Page 20 of Silent Road

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.

CHAPTER NINE

"Wells!"Sheila's voice was swallowed by the vast whiteness.A gust of wind howled across the snow-covered expanse, whipping loose flakes into a swirling frenzy.The drift where Wells had disappeared showed no sign of movement.

"Oscar Wells!"she called again.

She strained to listen, but the wind snatched away any possible reply.Was he still buried?Or had he crawled out somewhere—on the far side of the snowbank, perhaps—and she just hadn't seen?

She and Tommy waded through snow that reached past their knees, the powder so light it seemed to evaporate around their legs.Her boots sank deep, and she had to fight to pull them free each time.

Panic threatened to creep in, but she forced it down.She wanted Wells alive—so they could learn why he'd killed Greenwald, if he was indeed the killer, or prove his innocence if he hadn't.

The spot where Wells had landed was marked only by a human-shaped depression rapidly filling with spindrift.The snow was relentless, erasing any signs of his passage.

"There!"Tommy pointed to a patch of dark fabric barely visible beneath the snow's surface.Relief surged through her.

They began digging frantically, scooping away the snow with gloved hands.The cold penetrated Sheila's gloves, numbing her hands.

"Hang on, Wells," she muttered under her breath."We're coming."

A muffled groan emanated from beneath the snow.It was faint but unmistakable.Encouraged, they redoubled their efforts.Finally, they uncovered a face—eyes squeezed shut, snow-crusted in a graying beard.His skin was pale, bordering on blue.

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