Chill Factor (32 page)

He had relied on that instinct too many times to start
mistrusting
it now. Ducking his head against the wind, he plodded on, assuring
himself that if he continued on his present path, just a little
farther, he would soon find the road.

He did.

Not quite the way he expected.

He landed on it after a nine-foot plunge through thin air.

His right foot found it first. With the impetus of a pile
driver, it
tunneled through twenty inches of snow, striking the icy pavement below
with enough force to cause him to scream.

After announcing to Begley, Hoot, and Burton that he
considered Ben
Tierney their culprit, Ernie Gunn had nothing more to say. Without
another word, he resolutely escorted his wife to the door. Their
departure created a vacuum in Chief Burton's cramped office.

Begley broke the uneasy silence. "We need to talk to that
Hamer kid."

Hoot had predicted that would be Begley's next step. "It'll be
interesting to feel his pulse about Millicent's disappearance."

"Hold on a minute," Burton said. " 'Feel his pulse'? Scott and
the
girl were sweethearts a year ago, so what?"

"So, we want to talk to him. You object?" Begley's nutcracker
dared
Burton to put up an argument.

"I'd like to notify Wes first."

"Why?" Hoot asked.

"This is a criminal investigation," Begley said. "Anybody is
fair
game, I don't care who his daddy is."

"Well, that's where we're different," Burton said
belligerently. "We
can't just show up on their doorstep and start asking questions about
Scott's relationship with a missing girl."

Begley actually laughed. "Why the hell not?"

"Because," Burton replied tightly, "that's not the way we do
things
around here."

"Well, the way you do things around here hasn't found those
women,
has it?" Burton's lacerated face turned even redder, but Begley held up
his hand to stave off whatever it was the police chief was going to
say. "All right, all right. Simmer down. Never let it be said that the
FBI violates local etiquette. Isn't Hamer bringing some sandwiches back
for our lunch?"

"Yeah."

"When he gets here, tell him that we want to talk to Scott.
Don't go
into details, just say we've got some questions for him. We'll head
over to their place after we've eaten."

Without so much as a nod, Burton stamped out.

"They're good friends," Hoot said after the chief of police
was out
of earshot.

"We'll have to keep that in mind."

Having said that, Begley requested some "quiet time." As Hoot
was
pulling the door closed, he saw the SAC reaching for his Bible.

In the anteroom, Hoot ignored Burton's jaundiced glance and
asked
the dispatcher for a working telephone line. He placed a call to
Perkins in Charlotte but got his voice mail. In a succinct message, he
told his associate about the power outage and the unreliable cellular
service.

"If you can't reach me by phone here at the police station,
call my
pager and punch in three, three, three. That'll signal me to check my
laptop for an e-mail."

As he was hanging up, Wes Hamer came in carrying a box full of
wrapped sandwiches. But lunch was superseded by his news of what was
being broadcast over local radio. Hoot said, "You can't be serious."

"As death and taxes," Wes said somberly. "Want me to drive
over and
tell them to cool it?"

"The horse is out of the barn," Dutch said, answering for
Hoot.
"Won't do any good to close the door now."

To Hoot's mind, Burton didn't appear to be too upset over the
untimely broadcast of Tierney's name. In fact, he seemed secretly
pleased. SAC Begley, by contrast, was going to go ballistic, and it was
Hoot's misfortune to be the one who had to inform him of the fiasco.

He got as many details as he felt were necessary, then left
the
others with the sandwiches and went down the hall to the private
office. He knocked lightly on the closed door. "Sir?"

"Come in, Hoot." Begley finished reading a passage of
scripture,
then closed his large Bible and waved Hoot inside. "Is lunch here? I'm
starving."

Hoot closed the door. Wasting no words on a preamble, he gave
Begley
the news straight out.

The SAC banged his fist on the desk and surged to his feet. He
spattered the walls with shouted obscenities. Hoot remained judiciously
silent until the eruption had subsided to a slow boil. "Sir, the only
good thing is that the station's listening audience is small, and only
those who have battery-operated radios are tuned in today."

Hoot recounted the information he'd gotten from Dutch and Wes.
"The
two deejays—for lack of a better word—are local
men. They retired from
the forestry service a few years ago and, for something to do, began
broadcasting a local news program, like a community bulletin board,
each Saturday morning. It went over well and was expanded to seven days
a week. They're on the air from six A.M. till six p.m., and most of
their programming is chatter."

"They enjoy the sound of their own voices."

"Evidently. They play music, mostly country, and give weather
reports and news, but basically they're glorified gossips. It's a very
unsophisticated operation. They broadcast from a room in the Elks'
lodge, but they have an emergency generator, so they've been able to
stay on the air in spite of the power outage."

Begley rounded Dutch's desk, grinding his fist into his other
palm.
"If I ever find out who leaked the story to these loudmouths, I'm going
to kick his ass so high, he'll be farting out his ears."

Hoot could think of no appropriate response to that, so he
waited
several seconds before speaking. "I don't believe we'll ever know who
the culprit was, sir. It could have been any number of people."

"Well, whoever it was, he shot our discretion all to hell."

"Yes, sir."

Begley's frown deepened. "Hoot, we've got to make damn certain
we
get to Tierney before anybody else does."

"I couldn't agree more."

"Grab a sandwich, then call the Charlotte office and order a
chopper." Jabbing the space between them with his index finger, he
said, "I want a helicopter and rescue team up here, and I mean
A-fucking-Sap."

Hoot glanced out the window.

"I know, I know," Begley muttered irritably. "But I want a
chopper
here as soon as one can fly through this shit. Got it?"

"Got it, sir."

Begley headed for the door, then paused. "And, Hoot, keep all
your
communiques with the Charlotte office private. The less the folks
around here know about our plans, the better."

"Even the police?"

Begley opened the door and said out the side of his mouth, "
Especially
the police."

Pain sucked the air out of Tierney's lungs. Tears froze as
soon as
they formed in his eyes. Lying flat on his back, he cursed lavishly and
loudly, in agony and outrage.

When the first searing pain receded, and it actually began to
feel
good just to lie there in the snow, he knew he was in serious danger of
freezing to death. That was how it happened; it gave the victim a false
sense of comfort.

It took a tremendous amount of willpower, but he forced
himself to
move his injured ankle. The pain that shot up through his leg made him
gasp, but at least it yanked him out of the deceiving comfort into
which he'd been lulled.

He sat up. His head reeled, so much that he clasped it between
his
hands in the hope of stopping it from spinning. He barely had time to
pull the scarf away from his mouth before he retched into the snow. He
threw up only sour bile, and the stomach spasms reminded him how much
his ribs hurt.

He took several deep breaths, then, putting all his weight on
his
left leg, he stood up. He tested his right ankle by rotating it slowly.
It hurt like bloody hell, but he didn't think it was broken. That was
something. At this stage, anything short of outright disaster seemed
like good fortune.

He set out again, now using the snow shovel as a crutch.

In his effort to keep moving, he lost all sense of time and
distance. His ankle was a new focus. He could feel it swelling inside
his boot. Actually, his tight boot would probably help keep the
swelling to a minimum. Or would it cut off the blood supply and cause
frostbite? Gangrene? Why couldn't he remember basic first aid? Or his
zip code? Or his telephone number in Virginia?

Jesus, he was hungry. But he was also gripped by nausea that
resulted in agonizing dry heaves.

He was cold to the bone, yet his skin felt feverish.

But the worst was the goddamn dizziness.

A fatal blood clot, jarred loose by his hard landing on the
road,
might even now be wending its way through his blood vessels to his
brain or lungs or heart.

Random and bizarre thoughts such as that flitted through his
mind
like fireflies. They winked out before he could grasp and assimilate
them. He was rational enough to recognize the onset of delirium.

Actually, his various pains were friends. Without them, he
might
have drifted into a state of euphoria, lain down, rested his cheek on a
bosom of snow, and died. But the pains were persistent. Like spiked
prods, they deviled him to continue. They kept him awake, on his feet,
moving, alive. Meanwhile, his reason was shrieking for him to stop. Lie
down. Sleep. Surrender.

CHAPTER  22

Why? What for? Why me?"

"Will you calm down?" Wes said, raising his voice above
Scott's.
"They're not coming here to accuse you of anything."

"How do you know?"

"Even if they do, you've got nothing to hide. Right? Right,
son?"

"Right."

"So why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not."

In Dora's opinion, he was.

Scott was inordinately nervous about talking to the FBI
agents. His
eyes darted restlessly between her and Wes, making him appear guilty of
something and contradicting his claim that he had nothing to hide.
Wes's calculated nonchalance was equally troubling.

"All they're after is some background information on
Milli-cent,"
Wes said. "Dutch said it's routine."

"They could get background information on Millicent from a
hundred
other sources," Dora said. "Why have they singled out Scott?"

"Because he was Millicent's steady boyfriend."

"That was last year."

"I know when it was, Dora."

"Don't take that tone with me, Wes. My point is that a lot
happened
to Millicent between last spring, when she and Scott broke up, and last
week, when she disappeared. Why is her past relationship with him
relevant?"

"It isn't, and that's what Scott will tell them." Turning to
him,
Wes said, "They'll probably just want to know how long you and
Millicent dated and why you broke up." Wes looked hard at Scott; Scott
looked back at his father.

Dora looked at both of them and immediately sensed an unspoken
communication. They were keeping something from her, and the omission
was infuriating. "Scott, why
did
you break up
with Millicent?"

"He's told us why," Wes said. "The new had worn off. He got
tired of
her."

"I don't think that's all there was to it." Looking directly
into
her son's face, she gentled her voice. "What happened between you?"

Scott rolled his shoulders as though trying to shrug off the
question. "Just like Dad said, we, you know, just lost interest in each
other." Dora silently communicated her doubt. "Jeez, don't you believe
me?" Scott shouted. "Why would I lie about it?"

"Maybe for the same reason you sneaked out of your room last
night."

He looked like he'd been hit between the eyes with a
two-by-four. He
opened his mouth, then shut it quickly, apparently realizing the
futility of denial.

She turned to Wes. "This morning I discovered that the
security
alarm contact on his bedroom window had been disabled."

"I know."

It was now Dora's turn to feel as though she'd been struck.
"You
know}
And you didn't tell me?"

"I know everything that goes on in this house," Wes said
smoothly.
"For instance, I know that he rigged the alarm when he was seeing
Millicent. He often sneaked her into his bedroom after we'd gone to
bed."

He must be telling the truth, she thought. Scott's cheeks were
flaming.

"It doesn't surprise me that he sneaks out occasionally," Wes
continued. "It's no big deal."

She looked at her husband with incredulity. "I disagree."

"He's almost nineteen, Dora. Kids that age keep late hours. Or
don't
you remember what it's like to be young?"

Enraged by his condescension, she closed her hands into fists.
"It's
not that he's keeping late hours, Wes. It's that he's doing it
sneakily." She turned to Scott. "Where did you go last night?"

"Nowhere. I just… walked.
Breathed
.
Because I can't stand
to be cooped up in this house all the time."

"See?"

She ignored Wes. "Scott, are you doing drugs?"

"Jesus, Mom, no! Where'd you get that idea?"

"Drugs would explain your mood swings, your—"

"Will you relax, Dora?" Wes said, continuing in the
patronizing tone
she despised. "As usual, you're blowing this out of proportion."

She would not be swayed. "If it's not drugs, it's something
else.
What are you hiding from us, Scott?" She kept
her
voice soft and caring, nonjudgmental, nonthreatening. Going to him, she
took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "Tell us what's going on.
No matter how bad it is, your father and I will stand by you. What is
it? Do you know what happened…"

She paused, unable to finish the dreaded question without
taking a
fortifying breath. "Was there more to
your
relationship
with Milli
cent than met the eye? Have the
authorities
discovered something that—"