Northern Exposure (13 page)

She slipped her hand from his and looked away.

“So you took his camera, but he got it back.”

“Yes, the next morning, just like I said. It was weird, though…I'd found it stashed in a corner of the loft. A drape was tossed over it, almost as if it was…”

“Hidden,” Joe said.

Her mind rocketed into warp drive, sifting through the details of that night. And then it hit her. “Oh, my God, the film!”

She flew off the bunk, snatched her camera bag
from the table. Dropping cross-legged to the floor, in seconds she unzipped every pocket and dumped the contents into her lap. Dozens of new and exposed film canisters rolled across the hardwood planks.

Joe scooped them up and sat down beside her. “You have it.”

“Yes.” Rapidly she picked through the canisters, glancing at speeds and exposures. “I didn't even think about it. It's what I always do. Part of my job is to make sure Blake's camera is always ready. I don't even remember doing it, it's so automatic.”

“You took the used film out of his camera and replaced it with a new roll.”

“Yes. I always drop the exposed rolls into my camera bag, my knapsack. Always. It's second nature. Then the next day we develop them in the lab.”

“Only this time you didn't do that.”

“No. I didn't even realize I had the film. Billy's death, the police, the tabloids, I just…forgot.” She felt like an idiot!

“The following week your purse was snatched, but not your camera bag?” He glanced at the now-empty green knapsack.

“No.” Then it dawned on her why. “I almost always have it with me. Except I didn't the night I walked home from the police station. I'd left it at the precinct, just forgot it. An officer brought it by my apartment the next day.”

“It doesn't look like a camera bag. Just an old knapsack, something you'd carry your lunch in. It wouldn't have been the thief's first target.”

Her heart skipped a beat when she saw the exposed canister, recognized the speed designation that Blake preferred for indoor nighttime shots. “Here it
is.” She held it up to the firelight and they both looked at it.

“What's on it?”

“I don't know.” But she could guess. Blake having sex with Billy. Only that, in and of itself, wasn't enough to warrant all that had happened since.

“Blackmail?” Joe speculated.

“I don't think so. Blake doesn't have any money.”

“But his wife does.”

“True.”

“Barrett might have hired this guy himself to get the film back from you.”

She shook her head, uncomfortable with the idea. Not because she wouldn't put it past him, but because it didn't make sense. “All he would have had to do is ask me for it. I would have given it to him, no questions asked. Besides, Blake doesn't know where I am.”

Joe looked at her. “Well, whoever it is that wants it, has obviously already gotten to him.”

“Blake told this—” she didn't like thinking about him “—this creep, that I had it.”

“No, you don't,” Joe said, and snatched the film from her hand. “I have it.”

The door crashed open, startling them, spraying wood splinters across the room. Wendy's heart stopped. Joe dropped the film and went for his gun. Too late.

The man who'd attacked her that afternoon pointed an automatic weapon at her chest. “Don't even think about it, Hero Boy.”

D
ressed in predator-gray camouflage and sporting what looked to Joe like a 9 mm seven-round Makarov, their uninvited guest wore a black ski mask over his face.

Which was significant.

That, coupled with the fact that he'd had dozens of opportunities to off them over the past week, but hadn't, told Joe he didn't intend to kill them now. If Wendy was right, all this guy wanted was the film.

“Who are you?” Joe said, careful not to move.

“You don't need to know that.”

Wendy sat, frozen, next to him, her eyes wide with fear. “Wh-who sent you?”

“You definitely don't need to know that. You don't wanna know it.” The man took another step into the cabin. Cold air blasted in behind him. Wendy shuddered.

“It's okay.” Joe shot her what he hoped was a reassuring look.

“Yeah, peachy,” the man said. “Okay, let's have it.”

“Wh-what?” Wendy's voice quavered.

“Dumb, as well as blond, huh?” He nodded at the dozens of canisters littering the floor around them. “The film, bitch. Now.”

With his eyes, Joe warned her not to move. “Come and get it,” he said to the guy.

His gaze narrowed on Joe's weapon. “Nice piece. Take it out, why don't ya. Slide it over here, real slow.”

Joe sized him up, guessing height, weight, noticing the set and color of his eyes, his pale skin tone, the brown scraggly hair sticking out from under the mask, committing to memory all the small details he'd need to later relate to the State Troopers. “You alone?” he said.

“Like I'd need any help to deal with you two?”

Joe breathed. All week he'd seen evidence of only one man tracking them, but had to be certain. Now he knew for sure Camo Man was alone.

Slowly he removed his forty-five from its holster, conscious of the fact that the bastard's gun was trained on Wendy. He might not want to kill her, but he could, Joe knew, if forced or if spooked. The thought of it made his mouth go dry. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Yeah, that's right. Nice and easy. Slide it across the floor to me.” Joe had no choice. He did it. Camo Man knelt, retrieved it and jammed it into the pocket of his jacket. “Good decision.”

Joe glared at him. “Okay. Take your film and go.”

“No!” Wendy said.

Damn it! Now wasn't the time for her to be reckless or cavalier.

“No?” Camo Man took another step into the room.

He was so close now that, if Joe lunged, he could probably knock him off his feet. But it was too risky.

“What's the matter, babe? Got some nasty little pictures you don't want me to see?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Wendy drew herself up and tipped her chin at him. Joe warned her with his eyes a second time, but she ignored him. “This film is mine. Wildlife shots. Nothing you'd be interested in. Or, if you are, you can buy the magazine when it comes out next month.”

He laughed and shot Joe a look. “She's good, isn't she? I like her. I'm gonna like her even more in a few minutes.”

Damn it!

He moved his weapon into line with Joe's head.

“Don't!” Wendy said. “Here, take it. Take it all.”

Joe felt a tightening in his chest as Wendy gathered up all the rolls and stuffed them into the green knapsack. All but one. An exposed roll she jammed purposely under his leg as she collected the others. He glimpsed the speed—four hundred—and knew it was the low-light indoor film Wendy had retrieved from Blake's camera.

“T-take it,” she said, and offered him the knapsack.

“Bring it to me.” His eyes gleamed in the firelight with what Joe instantly recognized as lust.

“No!” He grabbed her arm, pulled her back.

Camo Man stepped closer, swung his gun directly at Wendy's face. “Do it!”

“Okay, okay!” Despite Joe's protests, Wendy extracted herself from his grasp and stood.

“Over here.” Camo Man waved her closer.

Joe's throat closed. His hands were clammy, his heart beating out of control. He had to do something. No way was that son of a bitch getting his hands on her.

“It's okay.” Wendy looked at him, nodding, her expression calm. “It'll be okay.” She walked toward the intruder, head high, her gaze locked on his. The guy outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds.

Christ, he had to do something
now.

He still had his buck knife, sheathed in leather, hanging from his belt. Camo Man hadn't bothered relieving him of it. He'd never used it as a weapon, and didn't think he could free it before the guy shot him, but he'd have to take the chance if what he thought was coming next actually happened.

Wendy stopped a foot from him, cool as a cucumber, the 9 mm pointed directly at her chest.

Camo Man smiled, then did something Joe hadn't expected. He pulled his mask off. Joe stopped breathing. Wendy took a step back.

“Don't get any closer to him! Come back.”

She shook her head, remembering, Joe knew, the incident that afternoon in the woods. Paralyzed, he watched, as the man nudged her breast with his gun. “Take 'em off.”

“Wh-what?”

“Your clothes.” He smiled, his eyes roving her body.

Joe felt rage coil inside him unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

“Okay,” Wendy said, stunning him. “Just give me a minute.” Her voice was controlled, even.

He'd seen her like this before—on the bridge a few days ago, crawling out onto the ledge that afternoon, and now, facing her attacker, a rapist and soon-to-be murderer, if Joe's intuition was correct.

Slowly Wendy turned her back to the man and unbuttoned her long-sleeved shirt. She met Joe's gaze, tried to convey something with her eyes that he wasn't certain he understood. Almost imperceptibly she nodded, then turned to face her attacker, slipping out of her shirt, her white satin bra shimmering orange in the firelight.

“Nice,” Camo Man said.

Joe had to forcibly hold himself in check as Wendy stepped into the man's one-armed embrace. He couldn't imagine what she felt at that moment, and had never seen anything more courageous in his life.

The 9 mm wavered in Camo Man's hand, distracted by Wendy's apparent submission and his own mounting lust.

A heartbeat later, she made the move Joe knew was coming, and he was ready for it. Like a mad dog, he launched himself off the hardwood and went for the gun. Camo Man fired. Wendy screamed. The shot missed, and all three of them went down, hitting the floor.

His hand was on the gun, all his weight bearing down. A feral rage infused his blood, but Wendy was between them. Camo Man swore. Joe rolled left, wrenching the gun with him, and she slid free.

“Run!” he cried. “Get out!”

But she couldn't get out. They were blocking the door. Struggling for control of the weapon, they rolled again, Camo Man on top. The guy was huge, had weight and experience on him, but Joe knew he would win. He knew it. He would win because he had more to lose.

The gun went off between them, and Joe swore.

Wendy screamed his name.

Paralyzed, she stood over them for the longest seconds of her life, unable to speak or form a coherent thought. Her mind registered Joe's voice, saw his blood-covered arm slide limply out from under their attacker's prone form.

“Oh, God.” She knelt, grabbed the man's jacket and tried to pull him off. “Stop it! Stop it!” He wouldn't move, was heavier than she'd expected. Panic closed her throat as her knee slid into something warm, blood pooling on the floor. “Get off him!”

He couldn't be dead! He just couldn't! Why couldn't she move the guy? Why wouldn't he get off? She jumped as the handgun clattered onto the floor.

“It's okay,” Joe said softly. The breath rushed out of her as she heard his voice. With a grunt Joe pushed the man aside and was free of him.

Wendy was suddenly there, pulling him to her, her gaze fixed in horror on his blood-soaked shirt.

“It's not mine,” he said, his hands going around her waist. “It's…his.”

Her arms slid around his neck, and they tumbled backward in an awkward embrace. She said his name over and over, couldn't stop herself.

“It's okay,” he reassured her. “I'm okay.”

“He's…dead?” She glanced at the body lying next to them.

“Yeah.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure, babe. He's dead.”

That's why he hadn't moved when she'd touched him. That's why he'd felt so heavy. Dead weight, she thought, and now knew what the term really meant.

“Oh, Joe!” She closed her eyes and relived the moment when the gun had gone off the second time, felt again the panic that had seized her.

“You're safe now. I'm with you.” He sat up with her in his arms, brushed the hair out of her face so he could see her. “You okay?”

She nodded, letting her breath go.

“Sure?”

Nodding again, she said, “Yes.” As long as you're with me, she thought. As long as you don't leave me for a second.

“Come on. Let's get up.” He got her to her knees, then helped her up.

She stared at the dead man at their feet. Now that it was over, she thought she would faint. Her knees buckled. Joe grabbed her around the waist and eased her onto one of the bunks.

“No, I'm okay,” she said, suddenly chilled, aware of her bare midriff and white bra, her hands and face, all sticky with blood. Joe was covered in it. “We need to…clean up.” Again she glanced at the man.

“I'll take care of him. You take care of yourself. The water's hot by now.” He nodded at the potbelly stove, where the forgotten bucket of bathwater sat simmering.

“Okay.”

He grabbed a tarp from the blue pack and some nylon cording, and in less than a minute had fashioned a drape across the back corner of the cabin. She watched him, still in shock over what had happened, as he poured the steaming water into the tub.

“Be right back,” he said, stepping over the dead man's body with the bucket, heading for the open door.

She had to force herself to sit still, to nod, as if it was fine that he was leaving her alone for the minute it would take him to draw more water from the river. It wasn't okay. She didn't want him to leave her. Not now. Not ever.

To calm herself she focused on the bath. How good it would feel. She searched inside the blue pack for her liquid soap. Biodegradable, good for dishes, hair, clothes, bodies, everything. Her mind was babbling.

“Here we go.” Joe poured a bucket of cold water into the tub and checked the temperature with his hand. “It's good. Go ahead. I'll uh—” he nodded at the body “—take him outside.”

“Wh-who is he?”

“I don't know, but I'm gonna find out.” He glanced at the dead man again, then looked at her.

She realized she was standing there in her bra, but she didn't care. His gaze washed over her in the firelight, and she let him look, the natural instinct to cover herself nonexistent.

“Wendy,” he said, and stroked her cheek.

She wanted to rush into his arms, hold him, never let go, but didn't. “I'll just be a few minutes,” she said, and glanced at the bathwater.

“Take your time.”

She moved behind the drape and closed her eyes, breathing in, out, working to get ahold of herself. As she undressed, she heard the unmistakable sounds of Joe dragging the body outside.

 

When he returned, she was sitting on one of the bunks wrapped in nothing but a blanket. Her hair was damp, her face still pale, but her eyes were themselves again, calm, alert, as blue as any summer sky he'd ever seen.

“Where…is he?” she said.

“Don't worry about it.”

He saw that she'd used soap and some of her bathwater to scrub the floor of the cabin where the fatal shot that had killed their attacker had been fired. A wet, blood-soaked T-shirt lay in the corner of the room. He didn't have the heart to tell her it was a crime scene, that she probably shouldn't have done it.

“I would have taken care of that,” he said.

“It's okay. I'm fine. Really.”

But she wasn't fine. He could see it in her expression, in the way she moved, slow and mechanically.

“Did you find out who he is?”

“Yeah.” He pulled the guy's wallet out of his pocket and read the name off his driver's license. “Dwight Carson.”

“Never heard of him,” Wendy said.

He read a couple of phone numbers aloud that were scribbled on the back of a business card engraved with a name that Wendy said sounded famil
iar to her. One of the numbers had a New York area code, the other had a code he didn't recognize.

Wendy's eyes widened. “The first one's Blake's number. The second one is my parents' house in Michigan. Oh, God.”

“He can't hurt you now. Or them.” He looked at her sitting on the bunk, and she seemed so small, so vulnerable. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her not to worry, that everything was going to be okay, that he was going to take care of it and take care of her.

She stared at the blood on his shirt, then nodded at the tub in the corner. “We…need more water.”

He sucked in a breath and looked down at his clothes, his hands. He wanted to tend to her but needed to clean up first. Besides, she hadn't dressed—not that he necessarily wanted her to, but she would want to. He'd give her some time, a little privacy.

“I'll manage in the creek outside. There're a couple of deep pools.”

“You'll freeze.”

He knew she was naked under the blanket. He wondered what she'd do if he came over there, eased her back onto the bunk and kissed her. He wondered what she'd feel like with him inside her.

Get a grip, Peterson.

That's not what she needed now. That's not even what she wanted, not from him. She needed comfort, reassurance, not sex.