Ryan coughed, paused, and resumed snoring. Startled out of his thoughts of Brynn, Alex studied the sleeping man. Would Ryan be strong enough to hike out? He’d looked like hell the night before. At least Alex felt nearly fully recovered. He’d be able to hike out fine.
His body jerked as he remembered the purpose of his mission. Every muscle tensed. How could he have gone for hours without thinking of the killer?
Darrin Besand. After the avalanche, he had nearly been wiped out of Alex’s mind. Alex had been distracted by Brynn and his newfound interest in doing something with his life. Besand couldn’t wait. He had to find the asshole now. He had to know.
Alex closed his eyes and thought. If he’d been a convicted murderer hurt in a plane crash who didn’t want to go back to prison and saw a rescue crew come in, what would he do?
Hide.
But then what?
Wait and follow them out.
He knew Besand would choose death over going back to prison. That was one fact he’d learned about him. Even if he were bleeding to death, Besand wouldn’t make himself known to the group. So was he close by? Or had he already tried to hike out before they arrived? That was the theory he and Jim had arrived at yesterday, but now Alex wasn’t so sure.
The only place Besand could have survived the nights would have been in the other piece of the plane. Alex shifted on the floor, forcing himself to not dash out and check the cockpit. His mind raced. There were no other possibilities. This little plane wouldn’t have carried a tent, so Besand was either dead in the woods or taking cover from the elements in the cockpit while they slept.
The bloodstains on the plane seat across from Linus’s weren’t that big. Besand probably hadn’t been hurt too badly. Internal injuries were a possibility. Alex felt a hot rage stir in his belly.
I hope you died in the snow, you fucker, with icy pellets hammering your face as your body shut down. And I hope you were awake for every minute of it.
Next to Brynn, Jim sat up abruptly, scanning his surroundings, his eyes clearing as he remembered where he was. He took in Brynn with her head still on Alex’s shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he met Alex’s stare.
Go ahead, Jim. Say something. Anything.
Jim quietly cleared his throat as his gaze slid away and he peered toward the window. Light was dim. Alex estimated the time to be around six o’clock.
“What’s your plan?” Alex whispered.
Jim turned back to him, deliberately not looking at Brynn. “We need to talk.”
Alex nodded. “Not now.”
“Later. Alone.” Jim’s voice was hard.
“I want to go take another look at the cockpit,” Alex said. He also needed to take a piss, but couldn’t bear to move Brynn’s head just yet.
“The cockpit? Why—” Jim stopped speaking, and understanding crossed his face. “You think Besand is still here?”
Alex shrugged his unoccupied shoulder. “Either he’s dead under a layer of snow or he decided to hike out, and I doubt he would have survived the night without a tent or tarp. He’s dead or he slept in that cockpit last night.” He took a breath. “Until I see his dead body I have to believe he’s alive.”
Her eyes still closed, Brynn lifted her head, turned it, and curled her body away from him.
Alex’s shoulder was suddenly cold. And very empty.
He watched her, silently begging her to move back. She slept.
Jim’s eyes showed an odd mix of sympathy and annoyance. Alex wondered how much his own face revealed of his feelings for the woman. Judging by Jim’s reaction, just about everything.
Jim jerked his head toward the cargo door, opened it, and stepped out of the plane. Alex heard Jim’s knee pop as he walked. Sitting up, Alex’s spine creaked and his head ached like hell. He’d talk to Jim, then get some ibuprofen before checking out the cockpit.
He wasn’t aware of his hand instinctively checking his gun at his side.
Sheriff Patrick Collins stepped out of his four-wheel drive and surveyed the base camp in the morning light. He’d sped home, showered, changed, kissed his wife, hit Starbucks, and returned in under two hours. The number of media vehicles had increased again as word had spread that Darrin Besand was on the plane. CNN had arrived overnight. At first CNN had used the feed of a local network, but when the time frame of the missing plane lengthened and Besand’s name came to light, they’d sent in their own people.
Patrick had dealt with national media before. Twice, missing mountain climbers had caught the rapt attention of the nation. And then there were the two middle school girls who vanished as they walked to school. On different days. In the same neighborhood. Again the national media came calling and camped on his doorstep. The girls turned up buried in the backyard of their friend’s father’s house. The same man who’d given interviews to the media, sobbing about his daughter’s missing friends.
That case had nearly driven Patrick to retire.
RVs clogged the small clearing at the trailhead. The only local hotel was booked solid, so the media was making do with whatever sleeping arrangements they could find. He’d seen Regan Simmons arrive from the motel all perky and ready to sling some mud. She’d pissed him off yesterday by complaining on air about the lack of information from the sheriff’s department. Claimed they weren’t sharing with the media and were withholding information from the public and families.
Bullshit.
The families of both pilots and the missing marshal had been in constant contact with him. He’d assigned a deputy to do nothing else but see to their needs and make sure they could reach him whenever they needed to. None of the three families were willing to go on the air. With Patrick’s encouragement they’d asked the media to respect their privacy, and that had got Regan Simmons’s goat. She didn’t have a single tearful spouse to put on the air.
She’d tried to get Patrick to change their minds.
He’d threatened to arrest her if she didn’t stay out of his face.
He’d met with the three spouses and privately told them all he knew. Which wasn’t much. He’d passed on his spotty conversation with Ryan Sheridan about “three dead.” The looks on the women’s faces had sunk in despair, then shot up in hope, then down in despair again. When four men were on a plane, “three dead” weren’t good odds.
Patrick had fielded more questions about the damned helicopter too. The reporters had all talked among themselves, and no one confessed to sending up a copter.
Patrick had claimed no knowledge of the copter’s source.
Why did it feel like that denial was going to come back and kick him in the ass?
Deputy Tim Reid jogged over, his cell phone in hand. “Dispatch has been trying to reach you.”
Patrick pulled his own cell off his belt. The damned screen was blank. Dead battery. “Shit.” He never let his cell completely die. Especially on a mission like this. At least he had a charger in his truck. He held his hand out for Reid’s phone.
“Collins.”
“Morning, Sheriff. I trust you got some caffeine this morning?” The grandmotherly voice of his favorite dispatcher came across the line.
“I’d be doing a disservice to Madison County if I skipped it, Marilyn.”
“I’m well aware of that, sir.” She gently cleared her throat. “I’ve got Al Rice at the tower from the Springton airfield on the other line, sir. He says Tyrone Gentry never returned with his helicopter yesterday. He talked to Tyrone personally, sir. Tyrone had told him he and his brother would be back before dark. He’s already tried calling both the Gentry boys’ homes and no one is answering.”
Patrick closed his eyes and felt his heart land on his toes. Only Marilyn would call thirty-year-olds “boys.” “Has he checked any other airfields?”
“Yes, he did, sir. Within the last hour he called every place he could think of. He tried both boys’ cell phones too. He’s very worried, sir. Knows that family real well.”
Patrick did too. Was he going to add Liam and Tyrone Gentry’s mama to his list of grieving women? “Thank you, Marilyn. Tell Al I’ll take care of it from here.”
There was a pause.
“Do you want me to send someone over to Shirley Gentry’s home, sir?”
“No, not yet, Marilyn. I’m gonna get a hold of Liam’s commander. He’s officially their boy, not ours.”
Marilyn paused again. “You’re right, Sheriff. Anything else I can do?”
“Yeah, keep it quiet for now.”
“Of course, sir.” She huffed.
“I know you will, but I have to say it, Marilyn.”
“Stay warm, sir.” The line clicked in his ear.
His mouth in a grim line, he handed the phone back to Tim. “Gentrys.”
“I’d guessed, sir.”
They both hazarded a look toward the media camp. Several faces and one camera were pointed their way. Patrick wondered if any of them could read lips. That’d be a handy skill for a snoopy reporter to have. “Keep it under wraps for now.”
Tim nodded.
“Tell them there will be a briefing in…” He checked his watch. “Five hours.”
Tim grinned and jogged over to the engrossed reporters.
Patrick sighed and rubbed both hands on his face, stretching the skin. What the fuck had happened to the Gentrys? Their helicopter must have gone down in the arctic weather. He had one team in the field and he really hated to send in another without knowing what was going on in the forest. One of his deputies had been instructed to try the team’s cell phones every hour, hoping they’d move into a pocket of cell reception. He hadn’t heard a word from the deputy so he knew there wasn’t any good news.
Patrick suddenly felt very old.
How many more people would die because of Darrin Besand?
Alex ducked out through the cargo door and nearly ran into Jim as he sat strapping on his snowshoes. They had exited as quietly as possible as the other three in the plane slept.
“Sorry.” Alex took two steps and sank to mid-calf.
They must have had eight inches overnight. They were going to need those snowshoes. He yanked up the hood to his parka and took a good look around. The snow was heavy. Visibility was shitty. At least the wind had eased up. Snow was coming down at a soft twenty-degree angle instead of the face-biting ninety degrees.
With all this snow, how would last night have been in a tent? Alex patted the body of the plane affectionately. Wherever they slept tonight was going to suck.
“You think Besand slept in the cockpit last night?” Jim kept his voice low.
“I would have.”
“If he’s still here.”
“If he’s still here,” Alex agreed. “Yesterday…”
“What about yesterday?”
Alex wiped at his nose and stared into the snow. “I kept getting that hinky feeling. You know? Where you turn around because you think someone’s behind you? But no one’s ever there? I felt…watched all day. Until…you know.”
Any cop understood that feeling. That rise of the hair on the back of the neck feeling. Jim’s gaze darted around. “It’s ’cause we’re in the woods. You hear soft sounds sometimes from snow or rain or leaves and you think someone’s there.” His tone didn’t match the surety of his words. “I feel that all the time out here. Get your snowshoes on. Let’s go look. You carrying?” Jim placed a palm on his side.
Alex nodded, imitated the gesture, and grabbed his homemade snowshoes from just inside the plane. He awkwardly wrapped the bungee cords around his boots. Jim grinned at Thomas’s work. “That boy knows snow.”
“How long’s he been in Oregon?” Alex stamped his feet, checking the cords. Jim was right. Thomas had whipped up some solid snowshoes.
“About three years, maybe four.”
“And he’s originally from Alaska?”
Jim nodded. “Was a cop and in the reserves. Did several tours in Iraq. Wife divorced him while he was over there.”
“No shit. What a bitch.” Immediate sympathy flooded Alex. And he’d thought his wife was unsupportive.
“I don’t think Thomas was the same guy when he came back. He’d seen a lot of action and spent some time in hot situations. He and two others were held hostage for two weeks.”
“Shit.” Alex couldn’t think of anything else to say. Nothing was adequate.
“Yeah. He’s had a lot of treatment for PTSD.”
“I don’t think anyone fully gets over that,” Alex said quietly. He knew two agents who struggled daily with post-traumatic stress disorder. Some days were better than others.
“You notice his parka doesn’t have a hood?”
Alex nodded. Thomas wore a high, thick neck cover under his jacket, but Alex had always wondered how the guy could stand the cold, wet weather on the exposed areas below his cap.
“They had their heads covered with hoods nearly the entire time he was held captive. Even to eat they only lifted the hood enough to expose their mouths.” “Shit.”
Jim led the way down the hill, Alex trudging behind. Both men had slipped off their gloves and held their guns in a pocket out of the snow.
“He only started wearing caps about a year ago. He says he doesn’t truly get cold. Says he’s experienced the coldest a person can be and everything else is just annoying.”
“So this is nothing to him.”
“Yep.”