State Of Emergency

Then she started running across the open field. Fastened to her by the nylon rope, Jordan had no choice but to follow at top speed. His feet beat the ground. His heart pounded. He hadn’t intended to set a new record for the four-hundred-meter dash across the world’s most rugged terrain.

His plan was to baby his aching muscles until they got to the warming hut where he could collapse into bed and recuperate. Dammit, he’d been gunshot today. Twice. But he couldn’t stop running. Emily sprinted with such arm-churning force that if he held back she’d yank him off his feet and drag him on his belly across the mountain meadow.

Any chance at a quiet, subtle sneak across the wide-open land vanished. If there were any searchers in the vicinity, they must have been alerted by Emily’s eardrumpiercing scream. Jordan tried to watch in all directions as he ran. Were they closing in? Were they converging? The reports on the police radio had named the Cascadia area. Would the next bullet strike his heart?

On the far side of the open meadow, Emily screeched to a halt on a hillside below a stand of conifers. Her frantic gaze darted. Her head swiveled. Her arms clenched across her breasts, and her fingers curled into tight little fists. Unnecessarily, she said, “I hate snakes.”

Pookie echoed, “Brrr-oof.”

“No lie.” Jordan bent double, trying to catch his breath. Though his chest heaved with the effort of consuming enough oxygen, the run seemed to have loosened him up. His muscles were tingling instead of throbbing.

“I can’t believe this.” She spoke in breathy half-sentences. “A few hours ago. I lectured. To Brownies. About snakes. Were you…scared?”

“No.” In Florida, there were lots of snakes. They’d never bothered Jordan. “I don’t think that one was poisonous.”

“Don’t care. I hate them all.”

From their vantage point on the hillside, he turned to scan the open meadow behind them. He looked for the glint of fading sunlight on a long-range rifle. He listened for the sound of manhunters calling to each other, for barking bloodhounds, for the whir of helicopter blades.

Only the soft whisper of mountain breezes disturbed the perfect silence. He saw no movement, no evidence of searchers. However, if and when the sheriff’s deputies came this way, their direction was obvious. The wild race across the dried grasses trampled a path straight as an arrow pointing the way toward Jordan.

He was well-aware that seeking shelter in the warming hut—a clearly mapped landmark—was risky. But he needed warmth and comfort for a good night’s sleep and recovery. His escape efforts might last for days, even weeks, and he couldn’t take a chance on falling ill.

He turned to Emily. “Nothing like that is going to happen again.”

“I didn’t plan to see a snake,” she said.

“I thought you were an expert outdoorswoman, certified in mountain survival.”

“Unless there’s a snake,” she said in a small voice.

After her consistent display of mountaineering skill and wisdom, he detected a subtle shift in their relationship. Her unreasonable fear of snakes had given him an edge and elevated him from the status of mountaineering idiot to potential survivor. He felt gratified to finally be the one with the answers. “I’m pretty sure snakes in these parts are headed toward hibernation. At nightfall, they hide away. It’s too cold out here for reptiles. We won’t see another one.”

“Do you promise?” With the back of her hand, she wiped sweat from her forehead. A convulsive tremble shook her slender body.

Though he wanted to take her into his arms and offer reassurance, Jordan still wasn’t sure whether she’d hug him back or slap him upside the head. He suspected the latter. “Do you want to sit and rest for a few minutes?”

“No! I want to put as much distance between us and that reptile as possible.”

“Suits me.” He took the topographical map from the pocket of his Levi’s. “First, let me get my bearings.”

Staring in a northeastern direction, he spotted a high, jagged outcropping of granite. “Are those the chimney rocks marked on the map?”

“Yes,” Emily said. “Let’s get going. I can find my way to the warming hut.”

Not only did he mistrust her willingness to help him, but dusk was rapidly turning to night. The local landmarks would be invisible in the dark, and he’d have to rely on the compass.

Almost due north, he spied a hogback that was marked on the map. In his head, Jordan calculated the triangulation and set their course for twelve degrees northeast on the compass. “When we approach this hut, there’s probably a road. Right?”

“A path,” she said. “It should be maintained by the Forestry Service.”

He balanced her compass in the palm of his hand. The setting sun was behind them. He could already feel the chill in the air. “Let’s go.”

Keeping a steady pace, they climbed hills and crossed other meadows. As night surrounded them, Jordan took the lead, keeping them on track with the compass.

Behind him, Emily stumbled. “Ow! Jordan, I have flashlights in the backpacks. We should use them.”

“Here’s a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t we just hang a neon sign that says Escapee Here.”

“Searchers won’t be out this late,” she grumbled. “If they are, we’ll see them coming. Because they’ll be smart enough to use flashlights.”

A valid point. He concentrated on watching for glimmers of light in the surrounding forest. Though he was less likely to be tracked in the dark, shadows made him wary of an ambush. Every sound magnified. The snap of twigs beneath his feet. The rustle of wind. Occasional screams from predator birds. And Jordan was the prey. Well-armed deputies with guns and shackles were after him. Searchers led by bloodhounds. They could be waiting at the warming hut, setting a trap.

“How do you know where we’re going?” she demanded.

“I’m using the compass.”

“We should’ve already reached the hut,” she said. “It’s late. We need to stop soon.”

“We’ll find it.”

“You know,” she said, “people get lost in the mountains all the time. These are miles and miles of open country.”

“I said, we’ll find the damn hut.”

He’d learned the principles of coastal navigation while sailing on his fifteen foot sloop in the Gulf of Mexico, and the same logic applied on dry land. Though he could also take his bearings from the constellations, the Colorado sky was unfamiliar to him. Brilliant stars, unobscured by moisture or fog, shone too dazzling bright to be anything more than a distraction. Therefore, Jordan didn’t take the time to look upward. He concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, aiming in the right direction, finding shelter from the cold that froze his sweat against his body.

Stepping through a wall of forest, they entered a small clearing with a trail leading due north.

“This must be the path,” Emily said. “I’m surprised you were able to find it.”

Frankly, so was he. “I had to find the way. Quitting isn’t an option.”

She stepped around him to take the lead again, but he tugged gently on the rope, halting her forward progress. If a trap had been laid at the warming hut, he wouldn’t give Emily first chance to signal.

“I’ll go first. There might be an ambush.” Once again, he removed the gun from his pack. “Don’t make any noise.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Pookie.” Though the pup had lost much of his earlier vigor, Jordan expected a lot of barking if they encountered other people. “He’ll warn us if anybody else is around.”

They followed the path for less than a mile when he saw the dark square shape lurking amid the trees. Unlit, the warming hut appeared to be deserted, but Jordan held back, waiting for Pookie to make the first approach.

The dog didn’t disappoint him. In a flash of golden fur, Pookie bounded up to the cabin door, sniffed and came back to them without a single moof.

“Okay,” Jordan said. Sheer relief warmed his blood, fighting the cold that penetrated his flesh and chilled his bones. Only a few more steps. He could make it. “Now we can use the flashlights.”

The inside of the one-room warming hut was primitive, but it looked like a Hilton hotel to Jordan. The only window was tightly shuttered, but the beam of his flashlight shone on a sink and a wood-burning stove. Several futon-like mattresses were stacked in a corner. There was a grimy table and two wooden chairs. He shed his backpack and lowered himself onto the seat. The hard wood felt more comfortable than plush velour.

Emily demanded. “Unfasten my leash.”

Though he couldn’t imagine how she’d find the strength to take off running, he couldn’t give her the chance. “Not yet.”

“But I’m starving, and Pookie needs to be fed. How am I going to prepare food while I’m tethered by this stupid cord?”

He sure as hell didn’t want to shadow her movements around the cabin. Summoning his last reserve of strength, Jordan moved his chair against the door which was the only way in or out. He sat before untying the nylon rope from his belt. “Knock yourself out, Emily.”

She stretched and flexed her muscles as if she’d been bound, hand and foot. Then she got busy. Her first task was finding a hurricane lamp on a high, grimy shelf. Taking a votive candle from her pack, she struck a match and filled the glass lamp with flickering illumination.

Jordan watched through half-closed eyelids as she hustled and bustled, digging through the backpacks, assembling all her equipment. She reminded him of an exotic golden bird feathering her nest, creating a home.

Jordan exhaled slowly, using his willpower to dismiss the aches and pains of his wounded, battered body. This time, however, he didn’t retreat to memories of sultry, green Florida. He was content to be here. Emily’s presence was strangely comforting.

“Water,” she muttered. “We need water.”

A rusty hand pump stood beside the sink. Gamely, she grasped the handle and pushed down, again and again, until she was rewarded with a spurt of gritty, reddish-brown liquid. Pumping more vigorously, Emily finally achieved relative clarity. Still, she warned, “This isn’t for drinking, only washing.”

After feeding Pookie and giving him water, she assembled several unappetizing packets of freeze-dried food. “I need hot water for this.”

“No fire,” he said. Much as he’d like the heat, they couldn’t risk sending up smoke signals.

“Don’t need fire,” she said.

Her emergency supplies included a small Sternopowered hotplate. While their dinner warmed, she scrubbed the sink and wiped down the table. She also dug into her pack and produced a lightweight space blanket. “Wrap yourself in this.”

Though it hurt his masculine pride to be huddled by the door with a blanket around his shoulders, Jordan was too chilly and tired to object. He took the bottle of ibuprofen from his pocket and swallowed three. To avoid thinking about the pain, he watched Emily.

With a strange lack of typical feminine vanity, she rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed her arms. Her eyes squinted shut as she splashed water on her face. Stepping away from the sink, she unfastened her ponytail. Her curly hair billowed past her shoulders in a golden cloud. It looked soft.

Jordan rubbed his thumb and index finger together, imagining the silky texture. He wished he could take the brush from her hands and stroke through that mass of thick wonderful hair.

Without consulting a mirror, she pulled it back into a ponytail. He’d never known a woman like her—completely honest, straightforward, without artifice. She wouldn’t engage in the manipulative games most women played, and Jordan found those character traits very appealing. Maybe it wasn’t an accident that his escape route led toward Cascadia. Maybe fate had directed him to Emily.

She dished the food onto small plastic plates and added two bottles of water. “Come and get it.”

He shouldn’t leave the door, shouldn’t offer her an unguarded exit. “Take off your boots,” he said.

“What?”

“You can’t make a getaway if you’re barefoot.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll take off my shoes if you’ll come to the table. This isn’t gourmet dining, but the taste is better when it’s warm.”

He dragged his chair across the rough wood plank floor and joined her. After six weeks of eating alone in jail, Jordan wasn’t sure he could manage civilized conversation. “Well,” he said. “We made it.”

“You made it. This is your trip,” she reminded him. “I’m just the hostage, dragged along for the ride.”

He’d never use her as a shield, would never do anything to put her in danger. But that fact needed to remain his secret. If she had nothing to fear, she’d run from him. He took a bite of something with brown, orange and greenish lumps that vaguely resembled stew. “Not bad.”

“Be sure to drink all the water. Keeping hydrated is important.” She frowned. “I probably shouldn’t be giving you survival tips.”

“Probably not,” he said sardonically. “If you’re nice to me, I might grow on you.”

“Like a fungus.”

Undeterred, he said, “You might even start to like me.”

“I try not to get too friendly with escaped convicts,” Emily said. In spite of her hostility toward Jordan, she felt a grin begin to spread. “There’s not much future in the fugitive-hostage relationship.”

“Not true in my case,” he assured her as he scarfed down another spoonful of freeze-dried stew. “I’m innocent, and I’m going to prove it.”

His statement was so utterly artless that she couldn’t help wondering if he spoke the truth. Earlier, when he talked about his deceased wife and the lack of passion in their marriage and proposed divorce, he’d been very believable. “Earlier, you mentioned investigating in Aspen, finding the real killer.”

“That’s right.”

“What could you possibly hope to uncover?” She’d kept track of the evidence through the newspaper reports. “Sheriff Litvak himself supervised the investigation.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Jordan said. “I don’t think Litvak was out to frame me. But once he decided I was guilty, he stopped gathering data. There’s got to be something he overlooked.”

“Like what?” She enumerated the facts on her fingers. “He has the murder weapon, a gun that was registered to your wife and has only your fingerprints. There was no evidence of a break-in at the house. And an eyewitness, the housekeeper, saw you standing over the body.”

“Kneeling,” he said. “I’d found Lynette’s body and called 9-1-1. I was kneeling beside her, trying to figure out how to do CPR or stop the bleeding.”

“You don’t know CPR?”

“I’m not an EMT like you. There was nothing I could do to save her.”

His gaze met hers, and she saw a deep sadness in his dark brown eyes. Emily had almost forgotten that Lynette Afton-Shane had been a living, breathing woman. She was more than an anonymous victim. She’d been Jordan’s wife.

He said, “From the coroner’s report, I learned that CPR wouldn’t have done any good. Lynette was shot through the heart. Her death was almost instantaneous.”

“Accurate marksmanship,” she said. “That might be a clue. Are you good with a gun?”

“Powder burns showed that she was shot at point-blank range. Not much skill required.”

From what Emily recalled of the newspaper articles, Jordan claimed to have been sleeping down the hall when his wife was murdered. “Why didn’t you hear the gunshot?”

“There was a silencer on the weapon. Plus, Lynette’s house is huge. I used to call it Hotel Afton-Shane because she generally had the sixteen bedrooms packed full with friends and family.”

“But no one else was staying there on the night she was killed.”

“Just me.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I wanted privacy to discuss our divorce. Crowds make me jumpy as a flea on a dog.” As he relaxed, the southern lilt to his voice became more pronounced. “Most of the time, I’m real content to be alone with my computers and software.”

“Me, too,” she said. “Not with a computer, of course. But I’ve always been able to entertain myself.”

“And that’s why Lynette and I were alone at the house.”

Emily understood why the sheriff had settled on Jordan as the most likely suspect. His request for a solitary weekend made it sound like he had something nefarious in mind.

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