Up in Flames (18 page)

Outside, the clouds had opened, bringing an early dusk. Sophie grumbled about reclusive perverts and drove slowly, peering into sheeting rain that fell from dark clouds hanging lower than the tallest peaks. Headlights were of marginal help. Blackstone was more than a thousand feet lower than Barringer’s Pass in elevation, and the route home snaked up mountainsides that rose steeply on one side of the road and dropped into treetops and empty space on the other. Gorgeous on sunny days; treacherous this evening.

Few cars were on the road, and the one behind her didn’t seem to mind her slow pace, its headlights hanging well back during the long drive. It wasn’t until they neared Barringer’s Pass, with the rain letting up, that it made a move to pass. She slowed as he came beside her, allowing the driver to get around her faster on the two-lane highway. He went by in a rush of black car and road spray, swinging back into her lane in front of her.

A second later he hit the brakes.

Glowing red taillights fishtailed in front of her. Sophie’s heart leapt into her throat as the lights appeared to race at her like red eyes coming out of the misty gloom.

She reacted without thinking, stomping on her brakes. She watched, wide-eyed and helpless, as both cars skidded on the slick pavement, antilock brakes unable to find purchase.

Split-second images flashed through her mind—water spraying in wild arcs from his tires, the shine of black metal in her headlights. And the accompanying sounds—the squeal of brakes; the crunch of gravel on the narrow shoulder; her small, startled cry as she lost control.

The sliding ended with a sickening plunge. Her Jeep did a nosedive down the weedy embankment, the headlights bouncing up and down in a mad light display. Weeds were a brilliant green flash, pine branches black and wet, slapping at the Jeep as it skidded past. Her foot was frozen ineffectively on the brake, holding it to the floor as she bumped down the slope for three or four terrifying seconds. With a jolt that flung her against her shoulder harness, the Jeep rocked to an abrupt stop.

She clutched the steering wheel, staring out the windshield.

Through some miracle, the Jeep was upright, nestled beneath the partially bare branches of a stunted pine. More dark green boughs glistened in the headlights, with what appeared to be open meadow beyond. The high mountain valley that sheltered Barringer’s Pass had saved her from what would have been a deadly drop over a cliff just a couple of miles farther back.

It must have been an elk.
The incongruous thought popped into her stunned brain like the answer to a question. An elk had probably crossed in front of the black car, not an uncommon event on this highway, causing him to brake while he was still too close to her. As if it mattered, some part of her mind felt at ease, having solved the problem of how she’d gotten there. Her most insignificant problem, at the moment, since the Jeep obviously wasn’t going back up that slope under its own power.

Her thundering heart settled into a slightly more subdued pounding and she became aware of the steady patter of rain on the canvas roof, punctuated by occasional fat drips from the tree. She was alive and uninjured, and hopefully not the only one. Where was the black car?

Night was falling fast, and in the rainy dusk around her she saw only trees and weeds. She’d never find him without a flashlight. Unlocking the seat belt, she reached for the glove box, then drew in a sharp breath and stopped. Her entire rib cage ached from her impact with the belt, enough to make her wonder if any ribs were broken. More carefully this time, she leaned across the car and opened the glove box, finding the flashlight by touch.

Flicking it on, she stepped from the Jeep. A light, cold rain greeted her, raising goose bumps on the skin beneath her blouse. She shined the light around, illuminating scattered small trees and weeds. No car. She pointed it uphill. Unless the car had left the scene, it must still be up there, which boded well for its driver. And for her—he could give her a ride to town, or offer shelter until a tow truck came.

With the flashlight in one hand, she used the other to half-crawl, half-pull herself up the embankment, her flat loafers providing little traction. Hiking boots would have been better, but she’d thought dressing in something nicer than blue jeans would make a better impression for a government researcher who was visiting an expert in her field. As it turned out, an extra order of fries would have been more effective.

The climb up took a lot longer than the trip down, but a minute later she stood on the gravel shoulder, staring with relief into the car’s headlights, and the backlit figure of a man.

He must have turned the car around, aiming its lights at the point where her Jeep had gone over the edge. Looking for her. Raising one hand against the glare, she waved the other like a semaphore to get his attention. “Hello!” she called. “I’m all right. Are you?”

He didn’t answer. He raised one arm, pointing yet another light in her eyes. She stepped aside, out of the direct beam of the headlights, but still in the persistent beam of his flashlight. “Could you point your light to the side?” she asked, taking a few hesitant steps toward him.

He didn’t lower the light and didn’t answer as he walked toward her. She stopped, squinting hard against the piercing pain in her eyes. In annoyance, she pointed her own light at him; let the guy see for himself how blinding it was.

He ducked his head slightly, letting the light hit the bill of a ball cap. Beneath it, his face was shadowed even in the direct beam of light, giving him the appearance of a headless torso walking toward her. She squinted harder, playing the light over his face. No, not shadowed. Covered. The man’s face was hidden behind a ski mask.

Startled, her hands wavered and the beam of light fell away, flashing on something in front of him. Forcing herself to find a steady aim, she centered the beam on him, and on whatever had caught the light.

It flashed again. A knife.

Instinct kicked in fast. She flicked the flashlight off, hoping to blend into the night. Momentarily blind from the glare of lights in her eyes, she made a mad stumble toward the embankment, dropping and sliding recklessly down the slope she’d just climbed. It was a jittery descent, her body shaking from the wild pounding of her heart and the lightning strike of fear that had sizzled through her nerves.

She grasped at anything to keep from rolling downhill. Wet weeds flattened into a slick surface beneath her, while rocks and brush snagged her clothes and scraped her palms. She hit flat ground just as a light swept over her from above. It swung past, then found her, bobbing as the man holding it ran along the embankment above. In a new spurt of terror, she darted for the trees.

His footsteps crunched on gravel, then slid, following her descent at the same rash speed she’d used. She didn’t pause to see which way he would go first. She ran.

Her hands were a shield against branches that would have whipped her face, and her feet slid on wet weeds. With no city lights, moon, or stars, she could barely see six feet in front of her. The flashlight would have helped, but would have been as good as GPS, pinpointing her position. She couldn’t risk it.

But she could phone for help. Cell reception around Barringer’s Pass was excellent, with cell towers bristling from slopes on each side of the valley. She reached for the phone in her back pocket as she ran.

It wasn’t there. There wasn’t even a pocket, not in the nice slacks she’d worn for Artie. She hadn’t been able to follow her habitual practice of slipping her cell phone into her back pocket as she did when wearing jeans. A memory flashed, clear and depressing, of dropping the phone into the cup holder in the Jeep’s console.

Her second of hope crumpled like tissue paper and a fresh spurt of panic kicked in. With no goal but putting distance between herself and the man with the knife, she crashed wildly through the undergrowth, making for the fringe of forest ahead.

Amazingly, he seemed to fall behind. She dared a few glances over her shoulder at the searching beam of light, and was surprised to see him stop. Hope sparked briefly; maybe he wasn’t up for a nighttime chase through the woods. He probably hadn’t counted on her running after the accident. The woods and the rain might have saved her.

But his searching light steadied, aimed directly at her, and she realized he’d been listening for her noisy progress as she wove a zigzag path through the trees. Zeroing in on her, the light began bobbing as he jogged forward with renewed purpose.

Choking back a sob, she ran.

12

T
rees grew thickly
here, but lower branches had died away from lack of light. Sophie could see several hundred feet through the darkened forest. The man’s flashlight was aimed at the ground, allowing him to keep a sure, steady pace. No panicked run or wild dodging for him. He followed her zigzag course precisely, following the light indentations her feet left in the bed of soggy pine needles.

There was no way to prevent leaving a trail. He would follow until exhaustion slowed her, or a twisted ankle pulled her up short. Then he would have her.

Who he was and why he was after her might have been a question to ponder if she had the luxury of a spare minute to think. All she knew was that the answer involved a shiny knife. That was enough.

She stuffed a hand into her mouth, muffling the whimper that tried to escape. Her only chance was to find help before he caught her. A house, a gas station, a tourist lodge—anything. Any were possible this close to town, but her bearings were off, and landmarks were hidden by the night and the crowding trees. She staggered on blindly.

The trees were unending. Wind shivered the wet aspen leaves, raining fresh showers on her head. Exertion warmed her, along with the adrenaline-charged energy of pure fear. Her breaths came in coarse gasps, becoming the only sound in her world, a painful, monotonous rhythm, until the sudden harsh cry of a mountain lion slashed through the night, causing her to falter, then stand trembling as the call died away. Goose bumps crawled over her skin as a second cry tore the air, loud and defiant. She guessed the cat was no more than a mile away.

It was a bad night to be prey.

Zane spotted the package on his front porch as soon as he parked the truck. Bypassing the side door, he walked around to the front and picked it up. The UPS shipping label was addressed to him, with the return address of a large web-based store.

He hadn’t ordered anything. He drew his brows together, looking for another clue and not finding one. It was lightweight, but something slid against the sides when he tipped it. Most people would probably assume it was a gift and open it, but that required a degree of trust he’d never acquired. He’d never learned to be like most people.

Pulling a utility knife from his back pocket, he slit the tape and opened the flaps. Puzzled, he lifted out the paperback copy of Hemingway’s
A Farewell to Arms
. There was nothing else in the box but a packing slip. He unfolded it, and read Emmett’s name listed as the sender, with a B-Pass post office box address. Cold slithered through his veins and curled into his stomach. Sinking to the porch steps, he stared at the book, knowing what it meant.

Zane had once owned a copy of the book. He clearly remembered the day Emmett had asked if any of those high-class authors he read had ever written a story about a romantic relationship that a man might read. It had taken him by surprise, enough that he was able to give clear testimony about it fourteen months later when the book was introduced as evidence in Emmett’s rape trial.

Zane’s book had been one of the props Emmett had used to convince the shy and pretty Tiffany Cezerki that he was something he wasn’t. That he was interested in classic literature, when his real interest was the feeling of power he got from seducing the most proper and innocent schoolgirls he could find. It was fifteen-year-old Tiffany’s bad luck that she thought highly enough of her virginity to resist him, and ended up being brutally raped for her efforts. Zane’s copy of
A Farewell to Arms
, creased and bearing a smudge of Tiffany’s blood, had been exhibit number twelve.

Zane felt as if someone had doused him with ice water. With shaking hands, he set the book aside. It felt suddenly unclean, like holding something rotten and stinking in his hand. Like holding a piece of Emmett’s soul.

Rape. That was the message. And it took no effort to figure out who Emmett was thinking about.

He must have ordered the book several days ago. Zane breathed a sigh of relief that he’d driven Sophie away. He only hoped she was pissed off enough to
stay
away.

The smell came to Sophie first, faint on the heavy night air. Wood smoke.

A campfire, on a stormy night? More likely a woodstove, more for atmosphere than warmth. In a house. With a phone.

She spent several precious seconds darting in different directions, casting for the scent like an animal until it grew stronger. She followed it to the base of a steep hill and never paused, grasping at trees and brush as she scrambled up. Below, too close for comfort, tree branches shook as something moved through them. Man or cougar—it didn’t matter which. Not climbing meant certain death.

It was asking a lot of tired muscles. Her legs shook and her side ached as she felt for grips and solid footing. At last her searching fingers found a small tree trunk above her head—the top of the cliff. Curling scraped fingers around the slender trunk, she hoisted herself the last few feet to the top of the ridge, landing on her knees.

Raising her head, she nearly collapsed at the unexpected sight. Not a house. Not a campfire. Glowing through the trees, the impressive bulk of the three-story Greystone Lodge blazed with lights both inside and out. Chimneys streamed smoke into the night sky, no doubt from cheerful fires in the lobby and other public gathering areas. She shook as she staggered to her feet. Fires, people, and phones. Sobbing with relief, she summoned her last shred of energy and stumbled toward them.

She didn’t have to tell them to call the police. One look at the breathless, bedraggled woman who staggered through their front door was enough to make the desk clerk grab the phone.

A vacationing family, the concierge, and the hotel manager all fussed over her, leading her to a chair, offering water, and applying wet washcloths to scrapes on her face and hands. The female guest had tears in her eyes as she stood by with a second glass of water, watching the concierge fuss over Sophie’s scratches. Sophie figured she must look like hell.

They assumed she’d gotten lost, then caught in the storm. She let them. Her sister Zoe had been an assistant manager at one of the high-class resorts in B-Pass, and Sophie knew better than to alarm the guests unnecessarily. The man with the knife wouldn’t follow her here. He wanted her alone, and had gone to some lengths to arrange it. He would wait for another opportunity.

But she did tell the cops when they came. The manager listened, too, standing nervously in the corner of his office as she sat in his desk chair relating a detailed account of the accident and the man with the ski mask and knife. When she finished, the manager slipped out for a talk with his chief of security. One of the police officers left, too, a young woman who was already talking into her radio as she went through the door, requesting another unit to check for Sophie’s Jeep and the man’s car.

Her partner stayed. He rested one hand on his belt near the butt of his gun, regarding her with a closed expression, the same kind Cal got when he was in cop mode, mentally piecing together random bits of evidence. “You’re the one who found that woman’s body, aren’t you?”

She nodded, wondering how long she’d be known for that.

“Is there any reason to think this might be related to that?” he asked.

“You mean does someone want to shut me up before I say something incriminating? No. I don’t know any more than anyone else.”

“Maybe you saw something you shouldn’t have.”

“I saw the same thing as everyone else—a dead body I wish I hadn’t seen.”

“I meant something else that might be connected to the murder. Something that might have happened while you were at work, or something you overheard.”

Something Zane did or said. That was what he meant, and she resented the quickness with which he turned Zane into the chief suspect. She gave him her own closed look. “No, there was nothing. This has to be unrelated.”

“You think you were a random victim of an opportunistic predator?”

Dismay made her shrink back in the chair. Yes, that’s what she wanted to think. It wasn’t as if those things didn’t happen; they were on TV all the time.

His cynical look told her how much credence he gave that theory. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe it had to do with my trip to Blackstone, although I don’t see how that would affect anyone but the guy I went to see, and he wasn’t the man who chased me.”

“What guy?” He stood up straighter, pulling out a notepad and pen. “And how do you know he wasn’t the man who chased you? It was night, and you said he wore a ski mask.”

“I could tell it wasn’t him by his build. The spider guy was barely more than a kid, and skinny. This guy had more bulk, more muscle.”

“Like Zane Thorson?”

She narrowed her eyes. “No.”

He made a note, completely unmoved by her attitude. “Who’s the spider guy?”

She sighed. “Artie somebody. I went to see him because he breeds and sells exotic insects. It relates to the evidence found on the body—I was called in as an expert to identify insect parts. Ask Cal Drummond. But I didn’t get the information I wanted. I didn’t get anything.”

“Maybe someone thinks you did.”

She frowned, because it could be true. Artie’s customer in B-Pass was quite possibly a murderer, and would have every reason to keep his insect hobby secret. “Maybe,” she agreed.

The cop was quiet, using his tongue to poke at his teeth as he thought, as if trying to dislodge bits of food. The 911 call had probably come during his supper, but it had to be more than an interrupted meal that put the tight lines around his mouth. She had the impression that she had added an unwelcome wrinkle to the case. “You’re related to Cal Drummond, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, he’s my brother-in-law.”

“You’re the bug doctor.”

She bit her lip, refraining from telling him she had a Ph.D. in entomology, not a license to practice medicine on bugs. If she didn’t want to be taken for a snob, she had to stop acting like one. “That’s me.”

He nodded. “Well, you’re free to go. You want me to call Cal, have him pick you up?”

“No!” God, that would set him off again about Zane and she’d never hear the end of it. The cop raised his eyebrows at her look of alarm, and she made herself calm down. “There’s no need to bother him. I’m fine, and I’d rather wait until I clean up before I frighten my family with my story. My sister would just be upset if she saw me like this.”

That was a laugh. She’d be livid. Like Cal, there was no way Maggie wouldn’t connect this threat on her life to Zane Thorson, regardless of the lack of evidence, and regardless of Sophie’s own instincts that told her Zane would never commit violence against a woman. Not after what he remembered of his mother, and what he’d seen of his dad’s girlfriends. But to Maggie that was wishful thinking, and dangerously irresponsible. Sophie was tired of everyone doubting her when none of them even knew Zane. He might be an SOB, but he wasn’t a killer.

“Is there someone else you’d like me to call?”

Not Zoe. She was on the same page as Maggie when it came to Zane and violence against women—convict first, ask questions later.

She couldn’t call anyone at the commune, either. If they found out about tonight’s chase through the woods they’d never let her leave the security of their remote mountain home. She didn’t need a dozen parents on her case.

“Can
you
take me home?” she asked, pleading with raised eyebrows.

Sympathy softened the lines around his mouth. “Sure. You just sit tight. I have to help Officer Buckholtz check out the grounds and the base of that cliff first, before we get more rain and lose any possible footprints.” He lifted his radio on his way out, then turned at the door. “I’ll send someone in here to make sure you have whatever you need.”

“Thanks.” What she needed was a shower and some dry clothes. And after that, her own bed. What she didn’t need was to wait around an hour or so, answering questions and getting sidelong looks from curious hotel employees while waiting for someone to drive her home.

Time crawled. If the cops were searching for footprints below that wet slope, it could take forever, or at least longer than she wanted to wait. The scratches on her hands stung, and the maid’s uniform they gave her in place of her wet, dirty clothes made her feel even more out of place and uncomfortable.