Cold Snow: A Legal Thriller (6 page)

"You've got to be kidding me, Alex!" Jake sounded exasperated. "Why didn't you wait until a month ago?"

"It's the only place I've ever known. I…I've never even left. I'm just not sure I can do it."

"You sure were eager last night!"

"It's okay for you! You just have to walk a few hundred miles along I-81! This looked so much easier in the drawings! Do you have any idea how far I'll have to walk? Over a thousand miles! Through Canadian wasteland! It's hopeless!"

"What about Ridge City? You were telling me the entire plan revolved around Ridge City!"

"It's pointless! You were right! Ridge City is useless. A worthless Canadian burg."

"Damn it, Alex!" Sarah was unaware that she had risen. "You stockpiled food. You stole money. You
took
a
gun
, all right from under your parents' noses. And now you're just trying to walk out on us. Both of us."

Jake glanced at her, a little surprised.

"You," she said, raising her voice, "are
my
only hope of getting out of here. And what about Jake? Your best friend made a huge sacrifice for you. Because he believed in you."

Alex sat down on the floor and caught his breath. "You're right."

Alex didn't know what had gotten into him. At first glance, the plan seemed preposterous; three eleven-year-old children walking hundreds of miles on meager food supplies. But with a closer look at the details, it seemed just crazy enough to work. He'd just forgotten to look at the details.

His resolve hardened, Alex Orson rose to his feet. "We're ready. It's time to leave."

At the interstate, all three paused to look back at the tiny upstate New York hamlet that had given them asylum in an insane world for more than ten years. When you really look at it, Alex thought, Woodsbrook is a great town, despite its flaws. A great town, tarnished and ruined by a load of cruddy people, and threatened by a money-hungry corporation.

"Alex!" Jake called. "You ready to go? We're on a tight schedule here!"

See you later, Woodsbrook,
he thought turning away for the last time.

CHAPTER 4

Roland's Visitor

Ordoñez waited.

His convertible idling in the parking lot of the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, Ordoñez ran his hand over his map again. This was the place—but there didn't seem to be anyone here. Perhaps he was early?

It didn't matter. As long as the man he was looking for was the owner of one out of this meager selection of cars, he had not come in vain.

He exited, slamming his door, the sound echoing off the newly fallen snow. As he crossed the concrete, he heard the sound of another car pulling into the lot. It still didn't matter—he'd dealt with people like this before; he could do it again.

Henry Machry was worried.

Turning his white sedan into the familiar parking area, he noticed a man in the parking lot that he had never seen before, and that usually meant trouble.

The man was Hispanic and very tall. Machry was sure they had nobody fitting that description working at the Woodsbrook branch. It was very rare that you saw anybody Hispanic in this town at all. Maybe he was a visitor from another branch; possibly New York City.

Even so, Machry was vaguely apprehensive.
It's nothing,
he thought.
Working in this job with sickos and child abusers for so long has probably made me jumpy.

Still, though, he couldn't shake off the feeling that this man was bad news. Time would tell, he thought, turning into his reserved space. Time would tell.

"Excuse me."

The secretary looked up. "Name?"

"Ordoñez, from the New York branch. I need to speak to Mr. Machry. It's an urgent matter."

"I can't help you there, Mr. Ordoñez," the receptionist said. Checking her computer, she added, "You can go to his office and wait for him if you want. He usually gets here about a half-hour from now, but he might be out with everybody else."

"Doing what?"

"Looking for the missing kids."

"What missing kids?"

The receptionist produced three photographs paper-clipped to newspaper cutouts. The first photograph was a yearbook photo of a smiling young boy, accompanied by the headline
Woodsbrook Child, 11, Mysteriously Leaves Home.

The second showed a girl about the same age as the first boy. The headline read
Girl, 11, Flees From Orphanage
.

The final clipping was the most interesting, as this was why he had come. It had been taken from the local paper for the blind, with raised letters.
Son of Woodsbrook Instruments VP Runs Away From Home.

The receptionist, cheerfully reciting a greeting, interrupted Ordoñez from the last article. "Good morning, Mr. Machry! This man needs to speak to you."

Machry froze in his tracks. "Who are you?"

"That's not important." Ordoñez had rehearsed this. "I must speak with you outside."

"Outside? Why not in my office?"

"It's a matter of life and death, Machry. It must be outside."

Without explaining any more, Ordoñez forced Machry out through the automatic door, and when they were out of sight from the waiting room, grabbed him by his collar. "Where is Roland Orson?"

"I can't…tell you."

Ordoñez slammed him against the wall. "Why not?"

"You…don't work here. You aren't authorized…to work on the Orson case…and you are not trustworthy."

Ordoñez threw Machry across the parking lot so that he skidded on the icy concrete. "Where is Roland Orson!?"

"I…can't…"

Ordoñez kicked him. "
Where is Roland Orson!?
"

"Alright…22596…Quentin Cove…north town."

Ordoñez smiled. He loved it when they cracked. "Thank you. You've been a big help, Mr. Machry." He turned to walk away. "Oh, and if you call the police, you'll find I'm capable of much more than what you have just seen."

Ordoñez hummed to himself as he drove his convertible along the main road, his roof down even though it was 31 degrees outside. He loved his job.

Woodsbrook Instruments supplied a technological company in New York City, bearing the name Xenontech, Inc. When rumor got out at Xenontech that their supplier's vice president of research and development was involved in a child abuse scandal, and later that the child had run away from home, Ordoñez just had to do some strategic interrogation and he had his new case. Orson would be happy, and since this would be such a fun job, he would offer a discount.

"Madam!" He stopped a woman by the sidewalk. "Am I near Quentin Circle?"

"Three streets over that way," she told him, pointing in the direction the car was already facing and wondering why this guy had his convertible roof down.

Jasmine View Way…Pine Circle…Quentin Cove. This was his street, a short, treeless road ending in a cul-de-sac. At the end of the circle was 22596. Ordoñez parked by the sidewalk and left his car, walking up the icy path, careful to keep his footing. It would not look professional if he broke his leg on a potential client's front walk.

He knocked on the door and waited, listening to the muffled sounds coming from inside.

"Catherine, get the door!"

"I'm busy, Roland! Get it yourself for once!"

"Damn it!"

Soon, Roland opened the door, cursing. "You know, we
do
have a doorbell—who are you?" he asked, his expression quickly changing from irritation to mild curiosity.

"Good morning, Mr. Orson. I've come to—"

"We already have insurance."

"I'm not selling anything. I've come to offer my services."

"We don't need a stockbroker."

"I'll put this bluntly, Mr. Orson. My name is Ordoñez. I'm here about your son."

"You can't claim we're abusing him. He's already gone, the little wretch. You don't work with that Machry guy, do you?"

"Machry was…quite helpful. He helped me find you."

"How did he help you?"

"I…questioned him."

"Did you hurt him?"

"One would imagine."

"I like you already," Roland said, opening the door. "Come in, Ordoñez. Want some coffee?"

"Please."

Warming his hands around the coffee mug, Ordoñez prepared to explain his job to Roland. "I understand," he began, "that your son Alexander recently ran away from home."

"How could anybody
not
understand? The entire Woodsbrook ASPCA branch is scrounging the Interstate for him!"

"I noticed on my way in. I came from New York City."

"New York City. The only reason this worthless state exists at all. Without it, Massachusetts and Pennsylvania could divide up the land…but then we'd probably have to bring in Puerto Rico or something so there would be 50 states…"

"With all due respect, I'm not here to talk geography."

"Then what are you here to talk?"

"Where is your son now?"

"How the hell should I know? Could be anywhere. Could be dead, for all I know."

Ordoñez was a bit worried now. "Dead?"

"Not likely, but possible. The kid's pretty smart. You can't even imagine how hard it was to keep him from getting out." Roland groaned. "Years of psychological warfare, and I finally lost to a kid. A
kid
." He sank back into his chair, as if trying to purge himself of this thought.

A smart kid,
Ordoñez thought.
This will be fun.

Roland cut off his thoughts. "So what exactly is it that you do, Ordoñez?"

"I'm a tracker."

"A tracker?"

"A population reduction agent. A human hunter."

"Get to the point."

"I'm an assassin, Mr. Orson."

Ordinarily, Ordoñez appreciated the shock value of this statement, but to his surprise, Roland didn't even seem fazed. "Interesting…but it's imperative that he is brought back alive. Can you do that?"

Alive. This will be great. Like he said, psychological warfare. Best part of the job.

"I can do that. But I require extra."

"Name your price."

"500 dollars a day, plus expenses."

"I'll consider it. But first, I need to know your first name. Something might come up."

Ordoñez hesitated. "Alberto."

Machry's head was spinning, lights were flashing before his eyes, and it felt like someone was pounding a hammer on the spot where Ordoñez had kicked him.

Cautiously, he rose. Looking around, he saw that Ordoñez's car was gone. Machry wondered wether he was still in town—probably talking with Orson.

Brushing the snow off his pants, he made his way back inside. When the doors opened, he hailed the receptionist.

"Linda, I need to talk to you. Did Ordoñez leave any information?

"Nothing, sir. Only his name." She looked at him. "How did you get all that snow on your clothes? Did you trip?"

"Yes. It's urgent, Linda—are you sure he didn't tell you anything?"

"Absolutely nothing. He just walked in, told me his name, asked to see you, and then you walked in, and he left," she said, adding irritatedly, "With my newspaper cutouts, too."

"I ask because he just left to talk to Roland Orson. I'm afraid he'll seriously complicate the case."

"As if it's not complicated enough already. Wait… he did say something else…New York. He's from the New York City branch."

"New York City. Thank you, Linda."

"How are things going outside of town?"

"I was there a while ago. No signs of any of them."

"Nothing?"

"It's strange. Alex must have known we were on the case since we visited yesterday. Yet, he chooses to take meager supplies and walk fifty miles along the interstate to the next town, which will most likely send him back here. Why?"

"I don't know. He's probably made some plans and doesn't want to go back on them. Which reminds me—why did you ask me to make sure nobody took him away?"

"Because they'd put him in the orphanage, and any amount of abuse is preferable to that hellhole."

"I see your point. Do you think that's why Sarah Jones left?"

"Most likely. What about Jake Harwell, though? His parents are perfectly nice people. I've met them. His home is great, he does well in school, he has lots of friends, and yet he chooses to run with Alex—who would make that sacrafice?"

"I really don't know, sir. I really don't know."

Seated in his car, parked on the edge of town, Ordoñez got the familiar good feeling he got whenever he was about to go on the hunt. His weapon of choice, a .45 pistol, felt like an old friend in his hand. Orson had graciously agreed to his price, and he was already working on his plan for intercepting the runaway in the countryside. He only hoped the little brat had traveling companions—friends gave him some leverage, made the job a lot easier.