The Patrick Bowers Files - 05 - The Queen

  At the top of the hill a hundred meters away I could just barely make out the two stationary snowmobiles. I ran in the direction of the sleds as fast as I could, but the forest was blanketed with nearly two feet of dense snow, beneath another rapidly forming layer of fresh powder, making any kind of progress exhausting.

  Neither Ellory nor the suspect was in sight.

  No gunshots. Good news.

  As I crested the hill I saw the Chippewa River sixty meters below me, frozen except for a stretch of open water on our side of the river. It was along the shoreline’s outer bend where the current would have been fastest and deepest. From my college river rafting days I knew that swift water never freezes, even when it’s supercooled in weather like this. A ghost of frigid fog hovered above the churning waves.

  The suspect and Ellory stood on the edge of the riverbank. Ellory appeared dazed and wasn’t resisting Alexei, who was standing beside him, grasping the collar of his coat and somehow supporting him with only one arm.

  But Alexei Chekov wasn’t looking at Ellory. He was staring up the hill, directly at me.

  30

  “Stop!” I had to shout to be heard over the storm. “Step away from the river and let go of him.” I leveled my gun and descended the hill through the thick snow.

  Chekov didn’t move.

  As I got closer I could see that Ellory’s face was a smear of blood, but he was conscious. Ellory was missing his weapon, and I had to assume Alexei was armed.

  “I’m with the FBI.” I approached them carefully. “Hands away from your body.”

  “Drop your gun, Agent Bowers,” the suspect called, keeping his voice calm.

  How does he know your name?

  Maybe Ellory told him.

  It doesn’t matter. Deal with that later.

  “I need you to drop your gun,” he repeated. Surprisingly, he didn’t sound out of breath despite the fact he’d just come down this hill, running through knee-deep snow—and then fought and subdued a police officer. “Or I will throw him in.”

  That was a direct threat on a law enforcement officer’s life. I could take the shot. I could—

  No.

  Too close to the water, they’re too close—

  “Help me!” Ellory yelled.

  By now I was close enough to see why he wasn’t standing on his own: his left leg was buckled, bent sideways at the knee. With the strength of the current, if Alexei did throw him in, I doubted Ellory would be able to regain his balance on his own. He’d be dragged under the ice downstream.

  However, if I shot Alexei, both he and Ellory would end up in the river, and from this distance I’d never be able to get to Ellory in time to pull him out before the current swept him toward the ice. The only way to save him was to buy time, play Alexei, and hope backup arrived quickly.

  But in the storm, how’ll they find you?

  I had no phone or radio with me, no GPS signal for the state patrol to track. Alexei had been attentive enough earlier to disable the police cruiser’s GPS, so I anticipated he would’ve also taken care of Ellory’s cell phone and radio by now—probably tossed them into the river. If that were the case, there was no way for backup to find us in time to do any good.

  The strip of oil-black water roiled behind them as it rushed downstream.

  “I need you to put down your gun, Agent Bowers,” Alexei called again.

  Think, Pat. Think.

  Fierce snow gusted through the air between me and the other men, blurring everything, making it all seem like a wicked watercolor dream.

  I eyed down the barrel of my SIG, evaluating if I could get the shot off without sending Ellory into the water, and I decided to give Chekov one more warning. “Step away from the river, Alexei. I won’t tell you again. Pull the deputy away from the water and hold out your hands. I’m a federal agent and I will shoot you if I have to.”

  “Then Ellory will drown,” Alexei replied. He didn’t sound rattled at all.

  We both stood our ground.

  “I did not kill the Pickrons,” he called unexpectedly.

  “I know.”

  A pause. “How?”

  “You’re a professional—you wouldn’t have used a rifle in the close quarters of the house or wasted any shots. Now step away from the water.”

  He didn’t move, just said, “I have no quarrel with you.” Most of his words held a generic Midwestern dialect, but when he said the word quarrel, I caught the faintest hint of a carefully buried Russian accent.

  Time, buy more time.

  “Who killed the Pickrons, Alexei?”

  Rather than replying, he dragged Ellory even closer to the riverbank. “Drop the gun,” he repeated. “Or Deputy Ellory is going in.” Everything this man said was matter-of-fact. No sadism or malice in his voice. All calm. Controlled. Business as usual. “His left kneecap is shattered. The current will take him under. Do it now, Agent Bowers.”

  “Don’t let him!” Ellory cried. His eyes had flicked toward the water and the ice that stretched past a bridge over the river a hundred meters downstream. I believed Chekov was telling the truth, that he would not hesitate to kill Bryan Ellory if he thought it would increase his chances of getting away.

  Alexei glanced toward the river. “Time’s up.”

  “Wait!”

  Hastily, I calculated my options, but there weren’t any good ways to play this.

  I noted a tree beside me, its girth, its height, memorized the branch pattern and location on the hillside so I’d be able to find it again, then I tossed my SIG toward its base and held up my hands, hoping Alexei wouldn’t shoot me.

  “All right,” I said. “Now walk away from the river and let him go.”

  “Step away from the gun. Come closer.”

  I did, until I was less than ten meters away from him and at least fifteen meters downhill from my SIG.

  “There’s no need to hurt him. My gun’s up the hill. Listen”—I gestured toward Ellory—“he’s hurt. Let me help him.”

  Alexei ignored me, edged closer to the water. “I’m sorry to have to do this—”

  “No!”

  “—but you’ll have to believe me when I tell you it’s necessary—”

  “Don’t!”

  Get there, Pat. Now!

  I sprinted forward.

  But before I’d even taken three steps, Alexei had yanked Ellory’s jacket backward, sending him flying into the raging black water of the Chippewa River.

  31

  Ellory disappeared beneath the waves.

  I rushed through the snow toward the river’s edge as Alexei ran for the bridge downstream. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a semi approaching, but my attention was on Ellory, who bobbed to the surface gasping for breath, flailing his arms. Then the water swallowed him again.

  Go, go!

  I fought my way through the trees, through the thick snow, scrambling to stay ahead of him, all the while looking for a branch I could use to fish him out.

  Nothing.

  The angry current was not going to bring him closer to shore.

  You have to—

  He surfaced again, his eyes wide with terror. He sputtered for air, gave a strangled call for help.

  “I’m coming!” I yelled.

  He went under again. There was no other choice. None.

  I took a deep breath, braced myself, and leaped into the river.

  Shock.

  Frozen knives stabbed at me everywhere. The current immediately cut my feet out from under me, tugged me under. Breath escaped me.

  I strained for the surface, instinctively gulped for air, swallowed water.

  Planting my feet on the bottom, I pushed off and splashed to the surface, spit out the water. I struggled for breath, my chest clutched tight from the cold. Paralyzing. Terrifying. I couldn’t see Ellory and guessed the current had almost certainly taken him past me by now. I swam forward to catch up with him.

  The bank of ice was less than twenty meters away.
r />   I groped through the water, trying to find him, shouting his name. Desperately I pressed off a rock with my left foot, but the rock spun, trapping my ankle. The current dragged me forward, twisting my ankle free, sending a sharp streak of pain up my leg. I lost my footing and fell forward, sweeping my hands through the swirling water, trying to find an arm, a leg, Ellory’s jacket, anything, but came up empty.

  Every second it was harder to breathe, harder to move, as my body tried to conserve heat by sending blood to my vital organs—my heart, my lungs. The things that matter most. Fingers, toes, limbs—all expendable. But not the heart. Not the lungs. Survival trumps everything.

  But I wouldn’t survive unless I could move; unless I could get out of the river.

  Once again I found my footing, and pain shot up my leg as I inadvertently put pressure on my injured ankle—sprained, maybe broken. But none of that mattered. I launched myself downstream again, daring to believe I’d find Ellory.

  Ten meters from the ice.

  I searched the water.

  Nothing.

  Get out, Pat, you’re not gonna make it!

  I grabbed a breath and dove under one last time, swam into deeper water, and felt something bump against my leg.

  I thrust my hand down.

  Snagged Ellory’s armpit.

  Kicking hard and stroking with my free hand, I went for the surface. My head broke through the water, and I drew in a desperate, uncontrolled breath.

  The current tried to yank Ellory from me, but I wrapped my arm tight around him and squeezed. Scissors-kicked toward shore.

  Five meters to the ice.

  But at least that far from shore.

  Options: a few branches stretched across the water, but they were still out of reach. A root system slithered out from the base of a tree and disappeared into the ice, but I could only grab its roots if I were under the ice.

  Get out, you have to get out!

  Muscles weak. Failing.

  A dark and terrible thought grabbed me: I was not going to be able to save Bryan Ellory.

  Two lives lost.

  Two or one—

  I fought the current, trying to—

  Two meters.

  Decide!

  Now!

  The edge looks thick.

  Thick enough.

  It’ll hold.

  One meter.

  Clinging to Ellory, I threw up my free hand, took a deep breath, and then ducked my head to avoid smashing my face into the edge of the ice.

  And I went under.

  32

  What happened next seemed to happen all at once and yet in slow motion, frame by frame, time condensing in on itself. Collapsing.

  Expanding.

  My forearm slammed into the edge of the ice as the current tugged at me; my arm slid down the ice to my hand, just as I’d hoped, and I was able to clutch the lip of the ice.

  Don’t break, please don’t break!

  The ice broke.

  The current swept me farther under, but I snagged one of the roots, clenching it with finger-strength earned from years of rock climbing.

  But it was moss-covered and slippery and I wouldn’t be able to hold on for long.

  Oxygen escaping me, I strained to pull toward freedom, but with Ellory’s weight and the force of the current I couldn’t do it. I’d never be able to get him to the surface.

  No!

  Dark water.

  Death.

  The real.

  Two lives or one.

  I let out my last gulp of air.

  Please no!

  I cried out in my heart, God, don’t let him die. Please don’t let him die!

  But no help came.

  There was nothing else to do.

  I let go of Bryan Ellory.

  The river took him from me, and I threw my other arm up so I could cling to the root with both hands.

  No air in my lungs.

  You let him go, Pat.

  You let him die.

  As quickly as I could, I worked my way up the root system, hand-over-hand, until finally, gaining leverage, I managed to grasp the edge of the ice. This time it held. One more tug and I was able to slide my elbow up, over the lip of ice, allowing me to get my mouth to the surface.

  Quick breaths.

  Life.

  I breathed, breathed, breathed, both numb and weak, and realized I wasn’t shivering—a bad sign. My body was already shutting down. I had to get to shore. Now.

  I twisted so I could keep my mouth above the surface. Then, with one arm hooked over the ice, I slid my other hand along the ice’s edge to pull my way toward the branches jutting out from shore.

  It took all my strength to keep my head above the surface.

  Though my body was numb and cold, somehow my left ankle still seared with pain. I swung my other leg down, planted my foot against one of the roots, and stretched for a large branch hanging above me.

  But as I did, the ice cracked beneath my weight.

  Lunging for a closer branch, I caught hold of it.

  It sagged and dropped clumps of snow on my head and all around me in the water, but it did not break.

  Thank God, it did not break.

  One hand at a time I pulled my way toward shore.

  You let Ellory go.

  You let him die.

  Finally, the river was shallow enough to stand, but I was too fatigued to do it; I crawled ashore, the wind-whipped snow lashing my face, the arctic cold immediately making its way through my drenched clothes.

  Backup, they’re coming.

  No, not without a GPS lock they’re not.

  My frozen fingers felt useless, but I fumbled through my pocket in search of my phone, only to remember that I’d given it to Sean before I took off on his snowmobile.

  Thoughts blurry.

  Lost in a fog.

  I tried to stand but couldn’t even push myself to my knees. No shivering meant my pulmonary system was bypassing my limbs to keep my core warm enough to survive.

  But it was failing.

  I collapsed, able only to draw in shallow, quick breaths.

  Then I felt my stomach clench, and I vomited a mouthful of water.

  As best I could, I dried my face with my gloved hands to forestall frostbite. My thoughts bumped into each other, piled, buried themselves beneath the moment. I was both aware of where I was, and not aware, all the world unraveling like a thin, warped dream.

  You let him go.

  White merged with black, then somehow blurred with the pain riding up my leg.

  Alexei got away. You let him get away.

  And Ellory is dead.

  Grief struck me, but so did the cold, and it seemed to be a living thing with a will and a goal—to swiftly and resolutely take my life.

  I fought off the dawning realization, but it was stark and undeniable: unless I could get dried off, warmed up, I had only minutes to live.

  Clouds and snow and water and death.

  The driving snow was letting up, at least for the moment, and I scanned the area, didn’t see Alexei anywhere. My breathing became rapid, shallow, quick, quick, quick, and then the world turned into a sea of white.

  One last time I tried to stand, but couldn’t. Dropping to the snow, I was vaguely aware of the river snaking along beside me, a stretch of white marred with a gash of black where the water refused to freeze. The water that’d taken Ellory beneath the ice.

  He’s dead.

  And you let it happen.

  I looked toward the bridge and saw that the semi had pulled to a stop.

  The world became dim in a sweep of gray, then the moment enveloped me and became threaded with images of winter trails winding through a forest—the snow cruelly dotted with the blood of a mother and her four-year-old daughter.

  Images.

  A dream.

  Of dark water rushing through the trees and flooding the trail, carrying the body of Bryan Ellory, dead and bloated, toward me. I’m up to my chest
in the waves, and as I try to move away, he bumps into me, his arms wrap around me, and his flaccid lips press against my cheek in a cold, cruel kiss.

  And then, all is black.

  33

  Alexei would have preferred letting the truck driver live, but when the man pulled a compact 9mm Beretta while he was taking possession of the semi, Alexei was forced to disarm him and, as he resisted physically, to deliver an immobilizing jab to the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe.

  One strike was all it took.

  The man fell to the ground, gasped, and clutched at his throat. Alexei turned away, heard soft garbling behind him, then thankfully, before long, it was over. Just a brief, weak struggle against the inevitable. A quick and quiet transition.

  Returning to the body, Alexei saw that the man wore a wedding ring, and he hoped that there would only be a wife mourning his passing—that no children would now be growing up without a father.

  In order to slow down the discovery of the missing truck, Alexei carried the driver’s body to the edge of the bridge near the shore. There was no open water here, but he tipped the body over the guardrail, sending it smacking onto a snowbank beside the river far below. Within minutes the falling snow would cover the corpse and, looking like just another mound of snow on the riverbank, it would be weeks, maybe months, before anyone would find him.

  He returned to the still-idling semi.

  Repositioning the mirrors, he saw a photo on the dashboard—the driver standing beside a slightly obese woman and a dark-haired boy of about seven or eight. All were smiling. A family.

  He flipped the picture down so that he wouldn’t have to look at it, then glanced toward the river where he’d thrown the deputy in.

  Through the blizzard he could just barely make out a body on shore. The clothes told him it was the federal agent.

  But there was only one body, which meant that the agent—the one Ellory had, under slight coercion, informed him was named Bowers—had failed to save the deputy.

  Alexei saw that Bowers lay motionless. If he wasn’t dead already, in this weather it wouldn’t be long at all before death took him.

  Just a brief, weak struggle against the inevitable.