tired, that he would lie down and go to sleep. And die.
That meant Broker was still on the loose out there. Knew his kid was missing.
Gator pounded the steering wheel as he drove. Shit. One minute he was winning. And now…He caught himself when he saw the blue flashers light up the blowing snow a block away, heading out of town, toward 12. Okay. Think. He contained his rage long enough to figure out he didn’t want to drive his normal route home. Highway 12 in front of Broker’s house would be jamming up with Keith, Howie, probably the volunteer firemen who had an ambulance and were EMT certified. Lost kid in a storm. Cops would be coming from other counties, piling on.
He swung the truck in a U-turn on Main Street and headed west out of town, turned north on Lakeside Road. Cut over the top of the lake. Pick up 12 above Broker’s place.
He mashed his boot down on the gas, driving on pure adrenaline and instinct through the whiteout. Had the kid in the fucking trunk, Sheryl said. Tried to work it out in his head. Maybe strand the kid back in the woods. Make it look like exposure. Might work. I don’t know. He pounded the wheel with his fist. C’mon, Sheryl, don’t screw up. Gator leaned forward, willing the truck through the storm.
His other cell phone rang. He checked the connection. Cassie. Shook his head. Dropped the phone. Kept driving.
“Shit, hell, damn.”
Kit huddled, fetal, trembling, in the rocking black compartment. Swearing. They were the only three cuss words she knew. Mom let her sit under the kitchen table sometimes in the Stillwater house and swear, to work out her heebie-jeebies, Mom said. If Dooley was here, he could pray. But he wasn’t. So she turned her face away from the phone and swore. Swearing, she’d discovered, helped keep her mad at the man in the woods and the lady driving the car. Helped hold off the smothering fear.
“Shit, hell, damn.”
Her only other comfort was the bluish green light on the cell phone in her hand. Voices cut in and out like a bad radio station. Sometimes the 911 lady, sometimes her mom.
“Stay calm. We’re coming,” they said.
Desperate, she felt around in the dark, looking for anything. She was lying on a crinkly plastic sheet, all folded. When she probed her free hand under it, she found a flat metal box. Like they kept art supplies in at school. It took a minute to fiddle with the hasp, but she got it open and clawed around in this cold metal stuff. Tools. She selected a long screwdriver and clutched it in her hand.
“We’re com…ay calm….” the phone crackled in and out.
“When? When are you coming?” Kit pleaded to the blue-green wafer of light.
“We’re coming…”
Kit gripped the screwdriver, clamped her eyes shut. She was gonna die and go to hell and burn forever because she never went to church.
“Shit, hell, damn.”
Sheryl hunched rigid over the wheel, staring in pure terror at the white freezing world that had materialized again out of thin air and battered the windshield. It was totally out of control. Any second it felt like the windshield would implode and this white wave would engulf her. Fuckin’ Nissan handled like a boat, heaving though the greasy snow. Ice clogged the wipers, making this disconcerting clack, like two bones scraping on the glass. Barely make out the shoulders to either side. Could see maybe twenty yards, max.
Gator said, Take the kid to the farm, get her in the house, calm her down, give her some milk or something and find out what she knows.
Yeah, right. That kid? Good luck.
Finally, Sheryl saw a tiny smear of light in the blow, ahead on the right. Closer, she saw a red blur dancing in the white blast. The display tractor in front of Gator’s shop. For the first time since she’d wrestled the kid into the trunk, she relaxed her grip on the wheel.
Slowly, she guided the Nissan off the road, past the tractor, orienting now on the yard light fixed to the barn. She jumped out and was momentarily stunned by the force of the wind. Leaning forward, she slogged to the barn, gripped the sliding garage door, and tried to yank it open on the creaky rollers. The heavy wooden door moved an inch and stopped. She didn’t have the strength to break the bottom free from the snow jam. Frantic, she turned to the second door, on the left, where Gator kept the Bobcat. Room in there to park. Sobbing with exertion, aided by a surge of panic, she managed to move the door a foot and a half. It wasn’t going to happen. She stepped back, panting, furious when she saw the seam split on the shoulder of her good leather coat, all this gunky paint rubbed off, abrading the sleeve. Let Gator open the fucking door.
She turned and faced the Nissan.
Gotta do it. He’ll be pissed if I don’t get her inside.
She opened the driver’s-side door and hit the trunk latch, braced herself, and hurried around to the rear of the car. Lifted the loose lid.
“Hey. C’mon. Let’s get you inside,” Sheryl yelled, seeing the kid in the vibrating glow of the yard light, curled in a tight ball, eyes wide, angry; the cut across her cheeks streaked on her face like war paint. The kid didn’t move. “I’m trying to help you, goddammit,” Sheryl shouted.
The kid heaved up on her arms, looked around once, wild-eyed, then slumped back down. “Leave me alone!” she screamed.
“It didn’t have to be this way,” Sheryl screamed back, and she meant everything plus the storm that was driving her crazy. She lurched forward, plunging her hands to grab…
What? The kid rose to meet her, swinging something that gleamed. Ow, damn! Sheryl staggered back, clutching her left wrist, where it stung. Blood appeared in the white peeled-back skin between her glove and the cuff of her coat.
“Leave me alone!” the kid yelled again, reaching up, pawing at the top of the lid. Found a handhold and slamming it shut on herself.
“Suits me just fine, you little bitch,” Sheryl mumbled, turning, running toward the house. To hell with this. Let Gator get her out.
“We stopped, we stopped,” Kit, hyperventilating, unable to control her runaway breath, yelled into the phone, which she’d hidden beneath her when the lid opened. “I see a red tractor in a light. A red tractor in a light.” Shouted it over and over.
Chapter Fifty-three
Police tape clamored yellow in the fifty-mile wind. An ambulance sat halfway up the drive. Glacier County’s two police cars were parked at the foot of the drive. The state patrol cruiser was positioned at an angle across the road, to stop anyone driving by.
Nygard, Broker, and Nina were observing a local moratorium on bringing up Griffin’s name. A BCA Crime Lab van was en route from Bemidji to work the scene. It was all about Kit’s voice, patched through the radio.
They were hunched forward, holding hands, Nina in the passenger side, Broker in the backseat, listening to Kit’s voice cut in and out. Nygard stood outside, talking to a fire and rescue guy; his deputy was in the house with another fireman; State Patrol Sergeant Ruth Barlow sat in her car talking on her radio. Two more volunteer fireman in heavy parkas were tramping across the broad lot toward the woods with flashlights, poking the snow, marking the faint blood trail with Broker and Kit’s skis and poles from the garage. Going to locate the body.
Nina keyed the radio mike, spoke in a slow deliberate voice, “Stay calm. We’re coming.”
Just static.
The door opened, and Nygard jumped in behind the wheel. Removed his hat. Dusted snow from his neck and shoulders. Methodically, he removed his frosted glasses, took out a small plastic bottle, and squirted antifogging solution on them. As he cleaned them with a handkerchief, he asked, “Anything new?”
Nina shook her head. “Keeps cutting in and out. She’s still talking.”
“What’s that?” Nygard grimaced at the speaker box.
