Thomas Prescott Superpack (52 page)

Chapter 45

The airport was busy for a Thursday morning. I found the line to the security checkpoint and looked at a wall clock. I had an hour before the flight boarded. I glanced around at families and friends waiting on the outskirts to say their final good-byes. I half expected to see Erica. I didn’t. I did happen to see Ace and Gary, both drinking coffees and throwing glances in my direction every so often. I guess they’d been under orders to see this through till the very end.

I saluted them and they saluted back.
Project Prescott was finally over. I wondered what they were going to do to celebrate. Wrap it up, boys.

An hour and a half later, I watched as the city I flew into just six weeks earlier disappeared beneath me.
I could have gotten introspective, thought about the irony of the situation, pondered how I had come to Seattle to escape a problem and now I was leaving Seattle for the same reason. But I was too tired to get introspective.

I fell asleep before the cart lady came around.

. . .

As I was killing two hours at Cincinnati International, it dawned on me if I showed up on Lacy’s doorstep without Christmas presents she would flip. I’d explained to her about how I’d lost her presents in a melee that concluded with my having a collapsed lung, but I’m not sure she bought the story.

So I checked out a couple of the shops in the airport.
I got her an Ohio Landscapes calendar, an Ohio State hoody, and an Ocho-Cinco jersey.

As I boarded the plane for the ten-hour nonstop flight to France, I noticed the passenger makeup was predominantly French and American businesspeople coming and going.
A handful of college kids filled the other seats, no doubt heading to Europe to do a couple weeks of backpacking, hostel jumping, and poor decision making.

I was sandwiched between a businessman and a young girl with about seventy piercings.
She had a beanie, an iPod, and a black hooded sweatshirt to complete the punk look.

As the plane took off, I found that I wasn’t as excited as I thought I’d be.
Or should be for that matter. Here I was headed to one of the most exotic cities in the world, about to be reunited with the only family I had left, about to get a fresh start, and all I could think about was Erica Frost.

I couldn’t see her taking the information I’d relayed to her and passing it on to the proper people, specifically, Ethan Kates.
But then again, that’s exactly why I’d told her and not him. I’d wanted her to get the bust. But, Erica was a rogue—one of the very reasons I was drawn to her—and I highly doubted she would alert anyone to the course she set. Which, if it were me, would be to drive directly to the North Cascades and haul that shitbag in.

I pulled out the airphone and tried all four of Erica Frost’s phone numbers.
I got four no answers.

I placed the receiver back and let out a sigh.
There was a solid chance the only person who knew Erica Frost’s whereabouts was about halfway over the Atlantic Ocean.

. . .

We landed at Charles de Gaulle Airport at 1:04
P.M.
local time. Or about 5:04
A.M.
Seattle time.

I walked from the plane and into the corridor. I spotted the punk girl leaning against a wall.
She was now wearing a large backpack covered with different buttons and patches. She threw me a dismissive glance as I approached. I mimed taking off my headphones. She did.

I said, “Hi, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

She scoffed. “I’m not going to blow you if that’s what you’re wondering.”

I looked around.
I thought about turning and running.

She added, “At least not here.”

I raised my eyebrows and said, “Not the favor I was thinking of, but thank you.”

I told her what I wanted her to do and handed her the bag.
I took out a pen and wrote the address on her hand. Then I took five hundred dollars out of my wallet and handed it to her.

As I turned to leave she said, “My offer still stands.”

I told her maybe next time and found the nearest ticket desk.

I spent the better part of the next day sleeping and brushing up on my celebrity relationship knowledge.

Sixteen hours later, the pilot came on the intercom and said, “Welcome to Seattle.
The local time is 9:23 P.M. The temperature is 18 degrees and it’s snowing.”

He paused, then added, “Actually, it’s blizzarding.”

. . .

They grounded all outgoing flights as of 10:00
P.M.
and began redirecting incoming flights to smaller airports in parts of southern Washington and northern Oregon as of 10:30
P.M.
This, of course, was according to 1090 AM, the station my taxi driver, Bernard, had the stereo tuned to.

The snow was coming down in drifts, the traffic at a near standstill, and it took two hours for the taxi to reach my house.

Sitting just on the outskirts of my gate, partially blanketed by a fresh coat of snow, was a
For Sale sign.

Wow, this guy didn’t mess around.

I pulled the sign out from the frozen earth and laid it on the ground.

Inside the house, I checked my machine.
There was one message. It was from Lacy. She was a tad confused when a punk rocker chick had showed up at her doorstep and handed her a bag of presents, which all appeared to be purchased in the great state of Ohio, and said that they were from her brother. Needless to say, she wanted me to call her back
immediately.

Unfortunately, there were more pressing matters at hand.
I picked up the phone and tried all four of Erica’s numbers. All four went unanswered.

I found myself saying out loud, “Where are you, Erica Frost?”

But again, I knew exactly where she was.

I only hoped she was alone.

Chapter
46

When I settled in behind the wheel of the large four-wheel drive it was closing in on 1:00
A.M.
The snow was coming down at a steep angle, an endless sea of large, white flakes.

I turned on the radio, tuned it to 1090 AM, and listened to the forecast.
The system was moving down from the mountains and they were calling for at least another foot in the city. They listed a number of road closures and counties on accident alert. It sounded as if the entire city was making arrangements to shut down for the next couple days. They were even predicting the NFC Championship game would be postponed, seeing as how the Arizona Cardinals’ flight had been canceled. On a side note, State Road 20, also know as North Cascades Highway, had been listed among the roads closed. This, of course, could throw a hitch in my rescue mission.

 
The plows were running on the highway and I drafted behind one of the large trucks. I wouldn’t exactly quantify the storm as a white-out but visibility was down to about twenty feet. 

After an hour of averaging speeds between seven and fifteen miles per hour, I came to the junction to the North Cascades Highway.
Three snow plows, their lights blinking, blocked off the incoming traffic.

I pulled up near the trucks.
A man setting up roadblocks walked over. He had a thick jacket on with the hood pulled up and ski goggles.

I rolled the window down and the man said, “Road’s closed, pal.”

I yelled into the wind, “Listen, I have to get up there.” I made up some story about my wife going into labor.

I took out my badge—well Todd Gregory’s badge—and flashed it to him.

He said, “I wish I could help you, pal, but your car just isn’t going to make it.
This is the first wave of the storm. The second wave is rolling down from Canada as we speak. They think this one could set records. Calling for like four or five feet.”

This was what I was afraid of.
I was little help if my car got stuck, or if I should drive off the side of the mountain, or get caught in an avalanche, which weren’t exactly rare in these glacial mountains.

The guy seemed genuinely concerned.
Far more concerned than I would have been for a total stranger.

He asked, “How far up you going?”

“Not too far.”

I could see he was contemplating driving me up there.
He knew the roads and he knew the weather. But was he going to put his ass on the line? I was starting to think he might.

I was wrong.

He said, “Sorry, pal.
I can’t help you.”

Wrong answer.

I opened up the glove compartment and pulled out my father’s Smith and Wesson.
I pointed the gun at the man’s face. “I’m not asking anymore,
pal
.”

He actually softened quite quickly.
He handed me the keys, walked me over to the plow and gave me a quick crash course. I was set to leave and I said, “One more thing.”

He looked at me skeptically.

“I need your goggles.”

. . .

The plow ripped through the snow and I made decent time. Every half mile or so I would come across a car on the side of the road. There were even two cars parked in the middle of the road. I wondered where the occupants were. If I weren’t on a time crunch, I might have stopped and made sure no one was trying to stave off death inside the vehicles.

As I persevered up the mountain, the snow continued to let up.
But you could see the damage the first wave had done. More than a foot of fresh snow as far as the eye could see. 

An hour later, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife building came into view.
There were two cars. One was parked where Herb had parked his Jeep the day we’d met, and I assumed this was his car. The other was parked on the far side of the lot, and the snow cloud it was in resembled a sedan.

I ran to the car and brushed off the license plate.
It was Erica’s. I wondered how long the car had been parked there. Probably close to thirty-six hours.

Shit.

I grabbed my things from the plow and made my way into the building.
I called out to Herb, but I had a feeling he wasn’t around. He was either snowed in somewhere or with Erica. Which, if the latter was true, means there was a good chance Herb was dead.

I changed into my winter gear.
It was slim pickings. My father’s old ski gear was a pretty ridiculous old full-body snowsuit. Lime green, magenta, and yellow stripes ran down the length of the arms and legs.

I went into the office and snagged the remaining PowerBars and a couple bottled waters and stuffed them in one of many zippered pockets. I pulled open a locker and found an emergency rescue kit.
I opened it and pulled out a flare gun, which I stuffed snuggly beneath the belt of the snowsuit. I also took one of three flashlights and stuck it next to the flare gun.

As I was leaving, I eyed the rifle resting in the corner.
The snub-nosed revolver I’d used in my plow-jacking hadn’t been loaded. Guns without bullets only get you so far.

I picked up the rifle and checked the barrel.
Loaded.

I made my way to the door and opened it to a wall of white.
The second wave of the storm had arrived. 

Chapter 47

Two of the three snowmobiles were missing. I wondered what Erica’s plan had been. Had she planned to escort the deranged Professor back on the snowmobile? Or make him ski in front of her while she trained her nine millimeter at the back of his head? And what about Herb? Had he chaperoned Erica on her endeavor? And if so, were either of them still alive?

 
I wiped the excess snow off the snowmoblie and found the key in the ignition. A bungee cord was attached to the back of the sled and I secured the rifle as best I could.

I hit the ignition and the machine roared to life.
I pulled my goggles down, pulled back on the throttle, and the snowmobile lurched forward.

The snow was falling at an incredible pace.
I could barely see my own hands in front of me. After twenty minutes, I figured I was about halfway there. Then I heard the unthinkable: the engine beneath me sputtered.

I wiped the dash and peered at the gas gauge.

Empty.

The snowmobile coughed, waned,
then died.

I may have cursed.

I hopped off the sled and into the snow.
The snow came up to above my knees. I figured that at the rate it was falling, in an hour it would be up to my waist.

There were a large set of boulders to my right and I remembered the den was about a mile in that direction.

After ten minutes, my chest was heaving.
I’m not sure if it was the material the snowsuit was composed of or if I’d accidentally lit myself on fire with the flare gun, but my body temp was hovering around five thousand degrees.

I kept on for another twenty minutes, then stopped.
I looked in every direction. It was a sea of white. I was lost. I thought about doubling back, but I wasn’t really sure which way back was. And over the course of the last ten minutes, the snow had intensified, if that was possible. 

I put my head down and forged ahead.
I didn’t see the fence until it was literally a foot in front of me. I followed the fence with my hands until I came to the gate. It was open.

 
I took ten trudges through the gate, half expecting a wolf to latch onto my throat at any moment. I continued through the snow, the faint outline of the barn slowly coming into focus. As I approached the barn, I noticed a silhouette of something thirty yards in front of the small building. I came abreast of it. It was a snowmobile. I instinctively dusted off the gas gauge and took a peek. Nearly full. 

I took a step past the sled and stopped.
My mouth went dry. A large pile of pink snow was directly underfoot. Sitting amid the pile was a brimmed hat.

My stomach fell.
If Herb was dead, it didn’t bode well for Erica.

My throat tightened as I trudged the final steps to the barn.
It was unlocked. It was at about this point that it dawned on me I’d left the rifle attached to the snowmobile.

Awesome.

I figured if I did come across the Professor, which was a long shot—I had a feeling he was skiing around with his wolf buddies—maybe I could smash him over the head with a PowerBar or something.
And I did have the flare gun. But if you’ve ever seen a flare gun, you know they aren’t the most reliable of devices, or accurate. Even so, I pulled it from my waist and pushed the door open. The acrid smell of wildlife filled my nostrils and I gave my head a stiff shake.

It was dark, and I pulled the goggles up.
I let my eyes adjust, then pushed through the door leading to the holding cells. The sound of hooves and deep breathing echoed through the small chamber. The clatter grew louder and louder as the animals thrashed about. The small room was an acoustical chamber, the sounds echoing through the soft wood. It was deafening.

I held the flashlight up high with my left hand and the flare gun in front of me with my right.
On each side of the room were five holding pens. Ten places for someone to hide. Ten places for someone to spring from and send a cartridge of Ketamine into my back or neck.

I said, “Hey, Professor, I saw this infomercial the other night. It was for this cream that covers up disgusting abnormalities like the one growing on your face.”

He didn’t respond. Because he wasn’t in the room or because he didn’t want to blow his cover or because he had seen the same infomercial, I wasn’t sure.

I leaned over the first stall, but other than two or three large piles of shit,
it was empty. I turned around and did the same with the stall on my right side. Again, nothing.

I took a deep breath.
Eight to go.

I shined the flashlight on the second stall on the left and peered over the edge.
Empty. I could hear deep rustling from the stall on the right. I peered over the edge of it and saw a large deer huddled in the far corner. I shined the light in its face and its eyes disappeared into two white chasms. I watched as its ears fluttered and nose flared.

I said, “It’s gonna be all right, buddy.
I’m not here for you. I’m here for the Professor. You don’t happen to know where he is, do ya?”

The deer cocked his head to the right and said, “I saw the Professor duck into the last stall on the right.
Hey, I haven’t heard from Dave in awhile.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him he wouldn’t be getting a Christmas card from Dave come next year.

Due to the intense heat of the snowsuit, compounded with the high stress level of my present situation and the fact that Herb was dead and Erica had most likely met a similar fate, and multiplied by two days of jet lag, all added up to my having an imaginary conversation
with a fucking deer.

I shook my head and moved up to the next row.

Both vacant.

I could hear movement in at least two of the last four cubbies.
I checked the one on the left. I saw something scurry across the floor, but it was either a rat or a mouse, which, other than bringing to mind a Discovery special I’d seen on the Hanta virus, didn’t overly concern me.

I turned to the right and stared at the second to last stall.
Something was definitely behind that wall. I took a deep breath, fingered the trigger on the flare gun, and took a step towards the wooden door. My face was inches from a line of sight when something sprang up on the door. I fell backwards, instinctively pulling the trigger on the gun.

The flare erupted, whizzing from the gun, filling the small room with supernova quality illumination.
I shielded my eyes and pushed myself backwards on the dirt floor. I pulled the goggles down to block the light and crawled to the edge of the stall, slowly climbing up the wooden planks. I gingerly peeked over the edge. A large elk lay on its side thrashing about. The flare was sticking out of its chest spurting white-hot flames. Both the elk and half the stall were on fire.

Good grief.

Not one to dawdle, I peeked over the stall next to the burning elk.
Empty. Then I moved quickly to the other side and gazed into the last stall. I took a deep breath. In the back right corner was Erica. Her eyes found mine. There was duct tape over her mouth, but I knew she was smiling.

On closer examination, I saw that she was handcuffed, the cuffs slinking beneath a piece of wood framing that divided the stalls.
  

I pulled the door open and crawled to her.
She raised her eyebrows. I pulled the tape off her mouth gingerly. I could have mouthed the words with her.
You’re my hero. You saved my life. You came back for me.

She said none of these things.

She did say, “Who are you?”

I lifted the goggles.

Her eyebrows rose.
After a short pause, she said, “Why are you dressed like that?”

“It’s a long story.”

She sniffed a couple times. I thought she was starting to get emotional. She said, “I think I smell smoke.”

Then again, maybe not.

I brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and said, “I accidentally lit the place on fire.”

Her eyes widened.

I could feel an intense heat on my back and I turned.
I’d say two-thirds of the place was engulfed in flames.

This could get messy.

I asked, “Where are the keys to the cuffs?”

“Do you really think if I knew the answer to that question I would be in this position?”

Valid point.

The smoke was starting to get thick and I said, “Lie down.”

She did, her hands outstretched. I took two steps back and kicked the wooden divider with my foot. Nothing happened.

I kicked three more times.
I was getting dizzy from the fumes and I was having trouble keeping my balance. I kicked a fourth time and felt a slight shudder. On the seventh kick there was a loud crack and the divider fell six inches. My eyes had started to water and I could barely breathe. I figured we had about a minute left before we both passed out from the carbon monoxide.

I took three steps back and smashed into the divider like Steve Atwater into Christian Okoye.
A loud crack echoed through the room and the divider fell to the floor. I stamped on the two-by-four until it snapped in half.

Erica pulled the cuffs around the wood, then stood.
 

We both turned.

The flames were everywhere.
A wall of fire. I knew there was a door just to the left where Riley had ushered out the deer, but we were going to have to go through the fire.

I said, “Get on my back.”

She wrapped the handcuffs around my head and hopped on my back.

“Ready?”

She dug her head in my back. I covered my face with my arm, ran into the flames, smashed through the door, took three large steps, then dove into the snow.

After we both exhausted our coughing fits, I mustered, “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

We lay there for a couple seconds, gathering our breath.
The heat was intense. We both stood and began trudging away from the billowing building. The snow had let up by half and visibility was fifty or sixty yards.

We were closing in on the snowmobile when I looked at Erica and said, “Now, tell me what happened.”

“After you left—”

There were two loud cracks.

I dragged Erica to the snow.
The bullets just missed us, cutting through the base of the snowmobile. 

Erica said, “What was th—”

I put my finger to my lips, then peeked over the edge of the snowmobile.
Through the blur of the snow, just outside the fence, was a man. A man dressed in all white. A man holding a very familiar-looking rifle.

The Professor.