The Patrick Bowers Files - 05 - The Queen (18 page)

Then 80.

It'd been years since I'd pushed a sled to these speeds, and I could feel a thread of apprehension run through me as I passed 85. I tried not to think about what wiping out on the sled at a speed like this would feel like.

The speedometer fluttered to the maximum speed of 90, then edged past it.

The far end of the lake was approaching fast, and the suspect aimed his sled for the flowage that led to the Chippewa River. Ellory looked like he was gaining on him.

They disappeared into the marsh.

Slowing to make the turn, I let go of the throttle but still nearly flipped as I cornered around a tree and swung back onto the trail that wound into the frozen marsh.

I tried to evaluate, with each of Alexei's turns, his most likely destination.

The national forest.

Maybe the Chippewa River.

The swirling snow decreased the visibility, but I could see the taillights of the sled that Ellory was riding a couple hundred meters ahead of me on the trail that led into the national forest.

Marsh grass flicked under the sled, whipped past me.

With the limited visibility and the number of trails in the national forest, if Alexei made it to the forest surrounding the Chippewa River, we might never catch him.

No longer worrying about the speed, I kept my eyes on the taillights in front of me and whipped along the serpentine trail through the frozen marsh.

And then they were at the woods.

A moment later, so was I.

I hopped onto a well-used trail. Positioning my snowmobile into the tracks, I felt the ride smooth out.

Ahead of me Ellory slowed, then disappeared around a sharp downhill bend.

I followed, but only too late did I see the fallen tree that blocked half of the trail, thick branches bristling across the path.

I swerved to the left to avoid it and felt a branch snap across my neck and shoulder, almost throwing me from the sled. My neck stung, and the snowmobile thrashed and fishtailed, but I held on.

Straightened out.

Sped up.

Alexei was heading for the Chippewa River.

A stand of pines rose in front of me, and though I saw the taillights flicker through the trees on the far side, I couldn't tell if Ellory and Alexei had gone right or left around the trees.

I chose right.

Chose poorly.

For a moment I lost the trail, and as I swept into a small meadow, I saw an eight-foot drop-off just ahead of me.

There is no good way to stop a snowmobile.

Speed up and jump it, or swerve and roll the sled!

Speed up or swerve.

Swerve—

No.

I sped up.

You do not want to do this!

But I did it.

I squeezed the accelerator and was going 60 when I left the edge of the drop-off.

The snowmobile took to the air, giving me a strange sense of weightlessness even though I had six hundred pounds of machine humming beneath me.

But in a fraction of a second I realized the skis hadn't been positioned squarely when I left the ground, and I wasn't going to land on the trail but smash into a looming oak to my right. I dove off the sled, tumbled violently through the snow, and heard the deafening sound of impact even before I turned and saw the snowmobile, smoking and crumpled at the base of the tree.

In real life, crashed vehicles don't typically explode like they do in movies, but I didn't want to chance it. Bruised, sore, and more than a little disoriented from the fall, I managed to scramble to my feet and get away from the wrecked machine.

Great, now you owe Sean a snowmobile.

Tossing my helmet to the side, I whipped out my SIG. Scanned the area for Ellory and Chekov.

At the top of the hill a hundred meters away I could just barely make out the two stationary snowmobiles. I ran in the direction of the sleds as fast as I could, but the forest was blanketed with nearly two feet of dense snow, beneath another rapidly forming layer of fresh powder, making any kind of progress exhausting.

Neither Ellory nor the suspect was in sight.

No gunshots. Good news.

As I crested the hill I saw the Chippewa River sixty meters below me, frozen except for a stretch of open water on our side of the river. It was along the shoreline's outer bend where the current would have been fastest and deepest. From my college river rafting days I knew that swift water never freezes, even when it's supercooled in weather like this. A ghost of frigid fog hovered above the churning waves.

The suspect and Ellory stood on the edge of the riverbank. Ellory appeared dazed and wasn't resisting Alexei, who was standing beside him, grasping the collar of his coat and somehow supporting him with only one arm.

But Alexei Chekov wasn't looking at Ellory. He was staring up the hill, directly at me.

“Stop!” I had to shout to be heard over the storm. “Step away from the river and let go of him.” I leveled my gun and descended the hill through the thick snow.

Chekov didn't move.

As I got closer I could see that Ellory's face was a smear of blood, but he was conscious. Ellory was missing his weapon, and I had to assume Alexei was armed.

“I'm with the FBI.” I approached them carefully. “Hands away from your body.”

“Drop your gun, Agent Bowers,” the suspect called, keeping his voice calm.

How does he know your name?

Maybe Ellory told him.

It doesn't matter. Deal with that later.

“I need you to drop your gun,” he repeated. Surprisingly, he didn't sound out of breath despite the fact he'd just come down this hill, running through knee-deep snow—and then fought and subdued a police officer. “Or I will throw him in.”

That was a direct threat on a law enforcement officer's life. I could take the shot. I could—

No.

Too close to the water, they're too close—

“Help me!” Ellory yelled.

By now I was close enough to see why he wasn't standing on his own: his left leg was buckled, bent sideways at the knee. With the strength of the current, if Alexei did throw him in, I doubted Ellory would be able to regain his balance on his own. He'd be dragged under the ice downstream.

However, if I shot Alexei, both he and Ellory would end up in the river, and from this distance I'd never be able to get to Ellory in time to pull him out before the current swept him toward the ice. The only way to save him was to buy time, play Alexei, and hope backup arrived quickly.

But in the storm, how'll they find you?

I had no phone or radio with me, no GPS signal for the state patrol to track. Alexei had been attentive enough earlier to disable the police cruiser's GPS, so I anticipated he would've also taken care of Ellory's cell phone and radio by now—probably tossed them into the river. If that were the case, there was no way for backup to find us in time to do any good.

The strip of oil-black water roiled behind them as it rushed downstream.

“I need you to put down your gun, Agent Bowers,” Alexei called again.

Think, Pat. Think.

Fierce snow gusted through the air between me and the other men, blurring everything, making it all seem like a wicked watercolor dream.

I eyed down the barrel of my SIG, evaluating if I could get the shot off without sending Ellory into the water, and I decided to give Chekov one more warning. “Step away from the river, Alexei. I won't tell you again. Pull the deputy away from the water and hold out your hands. I'm a federal agent and I will shoot you if I have to.”

“Then Ellory will drown,” Alexei replied. He didn't sound rattled at all.

We both stood our ground.

“I did not kill the Pickrons,” he called unexpectedly.

“I know.”

A pause. “How?”

“You're a professional—you wouldn't have used a rifle in the close quarters of the house or wasted any shots. Now step away from the water.”

He didn't move, just said, “I have no quarrel with you.” Most of his words held a generic Midwestern dialect, but when he said the word
quarrel
, I caught the faintest hint of a carefully buried Russian accent.

Time, buy more time.

“Who killed the Pickrons, Alexei?”

Rather than replying, he dragged Ellory even closer to the riverbank. “Drop the gun,” he repeated. “Or Deputy Ellory is going in.” Everything this man said was matter-of-fact. No sadism or malice in his voice. All calm. Controlled. Business as usual. “His left kneecap is shattered. The current will take him under. Do it now, Agent Bowers.”

“Don't let him!” Ellory cried. His eyes had flicked toward the water and the ice that stretched past a bridge over the river a hundred meters downstream. I believed Chekov was telling the truth, that he would not hesitate to kill Bryan Ellory if he thought it would increase his chances of getting away.

Alexei glanced toward the river. “Time's up.”

“Wait!”

Hastily, I calculated my options, but there weren't any good ways to play this.

I noted a tree beside me, its girth, its height, memorized the branch pattern and location on the hillside so I'd be able to find it again, then I tossed my SIG toward its base and held up my hands, hoping Alexei wouldn't shoot me.

“All right,” I said. “Now walk away from the river and let him go.”

“Step away from the gun. Come closer.”

I did, until I was less than ten meters away from him and at least fifteen meters downhill from my SIG.

“There's no need to hurt him. My gun's up the hill. Listen”—I gestured toward Ellory—“he's hurt. Let me help him.”

Alexei ignored me, edged closer to the water. “I'm sorry to have to do this—”

“No!”

“—but you'll have to believe me when I tell you it's necessary—”

“Don't!”

Get there, Pat. Now!

I sprinted forward.

But before I'd even taken three steps, Alexei had yanked Ellory's jacket backward, sending him flying into the raging black water of the Chippewa River.

Ellory disappeared beneath the waves.

I rushed through the snow toward the river's edge as Alexei ran for the bridge downstream. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a semi approaching, but my attention was on Ellory, who bobbed to the surface gasping for breath, flailing his arms. Then the water swallowed him again.

Go, go!

I fought my way through the trees, through the thick snow, scrambling to stay ahead of him, all the while looking for a branch I could use to fish him out.

Nothing.

The angry current was not going to bring him closer to shore.

You have to—

He surfaced again, his eyes wide with terror. He sputtered for air, gave a strangled call for help.

“I'm coming!” I yelled.

He went under again. There was no other choice. None.

I took a deep breath, braced myself, and leaped into the river.

Shock.

Frozen knives stabbed at me everywhere. The current immediately cut my feet out from under me, tugged me under. Breath escaped me.

I strained for the surface, instinctively gulped for air, swallowed water.

Planting my feet on the bottom, I pushed off and splashed to the surface, spit out the water. I struggled for breath, my chest clutched tight from the cold. Paralyzing. Terrifying. I couldn't see Ellory and guessed the current had almost certainly taken him past me by now. I swam forward to catch up with him.

The bank of ice was less than twenty meters away.

I groped through the water, trying to find him, shouting his name. Desperately I pressed off a rock with my left foot, but the rock spun, trapping my ankle. The current dragged me forward, twisting my ankle free, sending a sharp streak of pain up my leg. I lost my footing and fell forward, sweeping my hands through the swirling water, trying to find an arm, a leg, Ellory's jacket, anything, but came up empty.

Every second it was harder to breathe, harder to move, as my body tried to conserve heat by sending blood to my vital organs—my heart, my lungs. The things that matter most. Fingers, toes, limbs—all expendable. But not the heart. Not the lungs. Survival trumps everything.

But I wouldn't survive unless I could move; unless I could get out of the river.

Once again I found my footing, and pain shot up my leg as I inadvertently put pressure on my injured ankle—sprained, maybe broken. But none of that mattered. I launched myself downstream again, daring to believe I'd find Ellory.

Ten meters from the ice.

I searched the water.

Nothing.

Get out, Pat, you're not gonna make it!

I grabbed a breath and dove under one last time, swam into deeper water, and felt something bump against my leg.

I thrust my hand down.

Snagged Ellory's armpit.

Kicking hard and stroking with my free hand, I went for the surface. My head broke through the water, and I drew in a desperate, uncontrolled breath.

The current tried to yank Ellory from me, but I wrapped my arm tight around him and squeezed. Scissors-kicked toward shore.

Five meters to the ice.

But at least that far from shore.

Options: a few branches stretched across the water, but they were still out of reach. A root system slithered out from the base of a tree and disappeared into the ice, but I could only grab its roots if I were under the ice.

Get out, you have to get out!

Muscles weak. Failing.

A dark and terrible thought grabbed me: I was not going to be able to save Bryan Ellory.

Two lives lost.

Two or one—

I fought the current, trying to—

Two meters.

Decide!

Now!

The edge looks thick.

Thick enough.