Hunted (19 page)

She waited. Long, excruciating minutes went by, and she struggled to clear her mind. She could only afford to think one thing: He wasn’t going to touch Sam. Then she heard it.

Someone was coming.

Mojo was coming.

He didn’t walk like Mike. He dragged one foot, she could hear it clearly. He was in the room now, moving closer to the closet.

She lifted the gun higher, waiting, waiting for the closet door to slide open. Praying the killer outside would disappear.

A high-pitched beep made her jump so violently, she nearly dropped the gun. The computer! There was a red light flashing and the words
critical battery
something were in the middle of the screen, and the beeping kept on and on. It was loud, insistent, a signal for Mojo to come and find them.

She let go of the gun with her right hand, and groped until she found the top of the machine. She tried to shut it, but something was in the way. She couldn’t look, she couldn’t turn her gaze from the center of the closet door. Moving as quickly as she could, she found the corner of the pillowcase and yanked it free, then slammed the computer shut. Even then the beeping didn’t stop. All she’d done was muffle the noise.

The footsteps came closer and she grabbed the gun again with both hands.

The door moved, but oh, God in heaven, it was the wrong side!

B
ecky lunged for the door. She pushed against it as hard as she could trying to keep it closed, the gun now a useless obstruction in her hand. She tried to see Sam, but the damn pillows and blankets were in her face.

It was no use. The door slid open beneath her hands. Her balance was off, there was too much in the way. God, he was going to get her baby.

The door smashed into the jam on her side, as she fought for control of her gun. She still couldn’t see Mojo, couldn’t see Sam. There was no more time. She pointed the gun toward the center of where she thought Mojo would be and pulled the trigger.

The sound ripped through her eardrums, wood splinters flew, her hands jerked back painfully, throwing her against the cushioned wall. The ringing in her head was deafening, and for a moment, she thought she might pass out. Then she threw herself against the closet door again and it fell forward, carrying her with it. She nearly lost her balance, and had to step wide to stay upright. But she was in the loft.

She turned, expecting to see a bloodied body on the ground. Instead, she looked down the barrel of a gun.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” His words were muffled, as if he were speaking in a tunnel. He looked like a rat turned human. Pale and thin, with a sharp nose and black eyes, he was worse than her nightmares.

“Why are you doing this to us?” She knew she must be screaming even though her voice seemed very far away. “What do you want?”

“Justice,” he said. “Vengeance.” His mouth turned up in an ugly smile. “Fun.”

Becky felt faint. Nothing had prepared her for this. Not Mike’s warnings, not any horror story she’d ever heard. He was the essence of evil, and she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, and then Sam. Behind Mojo, she saw the hole in the wall where her bullet had landed. She must have been off by just a few inches. She lifted her gun, prepared to die, but not before she killed him first.

“Think again,” he said.

That’s when she saw Sam. He crashed into Mojo’s legs as if he were a tackling dummy. Mojo screamed, a high-pitched wail, and then bullets sprayed the room as he fell to the floor.

She pulled the trigger for the second time, but this time, she hit him. The bullet smashed into his thigh and he screamed again.

She darted forward and grabbed Sam’s arm. “Come on,” she yelled, pulling him behind her. The last thing she saw was the blood-splattered yellow quilt, then they were on the stairs.

Holding on to her gun with one hand and Sam’s arm with the other, she tried not to fall as she ran. She looked behind her, expecting to see Mojo in the doorway, but there was nothing. She’d killed him. Maybe.

She got Sam down the stairs without hurting him. “We have to get out of here,” she said, shouting to be heard against the ringing in her ears.

“Daddy!”

Sam’s piercing scream stopped her cold. He pointed toward the kitchen. She turned. Mike’s body lay twisted on the hardwood floor. There was blood coming from an ugly wound in his shoulder.

She didn’t let go of Sam as she ran. Tears nearly blinded her as she knelt next to Mike. Shoving the gun in the holster, she freed her right hand and touched his face. It was warm. Her shaking fingers pressed his neck, but she couldn’t find a pulse. “Mike, get up. Please, get up. Don’t do this.”

Sam stood behind her, and she heard him sob.

“Sam needs you. I need you.” She grabbed his collar and pulled his head up. “You can’t die, damn you!”

His eyes opened.

She moaned and cradled his head in her arms. “Oh, God, thank you. Mike—” A crash from upstairs made her practically jump out of her skin. She looked up.

Mojo was still alive.

“Get out of here.”

Mike was pushing himself up with his good arm. “Go on. Get out. Now.”

“I won’t leave you.”

“You don’t have any choice. Dammit, get Sam out of here.”

He looked bad. His face was white, his lips a thin line of pain. How could he fight that madman? He was barely alive. But Sam needed her protection.

She helped Mike to his feet, then turned to their son. “Get to the back door and unlock it. Wait for me there.”

He didn’t move. He stared at her with his mouth open.

She let go of Mike. When she was sure he wasn’t going to fall, she turned to Sam and grabbed his shoulders. “Sam, you have to go. Now.”

His eyes focused on her from someplace far away.

“Get your coat, then go to the back door,” she said again. “We have to leave.”

Sam looked up to the loft. She saw him swallow, then he looked at her again. “Okay.”

She closed her eyes as relief poured through her. “Hurry.” She let him go, and he raced to the closet to get his coat. In a flash, he was past them again, and in the kitchen. She turned back to Mike. He looked as though he wouldn’t make it another minute. There was so much blood. “You can’t stay. He'll kill you.”

Mike shook his head. “No, he won’t. Give me your gun. You take the rifle.”

She looked upstairs again. Mojo was still making noise, but he wasn’t at the door yet. She ran to the kitchen and grabbed two of the dishtowels from the sink. If she didn’t stop Mike’s bleeding, Mojo wouldn’t have to kill him.

Mike had his arm tight against his chest. When she touched it, his face contorted into a grimace of pain. He let her move the arm down. When she lifted his shirt back, she heard a sharp intake of breath, but no sound.

The wound looked sickeningly bad. There was a lot more blood then she’d imagined. Her stomach rolled, but she didn’t stop. It was tricky, tying the two dishtowels together and wrapping them tightly around his shoulder and under his arm. Finally, it was done, though, as tight as her shaking hands could make it.

“I'll be okay,” Mike said. “Go on, now.”

She reached over and took his good hand in hers. After she put the .45 in his palm, she leaned forward, careful not to touch him too much. She kissed him once, on the lips. “Please don’t die.”

He gave her a smile. It wasn’t a very good one, but it gave her the courage to move.

Her coat was still in the closet. She slipped it on. Another sound from upstairs jarred her into stillness. Mojo moved something big, scraping it across the floor. There was no more time. She had to save Sam. God, she didn’t want to leave Mike. But Sam...

Moving as quickly as she could, she took a box of ammunition from the top of the closet and stuffed it in her pocket, then she hurried over to the far wall, where Mike’s rifle lay. It was very heavy.

She walked back to Mike. His gaze was fixed on the upstairs door, his gun pointing dead center. When she turned, she could see Sam still standing by the open back door, waiting for her to take him outside.

What if she stayed? What if she pointed the rifle at the door, just like Mike was doing? Together, they could kill that bastard, she knew it.

No, that wasn’t true. He might kill them both, and then go after Sam. She forced herself to turn away from Mike and walk to the kitchen.

Snow from the open door flew into the house, swirling over the linoleum floor. Becky checked to make sure Sam was zipped up and his gloves were on.

Looking behind her, she could just see the bottom of the staircase. Mojo wasn’t down there, yet. But with each passing second she felt their chance of escape growing narrower. “Come on,” she said. “To the snowmobiles.”

After one last look at her husband, she stepped outside.

The cold hit her like a fist. She gasped and felt the ice burn her throat. They would never make it out of here. She couldn’t take it, and neither could Sam. She didn’t even know which way to go. “Over there,” she shouted, pointing to the lumps of snow that hid the snowmobiles.

Sam started toward the vehicles, moving slowly against the wind. He sank into the snow waist-deep at the end of the deck, and it was incredibly difficult to pull him free, even after she’d put the rifle aside. She was exhausted, and they hadn’t even begun.

He was too small to go on. She lifted him, and his bulky arms went around her neck, his feet around her hips. She could barely see. There was no way she could carry the rifle and Sam. She left the weapon on the snow, and moved on.

The steps weren’t too bad to negotiate, but when she’d cleared them the snow was up to her thighs. Moving strained all her muscles. Every step was an effort, with the wind and the cold battering her from all directions.

She hadn’t put on her gloves; she’d needed her hands free to use the rifle. Now, the ice bit into her fingers with sharp teeth, and she knew frostbite was sure to set in.

She was almost there. Just another foot to go. She turned to look behind her, and saw nothing but the closed door. If she could only get them out of here, she could go to another cabin. They could hide, until the weather cleared, or until she could get help. All she needed was a few more minutes.

Closing her eyes for a second, she took another step. Her foot caught on something big, and with Sam in her arms, she couldn’t compensate. She fell forward, turning to her side just in time to get Sam out of the way.

She let him go while she struggled to get up. When she looked down, she saw what it was that had tripped her.

Witherspoon.

* * *

Mike struggled to stay on his feet, to keep the dizziness from winning. Mojo had to come down those stairs, and he had to be ready.

It was hard to hold the gun straight. The pain was continuous, a throbbing counterpoint to each breath he took. At least Becky and Sam were outside. They would get away, that’s all that mattered.

Darkness threatened again, that sickening swirl of blackness from deep inside. He fought it, as hard as he’d ever fought anything in his life. He couldn’t pass out now. Not yet.

Upstairs, something moved. He didn’t hear it this time, he saw it. Mojo was at the doorway.

Mike lifted his gun higher and pulled back the hammer. His hand shook uncontrollably, and he cursed as he concentrated on taming his muscles.

There he was. Blood covered his bad leg—Becky must have shot him. Mojo had no trouble aiming his weapon. The big .357 pointed straight at Mike’s chest.

Mike pulled the trigger.

* * *

Witherspoon lay frozen, buried in snow, except for the top of his head where she’d kicked him. Becky backed away, turning so she wouldn’t see, fighting to keep from being sick.

“Mom!”

Sam’s voice pulled her back, and she found him standing in waist-deep snow right next to the snowmobile.

“I'm coming.” She stepped over the old man’s body and kept on moving. “I'm coming.”

Finally, she reached Sam, and she began brushing the snow from the snowmobile with both hands. The key was in the ignition, thank God. She hadn’t even thought of that. She went to brush more snow away, and realized she hadn’t put on her gloves yet. It scared her that she could barely feel her fingers. She stopped right then, and pulled the thick gloves from her pocket. It was an effort to put them on, and when she did, she hardly felt a difference.

It didn’t matter. She had to get Sam out of here. What she couldn’t understand is why she hadn’t heard anything from inside the house. The thought of Mike wounded and bleeding, facing that man alone, made her sick to her stomach.

She threw her leg over the seat, and turned to Sam. “Grab on to me and climb up.” It was still necessary to shout to be heard, but her voice didn’t seem so far away now.

Bending to her left, Sam wrapped his arms around her neck and climbed in back of her. He let go, then she felt his hands on her waist. She found the key and turned it. The motor started immediately, and she wanted to cry with relief.

The handles moved, and she tried turning the one in her right hand. That was it. The snowmobile jerked forward, then stopped. She tried it again, this time without letting go. It worked. They moved forward, too quickly at first, then slowly, which was better. She felt very unsure about driving this thing, especially with Sam on the back.

Turning in a wide circle, she headed toward the front of the house and the main road. Maybe she could find Witherspoon’s cabin. She could try to get help on his ham radio.

They moved in a relatively straight line, the wind making it terribly difficult to see. She squinted as they rounded the bend, then turned her head to check on Sam. “You okay?”

He nodded.

Then she heard the gunshot.

* * *

Mike fell. He landed on his shoulder, and the pain ripped him in two. He heard screaming, and for a moment he thought it was his own voice. Then he heard the thump of a body landing on the floor, and he realized it was Mojo.

He’d shot the son of a bitch. It was over. He turned his head, the pain swelling with the movement, until he could see the body.

Mojo stared at him with the same look, the same evil glare as that night in the warehouse. The bastard was still alive, still moving. Maybe he couldn’t be killed.

The darkness threatened again, stronger this time. Mike fought to move, to conquer the pain. He needed one more shot. One more. He lifted his hand. The gun was lopsided, not pointing at Mojo. With every ounce of energy left in his body, he turned the .45.

Mojo smiled.

Mike blew him away.