remember? Maybe it was just the despair, but Scott swore that he felt weaker today. His hands shook more, and not just because of the cold; though God knew it was friggin' freezing.

Deep down inside, he knew that he'd begun to die. Closing in on forty-eight hours without food, and clearly no rational expectation for rescue, this was the beginning of the end.

The planes were so
close.
There
had
to be a way. There had to be—

Something changed in the sound of the airplane's engine that made his head jerk up for another look. At first, he had difficulty focusing on the little spec in the distance, but when he reacquired it, he realized that it had finally broken its monotonous circular orbit, and was headed in a new direction. It looked like it was heading out, on a course directly away from him. They must have run low on fuel. Shielding his eyes against the brilliant sky and the piercing white of the snow, he watched as the lone airplane headed home. Oddly, as he watched, the growl of the engine grew louder.

“Oh, shit,” Scott breathed. It wasn't heading home; it was coming right at him! He let out a war whoop as he jumped to his feet and waved his arms wildly over his head. “Here I am! Right here! Right here!”

He needed his fire.

Scott turned too quickly as he bolted back toward his impromptu camp and lost his footing, catching a face full of snow. It hurt, but it didn't slow him down. Jesus, this was it! Finally, he had his first good shot at a rescue. He had to light the fire, and he had maybe five minutes to do it.

By now, his tracks through the snow were plainly visible—great carved trenches. The vibrating growl of the airplane's engine filled the woods as he plowed on. He fell again, filling his nostrils with snow, but an instant later, he was back on his feet.

The engine grew louder still. Scott's arms and legs pumped wildly as he half-ran, half-stumbled past the dead fall that he'd guesstimated to be the halfway point. Scott's entire world had compressed itself into two sounds: the noise of the approaching airplane and the frantic in and out of his own breathing. Nothing else existed. Nothing else mattered. The exertions of a 100-yard dash yielded the progress of a baby's crawl. His legs and his lungs screamed at him to slow down, but his brain pushed him on and on.

There was the site! He could see it now. And there was the little cup of fuel he'd put out. Some had spilled, but even from this far away, he could see that there was enough.

If the plane wasn't overhead, it was damn close when Scott slid to a halt and again lost his footing. He could do it! There was time! Not much, but at least there was time.

His hands seemed to know exactly what to do as they snatched the fusee from its perch in the snow. He pulled the plastic cap, yanked the protective cover with his teeth and struck it like a giant match. It lit instantly, enveloping him in a cloud of acrid white smoke.

•  •  •

“S
LOW DOWN
,” Brandon said into the intercom. They'd dropped their altitude to treetop level, and at this distance, the unbroken carpet of white sped by at an impossible speed.

“This is as slow as she goes without falling out of the sky,” Morris replied.

If he were able, Scott would make a sign, of that Brandon was certain. A smoke column made the most sense, but it might be anything.

Scott was down there. Don't ask him how he knew, but he did. He was there.

But the white carpet yielded nothing; not even a brief glimpse into the world that lay below.

 

T
HE WOODS SHOOK
with the lumbering vibration of the airplane. In Scott's mind, it could have been a hundred airplanes for all the noise it made. It was close—so, so close—maybe even on top of him already.

But there'd be time. There had to be time. This was his moment!

He touched the fusee's searing red flame to the surface of the fuel in the cup, taking care to remain a respectful distance, just in case it flashed. The flame touched the surface and…

…nothing happened.

“What?” Scott yelled. “No!” He tried again, and again. Still, nothing. “Shit!”

How could it not light? He raised the cup to his nose and recoiled from the stench of the fuel. It was the right stuff, so why wouldn't it light? He put it back on the ground and again touched the flame to the shimmering surface. The noise of the plane vibrated in his chest.

Nothing happened.

“Come on!” he yelled. “Light, goddammit!”

And it did, with a slight, nearly inaudible
woof
a pitiful orange flame appeared for just an instant over the surface of the fuel, but in the time it took for Scott to smile, the flame went out again.

“No!”

As he tried again, and again, only to see the same brief flashes of flame, the noise of the engine peaked, and through the canopy of leaves, Scott saw the giant shadow pass overhead. The sound Dopplered and began to diminish.

“No!” Scott screamed to the woods. “No! I'm here! I'm right here!”

Trembling now, and working faster than his hands could manage, he frantically waved his fusee over the top of the basin. He needed smoke, goddammit. They were here! Right here! And he couldn't get the fuel to light!

“Don't do this to me!” he yelled, and then a shiver hit him, launching itself like a torpedo from the base of his spine to his shoulders. It made him jump, an odd reflex motion that came from nowhere, and lasted only an instant.

His hand jerked, dunking the tip of the fusee into the contained puddle of fuel, extinguishing its flame forever.

S
HERRY SAT AT THE ELABORATE
fold-down desk in the living room, her fingers hovering over the keys of her laptop, waiting for the muse to arrive. She'd been like this for an hour. She never should have accepted the seminar gig. What was she thinking? Way out here in the middle of nowhere, how could she ever imagine that enough people would sign up to make it all worthwhile? The people in charge told her that it would be a packed house, but she recognized the feel of sunshine being blown up her skirt.

It was billed as an empowerment lecture, based on the principles set forth in
The Mirror's Not the Problem.
Women these days were their own worst enemies. The baggage they carried with them through life, shouldering not only the guilt of failure, but also the guilt of success, made the glass ceiling bulletproof. Good Lord, she'd delivered her speech so many times, you'd think she'd have had it memorized by now. Maybe she did. Who could know? But it was part of her routine to rewrite it in full on the day before she was due to hit the stage. That kept it all fresh.

But not when your son is missing and everybody wants something from you; not when everyone is watching to see how well you hold up under the pressure. Nobody can concentrate in conditions like that.

Sherry had instructed Larry to get her out of this thing, to persuade the conference center manager that she was too distraught to go onstage, but it didn't work. They had a contract, the manager reminded him, and people had traveled to SkyTop from all over the country to hear Sherry Carrigan O'Toole talk about her philosophies of life. They were here, and they were snowbound, and the manager was not about to deal with a revolt simply because the featured speaker was feeling worried.

“It would be one thing if the boy were dead,” the manager had told Larry. “People might understand that. But just because he's missing? I don't think so. Hell, this is precisely the kind of counseling that Dr. O'Toole specializes in, isn't it?”

Sherry had had to force that last part out of Larry. He'd known that it would hurt her feelings, and bless his heart, he wanted to protect her from as much heartache as possible. So, come ten o'clock tomorrow morning, Sherry would be out there on the stage, with or without something to say.

When the phone rang, Sherry rose to answer it, just to have something else to do, but Larry beat her to it. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “It's Audrey,” he said.

Sherry groaned, considered refusing the call, then took it anyway. “Hello, Audrey.”

“I saw you on the news yesterday,” Audrey said. “In fact, just about everyone in New York saw you on the news yesterday. My phone has been ringing off the hook. Has there been any news about Scotty?” She seemed proud that she'd gotten the boy's name right without stumbling over it.

“Not a thing. The weather let up some, though, so at least they're finally out searcing for him.”

“Well, I hope you're taking notes,” Audrey said.

“Audrey, you didn't,” Sherry growled. She sensed what was coming and she looked up for Larry, only to see that he'd already picked up the extension.

“I swear to God I didn't call anyone. They called
me.
They saw you on the air, and they started falling all over themselves for the book rights.”

Sherry flushed. “Did you not hear what I told you yesterday?”

“What am I supposed to do, Sher, not answer my phone? Baker's offered $500,000 for U.S. rights alone.” Audrey slipped that in quickly.

Sherry gasped.
Half a million dollars?
She looked toward Larry, whose scowl turned angry. “Audrey, no. It's not right. I'm not going to make a profit from my son's misfortune. I told you no yesterday, and it's still no today.”

“Be reasonable,” Audrey begged. “That's a lot of money.”

Larry proclaimed, “It's exploitation.”

“Christ on a crutch,” Audrey spat. “Does he flush the toilet for you, too?” This wasn't the first time that Larry had played angel to Audrey's devil.

“I value his advice,” Sherry said. Her tone left no room for argument.

“Well, it's bad advice this time. Most people work their whole lives for a shot at this much money. Here I am handing it to you, and you're acting like I'm the bad guy.”

“Have you no shame at all?” Larry asked. He was as close to shouting as he ever came. “Tell us about the escalation clause that ups the payments if they find Scott dead.”

Sherry gasped.

You could almost hear Audrey turning red. “That's really offensive, Larry. How dare you? I am not exploiting a soul here, and there's no one on the planet who hopes more fervently than I that the boy turns up healthy and happy. Honest to God, from where I sit, this isn't even fundamentally about Scotty's misfortune. It's about how a mother deals with crisis.”

“But the crisis is her son!” Larry shot a pleading look to Sherry. “Are you going to say something?”

Audrey didn't give her the chance. “Look, I didn't call to joust with Mister Morality, okay? This is about you, Sherry, not about him. And I'm telling you that this is a terrific deal, and that you'll shoot yourself if you don't take it. Maybe not tomorrow, or even next week, but sooner or later, when some reporter for
Field and Stream
earns three mil for the movie rights to the story
you
should have written, you're going to jump off a bridge.”

Sherry sighed. “I just can't do it, Audrey.”

“Because Larry says it's a bad idea? The very same Larry whose livelihood depends on your livelihood?”

Sherry shook her head. “Because it's wrong.”

Now Audrey's anger was palpable. “I'm going to say something to you now that I've never said to any of my authors before, okay? And Larry, I just want you to muzzle yourself while I say it. You, too, Sherry.” She paused for effect. “Yours is not the only interest in play here, okay? Rich Czabo at Baker's can use a big book, and he's been nothing but good to me.
Mirror
's not the powerhouse that it once was, so a little publicity won't do you any harm on that front. And, Larry, before you say a word, remember that what I'm proposing doesn't approach the exploitation level of those Everest books. Those people actually died for the author to make money.”

Another pause, followed by a big sigh. The wind-up for her biggest pitch. “Sherry, I'm not going to lie and tell you that I can't put a $75,000 commission to good use. Good Christ, this is like money from home. A lot of people support you, honey. You are where you are today thanks to the help of a lot of people who aren't going to understand why, all of a sudden, you don't give a shit about them anymore.”

“That's not fair!” Sherry protested. “I do so give a shit. I know exactly how much I owe them for all they've done.”

“Then show it. Don't walk away from the opportunity of a lifetime. And what about your fans? What about those people who pour their hearts out to you and hang on every word of advice that you give? Don't you think you owe
them
an inside peek at what you're going through? Don't you think that there are countless people out there who go through this same kind of worry—with a sick child or an injured spouse—who would gain tremendous personal comfort knowing that even famous people have to deal with worry and tragedy?”

Audrey paused for a moment to let Sherry absorb it all. She had a point, you know. People
did
depend on Sherry for advice. This wasn't just her livelihood they were talking about; it was her reputation. Didn't she in fact owe those people a little something of herself? Isn't that really what she got into the business for in the first place?

“I suppose it wouldn't really be exploiting Scott,” Sherry mused.

Larry was horrified. “Sherry!”

“Exactly,” Audrey said. “What you do now can't possibly have an effect on the outcome of Scotty's problems. But how you handle the crisis, and how you share it with others, well, that can help countless people to cope on their own.”

Larry said, “Audrey, you're so full of shit I can smell it from here. Sherry, this is Audrey Lewis you're talking to, not Mother Teresa. There's not an altruistic bone in her body. It's all about the money. Don't let her pull you to the dark side.”

“Screw you, Chinn,” Audrey spat. “How dare you question my motives? And what the hell difference is it to you?”

“Her motivations don't make a difference, Larry,” Sherry said. “Her point's valid either way.”

“Oh, my God, you're going to do it!” Larry couldn't believe it.

“Think of Psychic Edge Books,” Sherry said, referring to a tiny independent bookstore in the Bay Area of San Francisco. “They sell fifteen hundred copies of my books when I sign there. That's their big profit for the year. It's what keeps them in business. They were there for me when I was nobody.”

“What are you saying?” Larry kept the phone to his ear, even as he spoke directly to her. “That it's okay to sell out your son so some bookstore can make money?”

Audrey interrupted, “Larry, shut up.”

But Sherry didn't need Audrey in her corner anymore. “I'm not selling anyone out—”

“That's sure as hell what it's going to look like!”

“Only to the people who are predisposed to pounce on everything I do anyway. Audrey's right about my readers and listeners, too. What I do has an impact on
many
people's lives. Spiritually
and
financially. I'd be foolish not to recognize that.”

Larry closed his eyes and shook his head, resigned to failure. “I don't believe you're doing this.”

“Take the offer, Audrey,” Sherry said.

•  •  •

S
COTT STARED AT THE DEAD FLARE
, his mouth agape. What had just happened? How the hell does fuel put fire
out?
This couldn't be happening.

Oh, but it was. Happening to him: Scott O'Toole, tenth-grade geek and wanna-be guitar star. He listened as the engine noise faded and changed directions, heading back toward the ridge on the other side of the valley, and he knew that his one good chance at getting out of here had just flown away.

“Shit!” Scott screamed the word loudly enough to hurt, his voice cracking from the effort, and he heaved the dead flare like a dagger, spinning it end-over-end into the tangled mess of the woods. Anger like he'd never known boiled up from somewhere and spread like a grim shadow through his whole body. “Come back!” he shrieked, but even as the words left his sore throat, he knew they were wasted.

The damn fuel didn't light. It didn't
light!
Christ, if he'd been trying to make it not burn, it would have been like a goddamn bonfire. “Fuck you!” he spat at the blue container and he kicked it, launching an arc of brown-yellow fuel that stained the snow in a dotted line ten feet long.

Then he sank to his knees and fell back on his haunches.

Don't panic,
he told himself.
Don't panic. Panic kills.
“Don't panic!”

Tears arrived from nowhere, stinging his eyes and freezing on his face. They brought with them the final hopelessness; the absolute certainty that he was going to die. Pressing his gloves to his face, he tried to make them stop, but they came anyway, in an unstoppable flood.

“I don't want to die,” he sobbed. “Please come back. Please…”

He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be the hero, the boy who did everything right, and goddammit, he
had
done everything right. But when the plane finally came—the one moment that he'd been planning for—the goddamn fuel didn't light!.

Scott O'Toole was going to die right here in the woods, slowly, either starving or freezing his way to Heaven—
oh, please let it be Heaven
—dying just a chunk at a time. He remembered Sven's pictures of fingers and noses and ears that had been blackened by frostbite. He remembered one particularly horrendous picture of a hiker whose nose had been amputated, leaving behind this hideous two-chambered scar that made the victim look like some monstrous pig-human hybrid.

Well, at least he wouldn't have to live with that. He might have to die with it, but he wouldn't have to live with it.

His stomach cranked again, and again he doubled over from it.

He should have tried to hike out for help yesterday, while he was still strong. What had he been thinking, blazing trails and building shelters? He should have spent the time walking. To hell with the experts who tell you to stay put. To hell with waiting for rescuers to come to you. All of that assumes that someone is on the way in the first place!

Yesterday, he had energy. Yesterday, his hands didn't shake. Today, it was already too late.