Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) (28 page)

“Yes. Those were the orders from my captain. My slim jim worked, so I was able to pop it from the inside. But I wore gloves.”

“Good.” At the sound of crunching gravel, Cole shifted toward the entrance.

“That’s one of our K-9 units.” The deputy waved the Suburban over.

Cole started back to his car to retrieve Kelly’s things, but Mitch met him halfway, plastic bag in hand.

He took it from him. “This better work. The helicopter’s grounded.”

A burly man, balaclava pulled over his head and wearing combat boots, cargo pants, and a thermal jacket, emerged from the Suburban. Cole moved forward and introduced himself.

“Rick Stephens.” The man returned his handshake, then shook hands with Mitch. “You guys aren’t exactly dressed for this weather.” The man gave them a once-over as he opened the back door of his vehicle.

“We just flew in from Buffalo. A hike in the woods wasn’t part of our game plan.”

Rick reached inside, pulled out an insulated black windbreaker, and tossed it to Cole. “This will help.” He leaned in further and retrieved some rubber boots and a ski mask. “So will these. You won’t be making any fashion statements, but they’ll keep you warm.”

“Thanks.”

“Trent!” The man leaned around Cole. “See what kind of cold-weather gear you can scrounge up for our friend here.” He motioned to Mitch.

The deputy acknowledged the instruction with a wave.

“Okay.” He snapped a leash on the energetic German shepherd pacing around the back of the car. “Bo is an excellent tracking dog. If the victim’s here, he’ll find her. Tell me what you know.”

Cole gave him a rapid-fire briefing as he slid his arms into the windbreaker, replaced his shoes with the boots, and pulled on the ski mask. Mitch did the same with the gear the young deputy rounded up for him, ditching his dress shoes as well for a pair of mud-caked work boots that Rick dug out of the back of the Suburban. The deputy had also come up with gloves for both of them, and Cole gratefully slid his fingers into the fleecy warmth. Better.

“So the last sighting of the car was about six-fifteen in Kirkwood.” Rick checked his watch as he retrieved night-vision binoculars and a small backpack from his vehicle. He slipped the pack over his shoulders and handed the binoculars to Mitch. “These may come in handy.”

“I’m estimating it took him forty-five minutes to get here,” Cole said.

“That would be about right. Which puts their arrival at two and a half hours ago.” Rick squinted in the direction of the trailhead and wrapped his hand around the leash as Bo sniffed the ground at his feet. “If the victim was mobile, they could have covered a fair distance in that amount of time. This trail is over five miles long. If she wasn’t mobile, we might not have far to go. But with the weather worsening, we’d better get moving. That the scent we’re after?” He gestured to the bag in Cole’s hand.

“Yes.” Cole handed it over.

The man opened the bag and poked through it, extracting the pillowcase. “Let’s start with this.” Setting the bag with the remaining items on the backseat of the Suburban, he walked over to Kelly’s car, then let Bo take a whiff of the fabric.

The dog found the scent in seconds, near Kelly’s trunk, and tugged on the leash, urging Rick toward the trailhead. Cole pulled out his Sig Sauer and followed. Mitch fell in behind him.

“One of you come with us too. And bring a radio and flashlight.” Cole issued the instruction over his shoulder to the deputies as he started down the path.

The ice crunched under his feet as he picked his way down the trail, the only other sounds the panting of the dog straining on the leash and the rattle of wind-tossed branches. The sky, black as death in the absence of moon and stars, offered no hint of illumination to guide them. A flashlight would help, but if the perpetrator was still in the area, artificial light would alert him to their presence.

And make it easier for him to pick them off.

Cole tightened his grip on his pistol. He hoped there would be no violence this night.

But with Kelly’s life hanging in the balance, he’d have no qualms about using his weapon.

“We made a lot better time than I expected. I guess the sleet scared all the amateurs off the road.” The cabbie pulled into the apartment complex parking lot.

Alan tugged his wallet from the pocket of his slacks. “It’s the second building. You can stop by the white Taurus.”

As the cab slowed, he checked the meter and pulled out some bills, calculating the tip. A little more than normal because of the weather and the holiday, but not enough to make him a memorable passenger. He handed the money over the seat when the car came to a stop. “Thanks for getting me here so fast.”

The man took the fare and grinned at him. “I wouldn’t want your wife to be any madder at you than she is now.”

Alan had already mentally moved on to the next phase of the operation, and he had to remind himself of the story he’d concocted. “I appreciate that. Have a nice holiday.”

“You too.”

He slid out of the car and started toward one of the units, using the ice as an excuse to walk slowly. By the time he got to the sidewalk, the cab’s taillights were disappearing out the exit.

When he was certain the car was gone, he melted into the shadows, hugging the wall as he skirted the building. No lights shone from the windows in the corner unit, and he took shelter under a small overhang on the patio in the back.

As he pulled out his cell to call the second cab, the device began to vibrate against his fingers. His hand jerked at the unexpected motion, and he fumbled the phone, almost dropping it onto the icy concrete.

Biting back a curse, he tightened his grip and checked caller ID.

The number was blocked.

Could Rossi’s man be calling him back already to arrange a drop? He’d said the payment would be made soon, but Alan had assumed they’d wait until after the holiday. It could be someone else on the line . . . but he didn’t want to risk missing the drop call. He wanted his final payment.

He tapped the talk button and put the phone to his ear. “Carlson.”

“Your payment is ready. And we’re accommodating your travel plans. The drop will be between two and six tomorrow morning at the Shelford Motel at the I-70 Warrenton exit. Take a room at the far end. Leave a note on the door that says ‘Knock for pizza delivery.’”

A click told him the call was over.

Alan frowned. The Shelford Motel? It sounded like the kind of place cockroaches called home. The kind of place he’d spent far too much time in as a kid. Why pick a dump like that?

On the other hand, what did it matter, as long as he got his money? Once he had it in hand, he could stay at the Ritz anytime he chose. With Cindy, if fate was kind.

A spray of sleet lashed against his face, and he shifted away from the wind, punching in the number for the second cab company. With luck, he’d be in his car and on the road in less than an hour. And Warrenton wasn’t far. Even in this weather, he should be able to make it in ninety minutes, tops. Giving him plenty of time to catch a little shut-eye before all his money problems were solved.

Once and for all.

Her face was tingling. No,
stinging
.

Fighting her way back to consciousness, Kelly tried to lift her hand. Pain shot through her wrist, and she gasped. That, in turn, produced a searing pain in her rib cage. As did every breath she took.

She went still. Or as still as she could manage, given the shivers convulsing her—which produced yet more pain that radiated to every nerve ending in her body.

Through her haze of agony, one thing was clear.

She hurt too much to be dead.

That meant Carlson hadn’t succeeded.

Yet.

Gritting her teeth, she tried to shift slightly to see the leg he’d smashed with the rock. But even that small movement sent a wave of blackness crashing over her.
No!
She had to stay conscious. Had to keep thinking. Had to believe that if God hadn’t taken her yet, he had further plans for her here.

She opened her eyes and forced herself to refocus. She remembered falling.

But into what?

The stinging on her face intensified as another shiver rippled through.

What was that steady pinging hum against the dead leaves near her ear?

Sleet. It had to be sleet.

A wave of panic clawed at her throat. She was in an ice storm in the middle of nowhere, and she was too hurt to move.

Her shaking worsened, intensifying the waves of pain.

Think, Kelly! Don’t let Carlson win!

Choking back a sob, she tried to focus on a plan of action. But first she needed to figure out what parts of her body were functional—and how she could use them to save herself.

She wiggled her fingers. The right hand was working, but the left hurt too much to use. She eased her right hand away from her body. No problem. That meant her wrists weren’t bound anymore. She couldn’t move her smashed right leg, but the left one seemed okay. And her ankle restraints were gone too. She rolled her tongue around in her mouth. No gag.

Did her voice still work?

She tried to speak. Nothing came out but a croak. She wet her chapped lips with her tongue and tried again. Better. The sound was audible. She could call for help.

But who would hear her?

It had been too dark, and she’d been too woozy, to notice much about her surroundings when Carlson had hauled her out of the trunk of the car. The area had seemed remote, though. Not the kind of place people ventured in bad weather—or on a holiday. That must be what he was counting on. Besides, he’d probably expected her to die in the fall . . . a poor hiker who’d ventured too close to the edge of an icy precipice and plunged to her death.

But she wasn’t dead, and she didn’t intend to be. Someone would come along eventually. She just had to hang on until daylight. The odds of being discovered would be far better then. She’d save her voice until first light too. No sense wearing it out in the dark, when there was little chance anyone would be close enough to hear it.

In the meantime, she needed to stay as warm as possible. She still had her thermal jacket on, but judging by the cold seeping into her stomach from the frozen ground, it had come unzipped. Closing that gap was imperative if she wanted to conserve warmth. She had to find some cover too.

Kelly peered into the dark. There was a pine tree a few yards away, silhouetted against the dark sky. Its sheltering branches would protect her from the sleet if she could drag herself over there.

Her left wrist and right leg weren’t going to be of any help, and the pain in her ribs burned with every breath, undermining her resolve.

But she didn’t want to die. Didn’t want Carlson to win. Didn’t want that scumbag to go unpunished for what he’d done to her father.

She wanted justice.

Praying for fortitude and courage, Kelly blocked out the pain as best she could and worked her elbow under her. Then, fighting back tears, she leveraged herself up an inch or two. Bending her left knee, she dug in her toe and pushed. She managed to slide a couple of inches toward her destination—but the toll in pain was immense.

Tears flooded her eyes.

She couldn’t do this.

Yes, you can.

The voice was clear. Just as it had been when she’d almost caved under the trauma of her father’s death.

I am with you always.

The beautiful, comforting words from Matthew—her mainstay in those days of inconsolable grief—echoed in her mind. As did the quote from Psalms that had hung on her refrigerator since her father’s funeral.

The Lord
was
with her. He
was
holding her hand.

And with his help, she would survive.

Leveraging herself up on her elbow again, she dug in her toe, pushed, and continued to drag herself toward shelter.

“Uh-oh.”

At Rick’s ominous pronouncement, Cole’s pulse skyrocketed. After fifteen minutes on the trail, Bo had veered off the path toward a bench. He was now sniffing in circles.

“What’s wrong?” Cole started toward the dog. Bo sat, ears perked, in passive alert position.

“Not so fast.” Rick grabbed his arm. “Bo.” He tugged on the leash. “Back, boy.”

The dog responded, trotting back to sit at Rick’s feet, panting clouds of breath into the cold air.

“What’s going on?” Cole could feel the tension emanating from the man.

“The victim’s scent stops here.” Rick’s tone was grim. “And we’re on the edge of a forty, forty-five-foot cliff.”

The bottom dropped out of Cole’s stomach as he peered into the darkness. “How do you know?”

“I’ve hiked this trail plenty of times in nice weather.”

Cole swallowed and held out his hand to Mitch. “Give me the night vision binoculars.”

In silence, Mitch moved beside him and handed them over. Cole was glad he couldn’t see the other man’s face.

Pressing the binoculars to his eyes, he eased closer to the edge of the bluff. Steeled himself. Sent a silent plea heavenward.

Then he looked down.

The sleet continued to fall steadily, though it wasn’t as heavy now. Visibility had improved. But not enough. Between the sleet, the green night-vision tinge he’d always found disconcerting, and the film of moisture blurring his vision, Cole couldn’t make out any details in the landscape below.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Let me try. I’m used to using these.” Rick joined them.

Cole relinquished the binoculars and took a step back.

The other man moved closer to the edge than Cole considered wise, positioned the binoculars in front of his eyes, then looked straight down and began a slow sweep of the terrain.

Heart pounding, Cole waited for the words he knew were coming. Kelly was down there. K-9 dogs were well-trained. If her scent ended at the edge of the cliff, she’d gone over. And it fit with the hiking-accident theory he and Mitch had constructed—made all the more plausible by the ice storm that had slickened the sloping ground. Move a little too close to the edge, lose your footing . . . it was all over.

People didn’t survive forty-plus-foot falls.

“I’ve got her.”

Cole closed his eyes. Felt Mitch edge closer to him. Tried to keep breathing.

“Where?” His question came out hoarse as he stepped toward the K-9 handler.

Rick pointed to the right. “A few feet this side of the tall pine tree.” He lowered the binoculars and held them out.

Bracing himself, Cole fitted them to his eyes and swept the area Rick had indicated.

He saw her at once this time. A crumpled, still form among the denuded underbrush that had already succumbed to the harshness of winter.

A wave of nausea swept over him, and his vision blurred. He eased the binoculars back slightly. Blinked. Reseated them and focused on Kelly.

When they caught Carlson, he was going to kill the man with his bare hands.

Kelly wouldn’t approve of his thirst for revenge. Nor would God. But that was how he felt. The man had now taken not one, but two innocent lives, and if it was the last thing he ever did, Cole intended to—

He froze.

Had Kelly’s arm shifted?

Or was he just seeing what he wanted to see?

He kept his gaze riveted on her slender form. And then, as he watched, her leg moved up in tiny increments.

“She’s alive!” He ripped the binoculars from his eyes, thrust them at Rick, and whipped toward the deputy. “Radio for the paramedics. We need them here
now
!” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted toward the base of the cliff. “Kelly! It’s Cole! Hang on! We’re coming down! Don’t try to move!”

“Cole.” Mitch put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s more than forty feet down.”

“I know that! But she moved! Rick, take a look. Watch her right hand and left leg.”

The man already had the binoculars trained on Kelly. “Yeah. I see it. She
is
moving. Man, that’s amazing. No one survives a fall like that.”

“The paramedics are on their way,” the deputy informed them. “They’ll go in at the Katy Trail access point about a mile down 94. It’ll take them a little time to cover that distance on foot, though.”

“What’s their ETA to Kelly?”

“Twenty, twenty-five minutes. Maybe more, in this weather.”

“Not fast enough.” He swung toward Rick. “Is there a trail down from here?”

“Yes, but it’s not safe in good weather, let alone in this crud.”

“Where is it?”

The man gestured behind him. “About three hundred yards through the woods.”

“I’m going down. Show me.”

“I’ll go with you.”

At Mitch’s comment, Cole turned to him. He couldn’t make out his features in the dark, but his colleague’s tone was firm.

“That’s not necessary. There’s no reason for both of us to take a risk.”

“Yeah, there is. Alison would kill me if I let you break your neck.”

Cole thought about arguing. Decided against it. He wouldn’t mind having the company of a Navy SEAL—or a friend—on this journey.

“Trent, let me have your flashlight.” Rick reached for it and passed Bo’s leash to the deputy. “Hang on tight. He’ll want to follow. I’ll be back for him as soon as I show them the trail access.”

Rick set off through the woods at a fast clip, and Cole picked up his pace, more upbeat than he’d been minutes ago, yet trying not to be overly optimistic. Rick was right. Kelly might have beaten the odds by surviving the plunge, but no one fell that distance without sustaining serious injuries.

Possibly fatal injuries.

And as Cole plowed through the ice-encrusted brush behind their guide, he prayed Kelly’s weren’t in the latter category.

Vincentio rummaged through his medicine cabinet, scowling at the contents. Where were the antacids? He always kept a bottle on hand. And he needed a few tonight. Must be the veal scallopini, although he’d never had any problem with that dish in the past. He’d have to ask Teresa if she’d altered the recipe, added some spice that hadn’t agreed with him.

Frowning, he leaned on the vanity and tried to remember where he’d put them. Downstairs, perhaps? Yes. That was it. He’d left them in the kitchen last week, after another bout of indigestion. But was it worth a trip down the steps and back up again at—he checked his watch—nearly eleven o’clock? Just thinking about all that exertion fatigued him. On the other hand, he doubted he’d sleep unless he neutralized his stomach acid.

Resigned, he pushed himself upright and exited into the hall, his steps labored as he traversed the dim passageway in the quiet, empty—lonely—house. A house that would never ring with the laughter of his family or the clink of wineglasses raised in happy toasts. A house where he would never get to play the part of a benevolent nonno. His grandson would never even know of his existence until he was old enough to ask Marco, and then his son would vilify him, making Jason despise him as much as Marco did.

That wasn’t the kind of legacy a man wanted to leave.

But Vincentio was nothing if not a realist. And that was how his life had played out. It was what it was.

Tightening his grip on the railing, he took the steps one at a time. Isabella had always preferred two-story houses. That was why he’d bought this one when he’d been released from prison, knowing it was the kind of house she’d have chosen. But the stairs were getting more and more difficult to navigate. Maybe it was time to move.