Chill Factor (12 page)

Dutch tossed back the shot of whiskey, grimaced, then sucked
in a
deep breath as a chaser. "She left a message on my cell phone. I was
talking to the Gunns and didn't answer the call. Goddammit! Any-how,
there was some kind of accident as she was coming down the mountain.
Hell, man, when I left the cabin I thought she was right behind me. I
should never have left ahead of her. The road was already getting icy.
I guess she spun out, something, I don't know. Anyway, she said she'd
made it back to the cabin, and that Ben Tierney—"

"Tierney? The—" Wes pantomimed typing.

"Yeah, that guy. That adventure writer or whatever the hell he
is.
Lilly said he's hurt."

"Did their cars collide, you think?"

"All she said, all I could understand because the cell
reception was
for shit, was that they were in the cabin, that Tierney was hurt
,
and to send help."

"What's happened?" Dora appeared, wearing a high-necked robe
belted
tightly around her waist. Her expression always reminded Dutch of a
tightrope walker who's just realized she's made a misstep.

Wes gave her an abbreviated account of the situation. She
expressed
her concern, then asked, "Did Lilly tell you anything about Mr.
Tierney's injury or how bad it is?"

Dutch shook his head. He extended his empty glass to Wes, who
refilled it. This time Dutch took a more prudent sip. "I don't know if
he's got a scratch, or if he's in critical condition and barely
clinging to life. Frankly, I don't care. It's Lilly I'm worried about.
I've got to get up there. Tonight."

"Tonight?" Dora echoed.

Wes took a glance out the living room window. "That stuff is
still
coming down, Dutch. Thicker than before."

"No need to tell me. I've been driving in it." Every outdoor
surface
was now coated with ice. There was no sign of letup in the
precipitation, and the temperature continued to drop.

"How do you propose getting up there, Dutch? You can't drive
on that
road up to your place. Even your four-wheel is useless on solid ice."

"I know," he said with anger and chagrin. "I already tried it."

"Are you crazy?"

"Yeah, I am. Was, anyway. When I heard that message on my
phone, I
reacted without thinking. Got in my truck, started up the road,
but…"
He ended by draining the second drink. "I spun out, barely managed to
regain control."

"I'll get coffee." Dora retreated into the kitchen.

"You could've killed yourself," Wes said. "Doing a damn fool
thing
like that."

Dutch came off the sofa and began to pace. "Then what am I
supposed
to do, Wes? Sit here with my thumb up my ass till the roads are clear?
That could take days. I can't just wait it out. What if Lilly is hurt,
too? It would be like her not to tell me."

"I understand your concern. But it's not like you're
responsible for
her anymore."

Dutch rounded on him, balled his hands into fists, and came
very
close to decking his friend. Although technically Wes spoke the truth,
he didn't want to hear it. He especially didn't want to hear it from
Wes. Superior in every way Wes. Wes, who'd never known a day of defeat
or suffered a moment of self-doubt in his whole life. Wes kept
everything well under control.

"I'm the chief of police. If for no other reason than that,
Lilly is
my responsibility."

Wes patted the air between them. "Okay, okay, settle down.
Getting
riled at me won't solve anything."

Dutch accepted one of the mugs of coffee that Dora carried in
on a
tray. He took several sips, which he needed after two belts of neat
whiskey. The sour mash had been like nectar to his system. The aroma,
the taste, the warmth it had spread through his belly, the pleasurable
buzz, the tingle in his bloodstream, had made him realize just how much
he'd missed his hourly shots of it.

He said, "Cal Hawkins still has the sanding truck monopoly,
doesn't
he?"

"The city renewed his contract last year," Wes replied. "But
only
because the worthless son of a bitch owns the rig."

"I've had men trying to chase him down. I went to his house
myself.
It's dark and locked up. Nobody answers his phone. If he's not out
sanding the roads, where the hell is he?"

"A bar would be my guess," Wes replied. "That's why he likes
his job
so well. Only has to work a few days a year. The rest of them, he's
free to drink himself into a stupor."

"We've already checked the bars."

"Where they serve taxed liquor out of bottles with labels?"
Scoffing, Wes arched his eyebrow. "That's not where you'll find Cal."
He went to the entryway closet, got his coat, hat, and gloves. "You
drive. I'll tell you where to go."

"Thanks for the coffee, Dora," Dutch said as he walked past
her.

"Please be careful."

All Wes said to her was "Don't wait up."

As they stepped out into the worst winter storm in recent
history,
Wes walloped Dutch between the shoulder blades. "Don't worry, my man.
By hook or crook, we'll rescue your lady."

The windows of Scott's bedroom overlooked the backyard. He
watched
his dad and Dutch Burton practically skate out to the black Bronco with
the light bar across the roof and a stenciled seal on the doors. Dutch
had kept the motor running while he was inside. The exhaust formed a
dancing white ghost behind the truck. As they backed out of the
driveway, the wheels spun, seeking traction.

Scott was still staring after the diminishing taillights when
his
mom knocked on his bedroom door. "Scott?"

"Come in." He turned down the volume on his sound system.

"Would you like your pie now?"

"Can I save it for breakfast? I ate too much steak. I saw Dad
leaving with Mr. Burton."

She told him what had happened. "I guess Lilly didn't start
down in
time and got trapped by the weather. At least she had a good reason for
being up there. For the life of me, I can't imagine what Mr. Tierney
was doing on the peak today."

"He's a hiker."

"But shouldn't he have known better than to go hiking with a
storm
moving in?"

Scott wondered about that, too. He was an experienced hiker as
well
and had read Tierney's articles on the regional trails. He'd grown up
exploring and camping in the mountain forests, first with the Boy
Scouts, then alone. As much as he enjoyed exploring Cleary Peak, which
could be hostile terrain even on a good day, he certainly wouldn't have
wanted to be on it this afternoon when the weather turned bad.

"Even if they find Cal Hawkins, I don't think anybody can
drive up
Mountain Laurel Road tonight," he remarked.

"Neither do I, but they wouldn't have listened to me. If
anyone is
more stubborn than your father, it's Dutch Burton. Can I get you
anything? A cup of hot chocolate?"

"No thanks, Mom. I'm going to work awhile on those
applications like
I promised Dad. Then I'm turning in."

"Okay. Good night. Sleep tight."

"Don't forget to lock up and set the alarm before you go to
bed," he
told her on her way out.

She smiled at him. "I won't forget. Wes has reminded me often
enough
to keep the doors and windows locked, especially since Millicent
disappeared. But I don't worry about a break-in."

Why would you
? thought Scott. A loaded
pistol was kept in
the nightstand drawer beside her bed. He wasn't supposed to know about
it, but he did. He'd discovered it when he was in sixth grade and had
sneaked into his parents' bedroom looking for rubbers with which to
impress his friends. He'd been much more awed by the revolver in the
drawer than he had been by the tube of spermicidal lubricant.

"It doesn't look like Millicent or the others were taken by
force,"
she continued. "Whoever the culprit is, he's someone the women know, or
at least recognize and consider harmless. They seem to go with him
willingly."

"Well, anyway, be careful, Mom."

She blew him a kiss. "I promise."

Once the door was shut, Scott turned the volume back up on his
sound
system and set the built-in sleep timer to turn it off twenty minutes
later. Then he bundled up in outerwear for his covert excursion.

His bedroom window opened soundlessly because he kept all the
sliding parts oiled. In a flash, he was outside, closing the window
again. He didn't want his mom to feel a cold draft and come to
investigate its source.

The frigid air stung his eyes and made his nose drip. He
hunched his
shoulders against the blowing precipitation and dug his gloved hands
into his coat pockets. Keeping to the unlighted areas of the yard, he
set off on foot.

Sometimes, particularly following one of his old man's
lectures on
how he was goofing off, when in fact he'd busted his balls to do
everything he'd been told, he simply had to escape his house.

Of course nothing he did was ever enough to suit his dad. No
blue
ribbon was blue enough, no silver trophy shiny enough for Wes Hamer's
kid. If he won an Olympic gold medal, his dad would want to know why he
hadn't won two.

Seeing a pair of headlights approaching and fearing it might
be
Dutch Burton's Bronco, he dodged behind a hedge and waited for the
vehicle to pass. Going no more than ten miles an hour, it seemed to
take forever to reach Scott, whose legs were growing stiff with cold.

But his caution was unnecessary. It wasn't the Bronco that
crept
past. He began walking again, the collar of his coat flipped up against
his cheeks, his cap pulled down low so he wouldn't be recognized by
anyone who happened to be watching the storm from his front window.

People in this town loved to talk. If someone spotted him out
tonight
and later mentioned it to his dad, he would be in a world of hurt. What
if he slipped on the ice and damaged something? His old man would
stroke out. But only after killing him first.

Lost in that thought—or perhaps fearing it so badly
he made it happen—he
slipped on the icy sidewalk. His feet went airborne and he came down
hard, landing flat on his butt. His tailbone felt like it had been
jammed up against the ceiling of his skull. The fall jarred his teeth,
causing him to bite his tongue.

He gave himself several moments to recover from the impact
before he
even tried to stand. After a few somewhat comical attempts to regain
his footing on the slippery surface, he succeeded. He hobbled over to a
picket fence and leaned against it.

"Jesus," he whispered shakily as he imagined what his dad
would have
done if he'd limped home dragging a shattered ankle or broken tibia.

See, Dad, it was like this. I sneaked out of the
house. While
walking the streets of town, I fell down on the ice. You should have
heard the sound that bone made when it snapped. Like a couple of
two-by-fours being clapped together. Sigh. Guess I won't be going out
for the Crimson Tide of Alabama after all. They'll have to win the
NCAA
football championship without me
.

As he moved along the sidewalk, staying close to the fence, he
shuddered to think of the H-bomb effect a mistake like that would have
on his life. He would be paying for it until the day they buried him,
when his dad would be leaning over his open casket saying,
What
the fuck were you thinking, Scott
? There would be no end to
Wes's
ranting and raving. Only an end to his grand ambitions for Scott.

He glanced back at the icy patch that had caused him to fall.
He'd
come within a hairsbreadth of disaster. It was damn lucky that he
hadn't broken his neck.

Or was it unlucky?

Without any forewarning, the thought popped out of Scott's
subconscious and stopped him dead in his tracks. Where had such a
mutinous thought come from? he wondered.

It was the kind of thought that, just for thinking it, you got
struck down by lightning. He'd done some things lately that would be
considered worthy of damnation by any moral code or religion on the
planet. But he hadn't really feared a fiery eternity until now, and all
because he had entertained, if only for a millisecond, that traitorous
thought. But who can be condemned for what he's thinking? And who's to
know?

It was several moments before Scott continued on his way.

With extreme caution.

CHAPTER  9

HAVING JUST BEEN REMINDED BY TlERNEY THAT SHE WAS no longer
married,
Lilly tossed aside the afghan and scrambled off the sofa. She expected
him to try to keep her beside him, but his injuries prevented him from
moving that quickly. He managed only to stand up unsteadily.
"Lilly—"

"No, listen, Tierney." Although he hadn't touched her, she put
out
her hand to stop him from trying. "Our present circumstances are
unnerving enough without—"

"Unnerving? You're unnerved? Don't you feel safe with me?"

"Safe? Yes, of course. Who said anything about
safe?
It's
just…"

"What?" Eyebrows arched in silent inquiry, he let the question
hang
there.

"We were getting personal. For the time we're here, we should
avoid
that. Let's leave everything personal alone and concentrate on
practical matters." He seemed on the verge of arguing, but she added a
please that softened her tone of voice.

He agreed, reluctantly. "All right, let's be practical. Are
you up
for a project?"

"Like what?"

"Scavenger hunt."

He suggested they search the rooms to see if she had
overlooked
anything when she had cleared out the cabin earlier. He said he would
start in the kitchen. Turning away from her, he hobbled off in that
direction.

"Tierney?"

He came back around. Before she lost her nerve or talked
herself out
of it, she asked, "Did you meet up with them later?"

He frowned quizzically. "Who?"