Death's Last Run (32 page)

The sky was getting dark. It was that weird time of twilight when you couldn't tell what was real and what was shadow. It was even darker in the trees, but Clare banked a sharp left to get back onto the trail they'd blazed from Chopper's cabin. Norris was only seconds behind, but at least this path was narrow and he couldn't head her off again.

Clare felt the front end of Norris' sled skis bump the back edge of her machine.
Motherfucker
. He was nearly close enough to reach out and knock her off her sled. Alone in the woods, with frostbitten hands, Clare would not stand a chance of survival. She had to stay on her sled — and keep it in motion — until they came across another person. A great plan, in the middle of nowhere.

She felt a solid bump. His machine connecting with hers. Which was fine in theory — the engines were in the front; he was more likely to damage his machine than hers. But Clare's frozen hands were having trouble holding on. She looked at her hands, imagined them enveloped in a warm protective orb — two orbs, one for each hand. And in the same thought, she knew that her mind was losing focus — the scene felt a bit like a dream.

Chopper's cabin was in sight, but an empty cabin wouldn't help if he and Jana weren't back from town.

Another bump from Norris. Man, Clare wished she had her gun on her. She was surprised Norris wasn't using his, but then that would be a dead giveaway, if Clare was found dead with a cop's bullets in her. She had to give him credit for a brain.

What could she throw at him? Could she rip off her other side mirror? Not likely, while she was trying to steer. Clare felt like the Road Runner. She needed a cliff to trick Norris into zooming over. Or was it the coyote who always won? Shit, her brain was getting wonky. Clare pulled her left, non-throttle hand in and warmed it on her skin under her shirt.

Pain sliced through her hand at its first contact with body heat, but Clare kept it there. She'd have to ride cross-handed soon, to warm up her right hand the same way.

At the cabin, Clare saw no sign of anyone else — no other snowmobiles parked — so she made a hard left, down the hill toward the highway. She knew this route better, having zoomed up and down with Chopper a few times, but she was still no pro. She couldn't dance with the curves like a local.

Norris lost a bit of ground, not being ready for Clare's sharp turn, but it didn't take him long to find his spot right on her ass again. Another bump of the sleds and Clare nearly lost her balance.

What Clare couldn't figure out was why Norris? Why would he have murdered Sacha and Richie? Was it as simple as them threatening to expose his dirty ways? Or was there someone else involved — the someone who had given Norris Clare's name? Someone in the
FBI
or
RCMP
? Someone pulling the purse strings from New York or Washington? For a split second, she thought of Noah — but that was crazy. She and Noah were working together; he wasn't working with Norris.

She thought again about the girl on the boat.

Clare saw a flash of yellow coming up through the trees below. A third engine's noise joined the chorus and Clare realized with a loud thump in her chest that this was Chopper coming home. She couldn't see if Jana was with him; she just pulled to one side of the trail so he didn't smash into her as he barreled up the hill. Norris seemed to take a couple of seconds to realize what was happening. He slowed, looked like he was about to follow Clare, then zoomed back onto the trail and rode fast down the mountain. The trail was wide enough for two sleds, barely, and Clare watched with nerves on fire as Chopper's sled cleared Norris' by a hair.

Norris was getting away.

Chopper — without Jana — pulled over to the side and stopped by Clare.

“My god; your hands.” Chopper pulled off his gloves and gently fit them on Clare. “We need to get you warm. Leave this sled here for now.”

“But . . . Norris.” Clare pointed downhill. Her teeth were chattering. She was surprised how hard it was to speak.

Chopper put his big yellow jacket on Clare and sat her in front of him as he rode up the mountain. Slowly.

She thought vaguely that she should be going down the mountain, back to the village, but Clare's mind was all over the place — mostly somewhere delirious. And a warm cabin sounded just right for right now. As she daydreamed, feeling Chopper's arms and gloves and jacket surrounding her, she wondered why Noah wasn't as cool or as kind to her as Chopper.

And as she drifted in this space, with Chopper carrying her into the cabin and talking to her in a low, gentle voice, Clare realized maybe it wasn't Noah's job to look after her. Maybe Noah was the one who had been in the cold too long and Clare needed to be there for him, to put her magic jacket around him and make him feel warm again.

MARTHA

Martha swirled the single malt around her glass. She couldn't peel herself out of Fraser's flaming red armchair to have her driver take her home to bed. “I think this is the ugliest chair I've ever sat in.”

“It's art,” Daisy said. “I thought you were supposed to be the sophisticated one.”

“And there, Daisy, is your fallacy. Contemporary art is nothing but narcissistic crap.” Martha had never voiced this particular opinion before, even internally. Half of her was pretty sure she sounded like a drunken fool; the other half thought she sounded brilliant. She raised her index finger and turned toward Fraser. “You and Daisy, letting Sacha drink underage at your parties . . . Daisy even giving her drugs . . . how could you
not
see you were confusing her?”

Daisy snorted. “Why don't you write a blog post exposing our laissez-faire parenting? Bore your remaining two followers into leaving.”

“I'm sht-still in the race.” Martha heard herself slur. Or was that stutter? “Unlike where my opponent is heading.”

“Yeah,” Daisy said, “and all the other contestants are having a field day. Have you even read the comment section of your post exposing Kearnes? People are divided into three camps: Those who were never going to vote for you, those who supported you until you alienated the religious vote, and those who liked your progressive new platform until you started playing dirty yourself. Everyone sees through your so-called confession as openly slinging mud at Kearnes. It worked — no one likes him now, either. But how can you even think you're still in the race?”

“I never knew you followed politics.”

“I do when it's fun.”

Martha pursed her lips. “How many drinks have you had?”

“I don't actually drink at all, at the moment.” Daisy patted her belly with a very amused look on her face.

Fraser grinned up at Martha in a way that she wished she didn't find even partially adorable. “Come on, let's get you into your car and home. Last thing we need is paparazzi snapping a photo of you stumbling out of here.”

“The press can kiss my ass.” Martha saw Daisy and said, “It's not as nice an ass as Daisy's, so maybe they won't want to. But at least I never gave our daughter drugs.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “At least I was Sacha's friend. She hated you.”

Martha sprang back an inch in her chair. “What I'd really like to know, though, Daisy, is why did Sacha like you? What was the mysterious bond you shared to make her tell you about the drugs she was smuggling?” Martha was sober enough to know that she needed to be drunk to ask these questions.

“Really?” Daisy rolled her eyes. “You want to know why Sacha and I clicked?”

Martha arched her eyebrows.

“It's because I listen.”

Martha's eyebrows fell back down. “Fine. Don't tell me.”

“I only met her in her final year of high school, but if Sacha came home with a problem — if she was pissed off because she got a B on an essay she'd worked hard on, or if she was shut out of a social clique because she didn't care about idle gossip — you and Fraser had no time to listen. You were off dealing with your own problems — bigger problems, was how you made Sacha feel.”

Martha swallowed hard.

Daisy continued. “I didn't have bigger problems. And if I did, I still made time for Sacha's. I know I'm not some crazy intellectual like you — or some savvy businessman like Fraser. But if you want someone to feel close to you, all you really have to do is listen.”

For a moment, Martha believed Daisy. Then she remembered: “You gave her drugs, Daisy. Then you used those drugs against her — to push her out of the family. What was that?”

Daisy frowned, like she was trying to come up with an answer that didn't make her look like a gold-digger.

Martha didn't wait. “Is it because Fraser loved Sacha more? You didn't like having to share?”

Fraser held a hand in the air, as if pretending to be a crossing guard might stop Martha and Daisy from arguing. “We've all had one drink too many. Well, not Daisy, but hormones can make us say things we don't mean. Come on, Martha. Time to let your driver take you home.”

Daisy smirked. “You know the bitter irony? It was you who motivated her to import the drugs in the first place.”

Martha blinked a few times. She should have stopped with one drink. Or two. Because now she couldn't tell if Daisy was lying.

“Remember the summer before Sacha graduated? You had a meeting at your brownstone. Sacha overheard something that made her damn mad. Sacha and Jules.” Daisy smiled a private little smile. “After that, Sacha knew you didn't give a shit about the public good. It was your career here.” Daisy held up a hand above her head. “And the public good here.” She held a second hand at chest level.

Martha closed her eyes and felt her lids flutter against her eyeballs. It was an odd thing to concentrate on, but it was better than listening to Daisy.

“Let's leave this one alone, Daisy,” Fraser said. “Martha's had a long day and I'm sure the same is true for tomorrow.”

“No, I won't leave this alone. Martha should know that she drove her daughter to her snowy grave.”

“Daisy!” Fraser's voice was sharper than Martha had ever heard it.

Martha said, “I want to hear.”

Daisy tittered. “Jules was a camera. A video camera. With sound. Sacha left him in your office often.”

Too much Scotch — the room was spinning. When would Martha remember that more than three drinks made her stomach turn over? “What did Jules see?”

“A very intelligent Mexican man giving you advice about narcotics. And you dismissing him saying,
I could never implement this. Well, I could, but I'd be out of a job at the next election. Shame, because I think it could work.
” Daisy shook her head and smiled sadly. “I can't believe anyone would contemplate electing you president. You can't even raise your own daughter successfully.”

CLARE

Clare tugged the blanket up around her chin and nestled deeper into the couch cushion. The stew Chopper was stirring smelled amazing — meaty and spicy and not remotely vegan. Though it was probably organic, or at least hormone- and antibiotic-free, which she oddly now felt glad about. But ultimately she shouldn't be here — not at all.

“Are you taking me back to the village soon?” Clare asked. “Or should I get someone to pick me up?”

Chopper was on the phone. He took it from his ear for a moment and said to Clare, “I'll take you after you eat something. Your hands need to warm up; you should get some hot food in you, too.”

Clare looked at her hands and saw that she was wearing red fleece mittens — female. Another girl must have left these at the cabin. She was annoyed to find herself jealous of the girl — some ski bunny or rad snowboarding chick who was probably insanely hot. Something was definitely wrong with Clare — she never felt jealous, and recently the feeling was creeping around inside her like it was the new normal. It was one thing to feel it with Noah, but her relationship with Chopper was fake, so why would she care?

Chopper got off his phone and said to Clare. “They got him.”

“Got who?”

“Norris. I still can't believe he's the killer. He was my best friend, all through school.”

Clare flexed her fingers inside the gloves. Still painful. “Thanks for saving me from him. I'm so sorry I put you in that position, me against your friend.”

“Saving you? Shit, I feel bad I left you up here all alone. You ready to eat?”

Clare joined Chopper at the wooden table where he had set down two steaming bowls. “This looks amazing.”

“Should warm you up.”

Clare spooned the thick broth into her mouth. Nothing could warm her hands, but with every chunk of beef, Clare felt her strength return.

“How come you came back without Jana?” Clare had wondered a few times but her brain wasn't at its quickest.

“Couldn't wait. When your boyfriend came into Avalanche and told me what was up —”

“He what?” The thought of Noah going to her rescue warmed Clare even faster than the stew.

“He said you left your phone on — that Norris had broken into my place and was trying to attack you. He really digs you. You should give him a chance, when you go back to New York.”

Clare looked up and saw Chopper smiling at her.

“Norris told me. He texted me, actually — when I was waiting for Jana to get her damn glasses. Said you're the undercover.”

“And you told Norris where to find me?” Clare felt her blood pump faster.

Chopper nodded.

“So why did you come rushing to my rescue?” Clare let one hand slide below the table, where she pressed two buttons from outside her jeans. She hoped she'd guessed their location correctly to speed-dial Noah. She just might need saving again.

“I didn't know Norris was the killer until your boyfriend came into the bar, told me what you and Norris were talking about. I was pissed at you, I'll admit that, but I couldn't leave you up here to die.”

Clare set down her spoon, which suddenly felt heavy in her hand. “Why am I feeling weird? Did you drug me?”

“Yeah,” Chopper said.

“Why?” Clare wondered why she didn't feel much more than vague panic.

“I need a head start, babe.”

“For what? Is this the same drug Richie and Sacha were on when they died?”

“Don't know.” Chopper grinned. “Didn't kill them.”

“That's not funny.”

“I know. Sorry. Anyway, if you can give me the memory stick from Jules, I'll be leaving now.”

“I don't have it. Norris found the stick before I did.” Clare's brain was still working, but her body felt like mush. She got up from the table and staggered to the couch, where she lay down.

“Shit,” Chopper said. “That stick is going to bust me.”

“Doubt it. Norris dropped it into the snow when he was chasing me. I seriously doubt, if the memory stick is ever found, that the bear cam footage will be readable on any device.”

Chopper tapped his spoon lightly against a piece of beef before rising to join Clare in the living room. “Where on the mountain was it?”

“Not far from the logging road. If I was guessing I'd say, like, three trees away. You seriously going to try to find it?”

“The evidence would get me locked up for years. I can't risk someone else resurrecting the data.”

Clare couldn't get Norris' accusation out of her head, about Chopper being the only one left standing, the only possible candidate for the killer. Not that she could do much about it, half-comatose on his couch. “Am I going to die?”

“Yes. But hopefully not for many years. If I guessed your weight right — around one-ten? — you won't even lose consciousness. Your body will be numb for the next several hours. You better give me your phone just in case, though.”

Clare started to object but realized there was no point. She lifted her arm to her jeans and it flopped back down to her side.

“Good,” Chopper said, moving toward Clare. “The drug's working. Where's the phone?”

“Why would I tell you? How come I can talk fine even though I can't move?”

“The drug stones your body, not your brain.” Chopper patted Clare down, then reached under her and fished the phone from her back pocket. His touch still felt nice. “There's food in the fridge for when you wake up. No sedatives in anything, don't worry. But maybe don't help yourself to more stew.”

Chopper let his hand linger under Clare. She was shocked that he still turned her on, but when he pulled up his hand — with the phone and the memory stick together — she knew he hadn't been feeling around affectionately.

“You're a good liar. I believed you about Norris and the snow. You know your phone's on.” He lifted it to his ear. “Hello? Hm. They must have hung up.”

Clare felt her eyes grow wide with fear.

Chopper smirked. “I'm not going to kill you. Norris would have, so you made a good call, to your boyfriend. Even knowing you were a cop, I rushed back here to save your life.”

Clare watched Chopper pack a knapsack. He did this mechanically, like he'd mapped out his escape long ago, just in case.

“Oh, and if this helps: Norris said his contact — the one who gave him your name — is someone in Governor Kearnes' office. Who for some reason is claiming to be
DEA
.”

Chopper picked up the keys to both snowmobiles and waved at Clare as he shut the cabin door behind him.