Chill Factor (7 page)

She motioned toward his eyes. "You've got—"

"Frost? You've got it, too. It'll go away in a minute." She
brushed
the ice crystals from her eyes and nostrils,
"
I've
never been exposed to the elements like this. Never. Nothing more
extreme than getting caught in the rain without an umbrella."

She got up and crossed the room to the wall thermostat. After
setting the gauge, she heard the reassuring whir of moving air coming
from the vent in the ceiling. "It'll get warm in here soon." As she
moved back toward the sofa, she said, "I can't feel my toes or fingers."

He put his middle finger between his teeth and used them to
pull off
his glove, then motioned her toward the sofa on which he sat. "Sit down
and take off your boots."

She sat down next to him and removed her gloves, then worked
her
feet out of her wet boots. "You knew these weren't going to keep my
feet dry."

"It was a safe guess."

Her socks were wet, as were the legs of her slacks from the
knees
down. Her outfit had been chosen for fashion, not for protection
against blizzard conditions.

He patted the top of his thigh. "Put your leg up here."

Lilly hesitated but then settled her leg across his thighs. He
removed her thin sock. She didn't recognize her own foot. It was as
white as bone, bloodless. He pressed it tightly between his hands and
began to chafe it vigorously;

"This will hurt," he warned.

"It does."

"Got to get the circulation going again."

"Have you ever written about surviving a blizzard?"

"Not from firsthand experience. I realize now just how smug
and
uninformed that article was. Better?"

"My toes are stinging."

"That's good. Blood is returning to them. See? Turning pink
already.
Give me the other foot."

"What about yours?"

"They can wait. My boots are waterproof."

Lilly switched legs. He peeled off her sock, closed his hands
around
her foot, then began to massage feeling back into it. But not quite so
briskly as before. He lightly pinched each toe. The pad of his thumb
followed the curve of her arch, forward toward the ball of her foot,
back toward her heel.

Lilly watched his hands. He watched his hands. Neither spoke.

Finally, he sandwiched her foot warmly between his palms. He
turned
his head, bringing them face-to-face, so close she could see individual
eyelashes left wet by melting frost. "Better?" he said.

"Much. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He made no move to release her foot,
leaving it to her to
withdraw it from his hands. She lowered her leg off his thighs. Taking
a dry pair of socks from her coat pocket allowed her to move away from
him without it being awkward.

She watched him from the corner of her eye as he bent down and
untied the laces of his hiking boots. But even when they'd been loosed,
he remained bent forward. He propped his elbow on his knee and rested
his head in his hand.

"Are you going to be sick again?" she asked.

"I don't think so. Just a wave of dizziness. It'll pass."

"You probably have a concussion."

"No probably about it."

"I'm so sorry."

Her apologetic tone brought his head up. "Why should you be
sorry?
If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have crashed your car."

"I couldn't see beyond my hood. Suddenly you were just there,
right
in front of me, and—"

"It was as much my fault as yours. I saw your headlights
coming
around the curve. I didn't want to miss my last hope of getting a ride
into town, so I started running full out. Gained too much momentum
coming down the incline. Next thing I know, I'm not
at
the
road, I'm
in
the road."

"It was stupid of me to brake so hard."

. "Reflex," he said with a dismissive shrug. "Anyway, don't
blame
yourself. Maybe I was put in your path for a reason."

"You probably saved my life. If I'd been alone, I would have
stayed
in the car and been frozen by morning."

"Then it's lucky I came along."

"What were you doing up here on the peak on foot?"

He bent down and began tugging off his right boot.
"Sightseeing."

"Today?"

"I was hiking along the summit."

"With a storm bearing down?"

"The mountains have a different kind of allure during the
winter
months." He took off his second boot and tossed it aside, then began to
massage his toes. "When I got ready to head back into town, my car
wouldn't start. Dead battery, I guess. Anyway, rather than follow the
road and all those switchbacks, I decided to take
a
shortcut through the woods."

"In the dark?"

"In hindsight, it wasn't the smartest of decisions. But I
would have
been okay if the storm hadn't moved in so quickly."

"I miscalculated, too. Stupidly I fell asleep and
…" She stopped
when she noticed that he was blinking rapidly as though to ward off
vertigo. "Are you about to pass out?"

"Maybe. This damn dizziness."

She stood up and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Lean
back, lay
your head down."

"If I pass out, wake me up. I shouldn't go to sleep with a
concussion."

"I promise to keep you awake. Lie back."

Still he resisted. "I'll get blood on your couch."

"I hardly think that matters, Mr. Tierney. Besides, it's not
my
couch anymore."

He relented and let her press him back until his head was
resting on
the cushion.

"Okay now?"

"Better, thanks."

She went to the other sofa and, being chilled in spite of her
coat,
wrapped herself in the knitted throw.

Although Tierney kept his eyes closed, he said, "Not your
couch
anymore? I'd heard this place was on the market. It sold?"

"The closing was yesterday."

"Who bought it? Someone in town?"

"No, a retired couple from Jacksonville, Florida, who want to
spend
their summers here."

He opened his eyes and looked around the main room. The cabin
had
every modern convenience, but it had been built and decorated to look
rustic, in keeping with the mountain setting. The furnishings were
oversize and homey, designed for comfort rather than show.

"They bought themselves a great second home."

"Yes, they did." She glanced around the room, gauging the
sturdiness
of its construction. "We'll be all right here, won't we? For the
duration of the storm, I mean."

"What's your water source?"

"A reservoir on a plateau about midway between here and town."

"Hopefully the pipes aren't frozen yet."

She got up and rounded the bar that separated the main room
from the
kitchen. "We have water," she announced as it sputtered from the faucet.

"Got anything to collect it in?"

"Kitchen utensils were included in the sale of the cabin."

"Start filling every pan and pot available. We need to collect
all
the drinking water we can before the pipes freeze. Lucky you had that
food with you. We won't starve."

She found a roasting pan she had used one Thanksgiving and put
it in
the sink beneath the faucet. As she came back into the main room, she
motioned toward the hearth. "There's firewood stacked on the porch."

"Yeah, but I noticed when we came in that most of it is wet,
and the
logs haven't been split."

"Very observant of you."

"I have a knack for taking in details quickly."

"So I've noticed."

"When?"

"When?" she repeated.

"When did you notice my knack for taking in details? Tonight,
or
during that day last summer?"

"Both, I suppose. At least on a subconscious level." She
wondered
what details about her his keen blue eyes had taken in quickly, both
tonight and last June.

"Why did you call him?"

His blunt question seemed out of context. But it wasn't
really. She
glanced toward her cell phone, which she'd laid on the coffee table,
within easy reach should it ring.

Before giving her time to answer, he said, "I heard you got
divorced."

"We did."

"So why did you call him tonight?"

"Dutch is Cleary's chief of police now."

"I heard that, too."

"He'll be handling emergencies caused by the storm. He has the
authority to get help to us if he can."

He mulled that over for several seconds, then glanced toward
the
door. "Nobody's coming up here tonight. You realize that?"

She nodded. "I think that for tonight we're on our own." In
reaction
to her sudden nervousness, she shoved her hands deep into her coat
pockets. "Oh, the first-aid kit," she exclaimed. "I'd almost forgotten
it."

She pulled it from her pocket. It was a small white plastic
box with
a red cross on the lid, something a conscientious mom would pop into
her tote bag before an excursion to the playground. She opened it and
checked the contents.

"There's not much here, I'm afraid. But that head wound should
at
least be cleaned with one of these disinfectant pads." She looked at
him dubiously. "Do you want to remove your cap yourself, or do you
trust me to do it? Either way, Mr. Tierney, I'm afraid it's going to be
painful."

"Lilly?"

"Hmm?"

"Why have I suddenly become
Mr
. Tierney?"

She shrugged uneasily. "It seems, I don't know, more
appropriate
somehow. Under the circumstances."

"The circumstances being that we're stranded together for an
indefinite period of time and dependent on each other for our survival?"

"Which is rather awkward."

"Why awkward?"

She frowned at him for being obtuse. "Because, except for that
day
on the river, you and I are strangers."

When he stood up, he swayed noticeably. But he was steady
enough on
his feet as he walked toward her slowly. "If you think we're strangers,
then you're not remembering the day we met the same way I remember it."

She took a step back and shook her head, either to clear it of
memories of a sun-sparkled day or to stave him off. She wasn't
sure which. "Look,
Tierney—"

"Praise be." He flashed the engaging smile she remembered with
unsettling detail. "I'm back to being Tierney."

"Tierney?" Special Agent in Charge Kent Begley repeated the
name.

"That's right, sir. T-i-e-r-n-e-y. First name Ben," replied
Special
Agent Charlie Wise.

Everyone in the FBI office in Charlotte called Charlie Wise by
his
nickname, Hoot. Someone—no one could remember specifically
who—had
linked his last name to a hoot owl. The moniker was doubly apropos
because he wore tortoiseshell eyeglasses with large, round lenses,
making him resemble an owl.

Begley was peering through those lenses now, directly into
Hoot's
unblinking eyes, giving him one of the incisive stares that his
subordinates called nutcrackers. Behind Begley's back, of course.

Begley was a staunch born-again believer, always having at
hand the
large Bible with his name engraved in gold lettering on the black
leather binding. It had the worn look of being read frequently. He
quoted from it often.

One of the notches on Begley's rigid moral yardstick was the
usage
of foul or suggestive language. He had no tolerance for it and didn't
allow it from the men and women serving under him. He used it himself
only when he felt it was absolutely necessary to getting his point
across—which was about every ten seconds.

Hoot was a confident, capable, and unflappable agent. He
quailed
less than most beneath Begley's nutcrackers. No one knew his accuracy
on the firing range, but indisputably he was a quick draw on a
computer. He excelled at research, and there his talent was
unsurpassed. If Hoot couldn't uproot needed data, the data didn't exist.

He met his boss's hard stare with aplomb. "I've been looking
at Ben
Tierney for several days now, sir, and some interesting facts have
emerged."

"I'm listening."

Begley motioned him into the chair facing his desk, but since
he was
still giving Hoot the look that said the agent better not be wasting
his time, Hoot began talking even before he sat down.

"Over the past couple of years, Ben Tierney has been drifting
in and
out of the area, specifically Cleary, every few months. He stays a few
weeks, sometimes a month, then moves on."

"Lots of weekenders up there. Vacationers," Begley said.

"I'm aware of that, sir."

"So what makes him special? Do his visits to Cleary coincide
with
the disappearances?"

"Yes, sir, they do. He stays in a lodge about two miles from
the
center of town. Private cabins with kitchenettes, decks overlooking a
waterfall, and private lake."

Begley nodded. He knew the type of place Hoot described. There
were
hundreds of them in that area of the state, where tourism was a main
source of revenue for the small mountain communities. Outdoor
activities like fishing, hiking, camping, and kayaking were huge draws.

"According to the lodge's manager, Mr. Tierney always reserves
the
largest cabin. Number eight. Two bedrooms, living area with a
fireplace. And this I think is significant. He does his own cleaning.
No matter how long he stays, he picks up clean linens at the
registration desk twice a week and declines the daily housekeeping
service."

"Hardly a smoking gun, Hoot."

"But odd."

Begley left his desk and moved to the easel holding the
cork-board
that Hoot had brought into the office in advance of their meeting. On
it were tacked photographs of the five women missing from the Cleary
area, along with compiled data on each: DOB, driver's license and
Social Security numbers, date of disappearance, physical description,
family members and close friends, interests and hobbies, religious
affiliations, level of education, bank accounts or other sources of
funds—none of which had been tapped—location of
where she was last
seen, and anything else that might help locate the woman or point to
the unknown subject who had abducted her, who in this case had been
nicknamed Blue.