Chilled (A Bone Secrets Novel) (8 page)

Where is Kiana?
She sucked in a breath and scanned for her dog, thankful for the dog’s absence. Hopefully, Kiana was hot on the trail of a rabbit or squirrel.

“What is making that fucking noise?” Alex’s voice was low, his gun and Ryan’s had joined the other two. Now four men had handguns trained on the bush.

“Bear. Black bear,” Ryan spoke from the side of his mouth.

“I can’t see anything.” Alex’s voice was a forced whisper.

“It’s definitely out there.” Ryan’s trigger finger lifted from the side of his gun.

Brynn grabbed two snow-covered rocks near her feet and hurled them into the brush. “Oh, for God’s sake. Yell, damn it! Don’t shoot the thing. Just make a lot of noise and yell.” She let out a holler that made Alex’s eyebrows jump. The male team
members let out piercing whoops, and she was rewarded with the sound of crackling brush and blowing as the bear ran in the opposite direction.

The men let out a collective sigh as their gun barrels drifted down. Except one.

“Fuck.” Alex stared into the brush, arms stiff.

“He’s gone.”

“How can you be sure?” His gaze didn’t leave the woods.

“He was just curious. They don’t usually attack.”

“Usually,” Alex said flatly.

Jim slapped Alex on the shoulder. “Put it away. We’ll hear him if he decides to come back.”

Alex slowly lowered the gun but didn’t tuck it back in his shoulder holster. “I can’t believe this.” He shook his head, his stunned gaze traveling from one searcher to another and then darting back to the forest, disbelief distorting his forehead.

Brynn sympathized with his shock, remembering the first time she’d come across a black bear while camping. She couldn’t have been more than six. The bear snatched the fish her dad had just caught and promptly ran off. She could still see the black, furry tush darting down the gravel road, a huge steelhead flopping in its mouth.

“I couldn’t see its brain,” Alex muttered.

Brain?
Brynn cautiously eyed him.
What in the hell is he talking about?

Ryan shouted with laughter, bent over, scooped a handful of snow, and nailed Alex with a snowball. “Next time I’ll tell it to hold real still so you can line up your shot.”

The second dose of ibuprofen was working on Alex’s head and leg as they pushed through the forest. His stomach had settled
and the shakes in his hands seemed to have subsided. The relief felt as good as a heated blanket tossed over his shoulders. Could the ibuprofen be helping his withdrawal? Hopefully, Brynn had enough to medicate him for three days.
Three days?
He shook his head in wonder. Was he going to be in the mountain snow for three days?

Would the results of this mission help him sleep better at night?

He had his doubts.

He absently touched his coat pocket. He’d placed his Beretta in the pocket because earlier he’d fumbled away precious seconds as he’d wrestled off his gloves and thrashed under his coat for the gun. He wouldn’t be caught unprepared again. He stared hard into the trees.

“Hey! Look at that!” Ryan’s shout brought Alex out of his mental bear-encounter preparations.

The line halted as four sets of eyes followed the direction of Ryan’s hand pointing up into the trees. Something pale billowed and fluttered thirty feet above their heads. Alex’s feet froze in midstep.
A parachute?

“Is that a parachute?” Brynn voiced his thoughts.

His Beretta instantly in hand, Alex quickly scanned their surroundings for signs of life, his heart in his throat. Nothing. All was quiet as microscopic flakes fell with silent speed. He raised his gaze again. Next to the white of the snow the parachute was yellowed and dirty. Ripped.

“It’s old,” Thomas muttered. “It’s not from our plane.”

Not from our plane.

Alex slipped his handgun back in his pocket and felt his lungs contract in regret and relief. Then pity. Who’d used the parachute? How long ago?

He concentrated on watching Brynn as she searched the ground, making a roundabout pattern that circled out from the trunk of the tree.

“I can’t see anything under all this snow,” she complained.

“Who’d it belong to?” Ryan whispered.

“Lots of people have gone missing in these woods,” Thomas said quietly. “Planes too.”

Alex couldn’t speak; he was nauseous. Had someone hung up there? Waiting for days on end? Waiting for a rescue that never came? Or had they died on impact? He glanced at Brynn. What was she thinking? She was still kicking at the snow, scowling and muttering to herself.

His ex-wife would have been near tears and frantic with shock and sympathy.

Brynn was looking for answers.

“Note the coordinates, Ryan.”

“Already done.” The deputy was scowling at his GPS. “This doesn’t seem right.”

Thomas glanced at Ryan’s screen then back at the screen of the GPS he’d pulled out. “Mine’s different. Way different.”

His forehead wrinkling, Jim studied the two units the men held out. He reached in his pocket and checked his GPS. Alex felt like a useless idiot. It was a foreign feeling.

“Mine’s different too.”

“What?” Brynn stopped and looked up in surprise. “How can that be? I could understand one unit malfunctioning, but how can we get three different readings?”

Alex blinked as suspicion crept up his spine.

“Something magnetic? Maybe there’s a meteor buried nearby.” Ryan sounded as confident as if he’d suggested fairy mischief.

“Could that cause it?” Brynn murmured. Everyone looked blank.

“I have no fucking idea what would affect them,” Jim admitted. “They get their readings from a group of several satellites. Maybe the storm’s interfering. But it shouldn’t be. These things are supposed to get accurate readings in deep chasms and through bad weather.”

Alex watched Thomas. The Alaskan’s face was expressionless as he studied his GPS and then the others’. Mistrust knotted Alex’s stomach. Could someone have tampered with the units?

His gaze went to each face, studying and assessing as his jaw tightened. He was starting to like these people and it was affecting his objectivity. Not good.

In Brynn’s stooped search position, a lock of hair came loose from her ponytail and she tucked it behind her ear. The woman genuinely cared about the people for whom she went on missions. It couldn’t be her. She wouldn’t put anyone at risk for any reason. More likely it was one of the men. Or someone at base camp.

Who’d want to keep us from finding that plane?

US Marshal Paul Whittenhall pulled Stewart aside, out of hearing range of that interfering sheriff. “Who’s available? Who can do this outdoor kind of snowstorm shit?” His heartbeat was doing double time and blood was pressuring the walls of the veins in his head.

Alex Kinton.

The name ricocheted through his brain like a Super Ball.

How in the hell had Kinton gotten out there?

Gary Stewart licked his lips. “Uh...Matt Boyles does this sort of thing, I think. He’s always going climbing or snow caving. He’s in Eugene right now, not too far away. I could call…”

“Call him.” Paul’s fist tightened on Stewart’s arm. “And tell him not to breathe a word to anyone else or he’s out of a job. It’s gonna be just the two of you going in after that search team.”

“Me?” Stewart’s eyes widened. “I can’t…” His dismayed gaze met Paul’s and he visibly fought down his panicked reaction. “Uh…Only two of us going after them? Don’t you think one more person—”

“No more. I want as few people as possible knowing about this. Get a hold of Boyles. I don’t care what he’s working on. He’s to drop it and get his ass up here. Then go to town and get your camping shit together. Collins said that team will be out there for two or three nights. That gives you plenty of time to get to Kinton.”

Stewart blinked. “But Boyles was—”

“Boyles is on a need-to-know basis. Just tell him Kinton’s cracked again and we’re worried about the safety of the crew out there. He’ll accept that.” Paul glared at the younger man, eyes burning. “And then I’ll have to trust your judgment on the best way to take Kinton down.”

Patrick Collins was being shut out and it was royally pissing him off.

The two federal agents had held a whispered conversation and then Deputy Marshal Stewart had jumped in the black Suburban and vanished while Whittenhall vented on his cell phone, waving Patrick off every time he’d approached.

Patrick didn’t know anything about Alex Kinton. He didn’t know who was on that plane. He didn’t know why Whittenhall appeared to be one symptom away from a stroke.

Anger simmered and smoldered in his chest. Patrick had way too many questions without answers. He chewed on his cheek.
What is the best way to get Whittenhall to talk?
Good thing Patrick had bucket loads of patience. With a little time, he’d figure out what made Whittenhall tick. He’d caught the nervous glances the marshal had cast toward him. A nervous man was usually a guilty man. Patrick just needed to find out why.

Tim Reid stopped beside Patrick. “Still not talking to you?” Reid’s gaze followed the marshal. Even Reid was picking up the nervous vibes Whittenhall shot out like ammo.

Patrick shook his head, lips tight.

“Why’re they all fired up about that Kinton guy?”

Patrick shrugged and didn’t answer. During their initial meeting, Kinton had been terse, direct, and determined to get to that crash. Not bad things to be, Patrick believed. That was the kind of person he needed on his hasty team.

But obviously Kinton had made the early morning phone calls to Patrick. He’d talked himself onto Patrick’s team by posing as his boss. Ex-boss. All the facts and logic pointed to Kinton as a manipulative liar. That was
not
the type of person he needed on his hasty team.

Heat shot up Patrick’s throat.

Why? Why did Kinton need to get to that plane?

Patrick glared at Whittenhall still yapping on his cell phone. That asshole knew why. And he wasn’t telling.

“So what if Kinton’s an ex-agent? What’d he do, kill someone?” Reid was muttering to himself, not expecting answers.

“He can’t hurt anyone out there. Everyone on that plane is gonna be dead. No one survives that sort of shit.”

“Shut up,” Patrick snapped.

Patrick hated that kind of pessimism. It was too early in the game. People survived out in the elements when no one should have. Patrick cut out the amazing stories and kept them in a notebook. Especially the plane crash stories. Children who lived even when their parents didn’t. Seniors with broken bones who survived nights of subzero temperatures. The human spirit was amazing. It drove people to achieve the impossible.

Patrick never said never.

It was his duty to hope for the best. He’d be letting down the people on that plane if he didn’t. They deserved every effort he had to give.

Reid hadn’t flinched when Patrick told him to shut up. The easygoing deputy was the type who let everything roll off his back. Sort of like the soggy snow was doing right now. The rain had turned to snow exactly at noon. Already the puddles were showing thin sheets of ice forming at their edges as the temperature dropped. The promised cold front had blown in with a vengeance.

Patrick glanced guiltily at the Madison County RV pulling into the clearing. His new headquarters. He was going to have a roof over his head while his team struggled in that icy shit.

“Hey, Gentry!” Reid hollered, and Patrick’s gut clenched as he turned to see a tall man shake hands with a perimeter deputy and then stride confidently toward him and Reid, lifting a hand in greeting.

Shit. Not now.

Patrick didn’t want this guy in the base camp. The newcomer was a helicopter pilot for the nearby air force rescue squadron
and had assisted several times when Madison County Search and Rescue needed air support. Obviously, no flying could be done today. The wind and weather were creating near whiteout conditions in the Cascades and all helicopters were grounded back at the air force base. A pilot who couldn’t fly was a bundle of energy that Patrick didn’t need bouncing in his face today. Especially a pilot with a vested interest in the safety of the search team. Gentry would go ballistic when he heard about the suspicious circumstances with the ex-marshal. He’d immediately assume the worst for the security of the team.

Patrick pasted on a smile and greeted Brynn’s boyfriend.

“What do you know about that plane?” Liam’s forehead wrinkled in concern, nearly touching his dark crew cut as he questioned Patrick.

The pilot wouldn’t stop peppering Patrick with questions. When did the team leave? How long did he expect the search to take? Had he heard from Brynn?

Patrick shot a black glare in the direction of the US marshal. “I don’t know fucking enough about that plane.”

“I heard Darrin Besand is the escorted prisoner.” Liam dropped his voice.

Patrick’s eyebrows shot up.
Darrin Besand?
His skin crawled.

Besand had been sentenced to life in prison for a string of killings that went back twenty years. Raping and strangling women had been his favorite pastime. And he’d had no preference for age or race. No one had linked Besand to two-thirds of the killings until he’d confessed after his first trial. The killings were too varied. Detectives in eight counties and three states hadn’t realized they were looking for the same man.