Scott Free (15 page)

But tomorrow will be even later.

That thought startled him. At least today he could still stand, he could still think straight. Who knew about tomorrow? Tomorrow he could be dead.

So, today was the day. He was out of choices. It was walk or die. Okay, or die walking, which was sort of the same thing.

Even if he did this crazy thing and left today, it was probably too late in the afternoon for him to start. What was it already? Two? Maybe three in the afternoon? He didn't bother to check his watch. Another couple of hours and it would be dark again.

And then it would be another endless night. When the sun rose again, he'd be a whole day hungrier, a whole day closer to death. Wasn't it better to die out there, trying, than it would be to die here in the shelter, just waiting?

Before he realized that he'd even made his decision, Scott had the map out of his pocket. Man oh man, that was a lot of green and brown nothing.

He pointed to the spot on the map where he'd calculated the crash site to be, and from there, he looked for some positive sign. Surely there had to be a building around here somewhere. Surely.

Well, you'd think.

If Scott recalled correctly, the USGS maps were compiled from data gathered from aerial photographs—in this case, according to the legend at the bottom, a photograph taken ten years ago. At a scale of 1:50,000, the area illustrated on the map seemed impossibly huge.

Wait. There. What about that one?

His hand paused at a tiny cluster of four black dots along the blue line that Scott knew to be the river.
Could that be a house?
he wondered. Or a series of them? A place with a telephone? A ranger station, maybe?

It was definitely a building.

But Jesus, it was a long ways away. Using the length of his thumb to estimate the measurements of the legend, he figured the cluster of buildings to be ten miles from here. That was the bad news.

The good news was, it was
only
ten miles from here. Better than eleven, right? And a damn sight better than fifteen or twenty. Sometimes you had to force yourself to look for the bright spots.

Suppose they weren't even there anymore? Suppose they had burned down five years ago, or even last week?

Scott shook the thoughts away.

He worked the numbers in his brain. Assuming a person walks five miles an hour in normal circumstances, with the hills and the dead falls and such, plus the snow, he figured that his progress would be half that fast. Ten miles at two and a half miles per hour was only four hours. Actually, if he set off right at this very moment, he might even make it halfway before dark.

Suddenly, all of this seemed too easy. What was he forgetting? What was the one plainly stupid thing he'd forgotten to do?

A lot can go wrong in ten miles. He'd never hiked that far without a trail to follow. He had his compass, sure, but one degree over ten miles was a long way. Then there was the risk of wolves. Or grizzly bears or falling off a cliff or—

Enough! How was he going to do this?

Maybe even the compass thing wasn't such a big deal. The buildings sat right on the river. As long as he followed the river, he should be able to find the buildings. Really, it was that simple. That didn't mean he could ignore the compass and map, but it did mean that he could make faster progress through the woods. He wouldn't have to shoot a new heading every few feet the way he'd done the day before.

So, he'd head basically south, choosing the least steep route to the river, and from there just let the water be his guide. Boom. He had a plan. Part of him wanted to think it all through a little more, consider other options. This felt too easy.

In the end, he decided to think about it as he walked.

L
ONG SHADOWS PAINTED BLACK STRIPES
across the blinding white roadway in front of the now-familiar police station. After seven hours aloft, Brandon had parted company with Colonel Morris on the tarmac behind Terminal Two, and with nothing else to do, headed back to Eagle Feather.

What a difference a day made. Yesterday's deserted streets were now packed with people, most dressed in the standard uniform of winter tourists: designer skiwear that looked great but left them shivering. Brandon watched these people, and as he did, he wondered which of them had children, and of the ones who did, how many had ever feared for those children's lives. Suddenly, he felt very alone, as if everyone else in the world had someone near them to care about and to nurture. No one should have to fend alone with this kind of worry. It sat like a block of ice in his belly, and with each tick of the minute hand, it grew geometrically.

His mind again conjured the image of his only child, gasping for help where no one could possibly hear.

Brandon paused as he turned the corner on Main Street, his attention drawn to the Whiteout Saloon, which loomed directly across the street. From its long, arched windows to the ornately carved doors topped with stained glass, the place looked like it had been drop-shipped directly from some back lot, where it served as the set for a nineteenth-century whorehouse. Judging from the clientele he saw passing through the doors, this was not a place where he'd be likely to find the pink drinks served in plastic cowboy boots that characterized the first choice of tourists with kids. This was a drinking establishment. Exactly what he needed.

He crossed at the corner and walked right in. Inside, the John Wayne theme continued. An ornately carved bar stretched all the way down the left-hand side of the room, every third or fourth chair occupied by someone who no doubt thought that they had real problems in their lives. Two dozen little round tables littered the rest of the room, each of them playing host to four identical bentwood chairs. As he surveyed the room, Brandon could almost see the stuntmen busting this furniture over each other's heads in the obligatory brawl scene.

He headed for the bar, choosing the most isolated seat he could find. The bartender wasted no time homing in. “What can I get for you?” Above the racks of bottles, the saloon's only anachronism—a fifteen-inch television—showed a four-wheel-drive truck plowing through a snowdrift, spraying mud and snow everywhere. The camera work told Brandon that it was probably just a commercial, although it could have just as easily been the evening news.

Something about the bartender amused Brandon. Aged somewhere between fifty and seventy, the guy had a complexion like a yellow raisin, and his voice had the deep basso tone that could only come from years of unfiltered Camels. When he glanced at the man's name tag, he couldn't help himself from laughing out loud.

“Your name really Joe?” Brandon asked.

The guy looked confused. “Yeah. Can't say anybody's ever found it funny, though.”

Brandon raised his hands to ward off hard feelings. “Meant no harm. It's just that in a place like this, what name could the bartender possibly have
but
Joe?”

The bartender still didn't get it.

“Never mind. Like I said, no harm intended. You got any Glenmorangie back there?”

“Twelve year, eighteen or twenty-four?”

Like that was even a choice. If he was going to poison his body, he might as well do it in style. “Let's do the twenty-four. On the rocks.”

“Eighteen's better,” Joe said. No longer offended, he'd switched directly to tip-earning mode. “Smoother, I think.”

Brandon nodded once. “Done. I defer to the expert.”

“Saved you four bucks, too.” As Joe walked away, Brandon noticed that he even had the bowlegged swagger of an old cowboy. The bartender moved with the halting efficiency of a man who hurt most of the time.

Brandon put his elbows on the bar and rested his face in his hands. Just how long did he have to go, he wondered, until someone yelled olley-olley-oxenfree and ended this nightmare? He was ready to be awake again. He was ready to wake up with a start in the morning only to find that Scott had once again slept through his alarm. He wanted to roll him out of bed and yell at him for running late.

He wanted a hug from him. And a kiss. Even at sixteen, his son still gave him a kiss good night before bed. It had been part of their routine forever, and he hoped that it never faded away. Somewhere in his own childhood, handshakes had become the only means to express affection with his father, and on the day Scott was born, Brandon had made a pledge never to make the same mistake with his own son.

He shifted on his stool and opened his eyes to find that his drink had arrived, mysteriously and silently. Joe had already retreated back to the far end, apparently reading his customer's body language, which hollered that he wanted to be left alone. The cardboard coaster stuck to the bottom of the glass as Brandon took a sip. Damn smooth, indeed. And Joe had gotten the recipe exactly right: two ice cubes, the rest scotch.

He chased the first sip with two more, then set the glass back onto the polished mahogany to wait for the alcohol to do its job. Never much of a drinker, he did enjoy the warmth it brought, the certain clarity of thought. He remembered his college days when his buddies used to go out bingeing, and about the best he could do was a buzz after a six-pack, and endless puking after the seventh beer. He'd learned early to recognize his limits.

God, that was a long time ago. Hell, this morning was a long time ago. He tried to imagine how far he'd have to roll back the clock to make the horror go away. Would it have been as simple as saying no to Sherry? If he had done that, would everything else have been just fine?

Well, maybe, but who was he to deny Scott a week away with his mother? And who the hell was she to put him in that position?

That's really what it kept coming back to. Why did that selfish bitch have to put Brandon in this situation in the first place? Did she really hate him that much? Did she really have so little regard for the relationship that he and Scott had built over the years that she had to force a wedge between them?

Yes, she hated him at least that much.

Enough to kill their only son.

Whoa! That thought came out of nowhere. Startled the hell out of him. Scott wasn't dead, dammit! He wasn't.

And even if he were, how could Brandon possibly lay the blame for a plane crash at Sherry's feet? That wasn't right.

Still, if she'd just kept to her own business, and out of theirs, then sure as hell, none of this would have happened.

“She can't even ski, for Christ's sake!”

“Excuse me?”

Brandon looked up to see Joe, a curious expression on his face.

“Huh?”

“You talkin' to me?” Joe asked.

Brandon scowled. He must have spoken his last thought aloud. “Oh, no, don't mind me. I got some problems today, is all.”

“Judging by the look on your face, it's gotta be a kid or a woman.”

“Or both.”
Jesus, where do bartenders get their psychiatry degrees?

“Yep, I figured. You okay?”

Brandon looked at the man's eyes. They looked curiously young for a man so old. Green, the way a cat's eyes were green. When people throw out a question like that, they either want an answer, or they're just engaging in a word-reflex. Joe impressed Brandon as a straight shooter. He probably thought he wanted to know, but once he heard, he'd be sorry he asked.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Brandon said. “Or I will be.”

Joe waited for a moment—a silent opportunity for Brandon to change his mind—then shuffled back to his duties.

As Brandon watched the old man cross under the television set, his eyes were drawn to the white-bread news anchors on the screen. The picture cut to the standard-issue blonde with perfect teeth, and as she spoke words that were too soft for Brandon to understand, he saw a cartoon image of a plane crash over her shoulder, and if he wasn't mistaken, he read her lips as she mouthed the phrase, “Scott O'Toole.”

“Turn that up!” Brandon shouted, startling the shit out of Joe.

“What?”

“The television! Turn it up! Turn it up now!”

Rattled, Joe had to search for the remote. He found it near the beer taps, just about a microsecond before Brandon was about to launch himself across the bar. The picture had already switched to a reporter standing in front of the building Brandon recognized as Terminal Two, but this pretty-boy was already well into his monologue before the sound became audible.

“…until sundown, but then authorities will have to suspend operations until morning. Given the weather predictions for this evening—yet another punishing snowfall—even that seems iffy.”

The picture cut to the image of a dour man whom Brandon had never seen, speaking into the bulbous end of a microphone. The graphic on the bottom of the screen identified him as Fire Chief Norman Howlette. “If you don't know where to look, you're bound to have trouble finding someone. Everything's made worse by the snow cover. Truthfully, if we don't find that wreckage soon, we're going to have to make some tough decisions.”

“What kind of tough decisions?” asked a voice from offscreen.

Howlette looked suddenly uncomfortable, as if he were aware of the camera for the first time. “The toughest.”

“You mean to discontinue the search?”

“Oh, I don't know that we'd ever officially discontinue it, but there's a big difference between search and rescue, and search and recovery.”

“And that difference is?”

Howlette scowled, clearly wishing that this parasite would go away. “The difference is, you can only rescue someone who's still alive. And, well, it's awfully cold out there.”

An invisible hand squeezed Brandon's belly. He realized as he looked down at his drink, still poised for a sip in front of his mouth, that his hands were shaking. Half of it spilled before he could set it back down on the bar.

What did these people think they were doing? Who were they to even
think
about giving up? Rage blossomed as he stood and fished with trembling hands for his wallet.

From his station over by the beer taps, Joe watched, and those green eyes showed that he understood now. He understood everything. “Forget about it, sir. This one's on the house,” he said.

Brandon cocked his head and looked strangely at the old man.

“Really,” he said again. “Go fight for your boy.”

 

B
RANDON DIDN'T EVEN SLOW DOWN
for the door. If it hadn't opened easily, he'd have knocked it down. He made eye contact with Jesse Tingle, and the deputy buzzed him in without questioning a thing.

As Brandon marched down the aisle through the maze of chairs and desks, all work stopped and all eyes followed him. Apparently, his rage was that obvious. He set a course for Chief Whitestone's door, and no force on earth was going to stop him. At least three of the armed officers stood at their desks.

“Is he in?” he asked Charlotte Eberly.

“Yes, but—”

“Thank you.” Thank God the doorknob turned easily. Brandon threw the door inward, but caught it before it could destroy the wall.

Whitestone looked startled, then angry. “Hey!”

Brandon's door slam shook the building. “Is what I just heard on the news true?”

The chief looked away. “I haven't been watching the news—”

“Don't bullshit me. It's true, isn't it? You guys are about to give up.”

Whitestone thrust out his hand like the traffic cop he no doubt once was. “Absolutely not. Who said we're about to give up?”

“Some fire chief on the news.”

“Well, we're a long way from that, I assure you.”

“How long?”

Chief Whitestone thought for a moment as he sat back down. “We're certainly continuing the search tomorrow. In fact, we hope to add two more airplanes.”

“Unless the weather turns bad again.”

The chief inhaled noisily. “Well, yes, the weather is always a consideration.”

“And they're predicting more snow for tonight?”

“Yes.”

“What's the plan for the day after tomorrow, then?”

Whitestone considered lying. Brandon could see it, like a neon sign on the lawman's forehead. He actually opened his mouth to do it before he shut himself down. “Tomorrow's the last day we'll be treating this mission as a search and rescue operation.” There it was, right square on the nose.

Brandon helped himself to a chair. Suddenly, there was nothing to say. “But that's my son up there.”

Whitestone nodded and his eyes reddened. “I know that.”