Tomorrow We Die (21 page)

CHAPTER 36

The woman’s brow furrowed. “He’s hurt badly.”

The man gripped his leg with both hands and tucked his chin to his chest.

I glanced at the edges of the road. “Why are you here?”

She put her hands on her head, looking about to cry. “We were hiking. Can’t you help us? Please.”

I looked closer at the hole. It was more like a trench, about four feet long and three feet wide. Two rows of iron spikes, at least eight of them, protruded from the bottom. A different pattern and color to the dirt traced along a line where it looked as if the ditch might extend across the whole road.

The woman paced away.

“Stop!” I put up a hand. “Don’t move!”

She froze midstep, hovering over the odd-colored ground.

“Look down.”

She brought her foot back and turned toward me.

I sidestepped out from behind the door, inching forward, keeping my head on a swivel. I put both hands in the air, still holding the gun.

Her eyes grew wide.

At the edge of the different-colored dirt, I poked the ground with the gun barrel. Dust shook on a thin layer of cardboard. I pushed harder and it slid into the trench, revealing another set of iron spikes.

The woman stumbled back. “What is all this?”

Two seconds more and I would have driven the Scout right into it.

I searched the roadsides. The surrounding foliage spun into a mass of green, brown, and gray. Someone could be out there, just feet away, and I wouldn’t be able to see them.

The obese male hiker looked on, pale face twisted in anguish, his lower calf pierced through with a spike. Blood soaked through his sock. Nothing fake-looking about the injury.

They’d simply had the misfortune of stumbling upon a trap set for me.

The spike may have severed the man’s popliteal artery. I tucked the gun in my belt. “I’m a paramedic. I’m going to check him out.

Okay?” I knelt by the trench and reached out for his wrist. “Hey.

What’s your name?”

“James.”

His pulse felt thready and rapid – compensating shock from the bleeding. Removing his calf from the spike could worsen the blood loss. I felt around the lower leg. The tibia and fibula bones seemed intact. With care I removed his hiking boot and checked for a dorsalis pedis pulse at the arch of his foot. I shifted my fingers around but couldn’t feel anything.

Eli had a shed behind the cabin. I reasoned I might be able to find something there to cut through the spike. James needed a surgeon and a way out of there. An ambulance wouldn’t make it down the road. He needed the helicopter.

“Have you called for help yet?”

The woman shook her head. “No cell service here.”

I pulled mine out. One bar. Worth a try. I dialed 9-1-1. The choppy sound of an intermittent ringer came through static. A female voice at the other end said something about dispatch.

“Yes, hello? I’m in Emerald Bay, near the south side shoreline with a hiker who has a traumatic injury to his lower leg.”

“Sir, you – very broken. I understand you – leg – ald Bay?”

“Yes. Emerald Bay. We’ll need a helicopter.”

“Underst – On way.”

The line disconnected. I called back twice with no success. The hikers looked on with expectation and concern.

“They’re on their way. The medical helicopter is.”

If it was AprisEvac, Naomi would be with it.

James tilted his head. “I’m so thirsty.”

The woman came up to him and placed the rubber tube from her water backpack in his mouth. “Here. Here you go, babe.”

I shut off the engine in the Scout and found a box of road flares in the back. I took four to set up a landing zone for the helicopter by the shore. Flight time for the bird would be about fifteen minutes, plus seven minutes or so warm-up time on the pad at County. I’d strike the flares in twenty. Sooner if I heard them coming.

I leapt over the trench. “James, I’m afraid you’ll lose too much blood if we pull your leg off the spike.”

He nodded, as if in agreement. They had probably come to that conclusion on their own.

“I’m going to see if I can find a hacksaw by the cabin down this road. We’ll cut the spike and secure it until you get to the hospital, where they can remove it safely.”

“Do what you need to.”

I pulled the revolver from my belt and jogged down the road – the gun swinging in my fist still seeming odd and out of place. Eli’s cabin came into view a couple hundred feet ahead. I slowed and moved to the side of the road.

A hiker might be hurt, but I wasn’t going to do him any good if I got killed trying to help him. I brought the hand that held the flares up in front of me and rested the gun across my forearm. I moved steady and deliberate, with as little noise as possible.

Wind rustled the pine trees. A mountain bluebird flapped and squawked from a nearby branch.

A thud hit the forest duff.

I pointed the pistol at a squirrel skittering toward a fallen pinecone. He went to work stripping out the seeds. I wondered if I would have even hit the tree behind him had I fired.

I turned my attention back toward the cabin and the shed behind it.

A hundred feet to go.

I could hear the lake now, a subtle lapping of wind-driven waves.

I decided to clear the house before entering the toolshed. I didn’t want any more surprises.

Whoever set the spike trap wanted the Scout incapacitated.

Were they hanging around to apprehend me as well?

I sidestepped in a broad arc around the cabin, squeezing closer in a descending orbit.

At the porch steps I stopped and listened, gun pointed at the front door.

I crouched, set down the flares, and eased up the board that covered the ammo box with the door key. As I lifted the box, I noticed the combination lock hanging on the front latch.

Thinking Eli may have left the door unlocked, I shifted to the side of it, held the revolver across my chest, and tested the doorknob with my free hand.

It clicked. With a slight push the door creaked inward.

At the end of the hallway a shadow moved.

CHAPTER 37

I slammed back against the log wall, gripping the revolver with two hands.

Perspiration dropped from my temples.

Inching to the edge of the doorframe, I peeked in. A rectangle of light stretched along one wall.

I wrangled down my breathing to listen.

Nothing.

My eyes darted to the outside corners of the house.

I rubbed my brow with a forearm and threw another glance inside.

Hallway. Light.

And the shadow again.

I drew back and shouted, “Who’s there?”

No response.

With another glance I saw the same shadow.

Something wasn’t right. It was making the same motion.

I stared down the hallway.

Sure enough, I saw the shadow again, moving up and down like a blacksmith hammering a hot iron. But it didn’t have quite the right shape to be a fist holding a hammer. Or even an arm for that matter.

A fluttering sounded overhead. A large falcon flew away from the cabin with a chipmunk in its beak. Inside, the shadow’s motion diminished, and I realized that it resembled a tree limb – one that swayed with the weight of a bird of prey.

I firmed my resolve and stepped inside, arms in front with the pistol in hand. I checked the kitchen and living room and kept moving at a slow but steady pace down the hall, clearing both back bedrooms.

I walked back to the entry, muted light shining through the half-open doorway. I lowered the gun and leaned on the wall. Cold black soot lay in the fireplace, couch pillows still askew. The blanket we’d slept under lay folded over an armrest.

The threshold creaked. A gun-wielding hand froze in the doorway.

I drove my shoulder against the door. It slammed on the wrist, and the handgun dropped. I threw open the door to see a slim-built man with a navy blue ski mask. I raised my gun, but his fist crashed against my face, knocking me to the floor. A boot kicked my pistol hand, knocking the gun free and flaring pain through my fingers. I swiped at his knees and scampered backward.

He bent for the gun, and I launched into him, driving him to the floor. He grabbed at my face and yanked at my hair. I shoved my palm into his nostrils and swung my fist against his ear. He swiped at my arms. Grabbing his collar, I shoved him to the floor and yanked off his hood.

We stopped for a split second – me in recognition of his face, he in realizing I had.

Trent Matley.

He lurched sideways. Locked like steers, we struggled to our feet. He broke free a fist and drove it to my abdomen. Breath burst from my lungs.

We whipped around and tumbled over the couch. I sprang from the floor, toppling the coffee table, and fixed my hands in a boxing guard. Blows struck my forearms and flanks. I strafed back. My heel hit the hearth. I snatched the poker and whipped it toward his head. He ducked with an inch to spare. I swung again, and he jumped back, then hurdled the couch.

I pursued with the poker raised, only to see Trent rising from the floor, revolver in hand.

I swerved midstride – hot metal zinging past my flank – smacked the wall, and rolled into the hallway. Wood splintered. I dove into the back bedroom, locked the door, leapt over the bed, and squatted by the wall.

My heart hammered in my chest. Hot blood dripped from my nose.

A rectangular window stood over the bed, maybe four feet by two. I smashed the glass with the poker and scraped the frame free of shards.

I crouched and listened.

Still no sound at the room door.

Forget it.
There was no way I was staying in the cabin. I tossed the poker outside and pulled myself up through the window, racecar style.

At a seated position in the frame, I heard pine needles crunch.

Around the cabin’s corner, Trent leveled the revolver.

A shot fired. I dropped into the room, air singing. A bullet struck high on the bedroom wall. I scrambled low and unlocked the door. A third shot pinged. I scuffled into the hallway and shielded myself.

I counted the shots that had rung out. One in the living room. Two in the hallway. Three from outside.

If he only had Eli’s gun, he’d be out of bullets.

I sprinted down the hall, slid into the front door and kicked it shut. I flipped the lock and scooted to the side, scanning the cabin floor for the other pistol.

Nothing.

Kitchen . . . Nothing.

Beneath the couch?

The circle of a matte black muzzle pointed at me from the shadowed floor. I tapped the barrel away and slid the gun out. An insignia on the grip read P. BERETTA with three upright arrows.

I ejected the magazine. Still full of bullets. Different shaped than Eli’s. Longer. I palmed it in place and cocked the slide.

From the distance came the sound of a helicopter, blades chopping through the thin mountain air. I stood beside a window. No sight of Trent. Through the trees I saw AprisEvac, tracing over the bay like an insect.

I unlocked the front door and let it ease inward. The helicopter loudened. Moving along the outer walls, gun two-handed and angled toward the ground, I searched the perimeter of the cabin. I passed the room with the shattered window and came around the rear where the hawk had been on the tree limb. The shed stood a short ways off. A black jeep sat hidden just behind it.

I worked my way over, gun at the ready, throwing glances behind and to the sides. The Jeep was a soft top. A shovel and high-lift jack secured to the back. Fresh mud on the tires. Empty interior.

Trent had been lying in wait. But my showing up in the daylight and the injured hiker had thrown things off. Jacked up his plans.

I trekked back to the cabin and followed the opposite side back to the front door.

Had he bailed?

AprisEvac hovered over the bay. The flares lay on the porch where I’d first set them down. I scanned the trees. Tucking the Beretta in my belt, I scooped up the flares and ran to the shoreline.

A clearing of hard-packed dirt and grass beyond the trees looked suitable for touching down. I struck the flares, sulfur bursts stinging my nostrils, and marked four corners of a landing zone.

AprisEvac circled like an eagle searching for a mouse. Then it dropped altitude, splitting the distance between the shoreline and Fannette Island. At about a hundred feet, a white-helmeted flight nurse opened a side door.

Naomi.

The pilot lowered the helicopter, the water waving outwards in concentric circles. She would soon put a foot out on the landing skid and lean out to make sure the tail rotor and boom were clear of any obstructions. She kept in communication with the pilot through the microphone attached to her flight helmet. I could even make out the extendable five-point harness she wore that would allow her to shift away from her seat. Just enough to do what she needed to.

I retreated to the tree line. They hovered for a bit, as though the pilot was reevaluating the landing site. Then the helicopter rose and arced away, curving over the teahouse. It returned and took a slow pass parallel to the shore. Angling around, it approached again – this time with a steady descent. Sand and dirt took flight. Water whipped through the air. I shielded my eyes, squinting through the barrage to again see Naomi.

She stepped out on the skid.

She turned to see the tail rotor.

But something was off. She was able to lean too far.

Before I could form a word, her harness snapped and she toppled headlong from the helicopter.

She plummeted toward the bay and crashed into the surface.