Hunted (7 page)

“Do whatever it takes. I mean it. Get up here and bring as many men as you can. You're gonna feel like a jerk if I turn up dead.”

Cliff laughed, a short, rueful retort. “You would haunt me, wouldn’t you?”

Mike wasn’t smiling. “Till the end of time.”

Cliff wasn’t laughing anymore, either. “Okay. I'll be there.”

“Hey, I need you to do something else.”

“Yeah?”

“Check on the phone service up here, would you? See if it’s possible for Witherspoon’s phone lines to be down, when this phone works just fine. I don’t like his explanation.”

“Witherspoon’s all right, Mike. I've known him for years.”

“Well, check anyway. For me.”

Cliff sighed. “Anything you say.”

“Thanks. And listen, pal, Mojo doesn’t care if he dies. I think he wants to die. But he won’t go before he tries to get me. And my family.”

* * *

Becky poured Witherspoon a second cup of coffee. She overfilled the cup and a little of the hot liquid spilled on the table. “I'm sorry,” she said, as she put down the pot and reached for a sponge.

“No harm done.”

She wiped up the spill, still trying to hear what Mike was saying. It was useless. The sounds of the storm were too loud. She hated the storm, the noise, the frantic beating of the branches on the windows. If she had to listen to it all day, she knew she would go mad.

Sam ate his cereal. He used a soup spoon which was too big for him, so he strained to get the flakes in his mouth. He seemed to enjoy the challenge though, so she didn’t give him a teaspoon. If only she could concentrate that hard on something other than Mojo. Or Mike.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down next to Mr. Witherspoon. “It must be lonely up here, all by yourself,” she said.

The old man shrugged. “I'm used to it. Doesn’t bother me much. I've got my ham radio friends. I talk to them from all over the world. Even Russia.”

She smiled and tried to work up some enthusiasm, or at least think of some questions for him. She wanted so desperately to go to the living room and find out what Mike had heard that it was hard to keep still. But she didn’t want to scare Sam anymore this morning. “That must be fascinating.”

Witherspoon nodded. “I came up here nearly twenty-two years ago. With my wife and boys. They used to love it up here. The boys loved to ski in the winter. They loved the boating in the summer. You really should try and come again in season, you know. You can’t tell about this place when it snows like this.”

“Where are the boys now?” Becky took a sip of coffee and brushed some loose hair behind her ear.

“I'm the only one left,” he said, his voice soft with tenderness. “Ted and Roy were killed eighteen years ago. Car accident.”

Becky’s heart sank. She lowered her cup slowly, then looked at the old man. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “I know how hard it is to lose a child.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute. He just looked at her with his pale blue eyes. Then he reached over and patted her hand. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “They're still with me. So’s my wife. She passed on two years ago. But they're all right here.” He tapped his temple. “Every day. I can hear them laughing and arguing, and I can see them sleeping. It gives me comfort.” He gave her a gentle smile. “Truth be known, I won’t mind at all when it’s my time. Nope. I won’t mind seeing them again at all.”

Becky had to look away. She checked on Sam, worried that he might be upset. However, he was still working on his cereal, and busy reading the back of the box. He didn’t look troubled.

“I couldn’t leave, you see. I've got too many memories here,” Witherspoon said.

Becky tried to smile back at him, but she couldn’t. His words had taken her to a place that had no smiles. “I envy you,” she said. “My memories aren’t so sweet.”

“Lost someone close, did you?”

She nodded, and glanced again at Sam. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that right now.”

“I don’t mind,” Sam said. He put down his spoon and looked at Witherspoon. “My little sister died. She had cancer. She was four.”

Witherspoon smiled. “I bet she was pretty.”

Sam shrugged. “I guess.”

“You miss her?”

“I don’t remember her very well. I was only six and a half, you know. When she died.”

Becky stood up. She couldn’t listen to this. “Sam, are you finished with breakfast? Why don’t you scoot upstairs, huh? I think Mr. Witherspoon has some business with Daddy.”

Sam looked up at her, puzzled. “Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head, and tried to calm her rapid pulse. It was hard to speak with the lump in her throat. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t say anything wrong. But I still think you’d better go upstairs.”

Sam pushed back his chair and stood up. He took his empty cereal bowl in both hands and walked over to the sink.

Becky watched every move, her heart aching and heavy. He didn’t remember Amy. He would grow up not knowing how special his little sister had been. He wouldn’t teach her to ride a bike, or help her with her homework. He wouldn’t fight with her or laugh with her, or tell her all his secrets. It wasn’t right, she thought. It wasn’t fair.
Dammit, it wasn’t fair.

He turned from the sink and walked to the door. He didn’t look her way or say anything more.

“I'm sorry if I stirred up trouble.”

She heard Witherspoon, but she didn’t answer him. She couldn’t. He didn’t press it, and for that she was grateful.

“I'll just go downstairs and check the wires,” he said.

She heard the scrape of his chair, the shuffle of his booted feet. She even heard the basement door open and close. But all she saw was her daughter’s face.

M
ike stopped cold when he saw Becky standing in the middle of the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

She moved her head slowly until she met his gaze. Her eyes were so filled with pain that he stopped breathing. He walked to her, and took her arm. “Becky, what happened?”

“He doesn’t remember Amy. He was too little.”

“Are you talking about Sam?”

She nodded. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “He said so. He talked about her as if she’d been a stranger.”

Mike folded Becky in his arms. He felt her sag as her cheek rested on his chest. He held her tight, and rocked her back and forth. Then he lifted his hand and stroked her hair. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “We'll help him remember. We'll give him our memories.”

He felt moisture on his shirt, and he envied her tears. The scent of roses, the silk of her hair beneath his fingers, the ache of her soft sigh against his chest sent Mike back to a time when Becky had been all his. He felt a desperate need to comfort and protect her.

“The day after Amy was born,” he whispered as he rocked Becky back and forth, “I brought Sam to see her. He was only two. I lifted him up and held him close to the window. I pointed to the second row, third from the left. She was on her back, all wrapped up in a tight pink bundle. No hair underneath her little knit cap. Her face was all scrunched up. Sam laughed when he saw her. He pointed at Amy, then he looked at me. I knew he was asking if that was her. If that was his new sister. When I said yes, he looked at her again. He smiled. Then he got the hiccups. I'll always remember staring at that brand new baby, with Sam’s head bumping my chin with each hiccup. Thinking I was the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”

He stroked her hair again, and continued to rock her, as if
she
were a child. The memories of that long-ago day hung over him like a low cloud. How scrawny Amy had been, how tiny. How helpless. He didn’t know then, that they would have her for such a short time.

Would he have loved her more, knowing? Could he have loved her more? He’d struggled with that for a long time. What he could have done, how he should have acted. Regrets, like sharp arrows, pierced the soft haze of recollection.

Becky sniffed, then leaned back and met his gaze. Even with red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks, she looked extraordinarily beautiful to him.

“Thank you,” she said.

While he looked into her eyes, feelings swept through him. A shimmer of joy from the day he’d proposed. A stab of lust from their wedding night. A heartbeat of agony from the moment they’d learned of Amy’s illness.

Then sadness.

No flash this time. No glimpse back to feelings he barely remembered. Just the dull, familiar ache of being without Becky and his family.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He focused again on Becky. Her smile was gone, replaced by a look of concern.

He stepped back so he was no longer touching her. “They don’t have Mojo yet,” he said. “He didn’t go to the house. They think he might be headed toward Canada.”

Becky wrapped her arms around her waist and shook her head. “You really have great timing, you know?”

“You asked me to tell you the truth.”

“For a minute there, I thought we might be sharing something. I thought I was seeing the old Mike. The man I’d married. I guess I was wrong.”

“Look, I have to go get the second snowmobile,” he said. “I don’t want to talk about this now.”

“You have to leave because you started to feel something, and it scared the hell out of you.”

It was true. He had to go because if he stayed in the kitchen, looking at Becky and seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he would remember too much. The days of watching Amy die while he stood helplessly by. The agony of seeing his family fall apart in front of him. The memories would grow dark and ugly, and crippling.

Becky needed him strong, now. Not filled with questions that couldn’t be answered, pain that would never go away. He shoved the past behind him, out of his mind and his heart, to a place where it couldn’t hurt either of them any more.

“Did you hear me?”

He nodded. “I heard you.” He reached back and pulled his gun from his holster. “I want you to take this. Mojo isn’t up here, I promise you that. I wouldn’t leave if I thought there was any immediate danger. But I want you to keep this close by. I think you'll feel more comfortable with it while I'm gone.”

Her mouth opened as her gaze went from his eyes to the gun in his hand. “You know I can’t use that.”

“You can if you have to.”

She looked up at him again, confusion and hurt clouding her expression. “Don’t leave,” she said.

He straightened his shoulders and clamped down on the words he wanted to say. That he didn’t want to leave, now or ever. That it scared him to death that Mojo might find them alone in the cabin while he was away. That he missed her so much it hurt clear through to his bones.

He breathed deeply until he could say what he had to. “You need to be prepared. I may not be able to protect you. Or Sam. What I can do is make sure we have an escape route. What you can do is take this gun, and let me teach you how to use it.”

She reached for the gun, then hesitated. “What if I mess up? What if I accidentally shoot Sam?”

He turned the gun butt end toward her. “This is the safety. If it’s engaged, you can’t shoot. Don’t take off the safety unless it’s your only choice.”

“What if I can’t use it when I need to? I honestly don’t know if I could shoot a person.”

He lifted her hand and placed the gun on her palm. She slowly closed her fingers around the butt. “If Sam’s life is in danger, you'll do whatever you have to. Trust me.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered as she turned her hand so the gun was pointing at the ground. “I hate this.”

He walked behind her, and brought his arms around her so that he was holding the gun with her. Again, the soft scent of roses filled him with regret. He refused to let it get to him. Teaching Becky to use the gun was truly a matter of life and death, and he wasn’t going to let his weakness interfere.

“It’s very simple,” he said. “Slip the safety off with your thumb, like this.” He demonstrated, then engaged it once again. “You do it.”

She followed his example.

“Okay. Hold the gun with both hands. Make sure you're standing with both feet planted firm.” He widened his stance a bit, and she did too. “Lift the gun in front of you so you can see where the barrel is pointing. When the target is in your eyesight, squeeze the trigger. Be prepared, because it’s going to jerk in your hands after the shot. Grip it tightly.”

She grasped the gun and pointed, and he stepped back and eyed her stance. “Don’t lock your arms,” he said. He noticed that the gun wasn’t steady. She was shaking.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said again.

“You'll do fine.”

She lowered the weapon. “Go. Get it over with and get back here. Please don’t take long.”

He nodded. “I'll be as quick as I can. Hold the gun for a while. Get used to the feel.”

She looked at the weapon and her lip curled in disgust. “I'll never get used to it. Ever.”

Footsteps coming from the basement made them both turn. Witherspoon walked into the kitchen and his eyes went immediately to Becky’s hand and the gun.

“Don’t shoot me,” he said. “I'm innocent.”

Becky smiled, although she didn’t think anything would be funny ever again. “Don’t worry, Mr. Witherspoon. Mike was just showing me how to use it.”

The old man grinned. “Good for him.” He turned to Mike, who had moved farther away from her, toward the door. “The mice haven’t gotten to any of the wires down there. At least the ones I could see. But I left you the cable, so if you have trouble you can fix it yourself.”

“Mice?” Becky asked.

Witherspoon nodded. “I told your husband earlier that they come in from the cold from time to time. Don’t worry. They won’t hurt you.”

“You ready?” Mike asked.

The caretaker didn’t answer him. Instead, he walked over to Becky. “The way I see it, we'll be gone for a little over an hour. But don’t get scared if it’s more like two. The storm is getting worse, and the wind might slow us down. I'm taking him to my place to get the second snowmobile, then to the back road. Okay?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He turned to Mike as he walked past him toward the living room. “What are you standing around for? Get your coat. We've got places to go.”

Becky started to hug her waist, but the gun stopped her.

“Here, take this.” Mike unsnapped his shoulder holster and took it off. He held it for her as if it were a jacket. She slipped into the leather harness. “Wait,” Mike said. He reached over and tightened the straps.

She slid the .45 in its pocket. When she looked up, she could see how concerned he was.

“Lock the door after us,” Mike said.

She nodded, but she didn’t follow him into the living room. She forced herself to take the gun out again, to stand with her feet apart and her knees bent. To look down the barrel of the weapon, just the way he’d shown her. But her hands were trembling, and she couldn’t hold it straight no matter how hard she tried. She brought her arms down, and she heard the front door open, letting in the wind, then close. It took all her self-control not to run and bring Mike back.

She walked into the living room and pulled the drape back. Mike was so bundled up, she couldn’t see any part of his skin. But as he struggled against the wind, she recognized the tilt of his head, the long, even stride of his walk. Witherspoon climbed aboard the snowmobile first, then Mike behind him. She prayed their journey would be safe and quick. Then she locked the door.

After she heard the whine of the engine, she left the window to check up on Sam. She debated leaving the gun downstairs, but decided against it. The whole point of having the weapon was to protect her son. She slipped it into the holster and tried to act casual as she went into the bedroom.

Sam was sitting on his bed, his geography book open in front of him. He looked up at her, then his gaze traveled down to the gun. He didn’t seem shocked.

She walked over to him. He had a pencil in his hand and a paper on his lap. When she looked at it, she saw he’d been busy. His neat script filled the entire page.

“You don’t like guns.”

“You're right. But Daddy had to go with Mr. Witherspoon for a little while, and we thought it would be best if I held on to this one till he got back.”

Sam nodded. “Can I hold it?”

“No. It’s very dangerous. I don’t want you touching this, or any gun.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

There wasn’t much room, but she sat next to him anyway. “It’s hard to be scared, I know. But if we stick together, everything will turn out okay.” She slipped her arm across his back. “You want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“Hey, I think that’s enough homework for now. Why don’t we pull out your computer and play something?”

Slowly, he obeyed her. He closed his book and put it on the floor along with his schoolwork. He pulled his computer from the bottom of the bed and opened it. His movements were sluggish and clumsy, his features expressionless. It worried the hell out of her.

She climbed on the bed so her back was against the wall. Then she had him move so his back was to her. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him behind his ear.

He ducked away. “Gross.”

She squeezed him tight. “I love you.”

“I know,” he whispered. Then he turned on the computer.

She laid her cheek on his head and closed her eyes. She breathed deeply, smelling the little-boy scent that was all Sam. She’d fallen in love with that smell the moment he was born. It had changed since then, but not that much. She thought that when she was an old woman and he was a grown man, she’d still find that sweet, clean scent that was so uniquely his.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that Sam hadn’t brought up a game to play, but his word processing program.

“What’s this? I thought we were going to play a game?”

“We are. But I have to send a letter first. Is that okay?”

“Sure.” Becky watched as Sam manipulated the data on the screen with wizardlike speed. A whole slew of files flashed by—all called Daddy, but with a different numeral after each one. “What are those?”

“Dad’s e-mail.”

“You save them?”

He nodded. “I like to read them sometimes.”

She kissed the top of his head. “That’s great, kiddo. He must write nice letters.”

“Do you want to see?”

“Not if it’s private.”

“Well, some are.” Then he shrugged. “It’s okay.” He pressed another button and the screen changed again.

I'm sorry I had to cancel our hockey game. I promise I'll reschedule soon. We'll go sledding, too, okay? I'll take you out on dead man’s hill—just don’t tell your mom!

How is she? Did she like that picture of the boat? I bet she put it up on the refrigerator, huh? She’s real proud of you, Sam. And when she tells you to go outside and play, she isn’t being mean. She loves you, and she wants you to do all kinds of things. She knows you're crazy about your computer, but there are other things that are important, too. Have you used those ice skates she bought you yet? What about that scout troop I told you about? I'm sure Mom would be glad to take you to the first meeting.

So be nice to her, okay, and don’t give her any trouble when she tells you to go outside. She’s really smart, and she knows a lot more about us guys than you can imagine. Listen to her, Samson. And give her a kiss for me.

Mike had written that letter only two months ago. That’s when he canceled the hockey game, and that’s when Sam had given her the picture of the boat. Mike had been right—she had put it on the fridge and kept it there for three weeks.

She’d never read one of his letters before, even when she’d had the opportunity. She’d wondered about them, though. She’d hoped Mike wouldn’t say anything negative about her, just like she didn’t say anything bad about him. But she’d never expected anything like that.

For the first time since the divorce, she felt better about the computer relationship between her son and Mike. No, it was much more than that, she realized.