Hunted (17 page)

She didn’t even know if she and Mike had made up. They were still divorced of course, but were they back together? Did she want to be?

Loving him was a given. It was no use even pretending that she didn’t care about him. But that didn’t necessarily mean he was right for her.

It was this place. This crazy snowed-in isolation made it all so hard. Would things make sense back at the house? How would it feel when Mike went to work, and there was a damn good chance he wouldn’t come home? It had taken her so long to stop worrying about him. Did she honestly want to go through that again?

She put down the comb and focused again on her image. Would being without him be worse than her fear? Could she give him up, after all they’d been through? The woman in the mirror had no answers.

She got busy braiding her hair, forcing the troubling thoughts from her mind. There was no way she could make that kind of a decision right now. So she might as well stop trying.

When she opened the door, the first thing she saw was the rifle.

Everything stopped but the furious beating of her heart. “What’s wrong?”

Mike looked at her with pain-filled eyes. “The phone is dead. I think he’s here.”

She felt dizzy, and grabbed on to the door for support. Mike was at her side instantly. He moved to hold her, but she waved him away. “I'm okay. Where’s Sam?”

“Upstairs, asleep. I checked on him already.”

“We've got to get him out of here.”

Mike shook his head. “The storm is worse. A lot worse. We're safer inside.”

She looked at him as she sat down on the bed. “Are you sure about this? That he’s here, I mean?”

“No. The weather could have knocked out the phone.”

“But the weather...how could he—”

“I don’t know. But my gut tells me we’d better be prepared for anything.”

She was trembling. It hadn’t been real before. Not like this. It had been words and phone calls, and now it was life and death. She’d told him just last night that she believed in him. That she knew beyond reason that they would be all right. Dammit, she still did. “What do you want me to do?”

“Get dressed.” He walked to the other side of the bed and got his pistol from the night stand. He checked the clip and the safety and put it back in the holster. “Wear something with pockets. If you don’t have anything, take one of my shirts. You'll need room for the ammunition.”

Becky stared at the gun, wondering if this time she would be forced to use it. “I'll need a shirt.”

While she picked up her clothes from last night, she heard him unzip his duffel bag. When she turned to him, he was holding one of his favorite red flannel shirts. He handed it to her.

She brought it to her face and sniffed. His scent was in the material, just like with his clothes at home. It would make her feel safer, like being wrapped in his arms.

“It’s clean,” he said.

She smiled. “I know.” Then she raised herself up on her toes and kissed his lips.

His arm went around her waist, and the kiss deepened. She tasted his desire as well as his fear. But when he pulled away, all she saw was his love.

“Go on, get dressed. Wake Sam up, and get him dressed, too. I've put up coffee, and we all need to eat.”

She touched his cheek, and he closed his eyes and rested upon her hand. Only for a moment, though.

Turning away, she sent up a silent prayer.
Keep him safe, Lord. Please.
She picked up the holster and gun.

“After breakfast, I want you to get the closet ready for Sam.”

Her stomach jumped at that. Sam. Oh, God. “I want to stay with him, Mike. As much as I possibly can.”

After he pulled his sweatshirt off, he nodded.

“Why are you undressing?”

“I need pockets, too. Now, go on. Hurry.”

She looked at him for one last moment. At the streamlined body that she had just begun to know. At the man she’d never stopped loving. Later, she would tell him. When this was over, she would confess that through it all, even the worst of times, he’d had her heart. Now though, she had a job to do.

* * *

“Wake up, honey.” Becky touched Sam’s shoulder.

He jerked a little, then his eyes opened. “Okay,” he said. Then he turned to his side, and went right back to sleep.

“Sam. You need to get up now. Come on.”

He groaned, then threw his arms out in an enormous stretch. “Is breakfast ready?”

“Soon,” she said.

He was so beautiful. So young and innocent. She would give anything to keep him safe, promise anything to shield him from the fear. “You go wash up, okay?”

He didn’t even look at her. It wasn’t a slight. He just took her for granted, which was as it should be. She should be here for him, always. Ready to guide him where she could, help him prepare for the rest of his life. Nowhere in her plans was saving him from a lunatic.

When he went off to the bathroom, she hurriedly dressed. She chose her jeans, remembering what Mike had said about pockets. His shirt was way too big, but when she rolled up the sleeves, she found it very comfortable. Instead of her heavy boots, she put on her running shoes. As long as they were going to stay in the house, she wanted to be able to move fast. Then she put on the shoulder holster and made the adjustments so it would fit properly.

Sam’s clothes were just as simple to pick out. Heavy jeans, a T-shirt, covered by another flannel shirt. The three of them were going to look like the lumberjack triplets.

“How come you have the gun?”

She hadn’t heard Sam come back into the room. She turned to find him at the door, staring at the holster strapped to her chest. The pistol seemed out of place on the pale yellow quilt.

“We have to be really careful today, Sam.” She walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his slight shoulders.

His response was quick and urgent. He grabbed her around the waist as tightly as he could.

“If Daddy or I tell you to hide, you know what to do, right?”

She felt his nod on her stomach.

“After breakfast, we're going set up your closet. We'll make it a fort. We'll put in some sandwiches and fruit.” She bent so she could see his face. “And all the rest of the cookies.”

He smiled for her, a pathetic, scared little grin just for her benefit.

She could be brave for him, too. “So what you do want for breakfast? Pancakes? Eggs? Pot roast?”

“Pot roast?”

She smiled wide as he stepped out of her arms. “Turtle soup?”

He made a face. “Ugh. I want pancakes.”

“Chicken.”

“No,
pancakes.
“

She laughed and tousled his hair. “I love you, kiddo.”

He reached over and took her hand in his. They looked at each other for a long moment, and she was incredibly aware of the bond between them. Nothing could destroy that; it was bigger than life itself.

“Get dressed now. Don’t dawdle.”

He nodded and let her go and she sat on her bed. When she looked up again she saw that Sam was staring at her. He’d probably guessed that she had slept downstairs. But she didn’t want to explain about that now. What would she say, anyway? “You're not dressing.”

While he pulled his pajama top over his head, she headed downstairs.

* * *

Mike’s rifle was on the kitchen counter, in front of the toaster. He was pouring milk into his coffee. He’d changed into a looser pair of jeans and a blue checked flannel shirt. Even from the door, she could see the bulges in his pockets from the heavy cartridges.

He looked up as she walked toward him. “Did you tell him?”

She nodded. “He’s trying to be so brave. Mike, are you sure Mojo is out there? I mean, shouldn’t we be positive before we put Sam through all this?”

“If we wait, it'll be too late.”

She’d known his answer even before she asked the question. Of course they couldn’t risk it. “I'm going to fix him pancakes,” she said. “Would you get the food ready for the closet, please?”

Mike hesitated as if he wanted to reassure her in some way. He didn’t, though. He just nodded, and went to the refrigerator.

She found a big bowl and the prepackaged mix. All she had to do was add water. Her hands shook as she turned on the tap. She dropped the measuring cup in the sink. It didn’t break.

She was about to, though.

She bent her head, and put her hands over her face. It wasn’t that she wanted to cry—she just wanted to wake up. She wanted to be standing in her own kitchen. She wanted to tell Sam not to run down the stairs, and ask him if he had his homework ready for school. She wanted to see Mike sitting at the table, reading the morning paper.

As if her thoughts had called him, he put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up, knowing none of her wishes could come true.

“Don’t fall apart on me now,” he said. “You're the strongest woman I've ever known. You've faced the hardest things in the world. You can do this.”

She touched his hand with hers, and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Then she looked into his eyes.

His fear was as real as her own. That should have made things worse, but instead it made her feel better. Whatever else happened, Mike was human again. He could feel, he could hurt. He could love.

He let her go, and went back to fixing the food for Sam’s closet.

She poured the water on top of the dry mix, and started stirring. Had last night really changed everything? If they got out of this—no,
when
they got out of this, would Mike just come home? Is that what she wanted?

Not if it meant living with this fear day after day.

Now she knew what it was like to be in the line of fire. There was no way she could watch him walk out her door, and know he was going to face this kind of danger. It would kill her. As much as she loved him, and she had no doubts any more that she did, she couldn’t go back to the way things were.

“Should I give him the grape juice or the apple?”

She turned.

Mike was holding up juice boxes, waiting for her decision. As he looked at her, his brow creased and he put the juice on the table. “Something else is going on, isn’t it?” he said. He walked over to her again. “Talk to me.”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

She held up a hand to stop him. “I wasn’t finished. I love you, but that’s not enough.”

He did stop. He stood in front of her, not moving, not blinking. He started to retreat, to close himself off the way he always did. Then he shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and relaxed. When he looked at her again, she saw his vulnerability, his hope.

She wanted to run to him. To hold him. To tell him that she understood what kind of victory this was. He’d called her brave, but she couldn’t hold a candle to this one moment.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice quiet and intense.

“I want you to quit the bureau. Sam needs a father he can count on.”

He crossed the distance between them, and held her by the shoulders. “What do
you
need?” Then he kissed her, hard. His fingers dug into her flesh as he crushed her lips with his own.

She brought her hand between them and pushed him back. “No,” she said, as he let her go. “I need to know you'll come home at night. I can’t live the rest of my life in fear.”

He stared at her for a long time. When he spoke, the words came slowly. “I love you and I love Sam. But I can’t quit. It’s all I know.”

She closed her eyes as the disappointment washed through her. Why had she let herself hope? When she looked at him again, he had turned toward the door of the kitchen. She followed his gaze. Sam was standing just inside.

“You're not coming home, are you?” he asked, staring at his father.

Mike looked back at Becky for a quick second, then turned back to face his son. “No.”

The word hung in the air. Sam’s face changed into an angry mask. “Then why did you come get us?” He was yelling, the hurt so raw it was like an open wound. “We were fine at home. We don’t need you.”

She went for him, but Mike was quicker. He grabbed Sam’s arms and pulled him close. “I love you, Sam. Nothing can change that.”

Sam twisted out of Mike’s hands. “You don’t! You love your job better.” He ran past him, and she knelt to catch him.

“That’s not—”

She looked up, instantly frightened at the way Mike was staring past her to the kitchen window. He rushed past her, as her heart thudded in her chest. “What is it?”

He moved the curtain an inch to the right. Becky felt a scream building inside her.

Then he let the curtain drop and he turned toward her. “Witherspoon’s snowmobile. It’s parked outside. But he’s not on it.”

W
itherspoon must have ridden over on the snowmobile during the night. It was the only explanation Mike could find for not hearing the engine. Something had stopped the old man from coming to the cabin door. Something, or someone.

“Get the food,” he snapped at Becky. “Sam, get upstairs. Mommy will be up in a second. Do just what she says. Be quick.”

Becky still held Sam tightly. They both looked terrified. He fought back the urge to yell at them to move. That wouldn’t help anything. He knelt so he could be eye-level with Sam. “It’s going to be okay if we just use our heads. Becky, I want you to take the food upstairs. Sam, I want you to go up ahead of her and get inside the closet. Just like we practiced. When Mommy gets there, she'll make sure you're comfortable, and that you're not alone.”

Neither of them moved. He touched Sam’s cheek, brushing it with the back of his fingers. “I need you to help me, Samson. I'm counting on you to watch out for your mom while I'm down here. Can you do that?”

Sam nodded. Becky’s eyes closed and Mike reached over and touched her hand. When she finally looked at him, he could see she didn’t want to leave him.

“You can do this,” he whispered.

She nodded, then stood. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s move it.”

Mike got up, too. “Don’t forget the gun,” he said.

Becky went to the table and picked it up. She checked the safety, then slipped it into the shoulder holster.

“The ammunition is in the closet beneath the stairs,” he said. “Take a few boxes with you. Now go.”

Becky grabbed the large paper bag filled with food and drink. “I'll be right behind you, honey.”

Sam ran then. He darted out of the room without a look back. Mike wanted to race after him, to hold him close and tell him he’d been wrong. He didn’t give a damn about his job. Only his family.

He picked up his rifle. When he turned back, Becky was already on her way out.

“I won’t let him hurt you,” he said.

She looked at him one last time. “I know.”

He watched her go, praying this wasn’t the last time he would ever see her. Dammit, why had he said he wasn’t going home to them? All he wanted was for Becky and Sam to be safe, and to be with them. The bureau had lots of jobs that wouldn’t put him in the line of fire. For the first time in two years, it mattered that he might die. That he might not be around to watch Sam grow up.

Forcing his mind to clear, he went back to the window above the sink and moved the curtain so he could see outside. Nothing much had changed, except the level of the snow. It was really coming down. God, the whole world would be covered with white soon. Witherspoon’s snowmobile was completely blanketed now, a lump to match the other two vehicles.

Mojo could be hiding behind anything. The snowmobiles, the Bronco, a tree, the woodpile. All Mike knew for sure was that Mojo would have a plan. He wouldn’t just shoot his way in, using force as his weapon. No, the man was too vain, too proud of his insights into Mike’s character to do anything so gauche. Mojo would do something with a little finesse.

Mike left the kitchen after checking the lock one more time. The living room was cold and empty, but nothing had been tampered with. The dead bolt was firmly locked, the windows were all intact. He pushed the drapes aside, just enough so he could see out. Great swirling masses of snow and ice and wind flew into the glass.

No one was coming to help. He knew that. Sully might try, but he was only human. Hopefully, he’d found a snowplow, but that would take God knows how long to clear a path all the way to the cabin.

Mike heard a thump from above, and in seconds he was on the stairs, taking two at a time, racing almost as quickly as his heart.

The bedroom door was open and when he went inside, he found Becky standing outside the closet, holding the .45 in her hand.

“What happened?”

She shook her head. “I dropped this.” She lifted the gun. “I'm sorry, it was clumsy of me.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mike went to the window and checked the lock. Mojo could climb the tree, he supposed, but it would be tough with his bum leg. He looked down, but it was a useless gesture.

He turned back to Becky. She had pushed the sliding door all the way to the right and was crawling into the closet, moving aside pillows and blankets. He caught a glimpse of Sam, sitting cross-legged with a sleeping bag on his lap.

Becky settled in, camouflaging her position with the linens. When she was through, he could see bits of her, an elbow, a knee. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best they could do. If Mojo really looked for them, he would find them.

So he wouldn’t get up here. Period.

It was time to go back downstairs. He checked the closet one more time, closing it a little more. “It’s going to be fine,” he said. “Just stay put. No matter what. I don’t want you two leaving this closet. You got that?”

He heard a muffled “Yes” from Becky. There was nothing more for him to do up here, but he hated to leave them. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Sam’s computer. It was still plugged in near the bed. He went over and picked it up. It had a battery that would run for several hours. No reason Sam couldn’t have it with him. He unplugged the cord and took the machine to the closet. He slid the door fully open and bent over, moving aside a pink quilt until he saw Sam’s face. “I think you forgot this,” he said.

Sam reached out and took the computer. The grateful look he gave Mike didn’t quite hide the fear. Then the quilt fell again, and Mike couldn’t see Sam’s face anymore.

“Listen up, guys,” he said. “When this is all over, things are gonna be different around here. No more of this every-other-weekend crap. Becky, we'll talk about the job, okay? We'll work something out. Sam, you're more important that anything, buddy. Don’t you ever forget that.” He quickly slid the closet door three-quarters shut and left them.

He would be back.

* * *

Becky didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She believed him. He would make changes, they both would. There was a real chance they could be a family again.
If
they got out of here alive.

She shifted in the tight cocoon of blankets so that her hip was against Sam’s. She was sitting cross-legged, like him. There was really no other choice in the cramped space. But she wanted him to feel her there next to him. To take comfort in her company. It was a small comfort, she knew that, but it was all she had available.

God, they had to get out of this. It was too cruel, too unthinkable that their future could be snatched away just when it was looking so bright.

She thought about the first night they’d spent in this cabin. How she had barely been able to talk to Mike, how trapped he’d been on his island of bitter regrets. They’d gone through a lifetime of changing in the past few days.

Mike had found his heart again, and it had given him life. He’d seen, all on his own, that his family was what really mattered. That watching Sam grow, teaching him, loving him, was the greatest gift he could ever receive.

Something else had changed. Finally, after two years of denial and misspent grief, she was able to say goodbye to Amy. Of course, her little girl would always be with her, but now, and forever more, Becky would be able to remember the good times, the sweet moments.

Sam bumped her with his elbow and she looked down at him. He’d opened his computer on his lap. While she watched, the screen came alive as his swift fingers ran across the keyboard. She moved an afghan behind her neck, which not only felt better, but let her see the screen.

She was glad Mike had thought to give the computer to Sam. It would distract him. Her, too. God knew how long they would be shut up in here.

The thought of Mike downstairs, of what he might have to face, hit her again with the force of a blow. She strained to hear him, but it was useless. The pillows, blankets and sleeping bags cut off the rest of the world. It was just the two of them, in this strange little cave.

Sam was typing again. Only he wasn’t playing a game. He was writing a note. Becky put the gun in her left hand and flexed her right for a moment, then gripped it again. Only when the barrel was pointing straight out in front of her did she lean a bit to her left to see what had Sam so interested.

It was only one sentence. A simple question.

“Are we going to see Amy in heaven?”

* * *

If he was Mojo, how would he break into this house? That’s the question Mike pondered as he stood by the staircase. He could see the front door from here, and the kitchen door, too.

The easiest way would be to break a window and climb through. If he was careful and patient, there wouldn’t be much noise, only the crack of broken glass for a second. If Mike was in the kitchen, with this wind howling, he wouldn’t hear glass break in the living room.

Okay, so which window? The living room? Too obvious. Mojo would assume Mike would be there. The kitchen? No good. He would have to climb over the sink. He wouldn’t do that. The bedroom? That was a good choice. But not the best.

If he was trying to break into this cabin, he would go straight to the basement. The window was easy to get to from outside, and big enough to let a slim man slide through. The drop was an easy one, and the room itself was dark and cut off from the rest of the house.

He made the decision that fast, and went toward the kitchen. Just as he reached the door to the basement, the lights went out. He froze.

Either Mojo was in the basement already, or he was still outside near the power line. Mike looked up, as if he could see through the ceiling to where Becky and Mike sat in the closet. Did they know the electricity was gone? He tried to remember if they’d left a light on in the bedroom, but he couldn’t. Maybe they didn’t know. Please, God, they didn’t.

He took some slow breaths, consciously slowing his rapid pulse. He listened hard, struggling to hear a shoe fall, a box being dragged, anything. But all he heard was the infernal wind.

He grabbed the doorknob with his left hand, keeping the rifle poised in his right. Slowly, patiently, he opened the door and moved toward the steps. One more second, and he could get through.

The shot shattered the doorframe an inch from his temple.

He hit the floor, his lower half still in the kitchen, his left arm braced on the second step, the only thing stopping him from taking a header down the stairs. Pain shot from his hand to his shoulder, red and blinding, but he had no time for that now. At least his question had been answered.

Mojo was in the basement.

It was dark down below. Another shot, this one slamming into the wall behind him, was only a few inches off the mark. Ambient light from the kitchen was acting like a spotlight, giving Mojo plenty of time to get his aim right. Mike had to move. Now.

He pulled his legs in, until he was hunched over in a crouch. Thankfully, the door swung shut behind him, but not before Mojo got off one more shot. This one hit the stairs, and Mike felt a sharp sting on his cheek. It had to be a splinter. How big, he had no idea. He was bleeding, but he could still see and move, so it made no difference.

Now the darkness was more even. The only gray area was a shaft of dull light from the broken window high on the other side of the room. The only thing illuminated was a barren patch of concrete floor. Mike tried to see into the shadows, to see the glint off the gun or a blur of movement. Nothing.

He had to get down the steps. Even without light, Mojo knew where he was. It was only a matter of target practice until he found the bull’s-eye.

Keeping a tight grip on the rifle, Mike shifted slowly until he’d reversed his position, and his legs were below him on the steps. At least he wasn’t upside down anymore. He didn’t sit for long. He squeezed as tightly as he could next to the wall, and eased his butt over the edge of one stair to the next. Sam used to do this when he was learning to walk. He used to sit at the top of the stairs and ride his bottom all the way down to the ground floor.

Mike waited before he moved again. The wind was louder in here and a steady stream of billowing snow flew into the dark room. He thought it must be cold, but he didn’t feel it.

Was Mojo behind the dryer? Or had he moved underneath the staircase, so he could point his gun straight up?

It was torture to be still. To hunt the dark recesses with inadequate eyes. To play this deadly game of chicken. He had to win, because if he didn’t, Mojo was going to climb another set of stairs, open a closet door, and—

He couldn’t think about that. Not now. He had to be smarter than the man waiting for him. More patient.

Mojo would grow tired. He would shoot again, and this time Mike would see where the shot came from. All he had to do was wait. He started counting his heartbeats and waiting for act two.

* * *

Becky bit her lower lip so hard she tasted the salt of her own blood. Sam had grabbed her arm when they’d heard the first shot. His grip had tightened, and now she heard the quivering short breaths that told her he was crying.

“It’s okay, honey,” she said, as loudly as she dared. “Daddy’s going to come up here real soon and get us. You'll see. He’s fine.”

She could see the bottom half of Sam’s face in the eerie blue-green light of the computer monitor. She’d thought it would go out when the electricity went off, but then she’d realized it was running on batteries. Not that he had any attention for his games now.

She had to do something to take his mind off the long stretches of silence, and the more horrifying bursts of gunfire. But how could she, when her own fear had her by the throat?

“Did I ever tell you about the day Daddy and I found out you were going to be born?”

He didn’t answer her. She didn’t want to let go of the gun, but she forced herself to loosen her left hand. It was stiff from squeezing so hard for so long, and she had to flex her fingers for a minute. Then she turned just a bit toward Sam and put her arm around his shoulder.

He fell against her, and she felt his trembling as if it were her own.

“It was a Tuesday. Wintertime, like now. Daddy didn’t have a clue that I had such a big surprise for him. See, I’d gone to the doctor that afternoon. I’d had a hunch. Dr. Richman said I was pregnant. I couldn’t wait to get home.”