He pointed to a mass of skeletal vines and saplings. “There,” he said with a grimace.
Addison looked past him. Then she was moving, on legs that no longer felt pain, on feet that were beyond cold. The mangled Lincoln was sitting at a sharp angle against an outcropping of rock. The car bad once been silver, but ten months of mountain extremes had turned the crumpled metal to rust. As she drew nearer, she noticed the windshield was completely gone, perhaps in the crash, perhaps at the hands of the men who had come down the mountain to remove her parents' bodies.
Hesitantly, she peered through the windshield. The front seat was intact. The once plush leather was badly weathered and covered with dirt and moss. A bird had nested at some point on the dash, leaving a pile of dried grass and twigs atop the cracked vinyl.
Addison reached out and ran her hand over a small area of silver paint that was still as flawless as the day her father had bought the car. For an instant, she felt close to them. The way she felt when she went to the cemetery. When she held her favorite picture of them against her heart.
A vivid burst of memory flashed through her mind. Mom and Dad at Christmas last year. They'd given her luggage, she remembered. A new espresso maker that matched her kitchen. That ugly-as-sin vase she now treasured. God, how she missed them.
"Addison."
The gentle utterance of her name startled her. She jerked her hand back as if the rusty metal surface had snapped at her. Randall stood next to her, looking at her much too intently.
Slowly, he turned her toward him and took both of her hands in his. "Christ, your hands are like ice. Where are your gloves?"
"I lost them. When I fell." Her voice was high and tight. Too many emotions crowding into her throat. She looked down at their hands. His were strong and warm and far too reassuring as they held hers. It wasn't something she wanted to get used to.
"Let's go, Ace. Your hands are nearly frostbitten."
Addison accepted his gloves without protest.
"Can you climb?"
The thought wasn't a pleasant one, but she couldn't bring herself to wimp out. Not after ignoring his warning to stay in the truck. "Unless someone installs a ski lift in the next five minutes, I don't think I have a choice."
They returned to where Randall had left the rope looped around a tree branch. Spreading her legs, she let him snap the safety harness into place and adjust it to fit her smaller frame. Slowly, mechanically, she began to climb, using the saplings and larger rocks for footholds when she could.
"Randall?" It amazed her how normal, how strong her voice sounded in the midst of such physical and emotional tumult.
From behind her, he answered with an irritated grunt.
“I was wondering ... about my parents' car. Did you find what you were looking for?"
"Climb. We'll talk about it when we get out of this ravine."
Addison stopped climbing. "Tell me," she said.
He stared up at her, his eyes searching for weaknesses she hoped he wouldn't find. "I couldn't find anything useful," he said. "There was too much rust, too much damage."
"So we wasted our time?"
"Pretty much."
She considered the words for a moment, doing her best to fend off the dull wash of defeat. "I don't know if I'm disappointed or relieved."
"As long as you do it on level ground. Start climbing."
"But—"
"We'll talk more once we get out of this damn ditch."
Addison turned back to her rope. But as she began to climb, something niggled at her. Something about the way he'd looked at her, the way his gaze had skittered away when she'd pressed him. As she heaved her body slowly upward, she wondered if his reaction stemmed from what he'd seen in the ravine-or if that haunted look in his eyes was a result of his own troubled past.
Chapter 11
He arrived at the Clipper Tavern in Denver’s Brown Palace Hotel just before four P.M. Pushing his way through the tavern doors, he spotted his contact immediately, sitting alone in a booth set against a backdrop of well-dressed couples and businessmen gorging themselves on slow-roasted Colorado prime rib.
He made his way through the crowd, loosening the Hermes tie that had pinched his Adam's apple for the last eighteen hours, trying to ignore the pain that peeked out from behind his right temple. . .
"Mr. Fagan," he said when he reached the booth. It wasn't the other man's real name, but a pseudonym used for professional purposes. Neither man cared about such details.
Fagan stood. Looking like two businessmen about to negotiate a deal, they shook hands before sliding into opposite sides of the booth. Neither man spoke until the waitress had taken their orders and left their drinks on the table.