Room At The Inn (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) (23 page)

Playing hero doesn't really suit me. I mean, I value my life as much as the next guy. By making Richard leave, I'd effectively ended it. But I'm not a quitter, either. And I'd had enough of that bastard Adam. He wasn't going to get rid of me without a fight.

I risked a look behind me, and saw no sign of him.

All right. The logical move was to try and follow Richard, but not directly behind him. If Adam caught up with me, I had to make it harder for him to follow—to track—Richard.

Move!

But I couldn't. Not with my head pounding, and my legs as insubstantial as jelly. I pulled out my prescription bottle, flipped open the top and spilled most of the pills on the ground.

Christ!
Just my day.

I dumped two in my mouth, recapped the bottle and, with shaking hands, stuck it back in my pocket.

Think! Hadn't I learned anything I could use during my army training? But that training had been eighteen years before. What should I do next?

Move, stupid!

I glanced through the trees. The lift had stopped. That meant Adam had ridden to the top to cut the power, probably so it wouldn't draw attention from the locals or passing motorists. He was a thousand or more feet up the mountain from me. That gave me time. But Adam also had two good arms and legs and the rifle with a scope. There'd be a shack up top, stocked with rescue gear; ropes, flashlights—maybe even infrared goggles—everything he'd need to track me in the dark. And he didn't have to take the hard way down. He could follow the grassy slope under the chair lift while I had to stay in the woods.

He must have worked at the operation during the ski season. How else would he have known how to run the lift? As a local, he probably knew every inch of the mountain, too. And if he knew exactly where we'd dropped, it would make it that much easier for him to hunt me down.

Rest time was over.

I pulled myself up and hobbled to the next closest tree. The uneven, treacherous ground conspired to trip me with broken limbs, sticks, and exposed tree roots. I looked around for a heavy branch to use as a walking stick, but could see nothing suitable.

Get going.

I hopped from tree to tree but was soon confused. Was I zigzagging downward or was I just getting farther and farther away from the ski lift, my reference point? I didn't want to stray too far or I'd get lost and no one would ever find me ... at least not alive.

Déjà vu hit me with a vengeance: this was my vision—climbing the mountain—the one Kay Andolina had inspired with her talk of looking within. Only I was climbing down—not up.

Why hadn't I seen it as a warning? Where was the guardian angel she said watched over me?

I pushed myself away from the tree. I was not making good time. In fact, except for the loss of daylight, time seemed to be standing still.

Hop to a tree.

Rest.

Hop to a tree.

Rest.

I glanced at my watch. I'd gone maybe twenty yards in twenty minutes.

The light waned. Except for the sound of my labored breathing, the air was still. I hadn't heard footsteps or crashing sounds behind me. Then again, I'd probably feel the rifle blast before I ever heard it.

Hop to a tree.

Rest.

Hop to a tree.

It got old very fast. But I had to keep going, because when the light was gone I'd have to stay put for the rest of the long, cold night.

Rain had eroded a path among the birches. Though steep, it was relatively clear of obstacles. Inching my way down on my backside, I gained unwanted momentum. Little avalanches of pebbly dirt cascaded before me. Then I was skidding, tumbling, smashing into a stand of young pines.

Stunned, for long moments all that registered was the fire along my ribs.

After long minutes of pain-racked breaths, it hit me—I
could
still breathe. One small triumph at a time.

Get up. Get up, get up, get up!

Struggling to straighten, I pressed a hand along my right side. The pain flared, but I didn't pass out. Maybe that meant my ribs were only bruised—not broken.

One sore foot in front of the other.

Slower this time.

Drag to a tree.

Rest.

The light was nearly gone when I stumbled over a solid maple branch. Almost five feet long, the thicker, jagged end was about two inches thick. I stripped the smaller branches and stamped it against the ground, testing its strength. It would do.

It was taking far too long to move from tree to tree. Then like a soft sigh settling over the forest, it began to rain—cold droplets filtering through the web of branches overhead. The wind was rising, too. I fastened the top button on my denim jacket. It was a useless gesture; I'd be soaked in minutes.

That's when I really started to get scared.

My fingers were already going numb. My left, slashed arm had gone stiff from holding it in the same position for too long, and was too painful to straighten.

I blew on my right hand. My breath came out in a fog. The temperature was dropping—fast. Already fifty degrees or less. Cold and wet—perfect for hypothermia.

I had to keep moving. Once it was fully dark, I could edge toward the ski lift's treeless corridor, maybe walk in the grass. But to do that left me open for target practice.

I leaned against a tree trunk, only my ragged breathing broke the quiet. Adam could sneak up behind me at any time—I'd never hear him. But maybe I could sense him, like I had in the truck.

I closed my eyes, concentrated, and tried to home in on Adam's aura. If there was ever a time when I needed that damned, erratic psychic ability, it was then.

And it failed me.

Miserably.

I bit my lip, stifling the urge to scream.

It was time to face some harsh truths. It didn't matter if Richard made it to help—no one was going to come for me in the dark. It was too dangerous. And despite what I'd told Richard, there was nowhere to hole-up for the night; just the shelter of the trees—and I doubted I could climb one.

Nope, I was stuck in the rain and cold for at least eight, maybe ten hours. Depending on how cold it got, chances were I might not make it—whether Adam found me or not. And it didn't look like I'd come up with any constructive way to conserve my already waning body heat.

A drop cascaded down my neck, soaking into my shirt. I pulled up my jacket collar, shivering—the body's instinctive response to generate heat.

It wouldn't be enough.

To move was to stay warm, but moving was getting too difficult. I looked up into the treetops, seeing nothing. Droplets cascaded down my cheeks. The thickening clouds gave no hope of moonlight or stars breaking through to give me an inkling of direction.

It was time to risk it all, go back to the edge of the forest and follow the ski lift.

I took off again. Slower this time.

I smacked into a tree, which set my ribs on fire again, and snagged my good foot in the forest litter.

I took a steadying breath. I
had
to keep going.

The lift should only be a few more yards.

It should be.

I glanced at my wrist. It was too dark to see the hands on my watch—no way to figure time.

Winded, I slumped against a tree, sank to the ground and pulled my good leg up to my chest, hugging it for warmth.

I was so friggin’ tired.

I had to stay awake. To sleep was to die.

Me, dying?

I'd never been so close to the end of everything—not even when I'd been mugged.

A face from the past came back to haunt me. Shelley, my ex—dead—wife. Our marriage had ended six months before she was killed. That she'd found cocaine more attractive than me had badly bruised my ego.

I didn't like to think about it

What about Richard? I'd treated him with indifference for over twenty years before we became friends just six months before. Our past relationship had been tainted by his wealth and my own goddamned pride.

He loved me. He'd said it aloud, something I could never do. And he'd said it because he didn't want me to die without knowing.

Thanks, Rich. I owe you.

And dear, sweet Maggie. I thought she was my future. But if I didn't have a future....

Time out!

Thoughts like that would get me killed. I needed to think positively. I needed to believe I could actually get out of this mess.

But the dark thoughts multiplied.

A sprained ankle. An armed killer chasing me. A steady downpour and the temperature dropping. My odds of survival were just about nil.

Goddamn it! Think positive!

I shivered in my damp clothes. If Adam didn't kill me, I'd probably die of pneumonia.
It's an infection, you ass. You don't get it from being cold and wet
, some logical part of my brain told me, sounding an awful lot like Richard.

You need to kill time. Don't sleep
.

Two times two is four.

Two times three is six....

How long had Richard been gone? He had to reach safety. Brenda was going to need him. I wasn't sure how or when exactly, but I knew. Saw her horror-stricken face etched with fear, worry—every negative emotion known to mankind.

Was it precognition? Would I be there to help? Or was I destined to be
her
guardian angel?

The rain came down harder.

The darkened landscape beckoned. Did I dare keep moving? If I fell and sprained my other ankle I'd be completely helpless when Adam found me.

So what? I could get all the way down the mountain and never see him. It was a goddamned big mountain. I could be safe and warm and dry. But no, there I sat like some scared schoolgirl.

Shit.

My tired, sore muscles protested as I pulled myself up and hobbled forward. Two feet. Four feet. Six feet....

Twigs broke somewhere behind me.

I froze—squeezed my eyes shut tight—and held my breath until I thought my lungs would explode.

Maybe I hadn't really heard the noise behind me.

A tidal wave of anger and hatred rolled over me.

Adam.

How the hell had he found me so quickly?

A bobbing flashlight shone some ten yards behind me. Flattening myself against the tree trunk, my hand tightened on my walking stick.

His anger grew nearer, stronger, like the burst of emotion I'd gotten from Maggie at the hospital. I couldn't let it overwhelm me. I steeled myself against his rage.

Despite the cold, I broke out in a sweat. I didn't dare move as I heard his carefully placed footsteps on the wet, slippery leaves.

Adam slowed, the beam of light sweeping before him.

Four feet from me.

Two feet.

Lunging forward, I smashed the branch over his shoulder. The rifle went flying, hit the ground and went off—the explosion fracturing the night.

Adam landed face-first, but rolled, coming back at me, swinging the long-handled flashlight like a club. I dove for his throat. The flashlight caught my slashed arm, and the pain sent me cringing.

Adam came at me again, blinding me with the light. I ducked, hearing a whoosh as the flashlight whipped over my head. I rushed him, knocking the light from his hand. We rolled, tangled in the brush. The coil of rope around Adam's shoulder came loose. Legs thrashing, one of his kicks connected with my swollen ankle, sending skyrockets exploding in front of my eyes. I countered with a knee to his balls—that killer move sending him into spasms of agony.

Struggling to my knees, I wavered, spit out pine needles and dirt, groped in the mud for the flashlight, and then gathered up the rope. Grabbing his left wrist, I yanked it behind him, took the right and tied him, looping rope around his legs, too. Doubled over and gasping, I shoved Adam onto his back and searched his jacket pockets. I took the ammo and the flashlight’s extra batteries, and then tossed the wooden masher into the dark woods.

Winded, I sank back.

Now what the hell I was going to do?

Holding the flashlight under my chin, I unloaded the rifle, listening to Adam's gasping breaths. The US Army had taught me to take any advantage and exploit it. It was time to do just that and shift to rescue mode. That meant making us visible.

Hunkering over to a tree, I used it for support, hauling myself upright. Exquisite agony coiled up my leg and through my body as I gingerly put weight on my swollen ankle. I breathed through gritted teeth, unwilling to let Adam know just how much I was hurting.

I wound the rope around my forearm, intending to use it like a leash. If Adam tried to make a run, I'd yank it taut and trip him. Hefting the flashlight in my left hand, I used the rifle in my right as a walking stick. I nudged him with the stock. "Get up. We're moving out."

"Where?" he croaked.

"To the grassy area under the ski lift."

"In the open—in the pouring rain?"

"You don't like the weather—talk to God. Move!"

Adam struggled to his feet, unable to fully straighten. Good. If he was hurting, it evened the odds.

My ankle screamed. I bit my lip to keep from grunting. Adam wasn't feeling so hot, either—at first. But in no time his stride lengthened.

"Slow down," I called, my shoulder snagging an unseen branch.

He did, for a couple of steps.

"You're hurting, man. That makes you easy prey," he taunted.

"Shut up."

The rope pulled tight again. "I said, slow down!" I jerked it hard, sending him face-first into the sodden ground.

I trained the flashlight on him as he struggled to his knees. Adam's face was screwed in fury, his anger near the boiling point. He turned without a word. We started off again.

We walked, brushing past trees, stumbling over roots and branches, only the feeble beam of the flashlight cut the gloom.

Minutes passed.

No sign of the clearing and ski lift. I must've lost my bearings in the dark.

"We're lost," he grunted.

"Shut up!"

"Hurt, lost. You're a dead man."

Not so far.

Suddenly we broke free of the trees. The rain came down harder without the canopy of branches and leaves overhead.

"Keep moving," I said

I walked him some twenty feet away from the trees.

"Sit."

"In the wet grass?"

"Sit!"

He sat. "I've got plenty of time—but yours is running out."

"Shut up!" I told him for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"You got hurt when you jumped off the ski lift."

"It didn't stop me from capturing you."

"Pure luck. It won't hold." Despite his bravado, I knew he wasn't feeling quite as confident as he made out.

My ankle throbbed, so I moved behind him and sat in the cold wet grass. Dipping a hand in my pocket, I took out the bullets and reloaded the rifle.

"Have you ever fired a gun before?" he asked.

"An M-16. I figure at close range I can blow your head off.”

That shut him up.

The downpour continued. I trained the flashlight on my watch: nine-fifteen. It was later than I thought. Only another nine or ten hours before rescue.

I took a breath to calm myself. No way would I let him know exactly how scared I was. On the other hand, he was pretty cool. Despite the current situation, he still felt the odds were in his favor. Much as I didn't want to admit it, they probably were.

Richard had been gone for three hours. If he'd found help, then he and the cops were probably down at the ski center at the base of the mountain. I couldn't see any lights—not even traffic on the road somewhere below the line of trees. Would they throw the master switch, bathing the ski lift in beautiful white light?

Not if Adam had sabotaged the system.

"You cut the wires, didn't you?" I said.

He looked at me over his shoulder, grinned. "Yeah."

My finger tightened on the rifle's trigger. "You son of a bitch."

He laughed. "I told you. You're a dead man."

"What's the point in killing me now? By now the cops know about you. They know you murdered Eileen. Why is it still so important for you to get rid of me?"

He glared at me, the flashlight's harsh beam gave his face an almost demonic appearance. "Do you have to shine that thing in my eyes?"

"Yeah."

He half-turned. "It ain't gonna last an hour unless you turn it off. And those other batteries might give you another hour after that. Then it's just you and me and the dark—and it's a long time until dawn."

It was my turn to be quiet.

The problem remained: the temperature was dropping and my only source of heat was sitting in front of me, glaring at me.

"So where's the doctor?" he said.

"I sent him on ahead."

"Yeah, right. You got that bum ankle. He figured you'd slow him down, so he left you. Nice guy. No sense of loyalty. None of 'em."

He wasn't making any sense. "None of who?"

"All you queers are the same."

What was he talking about?

"Why did you kill Eileen?"

"Not that it’s any of your business, but that old bitch and Zack were fucking around. She got what she deserved."

"Because she was fucking Zack or because she was fucking Susan's husband?"

He ignored my question. "That doctor ... he's a looker, ain't he?"

"Very good looking," I agreed; at least, Brenda thought so.

"He left you, practically helpless." Adam shook his head ruefully. "Just deserted you. No sense of loyalty," he repeated.

"On the contrary, I told him to go."

"Then that was plain stupid."

"At the time, it made perfect sense. Why should both of us end up gut shot by you?" I glanced down at my watch: nine-twenty.

"He's kinda special to you, that doctor, huh?" His tone was snide with accusation.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Nadine told me about him and you. She makes up the rooms and said since your girlfriend's been in the hospital, you've been sleeping with him."

I bet she'd neglected to tell Adam that she'd had to make up both beds. That would've made the story just a little too mundane.

"So what if I was?"

"It's even sicker than Zack and Eileen."

Something was going on with him. I wasn't sure, but I took a guess.

"Eileen made a pass at you that night, didn't she?"

"Shut up!"

It was beginning to make sense. Eileen was so drunk I don't think she knew what she was doing in those last few minutes. Coming on to me ... and then Adam. Had the idea of balling an old lady actually been appealing? Was he capable of rape? Why not—he was capable of murder.

"I hope you’re not too homophobic, Adam, because you’ve got something I need.”

I crawled nearer, shoved him down onto the ground, and turned him onto his stomach. His fear escalated as I yanked the rope, tying his feet, looping it back around his hands so he was trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey. Then I nestled close, wrapping my left arm around his shoulder.

"Get away from me, you pervert," he shouted, trying to squirm away.

Grabbing a hank of his hair, I jerked his head back, cutting off his air, his left ear inches from my mouth.

"Listen, you dumb shit, three times now you’ve almost cost me my life. I'm not going to die of exposure because of you. So, if you don't want me to cave your head in with the rifle butt, you'll shut up and settle down, because I intend to suck up every therm of heat your body can generate between now and the time somebody finds us come dawn. Do you understand?"

Strangled noises escaped his throat. He tried to nod, but I didn't loosen my grip.

"Good." I let go and he gasped for air.

Reaching behind me, I snagged the flashlight, holding it in my left hand. Another weapon in my arsenal. I could use it as a club if I had to. I switched it off.

"Now, we're just going to lie here quietly and wait until morning. Right?"

Anger and humiliation rolled off him in waves—warming me like a space heater. I basked in it—draping myself across him to take full advantage of his body heat. But all those sensations pummeling my psyche made my head pound. I didn't kid myself; Adam was just as dangerous as he'd been with the rifle in his hands. He was younger than me and I was cold, wet, and bone tired. And hugging a murderer wasn't my idea of bliss, either.

Survival mode, I reminded myself.

I was determined to survive.

A barrage of conflicting messages and emotions continued to assault me. I waded through the miasma of memory and sensation and after a while, things began to clear. The snippet of a vision I'd picked up in Zack's and Susan's bathroom suddenly made sense.

"You saw them—Eileen and Zack—in the hot tub together, back in April."

He answered easily, unconcerned with how or where I'd gotten my information. "I was helping Zack with the renovations. I left my tools on a Friday and I needed them for another job. I had a key, so I came inside, but I couldn't find Zack. I wandered out back and saw him in the garden—screwing old lady Marshall by the hot tub." He shuddered at the memory.

But that wasn't all I got.

"Eileen hired you," I murmured in disbelief.”

"So what," came his cool reply.

"She hired you to...." I couldn't quite understand it, had to concentrate. "... to break up Zack and Susan. You were screwing her to break up their marriage."

"You don't know nothin'!"

Ted's words to me that day during the dining room photo shoot came back, sickening me:
Older broads are grateful for anything they get in the sack
. Was Susan so love starved that Adam's attention seemed like a godsend?

"What did Eileen offer you?"

"Money. But I stopped taking it back in June. Susan's worth more than a mercy fuck. She's teaching me the business. I'm not gonna be washing dishes the rest of my life."

More likely he'd be staring at the walls of a jail cell, I thought. "So why didn't you kill Zack, too?"

"He never bothered me. All he thinks about is getting back his goddamn boat."

"Then why kill Eileen?"

"She was going to tell Susan everything. How I took money from her—how I sold pot to the guests. She pissed me off being so damned smug."

"Tell the truth. She pissed you off by making a pass at you. Isn't that what really happened?"

Adam's anger flared. "I was walking up from the creek, heard the way she talked to Susan. I was fed up with her and all her shit. So while you guys were in the pool, I ducked in the kitchen—grabbed the masher. I was just gonna scare her. After you left, she said those things to me and I got mad, so I whacked her. Big deal. I figured the cops would think she smashed her head on the side of the hot tub. And they would have, if you hadn't gotten so damned nosy."

My anger boiled. Despite her character flaws, I could identify with Eileen feeling betrayed by someone she'd loved. That this callous little bully snuffed out her life disgusted me.

The night wore on and I had no desire to speak with Adam again, though it became a game to eavesdrop on his emotions. And I let his anger feed mine, which helped me stay alert. Because something Richard said came back to haunt me:
Once you’re out of it, kid—you're dead to the world.

I couldn't afford to fall asleep.

Occasionally Adam would move, either trying to get more comfortable or testing to see if I was still awake, but a sharp tap with the flashlight quickly reminded him who was in charge.

Time dragged.

Eventually Adam's body went lax, and my psychic pipeline to him shut down as he dozed off.

Cold rain rolled down my face. I shifted position, unwilling to listen to Adam's thudding heart. I'd never felt so uncomfortable—so ridiculous. But this was survival, I kept reminding myself. Unpleasant as the situation was, it was the only way for me to survive. I could suffer a little indignity for the privilege.

I switched on the flashlight and glanced at my watch: 12:43. That left five or six hours 'til daylight. I was so damned cold. Yet despite being stiff and achy, I let myself hope.

Maybe—just maybe—I'd live through the night.