Stranded. Alice Sharpe

water he carried when he piloted his plane, he took a long swallow. The numbers on the charts swam before his eyes and he blinked, performed a few fuzzy calculations and changed radio frequencies to the Bozeman, Montana beacon. He banked the plane toward the east, hoping to avoid the worst of the system and arrive just a little late.

      No big deal. Nate would explain the facts of life when it came to flying to their friend Mike. And Mike’s issues would be there in two hours or two days—they weren’t going away anytime soon. The poor guy had been devastated by the incident all three men shared last Labor Day when a lone teenage gunman had shot and killed four kids in a random attack at a Nevada shopping mall. Since then, Mike had been gathering data he believed hinted at a conspiracy. This meeting would let them review what Mike had learned and maybe, hopefully, help him get past some of his wild ideas.

      A glimpse out the Cessna window revealed nothing but icy-white sky that seemed to swirl in his head. He climbed higher, hoping to find less turbulent air. He was kind of glad Jessica hadn’t come along. She’d claimed she was fighting a virus and he’d accused her of making it up so she wouldn’t have to be with him. Maybe some time apart would help, he didn’t know. However, now, with his vision blurring and his stomach turning, he considered he might owe her an apology.

      He yawned again and took another swallow of the drink as he tried to quench his thirst.

      After thirty more minutes, the break in the weather he’d anticipated still hadn’t materialized. His eyes drifted shut and he opened them quickly, making himself sit up straighter. As he did periodically, he glanced at the control panel. It took him a second to actually register what he saw.

      The oil-pressure indicator showed a rapid decline toward the red zone. He stared at the gauge with disbelief, then tapped the glass. At that moment he became aware of a burning odor and peered out the window where he found oil flying over the coaming. Liquid drops hit the windshield and crawled away, leaving portentous snail-like tracks on the glass.

      A quick check of the gauge showed pressure still falling. He flipped the radio frequencies again, but the unit was now silent. He tore off the headphones as flames flared from the engine compartment. Almost simultaneously, he pulled the handle to turn off the fuel tanks and yanked on the fire extinguisher lever. Smoke billowed from under the cowling, but dissipated at once.

      And then the engine seized.

      The fire was out but the plane was dead.

      Disaster was imminent. He was off his flight plan, somewhere over the Bitterroot Mountains in the middle of the Rockies. He had an EPIRB aboard and knew the emergency beacon would signal once activated by a crash, but unlike the newer models that communicated with satellites, his older unit required a search plane to fly directly overhead. Would anyone look for him this far afield from his expected route?

      The plane began losing altitude. He spiraled down through the clouds, into the storm. Visibility cleared for a few seconds and he saw a large snow-covered meadow to the north. He quickly corrected his course to aim for that, going into a glide, pushing the yoke ahead to avoid a stall.

      Seconds seemed to drag and then everything sped up as the ground once again appeared closer than ever. The plane skimmed over the snowy treetops ringing the meadow and shuddered as it made its first bounce. That was immediately followed by the scream of twisted metal as the landing-gear struts tore from their housings. The wounded plane skimmed along the snow on its belly, racing into the middle of the meadow, snow flying at the windshield.

      At last the Cessna came to an abrupt and sudden stop. Alex flew forward into the instrument panel. His chest impacted with the yoke, his left leg caught and twisted in the mangled metal below. The outside of the cabin was covered with snow. He wiped something from his eyes—blood—then immediately struggled with the door, pushing against the buildup, knowing he had to get it open before it froze shut. He almost choked on relief as weak daylight flooded the cabin.

      A strange cracking noise drove ice picks through his nervous system. The noise came again and he recognized it for what it was. With horror, he looked down to find water rising over his shoes. As quick as he’d ever done anything in his life, he grabbed his backpack and the medical kit and threw both through the open door. He undid his seat belt, took a steadying breath and screamed with pain as he ruthlessly extricated his leg. There was blood everywhere but he’d have lots of time to worry about that later. If there was a later...

      Clenching his teeth, he used his upper-body strength to pull himself through the open door.

      This was no meadow; this was a lake covered with ice and the plane, heavy with unspent fuel, had broken through. He scrambled out the door and landed on his gear. The fall sent a stab of unbearable agony racing from his heel to his groin, and he had to struggle to keep from passing out. Priority one: keep himself and his gear from going into the water. Get away, get away, as fast as possible, beat the cracks spreading out around him. His hands were clumsy as he tied things together and then he dragged himself away from the wreck, using his elbows for traction, trailing his gear from his belt, the fissures continuing to open up all around him.

      Chapter One

      Three Months Later

      Jessica’s cell phone rang as she sat at her desk grading a math quiz. She jumped in her seat and swallowed a lump of panic as she dug the device from the jacket hanging over the back of her chair. You’d think after all this time a ringing phone wouldn’t cause this fearful knee-jerk reaction, but it did and it probably always would. Until they found his body, anyway. Or until she knew the truth.

      She clicked it on and said, “Yes?” in a breathless voice because she didn’t recognize the number on the screen and that was always nerve-racking. How many times had she imagined learning news of Alex’s fate from a stranger? Almost as many times as she’d imagined him calling her himself from some secret spot in Middle America where he’d gone to start a life without her. That was the trouble when a husband simply vanished. You never knew if he was dead or alive; you lived in limbo. Any closure would be better than none.

      The caller was a salesman wanting to know if she needed new drainpipes and she got rid of him right away. The truth was, her house was in limbo, too. If it wasn’t for Billy Summers and his sweet-natured persistence in helping her with chores, she imagined she would just let the place crumble around her.

      And that had to end. She had to get a grip. Maybe it was time to think about selling the house, getting something smaller. Could she do that? Not yet. But the question nagged her: What would she do if Alex walked through the door?

      The sun beating through the high windows made the room too warm. She folded her arms on her desk and rested her forehead against her hands, closing her eyes. Restless nights usually caught up with her in the late afternoon, and apparently today was no exception. The school was mostly empty now, but occasional footsteps moving in the halls gave her a reassuring feeling of not being alone as did the faint whirring and beeping of distant machines set to automatic timers.

      Thank goodness the school term was almost finished and she’d been allowed to back out of teaching summer school this year. She loved the kids in her remedial classes at Blunt Falls High, but she needed time away from them and everyone else. Who would have guessed constant pity could be so exhausting? She closed her eyes and let her mind drift for a while.

      A nearby noise jerked her out of her stupor and she looked up to find a stranger standing in her open doorway. As the school was very strict about allowing unauthorized people on the campus, this man had to be someone’s father, but he didn’t look like any other parent she’d met at this school. He was tall and dark, thin, with uncut hair and a full beard. Dark glasses covered his eyes. His jeans and corduroy shirt appeared too big for his frame, while his face and hands were weathered looking. There was a healed abrasion across one cheekbone and another slashing across what she could see of his forehead. As he moved into the class, she detected a definite hitch in his left leg.

      She found herself on her feet without consciously deciding to rise. “May I help you?”

      He took off the dark glasses, folding them