Shivering convulsively, she bent down and gathered up the armload of pine boughs she’d collected and raced through the wind and snow to the side of the house. For the entire fifteen minutes that she’d been outside, he’d remained at the windows, watching her like an expressionless stone statue. The alleged need for “props” for the imaginary snowman scene enabled her to vanish from view for a few minutes at a time without rousing his suspicions, exactly as she’d hoped it would, but she was afraid to be gone too long. So far, she’d made three short trips of increasing duration, returning each time with pine boughs after trying to hotwire the Blazer. She was counting on the hope that he’d soon decide she was actually idiotic enough to spend her time building a snowman in freezing weather, and he’d grow bored with sentry duty.
Raising her arms, Julie pulled the knitted ski cap she’d taken from the closet down over her frozen ears, then she began to roll the bottom ball of the snowman’s body, while she reviewed her remaining alternatives for escape: To try to escape on foot would be suicidal insanity in this weather, and she knew it. Even if she didn’t get lost trying to go cross-country down the mountain, she’d likely freeze to death long before she reached the main road. If by some chance, she did make it, she’d surely die of exposure before a motorist came along. On the way here, they hadn’t passed another car for the last two hours. The possibility of finding out where he’d hidden the keys to the Blazer seemed equally remote, and she couldn’t start the car without them.
“There has to be a way to get out of here!” Julie said aloud as she pushed and shoved the ball of snow closer to the pile of pine boughs. There was a padlocked garage at the back of the house, which Zachary Benedict had told her was used for storage and thus couldn’t accommodate the Blazer. Maybe he was lying. Maybe he didn’t know for certain. One of the keys in her pocket looked like it was meant to fit a padlock, and the only padlock she’d seen anywhere was on the side door of that garage. The possibility that the homeowner had left a car in there did little to elevate her spirits right now. Assuming she could find the car’s keys and get it started, the Blazer was blocking the garage door.
That left her with only one likely option: Even without seeing the interior of the garage, she had a hunch what she was going to find inside of it:
Skis.
There were ski boots in the bedroom closet, but no skis in the house, which meant they were probably in the garage.
She’d never skied in her life.
She was prepared to try. Besides, it didn’t look very hard whenever she saw people skiing on television and in the movies. How hard could it possibly be? Children could ski. Surely she could, too.
And so could Zachary Benedict, she remembered with a thrill of raw fear. She’d seen him skiing in one of his movies, a mystery set in Switzerland. He’d looked as if he were an expert skier in that film, but probably a stuntman had done the hard stuff.
Grunting as she rolled the heavy ball through the snow, making it fatter and fatter, Julie finally maneuvered it into position ten minutes later—no mean feat, given that she could scarcely bend her knees in her tight jeans. Finished with the first one-third of the snowman, she quickly scattered the pine boughs around it in a half circle as if she had some plan in mind, then she stopped and pretended to contemplate her handiwork. From the corner of her eye, she stole a sidelong glance at the windows, and saw that he was still there, immobile as a stone sentry.
It was time, she decided with a nervous tremor, for a foray into that locked garage.
Her gloved hands clumsy from suspense and cold, Julie tried unsuccessfully to fit the first key she’d found into the bottom of the heavy padlock. Holding her breath, she slid the second key into it, and the lock separated into two parts in her hand. Glancing over her shoulder at the back door of the house, she made certain he hadn’t suddenly decided to come outdoors, then she stepped over the snowdrift blocking her way and went into the garage, closing the door behind her.
Inside, it was dark as pitch, but after stumbling over a shovel and bumping into an unknown object with enormous tires, she finally found a light switch on the wall and flipped it on. A bank of large overhead spotlights exploded with light. Momentarily blinded, Julie blinked and then glanced around the crowded area, her heart beginning to hammer with anticipation and foreboding. Skis. There were several pairs of skis and ski poles secured in racks on the far wall. On her left was an enormous tractor equipped with a huge contraption for blowing snow. Julie tried to envision herself sitting in the cab of the tractor, plowing her way along the treacherous road that wound down the mountain, then she discarded the possibility. Even if she were foolhardy enough to try to push the Blazer out of the way and drive the tractor down the mountain, the machine would make enough noise to alert the man in the house. Moreover, it would move so slowly that he’d be able drag her out of it without breaking into a run.
The other half of the two-car garage was filled with tractor equipment, snow tires, boxes, and some other equipment that was covered with a large black tarpaulin.
Skis. She was going to have to try to ski her way down the mountain; if she didn’t die of exposure, she’d probably die of a broken neck. Equally as depressing, she’d have to wait until tomorrow or the day after to try it, because the wind was picking up outside and the snow was beginning to fall as if it were a real blizzard. More out of curiosity than hope, Julie lifted the corner of the tarpaulin and peered underneath it, then she threw it aside with a cry of joyous disbelief.
Beneath the tarp were two shiny, dark blue snowmobiles with helmets perched on the seats.
Fingers trembling, she tried the second key in the nearest snowmobile’s ignition. It slid in and turned. It fit! It worked! Elation and anticipation soared through her as she raced out of the garage and carefully closed the side door behind her. The weather that had seemed so forbidding a few minutes ago was now only a minor annoyance. In a half hour or less—as soon as she could change into that snowmobile suit in her closet and sneak out of the house—she’d be on her way to freedom. She’d never used a snowmobile before, but there was no doubt in her mind that she could manage somehow, and much better than she could have handled those skis and poles. Intent on keeping up the ploy that was working so well for her, Julie paused long enough to grab some more pine branches, then she dashed to the site of the snowman and dumped the branches there, as if she’d been gathering them all this time. Zachary Benedict was still standing at the windows, watching her, and Julie forced herself to pause and look about her as if searching the yard for more “props” to use for her snowman, while she gave a last few seconds’ thought to the details of her forthcoming bolt for freedom. All she truly had to do was change clothes and put on dry gloves and take the key to the other snowmobile so he couldn’t follow her when he realized how she’d escaped.
She was ready to go. Neither snow nor wind nor an escaped convict with a gun could foil her now. She was as good as on her way.
From within the house, Zack watched her clamp her hat down over her ears and trudge off out of sight to look for whatever it was she needed to create whatever unidentifiable “scene” she was making out there. The anger he’d felt earlier was gone now, greatly alleviated by the news that Sandini’s condition hadn’t worsened and, to a lesser extent, by the unwilling amusement he felt as he watched Julie wrestle with that enormous ball of snow, pushing and shoving at it, even though she could scarcely bend over in those tight jeans she was wearing. His lips quirked in a half-smile as he recalled watching her solve the problem: When the snowball was large enough, she’d stopped pushing it with her hands and arms, and instead, she’d turned around, braced her back against the snowy boulder, and shoved it using her feet and legs. Zack had been sorely tempted to go outside and help her, an offer that he knew she’d angrily reject and would have simultaneously deprived him of the pleasure of watching her from his vantage point. Until that moment, he had never imagined there could be such pleasure in simply watching a woman b
uild a snowman. On the other hand, he’d never known a grown woman who would consider doing such a mundane, innocently wholesome thing as play in the snow.
She was a complete enigma, he thought as he waited for her to reappear at the window. Intelligent and ingenuous, compassionate and fiery, passionate and skittish—she was a mass of contrasts, and they were all vastly appealing. But if there was one thing about Julie Mathison that intrigued him the most, it was her unaffected wholesomeness. At first, he’d been half-convinced he was imagining that aura of prim innocence, but last night he’d discovered that she barely knew how to kiss! It made him wonder what sort of wimpy males lived in Keaton, Texas. And what sort of inconsiderate jerk was her almost-fiancé that he hadn’t introduced her to foreplay? She’d jumped like a startled rabbit when Zack touched her breasts. If he didn’t know it were impossible in this day and age, he’d almost think she was still a virgin.
He realized where his thoughts had ventured and he uttered a silent curse, then he turned in surprise at the sound of Julie coming in the back door.
“I—I need some clothes to put on the snowman,” she said with a brilliant smile.
“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow to finish,” he said, and her smile died.
“But I—I’m having fun!” she protested, sounding desperate. “What pleasure can you possibly get in denying me something to do to occupy my time!”
“I’m not an ogre!” Zack snapped, hating the fear and mistrust in her eyes.
“Then let me finish my—my project!”
“All right,” he said with an annoyed sigh. “Fine.”
Another of her smiles appeared, lighting up her entire face. “Thank you.”
Zack melted beneath the radiant heat of that smile. “You’re welcome,” he said and was exasperated by the gentleness he heard in his voice. On the radio in the kitchen, the announcer said they had another development in the Benedict-Sandini escape that would follow the next commercial break. Trying to hide his reaction to her behind a curt nod of dismissal, he watched her race into the bedroom, then he walked into the kitchen and turned up the volume on the radio.
He was pouring himself a cup of coffee when the news commentator said, “Ten minutes ago, an unnamed source at Amarillo State Penitentiary infirmary phoned NBC News with the information that Dominic Carlo Sandini, who attempted to escape two days ago with his cellmate, Zachary Benedict, died this morning at 11:15 while being transferred by ambulance to St. Mark’s Hospital. Sandini, who was a nephew of reputed underworld figure Enrico Sandini, died as a result of injuries he sustained when he attacked two guards during his second escape attempt yesterday . . .”
Julie was walking out of the bedroom, the ski clothes hidden behind her back, when she heard the announcer’s words followed by a bellow of rage from her captor and an explosion of shattering glass as he hurtled his coffee mug against the glazed tile floor of the kitchen.
Out of his direct line of vision, she stood, momentarily paralyzed with terror, while Zachary Benedict hurtled everything he could pick up against the walls and floor, shouting vivid obscenities and violent threats. The toaster crashed against the floor, followed by a blender and the coffee pot, then he swept his arm along the counter sending dishes, cups, and glass canisters crashing into shattered heaps atop mangled appliances. He was still cursing when the counters were clear, and then, as quickly as it had erupted, the explosion of maddened wrath seemed to come to an abrupt end. As if he’d exhausted both his rage and his strength, he braced his flattened hands against the counter top. His head fell forward and he closed his eyes.
Snapping out of her mesmerized horror, Julie wisely abandoned all hope of getting the snowmobile key out of the drawer beside his hip and sidled down the hall, her back pressed to the wall. As she opened the door, the eerie silence in the kitchen was split by his tortured groan: “Dom . . . I’m sorry, Dom. I’m sorry!”
27
THE FRIGHTENING SCENE SHE’D WITNESSED rolled around and around in Julie’s head as she raced through the swirling snow to the garage and stumbled through the doorway at the side. Her fingers fumbling in their haste, she changed into the snowmobile suit, yanked on the gloves and helmet, then she began dragging the snowmobile toward the door, afraid to turn the motor on for fear of whatever noise it was going to make. Outside, she swung her leg over the seat, fumbled with the chin strap on the helmet, and turned the ignition key. The motor sprang to life with much less noise than she expected it to make, and moments later, she was flying over the snow toward the woods at the far edge of the yard, struggling to keep her balance, praying that the snowmobile wasn’t loud enough to be heard inside the house.
Shaking with a combination of exhilaration and fear, Julie careened through the trees, fighting for control of the machine beneath her, sideswiping pine branches and skirting boulders beneath the snow. When she was well out of sight of the house and certain he wasn’t following her, she’d turn the snowmobile toward the winding road and follow that down to the highway, but for now, she was glad of the need to keep in the woods. Beyond their shelter, the wind had risen to a howl and the snowstorm was working itself into a full-fledged blizzard.
Five minutes became ten, and a sense of success and freedom gave her courage, but its joy was unexpectedly diminished by the memory of the grief she’d witnessed in the man she’d left behind. The thought occurred to her that it seemed incongruous, in fact, almost impossible, that a cold-blooded murderer would feel such anguish at the death of his cellmate.
She glanced over her shoulder to make certain she wasn’t being followed, then cried out in alarm as she nearly hit a tree, swung wildly to avoid it and almost overturned the snowmobile.
* * *
Shoving himself upright, Zack looked listlessly about him at the mangled appliances and broken glass on the kitchen floor. “Shit,” he said dully and reached for the brandy decanter. He poured some of the fiery liquid into a glass and tossed it down, trying to numb the ache in his chest. He kept hearing Dom’s cheerful voice as he read that last letter from his mother, “Hey Zack, Gina’s getting married! I sure hate to miss that wedding.” He remembered other things too, like Sandini’s unorthodox advice and knowledge. “You want a fake passport, Zack, you don’t go to some guy named Rubin Schwartz that no one’s ever heard of You come to me and I put you in touch with Wally the Weasel. He’s the best picture book man in the country. You gotta start letting me help you Zack . . .”
Zack had let him help, and now Dom was dead because of it.
“Hey Zack, you want some more of Mama’s salami? I got plenty of Rolaids.”
Standing at the windows, drinking the brandy and staring blindly at the snowman Julie had been building, Zack could almost feel Dom’s cheerful presence beside him. Dom had found such delight in stupid little things. He’d probably have been out there with Julie, building the snowman . . .
Zack froze, the brandy glass suspended partway to his mouth, his gaze searching the yard. Julie!
“Julie!” he shouted, stalking toward the back door and jerking it open. A blast of snow hit him in the face and he had to put his shoulder to the door to force it open in the rising wind. “Julie, get in here before you freeze your—” The wind hurtled his voice back in his face, but Zack didn’t notice. His gaze had riveted on the deep footprints already filling up with snow and he was running beside them toward the garage at the back of the house.
“Julie!” he thundered as he slammed the side door of the garage open. “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here—”
Zack drew up short, momentarily unable to believe the answer he saw with his own eyes as his gaze ricocheted from the snowmobile sticking out from beneath a tarpaulin to the doorway. There, a set of snowmobile tracks began and led straight into the woods.
A few minutes ago, he would have sworn that he was incapable of feeling any angrier or more desolate than he had at the news of Dom’s death, but the explosion of fury and foreboding he felt at that moment ecli
psed even that.
* * *
Cold. Minutes after she left the protection of the forest and pointed the snowmobile down the steep, tree-lined lane they’d taken in the Blazer, Julie felt a deep, bone-freezing cold that was nearly unbearable. Droplets of ice were clinging to the corners of her eyes; snow was driving into her face, blinding her, her lips and arms and legs were stiff. The snowmobile flew over a rut and slid sideways, but when she tried to slow the vehicle down, her limbs were so numb that it took precious moments before her body could obey her brain’s frantic command to react.
The only thing that wasn’t numb from cold was her sense of fear, fear that Zack would catch her and prevent her from escaping and a new, debilitating fear that if he didn’t, she would likely die out here, lost in a blizzard, buried beneath the snow. In her mind, she conjured up a vision of a search party in the spring locating her perfectly preserved remains beneath a mound of thawing snow, her body and head still clad in this chic navy blue little snowmobile suit and matching helmet, which also coordinated—not by chance, she was sure—with the snowmobile she rode. A “perfect” ending, she thought with grim misery, for a girl from the Chicago slums who wanted to be perfect.
Far below, through the branches of trees sliding by her, she caught a glimpse of the state road that snaked around the mountain, but it was a straight dropoff from here to there, a nearly vertical descent made even more treacherous by the trees and giant snow-covered boulders that rose up from the mountain. If she took that route, she might make better time for a few seconds down the mountain, but there was no chance she’d ever reach the highway in one piece. Besides, before she could seriously consider going down the face of the mountain, she first had to use the bridge to get across that swollen stream. She tried to remember where the bridge was. It seemed to her that it should be around the next sharp bend in the road, but it was hard to gauge anything when the “road” had been reduced to a narrow path between snow drifts.