Kovacs unlocked the front door and shoved me through it. The cold, musty smell of the ski house brought back the nights I’d spent lying in Connor’s arms, talking, making love. I was not going to die here, in the place our baby had been conceived. Neither was she, and neither was her father.
He led me through the great room to the hall on the other side. There were three bedrooms off this hallway, I recalled. The first door led to the room where Connor and I had slept. Kovacs pushed me inside and examined the door handle. It had no lock. I could’ve told him that—there were no locks on any of these bedroom doors. He checked the en suite bathroom, which did lock, but from the inside, with one of those flimsy push-button things. Even with my hands zip-tied behind my back, I’d be able to undo it. Kovacs realized that, because he brought me out to the bedroom and started looking all around, presumably for something to tie me to. I remained docile and compliant, my eyes cast down, so he wouldn’t think that I was plotting my escape.
He pushed me down face-first onto the bed, and I heard him stripping off his belt. Was he going to rape me? Beat me? Adrenaline surged, my body tensing for a fight. Instead, he threaded his belt through my zip-tied hands and yanked me to my feet, dragging me toward the gas fireplace. He pushed me to a sitting position on the hearth, running the belt through the handles of its wrought-iron doors and buckling it so I was lashed to them by my zip-tied hands. The motion forced my arms up behind my back. I cried out in pain.
“Please, that hurts so bad. Can’t you tie me in front?”
He stormed out and slammed the door.
I was alone. I caught my breath and took stock of my situation. I had nausea and double vision—probably a concussion from being punched in the head. I was on the edge of hysteria with worry about Connor. I was terrified to try to escape. But I had no idea whether they’d follow through and get medical attention for Connor. If they didn’t, he would bleed to death for sure. And then they’d come right back here and get rid of the witness—murder not just me, but my baby. I had to get free of the restraints and get out of here. It wouldn’t be easy, and I couldn’t be sure that I had the strength or the cunning. But there was no other choice. And there wasn’t much time.
Although my hands were tied in back, Kovacs had left the tension on the belt relatively loose. I was able to stand to a crouching position, with enough leeway to move side to side about a foot in either direction. I turned sideways to examine the fireplace. The surround was made from rough-hewn stone, with a sharp edge. It took some maneuvering, but I was able to get myself into position to rub the zip-tie on its corner. That hurt like hell on my swollen wrists, but I kept going—for three minutes, five? Sweat broke out on my forehead and ran down the side of my face. Nothing was happening. It wasn’t working. I was using up my strength and getting nowhere.
I needed a different plan. These ties could be broken if you applied enough force. I’d need to slam the tie hard against the stone, but I’d be doing it blind, with my hands behind my back.
On the first attempt, I missed and slammed my hand into rock by mistake. The pain made me dizzy. I waited for my vision to clear, then looked over my shoulder, trying to memorize the distance to get the trajectory just right. I swung. Success. The zip-tie popped open and fell to the floor.
There were deep gouges on my wrists and cuts on my hands, but first aid would have to wait. I put my ear to the closed door and listened. The house was quiet, but that didn’t mean it was empty. They’d probably both left with Connor, but it was possible that one of them had stayed behind to guard me. I moved silently into the hall, where I stopped and listened again, struggling to focus my attention given the pain and fog in my head. I didn’t hear anybody. I had the advantage of knowing my surroundings. This house and Baldwin Mountain were both imprinted on my memory. I bypassed the great room and hurried to the kitchen, where I grabbed a carving knife from the block before slipping into the laundry room. From here, I could access the garage. I couldn’t open the garage-bay doors without attracting attention, but I recalled that the garage had a pedestrian door. I wasn’t exactly sure where it led, but it had to come out behind the house somewhere. From there it would be a short dash to the woods.
The garage had three bays, all empty. Shelves and hooks along that wall held some basic equipment—rakes, shovels, a coiled hose—but nothing I could use to defend myself, and no jacket to keep me warm. I hadn’t changed clothes or shoes since Dubai, and I wore a pair of cute, flimsy flats that were no match for the rugged New Hampshire terrain. I grabbed a couple of trash bags and a roll of duct tape and headed for the rear door. Just as I grasped the handle, the whir of a motor kicked in, and the middle bay door began to rise.
Shit. They were coming back. So soon? What did that mean for Connor? I wanted to run toward the incoming car and find out how he was. But I might be met with a bullet.
Heart racing, I stepped outside, pulled the door closed behind me. It was very early morning, just beginning to get light outside. The ground was wet and uneven, with patches of white from an early snowfall standing out here and there against dead brown grass. My feet got instantly soaked as I sprinted across the lawn and dived into the woods.
There was no trail here, just closely packed evergreens with dense brush in between, and it was almost too dark to see. Branches sprang back as I moved, clawing at my face. I stopped for long enough to slip the roll of tape over my wrist and tuck the trash bags into my waistband. At least now I could use my free hand to keep branches out of my face, clutching the kitchen knife in the other to defend myself. The ground sloped downward treacherously as I forged ahead. My breath rasped in my ears. My feet were going numb from the cold, and I had a terrible stitch in my side. But they could be right behind me, and I couldn’t afford to stop again. There was a trail here somewhere—if only I could find it. I’d hiked this mountain in years past, though the last time was probably a decade ago. Unless its path had changed somehow in the years since, it would take me to a trailhead on the main road below. I could flag down a passing car for help.
As I pressed on, the ground got rockier. My little flats kept coming off my feet, and after the fourth or fifth time, I gave up and threw them in the bushes. That was a mistake. Ten minutes later, my feet were so cold that they were burning with pain. I had to do something, or I wouldn’t be able to continue walking on them, and I’d get frostbite. Ahead, a steep drop-off looked impossible to navigate, but when I reached it, I was able to pick my way around the side. At the bottom of the drop, a boulder provided cover from above. I sank down in its hollow and examined my feet. They were a mess—red, swollen, blistered, and bleeding. Cutting pieces from the trash bag, I taped them on for makeshift shoes. I cut a neck hole in the second bag and pulled it over my clothes for warmth. A shaft of morning sunlight filtered through the trees. In the quiet that enveloped me here, I felt hysteria building. If I thought about Connor, about whether he was dead or alive, I’d break down. I had to keep going.
I got to my feet, listening intently. The sounds were those native to the woods—trees creaking, leaves rustling in the wind, the warble of birds. Kovacs and Juliet must have discovered by now that I was gone. I had to assume that they’d set out after me and were gaining on me. I took a deep breath, gathering my strength. The air smelled of pine and wet leaves. And then I saw it—straight ahead, a slash of blue paint on the bark of a tree. A blaze. I’d found the trail at last.
For the next hour, I managed the steep descent down the side of Baldwin Mountain. Recent rain had left the exposed trail slippery and muddy, with patches of snow glittering in the hollows. I skidded and fell more than once, then struggled to my feet and went on. Drained and panting, I thought the ordeal would never end. But then I spotted the trailhead, and my spirits lifted. I came to the edge of the woods. The parking lot was ahead just through these last trees, the road on the other side of it. The sun broke through and glinted off something. Something metallic. Shit. A car, waiting there. I stopped short and pulled behind the trunk of a tree. A black car.
The Suburban.
Kovacs stood beside it, a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes. As I watched, he swept the woods, then stopped.
He’d seen me.
I backtracked, breaking into a run, bushwhacking parallel to the road in the hope that I could find another route out. The thick brush slowed me down. I could hear him behind me. To my left, a car sped by. The road was right there. I turned downhill, running, and began to skid, falling, making the last few yards on my butt. The pavement was straight ahead. I jumped up and stumbled out into the road, gasping for breath.
It was a quiet, two-lane road. I knew it well. And no surprise in the late morning, it was empty of traffic.
I broke into a run. I knew exactly where I was. About a mile from here was the ski resort. Early November—it wouldn’t be open yet. Still, there might be someone there, someone who could help. There might be a phone. I hoped to God there was, because the police station was at least five miles in the opposite direction.
I panted, running full out, my feet in their plastic wrap exploding with pain. I looked over my shoulder. Nobody there. Where had he gone? Was Juliet with him? A minute later, I checked again, and had my answer. The Suburban was barreling toward me. At the same moment, a truck rounded the bend, coming from the other direction. I ran into the road, waving my arms frantically. The driver slammed on the brakes.
A youngish guy with a baseball cap rolled down the window.
“Are you crazy? I could’ve killed you.”
“Help! I’m a waitress at the Baldwin Grill. That guy in the Suburban kidnapped me, and I escaped. He’s after me.”
He looked through the windshield. The Suburban slowed down as it approached. Kovacs was watching us. The driver took a second to weigh what to do. A crazy woman wearing a plastic bag—you don’t just let her in your truck.
“Please. I’m begging you.”
The terror in my voice was unmistakable.
“Get in,” he said.
I ran around and jumped up into the truck, and he floored it.
“I’ll take you to the police station.”
“Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Shit,” he said, eyes on the rearview mirror. “He’s turning around. He’s gonna follow us. Here. Call nine-one-one.”
He tossed me his phone. I dialed the cops, telling them where we were, what was happening, describing the truck and the Suburban. The dispatcher said she’d send a patrol car right away.
The truck sped along the windy road, fishtailing around curves, the Suburban close behind. With several miles still to go to the police station, we heard a loud metallic clang.
“That asswipe dinged my truck,” the driver said. “You want to shoot back, I got a gun in the rack. Can’t do it while I’m driving.”
Just then, we heard the sirens. Suddenly the road was full of police vehicles. The driver skidded off the road, onto the narrow shoulder.
“Get down,” he said.
I threw myself to the floor, hunkering into the footwell. Outside the truck, shots rang out. I covered my ears with my hands, cowering.
The shots died down, and the driver raised his head. He was pulling himself up onto the seat when a second round of shots broke the silence. The windshield exploded, raining chunks of blue-green glass over us. I ducked, arms over my head. The next time I looked up, the driver’s face was covered in blood.
“Oh, my God. Are you hit?”
“I didn’t feel anything.”
He put his hand to his head. It came away bloody. “Shit. It must be a graze.”
“I am so sorry to put you through this.”
“I been shot at before. Deployed a couple times. Don’t expect it around here, though.”
After that, we stayed on the floor for what felt like forever. Silence reigned. We waited.
“Are they all dead?” I whispered.
In the distance, more sirens shrieked, moving closer by the second. We heard cars pulling up, doors slamming, voices shouting. We stayed down. They were going car to car. From the radios, we could tell it was cops.
“Stay down till they tell us, or they might shoot,” the driver said.
I nodded.
“I’m Tabitha, by the way.”
“Alex.”
“Thank you for saving me, Alex. I owe you big-time.”
“Happy to help. You can pay for the windshield, though.”
“You got it.”
Eventually, someone came to the driver’s-side door of the truck. It was a cop, in uniform.
“You folks the ones that called this in?”
“She did,” Alex said. “Says the guy in the Suburban kidnapped her.”
“Yeah, we got him. Are you Tabitha Ford?” the officer asked.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Police down on Long Island had an APB out on that vehicle. We were specifically told to look for you.”
“What about my husband? Is he all right?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that.”
“Was there anyone in the Suburban other than the driver?”
“A woman.”
“Officer, please. My husband was shot. I’m so scared. He’d lost a lot of blood. If he wasn’t at the hospital—if he’s not in the Suburban—I know where he might be. Can you look for him?”
I gave the cop the address of the ski house.
“We’ll send someone right over there,” he said. “You all sit tight and wait for the paramedics.”
He strode away. Eventually, they took us from the truck and put us in an ambulance. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles hurt my eyes. I didn’t see that officer again. I asked everyone I encountered what had happened to Connor, but nobody could give me an answer.