The Slow Burn of Silence (A Snowy Creek Novel) (33 page)

Trey pulled into the public safety building parking lot. There were personnel everywhere. Traffic was already thick on the highway, a stream of bumper-to-bumper cars heading south.

He ran up to the Rescue One building, yanked open the door. His goal was to dismantle the Rescue One ham radio and antenna on the roof, take it all south.

But as he entered the room, he heard someone inside.

“Who’s there?”

A clatter. Locker door? Then a crack. Someone was in the bomb room, where they kept the avalanche explosives.

He flung open the door.

Clint Rudiger turned around. He had a heavy box of dynamite in his strong arms. The look in his eyes was strange.

“Rudiger?”

He set the box down on the table next to him.

“What are you doing?”

Rudiger reached for his boot, pulled out a knife. It glinted in his hand. He waved it, slowly, back and forth, his eyes boring into Trey. “Back off, Somerland. Just back off and let me out of here.”

Trey took a step back. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Rudiger went into a crouch.

Trey reached for his radio, realizing too late it was in the truck.

Rudiger lunged. Trey spun away, hitting the table hard. The box toppled to the ground, dynamite sticks rolling all over the floor. Rudiger slipped on one and Trey ran at him in a head butt. He hit hard. Rudiger grunted but his abs were iron. An uppercut took Trey under the chin, flinging him backward. He landed on the floor among the dynamite, hard. Winded. For a few moments he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move at all, pain sparking through his back and chest.

Rudiger loomed over him. His eyes were cold. He took his knife and plunged it straight into Trey’s stomach, liver area. He extracted the blade, wiped it on his pants.

Trey was filled with disbelief. This couldn’t be happening, yet it was. Real. He was stabbed, blood welling from his abdomen. He tried to breathe, moving his hands to staunch the flow, block the wound. Unbelievable pain, a dull, consuming pain, filled him from the inside.

Rudiger was working fast to gather the dynamite sticks, putting them back into the box.

“I
t . . .
was yo
u . . .
” Trey’s voice was hoarse. He was going weak. So weak. Lightheaded. “Stace
y . . .
told me what Rachel sai
d . . .
at the bike park.
I . . .
it was true. She’s down in the mine.” His eyes went to the box of explosives. “You’re going to blow it u
p . . .
copper mine.”

“You shouldn’t have let her bring that kid back here, Somerland.” Rudiger picked up the box. “He might not have returned otherwise. You helped fuck this up.”

Trey tried to speak, couldn’t. His body went limp and he closed his eyes. In some distant part of his mind, he felt Rudiger nudge him with his boot. When Trey didn’t respond, Rudiger made for the door and exited, kicking the door shut behind him with his steel-toed boot.

Trey heard the lock turn.

He was getting lightheaded, drifting. With Herculean effort he opened his eyes and tried dragging himself, inch by inch, over the floor, sliding in his own hot, thick blood. He grasped for the cell phone that had fallen from his pocket and slid under the table.

The tips of his fingers touched the phone. His world darkened.
No. No, not yet.
He tried to reach a little farther.

I always have emergency bags packed, but I’m packing a few extras. Quinn is still upstairs, dressing, getting some books and things together. I’ve already got Trixie’s crate and food in the truck. I have the fire safe with personal documents on the table along with my laptop and some other essentials ready to go. I’ve called work and everything has been backed up to a remote server. Staff have cleared out what they can.

Jeb is battening down the house.

My phone rings. Startled, I check incoming.

Trey?

“Hello,” I say, putting the phone to my ear.

I hear a sound, a rasp.

“Hello—Trey, is that you?”

“Rachel.” It’s more a breath than a word. Anxiety slices through me.

“What’s happening, are you all right, where are you?”

Jeb comes quickly to my side.

There’s no reply, just a wet breathing sound.

“Trey?” I say, hand over my other ear. “Are you still there?”

“Clin
t . . .
knifed m
e . . .
in bomb room. He’s got dynamit
e . . .
goin
g . . .
” Coughing and wheezing drown the rest of the words.

Oh God.

“Tel
l . . .
Jeb. Jeb can stop. Clint is on way. Destroy proof. Merile
e . . .
in mine. Jeb needs that proof.”

Another gasping cough.

I turn to Jeb. “It’s Trey. He’s been hurt. He says Clint is going to blow up the mine. He’s taken the avalanche dynamite from the Rescue One bomb room. He’s on his way to the copper mine no
w . . .
h
e . . .
I think he stabbed Trey.”

“
I . . .
tried to stop hi
m . . .
”

“Have you got help? Is help coming?”

“To
o . . .
lat
e . . .
I’
m . . .
sorry. So sorry. Stace
y . . .
overheard us on phone, about Quinn being Jeb’s. We had fight. My fac
e . . .
she hit me.”

“Don’t talk. I’m going to hang up and call for help.”

“Can’t. Circuits busy. Landlines dow
n . . .
no help.”

“I’m coming!”

“N
o . . .
look after he
r . . .
Quinn. Yoursel
f . . . I . . .
I love yo
u . . .
always hav
e . . .
”

Silence.

I’m shaking. Jeb is staring.

“He’s been stabbed. He needs help.” I try to dial 9-1-1. He’s right, I can’t get through. The phone in the kitchen doesn’t work either. I move to the front door, then stall. I’m suddenly ripped apart. “He’s going to blow up the mine,” I say again.

Jeb grabs my shoulders. “Listen to me. Focus. Take Quinn. Drive south, get out of here. You can try and call for help on the way, but you look after our child first.”

He is fierce, resolute. A father. The man I love.

“I’m going to stop him,” he says.

“No, you’re coming with us. He’ll kill you, Jeb.”

“Listen to me. You and Quinn have given me everything to live for, but we need that proof—I can’t let him destroy it. I can’t have my child doubt me, ever. I promised Sophia I would not tell Quinn until I had that proof. She gave me everything, Rachel. I have to do this. And you have to keep Quinn safe.”

“No, no you don’t.”

“Do you still have your father’s hunting rifle?”

I feel sick. I am immobilized by indecision.

“Where is the rifle? Is it still in here?” He’s gone into the study where the gun safe always was, and still is.

“Jeb!” I run after him.

“Keys, where are the keys for the safe?”

“
I . . .
top drawer, des
k . . .
I beg yo
u . . .
”

“Listen to me. I’m not going to do anything stupid. But I’m
not
going to stand by and do nothing, either. Clint has to drive all the way from the village. We’re already ten miles closer to the mine than he is. If I move now, I can head him off.” He finds the keys, unlocks the safe, grabs a rifle and ammunition. Rushing into the kitchen, he snags my dad’s SUV keys from the counter. He stops, kisses me hard.

“Believe me, I have
everything
to come back for now. Everything to win by doing this. For so many reasons.”

He’s gone.

I’m shaking like a leaf. I can’t believe this is happening. I try 9-1-1 again. I still can’t get through, all circuits busy. I hear Trey’s voice in my head. Nausea, desperation ride through me. Suddenly I get an idea and rummage in my purse. I find the card Constable Annie Pirello gave me. It has her direct cell number.

I dial it, mouth dry. I can smell smoke inside the house now. We need to leave. Soon.

“Quinn!” I yell upstairs while the phone rings. “We need to go—bring your stuff down. Now!”

“Pirello,” comes a curt voice from my phone.

“Constable Pirello, Annie Pirello, it’s Rachel Salonen.” I talk fast, watching up the stairs for Quinn. “Clint Rudiger has stabbed Trey Somerland and left him for dead in the Rescue One bomb room. Clint has taken the avalanche dynamite. He’s going to blow up part of the old copper mine near the Mount Rogue trailhead. Merilee’s body, the evidence, is down one of those mine shafts. He’s trying to get rid of it. He did it, raped Amy, killed Merilee. He and those other three.”

“When did he leave?”

Relief gushes through me.

“A few minutes ago, I think. Trey needs help. He’s been stabbed. He’s in the bomb room.”

“I’m on it.” She hangs up.

“Quinn!” I yell. “I’m going to put the rest of the bags and Trixie in the truck. We’ve got to leave!”

I grab the bags off the table, open the front door, run out into the rain, and dump them in the truck. I go back for another load, then put Trixie in back, close the door. I dash back to the house. Pushing wet hair off my brow, I run up the stairs.

I knock on Quinn’s door. No answer. Panic sparks through me. “Quinnie?”

Not a sound comes from inside her room. I open the door, heart hammering.

The room is empty.

“Quinn?” I run down the hall to the bathroom. Empty. I go frantically room to room. Nothing. Thunder crashes. Wind and rain lash at the windows and the panes rattle.

“Quinn!”

No reply. She’s nowhere in sight.

I clatter down the stairs. “Quinn, goddammit where are you?”

There’s no one downstairs. I can feel the emptiness of the house, like a big hollow in my chest. Nausea rides up through me. How can this be?

Calm, stay calm. Panic is your worst enemy. You know this from rescue missions.

But I can’t stay calm. Tears burn into my eyes as I go room to room again, looking under beds, in cupboards. I catch sight of a wet patch on the carpet in front of the French doors in the spare room.

A chill shoots down my spine.

I drop to my haunches, feel it. Sodden. Water has come in. Rain. From the French doors—they’ve been opened. I lurch up, try the handle. It’s unlocked. My heart pounds in my throat as I yank open the door and dash out onto the tiny balcony. Wind and rain lash at me. Lightning flickers over the lake. Smoke smells thick. I hear sirens. I can see a red-orange strip of fire burning along the crest of the mountains.

But there’s nothing on the balcony. I clamp my hands over the balustrade and peer down into the blackness but can make out nothing out on the lawn below apart from the shadows of swaying trees. Horror floods my brain. I spin round, see the tree next to the balcony. My heart kicks. Once when I was a kid, I climbed down from this balcony using the branches of that tree. Could Quinn have climbed down?

Run away?

Why?

It hits me like a mallet.
Her adoption.
The questions she was asking about her real parents. We must have said something terribly wrong and scared her away.
Oh, God.
I start to shake violently. I’ve done this. I’ve chased her away. And there’s no one I can turn to for help now, either. There’s fire coming. I need to find her. Where would she go? Where would I go if I was eight and I wanted my mother?

“Quinn!” I yell into the blackness, water pouring down my face.

The sky responds with another clap of thunder, right overheard. Rain comes down harder.

CHAPTER 25

Annie called Assistant Fire Chief Kerrigan Kaye’s cell, told her to check the Rescue One bomb room next door. Somerland was in there, hurt. Then she left the door knocking to Novak and the emergency social services volunteers. The evacuation alert was going smoothly in this subdivision. She’d take flak, she knew this. But this was her case. And more. It was personal. Her own sister, Claudette, had gone missing in the Cayoosh mountains near Pemberton, along with her new husband. Annie had a thing about missing people. About never knowing. She knew firsthand what lack of closure could do to people.

She got into her cruiser, tried to call it in, but there was radio interference. Dispatch was overloaded. Radio towers down. And she knew this would not be a priority—a cold case, an old copper mine, the vague possibility of old evidence—while the lives of hundreds and billions in real estate might be at stake from wildfire. She stepped on the gas, flicked her siren on. Traffic was virtually bumper-to-bumper heading south, but the road north wasn’t that bad. And vehicles moved to the side to make way for her squad car.

Sweat breaks out under my wet clothes. I’m breathing hard but trying to control my panic as I stand under the balcony and scan the darkness with my flashlight in search of Quinn. Nothing. Not even a sign. I race down to the boathouse. I know she’s been fixated with the place. The windows rattle in the wind. Waves chuckle against at the dock. The rope around the canoe tethered to the side slaps the siding. But there is no one here, the door still locked.

I spin round. Maybe she’s in the carport, or the gardening shed. My fervent hope is that she’s just hiding somewhere here on the property. I dash up to the carport, frantically shining my light into the all the corners. I catch a raccoon’s eyes and my heart jumps. But no Quinn. I sprint to the gardening shed and yank the old door open. It’s dank inside, mossy. My dad used to pot his plants in here. But there is no sign of Quinn. I don’t know where else to look. Maybe I missed something in my tunnel vision of panic. I need to call Jeb now, if I can get through. This is serious. Quinn comes first. But suddenly I glimpse headlights. A vehicle is coming down my driveway. I race up the lawn as a truck parks behind mine in the driveway.

I rush up to the driver’s door as it opens.

“Oh, thank God, it’s
you
,” I say, lungs burning. “Quinn is missing. I need help to find—”

“It’s okay, I found her out on the road,” Brandy says, getting out of the driver’s side. Something about her makes me stall.

“Where is she? What was she doing up on the road?”

“She was running away. She’s in the truck. Relax, Rachel.” Brandy holds both her palms out at me, as if to tell me to calm down. And she’s coming toward me.

My gaze shoots to her truck. I can see a little shadow in the backseat. Tears of relief prick into my eyes. “Oh, thank God, Brandy. Thank you.” I rush toward the passenger door, physically aching to hold Quinn in my arms. I want to bury my face in the scent of her hair. But Brandy grabs my arm.

Surprise flushes through me. I spin to face her. “What—”

“Where is Jebbediah Cullen?” Her grip tightens. I realize her eyes are shining, wild.

It strikes me suddenly as odd that she was even heading this way. “What are you doing here, Brandy? There’s an evacuation order—”

“Where is he?” she demands. A dark, cold sinking feeling slides through my stomach. The image of Brandy huddled with those other mothers at the bike park slices into my mind. Had she just learned who Quinn was at that point? Suddenly I am both terrified of her and enraged.

“Let go of me!” I order. “I want to see my niece.” I jerk my arm but she holds even tighter. A trickle of fear slides down my throat. “I’m warning you,” I growl, adrenaline rising inside me. “Let. Me. Go.”

But I register too late as she brings her other hand round in a sharp downward swing, and I feel a deep, piercing sensation in my thigh muscle. My gaze flies down to my jeans. In the headlights from her truck I see that she’s plunged a syringe in to the hilt. Fear strikes like a hatchet.

“What have you done!”

“Tell me where Jeb is.” Her voice is going shrill. She looks confused.

I feel dizzy. My vision is blurring. Tongues of panic lick through my stomach but my brain can’t react. I’m slowing down, getting heavy. Brandy releases my arm, and I stumble sideways, bumping up against the front of her truck. I brace my hands on the hood and hold myself up. The world is spinning. I feel spacey, dissociated. Rain is streaming down my face and through my hair, yet I can’t seem to feel the coldness or wetness of it anymore. Quinn. I must get to Quinn. I try and pull my way along the truck.

“Tell me where he is.” Her voice seems to come from a long, dark tunnel.

“He’
s . . .
gon
e . . .
” My words are slurring. My hand slips off the wet hood. I slide down but manage to grab the wheel, pulling myself up again as I painstakingly shuffle my feet, one then the other, round to the passenger door. “Quin
n . . .
where are yo
u . . .
” But my tongue is thick. The words come out in a slurred mumble.

I moved my head slowly to look at Brandy. The whole world tilts sickeningly. “Wha
t . . .
have you done?”

She comes over. She seems bigger. Everything is out of proportion. She pushes my body against the truck, holding me up with her knee as she takes my hands and ties them together behind my back. I can’t even resist.

“Ketamine,” she says as she opens the passenger door.

I force my brain to think. Brandy’s sister is a large-animal vet in the ranching community up north where Beppie and Clint live. Brandy might have accessed the drug through her sister. It’s an analgesic, tranquilizer, hallucinogenic. Brandy is a trained paramedic, knows how to administer meds. My legs suddenly give way fully, but she hooks her hands under my armpits and wrestles my feeble body into the passenger seat.

The interior light is on. I see Quinn slumped against the backseat. Like a wet rag doll. A strip of duct tape has been plastered over her mouth. I want to scream, lunge, tear at Brandy’s hair. I want to kill her for drugging Quinn. But I cannot move or talk at all now. I’m a prisoner inside my own body and my brain is also fading.

She clamps the seat belt over my chest. My head lolls to the side. Drool comes out the side of my mouth. I remain conscious, though. I try to hold on.

She brings her face close to mine. “Tell me where Jeb is.”

I want to laugh in her face and ask her how she thinks I can tell her now that I can’t even talk. Her hands rummage through my jacket pockets. She finds my cell phone. I stare helplessly as she scrolls through my contact list and finds Jeb’s number. I wish fervently that I’d put password protection on my phone. I’ve never felt a need to, until now.

She hits the dial button.

I struggle to lift my hand, to slap the phone from her grip. But I can barely move a finger.

It’s ringing. I can hear it ringin
g . . .
there’s still a cell tower working. It strikes me that she wants Jeb more than us. She hasn’t killed us because she wants to use us to bait him. I can’t quite make sense of why Brandy would want this. I’m trying to find links, to think, but my brain is molasses. My vision starts to pinprick. I can’t hear anything anymore, can’t se
e . . .
then my world goes dark.

Jeb parked the SUV and cut the lights. He positioned his headlamp on his head, opened the door. Rain came sideways at him. The smoke was thick here, and it burned acrid in his nasal passages.

He’d come the longer way round and up the north side of the gorge to avoid the trestle bridge, but he’d made good time. Carrying Rachel’s father’s rifle and spare ammunition, Jeb hiked the rest of the way up to the mine entrance, keeping his headlamp off. If Clint was already on the other side of the bridge, Jeb didn’t want him to see light. There was a chance Clint might come up the same way, which was why he’d hidden the SUV about a quarter mile back in some trees.

The air was colder higher up the gorge. Rogue Falls thundered below, sending up mist. Jeb found the mine entrance. A black maw. The air coming from it was icy, as if the mountain itself was exhaling from its deep, frozen interior. He peered inside. Darkness was complete. Jeb felt a shiver as he thought of Merilee perhaps lying deep down in there somewhere, waiting for closure, justice. He crept farther along the narrow road above the gorge, keeping well away from the edge because the road barrier was long gone.

If he could get closer to the old trestle bridge, he might be able to stop Clint from coming across. And in case Clint came the other way, he needed a position from which he could see that, too.

But as Jeb rounded a rock, he pulled back, his pulse quickening. There was a light moving on the other side of the gorge. Slowly he peered back round the rock. There was another light moving in an irregular fashion behind the first. He realized it must be headlamps. Two people. Clint must have brought one of the others.
Shit.

The person with the first headlamp turned round to face the second, and Jeb saw with a start that the second person was a woman. Fair hair. Plump.

Beppie?

His heart hammered and his brain raced. Why Beppie? Was she helping him? It didn’t make sense.

A buzz in his pocket suddenly made him jump. His phone. Swearing inwardly, he thrust his hand into his pocket, felt for the sound button, and turned the buzzer to silent. Blood thudded in his ears. He held dead still. Had they heard it? Jeb peered slowly back round the side of the rock. They were not looking his way. The rain, wind, waterfall must have drowned the sound. He reached into his pocket, checked to see who’d called. Only a handful of people had this number—Sophia and Peter, the UBC lawyers, Rachel.

He saw Rachel’s number.

Worry stabbed into him. But before Jeb could think further, he heard yelling. Quickly, he moved to peer back round the rock. The couple was arguing. The woman—Beppie—carried a gun, shotgun or rifle. Her headlamp lit clearly on Clint’s face. It was unmistakably him, the big square features, correct height and build. He was carrying a heavy box. The dynamite? They seemed to be quarreling about who was going to walk over the trestle bridge first. The woman had a bag slung across her shoulder.

As he watched, Jeb saw that Clint was making Beppie go first, her headlamp darting through the blackness as she grasped the low railing with her right hand, gun in her left. Cautiously placing one foot in front of the other along the wide outer support beam of the bridge, she began to cross toward the middle of the plunging chasm. Something gave underfoot and she almost dropped to her knees, catching herself as one of the crosspieces went tumbling down into the white mist. She stalled, then slowly started to move again.

The bastard was using her as guinea pig to test the stability of what was left of the bridge. When she was halfway across, Clint started coming over himself. Carefully balancing along the same support beam Beppie had used as he carried the box.

Conflict twisted through Jeb. He hadn’t counted on Clint’s wife being present. Beppie was nearing the other side now. Clint was in the middle of the bridge. Jeb had to make a move, soon. His phone suddenly vibrated again in his pocket. But before he could fully register, Beppie suddenly spun round and lifted the gunstock to shoulder. She aimed directly at her husband.

Shock sliced through Jeb.

Clint stopped dead in his tracks.

Without a word, Beppie pulled the trigger. The sound boomed and echoed off the gorge walls. A scream, raw, rose above the water.

Jeb blinked.

Clint was still there. Standing on the bridge. She’d shot wide. But he’d dropped his box of dynamite. Some of the sticks were rolling along the trestles. Others had plunged down into the gorge.

“What the fuck, Beppie, put that thing down!” Clint screamed. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Thinking of my girls, Clint. In the name of the Lord God Almighty, in the name of retribution, I can’t let you do this.” She raised her gun to her shoulder again, peered down the barrel.