Unlawful Contact (8 page)

But she was the only one who seemed to think so.

The paramedics took her vitals and told her she was still mildly hypothermic. They stuck an IV of warm fluids into the back of her hand, a process that hurt more than she thought it would. Then they lifted her onto the stretcher, covered her from head to toe with heated blankets, and, with Julian’s help and that of another cop, carried her through the snow to the waiting ambulance, despite her protests that she could walk.

“Hush, Sophie.” Julian looked down at her, his expression stern. “This is the part of the adventure where you quit being tough and let other people take care of you.”

In short order, she found herself inside the brightly lit ambulance, Julian beside her, a body-length heating pad beneath her, a ton of blankets on top of her, warm oxygen flowing through a mask into her lungs. It was as if someone had given her a sedative. She couldn’t keep her eyes open.

“Why…am I suddenly…so sleepy?”

“Your body has been fighting to normalize your core temp for hours,” one of the paramedics told her. “Together with everything else you’ve been through today, I’d say you’re exhausted.”

Sophie barely heard him, her eyes drifting shut, her thoughts shifting to Hunt. He was out there somewhere. Out in the cold. Alone. What if they shot him? What if he froze to death?

She willed her eyes to open, sought out Julian. “He’s still out there.”

But Julian misunderstood. He leaned down, gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “He’s not going to hurt you again, Sophie. We’re going to find him. I promise.”

Before she could explain, she was asleep.

C
OCOONED IN WARMTH
, she slept as the ambulance wound its way silently down the canyon, the occasional bit of conversation reaching her, Julian speaking in hushed tones with the paramedics. Some part of her realized they were talking about her, but she couldn’t summon the strength to open her eyes or respond.

“—looks like he hit her across the cheek with a crowbar…”

“—think he raped her?”

“—a man his age in prison for six years…”

“—pretty woman, alone and helpless, would be tempting…”

“—put him in solitary for the next hundred years…”

“—shoot him first…”

It was the siren that finally woke her, startling her from her sleep.

“It’s okay, Sophie.” Julian still held her hand. “We’re trying to get past your colleagues into the hospital parking lot.”

Her colleagues?

“You think they’d show a little more respect for one of their own,” said the driver. “CNN. MSNBC. Fox. Geee-zus!”

A media feeding frenzy.

You’re news, Alton. How do you feel about that?

She felt pretty cruddy, actually.

“Let’s see if I can’t give her some privacy.” Julian pulled out his radio. “Eight-twenty-five.”

A voice crackled back. “Eight-twenty-five, go ahead.”

“Eight-twenty-five, I need a unit on each side of the ambulance to create a barricade and block the windows.”

Sophie listened, fighting to clear the cobwebs from her brain, as Julian spoke in police code, using his position as one of the city’s top cops to shield her. Touched by his thoughtfulness, she gave his hand a squeeze. “Thanks.”

“Figured you didn’t feel much like giving interviews right now.”

The ambulance rolled to a stop. The door at Sophie’s feet opened, cold air rushing in. And suddenly she was moving, the gurney sliding feetfirst out the door.

She gasped, grabbed the rail, the sensation more than a little strange as the paramedics pulled her over the edge and the wheels beneath her dropped to the ground with a loud clunk.

“Easy, Sophie.” Julian leaned over the gurney and placed a hand on each side of her face, blocking her from view. “We’re almost inside.”

How unreal it all seemed. The blazing fluorescent lights of the ambulance bay. The bright white flashes from a hundred clicking cameras. The burst of shouted questions.

“What’s her condition?”

“Is it true the perpetrator called in her location himself?”

“Is Marc Hunter in police custody?”

The question jolted her, made her pulse jump.

Had they caught him?

Then she realized it was only a question. It didn’t mean anything. The reporter was just fishing for information.

You’re not worried about him, are you, Alton?

Yes, she was. Despite everything he’d done, she was.

Be careful, Hunt.

Even as the words formed in her mind, she drifted off again.

M
ARC TOOK A
sip of coffee—his first real coffee in almost seven years—and tried not to moan. It was black and strong and perfect.

He took another sip, his mouth watering from the mingled breakfast scents that drifted through the small café. He’d ordered the special—ranch eggs, home fries, bacon, and toast—and the anticipation was killing him, his fatigue dissolving at the prospect of a meal cooked by someone whose skill with knives came from culinary school and not street fights.

“More coffee?” The waitress—a pretty middle-aged woman dressed in jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with a marijuana leaf—held up a glass coffeepot, and smiled.

He set down his mug, then remembered his manners. “Please.”

It felt strange to have someone ask him what he wanted, to smile at him, to take an interest in him. He’d almost forgotten people could be kind without being paid or having an ulterior motive.

She refilled his mug, the unmistakable glint of female interest in her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”

“Oh, I’ve passed through a few times. I come for the hunting. Bagged a couple of elk south of here.”

“Staying at the Sundance? Need someone to show you around?”

How he wished he could take her up on the offer. God knows he could use a quick fuck. It had been almost seven years, after all. And although she was probably a good twenty years older than he, she was one flower child who hadn’t completely lost her bloom. But he didn’t have the time. Besides, his senses were still too filled with Sophie.

He shook his head. “Checked out this morning.”

She covered her disappointment with another smile, topped off his cup, and sauntered back toward the counter, humming to a tune on the radio.

It had been a long eleven miles to Nederland. After calling in Sophie’s location, he’d found Highway 119 and followed it north, keeping to the cover of the trees, the terrain, poor visibility, and deep snow at times slowing him to a near crawl despite his snowshoes. Yet, as rough as it had been, he’d savored every minute of it—the sweat, the strain, the burn in his lungs. He’d felt himself coming alive again, his senses awakened from six years of deprivation by the fresh air, the smell of snow and pine, the wide-open vastness, and deep silence of the mountains.

And for a short time, he’d been forced to think about his immediate situation, and not the wreckage of his life or Megan’s—or the damage he’d just done to Sophie’s.

He’d removed his snowshoes on the edge of town, dropping them in a Dumpster. Then he’d slipped into the bathroom at the Kwik Mart, where the clerk was distracted by a broken snowblower, and had shaved off his beard and pulled his hair back in a ponytail. By the time he’d reached the Pioneer Inn he’d looked like just another mountain hippie.

That’s why he’d chosen Nederland. It was hard for anyone to stand out in a town where the biggest annual event was a festival called Frozen Dead Guy Days—a celebration that honored one man’s decision to keep his deceased grandfather on dry ice in his Tuff Shed.

“Here you go.” The waitress set his breakfast down on the table. “Want ketchup or hot sauce for the home fries?”

It was all he could do to keep from stuffing his face. “Hot sauce would be great. Thanks.”

She grabbed two bottles off a nearby table and set them down in front of him. “Take your pick. I’ll be back to warm your coffee.”

He looked at the bottles and, unable to decide, shook both Frank’s RedHot and Cholula onto his potatoes and eggs. Then he grabbed his fork and dug in. And this time he did moan.

“Good, isn’t it?” The waitress smiled, taking an order at the next table.

He nodded, trying not to look like a starving man.

He’d shoveled half the plate into his mouth when something on the radio caught his ear.

“…Reporter taken hostage yesterday afternoon was found alive in the mountains above Black Hawk early this morning and was evacuated by ambulance to University Hospital. The reporter, Sophie Alton of the
Denver Independent
, was interviewing Marc Hunter, a convicted murderer, when Hunter reportedly became violent, assaulting a guard, taking the guard’s weapon, and using Alton as a human shield.”

The bite Marc had just swallowed stuck in his throat.

The radio announcer droned on.

“According to police reports, Hunter called nine-one-one himself and gave them Alton’s location before abandoning her and disappearing into the mountains. Details about Alton’s injuries or her ordeal are not yet available, but she is listed in good condition.”

At least she was safe.

No thanks to you, dickhead.

“Mountain residents are asked to keep an eye out and report all suspicious persons to the police. Hunter is six foot four with shoulder-length brown hair, a beard, and green eyes. He is armed and considered extremely dangerous.”

Shit.

He forced himself to keep eating, willing himself to go slowly, keeping one eye on his meal and the other on the waitress and her customers.

“I hope they catch that bastard!” the cook shouted from the kitchen. “I saw his mug shot on TV last night. He sure looks mean. Whatever he did to that girl, it can’t have been good.”

It hadn’t been.

Please don’t! I helped your sister!

Sophie’s plea echoed in Marc’s mind, breakfast sitting like lead in his stomach. He couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t shake it, couldn’t forget it—the image of terror on her pretty face. Now that he was on the outside and it was over, he found it almost impossible to believe he’d put her through that. But he had.

God, she’d been brave! She’d fought him in the hallway, taking on an armed man who outweighed her by an easy eighty pounds, knocking his nuts into his throat. She’d done her best to escape, almost losing her life in her desperate attempt to save herself. And through it all her tongue had been sharp as barbed wire.

So you kill animals, too.

It had been harder than he could ever have imagined to turn his back on her and leave her there, alone, bruised, and still hypothermic. A part of him had wanted to tell her everything, to lay it all at her feet and ask for her forgiveness, but he knew nothing could make up for what he’d done. And so he’d made sure she was safe and comfortable, then he’d taken one last taste of her and walked out the door, ignoring the anguish in her eyes and the fist-sized hole in his own chest, knowing as the door shut behind him that he’d never see her again.

He took another bite, forcing down his growing remorse with a mouthful of spicy home fries. Regret was a luxury he couldn’t afford right now. It was nothing but a waste of time and energy. It wouldn’t save Megan and Emily, and it wouldn’t fix anything for Sophie. The situation was what it was, and he couldn’t change it.

And yet wouldn’t he sell his soul right now if he could do just that?

Yes, he would. He’d give anything to be an ordinary man living an ordinary life. He’d give anything to have bills to pay, a lawn to mow, and a leaky faucet to fix. He’d give anything to be a real brother to Megan, an uncle to Emily, a husband, a father. He’d give anything to be able to look at Sophie and see his future.

Maybe in your next life—if you don’t come back as a cockroach.

The best he could hope for was to find Megan and Emily and make it safely to Mexico, where he’d spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. And that’s what he ought to be thinking about, not obsessing over a woman he’d fucked one night back in high school.

What a heartless son of a bitch you’ve become!

Yeah, he had.

He had six years of prison to thank for that. Six years of watching his back. Six years of being treated as subhuman. Six years of sleepless nights, violence, degradation. Or maybe that was just an excuse and he’d always been this way.

He finished his breakfast, tossed back the last of his coffee, and dropped a ten on the table. He needed to get into Denver and pick up Megan’s trail. He wasn’t the only one looking for her, but for her sake—and Emily’s—he’d damn well better be the one to find her.

“H
E DIDN’T GIVE
you any hint where he was going—look at any maps, ask you about bus routes or directions?” The cop—Sergeant Gary King was his name—looked up from his notepad, his brown eyes bloodshot.

“No. Nothing.” Sophie pulled the blankets tighter around her, grateful for their warmth—and the reassuring presence of her friends.

They were all there, crammed together in the little hospital room, encircling her bed. Tessa sat in the only chair, absently rubbing her pregnant belly. Kara stood next to the chair, Reece beside her, his arm around his wife’s waist. Holly and Kat stood beneath the television in the corner next to Matt, who looked more rumpled than usual, a coffee stain on his blue shirt. Julian stood at the foot of the bed, still dressed in black SWAT gear.

They all looked exhausted, and it touched Sophie more than she could say that they’d spent the night together in front of CNN, worrying about her—all except Natalie, who’d been assigned to cover the story, and Julian, who had apparently pulled rank and put himself in charge of the team that had come after her.

Sergeant King looked back at his notes. “He just walked out the door and left you handcuffed to the bed?”

“Yes.” She knew Sergeant King was just doing his job. Still, she couldn’t help but wish the questions would come to an end. All she wanted was to sleep, and she’d already told him everything—or almost everything.

She’d left out the fact that she’d once known Hunt. And had given him her virginity. And had never completely gotten over him. She couldn’t see how that was relevant to their investigation. After all, she hadn’t realized who he was until hours after he’d taken her hostage.

Still, she couldn’t shake a growing sense of guilt. Somehow not telling the entire story made her feel like she was lying, particularly when it came to Julian. He’d risked his life to save hers when it wasn’t even his job. The least she could do was to tell the whole truth.

But what if the whole truth didn’t matter?

You haven’t told them he kissed you, either.

More than that, she hadn’t told them about Megan.

Although the part about the kiss wasn’t important—what difference could it make?—the part about Megan was. Investigators had already guessed that Hunt had broken out to join his sister, but they had no idea why. They’d definitely want to know the allegations he’d made about Cross and this mysterious accomplice.

But everything Hunt had told her about Megan had been off the record. She’d made a promise, and she couldn’t betray that promise without betraying her entire profession. Besides, what if Hunt had been telling the truth and the man who was after Megan was still working somewhere in the system?

The last thing I wanted to do was give away what I know or lead him to my sister.

She glanced at Julian, saw him watching her, his gaze seeming to measure her. Did he suspect she was holding something back?

Sergeant King flipped to a blank sheet of paper. “Can you remember what he was wearing when he left?”

Of course she could remember—she’d watched him dress from the skin up. So why did she hesitate to answer?

I’m sorry, Sophie. I never meant to hurt you.

“You don’t owe him anything, Sophie,” Kara said, seeming to read her mind.

“Not a thing—except maybe another knee in the nuts,” Tessa added.

Then Reece chimed in. “I know you’re grateful that he saved your life and kept his word about calling your location in to police, but he didn’t do it out of concern for you.”

Julian nodded. “He did it to keep himself off death row.”

Above Holly and Kat, a mug shot of Hunt filled the television screen beneath the words “Colorado Manhunt.”

Sophie swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “He was dressed for Everest—backpack, down parka, ski pants, jeans underneath, a wool hat, gloves, snowshoes. I wasn’t in the store with him, so I’m not sure what else he might have taken. He was still armed. He had two guns, I think.”

And just like that she went from feeling guilty to feeling like a traitor.

If they catch me, they’ll probably bring me back in a body bag.

What if they shot him? What if they killed him? After what he’d done, why did she care? The man was a murderer who’d held a gun to her head and kidnapped her.

God, she felt confused! Her mind and her emotions were running in circles. Clearly, she was in desperate need of sleep.

Sergeant King took notes, nodding as he wrote. “We found bloody gauze, latex gloves, and duct tape in the corner, as well as bloodstains on the sleeping bag. How badly was he wounded?”

She’d forgotten to mention that, too. “A bullet cut a pretty deep groove across his right shoulder. He used the duct tape to stop the bleeding while he took care of me. I…I bandaged it for him before he left.”

She felt Tessa’s hand close over hers, a gesture of support.

Sergeant King looked up from his notepad, his expression grave. “I understand that you refused to undergo a forensic exam, is that correct?”

A forensic exam was the official term for a rape kit.

“I told you he didn’t hurt me. The bruises—all of it—was my fault. Even the hypothermia. If I hadn’t fallen in the snow…”

Julian and Reece frowned.

Sergeant King went on as if she hadn’t said anything. “I understand he removed your clothing as well as his own and got into a sleeping bag with you naked—”

“He was trying to save my life!”

“—while you were unconscious. Under those circumstances it might be advisable to have the exam just in case something happened that you don’t remember.”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

Matt shifted nervously. “Maybe we should leave the room.”

Holly elbowed him in the ribs. “Maybe
you
should leave.”