Tough Cookie (34 page)

To my astonishment, and to Arthur's consternation, the audience broke into spontaneous applause. Tears welled in my eyes as I smiled at the camera and Arthur made his wild Cut motion. The taping was over. The audience divided into those leaving and those staying for treats. I hustled out to the kitchen, eager to be on my way back to Rorry's for a hot shower and a glass of some wine that Arthur would no doubt disdain.

The kitchen staff was clustered around a problem with the oven. I barely noticed them as I made my way to the clothing closet by the broken refrigerator. Feeling triumphant, I took off my apron and hung it up, then bent to unbutton my jacket. Then I sensed a movement behind me and my blood ran cold. Always have somebody with you.

Something hard and heavy hit my skull with such force that black lightning formed in front of my eyes. Startled, I opened my mouth to cry out. The heavy object crashed down on my head again. My knees buckled and I hit the floor. Something sticky was slapped over my mouth. Duct tape? By the time powerful arms dragged me into the refrigerator, I could see nothing. Understand nothing. The hard, cold floor of the walk-in rose up to slap my cheek. I remember unholy anger, intense, sudden grief for Arch and Tom, then nothing.

-22- An echoing storm of pain was my first indication I had regained consciousness. A scarlet fog covered my eyes. When a cough convulsed my chest, I gagged. My mouth was taped hard and tight. I was painfully cold, chilled to the core, lying on my side on an icy floor. Another cough snagged in my throat. I felt myself choking and beat down panic.

"Where is it?" demanded a husky voice close to my ear.

The tight duct tape mangled any response I could make. Suddenly, without warning, the cold, dense darkness lifted; a door beside me opened. Far above, a tiny fluorescent light made my eyes ache. I moaned. Strong hands hitched under my armpits and roughly hauled me out of the dark space. I struggled to get to my knees; my hands were taped together. I was in the bistro kitchen. Out the window, the sky was black. It was late at night. The lodge would be deserted.

Out of nowhere, a hand slapped me hard across the face. I reeled. It was the kind of hit I used to take from John Richard. One hand pulled my hair hard to tilt my head back, while another hand yanked the duct tape off so roughly I knew my cheeks were bleeding. I blew a mouthful of vomit all over Jack Gilkey. He cried out and swung at me again. I dodged - one thing I'd learned in my years with The Jerk.

His glossy dark brown hair was loose and wild, his handsome face menacing, gray with shadow. He grabbed me in a choke-hold around the neck. His mouth brushed my ear. "Where's the tape, bitch?"

My brain thumped and throbbed. The building seemed to echo the vibrations in my head. "The videotape," Jack snarled.

"If I tell you," I managed to say, "will you let me go?"

In answer, he tightened his grip around my throat and shook me hard. Black spots danced in front of my eyes. I made a squeaking, submissive sound.

"Is it here with you? In this building?"

"Yes," I said, when he shook me again. Think. "Yes, yes, let me take you to it."

"No."

"It'll take you hours to find it. Maybe more." He didn't reply. Panic gripped my gut. Then he said, "Get up," harshly, with just a shade of doubt. In this I took comfort. Apparently, Chef Well-Organized didn't have a plan to cover this exigency. Think. How could I get away from him? The agony in my brain made mental work impossible.

"Please undo my hands," I whispered. I could feel blood trickling down my cheek. "I'll fall if I can't get balanced."

"No way," he snapped. Then he lifted his flannel shirt, revealing a flat stomach - and a small pistol. He pulled the gun out of his waistband. "Don't move unless I tell you to, don't fall, don't run, don't yell. If you do, I'll kill your son at your house in Aspen Meadow, once I lure your husband out of the house. You understand?"

"Yes," I said angrily, still trying to think. On my feet, I shuffled through the long, shadowy kitchen. Why had the TV people left without checking on me? They must have figured I'd gone down on the gondola. I should have kept somebody with me. Why hadn't I paid more attention to Tom's warnings? Hindsight. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Easy. You're going to die hitting a tree. You hiked out of the bistro, got confused, and bam. We'll get more snow by morning, nobody will ever know it wasn't an accident. Move."

I shambled groggily toward the hall that led to the storage-area stairway. Think. What do cops advise in a situation like this? Talk to the criminal. Use his name.

"Jack," I begged, "Eileen's my friend. I was just trying to help her - "

"Yeah, sure," he said, prodding the gun painfully into my back to push me forward. "I knew you were looking for something, and guessed it had to do with Nate because today you brought Rorry here. I quizzed Magill, found out about the camera, and figured out what you were doing." His voice deepened. "You're not on Eileen's side. You're on the cops' side, that's why you came here in the first place. To set me up, figure out Portman's scheme. You're not going to steal Eileen from me, trying to prove to her I killed Fiona."

Reggie Dawson's call echoed in my brain: Was your involvement with Portman another attempt on your part to crack crimes in Furman County?

"But you did, didn't you? You killed Fiona. That's what's on the tape. How'd you kill Doug Portman? I thought you were prepping for lunch on Friday - "

He laughed and shoved me. "You give your staff a ton of prep, they don't notice whether you're there or not."

"Jack, were you the one who hit my van on the interstate - "

He opened the door to the storage area. He didn't need to answer; of course he'd tried to get rid of me. He just hadn't been successful the first time. "Get down those stairs," he commanded.

"Jack," I said softly, "did Eileen know you bribed Portman so you could be paroled early?"

"She knew and she didn't know." He announced it triumphantly. "I needed ten thousand a month for six months, but she never asked what for." He gave me a shove. "Alimony?" Another shove. "Child support?" Shove. "Surely not bribery, Jack?" He laughed sourly. "Don't ask, don't tell."

We'd reached the first landing. The foul smell of trash rose up to greet us. "Please, Jack," I begged. "Please stop, I have to rest." I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes. "So, you framed Barton Reed? Your old prison chum? You knew he had cancer, knew he'd had the Duragesic, knew he hated Portman?"

Jack shrugged. He was so marvelously good-looking, it was hard to believe he was so evil. "Portman said he sniffed an investigation coming. He was skipping out. What if they got him, with all that money I'd paid? He'd go to prison. If he did, so would I. I had to get rid of him. Making it look as if Reed had done it seemed like a good idea, since he didn't have long to live anyway. Reed figured out what I'd done. Too bad. So he tried to get back at me, mow me down on the slopes. And he nearly killed Eileen instead. I could have killed him for that - I wasn't married to her yet."

"And you needed the money from Eileen that you didn't inherit from Fiona."

Jack shrugged, then poked me with his ugly little gun. "Time to get moving."

The pistol in his hand was a .22, accurate only at I close range. Six shots, unless he had more ammunition. We were coming down to the rail that led to the canisters. I had to run away from him, hide, run out onto the slope, hope I could get away from him - something, or else I'd die, like everyone else who'd stood in Jack Gilkey's way. I had to act.

I tensed my leg muscles and kicked Jack's washboard stomach with all my might. He gasped in pain and surprise and banged into the wall. Then I jab-kicked him hard in the back; he fell to his knees. I ran, clumsily, stupidly, as fast as I could. I ran for my life. Down the steps. Down the hallway. Down the rail toward the canisters. I could hear Jack stumbling down the stairs after me, cursing.

Five canisters were lined up. Oh, when did the night crew arrive? No telling. I squeezed along the wall and tried to figure out which one to duck into. The one farthest from Jack, of course. It was poised right at the large double doors, and it was half full of food scraps and garbage. Beyond the front canister was darkness made silvery by moonlight. I clumsily climbed up the sides, jumped into the canister, and slithered down into the trash. It was all I could do to keep from gagging.

I heard a shot. Jack was firing into the canisters. One shot, two, three. This was going to be it, I thought, and prayed for Arch and Tom. With taped hands, I used my body to burrow as deep as I could into the trash. I thought I was going to vomit again.

Then, without warning, there was a loud kee-chunk, and the canister quivered violently. I could hear male voices in the distance. The night workers? Were they coming? I was surrounded by rotting lettuce and meat fat. Would the workers hear me if I squirmed to the top of the garbage? Could I risk calling to them, with Jack – armed - so close to the canisters? No. Clink. Ke-chunk, clink. It was the clank of metal doors being closed on trash canisters, followed by the whir of the descending gondola.

Behind me, a loud pop was followed by a zing. Another shot. Jack was shooting at my canister. Pop-zing.

I could hear Jack howl. Then my stinking, packed canister swung out into the darkness.

The night air was stingingly cold. But I'd escaped Jack. I knew the gondola operators at the top could stop the cars, but they could not reverse their motion. That could only be done by the operator at the bottom. So even if Jack knew I was in this canister - and he didn't - he wouldn't be able to bring me back. With a startling suddenness the canister dropped and I was swaying, out of range of Jack's lethal little .22. Would he hurt the canister workers? I doubted it. He had only one target tonight: me.

I wriggled between two bags of mind-numbingly smelly garbage. My head hurt, my cheeks hurt, everything hurt. The stink was inconceivable. I'd never get the smell out of my hair, I thought, and giggled insanely. The canister had holes in its walls and top. Through the holes overhead, a distant light was shining. The canister shook; an almost full moon came into view.

Down, down the canister rolled. In my mind's eye, I saw the gleaming container, suspended twenty feet above the ground, streaming noisily through the night. I had to get the tape off my hands. My only choice was to feel with my tongue around the duct tape till I came to an edge. Then I began, slowly, laboriously, with my teeth, to tug off the tape. The blood running down my face didn't make the task any easier. But at least biting and wrenching the tape off, centimeter by centimeter, took my mind off the cold, the smell, the canister swaying and creaking in the frigid wind, high above the mountain.

When I finally had the tape off, the canister clanked onto the track, then began to move laboriously toward the warehouse. I was on the ground, but where? How long had I been on the gondola? Ten minutes? Twenty? What had Jack been doing? I knew he kept ski equipment at the bistro. Would he try to ski down in the moonlight? How long would it take for him to get his equipment on-five, six minutes? How long to schuss down from the top? The fastest I'd ever made it was six minutes, and I was nowhere near the expert skier Jack was.

Suddenly the canister shuddered and stopped. I clambered up through the trash to the metal door. My heart sank. Through the holes of my cage, the moonlight on the slope showed the canister was only halfway down the track to the Killdeer base. I wasn't even in sight of the warehouse. Jack must have stopped the lift engine from the peak. Dammit.

I peered down through the holes in the metal. The moonlight illuminated much of the mountain, including nearby woods and what looked like a catwalk or cleared path of snow. With blood pounding in my ears, I pushed on the container door. It swung open.

I leaped out and looked all around. Had Rorry missed me and called Tom? Would he call someone to go looking for me?

I tried to get my bearings. The cleared path was not a catwalk, I realized. It had a plastic orange fence going up one side. . . The construction road! If I followed it, I would get down to the Rover where I had a spare key in the wheel-well.

I hobbled over to the road and started to run. Within seconds, my chest burned with the exertion and the cold. Did I hear something? I stopped, panting, looked up the moonlit slope, and saw the shadow of a lone skier. I turned and again ran. Could I possibly make it to the Rover before Jack caught up with me? My brain cursed my agonized legs. How far to the parking lot? Maybe fifteen minutes, if I could keep up this brutal pace. I ran and ran, and after an eternity, reached the fork that led back to the parking lot and trailhead to Elk Ridge. Wheezing, I stopped and tried to catch my breath.

Scritch, scratch. Scritch-scratch. Very regularly, the sound came from behind me. Scritch-scratch. I glanced back. Jack, on skis, was poling swiftly along the snow-covered road, cross-country-style. He was perhaps fifty feet behind me. Damn. I moved my legs as fast as they were able to go. But I knew in my heart I'd never make it to the Rover before he closed the gap.

And he had at least two more shots left. With sudden decision, I ran up the snowpacked road of the left fork, toward the construction site. On skis, Jack could go swiftly downhill; as fit and muscular as he was, he could traverse flat terrain quickly as well. But he could not go uphill on skis, unless he was Superman. I had to get to the guard's cabin first.

Low clouds, silvered by the moonlight, rolled across the sky. How far was the cabin, if the dirt road ran right across the valley? A half-mile? A mile? Jack would have to stop; he would have to remove his skis and boots. No one could run in that clunky footwear. You can beat him, I told myself. All you have to do is run.

I looked over my shoulder. Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch. Jack was gaining on me. I even thought I saw him smiling at me.

"Goldy!" he called placatingly. "Stop! Let's talk!"

Yeah, sure. I ran up the track. A sudden pool of darkness swallowed me and I slowed. Tall pines loomed on the right side of the construction fence, casting black, swaying shadows on the road. Run, I ordered myself. But whatever you do, don't fall. If you do, you'll die.