Scott Free (5 page)

He tried to grunt his way through it, the way he'd grunted his way through countless soccer games when he thought that his body had nothing left to give, but this time was different. No matter how aggressively he gulped at the air, it seemed that his lungs couldn't get enough, and the effort of it all left him feeling progressively worse; sick to his stomach with a pounding headache.

But there was no stopping. Not in this game. To stop was to die. His efforts had produced a hole in the snow. Two holes, really; one straight down about two feet, and then another that extended off of that one three feet horizontally. Maybe he should call it a tunnel—the shortest tunnel ever built, leading to nowhere. And because he'd deposited the excavated snow back up on the surface, creating a little dome, he'd been able to carve out enough height to make the space maybe three feet high on the inside. He'd covered the floor with spruce boughs he'd dragged over from the ground surrounding the wrecked airplane.

He was sweating like a pig. He should have taken off his coat, or maybe his sweater or turtleneck to keep from soaking them, but now he worried that it was too late. If he exposed the wet fabric to the elements now it would freeze for sure, and then he'd be in a world of hurt. Tomorrow, maybe the sun would come out and he could dry his stuff. Meanwhile, he had to hope that the extra $300 he'd paid for his high-tech parka would pay off and the material would wick away the perspiration as advertised.

Numb, and barely able to stand, he dug the flashlight out of his coat pocket and dared a quick look at his handiwork. The shelter had a lot wrong with it. It looked nothing like the well-engineered example that Sven had built, or even like the one he'd constructed with his dad's assistance. The flat ceiling was bound to drip water on him, and the flat floor would keep it colder than it needed to be, but for the time being, it would have to do. It was all he had in him.

Bedtime. Collapse time. But first he had to piss. Stuffing the flashlight back into his pocket, Scott traipsed across the crash site to face a tree. He calculated the wind direction and did what he had to do.

In the fifteen seconds that his hands were exposed to empty his bladder, the flesh on his fingers felt frozen. He knew better than to try managing a zipper and two layers of underwear with his gloves on, but by the time he tucked himself away and zipped back up again, he could barely feel his fingertips. It would take an hour for them to warm up again, he was sure.

“Jesus, it's cold.” As he snugged his collar up as tightly as it would go, his spine launched a shiver. He pulled his wool cap even farther over his ears.

He turned to head back, and stopped dead. Where was the shelter? Panic gripped him as he scanned the black and white landscape. It had to be there. He'd just built it, for heaven's sake! So, where was it?

It all looked the same. Snow was snow and trees were trees, and he'd walked around the crash site so much that his footprints were of no help guiding him.

“Okay, Scott, don't be stupid. It's here.” Yanking the light from his pocket, he hurried back to the twisted airplane to get his bearings. The shelter was off to the left side of the wreckage, that much he knew. That meant it had to be straight ahead of him somewhere. Maybe straight ahead and a little off to the left.

Sven's words came back to him.
At night, up, down, left, right, they can have no meaning. All there is, is snow. People die of exposure just yards from their tent because they were unable to find their way.

No way.

No way was he going to freeze to death—not after he'd invested all that time and every dram of energy into building the damn shelter. No way in hell. It had to be here.

And it was. Not in the spot where he'd projected it to be, but close. From this angle, the mound wasn't that big, and the doorway looked barely bigger than a footprint. But he'd found it, and he was safe, and the instant he was out of the wind, the temperature seemed to warm by fifty degrees.

Scott retracted his arms from his sleeves—gloves and all—and hugged himself inside his coat. He lay on his side, his knees drawn up to his chest, and he fell asleep.

He dreamed of dying in the woods.

“Y
OU CAN STOP
at the crest of the hill over there,” Teddy said, pointing to a wide spot on the two-lane road.

Maurice shot him a look. “Where?”

“There, just on the side of the road.”

“But there's nothing there.”

Teddy laughed again. He'd laughed more tonight than he had in a year and he was sick to death of it. “You'll see when you get there. There's a little road. That's the way to Mama's place.”

Seemingly against his better judgment, Maurice downshifted the rig and brought it to a gentle halt at exactly the spot Teddy had indicated. “That's a road?”

“That's what we call it.” He extended his hand. “I surely do appreciate the ride.” Snow and cold swirled into the cab as Teddy opened the door.

Maurice didn't like this one bit. “Teddy, I feel terrible just leaving you in the middle of the road like this.”

Teddy shook his head and smiled. “Just a short hike down that lane and I'm home, buddy.”

Maurice opened his mouth to argue, then abandoned the effort. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just be careful.”

Teddy acknowledged him with a nod and gathered up his travel gear. He started to climb out then stopped. “Hey, I have something for you,” Teddy said, holding up a finger. Slinging his backpack from his shoulder to the ground, Teddy pulled his glove off with his teeth and rummaged through his things, pulling out a pint bottle of clear liquid before putting everything back together. “Are you a drinking man?” he asked.

Maurice smiled and patted his enormous stomach. “I've been known to take a sip or two.”

Teddy handed him the bottle. “Here, then, have this.”

Maurice laughed. “What is this, moonshine?”

“I guess. That's what it looks like to me. A guy gave it to me in my travels, but I don't really partake. I'd like you to have it.”

Maurice looked at him skeptically. “I don't know…”

“Please,” Teddy said. “Otherwise I'll just pour it out. Be careful with it, though. You probably don't want to be driving this big rig with that stuff in your veins.”

“Why, thank you kindly,” Maurice said, accepting the bottle and slipping it into his pocket. “I'm staying just up the road a piece. Maybe this'll help me sleep.” Suddenly, he seemed anxious to be moving again.

Teddy smiled. “Thanks again, Maurice. I really appreciate the kindness.” With that, he swung the door closed and waited on the shoulder, waving as the rig pulled away.

There was indeed a house at the end of the lane, but Teddy had never visited it. He never needed to. The owner was an old moonshiner and hermit named Pembroke. For the tidy sum of $200 a month, Pembroke allowed Teddy to store a dirt bike and a snowmobile on his property, housed in a shed that was so carefully camouflaged that sometimes even Teddy had a hard time finding it. His arrangement with Pembroke was simple: Teddy sent the cash monthly to Pembroke's post office box, and the old man never asked any questions.

Of course, Pembroke would never associate the name Teddy with the man who sent him the money every month. That man was known as Kevin Clavan, who just happened to be the same man who people in town knew as Isaac DeHaven.

In this weather, he didn't even bother to try the electric starter on the snowmobile. After four pulls and a little adjustment on the choke, it fired right up.

•  •  •

S
HERRY STARTED TO POUR
another scotch, but Larry snatched the bottle from her. And then the glass. “Not tonight,” he started.

“Give that back,” Sherry protested. “You're not my mother.”

Larry fired what little had made the glass down his own throat, then headed toward the kitchen with the bottle. “Maybe not, but I'm your keeper, and tonight, you need to keep your head right.”

“Larry! I'm in a crisis.”

He pivoted to face her, his hands on his hips. “Yes, I know. And we've established that it's my fault. I've offered profuse apologies, none of which have been accepted, and now you want to get hammered to make it all go away. I'm not going to let that happen. Brandon has called three times, and sooner or later you're going to have to talk to him. If you slur your words, he'll go ballistic.”

Sherry recoiled at the thought. “I do not slur my words.”

Larry spun and resumed his strut to the kitchen. “Oh, that's right. I keep forgetting that the sky is green in your world.”

The phone rang.

“Do you think Scotty is okay?” Sherry asked, laying her head on the arm of the sofa.

“No, I don't think he's okay. I think he's been in a plane crash.” The phone rang again. “Are you going to get that?”

Sherry draped her forearm over her eyes. “No. I know it's Brandon, and I don't want to deal with him right now.” She heard him make his exasperated growling sound as he picked up the receiver in the middle of the third ring.

“Sherry, it's for you,” he said. Then, under his breath, “Gee, imagine that, this being your chalet and all. It's Audrey Lewis.”

Now, that got her attention. Sherry sat up straight. “Are you sure it's not Brandon?”

Larry stared at her through the opening that separated the kitchen from the dining room. “Am I sure? Let's see, I think I can probably tell the difference between your ex-hubby and your agent.”

Actually, it wasn't as easy as it might seem. A teetotaling health freak in reality, Audrey had the voice of a Camel-smoking barmaid and the chops of a prizefighter. The world of New York publishing lived in fear of crossing her, and her clients had the bank accounts to prove it.

Sherry reached across the coffee table for the portable phone. “What does she want?”

Larry tapped his lips with his forefinger. “Mmm, to talk to you, maybe?”

“You're such an asshole.”

“Oh, cut me till I bleed, why don't you?” Larry rolled his eyes and made himself busy in the kitchen.

Sherry brought the phone to her ear. “Hello? Audrey?”

“Oh, my God, Sherry, I just heard. How are you?”

“Not well,” Sherry said, her voice cracking. “I'm terrified.”

“I can only imagine,” Audrey said. “Have you heard any news at all?”

“Only that they're reasonably sure that he and this Jamieson kid tried to fly into the storm, and now no one's heard from them. From what they tell me, no one even tracked them on radar. I don't know…” She stopped for a second. “Wait a minute. How do you know about this?”

Audrey sighed. “Brandon called me. Look, Sherry, you have to talk to him.”

“No. I don't need his shit. Not tonight. I don't need his speeches.”

“He's worried about his son, Sherry.”

“His
son,” Sherry repeated. The phrase brought real pain. “It's always
his
son. Brandon's son. You know, he's my son, too.”

“Have you been drinking?”

That was it. “Why does everyone think I'm drunk?”

“Because you're not making sense! Jesus, it's not a parenting competition.”

“Where Brandon's involved, it's always a parenting competition,” Sherry growled.

Team fucking Bachelor. Where was the cute nickname for
her
relationship with Scotty? Nowhere, because Brandon had never left room for there to be one. He wanted Sherry to be June Cleaver, and she wanted to build her career. Was that so difficult for everybody to understand? Certainly, Brandon was smart enough and twenty-first-century enough to understand. While they were married, he'd pretended to do just that. Then in the divorce depositions, he'd turned it all against her. Such was the magnitude of his jealousy for her success that he used her ambition—the very ambition that had paid for the Mercedes he drove and the sprawling estate he lived in—as evidence that she was an inattentive mother. Asshole. Well, two could play at that game, as he'd found out when she put the bank account into play. “You want custody?” she'd challenged through her lawyer. “Then just give me everything else.”

Sherry had trumped the bastard at his own game. Brandon had climbed so high on his high horse that he couldn't possibly say no. It was the perfect trap. Even her lawyer couldn't believe he'd fallen for it. Sometimes, it was just too easy.

But with her victory came Brandon's unending access to her baby boy's brain, the ability to spin every confrontation in his own favor. Well, two could play at that game as well. For eighteen months, Brandon had promised Scotty a trip to SkyTop, yet he'd never delivered. Cue Super Mom for another delicious victory.

“You can't shut him out of this, Sherry,” Audrey pressed. “I just talked to him. He's out of his mind with worry.”

“And I suppose he claims this whole thing is somehow my fault.”

“To tell you the truth, we didn't get that far. He asked me to ask you to talk to him. And if that didn't work, he asked me to get some details to pass along.”

Sherry sighed deeply. “Let him call the police if he wants details.”

A long moment of silence passed as Audrey regrouped. Finally, she said, “Listen, Sherry, you know I don't like to get involved in personal matters where I don't belong…”

Uh-oh,
Sherry thought. Something bad was coming.

“…but I'm going to butt in just this once. I mean, I know you're worried out of your mind, and I hope you know that I'm praying for only the best outcome to all of this—”

“Get to it, Audrey.” As she spoke, Sherry grabbed up a fistful of peanuts from the bowl on the coffee table and threw them at the kitchen pass-through to get Larry's attention. When she had his eye, she motioned for him to pick up the extension. She never even heard the click as he lifted the receiver.

“Well, all right, I'll just be blunt. The thing of it is, you have to be a little careful how you handle yourself these next few days.”

“Careful?” Sherry looked to Larry and got a shrug in return.

“Yes, careful. A lot of people have invested time and money in developing a certain air of expertise around you. Since you make your living helping other people cope with their problems, there's a certain decorum that's going to be expected as you deal with your own.”

Sherry made a growling noise of her own. “Oh, for God's sake—”

“I'm sorry, Sherry, but you have a vindictive streak that can really do you some harm if you aren't careful.”

Sherry shot a can-you-believe-this look to Larry. Yes, he could. Anger began to boil.

“You're getting pissed,” Audrey said. “I can hear it in your breathing pattern. All I'm trying to tell you is, right now is exactly the wrong time to reignite your war with Brandon. Just play nice, okay? If you can't do it because it's the right thing to do morally, then do it because you can use the good press.”

Good press?
Something flashed in Sherry's head, and she drew her feet up under her on the sofa. “Audrey, I know you. It's almost four in the morning in New York, yet instead of sleeping, you're here on the phone with me. You're hatching something.”

Audrey gave a nervous chuckle. “Please understand that I'm not trying to exploit the situation here—”

Larry groaned, “Oh, God.”

“I'm
not.
But let's face it. There's a valuable news story here. An opportunity for women all over the country to witness how America's favorite shrink deals with stress.”

Larry shook his head vehemently and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Hang up and run away,” he said.

“Way to be stealthy, Larry,” Audrey mocked. “I heard every word. And you can hang up anytime you want, Sherry. But I'm telling you—and I'll say again that I hope to God that Sammy comes home just fine—”

“Scotty,” Larry corrected.

“It
is
four in the morning,” Audrey snapped. “Scotty, then. Forgive me. Anyway, I don't see how a little free publicity—if handled gently and with a lot of care—is going to have any negative impact on him; but it sure as hell can have a positive impact on you. Is that so wrong?”

“What do you have in mind?” Sherry asked, earning a glare.

“In the short term? Maybe an appearance on the
Today
show. I happen to know that there's an NBC producer vacationing there in SkyTop with you, and she owes me a favor. I bet I can get you on tomorrow morning. Um, make that
this
morning. Actually, I've already talked to her. With the president being there and all, there are certainly enough camera and sound people.”

“Absolutely not,” Larry said.

The response startled Sherry. “Why not?”