Chapter Seventeen
The memory of a shot ringing out, the bullet felling Scott, haunted Lily as she skied down the snowy road.
Anyone could be hiding in the trees on either side of her, maybe whoever had vandalized their vehicles.
She forced the thought from her mind. She didn’t have any choice but to keep going.
Jackson was weakening fast. She didn’t know how much longer he could do without food and shelter in the cold.
She concentrated on sliding one ski forward and then the other, poles planting rhythmically.
The road sloped downward slightly, and she began to pick up speed, the cold air stinging her cheeks even as her muscles warmed.
After so many hours of trudging along in difficult terrain, the sensation of floating across the snow untied some of the knots in her shoulders and stomach.
She didn’t know how long she had been skiing or how far she had traveled when she spotted the lights of a car moving toward her. She slowed and waited, torn between darting into the woods to hide and waving her hands to flag down what could be her rescuer.
The car slammed on its brakes, skidding a little in the snow, and the driver’s door popped open. “Lily! Lily, you’re safe!” The familiar stocky figure of Mike Swanson emerged from the car and hurried to her. He stopped directly in front of her and pushed sunglasses to the top of his head.
“Mike!” Relief surged through her. “Oh my gosh, I’m so glad to see you.”
“I’m relieved to see you, too.” He hugged her tightly, then stepped back and looked over her shoulder. “Where are Jackson and Scott?”
“I left them back down the road just a little ways. We decided that since I was the only one with skis, I should go ahead to bring back help.”
“Terrific.” He lowered his glasses. “Let’s go get them.”
“Where is the sheriff?” she asked. “Did he send officers to Pandora?”
Mike frowned. “The sheriff refused to take my report about your phone call seriously. I don’t know what he’s doing, but he isn’t looking for you and Scott. I’m not even sure he’s looking for Jackson anymore.”
“What do you mean he wouldn’t take you seriously? You told him Jackson was with me, right? And you told Denny?”
“Denny is as frustrated as I am. We decided to give up on Howard and put together our own team to rescue you all.”
“Where is Denny now?”
“He’s tied up at a meeting across town.”
“A business meeting?” She stared, incredulous. How could Denny even think about business when his son was missing?
“A press conference or something, I think.” Mike put a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll radio the team and they’ll catch up with us. Take me back to Jackson and Scott.”
“Now that I’m here, I can talk to the sheriff,” she said. She started to move past him, but he blocked her way.
“We don’t have time for that,” he said. “I didn’t want to upset you before, but the truth is, Preston Smith is ahead of us. We can’t let him get to Jackson before we do.”
“Preston? The new employee?” A shiver ran through her at the name. The man Jackson had said had questioned him about Chinese visitors.
“He’s the one behind the kidnapping,” Mike said. “At least, that’s what Denny and I think. The sheriff isn’t listening to us about that, either.”
“Why wouldn’t the sheriff believe you?”
“He questioned Preston and apparently believed whatever lies Preston told him. But Denny and I are sure he’s involved. He’s been behaving oddly ever since we hired him. You met him, right?”
She nodded. And something about him had struck her as odd. “But if I talk to the sheriff…”
“Do you want to be responsible for Jackson’s death? That’s what will happen if Preston gets to him first.”
His words—and the harsh tone in which they were delivered—shook her. “All right,” she said. “I’ll take you to them.”
He nodded, then pulled out a radio and clicked a button. “I’m with Lily,” he said. “We’re going to pick up Jackson and Scott. Have the team meet us at the intersection of Forest Service roads 723 and 787.”
A garbled voice spoke through static. Lily couldn’t make out the words, but Mike seemed to understand. “Ten-four.” He pocketed the radio again, and turned to Lily. “Let’s go,” he said.
She shed her skis, stowed them and her pack in the back seat, then slid into the passenger seat.
Warmth enveloped her, and she almost moaned with happiness.
Just sitting down on something soft, and in such warmth, was luxurious.
She forced her eyes open, fearing if she closed them she might fall asleep before they reached Scott and Jackson.
“I’M FREEZING.” JACKSON SAT on a boulder by the side of the road and hugged his arms across his chest. He was so exhausted he kept falling in the snow, and Scott could no longer carry him, so they had decided to sit down and wait. “When is Lily going to come back?”
“She’ll be here as soon as she can,” Scott said.
“Or she’ll send someone to us.” Realistically he knew she hadn’t been gone that long, but standing here in this desolate place, cold seeping in and hunger gnawing at him, the minutes stretched to uncomfortable lengths.
Even the dogs were miserable, alternately pacing and whining.
“I’m so hungry!” Jackson groaned and doubled over.
“So am I,” Scott said. “Try not to think about it.”
“How can I not think about it when I’m starving?”
Scott reminded himself that Jackson was only nine. He looked around for something to distract them both. Why hadn’t he at least thought to ask Lily to leave her pack, with the fire starters and mug for melting water?
Shelby sat up and growled, low in her throat. Hunter leaped to his feet. Both dogs stared toward the woods behind them. Hunter barked. Jackson sat up straight. “Someone’s coming!” he shouted.
Both dogs were barking now, the hair along their backs standing at attention. A figure in black emerged from the woods. A lean man with a square jaw and Roman nose stepped into their small clearing. “Call off the dogs!” he said in a commanding voice.
“Preston!” Jackson moved to stand next to Scott. “What are you doing here?”
Scott wasn’t sure Preston even heard the question over the racket the dogs were making. “Call off those dogs!” Preston shouted.
“Hunter! Shelby! Quiet!” Scott ordered.
Both dogs glanced back at him, as if to ask if he was sure. “Quiet,” he repeated. “Come. Sit.”
They moved to flank him and Jackson and sat, though all their attention was still riveted on Preston.
“Who are you?” Preston addressed Scott. “What are you doing with Jackson?”
“Who are you?” Scott countered. Jackson had one hand on Scott’s hip, and was nibbling the thumbnail on his other hand.
“I’m Preston Smith. I work for Endicott Industries. Jackson, are you okay?”
Jackson didn’t answer.
Scott put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m Scott Linden. I work for SkyCrest Resort. What are you doing here?”
Preston studied him. Scott stood at attention, a soldier under inspection. Whatever this Preston Smith was up to now, Scott would bet he had a military background. He had the bearing of an officer.
Preston unzipped his parka and reached inside. Jackson whimpered. “Is he going to shoot us?”
Scott reached for the pistol at his back, but the other man was faster.
Preston wrenched the gun away from him, jammed an elbow at the side of Scott’s head, then kicked out, knocking Scott’s feet out from under him.
Scott clawed at the other man’s face and grabbed at his arm, and Preston drove another elbow into his ribs.
Scott was flat on his back, sure he was about to be shot—at close range this time—when a woman’s scream cut through the air.
The sound froze all action. Preston stood over Scott with one hand raised.
Scott lay on the ground, his head turned toward the sound.
Jackson was crouched, arms wrapped around his knees, small sounds of distress emanating from him.
The dogs still flanked the boy, on their feet once more, but silent as they studied the tableau before them.
“What are you doing!” Lily emerged from a car that had parked in the middle of the road. A man in black followed her. She looked from Jackson to Scott to Preston.
“Special Agent Preston Shipman, with the FBI,” Preston said, and pulled a gun from his jacket.
Lily started to scream again, but the sound was choked off by an arm tightened around her throat. Mike held a gun to her head. “Drop that weapon, Agent Shipman, or Lily is a dead woman.”
LILY’S HEART BEAT so hard she thought it would burst. Her vision blurred, and she forced herself to breathe deeply, though doing so made her even more aware of Mike’s arm crushing her windpipe.
When she squirmed, trying to ease the pressure, he tightened his grip even more and pressed the barrel of the pistol—hard and ice cold—against her temple.
“Mike, what are you doing?” Jackson asked.
“Shut up, kid, or I’ll shoot you instead,” Mike growled.
This didn’t even sound like the Mike she knew—the good-natured, easygoing friend. “Where is Denny?” she asked. “Does he know what you’re doing?”
“I told you. Denny is in a meeting. With some associates of mine. As long as he cooperates, they won’t hurt him. Much.”
Terror shuddered through her. She looked for Scott, but he was out of her field of vision.
So she focused on the man across from her, the one who said he was an FBI agent.
She recognized Preston Smith, the new employee who had questioned her that night at Denny’s house.
“Are you really with the FBI?” she asked.
“Shut up!” Mike ordered. “Throw your gun into the woods,” he directed Preston.
Preston—Agent Shipman—hurled the gun away from him. It sailed out of sight into the trees. “You can’t kill all of them before I kill you,” he said.
“I’m betting I can get the woman and the boy before you get off a shot at me,” Mike said. “Do you really want to take that chance?”