Page 23 of Cry of the Wild

  "Clever, weren't we?" Shriver boasted. "We made damned sure they'd find evidence of the attack before the search area expanded to encompass our cleaning location. We ran a risk, of course. If the pilot in the Huey had taken note of the trail to the cabin and sent anyone to check it out, we'd have been had. Fortunately for us, he was relying mainly on the infrared device in hopes of finding Derrick by detecting a fluctuation in temperature. If he flew over the cabin, there was nothing inside to alert him that it wasn't just another abandoned shack like dozens of others in the region."

  About fifty yards from the cabin, they came upon an embankment that plunged sharply to a rushing creek. Crysta missed a step, staring down at the jagged boulders jutting up from the water. She remembered them from her second dream. This was the embankment she had been trying to scale. Sweat broke out on her face. She turned slightly to gaze in the direction that she had fled after climbing up the incline. Derrick was out there somewhere, in a dank cabin by a small lake.

  "This is where you threw my brother's body, isn't it?"

  Crysta turned on Shriver just in time to see his face reg­ister his surprise. "How'd you know that?"

  "Just a guess," Crysta replied icily. "Why here, Todd?"

  "It was far enough away from where we staged the bear attack that the searchers wouldn't find it. With the trees and boulders, his body wouldn't be visible from the air. As you can see, his remains didn't last long enough to be a con­cern. That's one nice thing about Mother Nature—she cleans up after you rather quickly. Animals—" He broke off. "Well, you get the picture."

  Hatred filled Crysta. Shriver deserved a prison sentence. A long one.

  "Is that where we'll end up?" Sam asked. "Food for scavenging animals, Shriver?"

  "Actually no. Two more disappearances would arouse suspicion. We can't let nature take its course a second time and risk the authorities finding you. Riley is talking about flying you out over the mud flats outside Anchorage. The beauty of it is, if I fly in low, we can shove you out while you're alive and unharmed. When they find your bodies, it'll look as if you went to show Ms. Meyers the sights and walked out too far." Todd clucked his tongue. "In case you aren't familiar with the mud flats, Ms. Meyers, they can be like quicksand. Not too long back, a man and his wife went out there and got into a bog. A rescue 'copter went in to pull them out. The man didn't make it in one piece. Ripped him clean in half when they tried to lift him."

  "I'm a guide,'' Sam reminded him.”Who'll believe I was that stupid?"

  "You're in love. Everyone at the lodge has seen the two of you together. Men can make stupid mistakes when they're trying to impress their ladies, right? Of course, we'll be sure that's the story that gets started, just to cinch it."

  Acutely conscious of Sam beside her, Crysta walked the rest of the way to the cabin. She was instructed to enter first, so the pilot could keep close watch on Sam. The stench of rancid blubber and rotting fish hit her the moment she stepped inside. She remembered the odor from her first dream, and nausea rolled up her throat. Along one wall, a pile of ghoulish skulls were stacked, five and six deep. And suddenly she remembered what had eluded her earlier—her glimpse of an animal skull in Shriver's Cessna. A quick count revealed at least fifty head mounts here. The collec­tion was worth at least fifty thousand dollars.

  Her gaze shifted to a worktable on her right. A glint of silver caught her attention. Derrick's buckle. At one edge of the ornate scrollwork was a jagged hole. As she had sus­pected, the bullet fired at Derrick had gone through the buckle in his shirt pocket, leaving telltale evidence of foul play, which was why his attackers hadn't left it to be found in the mangled garment.

  Shriver grabbed some rope from beneath the table and tossed it at Sam. "Tie her up," he hissed. "And no funny stuff. I want it tight. Mess with me, and I'll kill her."

  ‘‘And have a bullet wound in her head to make the police suspicious when they haul us out of the mud flats?"

  "We can always think of something else," Shriver re­torted. "I do have an airplane."

  As instructed, Sam bound Crysta's wrists behind her, then tied her feet. As he finished tightening the last knot, Shriver walked up behind him and brought his gun down on Sam's head, evidently deciding the danger he represented out­weighed the risk of any suspicious autopsy findings. Sam crashed to the floor, his shoulder hitting Crysta's leg. Un­able to keep her balance, Crysta fell backward, crying out Sam's name.

  Stowing his gun in his jacket pocket, Shriver made fast work of tying up Sam. When he finished, he straightened and met Crysta's gaze, his own curiously expressionless, as it had always been.

  "If it's any comfort at all, I won't let Riley—well, you know. I do draw the line someplace."

  Praying that Shriver wouldn't decide to check the ropes on her wrists, Crysta snapped, "How noble of you."

  He shrugged and turned toward the door. "I'll be out­side keeping watch for my partners. You wait here, hm?"

  Crysta lifted Sam's head in her arms, sending up a silent prayer that he wasn't badly injured. Placing a hand along­side his face, she fought back tears. Seeing him like this brought home to her how deeply she had come to care for him these last few days. Very gently, she ran her fingers over the angry red bump rising on his temple. She was no ex­pert, but it didn't look like a serious injury. He would probably be all right.

  It was up to her to somehow keep him that way.

  "Sam? Sam, darling... Oh, please, Sam, wake up and look at me."

  His eyelashes fluttered open. His dark eyes wandered as he tried to focus on her. "Crysta? We're untied. How did you—"

  "It was a trick I learned from a mystery novel. I held the heels of my hands together, with my wrists twisted. It gives you some slack when you straighten your arms."

  He licked his lips. "Mystery novels. I knew it. You lied to me."

  A joyful laugh bubbled up her throat, and tears trailed down her cheeks. "Can you sit up?"

  He tried and failed. Crysta tried to help him, but he weighed so much, she couldn't budge him. "Sam, you have to get your wits about you."

  He fastened bleary eyes on her. "Did you call me dar­ling?"

  "Sam!" Crysta caught him by the chin. "Shriver's out there with a gun. Riley will be here any time. Snap out of it."

  He passed a hand over his forehead, wincing when he grazed the bruise on his temple. "What in hell did he hit me with?"

  "His gun." Time was running out. Crysta knew if she didn't do something, fast, she and Sam were going to die. She pulled her arm from beneath him and pushed to her feet. Glancing around, she spied a pile of stove wood. "You just he there, okay? Keep your hands behind you like you're still tied up."

  He blinked again, trying to focus on her. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to get us out of here." She picked up a hunk of wood, glancing out the murky window as she hefted it in her hands. Twilight had fallen, which meant a great deal of time had passed. Enough time for Riley to have nearly reached them. She glanced back at Sam. "You concentrate on coming around."

  He tried to shove up on one elbow. "Crysta, don't be crazy. You're no match for Shriver. He has a gun."

  She held up the wood. "This will do if I take him by sur­prise."

  Stepping behind the door, Crysta pressed her back to the wall. Glancing at Sam, she took a deep breath and let out a bloodcurdling scream. He jumped. She screamed again. An instant later, they heard footsteps thumping up the porch. The door crashed open.

  Crysta lifted the wood. Shriver stepped into view. With all her might, she brought the wood down on his head with a resounding thud. Shriver staggered, fell against the wall, gave his head a shake and focused on her. Crysta stared at him in horrified disbelief.

  "You little-"

  Whatever it was he meant to say was cut short. Sam came up off the floor, swinging his massive fist in a wide arc that caught the unprepared pilot squarely on the chin. Head hit­ting the wall with a loud crack, Shriver rolled his eyes and began a slow de
scent toward the floor, surprise crossing his face as his legs folded beneath him.

  Sam, bracing a shoulder on the wall beside the uncon­scious pilot, sank to the floor with him. "If we get out of this alive, I'm enrolling you in another self-defense class. You should have hit him above the ear, not dead on."

  "How was I to know he has a head like brick? Besides, I only wanted to knock him out, not kill him!"

  "Charitable of you," he grunted. "Tie him up. Fast. If he comes around, he won't be half as nice as you, believe me."

  Crysta leaped into action. The moment she had Shriver bound, she turned her attention to Sam. "Can you stand up?"

  Bracing an arm against the wall, Sam rose to his knees and gave his head a shake. From the way his eyes looked, Crysta knew he was in no condition to walk. Raising his face, he tried to focus on her, his full lips a frightening gray.

  "Go without me," he rasped.

  "What?"

  "You heard me. It's your only chance, Crysta."

  She ran to peer out the window. "I'm not leaving you!"

  He licked his lips and managed to plant one boot on the floor in front of him. Propping an arm on his knee, he said, "Just this once, would you listen to me? I'll slow you down. They'll catch us, and if they do, we're both dead. Now go!"

  "No!"

  A little bit of his color returned. He tipped his head back and riveted her with an irritated gaze, his eyes bleary. "Somehow, I knew you'd say that. Until I met you, I never realized how boring other women were."

  It hit Crysta then, with the impact of a battering ram, that the blow to Sam's head had literally knocked the sense out of him. She ran across the room and grabbed his arm. "Sam, for heaven's sake, this is no time for—"

  "Professions of love?" With her help, he gained his feet, staggering sideways, which carried her with him. "What better time? I might not get a chance later."

  Crysta took two steps toward the door, hauling Sam with her. His boot caught on Shriver's bound legs. She stum­bled, caught her balance and lurched forward again. "Sam, you have to concentrate. Are you listening to me?"

  "I'm not deaf, honey, just dizzy."

  She gritted her teeth, holding him up with one arm while she threw the door wide with her other. Feeling his solid body stumbling against hers made her heart twist with fear for him. At least she could run. "Our lives are at stake here!" she grunted, steering him out onto the porch.

  "Exactly." He tripped down the steps. "Which is why—" He pulled to a stop and leaned forward, planting his hands on his knees while he hauled in a gigantic draft of fresh air. "There are some things you don't leave for later when you aren't sure there'll be a later. You're one hell of a lady, Crysta Meyers. I just want you to know that."

  "So now I know." She caught his arm again, scanning the line of nearby trees, heart in throat. Riley might appear at any moment. "Now, let's apply ourselves to making sure we have a later, Sam. Can you do that?"

  He straightened, looking a little better now that he had some clean air in his lungs. Blinking, he pulled his arm from her grasp to drape it over her shoulders and leaned heavily against her. "I definitely want a later, believe me. If I let Riley kill me, I'll never get to investigate that cute little birthmark on your—"

  Crysta gasped. "You said you didn't look!"

  "I lied, too."

  En route back to the river, Sam had to lean heavily on Crysta to make it. As they crossed the meadow, Crysta felt like a tortoise carrying a load of cement while engaged in a footrace with a hare. Hopelessness filled her. Fastening her gaze on the line of trees ahead of them, she did the only thing she could think to do: she prayed.

  Just as they reached the edge of the tree line, Crysta spotted a flash of movement from the corner of her eye. Red hair, a plaid shirt, blue jeans. She turned her head, fear chilling the sweat on her face. Riley O'Keefe. A tall, slen­der figure emerged behind him. Steve Henderson? She'd no sooner registered that than a shot rang out and dirt geysered right in front of her feet.

  "Sam!"

  In response to her cry, Sam shoved her forward, the force of his thrust sending her into a face-first sprawl in the grass. An instant later, his body slammed into the ground beside her. The swampy earth soaked her shirt and jeans. Crysta needed no prodding. When Sam scrambled forward on his belly toward the trees, she was right beside him.

  Once under cover, Sam rose to his knees, swayed to get his balance and peered out over the blades of tall grass. His eyes still had a slightly unfocused look, and he was quite pale.

  "They're coming this way at a dead run." He jerked his head around, grabbed her roughly by the arm and sprang unsteadily to his feet. Before Crysta realized what he meant to do, he pulled her to a clump of brush and shoved her into the foliage. "You stay put. I mean it, Crysta. Don't so much as breathe, do you understand me? Count to two hundred, then run for the river. They won't be able to track you if you wade in the stream."

  With that, he reeled away and took off through the trees. Regaining her wits, Crysta sprang after him. Though still unsteady on his feet, he had already covered a distance of ten yards. Crysta knew desperation was driving him. She broke into a run to catch up.

  "Sam! Come back here!"

  As if her voice lent him speed, he scissored his long legs to increase the distance between them. Crysta nearly called his name again, but the sound of other booted feet thrum­ming on the damp earth stifled her. She dived for cover in some nearby brush, eyes riveted to the clearing. An instant later, Riley and Henderson burst into view. They scarcely paused. A crashing sound made them whirl and run in the direction Sam had gone.

  Sam was leading them away from her.

  Crysta balled her hands into fists, breathing in shallow little gasps. Sam was in no condition to play hero, not after taking that blow to his head. He wouldn't be able to go far. Riley and Henderson would catch him. And when they did, they would kill him.

  With a sob, Crysta shoved her way out of the concealing brush. As she gained her feet, fear swamped her. For an in­stant she stood rooted. Sam was giving her the chance to survive this. If she revealed herself, Riley surely had a bul­let in that gun with her name on it. Was she out of her mind?

  Like a reel of film being played out in fast motion, Crysta saw herself as she had been before coming here to Alaska. How empty her life had been. Until meeting Sam and Tip, she had fooled herself into believing that she could be happy as a successful fashion designer. Now she realized how piti­fully lonely she had been, and how pitifully lonely she would always be if things continued status quo. Sam thought his gift to her was a chance for survival, but she wanted more from him than that; she wanted another chance to live, re­ally live. If that wasn't in the cards, then what did she have to lose? Far less than Sam did.

  Crysta sprang forward into a run. She wouldn't let him die because of her. It had been her persistence that had pushed Riley into this in the first place. Her fault, only hers. Bursting from the cottonwoods into the meadow, Crysta focused on the three figures running along the edge of the trees. Sam was keeping himself in plain sight. She could tell by his flagging pace that the blow he had received was tak­ing its toll.

  Once again, Crysta felt as if she were watching a film, this one spun out in slow motion. Riley, skidding to a stop and throwing up his arm to sight his gun on Sam. Steve Hen­derson braking to a halt behind Riley and shouting some­thing. And Sam— Pain twisted inside Crysta's chest when she saw him stop running and look back over his shoulder in her direction. He was making a target of himself! So she could flee.

  Crysta screamed. The sound ripped through the twilight. Riley spun around. She waved her arms so he could see her. "Run, Sam! Run! Don't do it! Please, don't do it!"

  A shot rang out. The dirt beside Crysta exploded up­ward, a tiny clod hitting her thigh. She flinched, and a hor­rible paralysis gripped her legs. Then she heard Sam roar with anger.

  "Go back!" Crysta staggered forward, her eyes riveted on Sam as he charged toward Riley. "S
am, go back!" she sobbed, breaking into a run herself.

  From that moment, everything happened in a swirling haze of unreality. Riley turned and leveled his gun at Sam. Steve Henderson roared "No!" and threw himself on Ri­ley's back. The two smugglers crashed to the ground in a roll, both fighting for control of the gun. As Crysta reached them, Sam was coming up on their other side.

  "I won't let you kill them!" Steve cried. "Enough is enough, O'Keefe! It's over!"

  O'Keefe rolled to the top and brought his left fist crash­ing down into Henderson's face. "Over? One more haul, you stupid bastard, and we'll be rich. I'm not letting you screw it up!"

  Sam skirted the struggling men and snagged Crysta's hand, dragging her into a run. Behind them, Crysta heard another sickening thud of a fist against flesh, then a roar of rage rent the air. She hauled back on Sam's hand. "We can't leave Steve, Sam! We can't!"

  Pale-faced, Sam pulled her into a run, using the advan­tage of his greater weight. His palm felt sweaty around her hand, and his fingers didn't grip with their usual strength. Crysta would have known he was perilously close to col­lapse even if he hadn't been staggering.

  "He's on his own!" he cried shakily. "I'm getting you out of here!"

  Just as Sam and Crysta reached the trees, a shot rang out, the echo strangely muffled. From the look on Sam's face as he braked and wheeled to look back, Crysta knew the bul­let had found a target. She saw Riley O'Keefe staggering to his feet, brandishing the gun over Steve, who writhed on the ground, holding his stomach.

  "Oh, God!" she moaned.

  Reeling like a drunk, Sam passed a shirt sleeve across his eyes, dragged in a bracing breath, then began running again, hauling her along behind him. "It's them or us, Crysta! Run, sweetheart. Run like you've never run in your life!"

  The trees seemed to whiz past Crysta. She tried to focus on the ground, on Sam's churning legs, but everything seemed blurred. Her lungs began to ache. A stitch knifed into her side. Though his pace began to slow a bit, Sam still kept running. Across the second meadow, through the slough, back into the trees.