Meghan opened the backpack. She pulled out a handful of $20s. “See if we gather some tundra grass. We’ll use this as a base for the campfire. We can have a big fire.”
With the fire pit ready, Meghan pressed wads of $20s into the pile of soggy twigs and wet grass.
“What are you doing?” Matthew asked.
Meghan continued to build a small pile of cash within the mound. She removed the oil dipstick. Using another wad of $20s, Meghan coated the bills with oil. She made sure the wad slathered in syrupy black goo.
“You should change your oil more,” she said of the consistency.
“I thought motor oil doesn’t burn,” Matthew said. He kneeled beside the cold campfire, watching with fascination.
“Normally, you couldn’t throw a match into the oil. This smells a little like gasoline, and it will work in our favor. Motor oil had a flashpoint around 400°F to 500°F depending on the viscous or additives. A campfire burns around 1000°F.”
Matthew sat, watching her work. Next, she found the battery compartment under the seat. She selected a random wire from the machine. They weren’t going anywhere, so pulling something from the crankcase wasn’t detrimental. Meghan peeled away the plastic wire coating with her teeth.
“Metal conducts electricity. You know that” she explained. Meghan grabbed the oil-soaked wad of $20s and wrapped it around the wire. “Remember this the next time you’re without a lighter in the wild.”
Matthew nodded. It was hard not to like the young man. It was never far from Meghan’s mind that he’d beat a woman to death with a hammer. So, keeping him in front of her was easy. She handed him the flashlight. He fixed the light on her busy hands.
Confident, her wet gloves protected her from an open flame; Meghan put the oil-rich $20s around the raw wire in the palm of her left glove. With her right hand touching both ends of the cable to the battery terminals and waited.
It took longer than she expected. “Normally, steel wool works best,” she said defensively. Then they saw the spark. The electrical current heated the money and oil to its flashpoint, and the wad ignited in her palm. For the moment, as Meghan transferred the burning bundle of money to the rest of the waiting pile, she felt triumphant. Prometheus handed her the gift of fire and life.
The fire took time to build. It took a little more oil. She fed it more money. After an hour, the grass, green branches of dwarf dogwood dried out enough for the fire to warm them. The fire continued to spread through the debris, burning higher and hotter for the blazing light to reach out for miles.
Meghan settled down, facing the fire, the rifle at her back. She had to keep her eyes open. Matthew sat on the ground opposite her, where she could keep an eye on him and the fire.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Matthew asked. His face had chafing, bruising, and a combination of windburn, possibly frostbite, and fighting with Norman.
“I don’t know, Matt.” It was the best she had to offer under the conditions.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Elation came from within with a little help from hope. Seeing the landing lights on the fuselage of the small plane in the distance made Meghan’s sinuses prick with relief. She held back the tears, not giving away too much to her companion. The cold had crept into her joints and chilled her muscles. Exposure didn’t happen all at once. It took time, curbed by the fire. Meghan knew they’d lose out to nature, but she didn’t share that with her captive.
So far, Meghan dazzled the young man with the production of fire using electricity and oil and a handful of cash. Showing a look of spiritual bliss seeing the Cessna gliding over the landscape toward them, wasn’t something she wanted to share with a killer.
Matthew’s meandering confession started with an admission of murder and turned into a one-sided therapy session. He had recounted the destruction of his childhood. All the things that eventually led up to using a hammer on an old lady, she caught him stealing from her.
All that time, Meghan held her tongue. She didn’t interject. She reserved judgment for the legal experts. Her job was to report what she discovered.
The belly of the Cessna flew so low over the tundra that standing on the running board of the Polaris, it looked level, sometimes below Meghan’s eye line because the plane traced the valley that sometimes went lower than where the two of them waited. She wanted Matthew to think she’d planned the rescue.
She watched Matthew throw his arms up as the plane approached. With the storm over, the sky clearing, small plane clearance put search and rescue into action. Eric, Oliver, and the rest communicated and organized anyone ready to seek out Lester, Meghan, and the fugitives.
When the Cessna flew directly over Meghan, she saw the belly of the guide plane. Neil Holt piloting, flipped off, and on the landing lights to let them know, he saw them. She wasn’t worried. The black smoke and high lapping campfire were projects that Matthew continued. It kept him busy, kept his mind off what came next. Meghan sat on the saddle of the snowmobile for hours as the young man gathered more grass and small branches to
