NORA HELD CORRIE tight in the driving rain, trying to think through their situation.
“I’m so cold,” Corrie said, her entire body shivering.
“We’ve got to get out of this weather. Can you stand up?”
Gripping Corrie under her arms, Nora tried to help her to her feet. Corrie cried out and staggered, sinking back to her knees, cradling her left arm. “I think it’s broken,” she gasped.
“Hold it still with your good arm,” Nora said. “It’s only a hundred yards to the tent.”
She helped Corrie up, bracing her by the shoulders, trying to avoid the broken arm. Corrie managed to remain standing, and one painful step at a time, they reached the tent and got inside. Unfortunately, there were no blankets or sleeping bags—just tarps. Nora laid Corrie down and covered her with several. Then she rummaged in the equipment box and pulled out a camp stove, along with packets of tea, sugar, and cocoa.
“Better get Fugit in here,” said Corrie.
“Screw Fugit,” Nora said as she set out the stove, fired it up, and poured water into a pot. The wind was now shaking the tent, the rain pounding down, making an almost deafening noise.
Corrie shook her head. “No. Key witness. Can’t let her die.”
“I’m going to make cocoa first, because we’re both suffering from hypothermia.” Nora dumped cocoa into the water and stirred, dissolving it. When it began to simmer, she poured out two mugs and put one in Corrie’s pale hand.
“Thanks.”
Nora helped Corrie raise the mug to her lips and take a sip, then another. In between, Nora drank hers, feeling the warmth slide down her throat. The effect was dramatic as strength and mental acuity immediately flowed back into her body.
Nora got out the medical kit and sorted through it for ibuprofen, giving two pills to Corrie and taking the same dose herself. Corrie had finished her cocoa and Nora poured out two more mugs.
“Let me see your arm,” she asked Corrie.
Corrie eased her left arm out from under the tarp, wincing. With great care, Nora took a pair of scissors from the medical kit and cut open the sleeve to expose the skin. Corrie’s forearm was oddly crooked and already sported a massive purplish welt—a bad break, but at least it wasn’t a compound fracture.
“That must hurt,” said Nora.
“You have no idea,” Corrie said. Her voice was stronger now. “Look, if you don’t help Fugit, she’s going to die.”
Nora nodded. “I’ll go get her.”
She wrapped rain gear tightly around herself, even though she was already soaked through, then opened the flap. Wind and rain gusted in, lashing her skin. Hunching into the tempest headfirst, she went to where Fugit lay prone. The president’s eyes were slits, and rain-diluted blood was pooled on the ground beneath her. She looked dead.
Nora knelt, put her finger to the woman’s neck. Still a pulse.
“I’m going to move you into the tent.”
Fugit gave a moan.
God, how was she going to do this? The woman’s shoulder was shot to pieces. It looked terrible.
While she pondered the problem, Fugit moaned and turned her head toward Nora. She wasn’t sure how conscious the woman was—if at all.
“I’m going to have to drag you,” Nora said. “By your feet.”
Nora grabbed Fugit’s boots, braced herself, and started pulling. The grass was wet, which made sliding the body easier. She pulled, rested, pulled again, moving a few feet each time. Fugit made no sound. It seemed she had definitely lapsed into unconsciousness.
With a final struggle, Nora got the woman into the tent and onto a tarp. Now she could examine the wound more closely, cutting away Fugit’s rain jacket, coat, shirt, and bra strap to expose the area. One bullet had only grazed her, but the other had gone in through the back of the shoulder and come out the front, expanding as it exited. The wound was ugly, but it was just oozing now, no longer bleeding heavily, and it appeared to have been well rinsed by the rain.
Nora carried the medical kit over, smeared some antibiotic ointment on a pad, pressed it gently against the wound, then bandaged it in place. When she was done, she covered Fugit with plastic tarps. Then she returned to Corrie.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
Corrie tried to smile. “Better.” She looked over at Fugit. “We need to get a medevac up here. Where’s the sat phone?”
“Down in the camp.”
Corrie hesitated. “I hate to ask…”
“I’ll go make the call. You just watch Fugit in case she revives.”
Corrie eased her good arm out from under the tarp and Nora saw she had her Glock in it. “Sorry I can’t go with you. I just don’t want her to die.”
“I don’t, either. She has a lot to answer for.” Nora stood up. “I’ll be back.”
After getting the number from Corrie, she went out again into the driving rain and staggered over to Fugit’s horse. It looked miserable, soaked and steaming. Nora swung into the saddle and set off, a fresh blast of rain hitting her face.
Under the downpour, the empty camp looked bedraggled. She tied up the horse and went into the equipment tent, found the phone, and dialed the number Corrie had given her.
An Agent Morwood answered immediately. “Swanson?”
“Nora Kelly. It’s an emergency. I’m up at the campsite with Agent Swanson—”
“The campsite? In that storm?”
“It’s a long story. Corrie’s injured. She’s got a broken arm. There’s been a shooting. Clive Benton is dead, Dr. Fugit is shot and badly wounded. We’re going to need a medevac up here.”
“What the devil happened? Can I speak to her?”
“She’s uptrail. Too much to explain. Just get a medevac to the dig site.”
“Right, I’m on it. Stay by the phone.” He hung up.
Nora shut the phone, took a pack from storage, put the phone in it, tied on two sleeping bags, and went back out into the storm.
She arrived at the dig site ten minutes later, shivering afresh. She tied the horse outside the tent and carried in the sleeping bags. One she unzipped and laid over Fugit as a makeshift blanket. She took the other one to Corrie.
“Can you get out of your wet clothes and in here?” Nora asked. “You’ll be a lot warmer.”
“I think so.”
Nora helped her remove her sopping clothes and slide naked into the sleeping bag. She was shocked by how many bruises covered Corrie’s body. It must be the avalanche; Nora probably looked the same herself.
“What did Morwood say?” Corrie asked, clutching the bag to her chin.
“He’s getting a medevac.”
She nodded, still shivering.
At that moment the phone rang. Nora answered it, putting it on speaker.
“Agent Swanson?” came the voice. “Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Tell me how you’re hurt.”
“A broken arm, some bruises. I’ll be fine. But Fugit’s going to die if she isn’t medevac’d out of here soon.”
“I’ve been working on it. It’s hell to put a bird in the air in this storm. But they’ve got two heavy-duty search and rescue choppers flying up from Sacramento: a primary and a backup. We’re looking at ninety minutes. Can you hold out?”
“Nora and I can. Not sure about Fugit. And, sir—Fugit should be put under arrest.”
“What did she do?”
“Murder, attempted murder.”
“Jesus. I’ll send in a marshal with the chopper.”
“Thank you.”
A pause. “Corrie,” said Morwood. “What in God’s name is this all about?”
Corrie seemed to hesitate. “It’s about Parkin, sir. Parkin’s skull. Beyond that, I’ve no idea.”