Chilled (A Bone Secrets Novel) (13 page)

“Alex told me just before you hollered me over to the cockpit, Jim.” Brynn subtly placed her body between Jim and Alex.

Alex met Jim’s stare directly. “I didn’t see the need to reveal the name before. But I think you need to know the type of person we’re dealing with now.”

“Dealing with? We’re not dealing with him. We’re getting out of here as fast as we can. There are no victims to help, and we don’t hang around to rescue serial killers who walk away from plane crashes.”

“He must have known the one pilot survived,” Brynn spoke.

“One lived?” Alex’s voice lifted, his dark eyes brightened.

Brynn touched his arm, shaking her head. Her heart cracked at the hope in his gaze. “He didn’t make it. He survived the crash and hung on for a long time, but he’s gone now.”

Alex stepped past them and ducked into the cockpit.

Jim eyed the hulk of metal. “I can’t believe Darrin Besand survived this crash. And I can’t believe Alex didn’t tell us until now. Anyone see any footprints?”

Thomas and Brynn shook their heads. It was a useless question. Too much snow had fallen overnight.

“Maybe he parachuted out.”

“Linus’s gun and holster were gone. I didn’t find a cell phone either.” Alex spoke behind them as he stepped out of the plane, his face emotionless. “Besand was here when the plane went down. He might have lifted weapons off the pilots too. I can’t tell. But he’s definitely armed.” Alex took a deep breath. “I’m sure Besand’s left the area, trying to hike out on his own. He knows his way around the wilderness and isn’t about to hang out waiting for a rescue team who’ll throw him back in jail. I’m going to suggest you guys get Ryan and head back to camp. I need to stay and try to track Besand.” Alex paused. Then he slowly but firmly stated, “I can’t let him walk out of this wilderness.”

Brynn lost her breath at the vengeance in his eyes.

Sheriff Patrick Collins was outside enjoying his morning coffee and scone and watching the media reassemble in their corral when a small helicopter buzzed his base camp. The copter swung in low and thundered in Patrick’s ears before making a beeline up and over the forest in the same direction that had been taken by the hasty team. Patrick swore at the retreating metal, his appetite evaporating.

“Goddamn stupid bastards. They’re gonna get themselves killed.”

Tim Reid jogged over. “Who the fuck was that? Was that a media bird?”

Patrick shook his head. “Liam Gentry and that cocky brother of his.”

“Liam? He convinced Tyrone to take him out in this shit?” Reid stared in the direction the copter had disappeared. Patrick gripped his coffee tighter as a strong gust of wind tried to blow the paper cup out of his hand.

“They’re gonna get blown out of the sky.”

“Are you sure that was Liam?” Reid’s forehead creased as he tried to comprehend the airman’s foolishness.

“I know it was.” The two men had waved directly at Patrick before flying into the Cascades. “That was his brother’s helicopter. We’ve used him before on searches.” Patrick had used Liam’s brother as little as possible. Tyrone had a nasty habit of taking unnecessary risks. Both brothers were brash pilots, but Liam exercised a little control. Liam knew if he wanted to continue flying the expensive, taxpayer-purchased birds, then he had to know when to pull back.

Patrick took a sip of rapidly cooling coffee and wondered what Liam’s commander would say about this stupid stunt. Patrick glanced at the crowd of media, speculating who would be the first to identify the helicopter and owner and then get the information on the air. One night had doubled the size of the crowd, and they were getting arrogant in their questioning. Patrick had held a brief press conference at seven o’clock last night, deliberately after the early evening news, and given as little information as possible.

He rubbed at his eyes. Three hours of sleep was taking its toll. So was the silence from his hasty team.

They’re a smart crew. No one knows the outdoors better.

But why had Alex Kinton gone to so much trouble to tag along with the team?

The question was giving Patrick a headache.

Paul Whittenhall strode up. The marshal had retreated to a hotel room for the night, and had now reappeared with two men outfitted for the wilderness. Patrick recognized one as the younger agent from yesterday.

“Who was in that helicopter? Did you finally get one off the ground? Have you heard from your team?” Whittenhall stopped directly in front of Patrick, rolling out his list of questions. Patrick coolly stared him down.

“That wasn’t one of my copters. Probably a media copter. You left strict instructions that you were to be notified when I heard from my team, so obviously I haven’t heard from them.” He struggled to keep his tone calm. He nodded at the two men behind Whittenhall. “Where are they going?”

“I’m sending in my own team. I’ve got a marshal and a felon out there. I want people with experience on the site.”

Patrick bristled. “You’re only sending two men? You need at least one more to go out in shit like this. I’ll find another—”

“No others. These guys know what they’re doing.”

Patrick watched the younger marshal’s Adam’s apple bob. His partner looked competent and prepared, but this guy looked scared to death. The agent had no idea what the fuck he was walking into. He’d probably never taken a sunny day hike in an open field.

“I can’t let you send—” Patrick started.

“You can’t stop me.” Whittenhall turned his back on Patrick to instruct his team. Patrick opened his mouth then clamped
it shut. He’d said his piece and Whittenhall rejected his offer. Reid had witnessed it. If Whittenhall came begging for help later, Patrick wasn’t going to waste taxpayer money on this jerk’s screwup.

“You’re on your own,” he muttered at the big man’s back. The young marshal’s eyes briefly widened at Patrick’s words, but Whittenhall ignored him.

Patrick put some distance between himself and the marshals. He needed breathing room. Reid caught up with him as he stopped at a sheltered table with coffee urns, scones, and doughnuts where Patrick warmed up his drink.

“Why’s he need to send in a team?” Reid complained. “We don’t even know where that plane went down. His guys are gonna be cut off from communication just like ours. It’s stupid to have two groups wandering around blind out there.”

Patrick nodded. His cell buzzed against his waist, and he glanced at the screen. He shot a look at Whittenhall, but he was deep into instructions with his own men. Patrick cocked his head at Reid, and they stepped around to the other side of the table.

“It’s Ryan,” he told Reid and spoke into his cell. “Collins.”

The connection was horrid.

“…found plane…coordinates…all different…” Ryan rattled off several sets of numbers that made no sense to Patrick as he scribbled them down on a napkin he’d snagged from under the doughnuts.

“Did you say you don’t know which coordinates are accurate?”

“…GPS…fucked up…all different…one of them should be right…three dead but almost…”

Patrick swore. “Who’s dead?”

“…can’t find…”

“Is everyone all right?”

“…sick…almost didn’t make it…”

“Ryan. The agent who’s with you. Kinton. He’s not a US marshal. He lied. No one sent him out there.”

“…what? Kinton, what?” The crackling through the cell made Ryan’s voice nearly indecipherable.

“Kinton’s not a marshal. We don’t know why he insisted on going with you.”

The line went silent. Patrick looked at his screen as it flashed the length of the short call. How much had Ryan understood? He tried to call the man back. No luck.

Patrick studied the napkin, disappointment swirling in his chest. If these were coordinates, they were crap. They were all over the place and missing numbers. Ryan was the best navigator he knew. The call must have dropped half of what he’d said.

“What’d he say?” Reid stared at the numbers with a scowl.

“They found the plane, but he seemed unable to get readings from their GPS units. For some reason the units are giving different readings.”

“One of them’s got to be right. Any survivors?”

“I don’t know. He said ‘three dead.’ He didn’t use the words ‘made it’ or ‘survived.’ He did say someone was sick.”

“Who?”

Patrick shook his head, hating the powerless chill that had crept up his spine during the call. “I don’t know what the hell’s happening out there.”

“You gonna tell Whittenhall?”

“Fuck, no.”

Paul Whittenhall thought Gary Stewart was going to vomit.

The deputy marshal’s lips were pressed together as if he was keeping his breakfast down. His gaze was all over the place, and he wasn’t focusing on Paul or listening to his instructions. Paul itched to smack some backbone into the agent.

Damn it.
Why wasn’t there someone else he could send out there with Matt Boyles? Stewart was more a pencil pusher than outdoorsman, but Paul needed someone who could keep his mouth shut and knew the stakes of the success of this mission. Boyles could be kept in the dark, but Paul needed Stewart out there in the woods calling the shots.

Boyles frowned at the map. “That’s a huge area to search for a plane. Why don’t we wait to hear from the other team? We don’t want to duplicate any area they’ve already covered.”

“Can you track the team? Can you just try to meet up with them?”

Boyles furrowed his brow, his eyes curious. “I can try, but the snow makes it nearly impossible.”

“I just want you to connect with the group that’s out there. Kinton’s a wild card. I don’t know what the fuck is going through his head. If he runs into Darrin Besand, he’s gonna kill him with no questions asked. And I don’t want to even think about the danger Kinton poses to the members of that hasty team. He’d risk their safety to get his hands on Besand.”

Boyles nodded slowly. “You think he’s that focused?”

Paul gave a rehearsed look of surprise. “You need to ask? You wanna see the scar he left on my stomach? Back then, Kinton lost every shred of common sense over one of Besand’s transports and took it out on me. Now he’s lost it again and I don’t want anyone else getting hurt. He’s a walking time bomb, and those
searchers are completely expendable to him. It’s our duty to get Darrin Besand safely to his next trial in Portland. I’m not going to let a hothead ruin the plan.”

Darrin stamped his feet. The copilot’s coat made him feel heavenly warm, but his damned feet were cold. He’d hoped to find an extra pair of socks in one of the pilots’ duffel bags but no luck. He did find sweatpants that he’d put on over his jeans and under his jumpsuit. The sweats were a little too short and tight. Darrin was tall and definitely not skinny, with a wide chest and shoulders. Before he’d gone to prison, he’d had a hard time getting clothes that fit properly.

That was one of the reasons he’d liked his job as a caregiver. Scrubs fit him easily. They came in all sorts of roomy sizes. He’d also liked the open access to a wide range of patients and medical personnel. Drugs too.

Darrin gently touched his left shoulder. In one pilot’s bag he’d found a bottle of Vicodin, which no sane pilot should be taking while flying. Darrin had immediately popped two in his mouth and washed them down with bottled water. Now the shoulder was feeling much better. His head too. As long as he didn’t move it abruptly.

When is the rescue group going to leave?

He was ready to get out of the woods. He’d follow them back, figure out a strategy for dealing with Alex Kinton, implement it, and then vanish before they reached their base camp. Had the plane wreck created much attention? There had to be media and cameras hanging around, waiting for their heroes to return. Briefly, he considered strolling out in front of the press. Being on TV was a head rush. And what a sensation it would
cause if the lone survivor of the plane crash walked out of the woods.

No. He had to leave. He had a new life and money waiting for him in Mexico.

He’d take care of Alex Kinton and then move on.

Darrin raised the binoculars. The group didn’t look like they were in a hurry to leave. In fact, they appeared to be having quite the argument. The three in the red SAR parkas were shaking their heads and disagreeing vehemently with whatever Kinton had suggested. Darrin grinned broadly. Kinton was a stubborn bastard when he put his mind to something.

Who’d told Kinton about the plane crash?

Darrin wouldn’t have been surprised to see a US marshal on the search and rescue team. After all, there had been an agent on board and the marshals were responsible for the transport. But there were no marshals in the group. Instead, here was a guy who hadn’t been an agent for over a year. Kinton shouldn’t know a thing about the plane.

Kinton should be standing at the airport in Hillsdale. As usual, waiting to glare at Darrin as he stepped off the plane. Alex Kinton had appeared in the airport every time Darrin had been transported by plane. Darrin had flown several times because three different states were building murder cases against him. Somehow, Kinton always knew when and where Darrin would be returning home, and he’d appear outside the security checkpoint, saying nothing, doing nothing. Simply watching with hard eyes and a face full of hatred. Like an angry superhero with his hands tied.