Page 9

Sheila kept her hand close to the holster of her sidearm as she and Tommy circled toward the back of the cabin.

Don't let him get the drop on you, she thought. If that is Greenwald's camera and Wells is the killer, he could be waiting to ambush you, just like he ambushed Greenwald.

As they reached the back of the cabin, they discovered two things: a weathered, sunken shed whose roof looked ready to collapse beneath the weight of accumulated snow and snowmobile tracks leading off from the shed and into the wilderness.

Sheila's eyes followed the trail as it disappeared into the dense forest. She tried to get an idea of how frequently those tracks had been made, but it was difficult to tell, given the lack of recent snowfall.

Judging by how sharp the edges of the tracks were, however, she judged the tracks had been made recently.

There hadn't been time for the sun to blur the edges.

"We should go back," Tommy suggested, glancing at the tracks. "Get some four-wheelers in here."

Sheila weighed his words. Protocol dictated they should request additional support, but something inside her resisted. Perhaps it was the nagging feeling that time was slipping away, or maybe it was her stubborn streak refusing to admit they might need help.

"By the time we go back and return, he could be long gone," she replied. "We're better off moving now."

Tommy grunted. "How? You really want to follow these tracks on foot?"

She hardly heard him. She was gazing into the shed, toward the darkness at the back, where she could just barely make out a lumpy shape cloaked in a blue tarp. Curiosity sparked within her.

Without a word, she started toward it.

"What is it?" Tommy asked, remaining where he was.

She didn't answer immediately. She turned on her flashlight and swept left and right through the darkness of the shed—no sign of Wells anywhere.

Then, kneeling down, she grasped the edge of the tarp.

With a firm tug, she pulled it back to reveal a vintage Ski-Doo, its orange paint still bright despite its age.

For a moment, the world around her faded away.

"A 1976 TNT," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The sight of it stirred memories long buried.

She ran her hand along the chassis, feeling the smooth metal beneath her glove.

Images flashed in her mind—her father laughing as he taught her how to ride, the thrill of speed, the wind whipping through her hair.

She remembered the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the pride in his voice when she mastered a tricky maneuver.

"Brings back memories?" Tommy asked gently, perhaps noticing the distant look in her eyes.

She nodded. "My dad had one just like it," she replied. "We used to spend winters tearing up the trails. It was our thing."

Tommy smirked. "Nice museum piece. But we need something that actually runs."

The remark pulled her back to the present. She raised an eyebrow, a competitive glint in her eye. "I bet you twenty bucks I can start it," she said, ignoring his teasing.

"You're on." Tommy chuckled, crossing his arms. "That thing's probably been sitting here since Carter was president."

Sheila shot him a determined look. "Never underestimate the classics."

She checked the fuel tank and saw that it was nearly full. That was a good sign, provided the fuel wasn't so old it had gone bad. She located the primer and pushed it three times, then pulled the choke out fully. The engine looked clean—someone had been taking care of it.

She turned the key in the ignition and pulled the starter cord.

Nothing.

She felt a brief flicker of frustration. She was aware of Tommy's amused gaze on her, and after the way he'd taken over when she got the car stuck in the snow, she had something to prove. She wasn't going to let a rookie show her up twice.

"Want to call it now and save yourself twenty bucks?" he teased.

Sheila shook her head. "Not a chance." She adjusted the choke, trying to recall the nuances of the old machine. Her father had always emphasized patience and attention to detail. Every engine had its quirks, especially old ones.

She tried again. Still nothing. The cold was seeping into her bones, and she flexed her fingers to keep them nimble.

After a third attempt, even she had to admit that it wasn't looking good.

Doubt began to creep in. Maybe Tommy was right, and it would be better just to drive back down the mountain and get a snowmobile or two from Michael.

Then she remembered something her father had taught her. A trick for stubborn engines. She reached down and tapped the carburetor housing sharply with the handle of her flashlight. "Sometimes they just need a little persuasion," she said aloud, recalling his words.

This time, when she pulled the cord, the engine coughed, sputtered, and eventually roared to life. The sudden sound broke the quiet, and blue exhaust smoke filled the shed as the old machine shuddered awake.

Sheila grinned triumphantly. "I believe that's twenty dollars," she said over the engine's rumble.

Tommy shook his head in disbelief. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

She laughed softly. "Spent every winter weekend of my teenage years riding with my dad and sister. You pick up a few tricks." Memories flooded back—the exhilaration of speeding over snow-covered hills, the camaraderie, the freedom she felt out there. A pang of longing touched her heart.

She swung her leg over the seat, settling into a familiar position. The vibrations of the engine resonated through her body, stirring both excitement and a hint of melancholy. "Coming?"

Tommy hesitated only a moment before climbing on behind her. "You're full of surprises," he said. There was that hint of admiration in his voice again.

His arms went around her waist, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through her.

Sheila stiffened slightly, not accustomed to such closeness.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this physically close to anyone except Finn.

The thought of Finn—his easy smile, the way his eyes lit up when he laughed—made her chest tighten. Guilt and confusion swirled within her.

What would he think if he could see us now? she wondered. We're just doing our jobs, so there's no reason to feel guilty. It's not as if I'm cheating on him.

Bolstered by this rationale, she eased the snowmobile forward. "Hold tight," she said to Tommy.

They emerged from the shed into brilliant afternoon sunlight.

They followed the snowmobile tracks up the ridge, where the terrain opened into a series of wide bowls perfect for wildlife viewing.

The snow sparkled like scattered diamonds under the sun's rays, and the sky stretched endless and blue above the white-capped peaks.

A few wispy clouds drifted lazily, offering little obstruction to the sun's glare.

Sheila took a deep breath, the crisp air invigorating. The landscape was both breathtaking and daunting—a reminder of nature's grandeur and indifference. She felt a familiar thrill building within her.

The vintage Ski-Doo might have been old, but it ran true.

The engine purred steadily, the sound blending into a harmonious hum against the backdrop of wilderness.

Sheila guided it skillfully through stands of aspen, their white trunks flashing past like prison bars.

Golden leaves clung stubbornly to some branches.

The scent of pine mingled with the lingering exhaust fumes, creating a peculiar but comforting aroma.

The engine's roar echoed off the mountainsides, drowning any possibility of conversation. Tommy's grip tightened as they took a particularly steep section, powdery snow spraying out behind them. She felt his tension and couldn't help but smirk slightly.

Not used to a little speed? she thought. With that thought came more questions and a deeper curiosity about this man she hardly knew. Tommy was unpredictable, like a fighter she'd never encountered in the ring before.

It was strangely exhilarating.

They crested a rise, the ground leveling out beneath them.

Sheila's eyes scanned ahead, alert for any sign of movement.

There, on a rocky outcrop about two hundred yards ahead, stood a figure who could only be Oscar Wells.

He had a camera mounted on a tripod and appeared to be photographing something in the valley below.

The lens glinted sharply, catching the sunlight.

At the sound of their approach, he turned.

For a moment, he stood frozen, silhouetted against the sky. His expression was unreadable from this distance, but Sheila imagined the flicker of surprise—or perhaps annoyance—in his eyes.

Then he bolted for his own snowmobile, a newer model parked nearby.

"Hold tight!" Sheila shouted to Tommy as she opened the throttle wide. The engine roared, responding eagerly to her command.

They raced forward, the wind whipping past them, stinging any exposed skin. The cold air tore at her eyes, making them water, but she didn't dare blink. The adrenaline sharpened her senses. This was the moment she had anticipated—the chance to end the chase.

Wells' machine roared to life. He took off down the far side of the ridge, cutting sharp turns between the trees. His snowmobile was faster, sleeker, and handled the terrain effortlessly.

Sheila followed, pushing the old Ski-Doo to its limits.

The suspension protested every bump and dip, the frame rattling with each impact.

She adjusted her weight, expertly navigating through the obstacle course of trees and rocks.

The landscape blurred around them—a rush of whites and greens and browns.

Tommy's arms were like a vise around her waist. She could feel his heartbeat against her back, matching the frenetic pace of her own. Every muscle in her body was tense, her mind calculating angles and trajectories.

"Come on, hold together," she silently urged the machine beneath her.

Wells was pulling ahead, but he wasn't the only one who knew these mountains. Every ridge, every hidden path, was etched into her memory from years of exploration. When he cut left toward a narrow canyon, she anticipated his move and took a parallel route, staying higher on the slope.

Snow flew from their tracks as both machines pushed their limits. The engines screamed, a mechanical symphony of power and strain. The air was filled with the biting scent of gasoline and burning oil. Sheila's fingers were numb, but she didn't relax her grip.

Then Wells made a crucial mistake. He looked back over his shoulder, checking their position—and missed the fallen tree ahead.

His snowmobile hit the trunk at an angle. The impact launched him clear of the machine as it cartwheeled through the air. He seemed to hang suspended for a brief moment before crashing into the snow, landing hard in a deep drift, and disappearing.