"The sky could be full of helicopters," Brenna pointed out gently, "but if they were over the next rise or around the next bend, we probably wouldn't be able to see them."

"Are you sure your cell phone is turned on?" Leigh asked.

Brenna kindly refrained from pointing out that they'd already had this discussion several times that day. "Positive. I checked it again when we stopped to use the rest room."

"I'd like to call Detective Shrader and Detective Littleton. I left voice mails for them this morning with your cell phone number, but maybe they didn't get my messages."

"My cell phone is in my purse on the seat behind us." As she spoke, Brenna tried to stretch her right arm between the front seats, but the purse was beyond her reach. "I'll have to pull over," she added, glancing in the rearview mirror.

"No, I'll get it," Leigh said, "keep driving." Leigh drew a deep breath, bracing for the pain in her ribs, and slowly, awkwardly, managed to twist herself around in the front seat and reach behind her for the purse. Brenna's purse was the size of a large airline carry-on bag, but the phone was on the top. Leigh's hand shook as she pressed the tiny keypad and put the phone to her ear.

Detective Shrader answered her call right away. "Have you had any news about my husband?" she asked him without preamble.

"No. If we did, I would have called you at the phone number you left on our voice mails this morning. Where are you now?"

"I'm in the mountains, trying to find the roads I took on Sunday."

"Having any luck?"

It took several seconds before Leigh could make herself admit the truth aloud.

"I have no idea where I was, or where I was supposed to be."

Instead of commenting on that, Shrader said, "In your phone message this morning, you mentioned you were planning to give a press conference at your apartment tonight. Is that still on?"

When Leigh said that it was, he told her the police artist had a sketch of Leigh's rescuer ready to hand out to the media at the conference. "Detective Littleton and I could be there tonight and bring it with us," he volunteered. "It might be helpful to you to have representatives from the NYPD present-"

"I hadn't thought of that," Leigh admitted, but she decided to decline. "I truly appreciate your willingness to drive back to the city tonight, but I would rather you stay in the mountains and keep searching for my husband."

"Detective Littleton and I can drive to the city tonight and drive straight back up here early tomorrow morning to resume the search. We can always use the overtime."

"In that case, thank you, I'd like you to be at the press conference. One more thing," Leigh said swiftly. "Commissioner Trumanti said he was going to send helicopters to help with the search, but I haven't seen any of them today."

"Two of them have been in the air since noon, more will arrive tomorrow, but until the snow melts, the choppers can't cover as much territory as you think.

The problem is, snow-covered roofs all look pretty much alike from the air, so they have to fly low and slow."

"I hadn't considered that," Leigh said, but she couldn't keep the despondency from her voice. Nature itself seemed to have declared war on her on Sunday.

"In case you haven't caught a weather report lately, this sunshine is supposed to stick around for another day or two. We have a team searching the roadsides for signs a vehicle went over the embankment and more searchers are due to arrive tomorrow. If the snow keeps melting the way it did today, we should be able to find the spot where you went off the road very quickly. Once we find that, the helicopters will be able to narrow down their search area for the cabin.

Try not to worry," he finished. "Your husband was planning to stay in an old house with no power and no phone. If the road out of there is impa.s.sable, then he's built himself a nice fire and he's been waiting for us to figure out how to get him out of there."

Leigh thought that sounded completely unlike Logan. He'd have hiked through the snow to the main road the next morning, if for no other reason than that he'd have been worried about Leigh. "You're probably right," she lied.

"You'd better start back to the city right now," Shrader said. "If you intend to be there when that press conference starts, you're cutting it pretty close."

Thoroughly depressed, Leigh touched the red disconnect b.u.t.ton on Brenna's cell phone. "Detective Shrader said we need to start back right away," she said, staring out the window at the snow-covered mountains dotted with towering pine trees. Somewhere up in these hills, she'd lost her car, and her husband, and nearly her life. She felt as if she were dangerously close to losing her grip on sanity, as well.

"Are you all right?" Brenna asked softly.

"I'm fine," she lied. "Everything's going to be okay," she added, trying to make herself believe that. "Logan is perfectly safe. We'll all laugh at this someday."

A MILE behind them, in an unmarked Ford, Shrader glanced at Sam Littleton.

"She's going to turn around and go home." Moments later, the silver Blazer pa.s.sed them going in the opposite direction, heading toward the city. In his rearview mirror, Shrader watched the Blazer until it rounded a curve; then he made a leisurely U-turn and drove slowly along, no longer following the vehicle at all. "Considering how many times they've pa.s.sed us on the road today," he said with a smirk, "it's amazing they haven't made us."

"That Blazer is one of the few clean vehicles in the Catskills," Sam murmured, studying the map in her lap that Leigh Manning had given them Tuesday night. "The rest of us all look alike-filthy." With a sigh, she folded the map and slid it into a plastic evidence bag. "This morning, she seemed to be trying to follow roughly the same directions she gave us in the hospital. Then, around noon, she started backtracking and retracing her route in wider circles."

"Yeah, and after that, she started sightseeing. She figured we might follow her today, so she decided to take us for a ride-literally. You owe me a quarter, by the way."

He held out his hand, and Sam looked at his open palm and then at his smug profile. "For what?"

"Because I said that following her wasn't going to get us anywhere, but you thought she could be up to something interesting."

"Call me suspicious, but when I notice a badly injured, supposedly frantic woman getting out of an ambulance in a deserted parking lot on an open highway and then climbing into a vehicle that heads north instead of south, it just naturally sparks my interest."

"Ante up," he persisted. "Where's my quarter?"

"I'll deduct it from the seven dollars and forty-three cents you owe me for your M&M's and c.o.kes this trip."

"What?" he exclaimed, giving her his ferocious doggie look. "I don't owe you seven-forty-three, Littleton. I owe you six-forty-three."

Sam smiled at him. "Right, you do. And don't forget it."

CHAPTER 11.

Trish Lefkowitz was waiting in the apartment's outer foyer when Leigh and Brenna finally stepped out of the elevator, five minutes late for the press conference. "My G.o.d!" the publicist burst out, rushing forward to take Leigh's arm, "you look positively awful, Leigh. Which, in a way, is perfect," she added, always thinking of the public-relations value of everything. "Those reporters will take one look at you and be dying to help you."

Leigh scarcely heard her. She was looking around at the elegant black marble foyer with its carved gilt console tables and silk-covered Louis XIV chairs.

Everything was exactly the same as when she left it on Sunday, except that now Logan was missing from her life. So nothing was the same.

A concealed door on the far left of the foyer, used for deliveries, led directly into the kitchen area. Brenna, Trish, and Leigh used that door to enter the apartment. Hilda was carrying gla.s.ses on a serving tray and she nearly dropped it at the sight of Leigh's bruised face and bedraggled appearance. "Oh, Mrs.

Manning..." she burst out. "Oh, my. Oh-"

"I'm okay, Hilda. I just need to comb my hair," Leigh added as she carefully removed her arms from the coat Brenna had brought her. Based on the commotion in the living room, she gathered that quite a few members of the press were present.

"A little lipstick wouldn't hurt," Trish put in, reaching for the mirror and cosmetics she'd brought to the kitchen for exactly this purpose.

"Just a hairbrush," Leigh said absently, smoothing the wrinkles from the black slacks and sweater she was wearing. "Okay, I'm ready," she said after running a brush through her hair.

With Trish on one side of her and Brenna on the other, Leigh walked into her living room. Only six nights before, it had been filled with laughing people who'd come to help her celebrate one of the most wonderful nights of her life.

Now the room was filled with staring strangers who'd come to pry, to observe, to record, and then report the lurid details of her living nightmare to the public.

Strangers, all of them, except for Detectives Shrader and Littleton, who had just arrived.

"How are you feeling, Miss Kendall?" a reporter called.

"Give us a moment to get settled," Trish told them all.

She'd positioned a chair in front of the fireplace for Leigh to use, and Leigh sank down onto it, not because she was physically unable to stand, but because her entire body was beginning to quake. Somehow, the presence of the reporters and photographers in her home made Logan's disappearance seem even more macabre and more... real. She looked up at them and reluctantly signaled the start of the interview by saying, "Thank you for coming-"

Her words set off a volley of blinding camera lights and an instant barrage of questions: "Have you heard from your husband?"

"Is there any truth to the rumor that he's been kidnapped?"

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Do the police know who ran you off the road?"

"How are you feeling, Miss Kendall?"

"Is it true that the two of you had been discussing divorce?"

"What are the police doing?"

"Do they have any suspects? Who found you the night of your accident? Was it an accident or do you think it was deliberate?"

"When are you planning to return to your role in Blind Spot?"

Leigh held up her hand to stop the questions. "Please, just listen to what I have to say-I'll tell you everything I know as quickly as I can." The room grew silent, except for the whirring of the video cameras. She told them why she had been driving into the mountains Sunday night, and she gave them the details of her accident. "As you know, the police haven't been able to identify the man who found me on the side of the road," she finished, "but they have a police artist's sketch and they'll give it to you tonight."

"Why haven't the police been able to find your car?"

"I'll let them explain that to you," Leigh said weakly as a wave of dizziness swamped her. She tried to focus on Shrader and saw him nod that he'd deal with their questions about the police investigation. "I invited you here not only to answer your questions," Leigh continued, "but also because I need your help.

Please put that sketch in front of the public. Someone out there will surely recognize the man in that sketch. He knows where my accident happened, and-wherever it was-it's near the place I was supposed to meet my husband. I'd also like you to have a description of my husband's car..." Leigh paused again, feeling very strange, very clammy, and she sent a silent appeal for help to Detective Littleton, who was standing off to the side, her face a mixture of what appeared to Leigh to be alertness and curiosity. "Will you give these people the information about Logan's car, and anything else they can use to help us?"

"Yes, of course, Mrs. Manning," Detective Littleton said promptly, drawing several admiring looks from the males in the room.

Detectives Littleton and Shrader took over at that point and answered questions for the next ten minutes. Leigh listened until they were finished, but she was gripping the arms of her chair toward the end, trying to stay upright while the room began to recede and revolve. She reached a shaking hand up to her forehead just as a reporter from one of the newspapers suddenly addressed her. "Miss Kendall, can you think of any reason why your husband might not want to be found? Business problems, or-?"

Leigh frowned at him, trying to keep his face in focus. "That's ridiculous."

"What about the rumors that your marriage wasn't as idyllic as you'd like the public to believe-that, in fact, he was involved with another woman?"

Leigh mustered all her strength and looked straight at him. "My husband is a wonderful man, and a loyal and loving husband." With quiet dignity, she added, "I cannot believe you would soil his reputation, or deliberately hurt and humiliate me at this moment, by commenting on what are nothing but ugly, unfounded rumors."

Trish Lefkowitz decided it was time to put an end to the press conference.

"Okay, people!" she announced, "that's it for tonight. Thank you for coming.

Right now, Miss Kendall needs to get some rest."

Several reporters tried to ask one more question, but Trish firmly and pleasantly cut them off. "No more questions tonight. I'll contact you with updates every time we have anything at all to tell you." So saying, she went to the front door of the apartment and opened it, standing there while they put away their recorders and notepads, packed up their cameras, and filed out.

With her hand braced on the back of her chair for support, Leigh managed to stand up and thank each of them individually for coming, but when Irish finally closed the door behind the last straggler, she sank back onto the chair. Shrader was on his cell phone, so Leigh spoke to Littleton. "Thank you for being here, and for... everything. Would you like some tea or coffee?" she added. "I'll have a cup with you."

"Thanks, coffee would be great," Detective Littleton replied, and Leigh marveled at how fresh and rested the pretty brunette always looked. She glanced around for Hilda and saw her standing on the sidelines, surveying the damage to her perfect living room. "Hilda, would you bring coffee for all of us?"

Shrader snapped his cell phone closed. "Never mind the coffee," he said to Hilda. "We'll take our coats instead." He turned to Leigh, his expression intense and energized. "A state trooper may have located the place where you went off the road. He was writing up a motorist on a speeding violation tonight when he happened to notice a bunch of freshly broken tree limbs leading down from the embankment where he was standing. The snow plows had piled up a lot of snow along the side of the road there, so he couldn't see any tire tracks or inspect the guardrail for damage, but he knows there's an old quarry somewhere down at the bottom."

He paused to put on the heavy jacket Hilda was holding. "We've already got a couple NYPD units up there right now," he added, "and I'll arrange for more to be on hand first thing in the morning. Littleton and I will grab a few hours' sleep and be up there when things start happening. We'll call you as soon as we know anything."

Leigh wasn't interested in recovering her car; she was interested in recovering her husband. "If that's the place where I had my accident, then the cabin can't be far away. I don't understand why everything has to wait until morning."

"Because it's too dark to accomplish anything more tonight," Shrader pointed out patiently. "The state trooper tried to go down the embankment, using his flashlight, but it's very steep and treacherous underfoot, especially at night. As soon as we get some daylight, we'll be able to tell very quickly if he found the right place. And if he did find it, our teams will start combing the surrounding area by air and on the ground."

"But we're losing so much time, waiting for morning-" Leigh protested again, wringing her hands.

"A few hours isn't going to make much difference if your husband found shelter from the storm."

"But what if he didn't?" Leigh argued.

Shrader's answer made her wish she hadn't asked the question. "In that case,"

he replied matter-of-factly, "after five days, a few hours more isn't going to make any difference." He looked impatiently at Detective Littleton, who was slowly putting on her jacket, her gaze fixed on Leigh. "If the state police have actually found the place where you went off the road," he added, starting for the door with Littleton finally following, "then the map you gave us at the hospital was way off. The location the trooper pinpointed tonight is at least twenty miles away from where your directions sent us. Then again, this may not be the right spot at all, so don't get your hopes up too high."

Littleton walked up the foyer steps, pulling on her gloves; then she paused at the front door and turned to Leigh. "The best thing you can do now, Mrs.

Manning, is to go to bed and stay there until you hear from us in the morning.

Several times tonight, you looked as if you were going to pa.s.s out."

"You did," Trish said as soon as the front door closed behind the two detectives. "Brenna and I are going home now," she announced, already heading for the coat closet, "and you are going to eat something and go straight to bed.

Brenna said you barely touched any food today."

"That's right," Brenna confirmed; then she turned to Hilda and deftly shifted Leigh into the care of the loyal housekeeper: "She hasn't eaten, Hilda, and she hasn't taken her pain pills either. They're in her purse."

"I'll look after her," Hilda promised. She ushered Brenna and Trish out of the apartment; then she went to Leigh, who had sunk back onto her chair. "I made dinner for you earlier, and I'll bring it to you on a tray, along with your medicine, after you're in bed. Here, let me help you up, Mrs. Manning."

"Thank you, Hilda," Leigh said, too exhausted and weak to protest. She stood up and trailed slowly along in the wake of the bustling housekeeper.

"I'll turn your bed down first," Hilda said over her shoulder.

Turning the bed down required the removal of the elaborate designer pillows that covered nearly half the mattress and obscured much of the Queen Anne headboard. Normally, Hilda made the nightly removal of the pillows into a ceremonial procession that both amused and fascinated Leigh. First, an armload of fringed pillows were removed and carried into the linen closet, followed by two armloads of pillows with ta.s.sels, followed by two more armloads of pillows trimmed with miscellaneous braids, cords, and rickrack. In the morning, the entire loving ceremonial procession began again, in reverse.