Terry Odell - Mapleton 03 - Deadly Puzzles (8 page)

“
How are we on time?” Gordon asked, struggling to control his chattering teeth. Right now, all he wanted was to get to the Yardumians’ and take a hot shower. But he’d promised they’d search for an hour, and as long as he could walk—and see—that’s what he’d do.

“
If we’re sticking to that hour you promised, and you include all that time I spent rescuing you, we have twenty minutes left.”

Which meant the entire
incident
, from his fall to his rescue had been twenty minutes, not the hours it had felt like. “We’re here. Not likely we’ll get back. Let’s see what we can see.”

Metcalf shuffled through the powder, sending crystals upward to greet the downward snowfall. He shouted to Gordon over the rising wind.
“You had the rope until you hit the well?”

“
Far as I know, yes. I think I remember feeling it pull when I fell.”

Metcalf continued shuffling up snow.
“Aha. Got it.” He examined the end. “Carabiner is still attached. You must have hit something just right and opened it.”

“
Don’t suppose you found my phone in all that mess you’re making. Or my flashlight?” Gordon tried to replay the seconds before he fell. Was he knocked over by a gust of wind? What were the odds a tree branch would hit him in the head? Fall, yes, given the snow burden on the dying tree. But Metcalf was right. It shouldn’t have knocked him silly. He must have hit his head on something else when he’d fallen. The tree trunk seemed the most obvious culprit.

Metcalf dug in his pack again. Handed Gordon a pocket flashlight.
“This might help.”

Gordon snapped it on, shuffled a bit to test his balance. As long as he didn
’t make any sudden moves, his headache was manageable.

“
Damn, I hate to lose that phone.” Gordon secured his original rope to his belt loops. “One in a million chance it’s still functioning and a signal will get through.”

“
When’s the last time you remember having it?”

Gordon ran through everything he could remember.
“I clipped it onto my belt before we left.”

“
Shit, man, it could be anywhere. It might have fallen off in the truck, or when you put on your shoes, when you fell into the well, or any time in between.”

Which was true. But no reason not to try.
“Call it.” He gave Metcalf the number.

Metcalf glowered at him.
“You know this won’t work with gloves.”

“
What, you don’t have those special phone-friendly gloves? No stylus in your bottomless pack?”

“
When I go out, the last thing I want to do is stay in contact with the outside world.” Metcalf peeled off his glove and liner and tapped the screen.

“
You have bars?” Gordon asked.

“
One, but it pops in and out.”

Gordon lowered his hood and raised his watch cap above his ears, ignoring the bite of the cold as he turned his head one way, then the other, straining to hear his phone ring. Damn, what had he set the volume to?

Would it have survived a snow bath? Had it fallen off earlier and he hadn’t noticed? Or was there not enough signal? He scanned the area. Nothing. If a call was coming through, the phone would light up.

Metcalf said,
“I’ll try a text, but it’s not going to ring the way a voice call would. Let’s hit that outcropping and be done.”

Gordon agreed. If the snow melted, he could come check another day. He set his poles and found his rhythm.
“I take it you didn’t find anything on your side,” he said to Metcalf.

The man
’s silence was unexpected. And unnerving. Gordon watched as Metcalf set out at racing speed for the rocks.

Now what?
Gordon took off after Metcalf, but at a considerably more cautious pace, testing muscles and joints. No serious pains, but he’d feel it tomorrow, and have some Technicolor bruising to show for his mishap.

Puffing, he arrived at the rock outcropping. Disturbed snow leading to a narrow gap in the rocks told him Metcalf was inside. Not willing to squeeze inside the cramped quarters, Gordon held back.
“You have anything?”

Metcalf emerged holding a mangled backpack.
“Only this. Looks like it’s been here a lot longer than a day, but we’ll see if Orrin recognizes it.” He looked upward. “We still have to get to the truck, and if we don’t hustle, we’re putting ourselves in danger. Storm’s getting nasty. We’ve reached the limit of our safety line, too. We haven’t found anything by now, we’re not going to find it in the next five or ten minutes.”

“
Agreed.”

Metcalf yanked on his tether, then pointed with a pole.
“Your geometry says that’s the shortest distance to the car. I’ll break trail.”

The snowfall obscuring his visibility to a few feet, Gordon followed Metcalf
’s tracks and his bobbing light. With Metcalf leading, Gordon wasn’t worried about falling into another tree well. His head throbbed, and even with the broken trail, each step grew harder than the last. Although he knew they were travelling a mere two hundred feet, it might have been two hundred miles. Moving toward the rope instead of away from it added one more challenge—making sure he kept it out of his way. No way was he going to deal with Metcalf’s reaction to tripping over his own lifeline. What he wouldn’t give for another pair of hands.

Concentrating on moving forward, h
e almost crashed into Metcalf. The car was virtually buried in the drifted snow. Without the rope—okay, and Metcalf’s expertise—Gordon knew he’d have missed it.

From the car, Gordon followed Metcalf, seeking the yellow bandana that marked the truck
’s lifeline. Metcalf either had great eyes or an amazing sense of direction as he stepped across the snow and untied the marker. Gordon hadn’t seen it at all.

“
Up we go,” Metcalf said.

Gordon remembered the steep descent, and even with a cable for assistance, he dreaded the final climb to the truck.

“You go first.” Metcalf lifted the cable. “If you fall, I’ve got your back.”

Gordon maneuvered in front of Metcalf and gripped the line.

“Take it slow and easy,” Metcalf said. “I’d rather not have to catch you.”

Gordon sucked a few breaths, gathering what energy he had left.

You did this before. No cable, no snowshoes. This will be a piece of cake.

Blocking all thoughts other than sending his feet up the hill, one step at a time, Gordon half-climbed, half-hoisted himself to the top. At least he wasn
’t crawling.

Puffing, he staggered the final few steps to the truck and leaned against the door, catching his breath before dealing with snowshoe removal. Metcalf appeared a moment later, breathing harder than normal, but seeming unchallenged by the climb. Damn him. Then again, Metcalf hadn
’t hung suspended in a tree well or had an up close and personal encounter with a tree trunk.

Gordon heard the click when Metcalf released the truck
’s locks, and he yanked the passenger door open. He tossed his snowshoes over the seatback and hoisted himself into the truck, collapsing onto the seat. Metcalf leaned in, turned on the engine and went on with stowing gear.

Gordon rubbed his temples, trying to erase the headache while he waited for Metcalf to get going. Finally, they pulled off the shoulder, snowflakes dancing in the pickup
’s headlights. The effect was dizzying, and Gordon closed his eyes, afraid he might be sick otherwise. Warm air from the heater lulled him. Metcalf’s uncharacteristic silence was a blessing.

Gordon must have dozed off, because the next thing he was aware of was the truck stopping. He lifted his gaze to the welcome sights of a glowing yellow porch ligh
t.

“
Home, sweet home,” Metcalf said. “I’m going to let you tell Orrin where we stand as far as his missing wife goes, and graciously refrain from saying I told you so.”

Gordon gathered his equipment and half-stumbled up the steps. If anything, his headache had worsened. Concussion came to mind. He shoved dealing with that possibility to the bottom of his immediate to-do list. Somewhere
after
getting warm and dealing with Wardell.

He opened the door, the cowbells
’ clang sending a stabbing pain behind his eyes. Mrs. Yardumian rushed toward him. “Thank goodness you’re back.” She lowered her voice. “Did you get Raffi’s text?”

Gordon pulled off his watch cap.
Rubbed his eyes. Gazed past Mrs. Yardumian into the living room, where her husband and Wardell sat by the fire, tumblers of amber liquid in hand. He matched her quiet tone. “Text? No. I lost my phone.”

Wardell sprang to his feet.
“Did you find her?”

“
No, we didn’t,” Gordon said. He stripped off his gloves and worked out of his wet, snowy boots on the small tiled area inside the door. “We tried. We found a backpack—”

“
I
found a backpack.” Metcalf entered the room displaying the battered pack. “You recognize it?”

“
No.” Wardell’s shoulders slumped. “We didn’t even bring packs this trip. What do we do now?”

Metcalf dropped the pack onto the tiles.
“What we should have done from the get-go. Let the authorities handle it. Call it a night, man. We could have died out there. Gordon nearly did.” He shouldered Gordon aside and knelt to take his own boots off. “I don’t suppose we could trouble you for something hot to drink?” he asked Mrs. Yardumian.

Gordon was surprised—and impressed—with the abrupt shift in Metcalf
’s tone as he addressed their hostess. Maybe some time in the great outdoors had reset Metcalf’s politeness meter.

“
Of course,” Mrs. Yardumian said. “What am I thinking? You must be freezing. Coffee, tea, or cider? Or cocoa? The power came on around half an hour ago. The heat’s on, but it’ll take a while to warm the place. Get over to the fire.”

“
Cocoa,” Metcalf said. “Gordon needs the fuel. And I’ll have some, too.”

“
Two cocoas coming up. Meanwhile, Raffi can fill you in.” She scurried away, and Gordon and Metcalf peeled out of the rest of their sodden outerwear.

“
And then maybe some of that whiskey—” Metcalf gazed toward Raffi Yardumian, who swirled a tumbler of what Gordon assumed was the Bushmills he’d offered earlier. “But none for Gordon,” Metcalf said. “He was borderline hypothermic. Alcohol’s a no-no.”

Gordon knew enough about hypothermia—and concussions—not to argue, although his headache had retreated a bit. Tight-lipped, their host nodded and went to the sideboard. He returned with the bottle and another glass. Since he hadn
’t mentioned the text, Gordon wondered if there was something he didn’t want Wardell—or Metcalf—to hear. And where were Paula and Tyner?

Metcalf strolled to the fire, turning to warm his back. Or to keep an eye on Wardell, who paced, dragging his fingers through his hair
which was sticking out in unruly spikes as if he’d been doing it since they’d left. Gordon was cold enough, tired enough, and aching enough, not to care. But the thought there was something hinky about both of them niggled at the small part of his brain not preoccupied with his discomfort. Although he
did
owe Metcalf for saving his ass. After he warmed up and had some sleep, the logical side of his brain might kick in.

“
Why don’t you go to bed?” Gordon said to Wardell. “Nick is right—there’s nothing we can do, and if the State Patrol finds anything, they’ll call. We can regroup in the morning.”

Wardell did another drag through his hair.
“I suppose so. But it feels—wrong. Like I’m betraying Roni.”

“
I understand,” Gordon said. “But you’ve done everything. You have to tell yourself that. Meanwhile, try to get some sleep. If something breaks, you’ll do better if you’re rested.”

With a resolute sigh, Wardell picked up the glass of whiskey he
’d been drinking and plodded for the stairs.

Gordon flopped into the chair Wardell had vacated, stretching his feet toward the hearth. He could almost see steam rising from his wet socks. Metcalf was turning now, like a pig on a spit, warming himself on all sides. Gordon glanced at Raffi, trying to convey that he was willing to hear about the text, but that he understood if it wasn
’t meant for Metcalf’s ears. Raffi seemed content to sit and sip his whiskey. Did not offering his fireside chair to Metcalf mean Raffi hoped the man would leave?

Damn, there were times when it was too much trouble to second—or third, or fourth—guess every word, every silence, every action, or every lack of action. The text couldn
’t have been of critical importance or Yardumian would have figured a way to get Gordon alone, or blurted it out. Mrs. Yardumian was probably overreacting to whatever it was.

She entered the room with two steaming mugs of cocoa, handing one to him and the other to Metcalf.
“Careful, it’s hot.”

The chocolate aroma teased Gordon
’s nostrils, and despite his exhaustion, his mouth watered in anticipation. For the next few minutes, he was going to enjoy a cup of hot—
hot
being the operative word—chocolate. He cupped the mug with his numb fingers and lowered his head, inhaling the rich, sweet smell. Warmth spread through his palms and into his chest as he took in another deep, slow breath.

He tested the drink. The first swallow traveled down, bringing a welcome warmth along with it. This was rich, homemade cocoa, he
’d bet. Definitely not the instant packets he was used to at the station. His thoughts drifted to Angie—he didn’t think they’d ever had hot chocolate together—something he would rectify when he saw her again.

He realized she might be trying to get in touch with him, and the brief moment of contentment passed. His damn phone. He twisted his head around, checking the clock on the wall for the time. Nine-thirty. With the pre-dawn hours Angie had to keep for Daily Bread, she
’d be in bed already.

Metcalf guzzled his cocoa and started in on the whiskey, taking his glass to the sofa. Gordon
’s lids grew heavy, and he knew he’d never outlast Metcalf. What little caffeine was in the chocolate was counteracted by the soporific effects of the hot milk—not to mention the exertions of the day. He stifled a yawn. “I’m going to call it a night myself.”

Raffi Yardumian merely nodded. Had Mrs. Yardumian imagined he
’d sent a text? Gordon stood and carried his mug to the kitchen, where she was wiping down counters.

“
You can set it in the sink,” she said.

He did, then approached her.
“What was the text about? Your husband hasn’t mentioned it at all.”

“
I don’t know. Raffi took a call from the State Patrol, and I heard him say he’d text you.”

“
Me, specifically?” Gordon asked. “Or did he just say he’d send a text?”

She rinsed the sponge in the sink.
“You know, I might have jumped to conclusions. We were all worried about you and Nick, and everything else that’s going on. Raffi’s exact words, as I recall, were, ‘Thank you. I’ll text him.’ Oh, dear. Because it was the State Patrol calling, I assumed it meant you, but it could have been anyone. And now I’ve worried you unnecessarily.” She dried her hands. “Let me go ask him.”

“
Please, don’t bother. I thought maybe it was something he didn’t want anyone else to hear. If it was urgent, I’m sure he would have figured out how to tell me.” Although curiosity buzzed in his brain, it was too quiet to overpower the mounting return of his headache. “Thanks for the cocoa. I’ll see you in the morning.”

In the living room, Metcalf sat alone by the fire nursing his whiskey. Gordon nodded a good night and offered one more thanks for the rescue. Metcalf lifted his glass. Gordon nodded in his direction and dragged himself up the stairs. He let himself into his room, already shedding clothes in anticipation of a hot shower. He closed the door behind him, fumbling for the light switch. The lamp beside the sofa went on, revealing a backlit silhouette in the easy chair.