Smoketree

CHAPTER Fourteen



I led Preacher up the hill, down it, then on toward the ski resort. The big horse moved slowly; no doubt he would have preferred to stand still, but I gave him no choice. I knew well enough that if I thought about it, I would not do what I said I would. And so I took him through the forest, wondering the entire time what might set him off.

At times, when he lagged, I felt the reins tighten against my hand. I tugged, urging him onward, and after a moment he continued. I did notice that as we went on his gait improved; perhaps he had not injured himself as badly as Cass feared. He began to move more willingly, if still somewhat stiff and hesitant, and our pace improved. Perhaps it wouldn’t take hours to reach Snow Crest after all.

Patches of snow remained beneath the night-blackened trees, luminescent in the moonlight. To minimize the distance we had to cover, I kept myself to a straight line. This meant most of the time I had to walk through the snow patches, which crunched and mushed beneath my shoes. I disliked the slimy, slippery feel. Preacher, following behind me, did not seem to care, but then his weight was significantly more substantial. He left black holes wherever he stepped in the snow.

I was cold. The night air crept through the weave in my heavy sweater and raised goosebumps upon my skin until I shivered and set my teeth. Preacher’s breathing was loud in the silence of the night; hot horsebreath caressed the back of my neck. It was the only warm spot on my entire body. I was grateful for that much, although the thought of his big teeth so near my neck gave me pause. And then I grew angry with myself, because it was pointless, under the circumstances, to dwell on what had happened to Drew.

When at last we reached the ski run, I couldn’t quite believe it. It was a wide, naked swath of cleared ground, cutting down the mountain in a smooth, precise line. A chair lift hung silently in the moonlight; regimental towers marched up to the top of the run. We were very nearly there.

I took him across the run and into the trees again, following the catwalk Cass had described. Preacher walked more easily now on level ground. His pace increased; so did mine. I had no wish to be run over.

A black shape loomed on my right as the catwalk opened onto a wide, flat area cleared of trees and rocks. The ski lodge. As we moved closer I saw an odd flickering glow from the lodge, throwing dim light into the surrounding trees.

Cass? I wondered. No; too soon. And she had said she would send someone, not come herself. Harper? Probably not. He would be with Nathan.

But that left no one to meet me. I would have to wait until someone was free to come, and no doubt it would be a while. A long night lay ahead. But so did a lodge, and perhaps a care-taker. There would doubtless be a phone; I could call the ranch and find out about Nathan’s condition. At least I could wait without the added burden of not knowing how he was.

We came out of the trees into the clearing. The chair lift dangled a hundred yards upslope, double chairs hanging from a cable made invisible by the darkness. The wide run stretched beneath the chairs, driving upward, losing itself at last in the trees.

The lodge, on my right, was a dark, lumpy building in the moonlight, resembling an appropriately Alpine structure. A sundeck stretching from the second floor provided a roof to the entrance. It was jammed with stacked wooden tables and benches. The lantern light glowed dimly through the broad expanse of mullioned windows.

Preacher stopped short, jerking backward on the reins. I turned to him in consternation, then took a step back, suddenly afraid. His eyes rolled in his head and he exhaled his breath in a heavy snort. I thought he might rear, and it frightened me badly.

“Let go of the horse.”

I jumped, almost screamed. Preacher backed up, but now I understood the reason for his reaction. It was much like my own. “Wait—” I said. “He’s injured.”

“Let go of him now.”

A powerful hand closed on my upper arm and jerked me away. Preacher’s head shot upward in alarm; his eyes rolled again. I lost the reins without warning as the horse snapped his head away. I turned angrily to find out just who had such a firm, unrelenting grip on me.

“Hey—” I began.

The man had a gun in his hand.

I stared at him. He was a complete stranger to me. He jerked my arm again. “Come with me.”

“Wait a minute—”

He put the gun to my head. He never said a word. I shut up instantly and made no protest as he shoved me toward the ski lodge.

He swung open one of the heavy wooden doors and pushed me inside, directing me toward a flight of stairs. I stumbled over the first step and nearly fell; he jerked me up roughly and gave me a hefty push in the rear with his knee as I faltered.

I climbed.

The stairs were battered and scarred from hundreds of ski boots that had pounded up and down them. I reached for the handrail, needing support, but a hand pressure in the small of my back convinced me I needed nothing more than speed.

As I reached the top of the stairs I hesitated, staring through the shadows of the second floor. Gloomy lantern light lent an eerie color to the room, though I was unable to appreciate it.

Smoke hung in a gauzy cloud; I squinted through it to make out the other occupants. And then my mouth fell open.

John Oliver sat at a formica-topped cafeteria table, perching on one of the round plastic stools, tapping his fingers on the smooth table surface. Heavy brows drew downward as he watched me. A cigar lay at hand, trailing malodorous smoke into the air.

But it was Brandon who stood up. Brandon who rose as I was pushed into the sphere of light. “Kelly,” he said. “Oh Kelly…”

Briefly, I thought they had caught him too. And then I thought no, of course not; Brandon is with them. And he was.

“I found her outside with a horse.” The man who held my arm spoke in a measured cadence that was surely foreign, though I could not place the accent.

There was a second stranger in the room. He sat on top of one of the nearest tables, his feet propped on one of the stools. He smiled.

“Kelly,” Brandon said again, “what are you doing here?”

The gunman still held my wrist. The hand attached to it was cold, numb. So was the rest of me. I could only stare at Brandon.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I swear I never meant for this to happen.”

“Brandon.” His name was dust in my mouth. “Brandon—what’s happening?”

The second man continued to smile. He was very dark, with an aristocratic bone structure—he was attractive in a vital sort of way, but his smile was eerie. My flesh crawled over my bones.

“Rashid,” the dark man said. “Be gentle. She is a lady.”

“Do I care?” Rashid retorted. “She is here.”

“Leave her alone, Frenchie,” Brandon said sharply to the man sitting on the table. “I’ll be responsible for her.”

Frenchie. A Frenchman? No. He did not have the accent for it.

“Brandon, what are you doing?” I asked with as much calm as I could muster. “You and John Oliver—tell me what I’m supposed to think.”

“But would you believe it?” asked the man called Frenchie. “I think not. So what use is an explanation?”

The gunman—Rashid—pushed me forward and shoved me down the line of tables toward John Oliver. A pressure on my shoulder told me to sit; I did so with alacrity. I doubted I could stand a moment longer.

Carefully I set both hands on the table, spreading my fingers. I stared at them a moment, then finally looked at Brandon, “Is it the land? Is it Smoketree you’re after?” I swallowed painfully, “Is that what’s been going on?”

John Oliver drew on his cigar, observing me with cold eyes as he blew out the smoke. It coiled upward, wreathing itself around the lantern light. He said nothing. But he smiled, and I knew, somehow, there was more to all this than land. There had to be. But whatever it was, I didn’t want to die over it.

“Land?” Frenchie mocked. “No, I think not. Not this land, at any rate. Not even within this country.”

“Enough,” Brandon said. “I’ll answer for her, but only if she doesn’t know anything.”

“But she already does,” Oliver commented. “She’s here, Brandon. What else is there to do?”

“Let me walk out of here,” I said. “Just let me go. I won’t say anything to anyone.”

“And would you give us your word?” Frenchie asked.

My mouth was dry. I knew there was no sense in it. Not even in begging. They already knew what they would do.

My belly churned. I was sick and clamped my jaws against the urge to lose the contents of my stomach.

“I’ll give you anything you want,” I said faintly. “Just let me go.”

Brandon shifted restlessly on his stool. “Kelly, don’t bargain with them. You don’t have anything they can’t take anyway. ”

“Bargain with them," I said sharply. “What about you? Can I bargain with you?”

“I think not,” said Frenchie. “He is as committed to this as we are, if for different reasons. And I’m quite sure he recognizes the risk you constitute.” He smiled again, and this time it had an edge to it. “Just as he did when he killed the man and set the horse loose. Clever, no?”

My knees wobbled as I stood up in shock. “Brandon! You killed Drew—?”

Rashid’s hand came down on my shoulder. He thumbed a pressure point that shot pain and numbness throughout my body; I dropped down at once. John Oliver’s smoke was a veil before my face, filling my nose and eyes. I wanted to cry; I wanted to scream; I wanted to strike out at them all. But I did nothing, because I could not.

“You’ll kill me,” I said raggedly.

Oliver sighed. “It’s your own fault—you shouldn’t have come up here. Blame yourself.”

Blame myself. I nearly laughed. But I was afraid it would turn into hysteria, so I clamped down on the impulse. I retreated into silence.

“I had to kill him.” It was Brandon, explaining, as if he thought I could understand. “What else could I do? We were in the middle of a meeting. Stanford came to my door and knocked—he said he was hunting you. Hell, we couldn’t be certain what he’d heard. He saw Rashid and Frenchie. So we had to do something. I hit him. Later, when it was dark, I carried him down to the horse’s pen and cut the animal loose.” He shrugged. “It had to be done. What choice did I have?” My hands were sweaty in my lap. They felt too heavy, too cold, attached to someone other than myself. “For the land?” My words came out slurred, as if I were half-drunk. Or very, very frightened. “At least tell me what I’m here for.”

Oliver began to grind out his cigar. Neither Rashid nor his companion said a word.

Brandon moved slightly. His eyes did not avoid mine. “Not land,” he said. “Oh yes, we’re behind all the incidents, but all that was just a smokescreen. What we’re really here for is to strike a deal.” He shrugged. “Weapons. Why else would John and I be dealing with Arabs?”

I twitched. “Arabs?” I said blankly. “Good God, Brandon—what for? What are you doing?”

“Selling weapons to them,” he said, smiling. “You might call it an exercise in free enterprise.”

I stared at him. “Are you crazy? What for?”

“Money,” he said succinctly.

“You’re heir to Walkerton Industries!” I snapped, suddenly angry. “What do you need with money?”

“I need more of it,” he said, no longer smiling. “I’m on a fixed allowance. My father tied everything up several years ago, when it became clear I was not going to become the sort of company man he wanted. Me, for Christ’s sake, on a fixed income!” A white line framed his mouth. “I won’t stand for it. So I’m doing something about it.”

“Your lifestyle doesn’t appear to be particularly spartan,” I said clearly.

His mouth was a grim line. “Oh, it’s a generous allowance. But not what I need. So John and I worked out an arrangement whereby he hides the missing arms in the computer inventory at his plant, then stockpiles them elsewhere. We sell them to the highest bidder.” He relaxed a little. “It’s strictly business, Kelly. I’m not motivated by God, glory or the American flag. Politics bore the hell out of me. And it might just as well have been an Israeli faction who bought these arms.”

“And you used Smoketree as a red herring.” My voice felt rusty in my throat. “It was you behind everything. The threats. You had Harper’s horses killed, the barn burned, you’ve even undermined Nathan’s health.” I looked at him. “Did you know that? He’s probably on his way to the hospital because of you.”

“Drew Stanford’s dead,” Brandon said calmly. “I’d say Reynolds is lucky.”

“Don’t you care?” I asked. “They’re going to kill me, Brandon.”

Rashid’s hand was clasping my arm again. “It is time we left.”

He pulled me to my feet. “Brandon!” I cried, trying to break through to his conscience. “Are you just going to let them take me?”

Oliver stood, gesturing imperatively. “Get her out of here! I want nothing to do with this. I wanted a plain business deal, no violence. Get her out of here. I don’t want to be connected.”

I opened my mouth to shout at him but Rashid jerked me around and shoved me down the steps. My choice was to walk down them or fall down them. I walked.

It was cold outside. I shook steadily now, but it was from more than just the temperature. I was scared to death.

Rashid, still holding my arm, pushed me toward two parked cars in the lot beside the lodge. I stumbled, slipping in a patch of snow, and felt my stomach roll with nausea.

The door closed behind us, banging noisily. Footsteps followed. Snow and gravel crunched beneath my feet; a shrill whinny pierced the air and I thought instantly of Preacher, poor maligned Preacher, who had killed no one at all and now was left to wander in the forest.

Quick pain flashed in my head. And a sound like a backfire—or a shot—cracked through the trees. I felt grit and gravel biting into the flesh of my face and hands; the snap of ice crackling beneath me. The chill wetness soaked my sweater and jeans and crept through to dampen my skin. I shivered once, from head to toe.

I realized, belatedly, that I lay on the ground in an awkward sprawl. Face down, one arm caught beneath me and the other behind my back. Free of Rashid, and someone was shouting at me.

“Kelly!” the voice called. “Get up from there! Run!”

Elliot Fitch. Elliot Fitch ?

I rolled sideways, came onto my knees and stayed there, stunned by more than Elliot’s voice. There was a body next to me. Rashid. Blood seeped through his hair to pool in the slushy snow.

“Kelly!” Elliot shouted again. “Get the hell out of here!”

I tried. I started to push myself upward, ready to run, but a hand came around my arm and yanked me off-balance.

“Okay,” Brandon said, “you’re coming with me.”

John Oliver babbled something from behind us and I realized he was refusing, somewhat incoherently—again—to involve himself. He slammed the lodge door behind him as he dove inside the building. I assumed Brandon would follow, taking me with him, but we didn’t go. He hauled me under the sundeck and pulled me down by a bench I could hardly see in the darkness.

I caught a glimpse of the man called Frenchie as he ran across the flat toward a stand of trees as more shots were fired. He ran in a zigzag pattern, hunched over, providing a fleet, limited target. I looked back at Rashid’s body and swallowed heavily, hoping I wouldn’t be sick. At least not yet.

“Elliot Fitch,” I heard Brandon mutter. “Who the hell is he?”

“A cop?” I wondered aloud.

“I doubt it,” Brandon said grimly. “More like an agent. Well, here’s hoping he cares enough about you to let me keep you alive.” His hand tightened on my arm. “Be a good hostage, okay?”

I made a fruitless attempt to twist out of his grasp and succeeded only in hurting my arm. Brandon, unamused, reached out a fist and chopped me along the side of my jaw, slamming my head into the bench. I bit my lip and tasted blood.

“This is not a game,” Brandon hissed. “This is not a movie. This is real. If you try that again I’ll knock you out and carry you.”

He moved forward into a crouch, dragging me around to stand in front of him. He twisted both arms behind my back, imprisoning them with one broad hand. “Fitch!” he shouted. “You want her dead? Come for me, then. You want her alive? Back off! Got that?”

There were no answering shouts from the trees. Brandon was not armed, I knew, but he was very strong. And I did not doubt he would use me to further his escape. Even if it meant killing me. He had already murdered Drew.

“We’re going now,” he said grimly. “If you fall I’ll drag you. Now move.”

I moved. We ran awkwardly toward the control room by the chair lift, and no one fired shots. I wondered where Elliot was. I wondered who he was.

Dark chairs swung in a rectangular turn as they swept around the end of the cable tower and headed back up the mountain. They creaked and trembled as they passed over the cogwheels, empty silhouettes in the moonlit darkness.

A bent form stumbled around the building as we reached it and crouched down. I fell away from it, felt Brandon’s grasp tighten on me, then recognized the man called Frenchie. He was gasping. He was bleeding. I thought he was probably dying.

Brandon cursed. “Rashid; now you. They’re good.”

“Very good,” Frenchie agreed. “I think they have the advantage.”

“You turned the lift on?”

“I thought I would take it to the mountaintop,” the Arab said, one hand pressed against his chest. “Now I don’t think I can reach the chairs.”

Brandon shifted so he knelt next to the wounded man, still holding me by both wrists. “Give me your gun.”

“I still have need of it.”

“Give it to me!” Impatient, Brandon swung a fist and knocked the injured man unconscious, dropping him onto his side. He fumbled inside his jacket a moment, then came up with the gun. “Move, Kelly. To the lift.”

He dragged me to my feet and pushed me toward the moving chairs. Boards thudded beneath my feet as a chair swept by directly in front of me. A bullet pinged off the massive cable support tower no more than five feet away.

Brandon cursed and shoved me over so that we faced the on-coming chair. I turned automatically; it smacked the backs of my thighs and scooped me up awkwardly.

I teetered on the edge of the seat, grasping at the center pole of the double chair as Brandon scrambled aboard beside me. He thrust one arm against my chest and pushed, shoving me against the padded back of the chair.

The chair sagged beneath our weight but kept moving, though I was dragging one of my feet along the wooden ramp. Then the ramp dropped away and the chair swung gently upward, beginning its steady, measured ascent.

Brandon placed the muzzle of the gun against my left ear. “Go ahead and jump,” he urged. “I think it would probably kill you.”

I glanced down. Already we had risen sixty feet or so, gaining altitude with every moment. We were too high to risk a leap from the chair. Had there been packed snow beneath us, maybe—but there wasn’t. Just cold, hard ground.

I swallowed and wet my lips, trying to speak normally. “Brandon—let me go when we reach the top. What harm would it do?”

“Shut up!” The muzzle was hard and cold against my ear. “I don’t need your chatter.” He peered ahead to make out the dark bulk of the mountain looming over us. The chair rattled and vibrated upward. “We’ll hike down and go into town—rent a car there. I’ll keep you for a while, just to make sure I’ve got insurance.”

“That’s called kidnapping,” I pointed out. “Why make things worse?”

He laughed a trifle wildly. “Good God, Kelly, I’ve already killed two men. Do you think a kidnapping charge would make much difference?”

“Two,” I echoed. “Two men? Brandon—what are you talking about?”

He looked at me. In the moonlight his face was just a shape, a pale shape with black holes for nose and mouth and eyes. “Tucker,” he said. “Who else?”