Blind Faith (18 page)

"Thank you." Her words came in a strained whisper as if the torrent of pain had shredded her vocal cords.

"Was it a brain tumor?" he asked, his fingers skimming her scar. "My wife—" He cleared his throat. "She had headaches like yours. Medulloblastoma, nothing helped—"

She tilted her head, looking at him upside down and tried her best to give him a comforting smile. "I'm sorry. Sorry that either of you had to go through that."

"She's gone now." He wasn't looking at her, his gaze raised up, fixed on a spot far past the tree tops. "Been gone awhile now."

He rocked back on his heels, his hands sliding away from her body. Caitlyn missed his soothing touch immediately. She gathered her strength and slowly sat up. Twisting her body, she knelt before him. "Thank you."

His eyes met hers and she was surprised to see him blush. "Sorry. Didn't mean to get so personal." His gaze flicked down her body, to her partially exposed breasts. "Just, that was the only way I could help Lily. Thought it might help you, too."

Caitlyn reached out and took one of his hands. It took both of hers to wrap around his large palm and callused fingers. "It did. You did."

They sat there for a long, sun-drenched minute. She watched as his flush deepened and felt a familiar tingle of heat stir in her pelvis. His eyes were blue, the color of stone-washed denim. A scar crossed through his chin to end in a notch at his lower lip, his nose had been broken at least once, and his jaw was strong, bristled with the faint shadow of a beard already.

She hadn't noticed before how attractive he was—too busy sparring with him, trying to prove herself to him. Now she smiled at him, not breaking the contact, felt his palm grow sweaty in her grasp, his pulse throbbing against her fingertips. His gaze trailed down her face, focusing on her mouth as his own lips parted. He pushed himself to his feet, using his hand in hers to help her up.

She wobbled for a heartbeat, but Hal was there to steady her. Caitlyn felt drained from her battle, yet also energized by his touch, his nearness, the chance for something to happen.

He smiled, slid his hand out from hers. Then he stepped behind her, his fingers skimming over her skin as he reached for her bra and re-fastened it.

"Not here," he said in a voice so low it thrummed through her veins, a whisper of invitation—one that they could both deny and dismiss if need be. His hands lingered before they tugged her blouse shut and began to button it. "Not until you feel up to it, strong enough."

She turned within his embrace, his hands coming to rest on her hips. Raising a fingertip to his lips, she felt a playful grin stretch her face. It felt good. "Don't worry about me, Chief. I'm a fast healer."

"Their" tree was a sprawling sugar maple standing beside the creek in a clearing behind the house. This was where she had taught Sam how to read the night sky, where Sam had debuted his songs, where she had proposed to him and he declined, where Josh had been conceived, where he had proposed to her and she accepted.

Sarah remained hidden in the stand of hemlocks about twenty yards from the maple, watching. She had allowed Alan to feed her, fuss over her and finally bade him an early, strained goodnight. They hadn't spoken much during dinner—well, maybe Alan had, she hadn't paid much attention.

As soon as Alan was gone and she had the house to herself, she'd rushed to the bathroom and examined the mirror. As before, it was empty of any hidden messages from beyond the grave. She'd taken a scalding hot shower, emerged, and it was still empty.

Too empty. Too clean. Where were the dozens of toothpaste splatters speckling the glass? She hadn't cleaned it in over a week. She'd glanced down at her now sparkling clean floor, no remnants of red wine marred its surface after Alan's efforts.

Alan
. She always teased him about his touch of neat freakness. Why would he wipe away the message? Maybe he was trying to protect her from what he thought was a sick joke.

Now, close to the appointed time, Sarah crouched down, peering between the branches that concealed her. Her fingers raked through the fallen needles at her side, twirling them into patterns as she tried to make sense of everything.

Maybe Alan knew Sam was alive?
If
Sam was alive.

She shook her head, frowning. How? Alan hadn't arrived in Hopewell until two weeks after Sam and Josh had disappeared. The two men had never met.

She stared into the star-bright night, her emotions churning. She could have simply gone to the maple, waited there. After all it was her tree, her land, she had every right to be there, message or not. Fear held her back. Fear that Sam was alive—if so, then why had he hidden these past two years? Why had he taken Josh from her? Why hadn't he returned or at least sent word that they were safe?

If Sam was alive, then how could he have abandoned her to the hell she'd lived with?

Even worse—if he was dead, then Josh was as well. And whoever left that note for her did it because they wanted to hurt her, wanted to drive her back to the dark abyss of despair that had almost taken her once.

She crouched in the darkness like a thief in the night, refusing to hope, refusing to believe, refusing to move until she had some answers.

A sharp crack disturbed the night, silencing the frogs and crickets. Another followed. A man's form appeared in the edge of her vision, walking through the grass from the direction of the lane. Clouds scudded past the moon and the man turned, looking over his shoulder, revealing his profile.

Alan. He was answering the message. The message left for her. From Sam.

As if in answer to her prayers, a man's silhouette separated itself from the shadows surrounding the maple. Pine needles speared her palm as her fist tightened. It was Sam.

She almost broke cover, rushed into his arms. But she held back, torn between love and rage. The man she had loved, who had promised to love her for all eternity, could never have done the things Sam had done to her.

If he could betray her, then what had he done with Josh?

Sam strode, reaching Alan in two steps. Even from this distance Sarah could see the angry way his jaw protruded. He'd shaved his head and now had a short goatee, but it was definitely Sam. No one could mimic that stride, the way his hips rolled as if he were wading through shallow water.

Without warning he lashed out with a roundhouse punch. A loud smack sliced through the silence. Alan staggered back, shaking his head, palms up in surrender.

Sam raised his arm, readying another blow.

"I wouldn't, if I were you," Alan said. "Not if you're planning to get out of this alive."

That sounded like a threat to Sarah. A threat between two men who knew each other—but Sam and Alan had never met before. Or had they?

Sam hesitated, lowered his fist. "Where's Sarah? What the hell have you done with her?"

He actually sounded worried. Sarah strained to catch every word, cursing the open space of the meadow and the cheerful night noises of the stream and insects.

"Nothing. Yet." Alan cocked his head. "You've changed, old friend. You look worried, older. These past few years haven't been kind to you, have they?" Nodding scornfully at Sam's faded jeans, flannel shirt worn over a grey T-shirt, he smoothed the cuffs of his own designer suit. "What, no surfer chicks and killer waves waiting for you wherever you ran to?" Alan laughed, a raw sound that sent shivers down Sarah's neck. This wasn't the man she knew. The man who cared about her, who had taken care of her.

Maybe neither of them were.

"You were better off dead, Stan." Moonlight glinted off a metal object in Alan's hand. A gun. Aimed at Sam.

Sarah's heart thundered against her rib cage. Her fists clenched, she watched them walk across the meadow toward the lane. There was no cover, she wouldn't be able to follow. The two men disappeared around the bend, out of sight. Leaving her behind to puzzle out truth and lies.

She swallowed her tears of rage and frustration, almost choking on them. Sam was alive! Was Josh? Where was her son?

As Hal led Caitlyn down the path to his truck, the euphoria of being pain free faded. "Guess I've made a mess of things, haven't I?"

"Not so much. Gerald's got the body locked up tight, the Staties are on their way to take it to be examined properly. Unless you're declaring federal jurisdiction?" He looked at her expectantly.

She slouched down on a bench beside the path. "Any way we can get prints?"

He shook his head with a rueful smile. "No ma'am. No fingers left, just a few bits of bone."

She thought as much. A body in the water for any length of time tended to attract fish. And those soft appendages like the nose, toes, ears, and fingers were usually the first to be nibbled off. She hung her hands between her knees, still feeling a bit clammy. "Then I can't prove it's Leo Richland. Unless we can extract DNA and that will take time."

He sat down beside her, his thigh touching hers. "And again I ask, who is Leo Richland?"

Caitlyn sucked her breath in. The sun had finally set, leaving them in a twilight blue punctuated by the lights of fireflies. A rich aroma of roses, lavender, and rosemary filled the air. It would have been a perfect summer's night except for one thing: as soon as she finished here, she'd have to resign her job.

The first headache last night had been a mere warning shot. Nothing compared to the head-on collision that had bowled her over tonight. There was no way she could carry a gun, do her job.

"Hey, you all right?" Hal took her hand in his. "Maybe I should call an ambulance. Get someone to drive you to the hospital in Albany?"

"No. I know all about doctors and their poking and prodding. I've been through it before and I'm not going to do it again." The knot of tension between her shoulders tightened at the thought of more strangers in white coats telling her there wasn't any hope. That the life she'd dreamed of since she was a little girl was forbidden to her.

"What I need is someone I can trust. In case I can't see this through myself. Someone to nail Logan and his crooked ass to the wall, to find the answers Sarah Durandt begged me for." The words came out in a desperate rush but she felt better once they had been spoken. As if she was taking back control over her life.

Hal sucked in his breath, whistling through his teeth. He squeezed her hand. "All right, then. Why don't you tell me what's really going on?"

And she did. Everything she did know, everything she didn't, everything she suspected but could not prove.

"So you think the Russian, what's his name?"

"Korsakov."

"Korsakov paid your boss, Logan, to send this Richland guy up here to kill Sam—I mean Stan—and frame Damian Wright for it?"

She was silent for a moment. When he said it like that, it sounded preposterous. "Yes. Do you remember who you spoke with when you placed the initial call to the FBI about Wright? Did you find anything in his motel room that made it look like there may have been a break in? Someone could have stolen that camera card, planted it. Did anyone report any strangers besides Wright in the area?"

He held up a hand. "Whoa now. That was almost two years ago. I'll have to dig out the case files."

She stood, wobbled for a moment, then steadied herself with a deep breath. No headache, just a twinge of pressure behind her eyes and a touch of dizziness. "Let's go. We—I—may not have much time."

He stood beside her, one arm wrapping around her waist as she shivered in the night breeze. "You worry me when you talk like that."

Caitlyn turned to him, their faces inches apart and met his gaze head on. "I'm no quitter."

He traced her jaw line with the tip of his finger and nodded gravely. "My wife used to say that." He broke away from her. "She was a stubborn lady, too. You'd have liked her—hated doctors 'bout as much as you do."

Sam had thought getting gut-shot hurt. But that was nothing compared to the anguish he'd suffered tonight, watching through the binoculars as Alan Easton comforted his wife. The way Alan had looked at Sarah, held her hands so tenderly, kissed her good night...

The anger had kept him warm while he waited behind the maple. A breeze rippling down from the mountain cooled the night air but Sam still found himself sweating as he tried to think of what he would say to Sarah, how to explain everything.

How to beg for her forgiveness.

When he heard footsteps approaching, he'd almost vomited, he was that nervous. More so than when he'd proposed to her, almost on this very spot. He rubbed the scar on his right side, the repetitive motion soothing his nerves, and had turned to face his wife.

Only to see Alan Easton approaching instead. Alan wearing a designer suit and a smirk that made Sam's scar burn as anger roiled through him. He didn't think, he couldn't think as he met his old friend. Words failed him, as they seldom did, so he'd used his fist instead.

The bloody lip only made Alan's smirk more infuriating.

He'd forced Sam to go first, directing him across the grass back to the lane and a nondescript gray Volvo wagon.