Alex closed his eyes and thought. If he’d been a convicted murderer hurt in a plane crash who didn’t want to go back to prison and saw a rescue crew come in, what would he do?

Hide.

But then what?

Wait and follow them out.

He knew Besand would choose death over going back to prison. That was one fact he’d learned about him. Even if he were bleeding to death, Besand wouldn’t make himself known to the group. So was he close by? Or had he already tried to hike out before they arrived? That was the theory he and Jim had arrived at yesterday, but now Alex wasn’t so sure.

The only place Besand could have survived the nights would have been in the other piece of the plane. Alex shifted on the floor, forcing himself to not dash out and check the cockpit. His mind raced. There were no other possibilities. This little plane wouldn’t have carried a tent, so Besand was either dead in the woods or taking cover from the elements in the cockpit while they slept.

The bloodstains on the plane seat across from Linus’s weren’t that big. Besand probably hadn’t been hurt too badly. Internal injuries were a possibility. Alex felt a hot rage stir in his belly.

I hope you died in the snow, you fucker, with icy pellets hammering your face as your body shut down. And I hope you were awake for every minute of it.

Next to Brynn, Jim sat up abruptly, scanning his surroundings, his eyes clearing as he remembered where he was. He took in Brynn with her head still on Alex’s shoulder. His eyes narrowed as he met Alex’s stare.

Go ahead, Jim. Say something. Anything.

Jim quietly cleared his throat as his gaze slid away and he peered toward the window. Light was dim. Alex estimated the time to be around six o’clock.

“What’s your plan?” Alex whispered.

Jim turned back to him, deliberately not looking at Brynn. “We need to talk.”

Alex nodded. “Not now.”

“Later. Alone.” Jim’s voice was hard.

“I want to go take another look at the cockpit,” Alex said. He also needed to take a piss, but couldn’t bear to move Brynn’s head just yet.

“The cockpit? Why—” Jim stopped speaking, and understanding crossed his face. “You think Besand is still here?”

Alex shrugged his unoccupied shoulder. “Either he’s dead under a layer of snow or he decided to hike out, and I doubt he would have survived the night without a tent or tarp. He’s dead or he slept in that cockpit last night.” He took a breath. “Until I see his dead body I have to believe he’s alive.”

Her eyes still closed, Brynn lifted her head, turned it, and curled her body away from him.

Alex’s shoulder was suddenly cold. And very empty.

He watched her, silently begging her to move back. She slept.

Jim’s eyes showed an odd mix of sympathy and annoyance. Alex wondered how much his own face revealed of his feelings for the woman. Judging by Jim’s reaction, just about everything.

Jim jerked his head toward the cargo door, opened it, and stepped out of the plane. Alex heard Jim’s knee pop as he walked. Sitting up, Alex’s spine creaked and his head ached like hell. He’d talk to Jim, then get some ibuprofen before checking out the cockpit.

He wasn’t aware of his hand instinctively checking his gun at his side.

Sheriff Patrick Collins stepped out of his four-wheel drive and surveyed the base camp in the morning light. He’d sped home, showered, changed, kissed his wife, hit Starbucks, and returned in under two hours. The number of media vehicles had increased again as word had spread that Darrin Besand was on the plane. CNN had arrived overnight. At first CNN had used the feed of a local network, but when the time frame of the missing plane lengthened and Besand’s name came to light, they’d sent in their own people.

Patrick had dealt with national media before. Twice, missing mountain climbers had caught the rapt attention of the nation. And then there were the two middle school girls who vanished as they walked to school. On different days. In the same neighborhood. Again the national media came calling and camped on his doorstep. The girls turned up buried in the backyard of their friend’s father’s house. The same man who’d given interviews to the media, sobbing about his daughter’s missing friends.

That case had nearly driven Patrick to retire.

RVs clogged the small clearing at the trailhead. The only local hotel was booked solid, so the media was making do with whatever sleeping arrangements they could find. He’d seen Regan Simmons arrive from the motel all perky and ready to sling some mud. She’d pissed him off yesterday by complaining on air about the lack of information from the sheriff’s department. Claimed they weren’t sharing with the media and were withholding information from the public and families.

Bullshit.

The families of both pilots and the missing marshal had been in constant contact with him. He’d assigned a deputy to do nothing else but see to their needs and make sure they could reach him whenever they needed to. None of the three families were willing to go on the air. With Patrick’s encouragement they’d asked the media to respect their privacy, and that had got Regan Simmons’s goat. She didn’t have a single tearful spouse to put on the air.

She’d tried to get Patrick to change their minds.

He’d threatened to arrest her if she didn’t stay out of his face.

He’d met with the three spouses and privately told them all he knew. Which wasn’t much. He’d passed on his spotty conversation with Ryan Sheridan about “three dead.” The looks on the women’s faces had sunk in despair, then shot up in hope, then down in despair again. When four men were on a plane, “three dead” weren’t good odds.