Beneath the Snow Read online

  BENEATH THE

  SNOW

  C.J. CARVER

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ALSO BY C.J. CARVER

  Dead Heat

  The India Kane series:

  Blood Junction

  Black Tide

  The Jay McCaulay series:

  Gone Without Trace

  Back With Vengeance

  The Honest Assassin

  For Christina and Patrick.

  One day maybe you’ll actually get to read the book.

  One

  It was just past midnight and Lisa was exhausted. She’d been on the run for five hours and the storm was still blowing hard, the temperature dropping. Recently even twenty below Fahrenheit had become a rarity in Alaska, but this storm was from the old days and she reckoned it had to be at least minus thirty with the wind chill. Her attempts to keep warm no longer seemed to be working. Her feet and fingers were obstinately cold and if she didn’t find shelter soon, she knew what would happen: she and her dogs would die.

  Through the roaring wind she could hear the rattle of snowflakes on the hood of her parka, the dogs’ harnesses creaking, her skis rustling on snow. She couldn’t hear any engines, but she didn’t doubt her pursuers were close behind. They’d have radioed for snow machines, walkie-talkies and guns. Lots of guns.

  She could still hear the crack of the .45-calibre semi-automatic echoing in her mind, see the white-winter camouflaged figure swinging the pistol her way, seeking her out. If it hadn’t been for her huskies, Roscoe and Moke, she’d already be dead.

  Don’t think about it. Push it aside and keep running. A snow machine can only go so far on a tank of gas, but my dogs can go much further. And when we’re safe, then I can think about what I’m going to do. Once we’re safe.

  They came to a frozen river. Immediately she urged the huskies across, checking ahead for dark, telltale cracks. Break-up had started last week when the much anticipated forty-degree mark had been reached, and she could barely believe the river felt as solid as bitumen beneath her skis. One day the countryside had been drip-dripping as it gently thawed itself in the sunshine, the next it had been thrown straight back into the deep freeze.

  She had just started to turn towards Wildwood Ridge when the world closed in on her. The horizon vanished between the snow clouds and the endless white line of the Imuruk Hills. There were no shadows or edges and she could no longer tell whether there was a dip or bend ahead.

  She lost the trail.

  It was a white-out, and there was no point in retracing her tracks because they were already covered. On one hand this was good, because it meant her pursuers would lose her spoor, but on the other, she might never find her way to safety.

  Soon the dogs were up to their shoulders in soft snow and having to porpoise. A chill crept deep into her bones. She knew she was losing heat faster than she could produce it. Already her face was numb, and her feet and hands had become frozen. It became more difficult to push each ski forward and the desire to lie down and sleep was almost overwhelming. She had nothing left to draw on but sheer will, but she would not let them win. She’d rather perish with her dogs than give up.

  The wind was now nearly head-on, picking up clumps of snow and ice pellets, and pounding her. They were all struggling, having to fight for every inch, when the terrain shifted, forcing them to climb. Roscoe and Moke stopped briefly and looked over their shoulders at her. Their expressions were puzzled and faintly hurt, telling her they were tired and wanted to rest. Out of nowhere, Lisa wished Abby was with them. She’d have them sprinting to the top of the hill in no time.

  And there she was. Her sister. Standing right in front of her. She’d forgotten how broad Abby’s shoulders were, how statuesque her figure. She looked like a Nordic athlete and Lisa felt a rush of admiration.

  A memory of Abby grinning down at her in her pram; playing hide and seek; extracting little green caterpillars from cauliflowers picked from the garden and throwing them at each other; water fights; painting each other’s toenails; Abby walking out of Lisa’s cabin four years ago, the air bitter as acid between them.

  Abby seemed oblivious of the storm and was smiling. Lisa was so relieved she’d been forgiven she wanted to weep, but she couldn’t. Her tear ducts were frozen. She wanted to tell Abby how tired she was, but she couldn’t form the words. She felt disembodied, buried up to her thighs in snow, wind and ice whirling and shrieking around her. Slowly, she fell to her knees. A mantle of snow started to cover her, and it was strangely comforting, as though Abby was tucking her under the duvet at night. A great tranquillity suffused her. Snow clogged her eyelashes, blanketing her vision, but Abby was still there, smiling.

  Lisa didn’t see her two huskies standing over her, didn’t feel their anxious faces pushing against her.

  All she could see was her sister. Abby.

  Two

  Abby loped down Cowley Road, ignoring rush-hour stares. Her suit was drenched, her hair plastered against her scalp, but the bliss of wet pavement against her stockinged feet was exquisite. No amount of money would make her wear high heels again.

  It had been raining for most of the day, a steady grey drizzle that England was so famous for, but it hadn’t deterred the tourists. Her office looked east, towards Magdalen College, and the High Street had been clustered with umbrellas for most of the day. But that was Oxford for you, a flourishing commercial city filled with meadows and ancient colleges that rarely took a day off.

  Ducking into The Golden Dragon she inhaled the steamy aroma of frying onions and garlic, trying her best not to drool while she ordered. She could eat a whole duck, she was so hungry. Lunch, a minuscule plate of politely sliced sandwiches with their crusts cut off, had been six hours ago. Shoes in one hand, briefcase in the other, Abby dripped on to the lino while Tony filled her order. Crispy duck for two, pancakes, hoisin sauce, cucumber and spring onions. A guy she hadn’t seen before took her money and passed her the carrier bag. He looked her up and down.

  ‘You tall woman,’ he stated.

  ‘Not just in inches,’ she responded, mentally rolling her eyes at his stating the obvious.

  ‘Strong too, huh?’ He appeared to be assessing her for a slave market. Abby left before he could start feeling her biceps and checking her teeth.

  Head down, she strode for home. She couldn’t wait to get out of her soaked suit and slide into something warm and comfortable. Damn Hugh. She never normally dressed up to impress clients, but this time her boss had
insisted she forgo her usual uniform of jeans and workman’s boots for something more business-like, more feminine. How women could wear high heels all day defeated her. You couldn’t walk properly and they were hell on your back. Abby felt as though she’d been weightlifting for half the day instead of presenting restoration plans for a nineteenth-century garden.

  Dumping her briefcase in the hallway, she padded into the house. ‘I’m home!’ she called.

  Her mother’s voice floated down the corridor. ‘See you when you’re ready!’

  Abby ducked the beam above the kitchen door and unwrapped the takeaway, popping it in the Aga’s simmering oven to keep warm. She took her shoes to the bin, then hesitated. She may not want to wear them again, but what if she needed them in the future? Dithering briefly, she decided to be prudent and put them by the Aga to dry out.

  The phone started to ring, but she ignored it. Her first priority was to get changed. Besides, her mother always had a phone within reach; if it was for her, she would yell. Or she could press the little button on a chain around her neck that would emit a polite buzz throughout the house, but that was only used for emergencies.

  To her relief there was no yell, no polite buzz, just the sound of rain rattling on the windows, the splash of traffic outside and, way in the distance, an ambulance siren. Heading upstairs she breathed in the faint odour of woodsmoke and beeswax, looking forward to stretching out in front of the TV in an oversized fleece and sweat pants. She couldn’t understand people who didn’t go home at the end of their working day. Why risk being uncomfortable in some pub when you could have all the comforts of home?

  Abby had just hung her sodden jacket in the airing cupboard when the house gave a polite burr. The emergency button.

  She piled down the stairs, shouting, ‘I’m coming!’ Her mother had only pressed her emergency button twice in the last month: once when she had fallen out of bed and couldn’t get up, the other time after she’d accidentally dropped a lit match into the bin and it had gone up in flames.

  She’d suffered from MS, multiple sclerosis, since Abby was a child, stoically enduring her progressive physical decline, even accepting she could no longer drive and had to use a scooter with phlegmatic aplomb. Although she had been forced to give up her biological sciences tutorial post at Christ Church College, Professor Julia McCall had no intention of retiring and was researching four academic papers, one scheduled to appear later in the year, launching a scathing attack on creationism and firmly rebutting the re-emergence of ‘intelligent design’.

  Abby rocketed into Julia’s room to see her sitting up in bed, computer glowing on her lap, pencils and reference books everywhere. For a second she thought it was a false alarm until she saw how pale her mother was, and that the vibrant light in her eyes had been extinguished.

  She tightened inside. The last time she’d seen Julia looking as shell-shocked was when she and Lisa had returned from school to discover their father was abandoning them for another woman. He’d gone to Australia on a business trip – he’d just been promoted to export director of a major publishing house – and returned not only in love with an Australian fitness instructor, but with her sun-drenched lifestyle too. There had been a lot of rows and tears and bitterness, and when he eventually left, even the house seemed to heave a sigh of relief. Julia had tried to encourage her daughters to stay in touch with their father but it had been difficult. Not just because the sisters were desperately hurt and angry, but because he didn’t seem to be that enthusiastic. It was as though he didn’t want reminding of his old life, and it didn’t take long before contact shrank to birthdays and Christmas. None of them, as far as Abby knew, had heard from Dad since the Millennium.

  ‘What is it?’ Abby said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Lisa. She needs your help.’

  Abby stared at Julia, astonished. She hadn’t spoken to her sister for four years and it took a moment for her to convince herself that she wasn’t imagining things. Her mother was doing it again, trying to patch things between them.

  Abby was about to walk out when her mother added in a whisper, ‘A policewoman just called. From Alaska. She says Lisa’s missing.’

  Belatedly Abby saw Julia was trembling, her mouth working to stop herself from crying. Her heart squeezed. Mum never cried. Not even when the nerves in her mouth played up, making her feel as though she had drills spinning in each of her teeth.

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ Abby sat on the edge of her bed. ‘You know what Lisa’s like. She’ll turn up within the next few hours, guaranteed.’

  Julia shook her head and tried to speak, but a sob choked the words. One shaking hand rose to her mouth, then covered her eyes.

  ‘You remember when she vanished from the yacht we rented in Croatia?’ Abby prompted gently. ‘She had us all convinced she’d drowned, when all she’d done was swim ashore to meet a waiter she’d taken a fancy to.’

  And four weeks later when a group of them were having a meal at Brown’s, Lisa had disappeared again. She’d found someone more interesting to talk to but hadn’t thought to let the others know she was joining them in the pub just down the road.

  God, Abby, stop panicking, Lisa would say. You’re such a fusspot.

  Abby would lecture her sister about consideration for others and Lisa would nod contritely, but nothing ever changed. Lisa would have to have had a personality bypass for her to believe this wasn’t another of her almighty cock-ups.

  Tears fell from behind Julia’s hand and on to a computer printout. Abby reached across and gently took her mother’s hand from her eyes. It was cold and thin. She brought it up to her cheek and pressed it there to warm it. Julia gave her a watery smile, and with a monumental effort took several deep breaths and finally steadied herself.

  ‘She went skijoring,’ she managed, ‘with her dogs. She got caught in a storm up in the mountains. A really bad one. She’s been out there for four days.’

  Abby’s eyes widened. ‘You’re kidding.’

  Julia shook her head.

  ‘Sorry.’ Abby rubbed the space between her brows and sighed. ‘It’s just that I’ve got a ghastly sense of déjà vu.’

  ‘She was meant to show up at a friend’s place on Saturday,’ Julia said, ‘but she didn’t. He’s a ranger, apparently. He waited a couple of hours, then went to her cabin. He found equipment gone from her shed, along with her dogs . . .’

  ‘I bet she’s tucked up in a bar somewhere, along with her equipment and her dogs. Anything’s possible with Lisa.’

  ‘Abby, I know you don’t have any patience for your sister . . . but this time I need you to listen.’

  Abby ducked her head.

  ‘The ranger reported her missing. The policewoman said something about Lisa using a lodge, her getting into trouble in between two points, but I couldn’t concentrate . . .’

  Abby refused to believe Lisa wasn’t safely snug in the arms of an illicit lover. ‘Are they sure it’s Lisa who’s missing?’

  Julia didn’t answer. She didn’t have to; Abby knew she was being insensitive but she couldn’t help herself. Lisa was always getting into trouble, and getting herself out of it.

  ‘They’ve got people looking for her,’ Julia continued. ‘It sounds as though they’re doing everything they can, Abby, but I’m not so sure. I’m really worried they’re not telling me everything.’

  Julia looked away for an instant, then back. ‘I want you to go over there. Liaise with the police in Lake’s Edge and keep tabs on how the search is progressing.’

  Abby felt as though her parachute had just failed to open. ‘Lake’s Edge?’ Her voice was a notch higher. ‘I thought she was moving back to Fairbanks to live with Greg.’

  Julia looked away. ‘She and Greg split up. She stayed.’

  ‘You want me to go to Lake’s Edge?’

  Julia wouldn’t meet her eyes. Abby’s brain was clogged with disbelief. Why hadn’t Lisa gone missing someplace else? They sat in silence for what felt like an hour, but w
as probably only a couple of minutes, until curiosity got the better of Abby. ‘What about Thomas?’ She was referring to Lisa’s boss at the UAF, University of Alaska, Fairbanks. ‘Doesn’t he mind she’s still living in the back of beyond?’

  ‘No.’ Julia pulled a tissue from the box on her bedside table and blew her nose. ‘Lake’s Edge is in the middle of some powerful magnetic field, which is what they’ve been researching. She goes to Fairbanks every month, and he puts her up while she’s there. It’s worked pretty well . . . so far. You know how she loves the wilderness, and it’s not like she has to be at the lab full-time. She does the majority of her work via computer, after all.’

  Julia scrunched up the tissue. She was still pale, her eyes rimmed red, but she had regained her composure. ‘Darling, I know you don’t want to go back there, but maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. Perhaps it will do something to bring you back together. Please go, Abby.’

  A small, angry child’s wail started up inside her: But I don’t want to!

  ‘Ralph will take care of me.’

  An army colonel, widowed and recently retired, Ralph lived at the end of their street and had been part of Abby’s life ever since she could remember. He organised street parties, hosted bonfire night for the kids in his back garden and, at some point after her father had left, he’d asked Julia out on a date but Julia had turned him down flat, scathingly informing a startled Abby he wasn’t intelligent enough and that he reminded her of a dishwasher: functional but dull. He hadn’t seemed to have been offended, and cheerfully offered to look after the girls while Julia went on a conference to Venice. Secretly Abby had been thrilled when Julia agreed. She adored Ralph, and, without realising it, over the next few years allowed him to take on the role of part-time surrogate father.

  Whenever Abby thought of Ralph, she thought of long country walks, pints of Speckled Hen and the way the froth would cling to his neatly trimmed moustache. It was a shame Lisa had never bonded with Ralph like Abby had, but at least she’d eventually found her own surrogate father when she moved to Alaska. If it hadn’t been for Thomas, Abby doubted Lisa would have dug in her roots as firmly as she had.