The Charity (72 page)

Hoyt let out a gasp of pain as he mounted Tuckerman. Leather reins were gathered up into his gloved hands and he remained there, motionless, just looking down at the young woman who refused to leave his side and now was willing to risk her life to save that of a little boy.

“Jess. I know who you are now more than anything.”

Within a few minutes, the two riders rode away from each other without looking back.

Jessica listened to the radio carefully. It had been over two hours and Hoyt called in his position regularly. He had made fairly good time, considering the conditions, and was more than half way through his descent. She made her periodic status reports as well.

Her going was much slower than Hoyt’s. She opted for a more zigzagging path to cover more ground. Something was still missing, or maybe she was just failing to see the connections. Either way, she was frustrated.

The mountainside was a series of jagged rock outcroppings and sharp walls. The snow had let up a little and she could see down into the smaller gullies and ravines. Her eyes searched the snow for any odd shape or cranny that could hide a body. Several times her heart skipped a beat as she looked at a rounded mound. Closer examination would show it to be a rock or fallen log. Each time, she edged Gapman on, growing more determined to find Toby.

It had been a while since she had ridden Gapman, but the horse and rider picked up like two old friends at a reunion. She had watched him carefully for any signs of nervousness when they began their trip yesterday and had found none. But ever since she and Hoyt separated, he would toss his head and tick his ears forward. Each time, Jessica would stop, thinking the horse was spotting something she had missed. It was always a false alarm. Jessica could never see anyone.

Gapman’s head drooped as he sniffed his way along the trails. He was beginning to lose his footing more and Jessica realized it was time for the animal to get a break. She dismounted and got some provisions for them from out of her pack. Unrolling her sleeping bag in one throw, she tossed it over the horse’s back and settled on a log.

The horse pawed at the ground, picking at whatever dried vegetation he could find, and nibbling at the food laid out for him from the packs. Jessica used a small gas stove to melt snow for the animal and her. Eating unmelted snow could lower their body temperature enough to trigger hypothermia. She did not want to take any chances and heated enough snow for both of them.

Jessica laid the map down in front of her. Picking out landmarks she had seen, she approximated her location now and that of where they found the jacket. She chewed her food and thought about the possibilities.

She must have sat still for longer than she thought, for when her mind focused again, the map was covered with snow. She picked it up and dusted off the newly fallen flakes. The map left a smaller imprint where it had rested on the ground.

All of the pieces fell into place. “Oh my God! That’s it! Let’s get out of here, Gapman. We’re in trouble.”

Scrambling, she shoved the gear back into the saddlebags, not taking precious seconds to roll up the sleeping bag. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.” The fastest way off the mountain for her now was straight down and she pushed Gapman to go as fast as he could.

All the while, she cursed herself for not seeing it sooner. She couldn’t blame Hoyt for trusting his own eyes, but she should have known better.

For all of the times she tracked people along an avalanche trail or in a blizzard, she knew one thing remained true. New snow could never fall
under
an object. When Hoyt lifted the jacket up, fresh snow from this storm was under it and it was not covered with all of the morning’s new snow. That meant that the jacket got there after the snow began, and there were no footprints anywhere to be seen around that jacket. She remembered how thickly the pine boughs intertwined overhead and Hoyt’s false alarm at seeing something in the distance.

“Somebody put that jacket there just so we could find it. Get going, Gapman!” The horse responded to the extra urgency he heard in his rider’s voice. His muscles tightened and he increased his speed.

“This is Ridge Team to Base Twelve. I’m starting my descent now.”

Jessica’s eyes carefully swept the ground for another tree set as a snare trap.

Further up the trail, a figure sat hunched against the wind. Head down, he looked at a map and listened to the steady ‘beep... beep... beep’ of the receiver at his side. He put a finger down on the spot and smiled.

“Aye. She’s comin’ straight at me, now.” He spoke the words aloud and was surprised to hear how quickly they were whipped away from his mouth by a cold blast of wind.

He stood up and stretched his stiffened back, then walked over to a neatly curled roll of fabric. He could not resist the urge. For what seemed to be the hundredth time that day, he snapped open the olive green roll and stared admiringly at its contents.

Knives of every shape and size glinted in the gray light. Flakes landed on the blades and quickly melted, leaving a single drop of water to sparkle along a razor edge.

He took great pride in his work. His was a craft few could aspire to his greatness—by making the physical pain of others last as long as necessary to hear their screams, or to cut short the heartbeats of the victims, leaving the look of questioning shock on their faces.

For a moment, his mind drifted back to when he was a young boy in Belfast watching his family die at the hands of the British. He was with his sister in a crawlspace, hidden there by their mother. Through a crack in the wall, he watched his life change. One by one his family members were dragged from the normalcy of their living room into the hell of the street and bludgeoned. The household was systematically cleansed by four young men who wanted to fill their evening with something worthwhile to do and to empty themselves of hate.

A boy’s high-pitched shriek shredded the air with anguish. The gang momentarily stopped their beatings until they could locate the young witness. Instead, they found his young sister and dragged her out into the street as well.

Emerging from the crawlspace and surrounded by a small band of spectators gathered to review the carnage, the boy looked at their bodies. At first he was racked with huge sobs. But as he gaped at the pulpy faces of his family, and at their twisted, bruised limbs contorted by their final agonies, he began to laugh. One soldier, senseless with shock at what lay at his feet, tried to stop the orphan’s unnerving and disrespectful laughter by slashing the boy’s mouth with a knife, carving forever a skewed smile. The young killer’s laughter escalated into the hysterical cries of the insane. At that moment, all ability to care for anyone else bled out of him. The young killer became himself—cut off from feelings, alone.

The cold metal in his bare hands drew him back to the present. He rolled the blade over. The motion made the droplets and flakes sparkle, bringing the blade to life. Pleasure and anticipation tightened his loins.

Meticulously, he rolled the fabric up and patted it.

Devlin had waited long enough. Not comfortable with what he was about to do, he pulled his cap down squarely over his eyes and took one last look around the yard. The snow had been coming down heavily and more than six inches covered the ground. It was easy to see that no one had walked down the steps of the house that morning. Nor had any car entered the driveway or left since the storm began.

There were absolutely no tracks anywhere around the house. He could hear a phone ring inside. For a woman that was frantic about having a son lost on a mountain in a blizzard, she sure was making it hard for people to stay in contact with her.

He took a deep breath and heaved his shoulder against the old door. Wood splintered. He repeated the move several more times before the hinges finally gave way under the assault. He stood in the hallway and rubbed his shoulder. The house was in perfect order. Nothing so much as a coffee cup was out of place.

It had been a hard morning at the base station. Volunteers were milling about, waiting for the go-ahead to begin a new search pattern. Several townspeople had brought their coon dogs and hounds to assist in the search. It was a zoo. Devlin had a hard time keeping everyone organized as he appraised each person’s skills and assigned them to a search team. The storm had put everyone on edge and shouting matches were frequent.

Devlin was happy to see the sheriff arrive and gladly accepted Michael’s assistance in coordinating the rest of the search. He thought the sheriff was a good man and knew he had headed up other searches in the past. Since the search expanded beyond formal park boundaries, Michael pressed him to give command to the sheriff’s department. Michael’s rationale was sound, and Devlin was too weary from lack of sleep to put up much of a fight. That enabled Devlin to focus on what he could do best—plan and track the progress of the search teams. The people quickly responded to Michael’s authority and soon the rest of the teams were formed and dispatched.

News of Ridge Team’s problems concerned Devlin. It was what he had feared most. Of all of the searches he had been a part of in the past, not one had ever been like this. If the decision was left up to him, he would have pulled that team off the mountain in a second. That Jessica woman must be one tough cookie to go on by herself. If anyone would know if she could do it, he guessed it was the sheriff.

Devlin hated this search. From the moment he saw the mother run up to his station, he felt uneasy. He just could not pinpoint what bothered him. He had been awake most of the night thinking about the search and the teams on the mountain.

Every camper or hiker was supposed to register with the base station before ascending. The rangers took brief note on how many were in the party and where they were heading. He did not fault his rangers for not being exact, but this time, like other times in the past, no record of anyone registering that fit the mother’s description could be found.

Seeing that the search was in good hands and there was little more for him to do for the moment, he decided he needed to talk to the mother one more time. Not finding anyone who had spoken with her that morning, he decided to go to Mrs. Saunders’ house by himself.

Now, he stood alone in that house and shook his head.

“Why the dickens would a mother go off and not tell anyone where she is?” He asked the question to no one in particular and reached for the phone.

Michael put the phone back down in its cradle and did not move. The news from Devlin that the mother was gone did not sit well. The search was not going as planned, the storm was picking up and worse, reporters were beginning to swarm around the base station asking questions.

The main radio erupted.

“Base Twelve? Come in, please.”

Michael reached over and grabbed the microphone with one hand and flipped the switch on with the other. “Base Twelve here. Go ahead.”

“Bluford Pass Team here. No sign of the boy and we’ve finished the first search pattern.”

“Acknowledged.”

“The storm’s picked up strength. What do you want us to do?”

Michael looked outside and saw that the snow was blowing horizontally across his view. A few people closed in around him.

“Suspend the search and come in.”

“Acknowledged, Base Twelve. Bluford Pass Team will come in along the Whittaker Path. Team out.”

Michael squinted his eyes shut and clenched his jaw. Who else knew what Devlin found out? He looked around the room and met the expectant gazes of its occupants. He was backed into a corner. There was no other choice.

“The search is being suspended until further notice. All teams are to be called off the mountain. Efforts will resume at the first possible opportunity.”

There was a sigh of relief as people rushed to spread the news of the search suspension. Tracy, a younger woman with blonde hair pulled back into ponytail and wearing a ranger’s uniform, took Michael’s place at the microphone and began relaying the news. In a few minutes, all the teams that had been notified were on their way in.

“Base Twelve?”

Tracy flipped up the switch. “Base Twelve here. Go ahead.”

“Hoyt here. I’m just cresting over the Skyler area peak.”

“Acknowledged, Hoyt.” Tracy quickly checked off the last reported locations of the teams then added, “We have another team in that location. Rendezvous with them and they’ll assist you coming in.”

“Yup. Will do.” There was a pause. “Did cha get word to Jess about the search being called off?”

Tracy looked down at her paper with the list of teams. The words ‘Ridge Team’ had a thick black line through them. She thought that meant the team was already accounted for.

“It looks like someone else crossed off that team. Will verify now. Base out.” She adjusted the dial to strengthen her radio output and tried to raise Jessica Wyeth.

Jessica urged Gapman on as fast as she could. The horse was incredibly light-footed around the rocks and fallen trees. Jessica’s admiration of the animal grew with every step. The horse seemed to understand her urgency and responded with heart and spirit.

She leaned over the big horse’s shoulders and gave his neck a strong pat. “You are quite the animal, Gapman. You’re like one huge dancer.” She kept the banter up as much as she could, knowing her voice was encouraging the horse on. Neither one could let up.

With her eyes focused on the trail, she piloted Gapman around the obstacles as best as she could. The horse had a greater sense of footing on its own and she was careful not to interfere with its own intuition. Frequently, she looked ahead and was careful not to go near any trees which could spring at her like the one that terrified Tuckerman. She felt it was not just an isolated trap left over by past seasons’ hunters, and did not take any chances.

Snow burned at her face and eyes and her heart kept rhythm to the staccato beat of Gapman’s strides. Her own body molded into an extension of the horse’s, bending with every turn and leading with every step. Gapman’s thoughts could almost be felt through his strides.