Hunted (3 page)

She gathered up the laundry as he straightened up. Then she walked away.

Mike watched Becky head to the basement door. She’d made her feelings clear—she hated him for this. Which wasn’t a surprise. He was no good for her. They both knew that. The best thing was for him to keep his distance, for his sake as well as hers. Hadn’t he just proved that? He’d touched her and she couldn’t get away fast enough. It didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered for a long time.

He stilled. Something had caught his attention, but he wasn’t sure what. He looked around. Nothing had moved. Then he heard it. A high-pitched engine, getting louder as it approached the cabin.

He moved quickly to the window and pushed aside the curtains just a hair while he reached for his gun.

He saw the snowmobile coming up the road. The driver was taking his time. There was no way to make out a face behind the fur-lined hood of the parka. He eased the gun’s safety off with his thumb. Logic told him there was no way Mojo could be here this soon, but with Mojo, there was no logic. He waited as the driver stopped the snowmobile and cut the engine. In the silence, he could hear the sound of water going through the pipes downstairs.

The man walked up the front steps. Mike tensed, lifting his gun shoulder high. Then the driver pushed back the hood of his coat. It was Witherspoon.

Cliff’s description of the caretaker had been right on the money. Tall, whippet thin, a shock of white sparse hair. There was no one behind him. The scene from the window couldn’t look more innocuous.

Mike breathed again, and cursed himself for letting his feelings about Becky get in the way of the job he had to do. It wouldn’t happen again. He slipped his gun into the holster, then opened the door.

“McCullough?”

Mike nodded.

“Witherspoon’s my name. Cliff said you were going to be here. Thought I’d come by and make you welcome.”

Mike stood aside to let the old man in. “Thanks.”

Witherspoon walked past Mike into the house. He eyed the place as if he were looking to buy it. “Now, I'll come up if the pipes are broken, or if the heat doesn’t work. I don’t think you'll have any problems, but you never know. The cabins are for summer, so I kind of let them go until spring. But you've got a nice fireplace here, and plenty of wood outside, so you should be warm.” Witherspoon walked over to the fireplace and bent low from the waist peering up and into the chimney.

In a minute, the old man finished his inspection and turned back to Mike. “I've got a couple of snowmobiles that you can rent. When the storms hit, you won’t be taking that Bronco of yours anywhere. Take out the garbage on Tuesday. There are barrels under the porch. I'll pick it up from there. Be sure and put the lids on tight, so the raccoons don’t make a mess. Any other questions?”

“Where’s the TV?”

Mike turned at the sound of Sam’s voice. His son had come down from upstairs and was standing near the door to the kitchen.

“Sorry to disappoint you, son, but we don’t have TV here.”

“What?” The alarm in Sam’s voice would have been funny if it hadn’t been so pathetic. “No TV? What kind of place is this?”

Mike coughed. “Sam, this is Mr. Witherspoon.” He turned to the old man. “My son.”

Witherspoon nodded at Sam. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, and I'll tell you what kind of place this is. Quiet. At least in the winter. Summertime, this place busts from the seams. People don’t miss the TVs when they only stay up here for a week or two a year.”

“What about you?” Sam asked as he moved to Mike’s side. “Don’t you have one?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say as I do. I've never been much of a watcher myself.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I've got myself a ham radio. And I sculpt.”

“Sculpt?” Sam looked up at Mike.

“I work with metal. Scrap iron.”

The look on Sam’s face told him just what he thought about sculpting.

“You come on by my place sometime,” Witherspoon said. “I'll show you what I mean.”

Sam looked down at his shoes, obviously uncomfortable with the caretaker’s invitation.

Mike stepped forward. “We'll only be here for a few days,” he said. “But if we have time, we’d like that a lot.”

“Just so’s you know, I'm not proud. It’s been a long, lonely winter, and I wouldn’t turn down a dinner invitation from you, either. I'm pretty sick of my own cooking.”

Mike smiled. “Sure,” he said. “Maybe tomorrow. And by the way, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention us being here to anyone on that radio of yours.”

The old man nodded. “Cliff told me not to say a word. I won’t. What we've got to do is fix you up with the snowmobiles. We can get one now.”

“That would be great.”

Witherspoon walked over to Sam and looked him over like he was a side of beef. “You want to come, half pint?”

Sam looked up at Mike. It was clear he didn’t want to go fetch the snowmobile. “Sam, I think you’d better stay here with your mother. Why don’t you go downstairs—” he pointed to the basement door in the kitchen “—and tell her I'm going with Mr. Witherspoon.”

“Yes, sir.” He was off like a shot.

Witherspoon watched him run to the stairs. “I had two sons,” he said. “Good boys.”

“Had?” Mike asked.

“Passed away now. Like the misses. I just lived too long, that’s all.”

Mike felt a knot in the pit of his stomach, but he shook it off. Now was no time to start feeling sorry for some old man. He had enough problems of his own. He grabbed his parka from the couch. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get a move on. We still haven’t unpacked.”

“Sure, sure. It will only take a minute.” He pulled up the hood of his parka and his face disappeared behind fur. The old man left and Mike went to the kitchen. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and soon he saw Becky.

“What’s this?”

“I'm going to get the snowmobile from the caretaker. I'll only be gone a little while.”

Becky looked behind her to make sure Sam wasn’t around. “I don’t want to be here alone. What if—?”

“There’s no way he could be here this soon, even if he did know where we were. Which he doesn’t. I want to get this over with. We might need the mobility.”

She didn’t look happy about it. “Sam says the old man is creepy.”

“Not creepy. Lonely. He was trying to be friendly.”

“I don’t like this, Mike. I don’t like the idea of you leaving.”

“I would never go if I thought you were in any danger. You know that.” He zipped up his parka and put on his gloves. “I'll make this as quick as I can.”

He had the urge to touch her, to make her look into his eyes to see she had no reason to be afraid. Not yet, at least. But he kept his hands to himself. “Just lock up behind me.”

He walked to the door and went out.

Becky followed him and set the dead bolt. She leaned her head against the cold wood. She felt as if she were living in a nightmare. What was she doing here? She should be home. She should be cooking the turkey she’d taken out of the freezer. There were the drawings she wanted to do for the florist, and she was supposed to confirm Sam’s field trip chaperons. There were a million things to do, none of which included hiding in a cabin with Mike. Damn him for dragging them into this. Damn his job and his guns and his madmen. He had no right.

“Geez, Mom. That guy was such a goober.”

Becky spun around. She hadn’t heard Sam come up the stairs. Her heart was racing and she took a deep breath to calm herself down. “Don’t say things like that.”

“I only said goober. I can’t believe there’s no TV. How long do we have to stay here, anyway?”

“I don’t know.”

Sam moved to the couch and sat down. “You think they'll catch that guy soon?”

Becky was only a little surprised that Sam knew. He was a bright kid, and they hadn’t been completely discreet. She only hoped he didn’t realize the depth of the danger they were all in. “I don’t know that, either, Sam. But if you're worried about this, don’t keep it to yourself. Talk to me or your dad.”

He nodded. “I'm not worried about anything but dying of boredom.”

Becky studied her son as she walked over to the sofa. She saw so much of Mike in the boy. Not just his looks, but in his quiet ways. He hardly had any friends, just those computer ghosts. Every time she tried to get Sam involved in activities with other kids, he resisted. When he did go, he hardly said two words. The last thing she needed was for him to be scared that some maniac was coming to get him.

“Have you set up your computer yet?”

“I can’t find a phone plug for the modem.” His eyes widened with horror. “They have phones here, don’t they? I mean, come on. No TV, no phones. I'm in the middle of a game with Warren, and I haven’t answered any of my e-mail.”

Becky walked over to the staircase. “Let’s go see what we can find before we panic, okay?”

Sam shot up from the couch and passed her on the stairs. Why couldn’t he use some of that energy to play ball or ice skate?

The second floor wasn’t large, just one room with two single beds and a tall dresser. Sam was looking at the baseboards for a phone jack. Becky thought about the layout of the room, and figured there were only a few places to wire for phones. She walked to the bed where Sam had piled his stuff and moved it aside.

“Hey, kiddo. Look what I found.”

Sam was next to her in a flash. “Cool.” He unzipped his computer case and pulled out a telephone wire. He handed one end to Becky and he plugged the other end into a slot on the side of his computer. Becky hooked him up, then moved some sweaters aside so she could sit next to him.

“Got it.” Sam typed in his password. In a moment, he was in the bulletin board itself.

It was an incredible thing, really, this nationwide communication system. A user could talk “live” with one or a hundred other like-minded people either one-on-one, or in a “real-time conference.”

Mike and Sam talked privately. Mike would log on to the computer and write to Sam to ask about school and his friends. Sam would get the message when he got home from school and write back. They’d repeat the process every couple of days.

She supposed it was better than nothing, but she wished Mike would use the real phone more often. Sam needed him. Not some disconnected words on a computer screen.

She looked over Sam’s shoulder. A long letter was scrolling quickly by. “Who’s that from?”

“Darrelyn.”

“A new friend?”

Sam shook his head. “I've known her for a long time. She’s not like most girls. She’s into computers and science fiction. She lives in Denver.”

“I see.” Becky wasn’t all that surprised to find Sam had connected with a girl. Most nine-year-old girls were more sensible than their male counterparts, and Sam was nothing if not sensible.

“Her parents are divorced,” Sam said.

“That happens to a lot of people.”

Sam’s fingers stilled on the keyboard and he looked up at her. She thought he might say something about her divorce from Mike, but he didn’t. Not out loud. Only his eyes asked “Why?”

“Come on, kiddo. You can talk to Darrelyn later. I want to play a game.”

Sam frowned. “You never want to play my games.”

“I do today. Come on. Teach me.”

Sam sighed. He signed off from the bulletin board, then reached once more for his computer case. This time he got out two joysticks and handed one to Becky.

“How much you want to bet I can beat the pants off you?” she asked.

“Ha. No way.”

She smiled. At least this would keep him busy, she thought. If he’s busy, he won’t think. He won’t be scared. She turned her attention to the game.

S
am had 124,000 points. Becky had 345. She tried to concentrate and shoot down the little triangles, but she kept thinking she heard the snowmobile. It was hard not to shush Sam, to keep smiling, to do anything but run downstairs and wait by the door. Every little noise made her jump. She was tense, and she could feel the beginning of a headache. If only Mike would come back.

“Mom, can’t you move faster? You have to keep hitting the button all the time, that’s why you keep getting zapped. Look.” He held up his joystick so she could see his nimble fingers at work.

“Give me a break,” she said. “I'm new at this.”

He lowered his hand and concentrated on his battle. In seconds, he’d wiped out a whole battalion of space monsters. She kept hitting the buttons, but she turned her attention from the game to her son.

He chewed on his lower lip while he struggled against the forces of evil. His brown eyes skittered across the screen with absolute concentration. She envied him. She wished she could find something that would swallow her up so completely. God knows she tried. Despite her work at the hotel, the PTA, the city council and everything else she could fit into her life, she still managed to have too much time to think.

She heard another sound and listened as hard as she could. It wasn’t an engine. It was the wind, and she sagged with disappointment. Her back started to hurt from sitting at an angle on the bed. She shifted a bit, then forced herself to look at the game again. Explosions filled the screen as Sam moved faster and faster. She stopped pressing her buttons and just watched him.

The need to protect him surged through her. He was her baby, her only living child, and she would do anything to keep him safe. The only problem was, her best might not be enough. It hadn’t been for her daughter.

Night after night, she’d begged a silent God to give her the cancer and leave Amy alone. Her prayers had not been answered, and she’d been forced to sit by and watch as her little girl died. There was nothing on earth worse than that feeling of helplessness, and now it was back. The only thing she had learned from Amy’s death was the uselessness of asking why. It had taken her far too long to learn it was an unanswerable question.

She remembered the hospital room, the single bed with the heavy guard rails on the side. The smell of disinfectant. The squeak of rubber shoes on the linoleum. Mostly she remembered how tiny Amy had looked. How every whimper had slashed through her like a knife.

She stood up, nearly knocking the computer from Sam’s lap.

“Hey!”

“Sorry, honey. You're going to have to finish this game alone. Daddy’s going to be back any second, and I haven’t put away the groceries yet.”

His hands stilled on the joystick as he stared up at her. “Can’t you do that later?”

She reached out and touched his cheek, the skin so soft it nearly made her weep. “When your father comes back, I bet he'll play with you.”

Sam nodded, and she thought she heard him sigh. He put the joystick down, and typed on the keyboard.

“You don’t want to finish? You were doing great.”

“It’s no fun alone.”

She felt terrible. She debated sitting down again, but she just couldn’t. She had to move and do something or she would scream. Where the hell was Mike?

“You can come down and help me,” she said.

Sam shook his head. He kept his eyes on the computer screen. “No, thanks.”

“Okay. I'll call you as soon as your dad gets here.”

Becky walked slowly down the stairs. She promised herself that she would spend time with him tonight. They wouldn’t play on the computer, though. She hated it, and he loved it too much. She wouldn’t forbid him to use the thing, but she would encourage other activities. If only he could go outside, she thought. He needed to be with Mike doing guy stuff in the snow.

Before going into the kitchen, she stole a quick look out the front window. Nothing but the branches moved outside. Everything looked clean and beautiful and peaceful. It should have been relaxing, but all she could think of were the hundreds of places Mojo could hide. The house across the street. Any of the houses. How hard would it be to break into a summer cabin?

She let go of the drape and hurried into the kitchen. The grocery bags were still on the countertops. She would put away the things that needed refrigeration, but that was all. It was getting dark out, and she needed to fix something for dinner. Why wasn’t Mike back yet?

As she folded an empty bag, she remembered she hadn’t finished the laundry. After she put the milk in the fridge, she went downstairs. It only took a few minutes to transfer the wet sheets to the dryer. She didn’t like being in the basement. It was too far away from Sam. The single overhead light bulb wasn’t bright enough, and shadows filled the room. She kept thinking she saw something move, but then she’d turn and nothing was there. She finished as quickly as she could and went back upstairs. As she shut the door, she heard the snowmobile. She froze, afraid she’d conjured the sound, but no. It really was Mike.

Relief flooded through her, and only then did she understand how frightened she’d been of being alone. How was she going to get through days of this? The second Mike was inside, she would insist that he call his office. Maybe they’d caught Mojo.

The engine noise got louder as she went to the staircase. “Sam,” she called. “Daddy’s back.” She went to the kitchen and waited by the door. Mike parked the snowmobile by the Bronco. When he reached the porch, she unlocked the dead bolt.

A wave of déjà vu washed over her. She was in her old house, and Mike was coming home from yet another dangerous night in the field. Fear and anger roiled inside her, battling for dominance.

The memory slipped away, but the feelings didn’t. She’d spent so much of her life worrying about him, thinking he’d been killed. The night she’d left him, she’d sworn never to go through that again.

She opened the door, and the freezing air entered before he did. Mike’s parka was dotted with snow. He took off his heavy gear as she slipped the dead bolt closed.

When she turned around, he was peeling off his gloves as he headed for the living room.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“No,” she said, following him. She hated that he sounded so calm. “I thought you said it would only be a few minutes.”

He tossed his gloves on the couch, alongside his parka and face mask. “I was as quick as I could be. Witherspoon’s cabin is over a mile away.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “You're not leaving us alone again. Not until Mojo is caught.”

He walked closer to her. His hair was a mess from the snow gear. His skin should have been chapped from the cold, but it wasn’t. Even with practically no sleep, and being out in the freezing weather, he looked rugged and sexy. It was absurd to think about that now, but when he was this close, it was hard to ignore.

“I'm going to have to go out one more time,” he said. “But that’s all. I promise.”

“Tonight?” The panic started low in her stomach. “Why?”

He shook his head. “Tomorrow morning. I have to make sure I know the back way out of here. According to the old man, there’s a fire access road that leads to the highway, but he hasn’t been on it this winter. I have to make sure we can make it out of here if we have to.”

“Take us with you.”

“I can’t. I'll be on the snowmobile.”

“If only one of us can fit on it, what good is it? If Mojo gets here, we all have to leave.”

“I know. Witherspoon has another one in his garage. I'll get that one, too. If it comes down to that, Sam will ride with me, and you'll take the second one.”

“I've never driven one before.”

“You'll do fine. There’s nothing to it. If you want, you can practice on it in the morning.”

“All I want is for this to be over. Can you call and find out if they've caught him yet?”

“Sure,” he said, as he ran a hand through his hair. “Did you tell Sam I'm back?”

She nodded.

“Why don’t you go check on him while I call Cliff?”

He probably didn’t want her listening in. Well, she wasn’t going to argue. All she needed to know was that Mojo was caught...or dead.

* * *

Mike swore into the phone. “What the hell happened?”

“We lost him in Limon. He ditched his car. We're pretty sure he had help from the outside.”

“Do you have men covering Becky’s house?”

“Two.”

“Go there yourself, Cliff. That’s where you'll find him.”

His partner didn’t say anything for a minute. “I don’t think so, buddy.”

“Why?”

“There was a map in the car. He’s headed to Canada.”

Mike stood up and walked to the bedroom door, checking the lock one more time. He didn’t want Becky or Sam to come in now. “You can’t believe he’s stupid enough to leave a map? That’s a plant. He wants you to think he’s going to Canada.”

“We're not eliminating that as a possibility, but I can’t make the chief commit all the guys just on your hunch. They believe he’s trying to get out of the country.”

“Did you tell them about the last letter?”

“Yep. Don’t get me wrong. They're taking his threats seriously. They just can’t be sure he’s headed toward Boulder.”

“Then screw 'em. You go to Becky’s place. I know he'll show up there. He has to.”

Mike heard Cliff sigh. “You think you could keep me away? Buddy, you just tell me where, and I'm there.”

Mike swallowed. “I know, Cliff.”

“I'll talk to you.” Cliff hung up.

Mike put down the phone. He hadn’t realized how much he’d counted on them catching Mojo quickly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d assumed this would all be over by now. Wishful thinking. Every moment Mojo was on the loose was dangerous. Thank God they were listening to him about the letter. He would feel better if the whole force was going to Becky’s, but he trusted Cliff to make sure there would be enough men. If there ever could be enough men to stop Morris Jones.

He went over to his duffel bag and pushed his clothes out of the way until he found the stack of papers on the bottom. There were twenty-two letters, each one a window into a madman’s mind. The way to catch Mojo was right here in his hand. He just had to be clever enough to figure it out.

He sat on the bed and listened to the wind outside. It sounded stronger than it had when he’d been on the snowmobile. Witherspoon had said a storm was coming.

Mike unfolded the top page. The first one. White paper, no lines. No watermark. Prison stock. The typewriter was old, and the
o
’s and
t
’s blurred, but it was legible.

Dear Mike,I feel as if I know you well enough to call you Mike. I mean, shooting someone creates a bond, don’t you think? And how is the wound, you ask? Not healing well, my friend. Not well at all.

But, this letter is not about me.

I've been hearing things about you, Mike. You have many friends, it seems. Most, sadly, behind bars, but then that is your specialty. I've been trying to understand what it is that makes you feel the need to hide behind your badge. I considered the small man complex, Napoleon’s cross, but you're quite a big fellow, so that doesn’t fit. Then, of course, there is the, how shall I say it, “inadequate” man’s syndrome—the urge to substitute a long weapon for... Need I spell it out? If that’s the case, there’s really nothing I can do to help.

Regardless, friend, I do think about you. Your face is never far from my dreams, your death is my tonic. Why didn’t you pull the trigger when you had the chance?

The knock on the door startled him and he dropped the letter. “Yeah?”

“Mom needs you in the kitchen, Dad.”

“I'll be right out.”

He picked up the paper and folded it in thirds, then put it with the others. He would read the rest tonight, after Becky and Sam were in bed. He was positive there was something in those words that would point the way to Mojo’s capture.

For now, though, he would go out and be with his son. He would act as if there was nothing in the world to worry about. If he were lucky, Becky would buy it, too.

He made his way into the kitchen, and stopped when he saw her at the stove. Her back was to him, and she was pouring something into a pot. Her head tilted to the right, and he knew she had captured her lower lip in her teeth. She always did when she concentrated. He used to sit and watch her when she worked at the house. He’d memorized that move, the little bite on her bottom lip. He’d tried like hell to erase that image, that and a hundred others. But every time he looked at her, it all came back, pouring over him like floodwaters.

She turned, and studied his face. “What did they say?”

He looked around for Sam.

“He’s upstairs.”

Mike turned back to her. “They don’t have him yet.”

She leaned against the sink as if her legs couldn’t hold her. He moved to help her, but she waved him away.

“Do they know where he is?”

He debated whether he should tell her everything, but looking at her, vulnerable, scared to death, he just couldn’t. “Yeah. They'll have him soon.”

She pushed her hair behind her ear. “I want to believe you,” she said. Her gaze met his in a silent plea. But he had no reassurance, no promise that would make her feel better. After a long, quiet moment, she let her gaze drop. “Would you set the table please?” She pointed to a drawer by the sink. “Silverware is in there. Make sure they're clean.”

He got busy, and they fell into silence. He was acutely aware of just how small the kitchen was. He stood right next to her, trying to reach for the glasses. He caught her soft scent, and everything else was forgotten. “You're wearing that rose perfume.”

She didn’t step away. She just kept stirring the pasta. “I had it on last night.”

“Before I came over?” He tried to catch her gaze, but she wouldn’t look at him.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He didn’t believe her. He touched her shoulder, and when she didn’t back away, he moved his fingers to the back of her neck. The feel of her skin was familiar, like coming home. She wore the roses for him. She always had. The perfume had been a gift. Not for any special occasion. Just because.