"What do you mean you can't find it?" Ice's gravelly voice pierces the Owner's ear. Chills of anxiety race down his spine, making him shiver almost involuntarily.
"Me and my guys looked all of last night and all of the night before that," the Owner whines, raking a hand through disheveled, unwashed hair. "I'm gonna need a few more days."
"A few more days," Ice echoes flatly.
"This place is big," the Owner says defensively. "Me and the guys spent all of two nights looking." And he has the blisters to prove it.
"I see." His seemingly unperturbed reaction is scarier than a temper tantrum. "I need that money, Mr. Lorry."
"And you'll get it," the Owner, Mr. Lorry, promises vehemently. "We'll do anything it takes." He peeks out the window of the cabin. A velvet night sky has just stretched itself over Heartland, studded with a myriad of stars that twinkle like diamonds. A good night for searching. But he's not admiring the celestial lights. He's eyeing the person headed toward his cabin.
"You'd better," Ice says. "You're spending a good chunk of money renting the entire place, Mr. Lorry. I'd hate to think of what might happen if you should fail." He lapses into a frosty silence. The calm before the storm.
"I gotta go," the Owner says, his voice hoarse with barely-contained apprehension. "Someone's comin'."
Ice doesn't bother with goodbyes. Shaking off the creeping tendrils of worry, the Owner squares his shoulders, strides across the room, and flings open the door. "What?" he snaps irritably.
It's that woman—Sue or Drew or whatever. One hand clutches a batch of freshly baked cookies and the other is raised to knock on the door. Her eyes widen and her lips part with astonishment. "I'm sorry, Mr. Larson," she says graciously. "I was just coming by to give you these cookies and see if you need anything." She begins to back away, but Mr. Lorry—or, to this woman, Mr. Larson—tosses up a hand to stop her.
"Wait," he calls. "I'll take those cookies." Who is he to turn down perfectly good food? She starts to step into the cabin, but Lorry, in a brief moment of panic, throws out an arm to stop her—again. "I'll take those!" he barks hurriedly.
The woman's eyebrows raise. "O-okay," she stammers. Brow furrowed, she proffers the baking sheet. "Careful, it's—"
Too late.
Pain sears Lorry's hands. Eliciting a very un-henchman-like shriek, he drops the pan on the porch, scattering cookies every which way.
Fleming and Lorry both let loose a stream of vile profanities.
"I am so sorry," Fleming starts apologetically.
"It's okay," he wheezes through clenched teeth, clutching his burned hands to his chest. "I'm just going to—"
"No, allow me," the woman interrupts breathlessly. Before Lorry can stop her she rushes into the cabin. "There's a first aid kit in here somewhere . . . "
Agitation writhes in Lorry like a brood of snakes. Muttering another string of curses, he careens after her. "Wait!" he calls. "I can take care of it. You don't have to do this!"
"I insist!" Fleming calls from the bathroom. Tension squeezes Lorry's gut like a vise, twisting and crushing it to the size of a b-b. Flopping down on the bed, he tries not to think about the shovels and the metal detector hidden under the very bed where he now sits. "Here it is!" Fleming emerges from a bathroom cabinet wielding a first aid kit. "Run your hands under some cold water in the bathroom, Mr. Larson," she urges. From Fleming it sounds less like a suggestion and more like a command.
He is loathe to leave the incriminating apparatus unsupervised, but to resist her logical request would be suspicious and rude. Hands shaking with what he attributes to pain, he shuffles into the bathroom and holds them under the already-running tap. The woman's right—the cool water alleviates the discomfort caused by the burns. But it doesn't mitigate the nervousness gnawing at his gut. The scenario plays before his mind's eye with brutal clarity.
The Scenario:
Fleming, discovering the items under the bed.
Questions being asked.
Lorry narrowly avoiding incarceration.
Returning to Ice with empty hands.
Then . . .
He doesn't permit his thought process to continue any further. Moving almost mechanically, he turns off the water and darts back into the main room, half-expecting Fleming to be tugging the metal detector out from under the bed. But no, she is rummaging through the first aid kit, bandages and ointment already in hand.
"Thanks," he says gruffly as she deftly dresses his hands. But internally he's panicking: How is he supposed to keep searching what had to be hundreds of acres of land with injured hands?
Fleming frowns, staring at his hands curiously. "Mr. Larson, these are some bad blisters," she remarks.
His hands twitch away from hers almost involuntarily. Cursing himself under his breath, Lorry studies his twice-injured hands, mind frantically searching for a plausible cause for the blisters—which are too far along to be caused by the hot baking sheet alone. "I'm a construction worker," is the feeble excuse spilling swiftly from dry lips. Forcing his heart rate back to normal speeds, he proffers his hands, which quiver ever so slightly.
"Oh," the woman murmurs dubiously. Her eyes are trained on his suspiciously injured hands even after she finishes dressing them.
"Dang, Lorry. What happened to your hands?" A man with a mien resembling that of a rat eyes Lorry's wrapped hands curiously.
"None o' your business, that's what," Lorry growled irritably. Rat—whose real name, albeit unacknowledged by most of the civilised world, is Albert—eyes him balefully, muttering something tremendously uncomplimentary about Lorry to his comrade. His men are cranky and Lorry can't blame them. Spending a Sunday night out in the cold searching for a big wad of cash whose entirety won't even go to them is not a way any of them want to occupy their time. "Where're the Fremonts? It's eleven thirty." He shines his flashlight around, searching for the brothers in the looming darkness.
"They're wonderin' why you ain't doin' the smart thing, Lorry," Rat growls.
Anger, so easily inflamed in him these days, flares up inside him like wildfire. Lorry whips around to face his employee, bandaged fists clenched. "And what might that be?" he snaps, deliberately shining his light into Rat's bloodshot eyes.
Glaring mutinously into the flashlight's beam, Rat adjusts his grip on his metal detector. "Give up searchin' and just ask the Kid!"
"You must be outta your mind," Lorry snarls, stalking up to Rat. "You think he's just gonna tell us where his old man's money is?" Unfortunately, Rat is about the same height as Lorry—if not taller. Even so, Lorry refuses to be cowed and returns Rat's glare with equal ferocity.
"How do we even know he has it?" Rat's compatriot—Maurice—jumps in. "Borden never said anything about a Kid."
"But Borden did say he had money," Lorry counters, turning to pin Maurice with a pointed before he giving Ice the cash he promised him. "And if Ice believes him, then I'm reckonin' that somewhere around here there's a good pile o' dough stashed away."
"And since when do we trust anything Brad has to say?" Rat asks.
"We've searched everywhere," Lorry says, forcing his tone to remain sensible and placating. "Where else could it be but here?"
"Well, if it is here, it sure ain't gonna be buried in the woods," Rat points out. "Borden's Kid would have it."
"I'm willing to bet that Borden snatched it before we could get here," Maurice puts in, tugging his hat more securely over his bald head. "That'd be just like 'im. Promise Ice his money, then snatch it and split before Ice can tell him to hand it over."
"Well, we sure ain't gonna find it standin' around and talkin' about it," Lorry declares. "Maurice, you take the southern quadrant. Rat, you take the north. Remember, you see anything and you page me. I'm goin' to go and find the Fremonts."
"Why do we have to do the grunt work?" Rat whines. "And why do you insist on callin' meRat?"
"You have to do the grunt work 'cause you're the employees and I'm the employer," Lorry spits. "And I call you Rat because you are one. Any more questions?"
A couple of sulky head shakes. Whatever. Lorry is out of there.
"I give up!" Rat's announcement elicits two primary responses.
The Two Primary Responses :
1) A passionate rumble of approval from Maurice and the sullen Fremont brothers.
2) A passionate rumble of disapproval from Lorry.
"Face it, Lorry." Dropping his metal detector, Rat brushes off his hands and puts them defiantly on his hips. "We're never going to find the money. Your boss will just have to live without it."
You don't understand! Lorry wants to doesn't "live without it." He gets what he wants, when he wants it, or someone will pay the price. And with Ice, the price is always a high one. But he doesn't tell his employees that. Instead he says, with all the cool calmness of his boss: "Fine by me. But you're not getting paid until that money is found."
The four mercenaries exchange knowing glances. In the dark, with only flashlights illuminating the space in which they worked, those glances are downright unnerving. "I tell you what, Lorry," Rat says. "You can barely work. We've been searching for days without getting a whiff of anything. We're tired, it's almost dawn—why don't you let us handle this?"
"Not likely," Lorry snarls. "What do you take me for?" Visions of his body, frozen solid by a combination of cold and rigor mortis and lying in a ditch along the side of the road, flash before his mind's eye.
"If you keep goin' on like this, I take you for a fool!" Rat responds boldly. "We'll get the money; you pay your boss, you pay us, and Bob's your uncle! It's all taken care of."
Leaning against his shovel, Lorry chews his lower lip, his mind racing. If he lets them have their way, who knows what they'll do? None of his workers were the most reputable of men. With Rat as their leader, the possibility of very illegal circumstances arising are undeniably high. If they are caught, Lorry would most likely go to prison—and with his record, it would be for a very long time. But then again . . . how can he refuse them? They are like him—poor, needy, and desperate for one thing and one thing only: money. If they succeed, it's like Rat said: Lorry could get Ice and the hired hands off his case in one fell swoop. In addition, Ice has promised him a good amount of monetary reimbursement for his trouble.
He takes a good, long look at his workers, at their wild eyes and shaking hands and hard expressions—the demeanours of desperate men. If they really want the money, they won't wait for his approval. They'll get it whether Lorry authorises their scheme or not. Taking a deep breath, Lorry says, "All right. But don't expect me to bail you out if you get caught."
Tonight they are wraiths. They are shadows borne in the darkness of night. And their intentions come from similarly dark minds.
The others have been careful to stay relatively unobtrusive over the course of their stay. No need for the inhabitants of Heartland to be able to identify them once someone figures out that the money is gone. Still, they are garbed in all black. Everything from their shoes to their ski masks are the colour of coal.
One thing they haven't planned on is the inclement weather. Snow had begun falling far before the go-time of their scheme, which Rat dismissed as an innocuous snowfall. Then the wind started howling and snow assaulted Heartland at an alarming rate. It almost got to the point where Rat was about to call it off when the storm quieted. Then picked back up. Then calmed again. It was as capricious and unpredictable as a hurricane-and just as dangerous, if they weren't careful. Lorry took it as a bad omen, but Rat was adamant. Regardless of the weather, they would complete their plan tonight.
They wait until well after midnight to put their scheme into action. Even the horses are asleep, though several of them startle and whinny when four of the men enter the barn that they had surreptitiously reconnoitred earlier that day. The men are silent as the shadows they resemble as they slip up the stairs into Borden's room.
The plan is simple: Grab the Kid, take him somewhere secure, then ask him the money's whereabouts. If he refuses to tell-well, they will cross that bridge when they get to it. The plan is easier said than done. Borden fights them all the way down the stairs, even after Maurice clocks him with one of their shovels. He's strong, but against four men who are experienced in taking people against their will, he is no match. A sock stuffed into his mouth, a bag slipped over his head, Brad Borden's son might wake up the next morning believing that wraiths had whisked him away during the night. That it had all been a nightmare and that he is back safe in his bed.
Lorry is waiting for them in the driver's seat. Drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, he peers out at the thick sheet of snow descending from the cloudy night sky, wishing for all the world he had never even heard of Rat or his cronies. He's hidden from the house's view, but the horses are making a lot of noise; any moment now, someone could discover them and then it would be all over. Rat emerges from the barn first, followed by the Fremonts, who pin the Borden kid between themselves. Then comes Maurice, who shuts the door carefully behind them. As if anyone could possibly hear the door shutting. The wind is picking up speed, nearly drowning out even the horses' ruckus.
"Drive," Rat orders, practically falling into the passenger's seat. A blast of cold air enters the car as the Fremont brothers pile into the back seat, their victim squeezed between them. Lorry doesn't even wait until the back door is completely shut. He peels out of Heartland like a racecar, maintaining a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, he can discern Maurice's silver car through a haze of snow that no longer falls, but careens through the air like BBs.
As they race under the Heartland sign, Rat lets out a gleeful whoop. "We did it!" Rat cries. Lorry's stomach churns.
Back at the ranch, Amy wakes her grandfather with a frantic rap at his bedroom door. "Grandpa!" she calls, her voice strained and high. "They took Ty!"
"What? Who took Ty?" Grandpa demands, pulling on a flannel shirt.
"The Truck! They came racing out from behind the barn." The ominous feeling gnawing at her gut is undeniable now, so strong she thinks she might be sick. "Grandpa, we gotta get him back!"
"Hold on, now," Grandpa says soothingly. But his voice and expression are taut with concern. "Start from the beginning. Are you sure you saw them take Ty?"
"Yes!" Amy insists. "T-the horses were making a fuss, I went out to check on them, a-and I heard this—this commotion, so I went to see what was going on and these three guys were loading Ty into the Truck, and then they drove away, and I—" Amy's voice breaks. She turns away, too overwhelmed for words. A thousand different situations reel through her mind, involving everything from ransoms to jealous ex-girlfriends. But one feature remains the same: Ty in danger.
"I'm going to call the authorities," Grandpa says. "You can—"
"Grandpa! We have to follow them!" Amy tries to tug her grandfather out the door, but he doesn't budge. "By the time the authorities get here it'll be too late!"
"Amy, you know that's not a good idea," Grandpa counters. "We don't know who they are or what they want. They could be dangerous—"
"Which is exactly why we need to go after them!" Amy persists. "They can't have gotten far in this weather. Please, Grandpa."
"There's no signal." They whirl around. It's Lou, her eyes hard, her mouth pressed in a thin line, a phone clutched in her hand. "I can't get anything in this weather."
"Come on, Grandpa!" Amy urges. She's already halfway out the door.
Grandpa glances back at Lou, who stares back, expression tight with worry. He knows what she's thinking. "We'll take the road to Calgary," he tells her. She nods. "I'm gonna regret this," he mutters, and grabs his shotgun.
"Hey, Rat?"
"What?"
The younger Fremont brother squirms in his seat, resembling an uncomfortable toddler rather than an over-ninety kilogram slab of muscle. "I gotta go."
"You gotta be kiddin' me!" Rat throws up his hands in exasperation. "We're in the middle of a kidnapping, idiot. You should have gone before we left!"
"So . . . is that a no?"
"Yes, that's a no!"
Lorry's jaw aches from clenching it so tightly. Flexing his fingers—which are not only stiff but cold, too—he wants to glance back, to check on the Kid, but the storm raging outside the pickup prevents that. He can't afford to even peek back in fear that the vehicle will spin out of control. the Truck's headlights, which are on their brightest setting, barely cut through the tempestuous monster of white and gray attempting to wrest the flatbed from its owner's control. Even over the radio the howling gale can be heard, whistling and shrieking as if in protest of Lorry's actions.
"I've been holdin' it since forever," Younger Fremont grumbles.
"That's not my problem," is Rat's dispassionate response. "And don't call me Rat."
"How's the Kid?" Lorry croaks.
"Quiet," Elder Fremont answers. "Hope I didn't clock 'im too hard."
"Who cares?" Rat says nonchalantly.
A bewildered pause. "We do?" Lorry silently agrees.
"You two are idiots, you know that?"
'We weren't hired for our brains," Elder Fremont reminds him mildly. Apparently the Fremonts are used to insults regarding their less-than-mediocre intelligence.
"Speed up, Grandpa!" Amy urges. "I can't see them!"
"Amy, this is the thousandth time you've told me to speed up. And for the thousandth time I will tell you:They will see our truck." Grandpa adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, his scowl visible even under his formidable moustache. "We should be headin' back, anyhow. The snow's blowin' too hard for us to see six metres ahead of us."
"Please, Grandpa," Amy pleads. "Just keep going. The way this storm is blowing, they'll have to stop someplace. Then we can call the authorities and tell them exactly where they are." She doesn't voice the obvious flaw in her plan: In this kind of snowstorm, it would be a miracle if her cell phone even works.
"Amy, it's pitch black out here," Grandpa points out. "We're gonna lose them at some point. We don't know if they even went this way."
"They did," Amy declares resolutely. They must have.