Hunted (6 page)

The shock of his kiss took Becky’s breath away. He breathed for her—filling her with memories she’d tried for two years to forget.

She knew his lips, soft and smooth even while his mouth was hard and demanding. She knew the velvet of his tongue as it touched the corner of her mouth in a wordless plea. She felt the bristle of his beard on her skin, and she didn’t care. Mostly, she knew the smell of him, the combination of soap, sweat and skin that now, as always, aroused in her a primal yearning that had no name.

Without her willing it, her lips parted and she tasted him. Then, as if the kisses were not enough, he moved his arm around her back and brought her closer so that she was flush against him from chest to knee. His body was different, leaner, more muscled, yet still achingly familiar. She lifted her arms and brought her hands to the back of his neck, her fingers threading through his thick, dark hair.

He ran his hands over her back, touching her as if he’d never felt her before. Eager and insistent, his fingers explored through the fabric of her robe, then stilled at the base of her spine. He pulled his mouth away before she was ready, but then his lips were on her neck, just below her ear. His hot breath made her gasp.

His hands moved down and cupped her buttocks, holding her steady as he pressed himself against her stomach.

She knew that part of him, too. She’d dreamed of him too many nights to forget. No matter that she’d banished thoughts of him during the day, he always managed to sneak up on her in sleep.

He moved, and she moved with him. He sighed and kissed her, and she kissed him back. She was falling, slowly, sinking. Losing herself. Losing control.

Then she snapped, like a branch in the storm, awake and aware of who she was and where she was and why she was in his arms. She pulled away and turned her head away from his kiss. “No.”

He released her quickly, as if she were fire and he’d been scorched. “Remembered who I was, huh?”

She stepped back until her heel touched the bottom of the cabinet. “No. It’s not like that. I'm sorry. I should never had done that.”

He stared at her, wounded and angry. More than that, he was lonely. She’d never guessed it was this bad. His eyes seemed black and empty. His cheeks hollow, his smile gone forever. There was no life to him at all. Her heart broke in a brand new place. “Mike,” she said as she reached for him.

He winced, and turned his head, stepping back and away from her as quickly as he could. “Go to bed, Becky. It’s late.”

“But—”

“You were right. I should never have touched you. Now go on.”

“It’s just that I can’t go back to the way it was when we were married, Mike. I can’t live like that again.”

“I'm not asking you to.”

“My life is calm and peaceful, and I don’t lie awake at night anymore wondering if you'll be alive in the morning. I don’t worry every time I hear a siren. I've finally gotten control over things, don’t you see? If I let go, it will all unravel. Don’t ask me to give up what I've worked so hard for. I can’t do it. I lose myself when I'm with you, and there’s nothing left over. Not for me or for Sam, and he needs me so much. I can’t invest everything in you, when I can’t trust you to be there.”

“I'm going to check the house and make sure it’s locked up,” he said calmly, as if she’d never spoken.

She moved to the door and blocked his way. “Were you listening? Did you hear me?”

He wouldn’t look at her. His face was rigid, his mouth set in a thin line. “I won’t touch you again,” he said, his voice a low whisper, void of emotion. “I won’t mess up your life. As soon as this is over, we'll go right back to the way we were. I give you my word.”

She shouldn’t let him go like this. She’d seen what was behind his eyes. He was dying inside, and he needed her. But how could she go to him when the price was so high?

She moved to the door, and when she was very close to him, she touched his face. He closed his eyes. He didn’t move or shake her off, but it was clear her touch was painful. She dropped her hand. “I have to put the milk away,” she whispered. “I'll go up in a minute.”

He left without another word.

She went to the table and sat down again. Her milk was cold, but she didn’t want it anyway. Lord, she was tired. Maybe if she got some sleep she could figure out what all this meant. Right now, all she felt was confused and sad. The only thing she had to hold on to was the life she’d built for herself and her son. That life did not include Mike.

She would bury the ache inside her. She’d done it before; she could do it again. If he just kept his word, and he didn’t touch her again, she would be all right.

He would be all right, too. He would go back to his job and to talking to Sam on the computer. Mostly, he would go back to that island he’d lived on for so long. She couldn’t let herself believe that what she’d seen tonight made any difference. It was a quirk, a mistake. She’d spent too much of her life trying to figure out who was behind Mike’s mask to believe she’d seen the truth in an isolated cabin in the middle of the night so very far from home.

She pushed back her chair and stood up quickly, collecting her glass and putting it in the sink. It was time she went to sleep and stopped thinking. She turned off the light and went into the dark living room. There were still embers in the fire, but they would soon die. The unfamiliar shadows made her uneasy.

As she stepped on the stairs she saw a wide band of light from Mike’s room. She wondered if he was going to come back out to the living room, but after a few moments it was clear he wasn’t. She retied the belt on her robe, and walked over to his room. It wouldn’t hurt to make sure he was okay. She’d been pretty brutal with him.

She reached his door and looked inside. At first, she didn’t see him, but a movement from the closet caught her attention. Mike was pulling himself up on a chinning bar that had been mounted in the doorway. His shirt was off, and the body she saw shocked her. It wasn’t his. Not her Mike. Every bit of softness was gone. He was muscled and hard. She could see his ribs as he pulled himself up, his biceps bulging and straining. Even from this distance she heard the rhythm of his deep breathing.

His jeans rode low on his waist; they didn’t fit this new body. The only thing familiar about his chest was the dark, curly hair that tapered to a thin line at his waist and below. His legs were together, slightly angled in front. He wore no shoes, and even his feet showed tight lines of sinew and muscle. He let himself down again, him, not gravity. He controlled the move and made it slow and specific. She stared at his right arm, the swelling muscle, the cords of steel beneath the skin. He paused, and she looked up again. He caught her gaze.

His face was as finely chiseled as his chest. Hard lines and curves, as if he were made of granite instead of flesh and bone. His eyes were hardest of all. Unblinking, steady, unforgiving.

He lifted himself again, his chest expanding with his breath. His gaze never moved from her face. He went up slowly, inch by inch, with the control of a machine.
A machine.
That’s what he’d become and why she couldn’t love him. It had begun the night Amy died, bit by bit, piece by piece. He was the Tin Man. And everyone knew the Tin Man had no heart.

M
ike reached for his bag and took out the stack of letters. A drop of water from his still-wet hair fell onto the upper right corner of the page, and he wiped it away with his thumb.

It was nearly nine. He’d had a lousy night’s sleep. He didn’t remember his dreams; only the feelings of loss lingered. He’d gotten out of bed when he heard Becky and Sam in the kitchen.

He didn’t want to see her. What he wanted was to be in the field, tracking down Mojo. Doing something he knew how to do. Instead, he would have to go through another day of watching Becky, remembering when she was his.

For his own sanity, he had to concentrate on finding Mojo, and all he had were the letters. As far as he knew, the bastard was still free and heading this way. Cliff would have called if they’d caught him. The letters would tell him something, reveal a weakness. Mike had no delusions about Mojo. He knew if he made it to the cabin, he would try to kill them all. So Mike had to stop him first.

He unfolded the top page. Same stationery. Same typewriter.

Dear Mike,A priest came to me today. An old man with bad teeth. He asked me if I wanted to confess my sins. It’s never too late to get God’s forgiveness. At least that’s what he said. I don’t know about that. I don’t believe that some things can be forgiven. But who knows, eh? What if all it takes is one good session on your knees to be absolved? Of course, I can’t kneel, you took care of that, and what kind of a God would listen to a man who wasn’t kneeling?

Have you been absolved, Mike? Did God forgive you for your sins? No, of course not. You know what I think? I think we're going to see each other in hell. Keep the light on for me, would you?

Ah, the dinner bell is about to ring. I wouldn’t think of missing the world-class cuisine of the State Penitentiary system.

That son of a bitch had no business talking about absolution. He was the one who killed at random. Mike had been doing his job, that’s all. Trying to stop Mojo from hurting more people. Gordon’s death was an accident, dammit. Isn’t that what everyone said?

Mike folded the paper and put it on the bottom of the stack. As he opened the next letter, he heard a high-pitched engine outside. He dropped the packet and grabbed his gun. A snowmobile. It was probably Witherspoon, but the old man had said he would phone. Mike had stressed the point. He wanted no surprises. Witherspoon wasn’t the only one with access to a snowmobile.

He ran from his bedroom to the living room and pulled the drapes aside. Snow pelted the window, making it hard to see. The drifts against the house were knee-high now, and building. The engine was louder in here, coming from down the road. His breath fogged the window and he wiped it clean with the arm of his shirt. There it was. He couldn’t make out who was riding it.

“Who’s coming Dad?”

Mike whipped around and saw Sam standing by the couch. “Get upstairs. Now.”

Sam took a step back. His eyes widened until they seemed to take over his face. But he didn’t move.

“Go on, Sam. Get upstairs.”

“Is it that guy?”

“Do what I tell you.” Mike looked back outside. The snowmobile was nearly at the house. “Becky!” he yelled. “Get out here and take Sam upstairs.”

He heard her come, but he didn’t take his eyes off the man in the parka. It wasn’t the jacket Witherspoon had worn yesterday. That one had been blue. This one was white.

Behind him, Becky told Sam to come with her, then Mike heard their footsteps on the stairs. He’d scared her, too.

It had to be Witherspoon. Mojo would be a fool to make such a blatant entrance. But Mike wasn’t willing to take any risks. He eased the safety off as he lifted his .45 to his shoulder. The weight of the weapon was reassuring. He held his breath as the rider pulled up near the porch. When the engine cut off, Mike could hear the wind whip the trees. He stared at the man as he walked toward the door, but he couldn’t see past the fur-lined hood that surrounded his face.

Two steps more, and he would be at the door. One.

It was Witherspoon.

The old man’s weathered face looked red and cold. Mike released his breath, swore, then called up to Becky that everything was okay. He slipped the safety on, and tucked his gun into his waistband in the back.

He moved quickly to the door and opened it. The wind pushed him back. Snow came in first, then the old man, padded and covered from head to toe in an Arctic suit. Mike shoved the door closed while his guest stomped the snow off his boots.

“Morning,” he said.

Mike nodded. “Morning.”

“Came by to check the house, and to finish up with the snowmobiles like I promised. This storm is going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

“You were supposed to call.”

“Couldn’t. My phone’s on the blink. Happens a lot, what with the weather in such a snit. Lines go down, no one up here to put 'em back up. Then there’s the mice problem. They do get at the wires. That’s why I came with this.” He held up a coiled length of cable. “I thought it was more important for you folks to have phone service, so I saddled right up. I've got my ham radio, see, so I'm okay. But if it’s the lines, the wire won’t be of much use.”

Mike walked to the end table and picked up the phone. He heard the reassuring hum of the dial tone. “It’s working fine,” he said.

Witherspoon nodded. “If you don’t mind, I'll still take a look-see downstairs before we head out.”

“Sure, no problem.” Mike went to the base of the stairs. The old man’s story about the wires bothered him. Not that the weather could knock out the phones, that made sense. But so selectively? If the wires went down, wouldn’t the whole mountain be without service?

As soon as Witherspoon went downstairs, he intended to make a few phone calls. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the phone company and get some answers.

Becky and Sam hadn’t come down, and he was concerned that they hadn’t heard him before. “Becky. It’s all right. Mr. Witherspoon is here.”

He waited for her and Sam to appear. A moment later, they opened the door and started downstairs. Sam held Becky’s hand tightly, and both of them seemed pale. After Mike’s call to the phone company, he would call Cliff. This waiting and not knowing was torture. For all of them.

“Becky, this is Mr. Witherspoon.”

“How do you do.” Becky’s voice was steady and casual, but Mike thought that was for Sam’s benefit. So was her smile.

Witherspoon nodded. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Becky, still clutching Sam’s hand, walked next to Mike. “This is crazy,” she whispered. “Can’t you do something? Call someone?”

He turned to Becky. Her eyes pleaded with him to go, now, to the phone. “Right away,” he said. Then he looked down at Sam.

The poor kid was holding on to Becky for dear life. He’d really scared him. What could he do, though? Pretend nothing was wrong? He lowered himself down to eye-level with his son and placed his hands on Sam’s small shoulders. He stared into his wide, frightened eyes. “How about we go upstairs and play a couple of games on the old computer after I get back? I still owe you from yesterday.”

Sam nodded. “Sure,” he said, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. Not like there would have been before this whole mess had started.

“It’s all right, kiddo. I was just being careful. Okay?” He smiled at his boy, hoping like hell he looked confident, because he sure didn’t feel it.

Sam smiled. Not a great smile, but it was better than nothing.

Mike reached over and tousled his hair, then stood up, facing Becky. She seemed a little calmer now, too. He wanted to tell her he was sorry about last night. That he was sorry about so much. He reached out and touched her arm.

Her gaze followed his hand. She didn’t flinch or move aside. She touched his arm, very lightly with her fingers. Such a little move, almost nothing. But the connection made him feel a hell of a lot better.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, then gave him a small smile. “It’s okay,” she said, very softly, then turned to Witherspoon. “I've got hot coffee in the kitchen.”

Mike was sorry to let her go.

Witherspoon had taken off his parka, revealing a red flannel shirt and a tool belt around his waist. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. He dropped his gloves on top of his coat and headed for the kitchen.

Becky looked at her son. “Go on and finish your breakfast.”

Sam turned and walked toward the kitchen, and they were alone.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she said. “I was thinking about what I said to you, how I've been acting.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong. I was out of line.”

“Wait. Let me finish. After I went to bed, I tried to remember the last time we talked. Really talked. Not about Sam, but about us. What happened to us?”

She studied his face as if she were seeing something different about him. “There was a time we could talk, when there was nothing we couldn’t say to each other. Remember?”

He nodded.

“I don’t think we can ever get that back, but I know we can do a lot better than we have. And we owe it to each other to try.”

“It’s been a long time,” he said. “A lot has happened.” He wanted to tell her he would try. But she’d asked him not to lie. “I'm not that man anymore, Becky. I don’t think I'll ever be that man again.”

“So talk to me about who you are now.”

He shook his head. “Why? We'll be out of here soon. You'll go back to your life, and I'll go back to mine.”

“We're stuck here, at least for a little while. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could get along? Maybe not like we used to, but we could learn to be friends again, couldn’t we?”

“You'll only be disappointed.”

“Let me be the judge of that, okay?”

He reached over and brushed her soft cheek with the back of his hand. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She rewarded him with a smile. “All I'm asking is that we try. Now, go call Cliff. Tonight we'll see if we can remember some of the old words, okay?”

He nodded and let his hand drop. He wanted to say something reassuring. To tell her he still knew how to be her friend. But he wasn’t sure it was true. “You keep Witherspoon in the kitchen. I'll call from here.”

He watched her walk into the kitchen. She wore beige stretch pants that disappeared inside her ankle boots. Her legs were long and slim, and he liked the way the pants hugged her. The sweater was beige, too, and bulky with knitted flowers. She’d put up her hair—a French braid, he thought. He’d watched her do that one night, fascinated by the dexterity of her fingers, and amazed that she could make something so pretty just by touch.

Mike forced himself to forget about her, for now at least. He turned to the telephone and dialed the Denver office of the FBI. The phone rang four times. It took a few minutes for the switchboard operator to locate Cliff. He listened to an old Beatles' song and then a few more rings.

“Mike.” Cliff’s voice was tinny. He was on the cellular phone.

“Tell me something good, Cliff.”

“You were wrong about him. He never showed up at Becky’s.”

Mike swore. “That makes no sense.”

“Ten to one he’s heading for Canada. Damned if I know how, though. We had road blocks up. His picture has been plastered all over the television. Every police agency in three states has been notified. The man has vanished.”

Mike walked around the couch and sat down. “Tell me about the nurse.”

“His hostage.”

“Yeah.”

“She was pretty new at the prison. She got hired about five weeks ago, but she’d worked in prison hospitals before. Single, no kids. Good at her job, from what the doctors say. Not too talkative.”

“They haven’t found her body yet?”

“Nope. He’s still got her.”

“If Mojo still has her, then she’s no hostage. She’s an accomplice. She got him out of there.”

“We already thought of that. We couldn’t...”

The phone line filled with static for a moment, then settled down again.

“...known her.”

“I didn’t catch that.”

“There was no way he could have known her. He’d never been to the infirmary before that night.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s working with him. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Find out what other prisons she’s worked for. I'll bet you Mojo’s path crossed hers somewhere along the road.”

“Nope. We checked that. The only time they've been in the same state was this last year, when he was already in prison. Her record is spotless.”

“Still, she’s not dead.”

“We don’t know that.”

“If he’d killed her, he would have dumped her by the side of the road. He did it with the banker’s family, and he did it in California. Why would he change his MO now?”

“Maybe because the whole world is looking for him.”

Mike could tell Cliff was getting impatient with him. Mike could picture him, fidgeting with his necktie, tugging at his collar. Cliff was only comfortable when he was in sweats and a T-shirt, sitting in front of a football game, drinking a diet soda. He got the “itchies” when he was bored, or when, like now, he felt outfoxed.

Dammit, Mike knew he was right about Mojo. “He used the nurse to get him out of prison. He’s on his way here. I'm not wrong about this.”

“That’s what you said about Becky’s house.”

“So he skipped that step. That doesn’t mean he’s leaving the country.”

“How would he know where you are? No one but me knows about the cabin, and I haven’t talked to the man. Besides, even if he did know where you were, he couldn’t get to you. Not with that storm. According to the weather service, that’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. The only thing you need to worry about is staying warm.”

Mike rubbed his eyes. He suddenly felt bone weary. He wanted to go back to bed and sleep for two or three days. “You're gonna have to believe me on this one, buddy. Forget what you think, what you know. Just trust me. Morris Jones is on his way here. He'll find a way to get through the storm. It’s all he cares about. He’s a smart son of a bitch and he’s made me a promise.”

Cliff didn’t say anything, and all Mike heard was static. When the line cleared, his partner said, “I believe you, Mike. But I don’t know how much good that’s gonna do. I don’t call the shots around here.”