Thin Ice (31 page)

She reached for it, her numb fingers balking as she tried to close them around the plastic. Once she had the cap off, she sipped the cold liquid. More than she wanted of it. Any ploy to eat up a few more seconds.

“I never saw asthma mentioned in articles about you.”

The man's comment came out of nowhere—but conversation was useful. It would buy her more time.

“I never t-talked about my health in p-public. But leaf mold and c-cold can trigger asthma attacks.” All true—though not for her.

“You sound fine now.”

“M-medicine helps.”

“Good. Because we're ready to begin.” He rose, towering over her. “First, a couple of rules. If you scream, the gag goes back on. Besides, you'd be wasting your effort. The closest farmhouse
is two miles away, and no one's going to be out walking in the woods on a cold night. I won't hesitate to use this”—he waved the revolver at her—“if you get out of line. Silencers aren't really silent, but they mask the sound well enough in isolated areas like this. Understood?”

She nodded. Gripped her hands in her lap.
Keep him
talking.

“Would you at least tell me why you're doing this?”

“Because you deserve it.”

“Why? I don't even know you—do I?” Best not to clue him in that she suspected his identity. Not yet, anyway.

Silence stretched between them again, broken only by the rustling of the few desiccated, decaying leaves that clung to the winter-ravaged trees.

Just when she thought he was going to ignore her, he returned to his seat. Took off his helmet and placed it on the ground. Flipped on the light and aimed it to provide a dim circle of illumination between them. Then he stripped off his ski mask.

His face was still in shadows, but it took Christy no more than a few moments to recognize him.

Her jaw went slack.

Nathan Turner, the maintenance guy from work, was her abductor? The man who'd days ago lost the beloved grandmother he'd welcomed into his home after she became infirm? The same guy who'd been repairing the carpet outside the conference room. Who'd been in the hall the night she'd dropped her gym bag while searching for her cell to take Lance's first phone call. Who'd been mopping in the rec center lobby that day Bob had flagged her down.

The killer wasn't Neven Terzic after all.

Or was it?

She squinted, trying to scrutinize his features in the shadowy light. To reconcile this black-eyed, lean-cheeked man with the gangly teen who'd crossed her path for those few brief weeks.

With his hint of an accent, it could be him.

“Neven?”

“Give the lady a gold star. But it's Nathan now.”

So the tip Lance had received earlier tonight had been correct.

Yet it made no more sense now than when he'd told her his suspicions.

“I don't understand.” She tried to suppress a shiver. “I was your friend.”

Even in the dim light, she could see his features tighten. Feel the sudden waves of anger radiating off him. “Friends don't abandon friends.”

She frowned. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He began to jiggle his foot. “You misled me. You made me think you cared. Then you left, just like everyone else in my life who pretended I mattered to them.” He pulled out a keychain and dangled it in front of her. “Do you remember this?”

As the pewter Arch swayed before her, a fuzzy memory sharpened. “I gave you that to welcome you to St. Louis.”

“And I carried it with me everywhere for a whole year. Until I finally realized you were never going to answer the letters I sent you in care of that ice rink in Colorado Springs where you went to train. One each week for the first three weeks you were gone.”

“I never got any letters from you.”

He snorted. “Right.”

“Look, I wasn't even officially training at the rink the first six weeks I was there. We were too busy getting acclimated. The rink didn't know who I was yet—and hundreds of skaters train there.”

Her eyes were growing accustomed to the light now, and she was able to pick up more details in his expression . . . including a hint of doubt.

But all at once, his features hardened again. “You could be lying.”

“I'm not.”

“So you say—but it doesn't matter. You could have contacted me. Asked how I was doing. Stayed in touch. And you didn't.”

“I hardly knew you.”

“That's a lie!” His posture stiffened, and his dark irises began to smolder. “We were
friends
. We ate lunch together. You invited me to events at school. You talked to me in the hall. You stood up for me when people made fun of my hair and clothes and accent.”

“But . . . but I didn't really know you. I was just being kind.”

“That's not true! Only friends give each other presents!” He thrust the keychain in her face again. “You know what else you gave me? Hope that things could be better, that not everyone I met would make fun of me. You made me think I could have a successful life here.”

“You could have.”

He leaned closer, the miner's light throwing macabre shadows on his face. “No, I couldn't. Do you know what it was like at that school after you left? They treated me like dirt! Filth! That's why I dropped out. Why I ended up no better than my old man—a maintenance guy who cleans up other people's messes. But if you'd stayed being my friend, I could have been much more. I
deserved
to be more. To be powerful and in control. You ruined everything when you abandoned me.”

Christy stared at him, trying to formulate a response. A defense. An explanation.

No words came to her.

Even if they had, though, the man glaring at her from across the faint circle of light wasn't going to listen to reason. His mind was past that.

Way past.

If Neven could view their history rationally, he'd realize that the hand of friendship she'd extended for a few brief weeks
during her last year at the high school had been a simple act of kindness, not a commitment. They'd been casual acquaintances, nothing more. Those were the facts.

But he'd twisted them. Reshaped them to cast her as a scapegoat for his unrealized dreams.

And he'd killed to exact revenge. Was planning to kill again.

Soon.

Unless she continued to stall.

Keep him talking
.

She swallowed. “Why did you wait all these years to come after me?”

“I had other issues to deal with after you left. A new life to create out of the ashes. But then there you were, a few yards down the hall, my first week on the job at the rec center. It was like fate was offering me a chance to finally make you pay for what you did. How could I pass up that opportunity?” He gave her a malevolent sneer. “And I've had a lot of fun these past few months carrying out my plans for your family. Making you cry.”

Fun?!

Murdering people was fun?

Watching people suffer was fun?

Christy's stomach heaved. “My parents and my sister were innocent. How could you kill them just to get back at m-me?”

“Innocence is a matter of perspective—and they were a means to an end. A way to hurt you. This was always about you, Christy. From the very beginning. You were the target.”

Lance's conclusion had been correct.

Her family had died because of her.

Bile rose in her throat, and she retched.

“Feeling ill? How nice.” Neven's smile broadened. “Watching you suffer is always a high point of my day.”

This guy wasn't just sick; he was a psychopath with no con
science or moral compass. It would be futile to plead for mercy with a man like this. Compassion wasn't part of his DNA.

Her only chance was to appeal to his self-interest.

She swallowed past her nausea. Inhaled a lungful of cold air. “You're taking a big risk. You aren't going to get away with another murder.”

“It's not going to look like a murder. You've had a tough year, Christy. You lost your parents in a tragic car accident, your sister died in a house fire—or so you thought. Your emotional state would understandably be shaky. Anyone could suffer depression after such back-to-back tragedies. When your car is found near a bridge, people will suspect you jumped—and there'll be nothing to prove otherwise. Only you and I will know the truth.”

“You're going to throw me in the river like you did Ginny?” The horror of it reduced her voice to a whisper.

“It worked once; it'll work again.”

She tried to slow her breathing, but the frequency of the short puffs of vapor in front of her face mocked her effort. “The police will find evidence of you in my car, or of me in the trunk.”

He rose, and her lungs froze.

Her abductor was about done talking.

“I know all about trace evidence. I watch cop shows on TV. They won't find anything from me in the car—why do you think I'm wearing this”—he swept a hand down his thermal coveralls—“and that?” He pointed with a gloved finger to the ski mask that had covered his hair and face. “I plan to vacuum the trunk, but you're right . . . they might figure out you were in there if they're thorough. So what? There won't be any connection to me. Now put your skates on.”

She blinked at the abrupt change of topic. “What?”

“You're going to skate for me, Christy. A private exhibition by an Olympic athlete, just for me. Also a farewell performance. Move!” He gestured with the gun to her skate bag.

Fingers trembling, she picked up her bag, trying to sort through her chaotic thoughts. Putting on the skates would limit her mobility off the ice. She could run in them, but not far and not fast—assuming she got the chance to run at all. And that was a leap. With a gun aimed at her, trying to make a break for the woods in skates
or
boots would be suicide.

For now, it might be better to simply give him the show he wanted. Keep him entertained long enough for the FBI to get some agents here.

She needed to make this the performance of her life.

Because if she didn't, her life would be over before help could arrive.

B
y the time Mark finished his final logistics call—to put a paramedic team on standby—Lance had been barreling south for twenty minutes.

“I've got a sniper who lives out this way. He'll beat us there and scout out a staging area.” Mark holstered his phone. “My spotter should arrive before us too. The rest of the team members will assemble as fast as they can get there and wait at the staging area for instructions.”

“Do you think one of the ASACs will come out?” Lance hadn't had a lot of dealings with either of the assistant special agents in charge of the St. Louis office, and while they were probably competent, he'd rather have a known quantity like Steve or Mark calling the shots.

“It this drags on too long, one of them will. But I doubt that's going to happen. This is our show until Steve gets here—which could be a while. He's busy lining up a flyover and thermal scan in case we need aerial surveillance, and he's getting a hostage negotiator on the road in the unlikely event we end up talking to the guy. He's also going to alert County and muster some of their SWAT people for backup.”

Lance's phone began to vibrate, and he yanked it off his belt. The name of the agent tracking Christy's phone appeared on the screen.

“McGregor. What do you have?”

“The signal's still stationary. I've got Jack Ramsey, the owner of the property, on hold. I ran a quick background check, and he looks clean. Retired businessman, on several charitable boards, no problems with the law. He owns about four hundred acres. As far as I can tell, there aren't any houses in the immediate vicinity of the signal I'm monitoring. I emailed the topographic map.”

Another agent who didn't waste words.

Good.

“Thanks. Go ahead and put Ramsey through.” After the handoff, Lance introduced himself and got straight to business. “Mr. Ramsey, are you acquainted with a man by the name of either Neven Terzic or Nathan Turner?”

“Definitely not anyone named Neven, but the other name does ring a bell. Can you give me some context?”

“He works in maintenance.” Lance named the municipal recreation facility.

“Ah, now it clicks. Yes, a pleasant young man. I have a membership in the gym there, and he stopped to help me with a flat tire in the parking lot last winter.”

“Is there any reason he might be on the property you own near Cedar Hill?”

“It's possible. I've spoken with him on several occasions since the tire incident, and when I found out we shared a love of hunting, I invited him to use my land. Seemed like a more tangible expression of gratitude than a mere thank-you. I bought the parcel as an investment many years ago and only go down now and then to hunt myself. Less often these days. I know he's taken me up on the offer more than once. What's the problem?”

“We need to speak with him, and we believe he's on your
property. We're en route there now. Are there any structures on the land?”

“Only a deer blind in a tree on the west side of the pond.”

“Any nearby neighbors?”

“A few farmhouses, but none close to the perimeter of my land. I back up to a conservation area, so it's very isolated.”

Great.

“Any special geographic features or information about the terrain that might be helpful?” Lance swerved around a slow-moving car that shouldn't be in the fast lane, glowering at the oblivious driver as he rocketed past.

“It's hilly, heavily wooded, with a small pond. The ground is rough and not easy to navigate. I put in a gravel drive from the county road not long after I bought the acreage, and one of my neighbors uses his brush hog to keep the forest from encroaching. It goes in about two hundred yards to a wide turnaround. The rest of the land is unimproved, except for the deer blind.”

Mark touched his arm and pointed to an exit sign in the distance, then pulled out his own phone.

“Any open areas?” Lance set a diagonal route across the lanes of traffic. The topographic map would tell them that, but the more detail they could get from someone who'd been there, the better.

“Just the pond, which is a bit east of the center, and a field on the southern end.”

“Okay. That's all I need for now. We'd appreciate it if you'd remain available for the next few hours in case we have questions once we arrive.”

“No problem. Let me give you my direct cell number.”

“Hold one sec.” Lance pantomimed for Mark to get out his pen and repeated the number as Ramsey recited it. “Thanks. We may be in touch again.”

Mark finished his call a moment later. “We've got a barn as
a staging area. It's on the other side of the road from Ramsey's property, not far from the gravel drive he mentioned. Our ETA is about six minutes from the exit.”

“Get our guy in the office back on the line. Have him guide us in while you pull up the topographic map on my phone.” Lance handed him his cell and zoomed down the exit ramp.

With Mark's phone on speaker, Lance followed the directions as they were relayed while his colleague studied the topographic map.

“Where on the property are you putting the cell signal?” Mark directed the question at his phone during a lull in the driving instructions.

“Very slightly east of center.”

Lance looked over at his passenger. “Ramsey said there was a lake in that area. How far in are we talking?”

Mark lifted the cell closer to his face. “Hard to calculate on a tiny screen.”

“I can help you with that.” The other agent's voice came over the other phone. “Using the county road as a starting point, about half a mile.”

Half a mile in the dark over rough terrain—and sound would carry in the quiet of the country. They'd have to tread carefully to avoid alerting Terzic to their presence—and that kind of slow approach ate up precious time.

Not ideal.

“Stand by. We'll be back in touch as we move in.” Mark ended the call and leaned forward, peering through the windshield. “The barn should be up ahead on the right. I have some extra cold-weather gear in back you can use.”

“Thanks.” For more than the gear. The tactical part of this operation would be handled by the SWAT team, and as the leader, Mark had every right to restrict the fieldwork to his own people. Lance would have pushed back if he'd tried to exclude him—but that wasn't a battle he'd have relished.

“The team's arriving.” Mark pointed out the dim outlines of three vehicles clustered next to a large structure. “Let's get this show on the road.”

Lance mashed down the gas pedal, adrenaline surging. Christy was nearby—and she'd be working hard to delay Neven's plan. Olympic athletes didn't give up. She'd fight to win.

Unless she couldn't.

Unless Neven had already . . .

He gritted his teeth and crushed that thought.

Not going there.

Christy would be fine.

She had to be.

For despite their short acquaintance . . . despite his attempt to maintain a professional distance during the case . . . despite the inappropriateness of taking a personal interest in a subject . . . he was falling in love with the Olympic skater.

Fast.

And losing her wasn't an option.

Christy took as long as she dared lacing up her skates, shoving her icy fingers into a pair of gloves, and pulling on the fleece-lined hoodie she'd insisted was necessary to keep another asthma attack at bay in the cold weather.

But finally Neven ran out of patience.

“That's enough. Get on the ice.”

She pushed herself to her feet, praying her shaky legs would hold her up, and surveyed the murky surface. “I can't skate in the dark. I need to watch for debris, see where the edges are.”

“Don't worry about that. Move out to the center.”

Every muscle taut, she stepped onto the ice and glided into the night, melting into the obscuring gloom.

Hmm.

Maybe the darkness was a plus.

Neven's helmet would illuminate her while she was on this side of the pond . . . but the head lamp wasn't likely to shed much light on the far side. She squinted across the frozen surface. Those were cedar trees over there, weren't they? The dense foliage would hide her if she could skate to that edge, hop off the ice, and get behind them. If she could tug her skates off fast, she might be able to . . .

All at once, the pond lit up.

She stopped abruptly in a spray of ice. Spun back toward the chairs.

Two spotlights, suspended from trees, were aimed toward the frozen surface. They were powered by a generator, based on the faint hum thrumming through the stillness. Neither was super bright, but the circles of light pooled on the pond provided sufficient illumination to let her see where she was skating.

And to let Neven keep tabs on her location no matter where she was on the ice.

Meaning if she tried to make a run for it, he'd shoot her before she got five feet.

Her sudden surge of hope deflated.

“You're used to spotlights, aren't you, Christy? I wanted you to feel at home for this performance.”

He'd extinguished the light on his miner's helmet and pulled the ski mask back over his face. In his black jumpsuit, he was nothing more than a shadow at the edge of the pond as he walked to one of the chairs and sat.

All at once, quiet music filled the air.

It was one of the pieces she'd often skated to in exhibitions.

“I did some research, as you can see. This should sound very familiar—and I have plenty more. Now skate. The way you did in that TV special.”

“That . . . that was fourteen years ago. I don't have those skills anymore.”

“I'm sure you can improvise some interesting routines.”

Stall some
more.

“I need to w-warm up first.”

“Oh, that's right. They always have a warm-up at competitions, don't they? I'll give you five minutes—because you'll want to do your best tonight. The longer you can skate . . . and keep me entertained . . . the longer you stay alive.”

She already knew that.

But hearing it put into words sent a chill straight to her heart.

Every muscle quivering, she pushed off on the rough surface—and promptly sprawled on the ice as some piece of debris snagged her skate.

“Not an impressive opening, Christy. I'm disappointed.”

She stood again. “Lake skating is d-difficult.” Despite a herculean effort to sound calm and in control, fear and cold conspired against her. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop her teeth from chattering. “The wind roughens the surface, and there are t-twigs and leaves frozen into the ice.”

“Deal with it . . . unless you want to give up already?” The shadow began to rise.

She pushed off in panic, her movements jerky.

His laugh followed her, the sound evil and inhuman.

But at least he sat back down.

“You have four minutes of warm-up left.”

You can do this, Christy. Focus on
the skating . . . and on coming up with a plan to
thwart him. The ice is your world, not his. Use
it to your advantage.

Repeating that pep talk over and over in her mind, she began to execute a series of simple 3 turns and mohawks. The easy moves left her mind free to strategize—and pray for inspiration.

And she needed to do both. At this point, she couldn't count
on the FBI arriving in time, no matter how hard Lance was pushing them. Neven's exact schedule for the rest of the evening might be a mystery, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

The clock on her life was ticking into the final minutes.

Lance finished fastening his Kevlar vest while Mark secured his earpiece and wrapped up with the SWAT team assembled in the barn, using the rough property map he'd hand-sketched.

“To recap: Brett, you and Kurt stick close together. I want sniper and spotter tight in case a window opens. We may only get one chance at this. Go in slightly north of the pond. Nick, circle in from the east. You guys”—Mark indicated two other SWAT team members who'd arrived—“fan out and close in from the west. Lance and I will stick together and go in from the south. We need to cover the half mile fast but quiet. Communicate anything you see that may be helpful. Be aware of where the other agents are at all times so we don't get into a cross-fire scenario. If you're unsure, verify by radio. Otherwise, maintain silence. Let's do this.”