A Dark Lure (35 page)

The cop had raised
his
baby. And now the cop had brought her back here, to her mother’s arms.

A sickening oiliness slicked through his belly and bowels. Had he been lured here by the cop? Was the Internet adoption site a ruse? Was the cop using Sarah Baker as the lure? Why?

To catch him?

For how long had the cop been playing this game? Since he’d taken in the child?

Gamos
. A lure has to be something important to the prey
. . .

Adrenaline thrummed into his blood. Excitement. Thrill. Finally, a real hunt. A fitting challenge to the very end. All were on stage now. As if by supernatural design, all paths predestined to lead here.

So where was the cop now? Watching? From the shadows?

Awareness crackled through him as he listened for the telling crunch of footfalls in scrub, dead leaves breaking under the snow, the action of a weapon. He could sense an ambush. He swallowed slowly. He had to move now. The snow was getting thicker, closing them in. He must act while it would cover his tracks, and while he could still get out.

He stepped from the shadows and started down the long, narrow dock toward the two of them perched on the end.

It was time.

Time to go home.

As Cole drove the return trip to Broken Bar his mind reeled with the possibility that he had not been responsible for the faulty brakes. Snow was already an inch or two thick on the logging road as he crossed the halfway point between Clinton and Broken Bar Ranch. The wipers battled to carve arcs into the snow accumulating on his windshield. He could feel the tires beginning to slip every now and then.

His mind circled back to the conversation with Forbes in his office, then further back to the fight in the barn with Tucker and Forbes all those years ago.

Tuck and Forbes had driven up from Clinton together to confront Cole over Amelia. The animosity between Cole and Forbes had been thick over the rest of the summer and into winter. They’d had two more physical dustups; the last, right after Christmas, had been particularly violent. Forbes had jumped him, and Tucker had provided backup. That time Cole had broken one of Forbes’s bones. Tucker had lived with his mother and father in one of the ranch houses at the time. He could have gotten into the barn anytime and tampered with the brakes. Cole smacked the Dodge steering wheel with his hand and swore.

He
knew
he couldn’t have screwed up the brakes. He’d been forced to doubt himself. Then to finally believe he’d killed his mother and brother. That some sick twist of fate had saved him while it took them.

Sure, he’d had a few drinks, but at the time he’d felt fine. He wouldn’t have driven his mom and Jimmie if he’d thought he’d had too many. Still . . . while it might explain the brakes, it didn’t excuse him. But it made him ask,
what if.
What if the brakes had been fine?

Can’t prove a thing now
. . .

All these years, and it could have been sabotage? Because of a girl? All that grief, the loss, the guilt, his family dynamics crumbling as a result—Cole’s father sinking into a bitter shell. Cole and Jane becoming who they were now, the ranch business failing.

Anger fisted Cole’s hands around the wheel as he negotiated a curve on a steep decline. Wheels slid sickeningly sideways at the bottom of the turn. His heart faltered. He steered into the slide, tapping brakes, controlling the skid. He brought the truck back in line just before the edge of a ditch.

Focus.

His worry now was that Tucker might be handling not only Clayton Forbes’s questionable investment deals but that he could be involved in scaring Olivia. Who else could it possibly be? If Cole was a betting man, he’d put money on the fact that if things went to shit, Tucker would also take the fall as Forbes’s scapegoat.

This man—these men—were dangerous.

The truck radio segued from a country-and-western tune into a news jingle followed by a weather alert. The first wave of the storm was hitting the plateau. There could be several feet of snow before nightfall. Cole’s tires slid again. If he’d left any later, he’d have been stuck back in Clinton.

The news switched to the Birkenhead murder.

“At a press briefing this morning, police released the identity of the victim, Mary J. Sorenson, aged fifty-three, a resident of Blaine, Washington.” Cole reached over and turned up the volume, his mind going to the image of Mary Sorenson that he’d seen on the television in Forbes’s office.

“We now have additional breaking news to bring you. CBC has learned that Mary’s husband, Algor Sorenson, crossed the US border into Canada alone in the couple’s AdventureCaper camper and trailer at the Peace Arch crossing five days ago using a NEXUS card. The camper is mounted on a gray Ford F-150 pickup truck with a long bed. Police have released their Washington State plate number, and are asking anyone who sees the camper, or Sorenson, to immediately call 911.”

Cole’s mind raced as the anchor read out the plate number.

Sorenson. The name was vaguely familiar. Something about the woman’s image had also seemed familiar. AdventureCaper camper . . . His
heart stopped. He negotiated another bend, his body going hot. What was the name of the guy Olivia had checked in the other day? He’d had an AdventureCaper camper mounted on a gray Ford F-150. Long box. But his truck had BC plates. Cole had a near-total-recall memory for these things—honed from years of journalistic, on-the-spot observation in tense situations. Then it hit him.

The ham radio plate on the back—it had been issued in Washington State.

Snow came down in a heavy curtain, and he was forced to slow as he headed into another bend on the logging road. His heart jackhammered suddenly.

The scarf.

That was what had felt familiar! The scarf around Mary Sorenson’s neck in that photo taken in Arizona looked identical to the one he’d seen in Olivia’s cabin last night. It was the scarf she said had been dropped on her tracks by someone she’d thought was following her. The scarf of a slaughtered woman. A woman whose body had been displayed with similar signature mutilation to the Watt Lake victims.

All of a sudden there was nothing that felt innocent or coincidental about the newspaper with her name on it, the lure inside, the berries. The scarf. The scrawl on her bedsheets. Nothing.

He reached for his phone in his pocket, hit 911. He could recall the number on the ham operator’s plate. If the cops had that, they could look it up, see if the amateur radio operator’s license was registered to the Sorensons from Blaine, Washington.

But he had no bars, no reception. He cursed. He was already out of Clinton cell-tower range. He was over halfway to Broken Bar. Going back to town would take too long, and he might not even make it in this storm now. He hit the gas. He had to reach Olivia, stat.

He drove fast along the dangerous logging roads, snow coming down heavily, the dead pines spearing like ugly, blackened skeletons into the mist.

“Why did your father bring you to Broken Bar? Why
now
?” Olivia demanded, her voice coming out low, urgent, as she thought of the recent murder, the fact Burton had left her the newspaper, the lure. Trickier, more painful and poignant emotions surged under her sense of biting urgency. Her child. Her baby girl. Right here in front of her. After all these years. It all felt as fragile as delicate glass.

“Why did he bring you fishing, Tori?”

“He’s dying,” Tori said quietly. Snowflakes melted on her hair, face, lashes. “He’s got a brain tumor, melanoma. He . . . he said we had to come here and finish something. He told me they can operate and fix him . . . but I don’t believe it now.”

A creak and sudden motion of the dock made them both look up.

Approaching them was a black figure materializing through the gauzy gray snow and mist.

His face was obscured beneath a ball cap, his jacket hunched up around his neck, his hands deep in his pockets. He blocked their escape route off the narrow dock. Irrational panic, claustrophobia whipped through Olivia.

Then came relief as she recognized the man. Algor Sorenson from the campsite.

She got to her feet. Flustered, she pushed wet hair back from her face. “I thought you’d left,” she called out to him. “There was no one at the site when I went round.”

“Olivia, hi,” the man said as he neared. “I’ve been looking for you. You have a German shepherd, right?”

Ice dropped like a stone through her stomach. “Yes. Why?”

“Is he missing?”

“I . . .
why?”

“My wife and I saw one chasing something along the trail into the marshland. We heard a yelp, and then crying.”

Ace.

Where was Ace?

CHAPTER 22

“Where exactly did you see him last?” Olivia demanded, adrenaline stampeding through her. She’d left Ace outside her cabin, snuffling about in the willow scrub along the shore. Ordinarily Ace wouldn’t wander far. He’d be waiting on her deck, on his raised bed outside the door.

“My wife and I were hiking through the otter marsh—a last walk before we headed out. We’re all packed.” He dug his hands deeper into his pockets, looked up at the sky. “It’s really coming down now.”

“Where?!” she demanded.

“Near the marsh trailhead. We heard excited barking. Then we saw what looked like a German shepherd chasing after something. Then a cry. Whining. I think he might have gone over the bank somewhere on the east side. We went in a little way, but couldn’t see. We need to leave now, but I wanted to find you and let you know.”

Shit.
Ace’s eyesight. She’d been worried about something like this.

“Will you show me?”

“We’re worried about getting out now before it’s too thick and—”

“Please.”

He looked conflicted.

“Tori,” she said quickly, putting her arm around the child’s shoulders. “Where is your father now?”

“In the cabin. I left him sleeping.”

“Okay, you’re coming to the lodge with me. I’m going to leave you there with Myron while I go find Ace. Okay?”

“I want to help,” she said, gripping Olivia’s arm, a desperation swelling into her green eyes. Her eyes. Her child. Olivia’s throat closed in on itself. She looked deep into Tori’s eyes.

“No. I want you with Myron. Algor can help me.” She glanced up at the tall man, his ball cap shading his eyes, snow settling along the bill. “You show me where Ace is,” she said. “You can wait for just a few minutes before driving out. It’ll be fine.”

He glanced up at the sky again, then at the deck with the settling snow.

“Please,”
she said. “If you could just point the way. I’ll only be a minute. I need to get Tori to the lodge.”

“Sure. Okay. I’m parked around the trees, all set to leave. I’ll let my wife know.” He glanced at Tori. “I’ll wait at the trailhead for you.”

Myron pulled the piece of paper closer to him and tried to put his pen to it. He was attempting to write to Cole, to say good-bye. To say he was sorry for never stopping trying to punish his boy. To say he loved him, and that he forgave him. But he doubled over in excruciating pain, sweat thick on his brow in spite of the cold snow and wind coming in through the wide-open window.

Shivering, he dropped the pen and grasped for his pills. It was time. He had to do it now before they took him into a hospital, before he became incapacitated and they hooked him up to machines, and he’d be unable to say he forgave his son. If he took some pills first, he might stop shaking long enough to write his note. He’d opened the window in an effort to let Grace in. He ached to feel her presence on the cold wind. He wanted to feel her arms calling out to him.

“Myron!”

Shock, confusion raced through him. He glanced up. It was Olivia. With the Burton child. Both wet. Standing in the doorway to the library.

“Myron—what’s going on?” She rushed over to him.

“Are you okay?” Her hands were on him, helping him. “You want medication?”

He nodded.

She opened the bottle, tapped two pills into her palm, put them in his mouth, and brought a glass of water to his lips. He swallowed. “Another . . . two . . . please.”

She hesitated, looking deep into his eyes. Then she tapped out another two and helped him drink them down.

“Tori,” she said briskly. “Can you shut that window?” She crouched down, hands on his knees. The beautiful Olivia he’d come to love. He wanted to touch her face. Couldn’t move from pain.

“I
need
you, Myron. I need your help. Can you help me?”

Something in her features pulled him into sharper focus. He slid his gaze to the girl. She stood by the window. Shivering. White-faced. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

He nodded. He could feel the painkillers kicking in. Maybe this time they’d just touch sides. Maybe he could hold on.

“Listen to me—I need to go find Ace. Before the snow gets too thick. I think he’s gone down a bank and can’t get back up somewhere along the marsh trail. I want you to watch Tori for me. Just be with her.”

She shot a glance at the child, then back to Myron. Clearly she was worried about what he’d been trying to do with the pills.

“She’s got something I want you to read, Myron. Something important. Please, read it if you can. And just be here with her. Do not leave her—do not let anyone into the house, understand?” She hesitated. “Not even her father.”

“What’s going on, Olivia? What’s wrong with Burton?”

“He’s not well. Please, I’ve got to go. Just keep the doors locked. Keep her safe. And you stick around until I get back, you hear me? We’ll talk later.”

And she was gone, just him and the dark-haired girl staring at him. Alone in the house.

“You okay?” he said.

She didn’t reply.

“What have you got for me to read?”

“He’s not my father.”

“Who’s not? Burton?”

“My father is the Watt Lake Killer.”

Myron’s jaw dropped. He gathered himself. “What makes you say that?”

She held out a pink thing.

“What’s that?”

“E-reader.”

Olivia galloped on Spirit to the marsh trailhead. No one was there.

“Algor!” she called out into the snow, her mare stomping as she reined her in.

Not a sound. She saw boot tracks leading into the trail. They were quickly becoming obscured by snow.

“Ace!” she yelled, following the tracks into the marsh. She whistled, then called again. “Ace! Where are you, boy?” She kept her eyes trained on the tracks, going deeper and deeper into the narrowing, twisting trail through tall moss-draped trees. The ground was marshy here. A beaver had dammed the stream. There was lots of deadfall.

“Over here!” She heard his voice suddenly. “He’s this way!”

She stopped, listened as she tried to ascertain which direction the voice had come from. Mist and snow swirled. Spirit snorted softly, edgy beneath her.

“This way!” She heard Algor’s voice again. “I found him! He’s over here! Down the bank! Not moving.”

Panic, the worst kind of fear, speared through her. Olivia kicked Spirit forward into a trot, bending her head to avoid branches drooping low with snow. The trail widened a little, and she kicked up speed, going too fast for conditions, driven by a sheer desperation at the thought of losing her Ace. It hit like a bolt.

Across her neck.

Rope.

Olivia gasped as she was flung backward off her horse.

She landed with a hard thud on her back, so hard she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Pain and white pinpricks of light sparked through her brain, blackness swirling at the edges of her consciousness. Spirit fled through the trees.

It took a few moments before Olivia could wheeze in a breath. Her ribs felt like they might be broken.

Trying to understand what had just happened, she struggled to reach her arm over her body and to roll onto her side. She managed to edge onto her stomach, push herself up onto her hands and knees. Spirit had spooked off down the trail. All was silent around her.

She got onto one knee and reached for a branch to pull herself up when something cracked up the side of her head, so hard, with so much force she felt her ear rip from her skull. The blow reverberated through her nasal passages, her brain, sending a bitter taste of bile into her throat. Confusion swamped her. Hot wetness gushed down her neck. Pain was blinding. Dazedly, she put her hand to her ear. It was partly torn from the side of her head. Weakness buckled her knees. She fell forward, into the red blood pouring from her ear into the snow. She grasped out with her hand, tried to crawl, to pull herself forward.

But someone clutched a handful of her hair and pulled her by the hair to her knees. She screamed in pain, roots tearing from her scalp. Another blow cut across her face, crunching her nose. She gagged, spat out a glob of blood and spittle. Her assailant tossed her backward, onto her back.

A shadow loomed over her. Blurry.

Him.

Algor.

She reached up, tried to mouth the word
help
.

But he crouched down and pressed a gloved hand hard over her mouth. She choked, blood going down the back of her nose. She shook her head wildly, flailing with her arms, desperate for breath. He brought his face lower. Close. She stilled. His breath was hot on her face. She looked into his eyes, right into his eyes. They were no longer blue. They were the pale yellow eyes of a mountain cat. A hunter. A carnivore.

“Did you miss me, Sarah?”
he whispered into her bloody ear, before raising his hand and delivering another blow to the side of her head. Her vision faded to black.

Cole drove under the wooden arch with the bleached bull moose antlers into the ranch. Heavily falling snow obliterated the view toward the lodge. Within the next twenty minutes or so, the roads would be impassable via ordinary vehicle.

As he approached the lodge, a horse came barreling out of the mist and across the road. Cole slammed on brakes, his heart speeding. Quickly he wound down his window.
Olivia’s horse?
Saddled and riderless. It galloped up the ridge and disappeared into the shroud of snow and cloud along the crest.

Cole hit the accelerator and raced down the track to the lodge. He saw Olivia’s truck parked near the trail through the alders that led to her cabin. A blue tarp covered the back. He hit the brakes, flung open the door, and raced over to her vehicle. He cast back a corner of the tarp. The bed of the truck was packed with her bags and other gear.

She was leaving.

What about the horse?

He ran down the path to her cabin. Her door was unlocked, her cabin empty.

Closets empty.

He spun around, saw a note tucked under a cactus pot. He grabbed it.

. . . Thank you for everything. Thank you for showing me that I was enough. You gave me back a piece of myself, and I will take that with me wherever I go now. With all my heart I wish you well with Broken Bar. Look after it for me . . .

He swore. She
was
leaving. But her truck was still here, her riderless horse fleeing in fright. Something had happened.

He raced back to the Dodge, drove over snow-covered grass, and skidded to a stop right outside the lodge front entrance. He flung open his truck door, took two stairs apiece up onto the porch, and tried to open the door.

Locked.

Cole peered through the side window.

Dark inside.

He banged loudly on the door with the base of his fist. “Hello! Open up! It’s Cole!” Nothing. Dry grasses from the harvest wreath on the deck behind him rustled and whispered in the breeze.

He banged again, harder, louder, another kind of fear biting, eating into his panic.
Was his father all right?

“It’s me, Cole! Open up!”

The sound of the dead bolt drawing back stopped him. The door edged open. He looked down. Through the crack, the dark-haired Burton kid peered up at him. She looked . . . wrong.