Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles (7 page)

Compared with the way the wind had blown when Gordon had gone out with Wardell earlier, it had slowed to nothing more than a gusting annoyance. The snowfall had eased as well, but when the gusts blew, tree branches dumped their snow loads like sacks of flour. Ice-cold flour that sought any gaps in clothing, simultaneously chilling and burning. Crystals swirled in his flashlight beam until it was like being inside a snow globe.

Metcalf took the porch stairs with more confidence and stomped his way to the trailer hitch behind his pickup. Gordon took advantage of the trail Metcalf had blazed in the powder and joined him. The sound of an engine revving, then moving closer, broke the stillness. Yardumian appeared behind a snow blower spewing rooster tails of powder, working to clear enough snow so they could move the trailer.

Lessened wind and snow notwithstanding, the temperature had dropped and was continuing a downward plunge. Freezing to death instead of being buried in the snow wasn
’t any more appealing, but the effort of getting the trailer with its cargo far enough away so the pickup could get out of the parking area created its own heating system. Gordon wiped sweat from his brow as he shuffled through the powder to his SUV. He grabbed his tote with his snowshoes and his own emergency kit. Couldn’t be overprepared. Mrs. Yardumian had that right.

While they worked, Metcalf started the pickup, so by the time they
’d moved the trailer, a warm cab awaited. Gordon climbed in, slipped his hood off and opened his parka. Metcalf shoved his balaclava down his neck.

“
Here we go,” Metcalf said, an edge of enthusiasm in his tone. He backed the pickup out of the parking area, executed a three-point turn and nosed up the drive.

“
You think this is as crazy as I do?” Gordon asked.

“
Beats sitting around. Especially with that Paula broad. A blogger who’s a damn good poker player. There’s something
so
not right about that. All bones, and did you see the way she and Sam were trying not to look at each other? At first I thought they were teaming up to beat the rest of us, but you ask me, they’re doing the mattress mambo. Don’t know what he sees in her—but then, he’s no stud himself.” He slowed, clicked the headlights to high beam for a moment, capturing twists and twirls of sparkling snow. “East, you said?”

“
Yep. Left at the intersection.” Gordon fumbled for his GPS and checked the coordinates.

Metcalf glanced in his direction. Gordon held up the device.
“Orrin tied his wife’s scarf to a tree, but I think this is a better way.”

“
GPS? Smart move, Gord, my man. Might make an outdoorsman out of you.”

“
I can handle myself. Just not something I want to do full time.”

“
And I could no more sit behind a desk than fly,” Metcalf said. “That’s cool, though. If everyone loved to play in the great outdoors, it would ruin it.”

Pleased that Metcalf wasn
’t hot-dogging, Gordon monitored their location. “It’ll be on the other side of the road, half a mile or so ahead. There’s a decent turnaround just beyond it.”

Between Metcalf
’s plow clearing the road and the improved driving conditions, the trip took a fraction of the time it had taken Wardell and Gordon. Metcalf pulled to the shoulder. From Gordon’s vantage point in the passenger seat, if he hadn’t known the car was down there, he’d never have seen it. Any traces of his earlier trek down the mountain had been obliterated by the storm.

“
Orrin must be a nut-case to think we’re going to find anything,” Metcalf said.

“
Or desperate. We promised we’d have a look around, so we’d better get going.” Gordon fastened his parka and raised his hood over his watch cap.

Metcalf shoved the pickup into Park, smoothed his beard and moustache, then settled his balaclava over his face. He grabbed a pack, and hopped out of the cab. Gordon followed, using his Maglite to scan the trees for the purple scarf. A long, rectangular pennant of ice hung from a nearby tree branch, and Gordon assumed that
’s what it was. He aimed his flashlight and peered down the incline, seeking the car. “There.” He pointed.

Metcalf stood at his side, following Gordon
’s outstretched arm. “Shit. Better use the winch.”

“
You’re not going to try to pull it up, are you?”

“
Hell, no. I’m going down.” Metcalf strapped a headlamp over his balaclava.

“
So am I,” Gordon said. Despite his eccentricities, Metcalf seemed trustworthy enough, but Gordon wanted to see things for himself.

“
Better grab your snowshoes,” Metcalf said.

Gordon leaned against the pickup for support and stepped into his snowshoes. He looped the poles around his wrists and left the bag inside the truck. He hadn
’t been snowshoeing in a couple of years, and he hoped it was like riding a bike.

With a cable to hang onto, the descent was a relative piece of cake, although Gordon
’s heart thumped with the effort. His snowshoe’s jagged teeth helped him stay upright on the steep incline, where pockets of ice would have sent him ass-over-teakettle down the hillside in his boots. He paused from time to time, shining his light, noticing fresh scars on the trees, trying to picture how the car got from the road to its resting place. A good investigator would be able to reconstruct the accident. For now, it didn’t look like the car had rolled, just slid downward, pinballing off the occasional tree. From what he remembered, the car hadn’t shown the damage of a rollover, either, although with all the snow, it was hard to be sure.

“
Hold up,” Metcalf said. He wedged the cable between two rocks and tied a neon-yellow bandana to a nearby tree. “Don’t want to lose our ride home.”

Gordon recalled Wardell tying his wife
’s scarf to the tree. Maybe low-tech trumped a GPS once in a while. The two men tromped toward the car.

Gordon
signaled a halt about five feet from their target, not wanting to obscure any possible evidence—not that he expected to find much. “If the cops are going to investigate, we should keep from messing things up too much.”

“
Thought you said you’d been here already. Seems you’d have destroyed the scene then.”

“
I took pictures,” Gordon said.

“
Aren’t you the handy CSI? Surprised you brought a camera if you came down this hill, in a storm, without ropes.”

“
Phone,” Gordon said. “But nothing looked strange. I did it for Orrin’s insurance claim.”

Metcalf fisted his hands at his hips, turned his head from left to right.
“Tell me again what Orrin said happened.”

Gordon repeated Orrin
’s story.

Metcalf shook his head.
“You sure he wasn’t covering up his own driving stupidity? That he was driving when they went over? Didn’t want to be blamed for the accident—you know, for his
insurance?
”

“
He didn’t seem banged up enough,” Gordon said.

“
Maybe he jumped out up top. Maybe his wife did, too. Maybe he’s trying to collect insurance on the car.” Metcalf pulled down his balaclava and scratched his nose. “Or on his wife.”

“
Let’s look around like we promised,” Gordon said. Metcalf was thinking like a cop, which surprised him.

They stepped a wide circle around the car.
“You’re the outdoorsman,” Gordon said. “Can you pick up any tracks? If you’d been stuck in the car when it slid down, what would you have done?”

“
Wrong question, Gord, my man. Wouldn’t happen. But, if—and it’s a big
if
—for some reason I found myself in the car down here, I’d have gone straight back up. However, given that Orrin’s wife doesn’t have my skills, she’d have looked for the path of least resistance. Or for shelter, which would have been the smart thing to do.”

“
People in stressful situations don’t always do the smart thing. And cold can mess with your head.”

“
Let’s check the car, in case she came back,” Metcalf said. “We should be so lucky.”

Gordon let go of the winch rope and tromped the few remaining feet to the car. Wind, whether a mild breeze or rousing gust, crept under the hood of his parka. Even with the watch cap, his ears were cold and his cheeks stung. Despite thermal socks, his feet ached, and his fingertips were going numb inside his gloves. Snow had drifted over the car, and he brushed away enough to get to the door handle and yank it open. The dome light went on, but when he poked his head inside, he saw nothing but blurred shapes. Damn CSR.

He blinked. Rubbed the back of his gloved hands across his eyes. Blinked again. Things slowly returned to normal—or at least normal enough. Definitely no body, alive or otherwise. “Clear,” he said out of reflex, then hoped Metcalf wouldn’t pick up on the terminology.

“
Shows she’s not particularly smart,” Metcalf said. “Stay put, where they can find you. Hope she found shelter and isn’t still wandering. Odds of running across someone when they do that drop like a rock.” He glanced upward, turned a slow circle. “Which way was the wind blowing this morning?”

“
Every which way. Kept shifting.”

“
Then I guess I’ll go left, you go right.” Metcalf rested his pack on the hood of the car. He pulled out two coils of nylon rope and attached each to the car’s rear bumper. “As a precaution. I don’t think it’ll snow enough so we get lost, but it’s still easy to get turned around. Look for anything that could protect someone from the storm. Rock outcropping, clump of trees. Holiday Inn.” Metcalf chortled.

He grabbed one of the ropes and, using the carabiner attached to the end, clipped it to his belt loop, leaving his hands free for the poles.

“We’ve got two-hundred foot ropes,” Metcalf said. “That’s our search limit for this pass. We’ll regroup after we’ve searched that area. Search in a zigzag pattern. It’ll cover more ground. Too easy to walk right by someone.”

Gordon had done grid searches in his Academy days, and understood.
“Got it.”

“
What’s her name again?” Metcalf asked.

“
Roni.”

A sudden gust of wind sent a tree full of snow over Gordon
’s head like a barrel of white Gatorade hitting the winning coach at the Super Bowl. He cursed, brushing snow out of his eyes, trying to clear his vision.

Metcalf laughed.
“Comes with the territory.”

As if Mother Nature were listening, another load hit Metcalf. Gordon kept his mouth shut.

Metcalf handed Gordon a bottle of water he had pulled from his bag. “Stay hydrated. It’s going to be rough going.”

They went their separate ways. Gordon marched along the drifted snow, testing the depth with his poles, calling Roni
’s name. Didn’t take long to fall into a rhythm. Pole, step, shout, wait, listen. Pole, step, shout, wait, listen. Aside from a few bird calls and rustling branches, all he heard was Metcalf’s shouting in counterpoint to his own.

Before long, his quads screamed from the effort of lifting them above the snow, and his listening breaks grew longer. At least he wasn
’t cold anymore.

Ahead, he spotted a cluster of snow-lined rocks forming what looked like a dugout. He shifted direction. Pole, step, shout, wait, listen. Pole, step, shout, wait, listen. He passed under a group of aspens, tilting his head upward to see if he was going to get bombarded again. The ice-covered branches danced, but seemed willing to hold onto their burdens. He trudged onward, struggling to keep his balance in the uneven snow. A tall, half-dead pine and a few shorter live ones st
ood between him and his target.

He took one more step. His left pole sunk deep into a hole, and he tottered. Before he could catch himself, a branch cracked. Pain shot through his head as he tipped sideways into a drift.

Gordon didn’t know how long he’d been lying in the snowdrift, but from the cold pervading his body, he figured it had been long enough. The storm had picked up again. His head throbbed. At least he could tell up from down, and now, up was important. The last thing he needed was to be buried alive. Struggling to right himself with poles that gained no purchase in the soft and apparently bottomless snow, he managed to get one leg under him. Tried to work his way to a standing position. No such luck. He was half on his back, half on his ass, with one leg stuck out, like one of those stupid yoga poses. Wouldn’t his instructor be proud that he’d finally managed the position.

The leg refused to budge. He tugged. Tugged harder. Nothing. He waited, caught his breath. Tried a different angle. Skidded down a foot. Braced himself.

Shit.

The pain in his head became secondary to rising panic as he envisioned himself hanging upside down by one leg. He took calming breaths, but his heart continued to race. Sweat trickled down his spine. Where was his damn flashlight?

“Metcalf! Nick!”

He waited. No answering shout. He tugged his foot again. No stabbing pain, so it wasn
’t severely injured. Or was it numb?

Visions of gnawing off his leg at the angle played through his mind.

Don’t go there. Not going to happen
.

He shouted for Metcalf again. Twice. Three times. How far could the man have gone? They
’d each had two hundred feet of rope. Rope. Gordon felt for the carabiner at his waist. Nothing. He checked each belt loop. Damn, must have come unfastened when he fell.

You
’ve got a phone. Maybe there’s enough of a signal to get through to 911.

He patted his hip—both of them, in case his mind was scrambled—but no phone. His Beretta yes, but that wasn
’t going to do him much good now.

You could shoot yourself if it comes to that.

Well, it wasn’t going to come to that. He raised his voice, using the tone designed to stop the most hardened criminal. “Metcalf! Where the fuck are you?”

After what felt like an hour of unsuccessful attempts to free himself, the visions of self-amputation were more frequent. And more graphic.

Don’t be an idiot. Get the snowshoe off, not your foot.

Why didn
’t snowshoes have quick releases like skis? He scraped and dug away as much snow as he could, trying to figure out what had trapped him. In the darkness, all he could tell was he was stuck in a snowdrift, surrounded by tree branches. How did he get in a tree? He remembered falling
down,
not flying
up.

A light bobbed from above. Gordon squinted up into the brightness. A balaclava-clad man wearing a headlamp peered down. To Gordon, it was like seeing an angel.

“Looks like Timmy’s in the well.” Metcalf’s voice. Gordon welcomed it—even the condescending arrogance.

“
Took you long enough, Lassie,” Gordon muttered. “Help me out of here.”

Metcalf bent forward and played a flashlight beam around Gordon, who wasn
’t sure if he liked knowing where he was any better now that he could see his predicament. The short tree he’d noticed next to the dead pine was actually the top of a tall one, and one snowshoe had caught in its branches. He looked down, trying to find the base of the tree, but saw nothing but snow and more pine.

“
First. Don’t move. Next, didn’t anyone warn you about tree wells and staying away from trees? Your shoe’s wedged like a Molly bolt in drywall.”

“
I was thinking more of geometry—shortest distance to that rock outcropping. I screwed up. I admit it. Now get me out.” Gordon reached upward.

“
Don’t move,” Metcalf repeated, more sharply. “And be glad you’re right side up, and that the tree well isn’t very deep. Or doesn’t seem to be. You’re one lucky man. I remember one time—”

“
Spare me the stories,” Gordon said. Luck was a relative term, he thought. “My tether is gone. So’s my flashlight. And my phone. Must have come loose when I fell.”

“
I’ve got a spare light, and the phone’s the least of your worries. Don’t move. I’m still attached to the car, but let me get you anchored.”

Gordon heard more rustling, as if Metcalf was digging in his pack. A length of rope appeared from above.
“Hook this on. I’m going to get the other end tied to a tree. Don’t go anywhere.”

Almost afraid to breathe, Gordon worked the rope around his waist, through a few belt loops, and clipped the carabiner. The light from above disappeared, and Gordon
’s pulse raced. Metcalf
would
come back, wouldn’t he? “Hey! Some light?”

Silence.

Gordon fixed his gaze above, ignoring the falling snow, straining to see a light return. Counting the seconds. At three-hundred eighty-two, he thought he glimpsed a bobbing light. He blinked, afraid to wipe his eyes for fear of dislodging himself. Metcalf had said he didn’t
think
the well was very deep, but Gordon didn’t want to be one inch farther from the surface.

The light got closer.
“All set. Let’s dig you out. And don’t move.”

“
Got it,” Gordon muttered. He sat, trying to keep his breathing under control while he waited for Metcalf to dig his way in. Teeth chattering, Gordon could do nothing but endure the slow process as Metcalf created a safe path toward his prison.

Metcalf gave one final whack to the snow with the back of his shovel.
“Okay, I think that’s stable. You think you’ll be able to walk when you get free? But don’t move!”

Gordon gingerly tested his arms, his legs. No stabbing pains.
“Should be fine. The only thing that hurts is my head. A branch broke and hit me.”

Metcalf kept digging and tamping.
“With your hood up, it shouldn’t have done much damage.”

“
Enough to knock me off balance, and the rest is, as they say, history.” But the throbbing in his head did seem to be out of proportion to a deflected blow.

“
Step two is to free your foot. Can you get your snowshoe off?” Metcalf’s light illuminated Gordon’s leg.

Gordon struggled, trying to connect with his foot.
“Can’t reach it from this angle.”

“
Can you reach the branch?”

Gordon stretched his arm, his fingers, but couldn
’t maintain a grip on the few needles he could touch. If he tried to lean forward any farther, he risked toppling out of his already precarious position. “No.”

“
Damn greenhorn,” Metcalf said half under his breath.

Gordon wasn
’t sure whether he was meant to hear that, but decided he probably was. He felt like a total idiot, so he couldn’t argue the point.

Metcalf lowered the shovel, handle first.
“Hang on to this. I’m coming down.” When he turned away, the light turned with him, and all Gordon could see was his shadowed back.

With a whoosh of snow, Metcalf lowered himself into the well, following the path he
’d created, keeping his rope taut. He faced Gordon, and Gordon’s relief was palpable when he could see again. Metcalf reached into his pack once more—a veritable hardware store, apparently—and came out with a hunting knife. He hacked and sawed at the offending branches and untangled the snowshoe.

Gordon
’s leg released, and he rubbed his straining hamstrings. “Thanks.” He cleaned out the tree detritus from his snowshoe and grabbed his poles. Hoping he wouldn’t fall on his ass—or face—he managed to maneuver himself to an upright position.

Metcalf came closer, his eyes squinting from the opening in his balaclava. He reached out, inspected Gordon
’s forehead. “You’ve got some nasty scrapes. Good thing it’s cold. Stops the bleeding.”

Metcalf went up first, then gave Gordon some tension on his tether and helped him out.
“Well, that was fun,” Metcalf said, stowing his gear. “What are you going to do for an encore?”