Chapter Twenty-Four

The Park Ranger Ford Explorer chews its way along the fire road across the back of the hill. Maddie Cook thinks about the partial message on the radio—a call-to-assist, the sheriff's department requesting a unit to Elk Lake.

The message sounded like the tail-end of a multi-agency request.

She listens for any more coming in from dispatch.

Radio coverage is sketchy this side of the hill, a known drop-out spot, shielded from the mast on the plateau.

The fire cut is little more than a cleared path between trees. A forest crew grubbed it free of dog sapling, the back end of summer. It's flat. It runs practically on a contour line.

Beneath the old-growth trees, the pack snow is firm, the Ford’s winter tires gripping. She'll be alright.

A call-to-assist was likely somebody reported missing, somebody getting into difficulty. She gives a shake of the head.

People set out with no respect for conditions. A winter storm like this, you'd have to have a screw loose.

She thinks of her son—wonders if the school bus is running, if it’ll get him home. She's left pot-roast. All he has to do is put it in the oven.

She smiles, thinking of him. Can’t help it.

The radio stays silent. Static bursts, nothing more.

The woods are thinning, the fire road reaching a junction up ahead.

She knows she’s coming to Logging Road 57.

57 runs all the way up to the plateau, right up to the side of Elk Lake.

At the bottom it’s likely blocked, between the Rochford end and about half-way—she thinks of open pasture, the snow would be deep there, most likely that’s the reason for the call.

Up on the plateau she can check out what's going on. The radio signal will be strong—she can get a heads-up.

She reaches the end of the fire road, makes a left at the junction with 57, to head up the hill.

She shivers despite the warmth in the cab; the road here more open to the sky, the snow worse, wind able to sweep along it. Nice enough in summer. In winter, not so much.

Nobody's likely to be up here, Maddie thinks. In fifteen years on the job, she's learned who's going to be where, and when.

In the depths of winter there's places in the forest you can drive all day, hardly see another person. No loggers. The trail's are closed to riders, it's not hiking country, not if you’re sane, not in this.

She keeps the Ford working its way up hill, low gear, moving steady.

Rounding the bend is a traverse of 57—where the subsoil's gone.

She sees two men.

Plus an upturned vehicle—off the road.

The vehicle's on its side, smashed against the trunk of a Black Hills spruce—two wheels hanging in the air.

One of the men is on his hands and knees—the other standing in the road, doubled over.

She lets out a low whistle.

Lets the big Ford slow.

Belaski tries to keep from vomiting, hands gripped around his legs, above his knees.

Behind him, Anthony's dazed, sucking down air.

Belaski hears the engine note, lifts his head—stares downhill, down the track.

An SUV is at the bend in the forest trail—a Ford—a light bar fixed across its roof.

He glances uphill at the Pathfinder—Lauren’s slumped against the side-pillar, covered in shattered glass, pinned against her seat by a branch.

He turns back to the SUV—pain thrumming inside his head.

The vehicle’s stopped. It’s just waiting in the falling snow, wipers flicking back and forth.

He puts a hand inside his coat pocket, closes it around the butt of the SIG.

The driver’s door opens.

A woman steps out. “Are you folks alright?”

She’s wearing a brown uniform—bib jacket, lug boots.

“Is anybody hurt here?”

If she has a weapon, she's making no attempt to get it. Concern is in her expression—but no alarm.

Her chestnut hair blows loose around her face.

“My sister's trapped...” Anthony calls out

The woman shifts her weight. “You have somebody trapped?”

Belaski’s mind races, calculating; the way he learned in schoolyard fights.

The woman starts to walk up the track.

Squinting as she approaches, Belaski sees the embroidered badge on her coat; National Park Service.

He studies her face.

She pauses, looks at him.

He stands, breathing hard in the snow. She has no idea who they are.

“Let me take a look,” the woman says. She starts forward again—then stops, suddenly.

Her face turns uphill—she stares at something—up the logging road, her mouth part open.

Belaski twists around, ignoring the stab of pain in his neck.

Two riders are at the head of the track, men on horseback. He sees the outline of a rifle across the first man's back. Recognizes the red and black plaid coat of the other rider.

A sensation rips through him—he snatches out the gun from his pocket.

Pushes himself upright behind the woman.

Puts the gun against her head.

Coburn wheels his horse in the middle of the trail. “That's him,” he says, “that’s Anthony down there...”

Whicher takes in the two men and a woman stumbling down the hill to a Parks Service SUV. One of the men is young, blond—the other man holding something that looks like a gun.

Whicher takes out the Glock, racks it. “US Marshal,” he shouts. “Drop your weapon...”

The gunman shouts something at the woman—she gets into the vehicle, into the driver's side. The man raises his gun arm.

Whicher digs his heels into the flanks of the mare. The horse takes off.

Two shots snap out.

The marshal flattens to the mare's neck, holds the Glock clear of her head, fires—three shots, in quick succession.

The horse pulls sideways, bolts.

The shooter fires back, Whicher clings on—the horse is in a flat gallop, he yanks the reins, tries to pull her back.

Her head snaps sideways, feet skidding in the snow. He clamps both arms to her neck. A shot cracks; louder, flatter—Coburn, behind him.

The mare is skidding, her legs splayed. Whicher shifts his weight as she slides, tries to turn back up the hill.

Ripping the stirrups from his feet, he grabs the horn of the saddle, swings a leg across her back.

He jumps, hits the snow—rolls, winded.

The mare charges back up the hill.

Whicher scrambles behind the trunk of a tree. The rumble of a motor reaches him—the SUV.

He fights for breath, levels the Glock, edges out, stares down the iron-sight. He can just see the blond kid get in the front passenger seat, the gunman getting into the back.

He breaks off, turns to Coburn, on the hill. “Stay there,” he shouts, “don't come down.”

The ranch owner's horse is stamping, turning, Whicher's mare already gone.

The marshal breaks cover, the SUV is starting to back down the hill.

He braces his arm, draws a line—he can't shoot—the gunman’s in the rear, the woman and the young man up front.

In the corner of his eye he sees a vehicle—off the road, crashed.

The SUV is backing and backing.

Whicher starts to run down the hill, boots hammering the snow.

He stares at the crashed vehicle—a Nissan Pathfinder, over at forty-five degrees.

The SUV disappears around a bend.

Whicher checks for the tell-tale smell of gasoline. A low branch is piercing the Nissan, he sees the outline of a head.

Blonde hair.

He steps to the high-side of the vehicle, opens the door.

Lauren DeLuca.

He takes off his hat.

A tear is sliding down the side of her face.

She lifts her head, blue eyes wincing in pain.

“Alright,” he says, “it's alright...”

She’s trapped behind a thick branch.

Her mouth moves, but the words are too quiet.

He lowers the gun, leans in closer. “Don't try to talk.”

“No,” she mumbles. “No, no, no...”