Death's Last Run (15 page)

MARTHA

Martha shook her head to wake it up. She could feel her short hair's unruly appearance even before her bathroom mirror confirmed it as a mop of pure mess. She stepped onto her scale — one-eighteen, which was one pound less than the day before. She'd lost ten pounds in two weeks. Which was fine — she'd put on some weight since taking office. But she couldn't afford to lose more.

She slid on fuzzy brown slippers and padded into the kitchen. The moving box was still on the floor, taped up, marked
PRIVATE
in Sacha's forceful, seventeen-year-old lettering.

As Martha's head cleared, she began to feel dread. The previous day — the blogger, the terrible lunch with Hillier, the
TV
interview at LaGuardia where she had alienated the entire Republican Party by announcing a radical, unformed policy — it was a giant, awful haze.

She'd spent her whole adult life being careful. She even watched what she said to the cleaning lady, lest it be quoted later. What had possessed her to undo all that in one day?

She called Ted.

“Good morning, Martha.” His voice was heavy; his syllables lasted longer than usual. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.” Martha was surprised to realize this was true. “Did you?”

“No. I've been up all night.”

“I haven't changed my mind, Ted. I'm dropping out of the race.”

“I guess you saw the news, then.”

Martha didn't think there was any news that could shake her, short of finding out that the corpse Fraser had flown to Whistler to identify was not, in fact, Sacha's.

“Hillier announced his endorsement. He's backing Kearnes.”

“I see.” Martha surprised herself by caring. She wasn't aware until that moment how much she wanted the nomination. Oh well — too late. “If you'd like to work for another campaign, I'd be happy to provide a reference.”

“There's no one else I want to see as president.”

“That's nice, Ted. Thank you. If you change your mind, the offer's there.”

“So you're dropping out.” His voice was flat. “I should draw up the paperwork.”

“Do I have any other options? Your voice is saying no.”

“Of course you have other options. Do you think Hillier controls the state of Michigan?”

“You seemed to think he did a few days ago.” Martha glanced at her coffee wall unit in irritation, wondering why it hadn't warmed up yet. Stupid thing had cost a fortune, it should make her day more, not less, efficient. She lifted her eyebrows and pressed the On button.

“It will be hard without Hillier. I'll be honest — we'll probably lose. And this new narcotics position of yours won't help. That's the reason he cites for not endorsing you.”

“Please. Hillier wants a cabinet post.”

“True. But his official statement says . . . never mind.”

“I can take it, Ted. Read me his statement.”

Martha heard Ted's fingers fly over his keyboard for a few seconds before he started reading, “He says, ‘My original plan was to endorse Martha Westlake. But when I heard her supporting recreational drug use, I knew she had lost touch with her voters — and very likely with herself.

“‘I wish the Senator good luck. Grief is so challenging, and the loss of a child is the worst kind of grief. I'm sure she'll return to her senses one day. But she's too much of a wildcard right now. I encourage my congregation to vote for Geoffrey Kearnes in the Michigan Republican primary.'”

When Ted went silent, Martha realized that everything she could clench was clenched — her shoulders, her teeth, her grip around the phone.

“I'm sorry, Martha.”

“I'm staying in the race.”

“What?” A ray of hope shot through the phone. Martha could hear that Ted wanted this, almost as much as she did.

“Hillier is lying,” Martha said. “He wants the cabinet post. He would have grabbed at any straw to get away from backing me.”

Ted exhaled audibly. “While I was up last night, I did some researching. It's going to be a hard sell, but I think we can work legalization into your hard-line anti-drug platform.”

“Of course we can.” Martha willed herself to sound more positive than she felt. Ted was good, but Martha didn't know if he was
this
good. “South and Central American countries have been making intelligent arguments for this for years. And Mexico. I met with Ernesto Zedillo last year at Yale. If it wouldn't have been political suicide, I might have entertained his arguments more seriously.”

“Good,” Ted said. “We'll play it like you've been a long time mulling. We'll say you took Zedillo's comments seriously but only now are you acting, because you needed intense research and contemplation to satisfy yourself that they're workable.”

Martha smiled. She could hear the strain in Ted's voice. This was going to be stretch. “One more chance to leave,” she said. “With a glowing letter of recommendation.”

“Stop saying that. I told you, I've been up all night for
you
. Do you want to hear your new platform?”

“Sure, but in person. Can you be in New York this afternoon?”

“I'm on the next plane. Can you hold off on leaving your house — or answering your phone — until we have your new platform in order?”

“Unfortunately, no. I have a lunch I agreed to attend several weeks ago.”

“Okay. So let me give you some sound bites.”

Martha smiled as she pressed the button on her coffee machine. “Don't worry,” she said over the whir of the grinder. “I'm back.”

CLARE

Clare liked riding in Chopper's truck. It was a big red Dodge diesel and it bounced up and down with the highway. The radio was tuned to a country station as Chopper navigated the snowy curves with confidence. What had she even seen in Noah, old before his time, preferring jazz to any music recorded in this century? She was glad to be with a real man for a change.

After twenty minutes or so of highway driving, Chopper pulled onto an unpaved side road. He drove a hundred meters or so before stopping.

Clare tried not to show her dismay that there was nowhere in sight that a human could conceivably call home. She tried not to recall the
Sopranos
episode where Silvio took Adriana into the New Jersey woods to whack her. She tried not to picture Adriana crawling away from the truck, screaming “No!” while Silvio popped two bullets into her back.

Chopper cut the engine.

Clare wanted to ask how Chopper knew, how he'd found out she was an undercover. She thought of the memory stick — the conversation she'd recorded in the bar — sealed tight in one of her secret inside pockets. Maybe the answer was on there? Or maybe he'd seen the transmitter on his beer glass at Avalanche. No wonder Chopper wanted her to think Sacha had killed herself — he'd been lulling Clare into a false sense of security.

Clare needed to find a way out of this.

Chopper turned in his seat to face Clare. “You ready for a sled ride?”

Damn. Was a “sled ride” snowboarder slang for bumping someone off? Chopper looked friendly enough asking the question — but Silvio had been upbeat on the car ride with Adriana.

“Sure,” Clare said, because she couldn't tip him off that she suspected anything was wrong. She could get out of the truck and run, but where would she go that Chopper wouldn't be able to chase her? And if he caught her, he would win.

Man, Clare must be stoned. Wasn't paranoia one of the side effects?

But not all fear was paranoia — especially not when a killer was in town.

Chopper trudged through deep snow to the back of the truck. Still in the cab, Clare looked back to see Chopper sliding a ramp out and easing his snowmobile to the ground. Clare felt incredibly stupid. A sled ride was a snowmobile ride. She knew that.

Still, where the hell were they? She got out of the truck and slipped through the snow to meet Chopper at the back. “You said we were going to your place.”

“We are. I live up Cougar Mountain.”

“Why aren't we taking the road?” Clare eyed a wide pathway not far from where Chopper had parked.

“It's a logging road. It isn't plowed beyond that point you can see. Come on. You can have the helmet.”

Aargh
. How could Clare sound like Lucy and figure out if it was safe to get on the snowmobile? She had to rely on the lying tells she'd learned in agent training in Quantico. She said, “You could have told me you didn't live in civilization before you lured me with promises of coffee.”

“Would you have come?” Chopper's grin was symmetrical and slow to develop — both signs of sincerity. He handed Clare a small knapsack. “Here. Put this on.”

“What is it?” Clare slipped the straps around her arms.

“Avalanche pack. Pull the cord if you feel any slippage underfoot — or under the sled skis. The pack will expand into a balloon on your back and keep you above the snow.”

Clare's eyes shot open. These woods felt full of risks she hadn't even considered. The moon was bright — nearly full — creating shadows in the trees that seemed to shift, like little animals. Snow created a white blanket that covered the ground. Clare wondered what the blanket was hiding.

“Avalanche danger is extreme,” Chopper said. “We're pretty safe in trees, but I'd feel like a jerk if I didn't let you wear the pack instead of me.”

Clare found that kind of sweet. Not a detail a murderer was likely to consider. Or was the avalanche pack the first thing Chopper planned to take from Clare's back when he killed her? “How come you live in a place where no roads go?”

Clare studied Chopper's eyes as he said, “I love privacy. I can retreat up there for days on end, if I want to. Plus I built the place myself — in summer, obviously, so I could use the logging road to truck supplies up.” Too much information? If so, it was a sign of lying. But no eye-flickering, no looking away. And also not overly intense. Seemed sincere.

“You live in a homemade hut? Is there electricity, or do we have to melt snow to make coffee by candlelight?”

Chopper laughed — easy, relaxed. “Is your mind still on coffee? No worries. I have a generator
and
running water.” His hands were steady. He wasn't touching his nose or covering his mouth. His legs weren't shifting or shuffling. All signs of sincerity.

But people could fake that shit. That was the other half of Clare's lying tell training — learning to look truthful under pressure.

Chopper locked his truck and handed Clare the helmet.

Clare fastened the strap. She felt like a kid on a first date — both terrified and thrilled. She sat behind Chopper and was at a loss for what to do with her arms. She looked down to see if there was something she could grip.

“Hold on tight,” Chopper said.

Clare shrugged, put her arms around Chopper's waist. He squeezed her gloved hand and said, “You ready?”

Damn
,
his touch felt good.

Clare felt her stomach jump as he zoomed up the snowbank at a near right angle before settling on terrain that was more trail-like.

“You all right?” Chopper shouted over the engine.

“This is awesome.” Clare felt wide awake and amazing. The snowmobile's speed felt as good as her motorcycle — which she missed like crazy in winter. If Chopper was leading her to a wooded death, at least she was getting one last adventure.

Chopper gunned the engine and rode faster. His body felt strong — and oddly warm, though he was covered in layers of snow clothing. The machine hugged the mountain like it was made to climb, like it was a mountain lion grabbing hold and clawing to the top. Despite all the sharp turns and steep inclines and trees right next to the path, Clare felt safe the whole way up. Chopper pulled to a stop outside a log cabin.

As he killed the engine and they climbed off the snowmobile, Clare felt giddy with relief. Seeing an actual home — as opposed to a clearing and a bloodstained ax — meant she was far less likely to be murdered that night.

Chopper unlocked the door, flicked a switch, and lit up the room. The ground floor was open concept. There was a kitchen in one corner with a hodgepodge of appliances that looked like they'd been dragged to the cabin from the 1950s. In another corner, a plush leather couch and two deep matching armchairs surrounded a rugged stone fireplace. In the middle of the room, a winding wooden staircase led up through a hole in the ceiling.

“How can you afford this? It must be way more expensive to build up here than to rent in town.” Shit. Maybe Lucy shouldn't be quite so curious.

“Totally more expensive. But worth it. I might not seem like a typical loner, but when I want to be alone, I want to be the hell alone.” Chopper grabbed some sticks and a thick log from the wood pile and put them into the fireplace. He crumpled up some newspaper and wedged it in, too. “You sure you want coffee, or would you rather have a beer? You might sleep better with beer. Or did you want me to take you home after the coffee?”

Clare laughed lightly. “A beer would be good.”

Chopper pulled a giant beer bottle from the fridge and poured it into two glasses. The bottle was still half-full.

“What kind of beer is that?” Clare tried not to sound suspicious asking.

“Howe Sound Rail Ale. It's local, brewed in Squamish. Come on, let's sit by the fire.” Chopper took Clare's hand and led her to one of the couches. “We need to keep each other warm.”

Clare let herself be led. The couch was comfortable. Even more comfortable when Chopper grabbed her by the waist and pulled her toward him so they were sitting right against each other. The coffee table was an old sailing trunk with a glass top. Clare set her beer down.

“What's this?” Clare picked up a blue plastic tube from the table. It looked like a cross between a mechanical pencil and an X-acto knife.

“That's a bear banger.”

“A what?” Clare was trembling with nervous attraction. She hadn't felt this way in ages — like since a year ago, when she'd met Noah. She wanted Chopper to make his move, but at the same time she wanted to prolong this part, this not-quite-anything where they both knew something was going to happen soon.

“You attach a tube of explosive to the end, shoot it out to make a big sound and scare away bears.”

“Where are the bears you have to scare off?”

“They live here. In the mountains.”

“They do? Should I be scared?” Like with avalanches, no one had briefed Clare about avoiding wildlife.

Chopper laughed. “It's winter. Bears are sleeping.”

“Oh.”

In the real world Clare would take action around now, maybe hook her thumbs into the belt loops of Chopper's baggy jeans.

As Lucy, she smiled shyly and was pleased that Chopper tightened his grip around her waist, pulled her closer, and leaned in for a kiss.