Hunted (18 page)

Sam turned his head a little more, burying his face in her side. The computer tilted, but didn’t fall. Now, the light illuminated his shirt.

“I baked a cake. Vanilla with chocolate icing. And I cooked him his favorite meal. You know what it was?”

She waited, but didn’t really expect him to respond. After a moment, she said, “It’s your favorite meal, too. Lasagna. When we get home, I'm going to make a big pan of lasagna for my two favorite guys. Anyway, I made a big fancy dinner, with salad and garlic bread. I even bought wine. For him, you know. I couldn’t drink that anymore. Not with you inside me.”

She moved her hand until she felt his soft hair beneath her fingers. She petted him, over and over, trying to calm him—and herself. There hadn’t been another shot for... She had no idea how long. It could have been five minutes or two hours. They were in some kind of dark limbo, where time and space had no meaning.

“We lived in an apartment then. Off Pearl Street. Anyway, Daddy was due home in a half hour. So I went and took a shower, because I wanted to be pretty for him. When I got out, I smelled something funny. I wrapped myself in a big towel, and went into the living room. That’s when I saw the smoke.”

Sam had calmed down a bit. He wasn’t shaking anymore, at least not so much. His breathing was more even and steady. Oh, if he could only sleep. Perhaps that was too much to hope for.

“The whole kitchen was on fire. I got so scared. I tried to put it out, but it was already too big. So I raced into the bedroom and put on my robe. I grabbed my pillow and the photo album and I got downstairs at the same time the fire engines pulled up in front. When Daddy came home, instead of the wonderful dinner I’d planned, he saw everything we owned go up in flames. I thought I’d started the fire, you know, with the oven or something. I was crying pretty hard. Daddy took me in his arms and said he didn’t care. Not one bit.”

She squeezed him tight. “That’s when I told him about you. He was so happy, he lifted me in the air and spun me around. I was in my bathrobe, with a big old fire department blanket around my shoulders, but he didn’t care. He just whooped and hollered, and he gave me a big fat kiss. Then he told me that this baby, that you, were going to be lucky your whole life. Anyone who started out with this much of a ruckus was bound to be the luckiest kid in the whole world.”

She laid her head back against her makeshift pillow, remembering that day, the look in Mike’s eyes. Had she ever felt more wonderful in her whole life? They had nothing. Not even clothes. But it hadn’t mattered. She’d had her man next to her, and her new little baby all safe and warm deep inside her. “Of course, when we found out a few weeks later that it wasn’t my lasagna that had caused the fire, I was pretty grateful. It had something to do with the wiring in the building. Anyway, I said a prayer that night, before I went to sleep. I made a promise, too. I prayed for you to be healthy, happy and lucky. In return, I promised I would take care of you forever.”

She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “I'm gonna keep that promise, kiddo.”

She heard him sniff. Then, in a soft, high little voice, he said, “Should I pray now, Mommy?”

She closed her eyes tight. “As hard as you can.”

* * *

Mike hadn’t moved a muscle. His cheek throbbed from the splinter, and he thought he’d sprained his wrist. But he hadn’t budged. The wind had died down a bit, which made him strain even harder to hear. Mojo was as silent as a ghost.

Why hadn’t he taken another shot? He must have some idea where Mike was on the staircase. What was he waiting for? Nightfall? No, it was already dark in the house. He was planning something, but Mike didn’t know what.

A soft scrape made him freeze. He knew that sound. A shoe on concrete. He’d heard it before, two years ago, in an isolated warehouse in the middle of the night.

With infinite caution, Mike reached his hand down to his back pocket. He pulled his wallet out and held it close to his chest. Carefully opening the leather billfold, he slipped the plastic picture case from the center and put it in his breast pocket. There was a photograph of Amy he didn’t want to lose. Then he braced his other hand on the rifle and tossed the wallet to the floor.

Gunfire shattered the quiet, a barrage of bullets first on the basement floor, then right over his head. A wild volley that kept on and on, the noise deafening.

All Mike saw was the red flash of gunpowder as it lit up the hands that held the weapon. He lifted his own rifle and pulled the trigger.

The raging gunfire stopped instantly. A crash, boxes toppling, glass breaking, was followed by the clatter of a gun falling to the ground.

Mike was up before the smoke settled, down the stairs, his rifle chest-level, ready to rip.

Mojo’s body lay sprawled on the boxes of toys and old clothes. He was facedown, the hood of his jacket covering his hair. Mike found his gun—a semiautomatic rifle—with his next step. He kicked it again with his boot, and made sure it landed across the room. Mojo didn’t move.

When he got up close to the body, Mike poked the butt of the rifle into his shoulder. No response. Mojo was dead or unconscious. Mike hoped for dead.

He reached down with his right hand, grabbed a chunk of parka, and rolled Mojo over onto his back.

Only it wasn’t Mojo.

It was a woman. The nurse. He’d known she wasn’t a hostage, dammit. Suddenly, it came to him. How Mojo had found out where they were. How he’d found out everything.

Mike ran faster than he’d ever run before. He took the stairs two at a time as he struggled not to panic. He threw his shoulder into the door and raced through the kitchen. He had to slow for the turn in the hall, and then he was on the steps leading to Sam’s room.

“I think you’d better stop right there.”

He did. It was a voice from the past, straight from hell. Images of the warehouse came back, and he saw Gordon lying in a pool of blood. Mike turned slowly to face the man who wanted him to die, too.

Mojo sat in the wing chair. The .357 Magnum resting easily on his lap pointed straight at Mike’s chest.

He hadn’t changed much at all. He was still too thin, with a beak of a nose and a small cruel mouth. It was too dark to see his eyes, but somehow Mike knew they were shining with pleasure.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend.”

“You sick bastard.”

Mojo frowned. “That’s not very nice. And here I came all this way, just for you.”

“You didn’t need to do me any favors.”

“I assume my compatriot is no longer with us.”

Mike nodded. “You mean Darrelyn, don’t you?”

Mojo smiled. “Very good. You finally figured it out.”

“How did you know Sam and I wrote to each other?”

“A little article in your local paper. It even gave the instructions for signing on to the bulletin board. After that, it was a simple matter to locate Sam and befriend him. We got to like him, actually. He’s a bright kid.”

“Then leave him alone.”

Mojo shook his head slowly.

Mike thought about that article in the Denver paper. How Mojo had tricked him. Worse, how he’d tricked Sam. Damn it all to hell, the clues had been there. Why hadn’t he made the connection? Everything Mojo knew had been in his letters to Sam. Every detail. “What do you want, Jones? Huh? What is it you expect to gain from all this?”

“You know perfectly well what I want.” Mojo stood. It took him awhile to straighten up, but he never stopped staring into Mike’s eyes, and he never let the gun waver. He took a step, then another, his body twisting to accommodate his misshapen hip. He moved into shadow, and then a shaft of light from upstairs hit him full in the face. He was ghostly pale and thin, and he’d combed his hair straight back. More a cadaver than a man.

“I gave you every chance,” Mojo said. “I told you to pull that trigger two years ago. You didn’t listen. I told you I would find you and your lovely wife. You didn’t believe me.”

“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with? Your quarrel is with me. No one else.”

“Ah, but I made a promise. I am an honorable man, Mike. Unlike you, I keep my word.”

Mike took a step toward him.

“Uh-uh.” Mojo lifted his gun an inch. “Don’t even try it. If you're very good, I'll kill Rebecca and Sam quickly, painlessly. If not...”

“Don’t you touch them, you son of a bitch.”

Mojo’s smile disappeared. “It’s too late to change my plans now. Did I tell you I had three operations, Mike? They left me to rot in the prison hospital for months. I have you to thank for that.”

“I should have killed you that night.”

“My point exactly! If anyone is to blame for this predicament, it’s you, my friend.”

Mike thought about shooting him, right now. It would certainly result in his own death, but wasn’t that better than letting Mojo live to kill Becky and Sam?

“I think you’d best put down that rifle.”

Had his thoughts been so transparent? Or did the evil little troll just know him too well?

Mike thought again of taking his best shot, letting the cards fall where they may, but then he saw that Mojo had moved closer and was now standing on the long carpet runner.

“Okay,” he said. “Give me a minute.” He bent his knees and went down slowly, keeping his eyes on Mojo. With exaggerated caution, he held the rifle at arm’s-length in front of him. “Just don’t do anything foolish. We can discuss this.”

“The time for discussion is long over. I—”

Mike dropped the rifle and grabbed the edge of the carpet, yanking it with all his might.

Mojo fell. But first, he pulled the trigger.

The force of the bullet threw Mike on his back. He felt no pain, only shock. Becky, Sam... God, no.

Just before the darkness came, he heard laughter.

* * *

Becky couldn’t keep the gun steady. Mike was dead or seriously wounded. She knew it. If he was all right, he would have been up here already. That last shot was much louder. Closer.

She reached forward, her forehead pressing into the pillow, until she touched the closet door. She closed it all the way, sealing their tomb. No, she couldn’t think like that. She had to protect Sam. If Mojo found them, she would have to pull the trigger. Her aim had to be true. Oh, God, why couldn’t she stop shaking?

“Mommy?”

“Shh. We have to be very quiet now. It'll be all right.” She should be holding him. He was pressed up against her side and he’d grabbed her shirt, but it wasn’t enough. But how could she aim the gun with only one hand? It was too heavy. She couldn’t afford to miss on what might be her only chance.

“Where’s Daddy?”

“He’s downstairs, honey, but please,” she whispered. “You have to be still. I know it’s hard and it’s scary, but you need to be brave for a little while longer.”

The computer tilted a bit more and the side jabbed her knee. If there had been even an inch more room, she would have kicked the thing away. Instead, she ignored it. Maybe the tiny light from the monitor was good though. Sam would be even more terrified if it was completely dark.

Why was it so quiet? Maybe they’d killed each other, or maybe Mojo was dead and Mike was hurt and needed her help? He’d said not to leave the closet, but how long could they stay in here?

She knew one thing, Sam couldn’t take much more of this.

His breathing was loud and strained. She thought he might hyperventilate soon. He needed something to do, something quiet.

“Sam,” she said quietly. “I need you to do something very important.” She risked taking her eyes off the closet door, and turned her head. Sam looked so scared, she nearly moaned. “I want you to go to the back of the closet. You'll need to dig behind all those pillows and blankets. Do you think you can do that?”

He shook his head, not even willing to look up at her.

“Sure you can. Put the computer on the floor. Go on.”

Sam’s fingers released her shirt, and he shoved the computer off his lap. The sleeping bag was in the way, though, and he started kicking his legs. She could feel his panic, and took one hand off the gun and wrapped her arm around his shoulder.

“It’s okay, honey. Shhh. It’s all right. Calm down.”

Her hand was on his neck, and his pulse raced so fast she didn’t see how he could take it. There was no choice, though. There was a hell of a good chance that Mojo would find them up here. If he did, she was going to have to kill him. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t get a shot off first. So Sam couldn’t be right next to her. It was too dangerous. No matter what, she didn’t want Sam to see.

She checked the safety with her thumb, and satisfied that it was engaged, she put the gun down on the floor. Then, moving as quickly as her shaking hands would allow, she started to clear a path for Sam. First, the computer went on the floor. She left it open, grateful for the light. Then she lifted one layer of pillows and blankets.

“Can you move in there?”

Sam didn’t do anything for a moment. Then, just as she thought she would have to abandon the plan, he scooted to the side to fill up the space she’d made.

“That’s great, honey.” She reached over him, and pushed some more things out of the way.

Sam took over from there. He managed to get on his knees, and soon, he had moved most of the blankets to the front of the closet, as he crawled to the back.

It was a pitiful measure, with the closet being so small, but it was something. She took one last look at him. He’d brought his knees up tight against his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He was as tiny as he could be, a small, helpless kid trying hard to be a brave soldier.

That bastard had no right to do this to her son. No right at all. “I love you, Sam,” she said, then she let go of the blankets between them. She couldn’t see him now. And he couldn’t see her.

This time, when she picked up the gun, her hand was steady. She eased the safety off, and gripped the weapon tightly, tilting the barrel up, imagining the chest that would be her target.

In the darkness of that tiny womb, she knew she could pull the trigger. She could fight like a tiger. Morris Jones had picked the wrong woman to mess with.