Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (39 page)

There's only one way to win this fight.

She rolled again and launched herself into Potard's knees, bringing him down once more. They both stood up, and found themselves in the same positions they had held at the beginning, Potard with his back to the cliff.

Sarah rushed towards him. She had time for one, final thought.

He said it. I wish I could have.

Then her body struck his, and in one final, insane instant, Sarah Jones and Jean le Potard fell backwards into the spinning storm of white.

CHAPTER 26

Cold Snow

Alex burst off the hill at his fullest speed, without looking or caring where he was going, and hurled himself into the rapidly intensifying winter storm. The snowfall had a different quality to it now—it was falling less like a group of dancers and more like a marching legion, driving inexorably toward the ground. Alex fought to remain on high alert as he stepped as quickly as he could through the white cover, watching flakes spitting from the sky in waves. Wind howled through the sky, across the lake, through his mind; everywhere, inside and out.

Certainly a great place for somebody to die.

At that moment, his flashlight flickered, glowed feebly for a moment, and extinguished. He swore violently, and threw it to the ground, not daring to stop and hide it. He then began looking around with his own power. From what he could tell, the clustered trees on the hill thinned out here, opening onto a rolling area of unobstructed lakeshore with less life than where they had been. The highway was nowhere to be seen.

Other than that, the landscape here was imperceptible, and that, he knew, was good—the less he could see, the less Ordoñez could see. His skin was being pinched and bitten by the frigid air, which seem to strike everything that was him; every thought was cut through by frigid snow, every movement buffeted by winds. It was annoying but somewhere short of oppressive, the way heat could be. In fact, it was almost freeing. He felt as if Alex Orson was being eaten away. The boy who had run away from his home, pursuing a childish dream of freedom, might be lost now—in this freezing dark night of the soul, he could become a new man.

The rifle was icy against his hands, but he clenched it tightly, knowing it was loaded, following it as the only piece of fire in this world of fog and ice. For a moment he worried that his hands would freeze to it—irrationally, he knew, as even this wasn't that cold.

He at last came to a place where he thought he crossed a small change in the field; a small ridge that rose and dipped again just as quickly. This was it, then—the place where he would make his stand. He vaulted over it, plunging one hand into the snow as a fulcrum point, feeling it turn to ice, pulling it out again, clutching it, and blowing on it vigorously to warm it up. He rolled over into a kneeling position, shifting his weight to his knees behind the woefully inadequate protection of his jeans. He placed his body against the small slope, determined to make the best use of the cover he could find, and rested the rifle horizontally, aiming across the field. Defended for now, he scanned the open area.

His eyes slowly adjusted, and he saw that the darkness had made the snow seem thicker than it was. The most noticeable feature was, of course, the beam of light that Ordoñez was foolishly using to telegraph his position. Alex, not believing that it could be this easy, stared down the barrel of the rifle and closed his eyes. This was it—he was about to make it all end…

He squeezed off the shot. There was no yelp of surprise, no shriek of pain. Alex clutched his face with his hand and grimaced.
Of course he's not there.

Now facing an enemy who was little more than a shadow in a storm, Alex began looking for a sign, as calm as he could be in the face of his clawing fear. The area was scattered with trees and protruding rocks. About fifty yards from him, and several to the left, he could see the chiseled stone face of rock; to the left of that, spanning his western field of vision, was Cold Lake. Ordoñez seemed to be nowhere—and Alex realized then that he was not sure he had even been followed…

A flash of fire erupted and vanished in the field, and the snow exploded inches to his right, causing him to recoil in terror. The next shot cracked only a few seconds later, from an area yards away from the first. Alex ducked lower, shielding himself even more, and fired several times without looking. Ordoñez was moving at an eerily rapid pace, evidently unsullied by the conditions. At that moment, Alex felt his first true surge of fear, accompanied by desperation.

Ordoñez materialized out of the storm, dangerously close, with every intention of shooting him. Alex took his position again; but Ordoñez anticipated the shot. Before Alex could fire the rife, Ordoñez dove to the ground, rolled over, and propelled himself to a standing position. Alex covered himself against the next burst of fire, once again cut off from any opportunity to aim. Terrified of exposing any weak spots, he emptied the rifle blindly, not letting go of the trigger until he heard the hollow click.

Ordoñez raised his gun, preparing for the final shot.

There was something extremely disconcerting about sitting in the back of a police car; though Machry knew he was there as an ally of the law, it wasn't hard for him to imagine himself in handcuffs, sitting behind the steel grate. This, added to the fact that police generally did nothing to make any impression of comfort in the back seat, served only to heighten his sense of unease.

The moment Gary Henderson had made the request, Machry wanted to know why they needed him.
You're closer to this case than any of us,
he had said.
You need to talk to him. You'll need to get him out of the house, and get him to let something slip.
Machry had argued that he was possibly the target's least favorite person in the world, excluding his son, but Gary would have none of it.
Your testimony gives us enough evidence to incarcerate the guy for life,
he had told him.
If you can do that, you can get him to where we can arrest him.

The detective and patrolman driving the car were respectively a stoic woman and a stoic man. They maintained an enforced quiet, and Machry was unable to figure out what was causing it—orders? Distrust of him? Trepidation about arresting the most powerful man in town? Whatever the reason, the silence left him alone with his apprehensions.

At long last, they turned onto the street that held their destination. Machry, trying to calm his stomach, drew a long breath, and blew it out just as slowly. At that moment, the silence was finally broken.

"Oh my god…" the male patrolman exhaled.

Machry's first perception was of a bizarre, flickering quality of light, drenching the ground in faint webs and beams. The female detective had already stopped the car, and opened the door, calling for Machry to follow her. He planted his palms on the leather seat and pushed himself up—then, unable to exit as he had planned, he could only sit and stare. Only when the patrolman knocked on the window and beckoned for him was he able to exit and take a closer look at what he was seeing.

"No!" he exclaimed, and then again, louder. "No, no!"

It had to be a joke—whoever was pulling the strings had to be messing with his head. Before this he couldn't possibly have imagined a worse setback that what had already happened to him. Now, however, he could hear Alex's voice in his head.
Machry,
he said,
Machry, you should have realized by now. The world always finds a way to make itself worse.

Where the house used to stand, a wall of blinding white chaos was tearing through feeble floors and ceilings. Tongues of flame reached everywhere, no sense of order or direction holding them in place. Most of the front and left walls were already burning rampantly, less house than fire and probably unsalvageable. With a sinking of his heart, Machry realized that anybody in there was probably dead. He clutched his hair with a shaking hand and watched part of the roof give under attack, collapsing and leaving a gaping hole through which what was once a room could be seen. The patrolman had already jumped back into the car and was shouting into the dispatch radio.

"This is car 19!" he panted hurriedly. "We're at 457 Sequoia Way, and we need some fire department
now
!"

"Copy that," replied the scratchy voice, "but somebody's already called 911 from the same address."

Machry forced himself to look away. Watching the chaos of the fire would only cause him more distress. He was about to take shelter in the backseat prison when the detective called his name.

"Mr. Machry!" she yelled, calmly. "I need you over here." Her hand was on her holster, although no immediate danger was evident. She was walking slowly toward the right side of the house, where a gate led through to a side yard.

Machry, against his wishes and better judgment, walked toward the fireball and stood in the flickering heat, keeping well back from the detective. They waited a few seconds, and Machry began to doubt why she had called him—he knew it was his curse, to always be a man of doubts, hesitations, and reservations.

A shadow, hidden in darkness by the torrent of light, appeared suddenly from the side garden, moving lurchingly toward them. His features gradually materialized; and, on the sight of Machry and the police, burst into altogether unconvincing happiness. Roland Johnson's face had never looked so disgusting.

"Thank god, you're here!" he wheezed. "I called 911, but I thought the firemen would never show up!"

Machry and the detective exchanged a glance.

"I'm lucky to be alive," Roland said, panting loudly. "My wife and child are still in there! You need to hurry!"

"Drop the act, Mr. Orson," the detective said harshly. Machry wanted to correct her. "We're not the fire department, and you're under arrest. Get over to the car and lie down on the hood. Now!" she added, when Roland opened his mouth to protest.

"What are the charges?" he said, as innocently as he could.

"Murder!" Machry shouted, louder than he intended. "And arson!" he added.

Roland's face soured, his act erased. "You just couldn't keep your god damned nose out of this, could you, Machry?"

"
On the car!
" the detective interjected, causing both men to jump. "You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

Roland snarled, and walked to the patrol car, holding his head as high as he could. He laid his upper body against it, and allowed his hands to be cuffed by the patrolman. "You have no proof I killed whoever it was," he ejected, lying with his face pointed at Machry, who was now standing in front of the flame.

"Roland Johnson," Machry said, relishing his moment of victory over the king of Woodsbrook. "Your life has been a wreck. You know it."

Roland gritted his teeth in rage. He struggled as hard as he could, beating his body on the metal hood. The patrolman shoved his head onto the steel, and he winced. "Who the
hell
told you!?"

"I knew," Machry replied. "You gambled away a millennium's fortune in a few years. You made a deal with the devil to pay it back. And from the moment you took that certain baby into your home, Irving Edbrough had the paperwork for that entire wreck. You knew, when Alex left, that you couldn't let him live."

Roland could only continue to scowl.

"And now, you've taken the final step to hide the evidence. So many things in that house would reveal you. You could take no chances."

Roland emitted a horrible sound, a scream of terror and desperation, one emitted only by one who has at last been undone.

Seized by an instinct from some spirit other than his own, Alex leapt up and propelled himself backwards through the snow. Ordoñez, expecting him to be crouched behind the ridge, fired directly downward; and yet there was no scream, no blood—Alex had been shielded by the merciful fog and ice. Kicking the snow off his shoes, Alex held his rifle in both hands and allowed his soul to escape through his mouth, crying an unearthly yell. He pulled with all his might against traction in the snow and ran headlong into the wind, closing his eyes against the gusts and swinging with his force of rage at the assassin.

Ordoñez grunted in pain, then yelled in surprise—the blow knocked him off his feet, and he fell, staggering, to the ground. Alex threw the rifle aside and dived on him, pushing both hands into Ordoñez's face. He felt warm blood and realized that his strike had broken the assassin's nose. Ordoñez grunted again and Alex felt the wind rush out of him as a foot was thrust into his torso. Fighting for breath, his hands remained fastened on Ordoñez's head as he went flying, and the two rolled over in the snow, Ordoñez still grappling to loosen Alex's grip.

Alex knew all too well that his enemy still had the advantage. He threw his full weight onto Ordoñez, pinning him down, and reached with his left hand for the assassin's right. The iron-grey .45 awoke and darted upwards, and Alex, frantic, clutched Ordoñez's upturned wrist. He turned over to his right and landed on the hard ground, frozen beneath the blanket. Ordoñez followed, and the hand holding the weapon was hanging between them, each clawing for dominance. Both of them had both arms wresting the other's apart, but Ordoñez was clearly stronger, and the gun was moving inexorably towards him—and for one terrifying instant, it slipped from Alex's grasp.